Grimmjow, though he could destroy the First Garden with a single swipe of his hand, dared not make an enemy out of Eden, silently moving through the glades and deeper into the foliage. The waxy under leaf of the canopy casted the forest floor into perfect darkness, thin droplets of moonlight dotting the area into startling clarity of shadows, sharp fern edges, and the occasional softness of beauty. He moved deftly, on silent feet and bated breaths, his blue eyes clear and focused. A panther in the night.
No one would find him here. No one would ever think to look but if they did this would be the last place an Angel would be expected to be found, at the border between Heaven and Earth. Eden was a sanctuary meant for Creation untouched by Time or Death. Orchids on intertwined vines twisted around the trunks of trees so tall, they cradled young stars in its branches. Butterflies fluttered by on the wings of nectar sweet wind leaving trails of gold, silver, platinum glitter to alight the path where fungi weave stories of the rainy seasons with threads of gossamer silk. Frogs sing love songs for the brokenhearted, their chorus the only hymn aloud to break the silence of past midnight. Eden was such an old place. A place of everlasting existence that the fledglings often whispered myths of forgotten fruit that when taken would evolve .
Grimmjow should not have been here.
He took a moment to stand as still as possible, allowing all of his forward focus to switch to the surrounding area. The clearing he found himself at could barely be called a clearing, only that the canopy split itself open to cast the moon’s full light down to an outcrop of smooth stones.
And upon those stones was he.
The name tasted black on his tongue, meant to unsettle and disturb the one who dared speak it in vain. It perfectly described the being himself, as he laid upon the smooth face of a boulder that jutted out of the garden, the very image of decadence in the way his arm hung over his head in leisurely stretch, his chest in an opulent showcase of moving muscle and curving lines, his long legs lazily bent so that the black skirt around his waist slipped down his thighs in indecent lewdness.
Such a creature, a hundred years ago, Grimmjow would have slain in his ignorance of continued sanctity within the scope of God but he has since learned and the image of such beauty made his skin crackle in electric interest, mouth and fangs wet with want.
His voice broke through the hush and shattered the vision of pristine magnificence.
Kurosaki, with his eyes closed and breath shallow, didn’t even appear cautious of the presence of a Warrior like Grimmjow. Though, he appeared careless and unguarded, Grimmjow had no doubt that the other was aware of his presence from the moment he set foot onto Eden. His body moved, more molten liquid than water itself, until he had turned on his side, an uncaring hand coming up to prop his head as the other fell atop his waist, emphasizing the jut of his hip and the length of naked leg.
“Now what,” he hissed between fanged teeth and a forked tongue, his golden serpent eyes now open and staring at the Angel but still inattentive, still bored, “do I owe the pleasure of your company not once but twice in as many days. Truly, there is a God.”
“You believe no such thing,” Grimmjow said and oh how that rankled him. Before, it had him screaming in fury, drawing his sword to drive the blade into the beating heart of such thing so wicked as to not believe in God, but now the righteous rage of his soul had turned into barely perceived discomfort.
A humming rumble disturbed the atmosphere, lulling it into a false sense of calm like a snake would hypnotize its prey, his eyes fluttering to half-lidded as he purred, “Is that right?”
It was not so much a question as it was a test.
When Grimmjow and he first met, the Angel had no comparison to describe the being that called himself Kurosaki. He still didn’t know who or what exactly Kurosaki was in the grand scheme of Creation. He offered nothing in terms of origin and yet Grimmjow couldn’t help but sense that the other was not of Heaven or Earth.
Such existence was unheard of, so too was Kurosaki’s general disregard of God, the Angels, or even most recently Man and Woman. It was unthinkable.
Grimmjow has done a lot of thinking lately.
“Where is he?” Grimmjow asked, the banked fires of his righteous fury sparking up to catch alight his insides.
“Why ask me?” Kurosaki said, “You’re the one whose been searching, who has more of an idea than I.” But Grimmjow had grown used to the other being, now he knew his ticks and tricks, how words twisted in his mouth and still glittered pure silver under holy light.
Kurosaki, who keeps to the shadows of Eden and never seems to stray far from his starlight and shadows, would never know when or where Aizen, a Seraphim of God’s Army, had gone missing. But it was a doubt crafted and casted by Kurosaki’s very tongue so when Grimmjow caught the other’s words before they could formulate into truth, he knew he was right.
“I’ve searched,” Grimmjow said, a terrible tremble in his throat like a quake making love to the storm, “All of Heaven and Earth and I have not found him. And when I came to Eden, the last place in Existence an Angel of his standing could have gone, I found not him but you.”
He had found Kurosaki in the shadow of an apple tree, tall and powerful that convinced Grimmjow that surely if not Grimmjow, who was but a foot soldier in the Army of God, then surely this being who was clearly a Seraphim or another Angel of great power, would know what to do and where to look.
Then Kurosaki asked in a terrible voice of foreboding and apocalyptic ruination, ̸̡̡̡̬͍̘̙̖̺̲͙̓̂̓̽͒ͅ “Where is your God?” ̵̨͙̙͎͓͇̼̳̝͕͇͈͔̝̈́̈́̓̑͒͊͝
He had no pride in his flight away from the being who dared question God. It was fear that drove him away and fear that drove him back because without Aizen, the leading Seraphim of God’s Army, the Angels were in dissent. Heaven was not a place of disorder. In fact, Heaven was the antithesis of disorder and other negatively tainted words attached to concepts that describe anything other than God’s Heavenly Kingdom.
In Grimmjow’s confusion and distress, he flew to someone much more powerful, who openly dwelled in the in-between space of Heaven and Earth, and one who dared ask questions Grimmjow dared not.
Someone who knew.
“You sent me on a wild search,” Grimmjow said, voice close to an offended snarl with how tortuous his search then became under the unhelpful guidance of the other. “I found all that you wanted me to find: my brothers and sisters living in sin having cast off their wings for Man and Woman, empty temples of past idols and the emptying temples of God, and then evidence of new idols coming into power looking to swallow Faith whole. But nothing of Aizen. You know where he is. You’ve always known where he is and if it wasn’t for your sadistic desires to first destroy everything I believe in, you’d have told me.”
“Belief,” it was beneath him to scoff so openly but Kurosaki manage to convey it by the drop of his tone and the bite in his words. “You believed in a lie. A lie you would have defended until your dying breath in vain and you would have been grateful. You really thought your God would remember when you were dead and gone? Well, now you know.”
“I won’t thank you for it,” Grimmjow suddenly said, rage devouring his insides, breaking Eden’s peace with the intensity of his emotions.
“No,” the other said, “I’d be disappointed if you did. Already since you’ve learned the truth you’ve casted away the idealizations your brothers and sisters so gladly fornicate over and turned your back on a God who’s not there.”
“Shut up!” Grimmjow shouted, voice booming in the surrounding silence, “Blasphemy! Shut up!”
“Blasphemy?” Kurosaki rolled the word out on his forked tongue, a strange but not unpleasant growl in his voice that scattered micro shivers down Grimmjow’s spine, “Oh honey, you know nothing .”
Kurosaki must have grown bored with laying upon the stones cause he gracefully stood, tall and broad in the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms, and thickness in his chest. His only dress was a black skirt that trailed down to his feet, his bright orange hair an unkempt mane swept over his eyes and ending at his shoulders. It was his presence that made him seem greater, taller, grander than what Grimmjow’s eyes could perceive. He came down the rocks to stand before him in a loose and nearly casual glide, if Grimmjow weren’t aware that standing before him was a true person of power then watching him slide through the shadows of Eden like they were his to bend at his will would convince anyone otherwise. Kurosaki was powerful and dangerous, barely an arm’s length away, proximity turning the cool night air warm and adrenaline made Grimmjow’s mouth drool with aching fangs and heart hammer in excitement.
