The outskirts of Soul Society were eerily silent under the waning moonlight, save for the frantic, stumbling footsteps of a man fleeing through the desolate landscape.
His breathing was ragged, his limbs trembling as he clutched a small, cloth-wrapped relic to his chest.
They're after me... no, he's after me.
His thoughts spiraled as the oppressive thought of his pursuers bore down upon him.
He cursed under his breath, his mind flashing to the nobles who had discovered the theft, a way to contribute to the rebellion he had sworn to.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
The entrance to the hideout revealed itself at last—a crack in the earth, hidden away from prying eyes.
The man threw himself inside, half-crawling, descending deep into the underground refuge where he was sure his comrades awaited.
But something was wrong.
The lights were out.
The air was heavy with stillness, unnatural and suffocating. His instincts screamed at him, but he swallowed his fear. "Jiro? Kaede? Anyone!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the darkness.
Silence answered him.
"Oi! Quit messing around!" he barked, trying to convince himself. His trembling fingers fumbled to light a torch, but before the flame sparked to life—
There.
A presence.
He froze as a chill ran down his spine, the hair on his neck standing on end.
He turned, slowly, his breath hitching.
And then he saw them—those eyes.
The eyes of the White Reaper.
Kishou Arima stood in the darkness like a ghost made flesh, clad in pristine white, a stark contrast to the gloom.
He was death incarnate.
In his hand, Arima held a blade that might have been mistaken for a black umbrella—a strange, exaggerated weapon that defied logic and form.
Yet there was no mistaking the killing intent that oozed from its edge.
The man's pupils dilated, fear threatening to drown him.
This is impossible. Escape was a dream.
Resistance, madness. And yet...
"Did they...?" The man's voice cracked. "Did my comrades betray me...?"
Arima's gaze, cold and empty, bored through him—not looking at him, but through him. "Rest assured," Arima said softly, his voice calm, devoid of life. "Your comrades did not betray you. Even after their last breath."
The man's heart dropped into his stomach.
"It's just that they weren't strong enough."
Something snapped within him.
The cold of terror gave way to white-hot rage. "You bastard!" he roared, unsheathing his zanpakutō. He raised it high, the blade trembling with his fury.
"Shatter the heavens and quake the earth—Furueru Seikishi!"
The sword expanded violently, its form warping into a massive, vibrating bastard sword that seemed barely containable.
The ground cracked beneath him as he charged, his war cry filling the cavern.
He swung with all his might.
The world narrowed to that one strike.
And then—
It ended.
A flash of black.
A shriek of agony.
Arima had moved. His blade carved effortlessly through the air, piercing the man's left eye in a clean, fluid motion.
It tore through skull and sinew, exiting the back of his head with a sickening schlick.
The man staggered, the vibrating sword slipping from his grip as his body convulsed.
Blood poured from the wound like a broken dam.
Arima, his expression unchanging, yanked his blade free. The man dropped to his knees, his shattered gaze fixed on nothing.
Before he could collapse, Arima's blade sang once more, severing his head in one precise motion.
The cavern fell silent once more.
Arima reached down and retrieved the cloth-wrapped relic, his dead gaze never faltering, not even for a moment. He turned, leaving the mangled body behind as if it had never mattered.
For the White Reaper, it never did.
---
Kishou Arima walked through the grand front gates of the Seireitei, his measured steps echoing softly against the stone path.
The morning sun bathed the white city in a pleasent glow.
His coat, pristine and immaculate, fluttered gently with each step—its lower corners marred by faint smudges of crimson.
The blood, seeping from a pool he'd bent down into, clung to the fabric in delicate streaks, as though daring to sully something untouchable.
And yet, despite the blemish, his form appeared flawless.
The citizens of the Seireitei—nobles, seated officers, and common souls alike—wordlessly parted as Arima approached.
A natural instinct gripped them, an unspoken command that forced their bodies to yield.
Whispers died before they could form, and the usual bustle of the city stilled as he passed.
He was not a man. He was an omen.
Their gazes lingered on the sigil embroidered onto his coat—the unmistakable crest of the Five Great Noble Houses of Soul Society.
The very symbol that signified both his authority and his distance from all others. Few had seen him with their own eyes; even fewer had lived to recount the meeting.
"The White Reaper..." someone muttered under their breath, the words more reverent than fearful.
Arima paid them no mind.
His expression, ever devoid of warmth, remained fixed forward.
