Rustle! Rustle!
Accompanied by the strange sound as if countless pages were being flipped wildly in midair, the entire space of Central 46 changed once again.
If the previous Shikai had merely draped a layer of disguise over the corpses, then this Bankai directly exiled reality itself, forcefully constructing in the void an absurd theater where only "fabrications" existed.
Countless colorful ribbons, masks, and sheets of paper covered in written charges fell from above like a snowstorm, filling every corner.
The once dead and gloomy underground chamber was instantly lit by countless spotlights that appeared out of nowhere, transforming into a bizarre and mocking grand stage.
Those rotting corpses that Captain-Commander Yamamoto had just "burned" back to their true forms with absolute spiritual pressure now, under these absurd rules, eerily "came back to life" once more.
They were no longer decayed flesh, but grotesque clowns with pale greasepaint smeared across their faces and exaggerated smiles drawn at their lips, sitting upright upon reformed judgment seats, letting out sharp, piercing laughter.
At this moment, it was as if a final trial prepared especially for the strongest Shinigami had officially begun.
Kyoraku Kei sat high upon the highest judge's seat that seemed to stretch toward the heavens, behind him a massive, twisted blood red setting sun.
He looked down at Yamamoto standing in the center of the stage, small as an ant in comparison, and brought down the gavel in his hand with force.
Bang!
The sound was deafening, striking straight into the soul.
"Yamamoto Genryusai Shigekuni!"
The old man's voice, amplified by Bankai, echoed through the entire theater like divine decree.
"You are guilty!"
That single declaration seemed to flip a switch for frenzy.
The sages of Central 46 wearing clown masks immediately erupted like puppets receiving orders.
They leaned forward from their seats, fingers pointing in unison at the old man in the center of the stage, roaring and cursing hoarsely:
"Yamamoto! You act arbitrarily! You are guilty!"
"Yamamoto! You dare suppress us nobles and trample a thousand years of tradition! You are guilty!"
"Yamamoto! You allow commoners to rise, ignoring the challenge of insects to noble bloodlines! You are guilty!"
"Yamamoto! You have become the greatest obstacle before us! You are guilty!"
"..."
Each charge carried tangible black resentment, turning into countless dark chains and spears that rained down toward Yamamoto.
In the audience seats of this forced performance, where their bodies were temporarily immobilized, Kuchiki Byakuya, Komamura Sajin and the other captains showed rare shock.
They were captains.
Yet within this bizarre Bankai domain of Kyoraku Kei, without a role assigned to them, they could not even lift a finger.
They could only watch helplessly as Yamamoto was swallowed by countless sins.
Of course, this restraint did not apply to Rosse, Unohana Retsu, and Aizen, who stood quietly in the corner.
If they wished, they could tear apart this fragile stage as easily as ripping scrap paper.
But this was the time of the two men before them, the duel between Yamamoto and Kyoraku.
There was no need for them to step in and steal the scene.
Compared to that, being silent and elegant spectators, appreciating the final afterglow, was the greatest respect for the dying.
"Hmph!"
In the center of the stage, even as thousands of black chains of sin wrapped around him, Yamamoto Genryusai Shigekuni's back remained straight as a solitary peak.
He slightly raised his eyes, looking indifferently at the chaotic accusations around him, a faint curve of disdain at his lips.
"A thousand years have passed, yet in the eyes of you decayed nobles, this old man remains the same as before."
Under the rules of Scroll of Playful Lies, these ridiculous curses were not empty words.
Each accusation, every single word, equaled the full power of a captain level high class Hado of third rank spiritual might, directly striking the soul.
If it had been an ordinary captain, even someone like Komamura Sajin might already have collapsed to his knees under endless guilt and mental pressure.
But attacks capable of shattering mortal will could not even make Yamamoto frown.
Even ten times stronger, to this old man who had weathered a thousand years of blood and storm in Soul Society, it was nothing more than a slightly noisy breeze.
Seeing Yamamoto unharmed, not even bothering to raise his protective spiritual pressure, Kyoraku Kei on the high platform showed no ripple in his eyes.
From the beginning, he had not hoped to truly injure him.