“Where is your God, Grimmjow?” the other said, standing close enough to share a whisper so that the whole world may envy their secrets, “Where was He when the first Seraphims went missing, when you went searching for answers, when your brothers and sisters left to either hide or fight among themselves, to fall and join the thriving rot of mortal life coiling with the temptation of God’s promise of eternal love? Do you miss it, Grimmjow? Do you miss the love of a God?”
Grimmjow was almost certain that Kurosaki was the embodiment of temptation, but how could anything so unworthy hold the power and promise that he exemplified? Kurosaki was a class unto himself, the Angel even hesitating to label the other a Seraphim because though Seraphims were the highest order of the Heavens directly under God, Grimmjow couldn’t help but wonder.
Kurosaki’s scent was intoxicatingly close, heat and breath washing over the Angel in tidal waves of heady sensation. To come so close to the other made every contrast stand out, from the unshakable confidence in the other’s eyes to the unstoppable surety of his will. It was attractive and desirable. If only Grimmjow knew what to do with wanting .
“Is that what made you come back to me?” Kurosaki asked. His right hand came up, reaching out to brush along the sharp curve of his cheek, hesitating at the last possible moment to ghost down his throat, fingertips barely brushing his collarbone. Grimmjow sharply inhaled, chest expanding until the other’s palm rested above his beating heart. “Or is it this?”
Kurosaki’s hand, burning hot until the sensation could scald, dragged down to follow the curve of his pectoral, brushing along his ribs, following the curve of his hip till the heel of his palm grazed the top of his skirt, stopping there, letting his hand meld into the skin and muscle that’ll never forget him, eyes still watching Grimmjow as he allowed the close intimate touch of the other. The entire trial for the Angel to hold back his shivers, flesh betraying his yearning by unconsciously leaning his weight into that delicious palm of touch.
“What would your Father say,” the other being said, easing closer to swoop his other hand around to rest against the small of his back, “If He were to see you here with me?”
Every last shred of Grimmjow’s sanity had gone and turned to dust in the wake of Kurosaki’s seductive touch. He craved it. Of course he did, how can you not crave touch? Warmth, care, and when Kurosaki scratches his nails against the give of his skin it makes him want to sing . He never sang before.
Grimmjow was created to worship a God who never showed His face. His hands have long since grown used to the weight of his sword more than the strings of a harp or tambourine. His voice better used for roaring war cries and threatening growls than a song of exaltation and the notion that someone else, someone other, would make him want to do so was staggering.
But where was God when he wanted to worship another being other than He?
Grimmjow could not give an answer because there was no answer to give. There was nothing either of them could prove. Kurosaki could claim that God is dead and Grimmjow could claim that God is here but neither of them would be telling the truth. It as all speculations.
And they both knew it.
“Where is the Seraphim Aizen, Kurosaki?” Grimmjow asked, quiet once again as so Eden demands.
Kurosaki didn’t answer him right away, looking at him with those golden eyes that glowed in the dark. They always came at an impasse where Kurosaki would push and Grimmjow would bend until he refused to bend anymore. It was a dance they both knew well, having written the steps themselves, but never completed.
It always fell through before Grimmjow could break.
“You’ve searched Heaven, Earth, Eden and found nothing. If you want to find the Seraphim, you know where you need to go,” Kurosaki said, equally as soft, “To the places at the End.”
Heaven, Earth, Eden Grimmjow has searched and there was only one place left. He was neither surprised nor excited to do so. He took a step back out of Kurosaki’s reach, stopping a shiver from skittering up his spine from those hands dragging along his skin until they separated at last.
“The End is-,” Grimmjow had to pause, carefully rolling his tongue over a thousand, no, tens-of-thousands of descriptors that might fully encompass the sheer impossibility of the existence of that place, “Cold. Empty. No life or death exists on the edge of the Beginning and End. Why would Aizen be there?”
“Why would he not be?” Kurosaki reasoned, “If he is not anywhere then he has to be there. I know this and you know this. Don’t pretend to be anything else.”
Grimmjow wasn’t anything else but the Angel he was. As if to prove a point, he unfurled his wings, great tremendous things made of lightning if lightning could be smelted into rays of light like a break of the sun through storm clouds. With one push he was flying through the stratosphere of one dimension and the next without another look back, skipping through the laws of physics and treading through the waves of Existence. Stars, planets, ghosts of galaxies and bursting full cradles of nebula past him by, his wings streaking chem trails of hot hydrogen gases behind him.
It wasn’t until he was spinning around the arms of a spiral galaxy did he notice his shadow. He couldn’t see it clearly but he knew it was Kurosaki. From one point to another within the vast universe, between the planes of time and pressure, Grimmjow was able to say, “The hell you following me for?! I don’t need you with me!”
The other didn’t answer and he couldn’t see. Tangible shadow hiding the two’s visage but never presence. Grimmjow turned away to focus on his destination, counting specks of light until they stretched further and further behind them.
Until there was no light.
And space was ripe with the scent of radiation.
Where the ruins of seething Existence still echoed its first screams. Smoking tendrils of long forgotten birthing places felt memories of tragedy. There was no light, light has long since gone from this place, having run away from it’s first home and would only return with the arms of black-holes strangling the last bits of God’s first creation. The End was first the Beginning, but after the last wink of light fluttered out there was nothing glorious the corpse of a miracle.
It was a cold place, empty of anything definitively good. The last place a God, never mind a Seraphim, could be.
Grimmjow was glad that Kurosaki was with him. If he had been alone, the only living consciousness so close to the End, he might have grown mad.̵͚̫̲͚̐ A terrible madness that’d rip him throat to feet, wings screaming out in electric song the agony of his eradication. Already he could taste despair in the back of his throat and if he didn’t feel the thrumming presence of Kurosaki behind him, he would have swallowed, letting the thing rot inside until he would be unrecognizable.
“I can’t see,” he said into the dark. ̷̡̱̉͌̍̅
“You can,” said Kurosaki, voice past it’s usual growling tenor to something more primeval. Like bloodlust. Ọ̸̭͈̱̭͉͍̦͎͔͇̰̘́̈́̂̿̊̽̈͌̓̆̋̒̊͝͝r̶̢̜̣̲͓͎̱̉̓͐͗̿̽͂̅͘ ̵̡͙̖̯̈́c̷̘̎ḩ̸͈̥̻͈͉̭̜͔̽̂̀͛͜͜͠ͅǎ̸̟̭͚̲̼̫̥̟̱̍̇o̸̹͙̜̞̔̈́͑̓̑̌̿̕ş̴͉̣̣͖̟̤̳̦̈́̉̇͆͜
Between one breath and the next, Grimmjow turned from Angel to Warrior of Godliness, Beware all Mine Enemies that I come baring Ill Will. He unsheathed his halo, his whole body shifting from skin to white armored plates, eyes peeking out from in between, his teeth and claws turning frightening to cut the dark and make way for light. He was a thousand feet tall and his arms would have carried the mountains, Grimmjow was no make believe thing of children’s stories, but worthy of fear.
And from God’s Light that did shine from within him did he see through the Dark into places unrepentant of their flaws.
