The Growing Reputation of Las Noches

"Cough, cough..."

In the center of Kumamoto's massive bear paw, an aged monk in monastic robes lay weak and powerless. His brows were drawn low, his face etched with exhaustion, and his body covered in various minor wounds.

Aizen watched him, his eyes glinting with sharp light as he spoke softly.

"We meet again, Bunpuku."

Hearing Aizen's words, the old man struggled to open his eyes, his gaze murky as he looked toward Aizen.

Once he clearly saw Aizen's face, the memories of the past seemed to merge with reality within his clouded vision, allowing him to recognize the man before him.

"It is you..."

His lips trembled slightly, his voice raspy and aged as he muttered.

He remembered him vividly. Years ago, a young man had arrived, single-handedly annihilating countless Sand Ninja guarding him and storming into the Altar of Wind.

Back then, he had even tried to persuade the youth to let go of the malice in his heart, never imagining that the boy would persist on his own path, embarking on a slaughter.

Within the Altar of Wind, splattered with fresh blood, a bone-chilling coldness permeated the air.

The youth had looked at the monk sitting in meditation before him and, in response to his counsel, spoke softly with a firm expression.

"This world is inherently imperfect. There is no truth, nor is there any lie. The wheel of karma is nothing more than a narrative used by the Buddha to deceive the masses. For the majority, who are powerless, they accept such narratives to affirm their own reality."

As he said this, his eyes narrowed slightly, a faint smile curling his lips as he continued.

"But if one possesses sufficient power, what need is there to use such things to affirm oneself? I exist here, and