The news spread like blood in water. Not loud. Not fast. But inevitable.
A Soul Reaper had claimed territory in Hueco Mundo. Not as an invader, not as prey, but as a ruler. She had built a court, subdued Hollows, and held land without Barragan's permission.
And the ones who heard — the uncrowned kings and queens of the white desert — reacted in kind.
Beneath the decaying arches of his throne, Barragan Luisenbarn sat with arms draped across the bleached ribs of slain Menos Grande. His Hollow form was regal and grotesque — a massive skeletal figure with a mask like a golden crown fused into his head. His reiatsu corroded the air, causing the very floor beneath him to rot grain by grain.
A Hollow knelt at the base of his dais, panting, whispering words like "Soul Reaper" and "Pale Court" between shaking breaths.
Barragan said nothing at first.
Then… he laughed. A sound like a tomb collapsing.
"That insignificant little girl," he growled. "She dares to carve a false throne into my sands?"
The Hollow flinched, but couldn't move. His legs were already aging, breaking down into splinters as Barragan's reiatsu intensified.
"Let her build. Let her gather. Let her think herself queen."
His voice turned to gravel.
"I will let her rot from the spine outward. And when her kingdom dies, she'll understand what rule truly means."
The Hollow collapsed into dust before he could scream.
Atop a high ridge of pale stone, Nelliel stood with her arms crossed, wind tugging gently at the long strands of green hair that framed her mask covered face. Her form was tall, smooth, lean, and more animal than armored, her body covered in ghost-white exoskeletal plating and decorated with faint scars. A curved, spiral horn rose from the right side of her skull.
Below, one of her subordinates approached, dragging a body with him.
"Lady Nelliel," he said, breathless. "There's… strange activity from the west. A female Soul Reaper has built a base. Called it the Pale Court. She's drawing followers. Even Adjuchas."
Nelliel exhaled slowly. Her hazel eyes scanned the desert. The moon above was as still always. The land, silent.
"Things are going to get noisy again," she said. "Shame."
That was all.
She turned away and walked into the dunes, her pace unchanging.
In a pit surrounded by half-eaten Hollows and cracked Menos skulls, Yammy chewed on a writhing limb. His Hollow form was brutish and mountainous a gorilla-like mass of muscle and bone, with tusks protruding from a jagged lower mask. His jaw clacked as he swallowed.
A trembling Hollow bowed before him.
"Soul Reaper in the desert, my lord. She's… gathering Hollows. Killed one of ours. Pale Court, she calls it."
Yammy stared.
Then laughed — sharp, bestial, stupid.
"A Reaper with a Hollow pack? Weird...wonder if she'll scream good when I bite her head off."
The subordinate opened his mouth to reply.
Yammy picked him up and ate him.
"Mmm. Soft. Hope the Reaper's tougher."
The night sky over the basin never changed. Not here.
Ulquiorra stood still beneath it, arms folded, bat-like mask fragment casting a shadow over hollow green eyes. He did not move. He did not breathe.
A whisper brushed his ear — a scout's report, barely audible.
"Kira… Pale Court… command of Hollows…"
Ulquiorra didn't blink.
He turned away.
And vanished.
Beneath a ridge shaped like a serpent's fang, a still pool shimmered faintly. Harribel, draped in white and bone, knelt beside it, her sword arm and other hand clasped across her lap. Her Hollow form was sleek, amphibious with gill slits pulsing faintly across her neck, and her lower face was masked beneath a jaw-shaped plate.
Her three followers Emilou Apacci, Franceska Mila Rose, and Cyan Sung-Sun stood behind her, whispering news of the Pale Court.
She listened in silence.
After a moment, she stood.
"War is coming."
One of her lieutenants stepped forward. "Should we intervene?"
Harribel shook her head. "No. We move further south. Let the fire rise without us in it."
They vanished into the sand.
It was nearly dusk — if such a thing existed in Hueco Mundo. Kira kept a schedule so as to not lose her sense of time in this world of perpetual night.
The Pale Court pulsed with recent expansion. Patrols moved in synchronized lines. Bone sigils were burned into pillars. The first primitive walls were forming from hollow corpses fused with Kido residue.
Kira stood at the center, arms crossed, her eye narrowed.
And then… he arrived.
He didn't walk. He floated in.
Szayelaporro Granz in his Vasto Lorde form — was a tall, elegant Hollow with fuchsia lines painted into his bone-white skin. His mask was long and thin, shaped like a beaked scholar's visage, and his eyes shimmered with wet delight.
"Ahh… so this is the famed Pale Court that recently emerged," he said, grinning wide. "How marvelously crude."
Kira didn't move. "Did you come to be conscripted, or just to get burned?"
Szayelaporro laughed, tilting his head. "Neither. I came to offer collaboration. Your court lacks scientific precision. But I… I could give you efficiency. Better soldiers. Hollows that think in formations. Wouldn't that be lovely? Work with me and I will modify them for you."
Kira's eye flicked to her sword. "Leave."
He blinked.
She stepped forward. "Leave now, or I'll become extremely inhospitable."
Silence.
Then Szayelaporro clapped once, slowly. "What a beautifully violent mind you have. Very well. I'll go…"
He turned, drifting backward. "But you'll regret saying no to me. They always do."
And with that, he vanished in a swirl of pink-tinged light.
Kira turned back to the court.
Turtlemourne approached slowly.
"Should we prepare for attack?"
Kira didn't answer at first. She looked out across the court — Hollows working, moving, obeying.
"No," she said. "We prepare for war. Also, strengthen the patrols and check for spies. It hasn't been long since we started and yet someone knows not only our location but the name that hasn't been shared much."