What he needed was, as elder of the Kyoraku family, to swing this doomed blade on this grand stage before all, toward the man representing absolute authority.
To judge Yamamoto Genryusai Shigekuni in the name of the nobles.
That courage and arrogance alone was something every noble for a thousand years had dreamed of, yet trembled under Yamamoto's pressure and dared not attempt.
He would use action to tell Yamamoto, and tell all of Soul Society.
The hot blood flowing in the veins of the Kyoraku family was no weaker than any so called Five Great Noble Clans.
They too were nobles who dared to raise a blade against a god.
"Yamamoto Genryusai Shigekuni!"
As the final charge fell, Kyoraku Kei stood abruptly, smashing the gavel down once more, shattering the judge's desk.
Bang!
"Given that your crimes are unforgivable!"
His voice grew hoarse and mad, as if burning away the last of his life.
"In the name of the highest judge of Central 46—"
"I sentence you to Muken Hell! One hundred thousand years of imprisonment!"
Rumble!
With that verdict, the stage beneath Yamamoto collapsed instantly.
Before the stunned gazes of the captains, the bizarre theater shattered like broken glass, replaced by endless, despairing darkness.
Muken Hell.
The forbidden land at the lowest level of the Central Great Prison, a void abyss without light, without sound, even stripped of time.
Yamamoto stood calmly within this illusion constructed Muken, surrounded by absolute silence.
Here, time's flow was twisted madly by Kyoraku Kei.
To the observing captains, only a single blink passed in reality.
But to Yamamoto within the illusion, that blink equaled ten thousand years of imprisonment.
Ten thousand years…
Thirty thousand years…
Fifty thousand years…
One hundred thousand years…
Yamamoto stood in the center of Muken without a word.
Even after enduring one hundred thousand years of absolute loneliness, enough to exhaust any normal mind and dissolve self awareness, his face did not change in the slightest.
He was like an ancient rock, scoured by the river called time without leaving even the smallest mark.
Outside the illusion, Kyoraku Kei, controlling everything, was bleeding from all seven orifices, trembling violently.
Maintaining such a spiritual prison burned his soul every second.
Even with full effort, even applying countless torments within the illusion, that old man remained unmoved.
What terrifying will was this?
At last, as the hundred thousand year sentence neared its end, cracks appeared in the endless darkness. Yamamoto slowly opened his half closed eyes.
His gaze was as clear as before, as if he had merely taken a short nap.
"Not you."
The aged voice echoed through the collapsing illusion, carrying certainty beyond doubt, mixed with a trace of melancholy and disappointment he himself had not noticed.
"The one who can manipulate the five senses to deceive this old man, Kyoraku Kei, that person is not you."
"The spiritual pressure that masked my perception just now bore your aura, but it was borrowed. You are merely a manipulator, even a puppet, not the source of that power."
The texture of that spiritual pressure in that instant was wrong.
"Hah! It seems you truly are senile, Yamamoto!"
Exposed on the spot, Kyoraku Kei's eyes flashed with ruthless resolve.
He could not retreat.
He could not admit it.
Even in death, he must take this secret to the grave.
He must not let Kyoraku Shunsui be implicated.
"Since you say it is not me, then open your eyes and see clearly. If not me, who else could it be?"
Buzz!
The collapsing theatrical space shifted again.
The grim Central 46 vanished entirely. Kyoraku Kei and Yamamoto suddenly appeared in the center of an ancient Roman style circular arena.
No more clowns. No prolonged judgment.
Only yellow sand swirling and two figures standing opposite each other.
The final act. Direct duel.
Without hesitation, Kyoraku Kei transformed into a meteor burning with the fire of life and charged without fear at the invincible enemy.
Yamamoto's half open eyes remained calm.
He slowly drew the ancient Ryujin Jakka as if practicing his daily sword form.
Hum!
When the two were less than two meters apart—
A flash of blade light steaked across.
No earth shattering explosion. No clash of spiritual pressure.
Before the shocked eyes of the captains, Ryujin Jakka's blade, capable of cutting anything, passed cleanly through Kyoraku Kei's body as if slicing empty air.
Afterimage?
Shhk!
Almost simultaneously, a faint tearing sound rang out.