Hanging in the balance where all dimensions meet, where Light was first born to rend the darkness incomplete. Grimmjow witnessed the corpse of ̸T̸h̴e̴ ̵G̶r̶e̵a̶t̸ ̴D̶r̸a̵g̶o̶n̷ where God had first murdered his cousin for the heart of the first star. For nothing created ever came from good, God killed the D̶r̸a̵g̶o̶n̷ for its fire and molded a light to drive away the Dark. ̴̮̺̫̦̝̈́̄̄̚
On and on it went, its rib cage rising up from the endless nothingness and from the bone dangled the still rotting corpses of fallen ̴̝̼̩́̏̾̇͑̈͘͠Angels of the First War. Past the ribs were pin pricks of prototype Light, distant bastard stars that glowed at different frequencies singing at pitches of sound and taste and touch that felt awfully like hatred. And from within the darkness Grimmjow saw the dragon’s head, it’s crown of horns piercing through the folds of gravity, tearing into the fabric of Existence and even as an Angel his eyes hurt to look at the Beyond, a dimension of endless chaos and destruction, a place that was before the gods. ̸͇̩͎̮̅̃̀̂̔͐͊̽̂̂͐̚͘
And instinctively, Grimmjow knew where he needed to be.
Past the graveyard of fallen Warriors, he moved through the thick press of the End and towering ribs that shimmered like toxic oil. He could swear that he could see eyes peering from the Dark. Eyes and black hands and black bodies that moved between the twinkling fake stars. ̴̧̞͇͖̜̗͍̾͒͂͊̐
Nothing living was here but he. But nothing could explain the moans of miserable Existence that were neither alive or dead in his peripheral vision. ̶̢͚͚̼̮͔͔̗̌͌̇͘ ̸̺͕̻̘̭̬̫̤̯͍͈̯̗̂
At last he came to the Dragon’s skull that rose above the cloud of m̶̞̹̟̬̭͈͉̫͈̂́͑̄̽̆͊̍͠͝i̴̛̹̱͔̔ȁ̶̡̦̯̼̟̙̘̓̉̐s̴̛̙̠̿̄͐͋̾͐̔̅m̴̯͙̾͋̔i̵̬̱͂͒̅͋̾̈́̌̀c̷̢̡̰̭̆͒̈̀̔ ̸̝̜̣̪͒͆͐t̷̨̨̨̛̮̹͚̬͐͂͐́̅ͅȩ̵̛̹͚̰͓̙̱̘͐̌͐͜r̶̢̰̝̣̣̙̆͜r̵̻̗̪͛͑͆͛͜ỏ̸̡̞̹̳̰͙̘̣̮̩͂r̸̢̲̜͓͙̖͓̋̍̉͒͜, at the base of the skull was the entrance, and past it he could not see.
For there was never any Light within the D̴̡̛͈̟̲̘͇̱̱̥̗̈́̄̈́̒̆͗͘͝r̵̦̭̮̲͕̖̼̠̃a̴͉̭̬͉̯̐̇̋̃͒̉̊̔̚̚̚͝ͅğ̴̤͍͚̺̔̅͋̌̄̏͌̍̎̚͘ǫ̶̨͔̐̔̑n̶̡̡̛̛̘͙̼̭͙̜͙̔̈́̓̒̾͒̓̓̀͂́̚ nor any of the Lord’s brothers, sisters and cousins that had grappled among themselves power unimaginable. But in the Dark, Grimmjow knew he must continue.
“How do I see?” he asked Kurosaki not daring to turn the hundreds of his eyes away from within the skull.
̵̢̧̜̼̫̪̟̪̙͓̹̗̳̱̺͕͍̝͗̒̈̍͂̒̎́̀̀̈́̃̈́͐̓͠ͅͅ“Sing,” ̶̡̰̺̜̲̳̺̦̩̮̌́̌͊͛̈̐̈͝͠ Kurosaki much less spoke than Grimmjow feel his meaning burn itself into the bone white plating of his flesh.
Grimmjow went further into the skull, letting first his throat, then his mouth humm an endless tune.
There, at his feet, was a foothold and he began to climb. Sound vibrated through his surroundings until he felt the edge of the ̷̛̩̫̥̩̫̻̈́̃̈́̃Dark, the hints of still rotting brain matter, pools of tarish blood, and bone. He heard malice singing back, infinite rage howling like a grudge unavenged for this was a c̷̫͌̚r̴͉̯͂̐i̴͔̣̔m̷͓̔͋ḙ̷̟̇ ̸̝̞̓b̵̬̾ë̶͈̂f̵̥͕̏̚o̸͉̖͒̍r̶̞̕ẻ̶͖͠ ̷̠̂s̷̲̘̋̏û̷̯c̴̠̣̀h̵̦͆͛ ̸̣̼̄̈ą̴̐̀ ̶͇̈́ṫ̵͘ͅh̴̙̃ǐ̸̧̤͛n̴̳͝g̷̡͗ ̴̟̅ạ̸͊̒s̵̺̍͝ ̵̛͍̳J̵͕̾̅u̵̝͝s̸͙̝͗t̴͖̅i̴̩͂̿c̶̤͝ḙ̶͓̈́̎ ̶̖͐͋é̶͈̀x̶̬̳̒ȋ̸̤̗̑š̶̤ẗ̶̢́e̶̦̽d̵̪̙̃̅.
Grimmjow’s feet grew slick from stepping in blood and d̸̰̈́e̷̟͊f̵̛͇̙̅ẻ̸̯a̷̟̦͂̈́t̴̢̠̎̓ , the black oil and mercury reeking of s̴̨̨̯̺̒u̵̡͙̫̓̈́̾̈́̎̕f̵̲̩̠̹͖̎̓̈̔̃͝f̴̬͇̣͖͇̋ë̴̮̻̻́r̵̰̱̲̣͖̊̈́͛ỉ̵͓̾̿̏͘n̷͎̩̅͝g̶̼̏̒̒̈̔. Yet still he climbed. His voice grew louder and the Dark grew stronger. At the top of the stairs, all of his wings were wide and outstretched, every spark of lighting singing a song of thunder, his armor plates vibrating at static pitches of unbreakable ice, his eyes joining in on the chorus to sound like the pattering of rain and ̷͉̠͉̺̤̣̎̓̉from his throat came the most beautiful song of the storm.
What sang back sounded like D̷͕̖̱̦̳̟͑͆̇͝ẹ̵̟͖͙͕̼̱̑̃̉͊̈́̃a̶͇͑ẗ̶̘̖͎͚́͋͝h̵̛̘͇͉͔̍̈̔̈́̑ .
And something else.
Something that scared Grimmjow.
Suddenly there was nothing ahead.
No, not nothing, just an emptiness that didn’t sing back. A̴͈̻̔̂͛͠ ̴̛̫̋́͆̍V̷͓̻̘̙̓͑̏ṓ̸̞i̸̤͎͖͙̜̦̫͛̓̍͒̄͘d̶̺̥͙͎͇̓̇̋. And Grimmjow stopped singing, his eyes, all of them, darting to-and-fro to catch a glimpse of whatever was in the Dark. ̶͕͚̪̼̱̤̀̈ Whatever it was would cause horror. Whatever this Darkness covered wasn’t meant for Grimmjow to find.
Not now. Not ever. N̸̡̡͈̘̮̺͖̫̲̖̤͈̳͎̳ͅo̴̹̥̣͓͐͗͑̏̈̃̒͒̅̈́t̵̟͇͍̍̂̑̂̕̕͝ ̴̢̡̖͖̱͙̪̤͔̲͖͉͖͖̦̌͂̆ͅȳ̴̛͓̲̗͕̰̣̲̥̟͇͉͉͈̇͐̑̋̏ͅͅȩ̷̢̦̥̼̠̔̎͑͛̽̈͘t̶̰̿̋̇̀̅̔͒͗̀̔̀̃̚̕.
