The gates of Las Noches didn't open for Kokuto Harlequin.
They shattered.
Not from force—he hadn't so much as touched them. But from sheer audacity. From the presence of someone who didn't knock, didn't wait, didn't follow rules or reason. One moment, the towering white arches stood tall and proud, and the next, they fell inward like folding cards, as though the fortress itself sensed something fundamentally wrong with what was approaching.
Kokuto stepped over the broken threshold with all the reverence of a man walking into a funhouse. His golden eye scanned the endless marble corridors, the sterile perfection of it all. Symmetrical. Sharp. Clean.
Boring.
"Nice paint job," he muttered, dragging a fingertip across the wall, leaving behind a streak of black ink-like residue that hadn't been there a second ago. "But you need a splash of chaos."
The halls were quiet. No guards. No alarms. No greeting committee.
Even better.
He strolled casually, the bells on his ankles ringing with each step, echoing through the hollow palace like a lullaby for madmen. He danced through the corridors, arms wide, twirling beneath chandeliers made of bone and glass. He paused at every intersection, flipped a coin that didn't exist, and followed whichever direction made the least amount of sense.
He found rooms with no doors. Doors with no rooms. Windows that opened into nothing but blackness.
"Delightful!" he laughed. "A maze for the mad. I feel right at home."
Eventually, he came upon a strange chamber—large, empty, circular. The ceiling disappeared into darkness. A single stone pillar stood in the center, atop which rested a mask—plain, white, featureless.
Kokuto stepped toward it slowly. Reverently.
"Ahhh… what have we here? A blank face in a world full of liars?" He picked it up, turned it in his hands. "You're the honest one, aren't you?"
He placed the mask gently back on the pillar… then slapped it clean off.
It clattered across the floor.
"Too honest. No fun."
He wandered deeper.
At last, he found a hallway humming with energy. Tension. Power. It pressed against him like a wall of heat.
And there they were.
The Espada.
Not gathered, not waiting, but present. Watching. Sensing. One by one, their eyes turned toward the jester who didn't belong—this figure wrapped in black and red, half his face covered in a jagged grin of bone, eyes alight with mischief and madness.
Kokuto bowed deeply.
"Lords and killers. Monsters and kings. I'm so thrilled to be invited."
None spoke.
Then, a voice. Cold. Measured. Too calm.
"You were not invited."
A figure stepped forward—tall, elegant, terrifying. Aizen Sosuke. The master of the palace. His gaze was not unkind, but it was unforgiving.
Kokuto straightened and tapped the side of his head. "Oops. Must've lost the invite. But I'm here now. And believe me, I'm bringing something none of you have."
Aizen's brow lifted slightly. "And what would that be?"
Kokuto's grin widened, eye gleaming.
"Entertainment."
The Espada looked on, unmoved. But Aizen… Aizen smiled. Just faintly.
And Kokuto saw it.
An opportunity.