The sands of Hueco Mundo whispered that night. The wind carried no comfort, only the mournful howls of Hollows hunting and the distant tremors of collapsing dunes. Deep within the endless white wasteland, where even the moon's pale gaze dared not linger, something unnatural stirred.
A Hollow lay twisted and broken, its mask cracked, its form barely holding together. Its body had been grotesque—long, spindly limbs, a hunched frame, a face frozen in eternal agony. It had feasted upon countless others, growing stronger, more deranged with each soul devoured. But even that strength had limits. It had fought too many, consumed too much, and now, in the depths of the desert, it convulsed as something new tore itself free from its core.
A ripple spread through the air, an unseen force distorting reality itself. The Hollow's screams twisted into laughter, a garbled, unnatural cackle that echoed across the dunes. Its body shattered apart, and from the wreckage, a figure emerged—small at first, hunched over, its limbs trembling. The remnants of the old Hollow's mask fell away in pieces, revealing a newly formed visage.
Half a mask remained—a jagged, grinning fragment covering the left side of the being's face. Beneath it, a single golden eye glowed with unnatural mirth, filled not with hunger, nor rage, but with something far worse—amusement.
The creature—no, he—stood, his form stabilizing, his thin frame stretching, adjusting to existence. Black and red hair spilled from his head in wild, untamed locks, shifting in the wind like flames. He took his first step, the bells on his ankles jingling softly, their sound far too joyous for the death-ridden wasteland that surrounded him.
Kokuto Harlequin had been born.
For a moment, he simply stood there, his fingers flexing, his senses drinking in the void around him. He felt it—felt the madness of Hueco Mundo pressing in on him. The emptiness. The hunger. The endless cycle of consumption and despair.
And then he laughed.
It started as a low chuckle, rolling up from his throat like a secret shared with the darkness. Then it grew—wild, erratic, a crescendo of mirth that filled the desert. It was the first time the dunes had ever heard joy, but it was not the kind of joy that belonged in the world of the living. It was something broken, twisted. It was laughter without cause, delight without reason.
His own voice startled him. He stopped, tilting his head. Then he grinned, running his fingers along the jagged edge of his mask fragment. "Now that was funny."
The winds carried his voice far into the distance, where creatures of the night stirred uneasily. Somewhere, a lesser Hollow flinched, its instincts screaming at it to flee.
And in the far reaches of Hueco Mundo, deep within the walls of Las Noches, an Espada looked up from his throne, his brows knitting together as he felt the disturbance in the air.
A new force had entered the game.
And it was laughing.