BLEACH : THE NINTH KENPACHI

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After hearing those words, Shutara Senjumaru became silent once again.

Gazing at her with quiet detachment, the visitor sighed softly, then said,

"I will remain in the Soul Society for a while. I hope you'll give it some thought before I return to the Royal Palace."

With that, the visitor disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Senjumaru lifted her gaze, watching the direction the figure had gone. Her usually composed eyes flickered with an unreadable light. It was unclear what thoughts stirred behind them.

Nightfall.

Senjumaru returned to her quarters—located directly beside the Department of Development within the Seireitei's Twelfth Division, where she still held quiet authority over many intricate operations.

The room was small and minimalist—no personal embellishments, only finely crafted weaving instruments, spiritual-thread looms, and stacks of sealed silken fabrics. There was no need for unnecessary comfort; her work was her purpose.

She retrieved a small, sealed lacquered box from beneath a panel in the floor.

Upon opening it, the cloth inside shimmered faintly with reishi—spiritual particles bound tighter than silk. It was a shihakushō—specifically, a prototype for the modern Gotei 13 uniform. It was unlike any mass-issued model; a relic predating even the standardization initiated by the Four Noble Houses.

This was the original design—the foundation for the modern-day Sōgyō no Kotowari.

It had been created for someone specific.

Not for duty, but out of something unspoken.

Back then, that person had made an offhand remark, something flippant. Yet it had lingered in her heart. She had spent years perfecting the cloth, using a weaving technique that bound reishi from both her own spiritual power and that individual's.

To do so had cost her dearly.

And yet, the day she completed it was the day she received news that he had died.

Killed in a battle that even Seireitei's records quietly buried.

From that day on, she had kept the garment sealed.

But even in death, the spiritual particles that made up that person's soul never scattered.

Unlike an ordinary Shinigami or soul, who upon death dissolve back into the cycle of reiryoku or are guided to the afterlife, this soul had defied the rules.

The person had undergone a Konsō ceremony. And yet—his reishi had not been absorbed by Soul Society. Nor had he been cast into Hell.

Instead, Senjumaru could sense fragments of his spirit, as though they wandered the boundaries of the worlds—Soul Society, Hueco Mundo, the Human World. He had become something untethered. Something lingering.

Others could not have known.

But Senjumaru was different.

She had woven her own reiryoku together with his into that garment—threaded together on a level that transcended science and reached into the metaphysical.

Because of that bond, she alone could still perceive the fluctuating echo of his spiritual resonance.

It had once given her hope.

Hope that he might one day be reborn.

For if the soul is an aggregate of spiritual particles, then surely—if those particles had not dispersed—it was possible that they could come together again.

And if that happened… then perhaps… he would return.

She had waited.

Waited through the founding of the Gotei 13, through the rise and fall of captains, through wars with the Quincy, and the exile of the Shihōin Clan.

She had waited through the centuries, silently watching the Central 46 pass judgment, and watched the walls of Seireitei grow higher—until they blotted out the sky above Rukongai.

But the soul never returned.

Eventually, the trace had begun to fade.

That final connection, that last hope she had anchored herself to, began to unravel.

Yet—recently, she had felt something again.

The day Gosuke Shigure entered her division.

She had been distracted for a moment—not by his presence, but by his spiritual signature. His reiatsu was eerily similar to the one she had waited for all these years.

But only similar.

Senjumaru's perception was absolute.

She knew spiritual threads like a composer knew pitch.

The resonance was not identical. But it carried a familiar echo.

Still, that was not enough.

"You are not him," she whispered, barely audible.

She lifted the garment from its box.

The container had been specially forged—enhanced with kido seals and crafted from materials that would prevent spiritual leakage. The energy contained within was that of both her and the long-deceased man.

But if the cloth were exposed too long, or not worn immediately, the reishi would begin to fade—and it would become no different than any other shihakushō.

That was why she had kept it sealed for so long.

But now, with the Royal Guard reaching out to her again—with talk of the Spirit King, and the world itself in flux—Senjumaru knew she had to decide.

Not tomorrow.

Tonight.

Elsewhere, in the Eleventh Division barracks.

Gosuke Shigure lay sprawled across a tatami mat, drunk from the earlier victory banquet.

Despite his formidable tolerance, the relentless rounds from his subordinates had left him hazy.

As he drifted on the edge of sleep, memories from another life—his previous life—rose again, unbidden.

Then, something else.

A sudden pulse.

A strange resonance pricked his senses—subtle, yet unmistakable.

Like a signal on a frequency only he could feel.

He sat upright.

It was coming from nearby. Southward.

The Twelfth Division.

That made sense—they were the ones dealing with experimental materials, after all.

But this… didn't feel like a research anomaly.

It felt personal.

Like something was calling him.

Gosuke's spiritual perception was extremely refined—especially in this life, where his body was tempered not only by his rebirth, but by a highly honed instinct.

Even dulled by alcohol, his senses knew the direction and the source.

And that source was familiar.

He thought of Shutara Senjumaru.

The enigmatic weaver. One of the oldest figures in the Soul Society, long considered a candidate for the Royal Guard—yet still bound to the Seireitei, for reasons unknown to most.

Their last meeting had left him unsettled. She had said little, yet her eyes had lingered on him too long, like she was seeing someone else.

"Senjumaru… does this have something to do with you?"

If he had been sober, Gosuke would have dismissed the thought.

But tonight, the alcohol had loosened the chains on his instincts.

He grabbed his Zanpakutō and, without informing his subordinates, began walking toward the Twelfth Division headquarters.

Seireitei – Twelfth Division.

Though it was long past midnight, the laboratories and research chambers still hummed with quiet activity. For a division devoted to experimentation and innovation, rest was optional.

Navigating through the maze of corridors with unnatural ease, Gosuke made his way toward the section that dealt with uniform crafting—a department buried deep behind several sealed doors and spellwork wards.

He didn't knock.

"Senjumaru! Come out—I want to talk!"

His voice echoed like a strike of steel in the stillness.

Senjumaru had sensed him long before he entered.

She gently set the nearly complete shihakushō aside, brushing a hand over its weave as if to silence the memory it carried.

Then, without a word, she stepped into the corridor.

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