A shallow blood mark appeared abruptly on the back of Yamamoto's haori.
Kyoraku Kei's aged figure surfaced strangely behind him like foam through illusionary light, maintaining his slashing posture.
On his blade was a trace of the Captain-Commander's blood.
"Yamamoto!"
Kyoraku Kei's voice came from behind, carrying triumph and relief.
"Where are you looking?"
In truth, at this moment, he was more shocked than anyone.
He had thought that even with the combination of False Heaven Lie Bone and his life burning Bankai, he might not be able to distort Yamamoto's senses even for a moment.
After all, that was a monster beyond the dimension of Shinigami.
Yet he had succeeded.
Even if his spiritual pressure was too weak to break through Yamamoto's terrifying defensive aura, only cutting cloth and leaving a trivial mark.
Still, he had injured the near undefeated myth.
"So… it really is him…"
Feeling the slight pain on his back, Yamamoto did not turn or show anger.
He let out a heavy sigh filled with endless disappointment.
He felt it.
At the moment his perception wavered, when he magnified his senses to capture truth, he caught a trace of extremely familiar spiritual pressure.
It was hidden deeply, layered in disguise.
But they had spent a thousand years together.
It was a child he had watched grow.
He might mistake his own spiritual pressure, but never that trace.
The spiritual pressure that twisted reality in that instant could only belong to his most prized rebellious disciple…
'Shunsui.'
As Yamamoto's disappointed sigh fell, the entire hall fell silent.
Hearing this near final conclusion, the observing captains' expressions shifted.
From Yamamoto, who never spoke recklessly, such words meant only one thing.
Kyoraku Shunsui was the mastermind.
Kuchiki Byakuya lowered his eyes slightly, fingers brushing Senbonzakura's hilt with understanding.
Hitsugaya clenched his fists, anger and scorn mixing on his face.
Even Komamura Sajin's beast eyes were filled with confusion and struggle.
He wanted to refute it, to defend Kyoraku Shunsui, but before Yamamoto's authority, words were powerless.
Whether one wished to accept it or not, this moment sealed it as fact.
As for the true accomplices, Tosen Kaname's eyes trembled behind his glasses, and Ichimaru Gin's foxlike smile stiffened briefly.
In their hearts rose deep awe and admiration for Aizen.
Terrifying. To intervene even with Yamamoto fully focused and at full power, completing such flawless misdirection. Was this Aizen's true strength?
It was godlike.
However… Among everyone present, only one man's pupils contracted at Yamamoto's words.
Aizen Sosuke adjusted his glasses calmly, his gaze seemingly casual yet carrying deep shock as it drifted toward Rosse standing silent in the corner.
Others thought it was him.
But he knew clearly he had done nothing.
More precisely, in Yamamoto's state of extreme spiritual pressure concentration, even if he wished to use Kyoka Suigetsu, he could not influence him without flaw, let alone perfectly mimic Kyoraku Shunsui's spiritual pressure.
Kyoka Suigetsu controlled the five senses, but it could not fabricate spiritual pressure, especially one Yamamoto would believe.
Among those present, only Rosse could accomplish that.
And in the true dimension unseen by anyone else, Rosse stood quietly in the shadows with a calm elegant smile.
His left hand slowly and silently sheathed Enrakyoten.
It was through this Zanpakuto that he had perfectly replicated Kyoka Suigetsu's complete hypnosis, weaving the final visual illusion for the Captain-Commander.
At the same time, beside him, a faint figure nearly blending with the surroundings slowly dissipated.
It was no illusion, but a genuine projection replicated by his Bankai.
A projection bearing identical spiritual pressure to Kyoraku Shunsui.
Kyoka Suigetsu could not distort strong spiritual pressure perception. That was its flaw.
But Rosse was different.
He could perfectly conceal all his own presence, making himself nonexistent in this space.
After eliminating all interference, he only needed to release that authentic spiritual pressure belonging to Kyoraku Shunsui at the crucial instant.
After that, Yamamoto's own instincts completed the logic.
This was the highest form of deception.
Nine parts truth to cover one fatal lie.
Rosse watched the old man ahead, whose back seemed to age ten years in an instant, and the smile on his lips deepened.
"The climax has arrived."
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