Two years changed everything and nothing.
Spring had given way to summer, then autumn, then winter, then spring again—twice over. The estate's gardens had seen eight seasons pass, and with each turn of the year, the children under Yaho's care had grown. Not just taller, though they had stretched upward like young trees reaching for sunlight. They'd grown in ways that mattered more: in strength, in understanding, in the subtle reshaping of their souls that came from daily communion with spiritual energy.
Iki Susami stood eight years old in the training yard, morning mist clinging to the grass around his bare feet. He'd grown lean rather than stocky, his dark skin marked here and there with small scars from training mishaps—the inevitable price of learning to manipulate matter that didn't always cooperate. His black braids hung longer now, decorated with those strange white strands that had appeared two years ago and never faded. They caught the dawn light like threads of spider silk.
His eyes remained unchanged: dark, deep, and disturbingly aware.
"Again," Yaho called from the engawa, his guitar resting across his knees. Twenty-eight now, he looked barely different from the day Iki had arrived—same easy smile, same comfortable slouch, same weathered acoustic that was never far from his hands.
Iki nodded once. Closed his eyes. And breathed.
The change was immediate and dramatic. Spiritual pressure erupted from his small frame like a geyser breaking through earth—invisible to normal human senses but devastating to anything spiritually aware. The air itself seemed to compress and then expand, creating ripples that distorted vision like heat shimmer. Grass bent flat in concentric circles radiating outward from Iki's position. Leaves tore free from nearby branches, swirling in patterns that defied natural wind.
"Now compress it," Yaho instructed.
Iki inhaled, and the pressure vanished. Pulled back into his core so completely that even Yaho struggled to sense him. The boy had effectively erased his spiritual presence, becoming a ghost standing in plain sight.
"Good. Release slowly this time. Like letting water through cupped hands."
Another breath. This time the pressure emerged gradually, building from nothing to gentle presence to moderate weight, all under perfect control. Iki maintained it for thirty seconds, fluctuating the intensity with each exhale, before drawing it back in.
He opened his eyes, perfectly calm despite the enormous energy he'd just manipulated.
"Better," Yaho said, pride warming his voice. "Two years ago, you could barely suppress your reiryoku for ten seconds without it bursting out. Now you're controlling it like you've been doing this your whole life."
"I have been doing this my whole life," Iki pointed out reasonably. "For two years."
Yaho chuckled. "Fair enough. But most Fullbringers don't achieve this level of control until their twenties, if ever. You're—"
"Abnormal," Iki finished. "I know."
From the garden's edge, a small voice piped up: "You're not abnormal! You're just special!"
Yukina Aoki emerged from behind a flowering azalea bush, her dress—today a pale blue confection with far too many ribbons—catching on branches as she pushed through. She'd grown too, though she remained petite, all energy packed into a small frame. Her twin braids were longer now, decorated with ribbons that matched her outfit, and her brown eyes sparkled with the characteristic intensity that never seemed to fade when she looked at Iki.
"Being abnormal is being special," Iki said. "They mean the same thing."
"No they don't! Abnormal sounds bad. Special sounds good." Yukina planted herself beside him, hands on her hips in a pose that was probably meant to look authoritative but mostly looked adorable. "You're special-special, not abnormal-special."
Yaho smiled at the exchange. Over two years, he'd watched Yukina's initial fascination with Iki transform into something deeper and more complex—part devotion, part obsession, part genuine friendship. She followed him everywhere, insisted on training beside him, and had developed elaborate fantasies about their future adventures together.
It should have been concerning. It probably was concerning.
But it also seemed to make both children happy in their own strange ways, so Yaho let it be.
"Yukina," he called. "Your turn. Show me your suppression technique."
The girl's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. She moved to the center of the training yard, took the meditation stance Yaho had taught her, and closed her eyes.
Minutes passed.
Sweat beaded on Yukina's forehead. Her small hands clenched into fists. Her spiritual pressure fluctuated wildly—dropping, spiking, dropping again—like a radio signal struggling through interference.
"Relax," Yaho said gently. "You're forcing it. Let it flow naturally."
"I am relaxing!" Yukina's eyes snapped open, frustration burning in them. "I'm trying so hard, but it won't—it doesn't—" She gestured helplessly at Iki. "How does he make it look so easy?"
