[Gaze of the Nameless Winds]
A wind stirred the desolate planes between Hell's circles, a restless force weaving tales of valor, strife, and uncharted fates—a wind of the braves, a wind of war, a wind of adventures. It swept across the gray expanse with a keening howl, sharp as a blade, tugging at the Soul Reapers' cloaks with invisible fingers. The air bit at their skin, frigid and heavy with the scent of ash and decay, underscored by the faint, metallic tang of blood long seeped into the ground. The crimson sky pulsed faintly overhead, its light fractured by swirling shadows, casting a dim, unearthly glow over the shifting landscape. The ground trembled beneath their feet, a low rumble threading through the wind's cry, as if Hell itself roused to meet them, its breath a whisper of ancient battles and lost souls.
Suì-Fēng led the expedition—Ichigo Kurosaki, Renji Abarai, Yumichika Ayasegawa, Shūhei Hisagi, and Akon—her steps unwavering as they descended from the ashen waste. The mist thinned reluctantly, unveiling a vast sea of dark, churning liquid stretching beyond sight, its surface shimmering like shattered obsidian under the sky's blood-red veins. Waves lapped against unseen shores, a rhythmic slap punctuated by the occasional groan of shifting stone, blending with the wind's relentless wail. The air grew colder, the decay sharpening into a briny sting, as if the sea exhaled the essence of forgotten torments.
[Glass Doors]
As the Reapers neared the sea's edge, a voice broke through the wind's chorus, warm yet laced with a serpentine edge. "Welcome," it intoned, familiar and resonant, echoing through the air like a bell tolled in a hollow void. "Pleasure is all mine, children." The words lingered, weighted with intent, as their boots crunched onto a brittle, glassy surface—a platform of cracked stone and shimmering glass suspended above the sea. Before them loomed the skeletal husks of Kushanāda, their towering bones bleached and fractured, standing as silent sentinels in a grim vigil. The wind whistled through their hollow frames, a mournful keening that mingled with the faint clatter of chains dangling from their remains, their eyeless sockets fixed in unison toward an unseen point.
"Open thy eyes, children, oculi mei," the voice continued, its tone swelling with a theatrical flourish, "for I shall greet, salve te. And remember my name—Empusa." The voice belonged to Empusa, a male presence woven into Hell's tapestry, though he remained unseen, his words carried by the wind rather than a physical form. The sea rippled as if stirred by his voice, waves crashing harder against the glassy edge, their spray cold and biting against the Reapers' skin.
"Open eyes? What does that even mean?" Yumichika Ayasegawa muttered, his voice sharp with exasperation, his hand brushing Fujikujaku's hilt. The wind snatched at his feathers, their iridescence muted by the crimson haze, as he squinted into the surreal expanse with a scowl.
The team descended fully onto the floating graveyard, its surface a mosaic of cracked stone and glass, jagged edges glinting like broken mirrors under the dim light. The air chilled further, the scent of decay mingling with the sea's briny tang, a suffocating blend that clung to their lungs. They sought answers, their footsteps echoing hollowly against the glass, a brittle crunch swallowed by the wind's howl and the Kushanāda's creaking bones, but the graveyard yielded only silence—an enigmatic void offering no clues.
"Open thy eyes?" Ichigo echoed, his brow creasing as he tightened his grip on Zangetsu. The phrase gnawed at him, tugging loose a memory, the horned form he'd unleashed to shatter Hell's chains and rescue Yuzu. That power had bound him to this realm, forged in the clash against Shuren and Kokutō, when the Kushanāda had hunted him through Hell's depths, their roars and clashing chains a relentless pursuit. He studied the skeletal giants, their unified gaze unsettling. "But witness of what?" he murmured, his voice nearly lost to the wind's rising pitch.
"What are you mumbling, Ichigo?" Shūhei Hisagi asked, his tone calm but tinged with curiosity, his eyes narrowing as he traced Ichigo's line of sight to the Kushanāda.
"Nothing," Ichigo replied, shaking his head. "Just… the placement of these Kushanāda seems a bit off."
"Wait," Akon interjected, his voice cutting through the group's quiet unease. "Kushanāda recognized Ichigo when he was here in the past, near the end of that battle. What if—wait here…" He sprang onto the skull of a Kushanāda, his movements deft despite the wind's battering, and peered through its empty eye sockets. The sea sprawled before him, but as he blinked—closing and opening his eyes—the vista shifted. Through the Kushanāda's gaze, Hell unveiled a hidden truth: a writhing tapestry of shadows and flickering forms emerged—figures, races unknown, their shapes alien and menacing. "Demons," Akon breathed, his voice a mix of awe and dread, swallowed by the wind's escalating wail.
Empusa's laughter rang out, a disembodied sound like glass fracturing in slow motion, carried on the wind from an unseen source. "So, you finally see," his voice wove through the gusts, smooth and knowing. "When you're finally one with creation and forsake your identity, nomen tuum, when no name can follow you, sine nomine, you see the nameless—or you can also say the true-named ones." The words rippled across the sea, the waves surging in response, their crash against the graveyard louder, more insistent.
"Allow me to bestow thee with sight, visum meum," Empusa's voice continued, a faint hum threading through it, "so it may not hinder the coming meet." No figure appeared, but a cold, invasive pulse swept from the air, brushing against the Reapers like a spectral touch, promising vision beyond mortal limits. The wind roared, carrying the scent of ozone and the guttural creak of the Kushanāda's bones, as if Hell itself endorsed his gift.
[Would You Not Fear Love?]
"Remember when you would send me flowers and poems of your love?" a voice murmured, tender yet heavy with sorrow, its origin lost in the swirling shadows.
"Trust me, he is with a secured future," another spoke, steady and distant, a vow cloaked in ambiguity.
"You do not worth living," a third hissed, venom sharp as the wind's edge, cutting through the silence.
"Die," a fourth commanded, cold and absolute, its tone a guillotine's fall.
"Do you really think you worth anything?" two voices intoned together, their harmony a cruel taunt, fading into the mist.
"Get out of…" an old man's voice began, frail and quivering, but it broke off, swallowed by a sudden stillness, leaving only the wind's faint keening and the sea's restless murmur.