His gaze seemed to pierce through the very world as though he saw something far beyond the walls of the city.
The Tsunayashiro Clan compound ahead, its gates tall and foreboding, guarded by men who stood rigidly at attention.
Even they flinched, for just a heartbeat, as Arima approached.
He did not pause, his stride unwavering as though the gates were no more obstacle than air.
The faint smear of blood on his coat's edge felt like the final punctuation to a silent message: the task was complete.
The Reaper had been succesful as always.
Kishou Arima entered the hall of the Tsunayashiro Clan, his white coat still faintly tinged with blood at its hem.
The pristine elegance of the chamber—polished floors,beautifully designed pillars, and ornate golden decorations—seemed to pale in comparison to the silent figure now standing at its center.
At the far end of the hall, atop a raised platform, sat the head of the Tsunayashiro Clan, a man of noble stature but visibly uneasy under the cold presence of the White Reaper.
Despite being one of the most politically powerful men in Soul Society, even he could not help but shift in his seat as Arima approached.
The White Reaper stopped precisely where decorum dictated, his posture straight, his gaze fixed somewhere through the clan head rather than at him.
Arima's voice was calm and measured, devoid of emotion.
"The Mask of Envy has been retrieved."
He reached into his coat and, without flourish, produced a small, ornate relic wrapped in dark cloth.
The Mask of Envy, an artifact steeped in myth and danger, radiated a subtle but ominous energy even through its covering.
Arima extended it toward a servant, who quickly stepped forward, bowing low as he accepted the relic with trembling hands.
The Tsunayashiro clan head nodded—just once—though his shoulders tensed ever so slightly. "Well done."
There was a pause, as though the clan head struggled to find the next words.
He cleared his throat, the nervousness in his demeanor unmistakable to anyone observant enough to see it.
"Ahem.You've done more than enough, Arima," the clan head said, his voice steady but lacking confidence. "Go and… rest."
The word hung awkwardly in the air. It was a hollow gesture, one he likely knew Arima would not heed.
The White Reaper inclined his head ever so slightly, an acknowledgment rather than agreement. "As you wish."
He turned on his heel without waiting to be dismissed, his footsteps echoing faintly through the silent hall.
The Tsunayashiro clan head watched him leave, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
---
The White Reaper.
A name that carried legends with itself.
His true origins were unknown—obscured by time and shadow or deliberate ommision.
The White Reaper was a special agent of the Great Noble Houses, a tool and force bound to their will alone.
Neither the Central 46 nor the Captain-Commander of the Gotei 13 could command his blade.
He existed outside their jurisdiction, outside their power.
Only the clan heads could summon him, though even among them, the Shiba Clan had opposed his existence since its inception, refusing to sully their hands with the creation of such a being.
Even so, the entity persisted.
A relic of an era older than the Gotei 13, an age when Soul Society was fractured and chaotic.
To an ignorant gaze, the White Reaper appeared as a middle-aged human—tall, lean, and dressed in stark white that often gleamed like a funeral shroud.
His quiet demeanor and dispassionate gaze betrayed no signs of weariness or malice.
Yet those who dared to look into his eyes saw the unfathomable—a void where countless lives had disappeared.
It was rumored that he had been hailed as the strongest in Soul Society, though many rejected the claim.
Could any being truly surpass Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, the blazing founder of the Gotei 13? Such an idea bordered on blasphemy.
Yet the stories lingered.
Those few who survived his presence spoke not only of his terrifying skill but of his inevitability.
Like a storm, the Reaper moved with precision and without hesitation.
No opponent—Shinigami, Hollow, or Quincy—had ever turned him back.
It was, the Quincy who gave him his famous name.
White Reaper. Weißer Sensenmann.
For it was among their ranks that his legend was truly carved.
During the War , when the Quincy sought to claim dominion over existence itself, he had descended upon them like judgment made flesh.
Even after the war he was solely responsible for hunting them to the ends of earth upon orders.
Entire armies were decimated, their strongest warriors torn asunder as he moved through them all alone.
Thousands fell, their final moments etched in a pale blur of white and steel.
"The White Reaper comes."
A phrase passed down in Quincy texts—a warning to their kin. To hear it was to accept death.
And now, centuries later, he still remained.
Seemingly An unaging entity.
Whatever his nature, whatever his origin, the White Reaper had earned one undeniable truth:
He was Soul Society's final solution.
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Stones and Reviews please