“And God said let there be Light,” Kurosaki said, but didn’t say,ṁ̸̤o̸͓̊ͅr̸̝̭͋͐e̶͈̾ ̷̱̄l̴̗͛ï̸͕̂͜k̷̠̈́e̵̻̤̿͠ ̷̺͓w̸͓̟̅͛h̵͉̉̆į̶͎̈́͠s̴͔p̴̣e̵͙͎͋r̴̯̦͗ȅ̴̫͝d̷̥̿ ̶̼͊i̶̢͚͝n̷͉͠͠ ̶͍̌â̴̝̹ ̴͔̆p̵̨̓̑l̷͔͝a̷̞͂c̸͕̘̀e̴̝͌ ̸͚͝w̵̡̉͠h̶̰̗͊ē̴̤̺̓r̴͔͆͝ḙ̵͠ ̵̥̑ö̷͔́͘ṉ̷͆͐l̵̫͉̄̃ÿ̴̪́ ̵̯͕̇ṩ̷͒c̴͇̤̕r̴͇̗̾e̴͌̕͜a̵̢̓͊m̴͚̒͊s̶͎̗̽ ̷̛̦̚c̵̯͗͂ǒ̵̧̊ǘ̸̡l̵̦̃̑d̶̦̮̔̊ ̶̙̈b̵̥̹̌e̶̳̋ ̶͕̪̔h̶̳͒̒͜e̶̗̔͊a̶͍͝r̵̬͈̂d̵̙͓͗͒. And Grimmjow could feel something rising from his back. Kurosaki, who Grimmjow has not witnessed since their time at Eden, cast his eyes to his complete surroundings to realize that he was not behind him.
̷̡̨̛̦͎͓̘̯̪̼̙̳̲̟̣̫͚̪̄͌̄̅͊̇̃̈́͋̐̏̃̈́̈̆̃͒̈́̈́̃̉̈́̍̔͒̓̃̓͐̍͆̊̔̈́̏̇̎͆̓̇͒̈̈́̀̿̀͊̇́͂̈́̀͌̎̔͒̐͘̚͘͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͝ He was around him. ̸̛̛̣͎̥̮̞̯̳͉̘͎̆͋͑̌͂̇̽̀̔̊̓̑͒̇͆̓
Within the Dark –̴̳̗̄̌–̷̝̦̔ṉ̶͍̓̑o̷̖͐̓,̶̠ ̶̟ḥ̴̿̿e̷͕̖̎͂ ̴̤̭̕ẘ̷̩̿a̸̲̐͜s̶͔̤͘͝ ̷̯̤͝ṫ̵̻̿ḫ̵̡͋ë̴̗́̿ ̴̖̣̄Ḍ̵̼̓a̴̺̾͒r̷̖̤̅̋k̷̛̮̳̀–̸̼̳̓–̸̧̫̑̈́ Grimmjow could see it with how it moved like him, sounded like him, it was becoming of him, as the Dark adorned its Master and he could see Kurosaki because he wanted to be seen.
The Kurosaki he had known was nothing. If Grimmjow was Warrior of Godliness, Beware all Mine Enemies that I come baring Ill Will, then Kurosaki before him was-
-F̷̧͕̰̰̹̖̯̘̦̼̳̖̹̰͉̻̗͌̎̀̿̿̆̈́̓͌͒͒̕ͅr̴̺̖͋͌̽ȍ̷̡͍͓̝͓̘͉̼̹̥̥̯̩̋͛͛̽̾̔͒̉͑͆̉̈̐̿̂̈́̏̄̏͗͘̕͜m̷͔̩̐̓̓͋̎̔̉͗̒́̇̇̑̄͑̈́͑̅̚͘͝͝ ̶͇̘͍͚̟͚͍̠̖̟̻̩̳͉̫͍̩̐̏̒͛̏̍̋̔̿̔̾̋̾̍̈́͒͒̋̚͘Į̶̠̯̳̪̫̖̝̻̲̫̞͚͔͍̹̫͚̫͉͍̫̝͍̮̙̞͗̍́̌́̄̾̏́̉̓̍̌̓̈́̿̀̅̂̎̓̽͋ ̷̧͙͚̋̇̂̌̾̅̆̋͊͋͠Ỵ̴̗̮̗̼̭̩͎̩̍̔̉̌̅͐̅̎̀̒͘͜͝͝ͅo̸̩̪͔̐̔̋͗̀̑̉u̸̧̡̩̟̺̫̙̳͚̳̝̳̖͈̜͈̙̞̟̠̭͊̔̈́̄̔̏͋̽̐͐̐̔̅̌͛̋͘͝͠͝ ̶̨̞̱̘̟̝̤̖̥̤͕̝͛͌͑̾͊̒̽̄̓͊̑̊̏̑̌̚̚W̸̛̱̠͕͚̽́̿̇͂̉̆̔͗̇͐̾͋̈́̽́͋̚͘͠͝ͅê̸͉̱̊́r̴̠̪̦̙̳̻̗̻̜͉̒̑̔̀̃̀͛̈͒̓̃̆̍̄̓̅̈̋̍͘͘̕͝͝͠e̸̡̟̬̹̞̲̤̳̖̯̪̟͖͖̗̦̠͈̬͉̠̬͖̩͈̦͔̿̐͛̀̓̍͂͐̆̓̏͆̅̔̎̋͐́͋̄̐,̸̪̪̻̖̬̅̃͗͂̀̓̈̃̅͆͂̎̇̇̓̋̾͛́̽̔̏̆̄͑̿̕ ̵̧̻͔̟̯̜̮͚͕̯̠̗̝̔̈̃̇̀̐̊͋̃̌̑̋́̊͘͘̕͜͝͝F̸̡̛͍͙̳͚̘̰͕̬̰̭̮͙̤͙̄̾̍̋̃̿̉͗̓͂̍̒͗̔͆̈́̊͒̓̚͘͝ͅr̸͔̜̗͎͈̫̲̬͚͗́͐̄̈́͐͑͊̽͒͒͒͂͆̆́̊́̓̑̽ͅo̵̯̦̙̭̍͂̈́̿̾̓̾̏̂͒̽͊̅͛̈̿̕͠͠͝ͅṃ̷̧̨̗̼͕͕͙̜̯͍͚̹̞̝̱̺̰̫̺͈̭̫̜͚͚̑̆̑̎͋̆̌͌̈́̈̂̍͐̋͂̈́̉̏̅̚͜ ̶̖̟͎̻̗͇̊̈̇̑̎̾̚̕͜Ï̸̳̙̲̦̋͑ ̵̧̢̣͓̦̳͓͓͇̪̟͙̮̣̗̞̎̔̓̽̐̈͛̄͜ͅY̵̲̟͚̭̝̹̪̽̌͌̏̄͛͆̚͝ơ̴̢̡̬͎̤͎̮͖̪̲̯̤͖̞̖̘̫̓̈́̑͛̑̈́̏ų̴̭͕͗̌̃̕ ̸̣͉̰̣͈̤̺̟̲̘̣̪͔̮̙͚̣͇̽̑̅͛̃̏̈́̽̐̀̕W̵̛͖̜̖̳̯̅̐͗͐͌̏̍̋͌̃̇̾́̈́͋̊̈̈́̐̓̏ī̵̢̮̘̫̝̝̣͙̥̦̲̽̆̾̃̓͛̿̎̈́̌̿͐̊̎̋̚̕̚̕͜͝͝͝ͅl̶̨̤̜̺͖̺̬͙̪̲͍̩͙̥̼̩̩͙͆̈́͌̄̈́͌̿͒͆́͘͝͝l̵͎̹̙̻̣̪̩͍̳̞͉̜͖̣̲̞̩͍̝͓̺̖̈́͂͑͜ͅ ̵̧̲̩̘͉̈̇̌̌͂̅̄͗̇̕͘B̷̢̢̡̛̙͉̫͓̼͖̰̯̺͔̹͕̱̬̙̭̣̰͋͒͆̾̄̒e̴̢̢̨̖̥͉͎͉͕͓͉̱̯̩̯͎̬̠͕͚̯͕̻͎͐̑͆̓͐̒͗͜͝.̴̢̼̪̭̩͔̝͓̬̰̞͕̖͙̭͓̜̟͆͛̉̄̄̏̏̂͋̏͋̅̏͌̒̔̅̀̊́̌̚̚͝
The fire brightness of his hair had gone out, snuffed to black in the darkness, stretching long behind him. The Darkness,t̴̻̩̮͓̹̤̱̞͑̄ĥ̶̦͚͉͓̅͆̏̂ȅ̵͙̠̮͈̠́͋͊̃̄̒͝ ̶̗̲͕͆͌̄̿͌̈̍w̸̳͓̟̝͍͗e̸̼̳̞̤͔̭̺̍̂̈̄͒͌i̵̧̛̘͐̒̀̈́͝g̸̥̱͙̪̥̤̗̽͂h̴̨̥͙̺̜̥̾̑͗̇͝͝ț̴̦̱̭̺͉̣͗̔̋͗͛̀͠ ̴̛̱̱̣͂̅̊̓͝ŏ̷̧̡̭̳̦̰̏͛͜f̸̖͉̅͗̾̈̊̿̎ ̵͚̝̘͙͇̙̿̂͆͝H̸̲̱̳̰͖̣̣͙̑̇̈͒ä̶̼̾t̸͇̙̕r̸̲̘̀̂̌̋ĕ̸̡̘̱̗̭̳̰̝̑͑͐̈́ḏ̸̯̓̂̈́̂͌̈ ̶̯̭̀̏a̵̺͍̬̥͛͌̾̊͛͠ṋ̴̖̝̮̯̯͙̈́̎̒͠d̶̪̼̓̿ͅ ̸̢̩̗̙̱̭̑͗͐̄̍͝͝Ḛ̸͇̭̰̣̰̞̏̇͗̀̊͘͜͠v̵͍̩̯̮̑î̵̡̥̙̻̱̰̒͊̉̐̈́̉͠l̵̼̄͗, adorned him in a godliness that existed before Grimmjow’s God, before Light or Existence or anything as petty as Time and Death. And from the black hole of his chest grew tendrils of tattooed black sun rays streaking across his face and from the Dark he became ̷͚͔̭͇̺̤̀͑̽̇͌͗͗̀̚͘͠͠Light unlike anything Grimmjow knew.