"Because for him, it is easy," Yaho said honestly. "Iki's spiritual control is... unique. You can't compare yourself to him, Yukina. That's like comparing a candle to the sun."
"I don't want to be a candle," Yukina said, voice small and wounded. "I want to be strong too. I want to stand beside him, not behind him."
Iki tilted his head, watching her with that unreadable expression. "You are strong. You've improved significantly over two years. Your suppression holds for almost a minute now. That's good progress."
"But you can do it instantly!"
"Yes. But that doesn't make your progress less valuable." Iki's tone remained flat, but something in his words carried weight. "Everyone grows at their own pace. Comparing yourself to others only creates suffering."
He paused, then added: "The voice told me that."
Yukina blinked away frustrated tears. "The voice tells you a lot of things."
"Yes," Iki agreed simply.
Yaho stood, slinging his guitar across his back. "Enough suppression training for today. Let's move to something else. Something you're both equally inexperienced with."
Both children perked up.
"Today," Yaho announced, "we're going to talk about what you're training to fight. About the creatures that hunt Fullbringers, and why spiritual control matters. We're going to talk about Hollows."
They gathered in the estate's study—a room lined with old books, scrolls, and papers documenting generations of Susami family knowledge about the spiritual world. Sunlight filtered through paper screens, painting everything in shades of amber and cream. The children sat on cushions while Yaho stood before a large scroll pinned to the wall, depicting various Hollow designs in faded ink.
"You both know what Hollows are in general terms," Yaho began. "Corrupted spirits wearing bone masks, driven by insatiable hunger for souls. But there's more to understand. Hollows exist in a hierarchy—different classes with vastly different power levels."
He pointed to the first illustration: a relatively small, animalistic creature with a simple mask.
"These are basic Hollows. The most common type you'll encounter. They're dangerous to normal humans and can kill untrained Fullbringers, but they're relatively weak. Most have animalistic intelligence and predictable attack patterns. These are what killed most of my family over the years."
Yukina shivered. Iki simply studied the drawing with analytical focus.
"But then," Yaho continued, moving to the next section, "we have Menos Grande. Literally 'less great' in Spanish, though the name is misleading—there's nothing 'less' about them. They're Hollows that have evolved beyond normal limits by consuming hundreds or thousands of other Hollows."
The scroll depicted three distinct figures, each more imposing than the last.
"The first class: Gillian." Yaho's finger traced a massive, towering form with a pointed nose and dark robes. "These are the weakest Menos, but still far more powerful than basic Hollows. They're huge—easily five or six stories tall—and they move in groups. Most are mindless, operating on instinct. But occasionally, one will retain intelligence from a particularly strong soul it consumed. Those are dangerous."
"How dangerous?" Yukina asked.
"Dangerous enough that even seated officers in Soul Society—their trained warriors—struggle against them. A Gillian could destroy this entire estate in minutes if it wanted to."
Yukina's eyes went wide. Iki's expression didn't change.
"Second class: Adjuchas." Yaho moved to a sleeker, more humanoid form. "These are Gillian that continued evolving, becoming smaller but vastly more powerful. They possess human-level or greater intelligence. They can speak, strategize, and use complex techniques. An Adjuchas is typically as strong as a Soul Reaper captain—the elite warriors who lead Soul Society's military divisions."
"And the third class?" Iki asked.
Yaho's finger hovered over the final illustration—a figure that looked almost human, distinguished only by fragments of mask and a hole through its torso.
"Vasto Lorde," he said quietly. "The rarest and most powerful Hollows in existence. They're humanoid in size and shape, often indistinguishable from humans except for minor hollow characteristics. And their power..." He shook his head. "A single Vasto Lorde is said to match or exceed the strongest Soul Reaper captains. They're strategic geniuses, centuries or millennia old, and possess abilities that defy conventional understanding."
Silence settled over the room.
"How many Vasto Lorde exist?" Yukina asked, voice small.
"No one knows. They're so rare that Soul Society has only confirmed a handful throughout history. Most remain in Hueco Mundo—the realm of Hollows—ruling as kings over lesser creatures."
Iki raised his hand slightly. "Why are you telling us this?"