He was the C̴̛̯̝̐e̴̳͕̩̖̋̄̍̊n̶̲̥̋̓t̴̞̩̑̐̔e̵̫͓͂͌͜͝r̵̲̈͒͐,̷̮̰̏͊ ̵̯͐ͅt̵̙͕͇͑̓͆h̸͇̦̖̽͌̅͋ȅ̷̞͕͐̓ ̵̢̟͓̫̆́̒̐B̶̥͙̳̓l̷̡͙͙̻̏̀͋ǎ̷͓̻͔̌͗̚ċ̴̛͖͉̤̈̕k̴̡̬͉̔̐ ̸͓̻͂S̸͙̼͇̰̓̐͗ṷ̶̦̈́ň̷̦͕̓̐,̵̡̯̦̳̽̈́̋ ̸̙̥̹̈́̒ṭ̸̔h̸͖͐͜ê̶̦ ̸͕̳͌Ȇ̴̝̎͝n̸̲̆̍d̶͚̥̽͋ ̵̫͐͐̕L̶̜̘̿a̴͈̖̐̂̆s̸͈̼̖͛̽̃t̴̻̖͎͂ ̵̧̓͒̆̔ä̵͍̺͇͎́n̵̆͜d̸̥͎̝̭͂͛͗͘ ̸̨̳̂͛Ȏ̸̳͚͎̐ṅ̸̖̈́́̽l̸̹̺͙̂͜y̶̢̡̺̲̏̇́͝ and Grimmjow could see as if Kurosaki had pulled back the blindness from his eyes from seeing within the Dark and-
̷͈͚͎̞̲̙̹̩̤̑ͅAizen hung from the skull dead. ̷͇̠̺̟̳̼̬̫̥̞͊̄̒͐
Wings torn to shreds.
Ripped open, from his throat to his feet, the Light inside him gone as was the Grace of God. G̷̞̯̱̺̉o̴̡̠̻̪͈͉̍̃ñ̸̅͜e̸͚͇̟̪͂.̵̡͕̺͕̭̱̞͛͛͑̈̊͝ͅ Half his face broken so that one eye stared into the abyss of D̵̨̢̢̝̞̣̝̠̃̕͜ȩ̵̹̦̲̖̦̝͎̯̅̽̋͊̓͆̓̄̚ả̷̧͔͖̪̮̳͇͓̰̈͋̆̂̾̐ţ̴̨̪̦̫̝̇͋̽̍͘͜h̶̭̲̺͈̗̝̤̺͓̼͙͔̗̅͂̐̀͐ͅ , fear scarring his final expression. He did not die quickly.
The Dark peeled itself further back and from the cracked cranium leaked in Beyond.
Beyond where Chaos` first currency was evolution. ̶̖͔̥͉̦͓̥͊͗͘To unmake and remake again and again until the first state of being was forgotten for something new and horrible. Life became Death and Death became Rebirth. On and on the vicious cycle turns, the pregnant belly of Beyond giving birth to Creation just as fast as it destroys it. ̶̧̛̦̩͖̞̬̦͖̳̜̤̹̳̜͙̍̀̔̅͒̈́̐̾̄́͆̽͘͝
A̸̹̯̐͒n̶̠͙̔ ̷͇̈e̸x̶̨͍̺̓̾̚i̶̫̺͌ṣ̸̍̉t̴̫̘͆ë̴̳̙́n̷̦̥̓̊̕c̸͈͌͝e̷̜̖̣̽̈̓ ̴̥̥̓̂̆b̷͈̂̉͜e̵̻͖͖̕f̸̨̹̪̒o̴͎̐̉ṙ̴̙͙͒̂ë̶̺̅ ̴̧̿̏g̵̨̛̲̗̕o̸͘͜d̵̰̈́s̴̗̬̆̆͠.̴͔̆͐
Supreme to gods and Grimmjow looked it in the face.
He saw h̴̛͇̺̤̠̼̹̭̦̐̕̚͠a̸͎̰͕̓̄́̂̀͝ņ̷̟̹̪̳̦̌̉͐̈́̚d̵̦͓̩̓̐̉s̷̡̧̠̗̩͙̈́͗̆̎͑̀͝ digging and ripping through the body of a Seraphim. A m̷̛͈͉̰͍͂̾̔̄̑o̶̹̫̠̲͛̓̑̄̊̏ų̵̞̠̘͕̺̫͉͂̏t̴̺̣͑̐̎h̸̨̢̦̻̩̠̬̫̎̏̉͐̒͌̊̚ licking into the cold heart of the dead angel, ichor gushing into its insatiable maw. The red-gold liquid of Angel blood dripped from Aizen’s body and Grimmjow lifted his hands in horrified wonder to catch the evidence of desecration. T̴͇̪̼͕̜̭͈̠͈̯̯̰̮͕͠h̸̢̺͈̣͉̯͕̲͕̯̯͇̯̓̔͗ĕ̷̡̢̘̘̼̭̦͔̻̙̭̜͔̱͝ͅ ̸̨̢̛̘̮̠̪̩̦̯̜̤͉̩̗̳̻̼͊͋̐̉̈̆͐̐̈́̓̈͊̄͆̓̋̕͜͜͝B̵̧͔̻̝̘̻̬͍͇̩̥̭̫͌̈́̀̀̋̃͗͠͠ȅ̵̡͈͔̱̗̝̲̫̼͑̂̽̋̇̓̀̈̿̑͌͌͛y̴̧̱̻͕͙̖͓̞̱͔͊̈́̎͐̊̇̄͝ơ̸̢̟͎̠̥̼͈͚̞͖̪͐ņ̷̢̛̦̹͖͚̭̘͇͉͍͚̘͐͒̉̐͂̚d̵̢̡̢͈͈͍̩͚̺͈̳̬̝̘̪͉̺͕̍̏͑̏̔́͑͝ did not heed to his stare, feasting on Grace gluttonously.
Ichor dribbled down Grimmjow’s arms and onto the floor, finally he looked away from the unspeakable thing above to look below, the puddles of red-gold ̸͎̱͚̭͔̘͛̾̈͌̔͊̒̚blood staining his feet. There was more ichor in the room than Aizen could ever hold.
G̶̛̝͔̈́̇̿̅̂͋̈́̈́̍͗̾̂̐̂͑̃̏̐͊̄̓͆̀̚̕̕͝r̸̨̨̠̫̙̣̳̣͓͙͖̦̥͍̙̦̤͊͋͆̒̓̆̑͒̆̈́̌̀͊̌̎͘͘͠ͅͅį̶̧̡̨̡̩̲̳̟̣̯̱͔̬̰͈͇̙͙̩͙̟͚̗̐̊̂̎͒̇̀͒͒̕m̸̧̡̡̩̦̣̪̳̤͉͔͙̬̬̯͎̮͕̻̗͙̦͚̳̥̹̭̫̩͇̮̐̑̂̂͜m̵͕̠̭͈̯̟̖̪͙̙͕̳̱͚̭͖̜̖͍̹͉̖͇̬͈̱̐͆́̚j̸̨̛͓͓̗͕̝̙̳̩̦̰̦̊͛̅̊͛̍͆̆͛́̅̐̓́͛̊̓̾̃͊̿̋̓̚̚͘͝ơ̴̡̢̡̡̰̰̭̮̭͙̞̻͔̺̻͓̦̹̗̗̭̻̱͙͖͕̝̬̯͖̝̓̎̔̽͋̆̇̎̒͗̆͛͘̚̚w̷̢̡̨̡̯̲̠̩̳̪̬̫͉̝̖̩͓̬̦͚͔̦̥͖̾̐́̾͋̆̍͌̿͊͊̈́͆̎̒̈̚͝ͅ ̸̨̢̯̗͚͈̹̹̮̬̫̻̼̤̥̼̪̹̺͌͜c̴̨̧̡̺̱̫͓͍͙̦̖͇̭̣̙͚̺̭͙͉̣̰̔̔̎̇͋͂̍̔̊͘͘͠ǫ̷̨̢̺̫̦̲̳̠̖͖̱͔͍̫̥̥̥͖̯͉̮̻̝̟̳̃̒͗̃̽̌͋̈́̾̿̐̏̈̃͊̂̕͘̚ų̵̗̪̻̥̳̰̞̯̥͖̱͖̦̻̪͙̱͉͇̣̞̯͍̞̬̼̈́͆̅́̊̃̓́̇̅̐̅́̾͗̄͂͐͒͗͛͑̆̈̍̽́̽͘̕͝͠l̵̢̨̪̖̙̮͉͉͎̪͔͓͖̫̘͒̋̂̆̔̍̉͆͊͂̀̀̎̔̓̍̓̃͒̉̋͆̒̆̕͘̚̚͠͠͝͠ḑ̵̢̡̝̪̖̻͈̼͈͍̮͓̳̘͕͎̋̐̆̇̂̒̒̏̽̇̄̌̐̍́͆͋̊͛́́̎͆̇͆͘͠n̴̛̛͉̤͚͚͖̖̘̫̘͚̝̲̲͍̠̝̹̝̝͒̊̇̒̍̉͆̈́̏̇̍̍̒̎͂͠͝͝͠’̴̢̨͔̣̺̦̦̞̬̼̹̩̺͍̦̭̙̲̦̜͉̳̤͚̺̘̗̈́̈́̂̎̂͂̓̈́͌̈́̈́̿̽͑̚͜͝t̷̗̥͕͇͍͕̱̯̤̠̟̗͚̠̦̘͊͆̆̾̃͆̑͊͌̐̋͐̄̅̔͂̊̂͋͐̈̿͑̾̚̕ ̸̢̧̨̢̗̫̤͍̬̥͎̹̯͖̹̟̞̫͔̹͇͕̭͔͗̉̈́̆̈̔͒̓͛̏̚͝͠s̸̛̗̹̲͚͓̮̳̜̼̟̟̝̭̠̹̯͎̤̞̪̭̝̖͓̤̜̱̱̦͉̬̿͂̇͌́͒̓͒͌̓̆̄̂̈́͠͝ͅc̶̡͖̹̰̟͉͍̘̯̘̜̬̪͚̤͖̩͍̮̞͇̀́̆͋̋̄̈́͆̈̾̓̐͌̾̂̽̓̋̾r̵̢̡͍͕̥̠̪̥̬̥͍͈͉̮̺͙̗̫͚̗̰͚̉̈́̋̇̀͌͗̑͒̈́̊͐͗̽̎͊̃̕̚͝͝ȩ̴̡̧̢̡̢̛̗͔͎̜̞̻̩̦̦̹̤̯͎̹͚͚̼̼̰̺̝̞̬̝͔͗͑̒͒̑͆̽͗̈́̈́̉̿͗̚͜ͅͅả̶̧̨̹̩̮̬̟̟͙̰̺͈͖̤̺͕̰̤̖̟͕͉̠̝̤̮̮̦̬̻̹̜͋̌̇̇̾̊̈́̔̎̀͛̋͛̾̓̆̏̊͋̎̂̆͒̈́͘͜͠͝m̵̥͙̫̯̺͉̠̂̑͒.̴͎̭̱̿̆̃̃̉͊̂̀̑̑̅̉̄̋̏͒̍͘̕̚͘͝ ̶̨̢̛̛̥̝̮̩͔̤͌̏͆͋̈̈́̋̊̌͒̀̅̑͑̃͛̑̀͘
Horror had infused itself into his very bones. There was more ichor than Aizen was ̵̨͙̙͎͓͇̼̳̝͕͇͈͔̝̈́̈́̓̑͒͊͝worth. How many other Seraphims had gone missing? Never to be found again, taken to this place where ť̴̗̝̪͎̙̩̭͚̩̞̞̜͚̱̭̖͕̳̣̟͕̤̇̄̍ͅḩ̷̧̘̪̯̣͓̟͕̦͉̭̙̣̪̤͔̆͑è̸̢̨͈̥̬̘̖̤̱̫̜̫̤͈̗͖̱͎̲͖̩͉̹̩͙͆̓ ̸̛͔̘̟̗̲̜̦͇̰̾̑͌͋̔̍̀̿̂́͌̾̉͛͌̒͘̕͘͘͝͝E̷̡̧̡̨̛̘̺̩̤̯͍̖̜͓̖͎̰̘̬̞̞͓̘̭̩̼͓̳̋̓̂̾͑̃̓͊̄͐̔̅͛͒̋̈́̽͒͝n̶̢̧̧̢̠̹̹͎̗̪̞̲̤͚̪̠͍̹̰̭͎̿̓͗̆͊̈́͂̓̂̑͂͒̉͌̏͝ḑ̴̬͙̲̠͓̪̞̳̱̤̦̐̎̊̈́̀̾̑̉͐̐̍̆̿̌̎͆͊̈̕͘͜͠ met t̷̜̲͉̹̼̻̯̐̈́̈́̏͋̇̈́̚͘̚͝ͅh̶̡̟̥̤̠͍̫̲̄̍̿̎̍͌͐͐̍͝ę̴͇̪̰͕͉̂̋̄͌́̅̀̓ ̸͓̱͔̪͈͍̲̣̗̏͐͜B̴̛͙̰̭̳̳̝̿͐̔͂͐͌̉̄͋e̶̜̪̟̝͔̘͒͛͛̈́̔͒̐ŷ̵̻̤̞̝͈̯͓̟̼͉̾͊ỏ̴̭̳̪͕̂̏̀̕n̵̤̱̼̉͂͂͌̐̄̐̊͘̕͠͝d̷̰͓̥͖̤̹͕̓̆̐̀̊̿͌̕͝ and gave its worshipful sacrifice. ̷͇̘̘͔͖͠
He turned back to Kurosaki, looking at him now and confirming the horrible, unforgivable truth.