"Because knowledge is survival." Yaho turned to face them fully. "If you ever encounter a Menos Grande—any class—your first instinct should be to run. Not fight. Run. Even I would struggle against an Adjuchas, and a Vasto Lorde would kill me without effort."
"But you said we need to train to fight Hollows," Yukina protested.
"To fight basic Hollows, yes. Maybe even weak Gillian if you're lucky and well-prepared. But Menos Grande are beyond us. Beyond most Fullbringers. They're opponents that require armies, not individuals."
Yaho's expression grew serious. "And there's something else you need to understand. Your spiritual pressure—especially yours, Iki—acts like a beacon. The stronger you become, the more visible you are. Most Hollows will sense your power and avoid you if you're too dangerous. But some will be drawn to it. Some will see you as a challenge, or a prize worth the risk."
"Has that happened?" Iki asked.
"Not yet. But it will."
The boy considered this, then nodded. "Understood. We'll be careful."
"And we'll get stronger!" Yukina added, trying to inject optimism into the sobering lesson. "Strong enough that even Menos Grande will run away from us!"
Yaho smiled despite himself. "That's the spirit. Unrealistic, but admirable."
"It's not unrealistic if Iki's with me," Yukina said with absolute conviction. "He can do anything."
Iki tilted his head at her. "That's objectively false."
"Is not!"
"I can't fly. Can't breathe underwater indefinitely. Can't survive in a vacuum. Can't—"
"Okay, okay!" Yukina waved her hands. "I meant you can do anything important. Like protecting people. And being amazing. And—" She trailed off, cheeks reddening. "And other stuff."
Yaho watched them banter, these strange children who'd become his family, and felt the familiar mix of pride and worry that had become his constant companion.
They're growing up too fast, he thought. Learning things they shouldn't need to know. Preparing for battles that should never come.
But that was the Fullbringer's curse, wasn't it? Childhood stolen by necessity. Innocence sacrificed to survival.
At least they had each other. At least they weren't alone.
Training continued through the afternoon.
They practiced spiritual sensing—reaching out with their reiryoku to detect presences beyond normal perception. Yukina managed to sense a bird in a tree fifty meters away, which Yaho praised enthusiastically. Iki sensed a family of rabbits three kilometers to the north, a passing soul (human ghost) two kilometers east, and something else—something he described as "heavy and wrong"—moving through the forest seven kilometers south.
"What do you mean by 'heavy'?" Yaho asked, immediately alert.
Iki's eyes were closed, his breathing slow and rhythmic. "Like... thick air. Pressure. Something that doesn't belong in the living world. It's not moving toward us. Just passing through."
"That's a Hollow," Yaho said grimly. "A fairly strong one, judging by the distance you're sensing it at. Can you tell anything else about it?"
"It's alone. Hungry. Searching for something." Iki's brow furrowed slightly. "It tastes bitter."
"Tastes?"
Iki opened his eyes. "When I breathe, I can taste the spiritual energy in the air. Different presences have different flavors. You taste like warm bread. Yukina tastes like honey. That Hollow tastes like copper and ash."
Yaho stared at his nephew. "You can taste spiritual energy?"
"Yes. I thought everyone could."
"No, Iki. That's not—" Yaho stopped himself. Of course it wasn't normal. Nothing about Iki was normal. "Can you describe other flavors you've noticed?"
Iki considered. "The estate itself tastes like old wood and incense. The forest tastes green—I know that doesn't make sense, but it's the only description that fits. Regular human souls taste bland, like water. And the voice—" He paused. "The voice that speaks to me tastes like starlight."
"How do you know what starlight tastes like?"
"I don't. But if starlight had a flavor, it would be that: cold, distant, beautiful, and infinitely sad."
Yukina had stopped her own training to listen, fascinated. "What do I taste like again?"
"Honey," Iki repeated. "Sweet, golden, warm. It's pleasant."
The girl's face went crimson. "O-oh. That's... that's nice. Thank you."
Yaho rubbed his temples, feeling the beginning of a headache. Every day brought new revelations about Iki's abilities, each more impossible than the last. The boy wasn't just spiritually powerful—he was fundamentally different, perceiving reality through senses that shouldn't exist.
"Iki," Yaho said carefully. "This ability to taste spiritual energy—do you think it comes from the voice? From whatever's inside you?"