The other stood just behind him under the tainted waterfall of red-gold blood that wet his face, his chest, from his head grew a pair of long, jagged horns but from his horns glowed Light, a recognizable Light.
A ̸̫͆̂̀̒̋̿̊broken ̴̨̺̦͕̩̯̠͙̬͔͉̍͊̈͐halo, inverted ̸̛̝̜̥͎̤̎̈́͆̀̃̿ and twisted ̷͇̮̣͇̙̩̯̒ ̵̢́̔͐in Kurosaki’s ̸̣̫͔̾̔͂̄̓͐̕own wickedness.̴͖͉͉̻͎͓̬̗͎̽̆̈́̍̃̔̎̆͊͑
“An Angel,” Grimmjow uttered in horror, “You were once an Angel.”
“Angels are servants to their god,” Kurosaki said, his voice gone from being beautiful and dipped down into repulsive as if spoken through a cannibalistic mouth of shrapnel and rot. “I̵̞̺͖̻̋̇͜ ̴͉̏h̵̬̝̝̖̼̬̰̞̔̀̋͐̃̍a̴̢̘̿̈̿́͝v̸̦̱̰͍̻̝̣̜͂̅̄͐̕ę̴̛̼̰͇͈̗̗͈̾̄̿ ̷̨̡̣͉̟̂͗̉͌́̿͛͝ņ̶͇̹̟̯͛͌̾͆̅o̸̘̩͈̜̞̅͊̒̓̉͜͝ ̸̛̼͚̹͂̐͐͘͝͠g̵̜̬͙̩͎̋̊̓̌͠ȯ̸̮̱̦̗̱̥ͅd̶̮̟̳̼͍͆̏͗͆͘̕͝.”
Something terrible reverberated through the air, like the coming of the G̸̲̹͈̐̈́r̶̢̦̩̜̓̍ĕ̷̢͉̠̃å̸̹̳̔t̷̙̼̱̉͛ ̷̢̡̲̪̽D̷̬̙̩̓r̵̛̭̳̔̓a̶̟̔͘͝g̵͚͈̥̾o̷̝̞̎̿͠ņ̶̭̈́̀̿ but it was only Ǩ̷̜̥̜͈͖̦̲̖͕̟̞̳̼̖͎̮̝̔̈͑̌̏̄͑͒͠u̶͚͕̘̍͐̄͒͗̍͐͗ͅŗ̷̨̡̼̟̠̹͓̥̳̣͔̻̤̱̮̱̓͛̇͊͐͊̐̓͊̅̽͂̏̄̒̎͂̌͘̚̚̚̕̕͠ͅǫ̷̛̪̥̼͙̞̤̌͗̿͋̆̈́́̆̉̑͛̂̈̄̎̆͒̓͌͘͝ͅͅș̵̢͖̇̐̂̈́̔̔͋̊̊̇͜a̷̛̛̫̖̯͓̻̼̞̺̤̹̘̦̯̞͐͒̈͐̌̈́̿͑̔͌͊͊̋̍̎͒̊͗̎͘͜͠͠͝k̵̢̧̡̛̯͎͍͔̹͖͙̦̜̼̻̜̳̹̜͔̊͒̄̌͗͊̽͆̎̚͘̚̚͜͠í̴̢̢ here. Only K̶̢̠̘̱̜̞̺̲̬̻̗̠͇̞̯̖̽̔̍̑́͊̈̑̒̅͌̿̔͑̒͆̓̂͘̚͝ͅͅư̷̢̛̮͉͇̳̫̱̫̭̼̤̯̯̫̲̙͊͌̀͊̄̆͗̆̔̇̈́͛͛͜r̴̢̛̛̮͍̬̗̙͔͇͕͙̭͒̋̍̎̌̔͑̈́̑͋̑̄̐̄͘͜͠͝o̷̮͚̗̯̼̫͖͖͙̲̹̰̥̦̓̄̐̃̚ͅs̵̛̝̗̭͎̬̟͎̥̠͂̓͗͂̿̈̈́̋͑͒̈́͑̅̌͂͐̋͛͘͝a̷̢̪̪̘̩̮͍̞͐̈́̇̆̊͋͋̅̂̍͆̑͌͌̾̓̓̽̈́̚͜͝͝ķ̴͚͖̻̩͉̖̣̻̺̠͍̳̰̞̬͍̫̹̋̎͑̕̕͜͜į̴̨̡̻͇̤̱̫͙̦̲̖͍̗̘̩̥̞̠̱̺̝͈̈̌̋̋̎͐ͅ who made the Dark ̷̨̨͔̙̘͙̲̗̮̯̺͙̺̬̉̀̈́̔̇̍̉̿̒̀͂̀͘͘͝ ̸̨̤͓̞̬͙̼̯̹̻̰̯̬͙͇̻̺̺͐̐̾̿̚͘̕ dance, fed Seraphims to the ̸̢̎͑̽̊̈́̅͌̆͒͋͌̽͒͐̕̕͝͠͝͝Beyond. Who broke his own crown to become something greater than gods could be.
̶-̸a̷n̶d̵ ̷k̴n̵e̶w̵ ̸w̶h̸a̴t̴ ̴h̷e̴ ̵d̷i̴d̴ ̵n̶o̸t̵ ̵w̵a̴n̶t̶ ̴t̵o̴ ̴k̴n̵o̸w̴.̶
.̴͖͉͉̻͎͓̬̗͎̽̆̈́̍̃̔̎̆͊͑“Where is your God?” ̷͔̒̿̔̆̌͐̑͑͝ The other had once asked.
Kurosaki had eaten Him.
Kurosaki ate God.
He became a God.
He is God.