"Yes," Iki said without hesitation. "The Soul King's Lungs don't just let me breathe. They let me taste existence itself. Every breath shows me the spiritual composition of everything around me. It's useful for sensing threats and understanding what things really are beneath their physical forms."
There it was again: that casual mention of the Soul King, spoken with the certainty of absolute truth despite being something a child shouldn't even know about.
Yaho had researched extensively over the past two years, consulting the estate's oldest records and reaching out to the few Fullbringer contacts he maintained. The Soul King was mentioned only in the most ancient texts, described as a mythical being that maintained the balance between worlds. Most sources treated it as legend, spiritual allegory rather than literal truth.
But Iki spoke of the Soul King like someone describing a neighbor.
"The Hollow is moving away," Iki announced suddenly. "It won't bother us."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. It sensed my presence and fled. They always do."
Evening came, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
Yaho prepared dinner while the children washed up, and by the time they sat down to eat, the earlier tension had dissolved into comfortable domesticity. Yukina chattered about a story she'd read—something involving princesses and dragons—while Iki listened with patient attention and Yaho interjected occasional comments.
It was almost normal.
Almost peaceful.
Then Yukina screamed.
She was pointing toward the window, face pale, eyes wide with terror. Yaho and Iki turned simultaneously to see what had frightened her—
And there, beyond the garden's edge, stood a Hollow.
It was small by Hollow standards—maybe twice the size of a large dog—with a canine-like body and a mask that resembled a wolf's skull. Its eyes glowed red in the gathering darkness, and its presence radiated malevolent hunger.
Yaho was on his feet instantly, guitar in hand. "Both of you, get behind me."
But Iki remained seated, watching the Hollow with detached curiosity. "It won't attack."
"Iki—"
"Watch."
The Hollow had been approaching, claws digging into earth, body low and predatory. But as it crossed into the estate's garden—as it came within range of Iki's passive spiritual pressure—something changed.
It stopped.
Its glowing eyes fixed on Iki, visible through the window. And even from this distance, Yaho could see it: the way the creature's body language shifted from predatory to uncertain. The way its mask seemed to crack slightly, hairline fractures appearing across the bone.
The Hollow took a step back.
Then another.
Its body trembled, caught between hunger and primal terror. Yaho could almost read its thoughts: Food. So much spiritual energy. But something's wrong. Something's WRONG.
Iki tilted his head, still watching. He took a slow, deliberate breath, and with that inhalation, his spiritual pressure swelled—not dramatically, just enough to taste. Just enough to remind the Hollow what it was facing.
The creature broke.
It turned and fled, scrambling through the forest with desperate speed, leaving claw marks in earth and bark as it disappeared into the darkness.
Silence filled the dining room.
"See?" Iki said mildly. "It ran away. They always do when they get close enough to really feel my presence. I'm not sure why."
Yaho sat down heavily, his heart still racing. "Iki... that was a Hollow. A predator. They don't run from prey."
"Maybe I'm not prey," Iki suggested.
"You're eight years old!"
"But I carry something that isn't eight years old. Something that makes me taste wrong to them. Like food that's spoiled." Iki returned to his rice, eating with the same mechanical efficiency he brought to everything. "It's actually quite convenient. Means we're safer than most Fullbringers."
Yukina had watched the entire exchange with rapidly cycling emotions—terror giving way to shock giving way to something else entirely. Now she stared at Iki with stars in her eyes, her earlier fear completely forgotten.
"You scared it away without even moving," she breathed. "Without even trying. You're so strong, Iki! So powerful! Just like a prince from the stories—the enemy runs just from his presence alone!"
"I didn't do anything," Iki protested. "It just sensed what I am and left."
"Exactly! That's even better! You're so amazing that monsters flee without you having to fight them!"
Yaho watched Yukina's admiration reach new heights, watched her weave this incident into whatever romantic narrative she'd constructed, and felt deep concern settle into his bones.
She's not seeing him as a person anymore, he realized. She's seeing him as a character. A hero. Something to worship rather than befriend.
But how did you explain that to an eight-year-old girl? How did you make her understand that the boy she idolized was still just a boy—damaged, burdened, and desperately in need of normal human connection rather than deification?
The answer, Yaho suspected, was that you couldn't.
Some lessons had to be learned through experience.
He just hoped those lessons wouldn't break her when they finally came.
Later that night, long after the children had gone to bed, Iki sat in meditation.
He'd told Yaho he was tired and needed rest, which was technically true. But sleep would come later. First, he needed to understand.
The vision had been building all day, pressing against the edges of his consciousness like water against a dam. He'd felt it during training, during meals, during the Hollow's approach. Now, alone in his room with moonlight painting everything silver, he finally let it through.
Reality dissolved.
He stood in the void between moments, in the space where existence hadn't yet learned to separate itself into distinct forms. And before him—around him—through him—played the memory of creation's greatest crime.
The Soul King had been whole once.
Iki saw him: a being of impossible grandeur, humanoid in the way that gods are humanoid, possessing form without being limited by it. He stood at the nexus of everything, maintaining the primordial sea—that infinite ocean where all souls existed in harmony, undivided by life or death, human or monster.
And then They came.
Iki couldn't see their faces, couldn't identify them, but he felt their purpose: Order. They believed chaos was dangerous. Believed the unified sea was unstable. Believed reality needed structure, division, hierarchy.
So they took the only being capable of maintaining unity—
And they destroyed him.
Iki watched with mounting horror as hands he couldn't see tore through the Soul King's body. Watched as pieces were separated, as organs were ripped free, as limbs were bound with chains of reishi. The Soul King screamed—not with voice, because voice requires breath, but with existence itself. Reality shuddered. The primordial sea convulsed.
And then—separation.
The unified ocean split into three: the world of the living, the world of the dead, and the world of monsters. Three distinct realms held apart by the Soul King's mutilated form, suspended in a palace between dimensions, transformed from a being into a function.
A keystone.
A lock.
A sacrifice that could never die and never be free.
"Is this justice?" the Soul King's voice whispered through the vision. "To imprison one for the safety of many? To torture one eternally so that others might live in order?"
Iki had no answer.
"They scattered my pieces—heart, lungs, liver, arms, legs—throughout the realms to prevent reconstitution. You carry my breath, child. The lungs that once maintained the flow of all spiritual existence. And through them, you feel what I feel. You understand what I understand."
"It's wrong," Iki said, his child's voice small against cosmic horror. "What they did to you—it's wrong."
"Wrong or right, it has been done. The worlds are divided now. Trillions of souls exist across three realms, all dependent on my continued imprisonment. If I am freed, what happens to them?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. And that uncertainty is the greatest chain of all. Even if someone came with the power to free me, even if they possessed the will to challenge Soul Society itself—would they have the courage to risk everything? Would YOU?"
Iki considered the question with his characteristic seriousness. Thought about Yaho, about Yukina, about the estate and the forest and the world that existed because of the Soul King's suffering.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I think... I think keeping someone imprisoned forever because we're afraid of what might happen if they're free—that's not justice. That's cowardice disguised as pragmatism."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps it is wisdom. Perhaps I deserve this fate."
"No one deserves this."
"Even if I was dangerous once? Even if my power threatened everything?"
"Power isn't evil. What you do with it determines good or evil. And you didn't choose to be powerful. You just were. Punishing someone for what they might do rather than what they've done—" Iki shook his head. "That's not right."
Silence stretched across the void.
Then: "You are young yet. But you think clearly. That is good. You will need clarity in the times ahead. Because the choice will come, child who carries my breath. The choice between my freedom and the world's safety. And when it does—"
The vision shattered.
"—I hope you choose wisely."
Iki opened his eyes to find himself back in his room, moonlight still painting the walls silver. His heart raced—unusual for him. His hands trembled—even more unusual.
Because for the first time, the weight of what he carried felt real.
Not just abstract philosophy or distant suffering, but genuine consequence. The knowledge that whatever path he chose would reshape reality itself, and that the wrong choice could destroy everything and everyone he'd ever known.
Is it wrong to free someone who's been imprisoned unjustly, even if the world depends on their suffering?
The question had formed in his mind before he'd consciously thought it, rising like water from an underground spring. And he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that he needed to ask it aloud. Needed to hear Yaho's answer.
He found his uncle in the main room, sitting with his guitar, playing a quiet melody that carried no Fullbring power—just music for music's sake.
"Yaho-san," Iki said quietly.
His uncle looked up, concern immediate in his eyes. "Iki? You should be asleep."
"I had another vision. A question came from it." Iki moved closer, sat across from Yaho, and fixed him with that unnerving stare. "Is it wrong to free someone who's been imprisoned unjustly, even if the world depends on their suffering?"
Yaho's hands stilled on the guitar strings.
Long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sound of wind through trees and the settling of old wood.
"That's..." Yaho began, then stopped. Started again. "That's not a simple question, Iki."
"I know."
"It's asking me to weigh one person's agony against the safety of everyone else. It's asking me to determine whether justice for one is worth risk for many. And I—" He shook his head. "I don't think I'm qualified to answer that."
"But what do you think?" Iki pressed. "Not what's right or wrong. What do you believe?"
Yaho looked at his nephew—this eight-year-old child asking questions that philosophers struggled with—and felt something crack in his chest.
He shifted his fingers on the guitar, finding a different chord. This one wasn't the Chord of Joy or Destruction. It was something simpler, more honest. A progression in a minor key that carried melancholy like perfume carries scent.
As he played, the estate filled with sadness. Not overwhelming, not manipulated through Fullbring power. Just the natural emotional resonance of music expressing what words couldn't.
"Some questions," Yaho said softly, fingers continuing their gentle movement, "have answers that will change you forever. Once you know certain things—once you commit to certain paths—you can't unknow or uncommit. You become different. Permanently."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because Iki—" Yaho's voice cracked slightly. "You're eight years old. You should be playing games and making friends and learning to read, not wrestling with cosmic ethics and the suffering of gods."
"But that's what I am," Iki said simply. "I didn't choose it. I was born carrying something ancient and broken, and that burden defines my existence. Pretending otherwise would be lying."
The music continued, sad and sweet.
"If it were me," Yaho finally said, "if I were the prisoner—I would want someone to free me. Even if it meant destroying the world. Even if it meant condemning billions. Because eternal suffering is—" He swallowed hard. "It's unimaginable. It's worse than death. It's existence reduced to pure agony without end. No one should endure that."
"But?"
"But I'm not sure I'd have the courage to be the one who frees them. To bear the responsibility of what comes after. To live with the knowledge that I'd prioritized one over many." Yaho met Iki's eyes. "And that makes me a coward, probably. Someone who sees injustice and chooses comfort over correction because the risk is too great."
"That doesn't make you a coward," Iki said. "It makes you human. Humans are risk-averse by nature. It's survival instinct."
"When did you become so wise?"
"I carry the breath of something that's lived for hundreds of thousands of years. Some of that wisdom probably leaked through."
Despite everything, Yaho smiled. "Probably."
The music faded into silence, leaving only the night sounds of the estate settling around them.
"Iki," Yaho said carefully, "are you planning to free the Soul King?"
"I don't know yet. Right now, I'm eight years old and can barely control my own spiritual pressure. I couldn't free anyone even if I wanted to." Iki's expression remained distant. "But someday—if I grow strong enough, if I find a way—I might have that choice. And I need to know, before that day comes, whether I'm brave enough or foolish enough to make it."
"Those aren't the same thing?"
"Sometimes they are."
Yaho reached out and ruffled his nephew's braided hair—one of the few physical gestures of affection Iki tolerated. "Whatever you choose, whenever you choose it—I'll be there beside you. Supporting you. Protecting you. That's what family does."
"Even if my choice destroys everything?"
"Even then."
Iki nodded slowly, processing this promise with his characteristic seriousness. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward and hugged Yaho—brief, awkward, but genuine.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
And for once, his voice carried actual warmth.
They sat together in comfortable silence as the night deepened. Yaho played quiet melodies without purpose or power. Iki simply breathed, tasting the spiritual composition of the estate, the forest, the distant stars.
And far away, in a place that existed outside conventional space, behind crystalline walls that no mortal should see—
The Soul King felt the connection strengthen.
Felt the child's determination growing.
Felt, for the first time in countless millennia, something that might have been pride.
Grow strong, child who carries my breath. Grow wise. Grow certain. And when the time comes—
Make the choice I could not.
Save me, or save the world.
But choose.
For the worst fate is not destruction but endless indecision, and I have suffered that fate long enough.