G̸̢̧̖̼͙̺̬̘͈̩͓̱̹͎̫̞͙̖͚̰̝̞̳̼̦͔̟̦̞̞̋̈́̓̓̆͒̕͜ ̸̨̡̙͉̞̘͓̳̭̱̙͉͈͕̻̮̙̜͇̪̙͓͎̩̜̱̯͍̰͚̥̊́͂̆͐͑̍͆̀̾̏̇̈͋̄͑̓͑̽̅̇̓̋̏̉̉̄̈́̄̉̍̑̓̒̎̌̇͌̇̂͂̿͌̽̑̿̇́͒̕͜͝͝͝͝͝͝R̸̢̮̦̣̝̼̕͜ ̷̭̰̱̗̗̫̭̯̻̝̝̼̩̪̘̼̪̲̠͉͖̘̓͛̈́̐͊̀̈́̒͋̂̄͐̂͐̅̓͜Į̷̜̗͕̱̳̭͎̰̟̦̲̼̦̹̙͕̺̮̻̣͈̻̰͔̼̘̝̯̙̘͕̙̞̪͓̟̜͈̂̎̈́ͅ ̵̨̛͉̘̙̿͌̓͒̆̂̑̀̀̄̐̈̆͐̋̒̽̋̑̌̓̕͜M̶̛͍̰͚̞͓̹̫͍͙͙̰͉̰̤̩͕̱̮̺̻̐́̈́̓́̽̂̅͑̆̓̓͂̿̒̌̇̉̌̂̋̈́̓͂̔͆̓̇̿̾̎̈́̀̃̐̌̏̐͐̚͝͝͝ͅ ̴̛̘̥̪̹̳̣͖̼̞͓̤̲̫̱̜͕̃́́̇̿̀̈̏̈́̀̓̓̓̿͊̑̌̂͆̃̿͋̌̅̓̈́̋̂̅͌͒̎̓̽̀̑̽̇̒́̔͑̉̍̕̕̚̕̕͘͝͠͝Ṁ̶̢̡̢̨͎̩͇̖͍͕̺̙͙͕̭̬̲̝̰̜̻͎͉̙͖͚͓̩̫̝͚̻͕͍͓̯̤̣̭͖͚͕͈̰͚̺͉̫̉͊̔ͅͅ ̵̢̢̢̡̧̛̛̼͉̩̞̤̣̟͔̪̫͇̯̝͉̺̤̖̳͚̰̳̣͚̺̜͔̭̞̗̫͕̩͉̦͎̱̦̜͎̻͍̮̻͖̝̺̋̒̋̈͌̉̔̋̓͐̉̂̍̒̓̾̔͗̏̈́͛͐͒͂͂̆̌́̕͘͘͘̚̚̕͝͝J̷̢̛͈̬̲̜͈̯̹̟̟͖̄͐̿̃̉̑̎́̀̋͂̔̆̔̊̋͆̎͂̓̔̄́̍͆̊̇̉̀̔̆̂̇́̋̀͌̆́̊̒̾͒̍̄͌̽́̅̈̚̚̕͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅ ̷̗̠͈̬̮̬̮̞̠̦̩͍̘̟̜̗̗̮͕̼̼̮̗͕͇̱͉̘̉̏͘ͅǪ̴̡̨̛̰̹̯̳͈̦̜͈̗̬̟̗̬͔̟̞͉̠̹̲̻̹͎̹̰̝̟̟̱̗̋̀͐̈́̇̄͗͌̒̔͂͆͑̊͒̒̈̎͂͛̇͆̈́̈͑͐̈́̋͆̂͊̂̈́̒̎͗̀̉̈́̈́̇̉̒͐͆̋͌͗͘̚͘͝ ̶̧̡̢̧̡̛̛̬̘͔̲̘̻͓͚͈͕͈͈͚̼̩̝̳̥̱̰͙͔̺͈̹̻̙͚̘̥̤̻͙̫̝̣̻͈͇͔̯͈͍̫̰̝͆̄͗͛̿̾͗͑͗̿̃͂̓̎͐̓͒̏̅͋͗͌̅̈́͗̇̈̈̽̑͋͒̃̅̾̎̒̓̌̽̔͒̕̕̚͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅͅW̴̡̢̨̡̥̝͇̙̯̦͉̜̗̩̫̣̦̥̝̫̜͙̼̭̣͇̟͕̰̠̹̬̯̺̪̺̘̦͗̀̍̔͂͊͋̓̉͠ ̶̨̧̧̢̡̧̨̢̝͎̺̩͈̮͉̹͕͍͈͖̞̩͇͖̬̭̖̪̞̣̤͈̘̟̞̤̺͇̙̺͇͈̩̫̝̜̖͈͕̺͓̞̦̖͇͂̽̓̐̎̈́͆͑͗̂͜͜ͅͅͅ ̴̨̥̗̪͇͕̱͓̟̘͇͙̦̲̥͋ ̴̧̛̛͍̳͉̠̪͙̥̦͔̯͍̲͎̣͇̟̣̬̪̜̠̯̘̼̙̤̠͔̩̜̟͖̗̼͈̬̠̗͉̫̯͍͎̳͚͔͈̬̝̝̬̈́̅͋͛͒̈́̒̉͋̓̾̉̓͛̆̿̋͗̏̓̎̈́̔̿̓͌͐̔̎̀͑̋̔̎̒͒̆̀͌̎́͘͘̕͘͜͝͝͝͠ͅF̶̛̛͕̱͍͉̃͆̂̋̐̒̀̕̚͝͠ ̷̨͇̞͈̼͉͇̥̬͕̪͖͋̽̈́̈́͊̃͗̐̂͛̽́̑̃̒̓̊͂̽̍̓͛̔̈́̇̑̈̎̃͌͊̒̐͌̑̐̕̚͠͝͝Ơ̴̧͔̻̱̩͎̩̙͎̤̞͔̫̻̳̺͌̍́͐̋͊̍̇̍͋̉͆̈͗̐̏̅͑͑̈́͛͑͊̆̃̓̄͆̾͑̾̌̍͑̈́͋͘̚̚̚̚͘͜͜͝͝ͅ ̴̨̨̛̥̖̥̟̼͖̟̩̤̪̱̠͕̻̺̠͉̐͛̉̓̉̌̈́̈̊̋̍̐̑́̋͆̑̆̈́͌̈́͛̈̐͊̄̀̃̿̌̚͝ͅͅU̶̟̩̟͉̱͍̻͑̂̓̽̅̃͋͊͂̃̽̈́͌̂̅̽̊̌̏̾̎̈́̽̅͒̄̆͂̊͒́̏́̈́̊̉̐̂̍̿̃͋̇̐̈́̕͘͘̚̕ ̶̧̛͚̼̘̗̾̂̀͑̑͒̒̀͗́̄̌̀̉̏̂̋͋̑̊̉̃̆͋͌̌̾̍̈̒̊̎̀̆̐͂͐̑̕͘̚͝͠͠͠͝͝͠N̸̢̨̡̢̙̣̻̘̳̫̳̫̟͙͍̘̮̣̺̟̣̻̦̭̗̳͔̺̻̠̞̫̦̦̮̹͎̣̙̯͚͙̹̝͍̦͓͕͚̬̙͇̥͂̅̿͂͂͆̄̂̈́̄̂̎͐͂̓̽̽̒́̂͂̽̏̋̈́̽̀̈́̽̽̌͐̇̆͒̚̕͘͘̕͜͜͝͠ͅͅͅ ̴̧̡̧̧̨̧̯̲̦̪͍̘̜̜̮͇͕̩͇̗̭̪̘͙̳̹̝̯̠̳̮̯͓̼̣͈͚͔̘̦̻͇̦̘̱͚̠͕͉̼͕̜̇́͑͛̌̚͜D̷̡̈́̍̃̂͑̂́̈́̉̓͋̇̎̑̓̒̑͐̎͋͂̈́̅̇͗̂͋̃͆̑͌̾͐͒̽̽̒̃̾̓͑͑̃̊̕͝͝͝ ̴̨̡̨̢̡̛͇̣͚͈̞̲̝̼͍͚̮̩̭̠̦̞͍̱͔͖̝̤̣͕̪͕͙̗̙͔̇̈́͂͋̍̂̂̐̔̂̀́̈̍̽͠ ̴̨̢̢̛̦̼̪͙͖͚̟͕̮͕̙̰͓͙̬̦̹͍̺̠̫̦̝̹͔̣̦̌͂̔̏̔̋͂̿̓̽̍̀̑̋͛̍͋̾̃͐̌̽̃̔͛̄̉͂̈́͑̈̀̑̑͋̄̆̈̔͛͌̎͗͗͂͆̌̃͆͘͘̚͜͝͝͠ ̵̧̧̧̧̨̡̛̯̤̭̦̥͕̰̼͕̩̱̫̜͖͔̦̼̰̥͇̜̺̱̻͚͖̳͍̼̬̘̫̳͚̩̔̈͌̾͋̀͛̎̔͒̈́̈̒͗̆̐͊͆̆̆̃͐̒̈́̆̉͒̍͒͒̚̚̕͜͝G̴̢̡̢̨͙͈̫͇̮̞̳͈͎̺̟̟̗̘̦̱͖̮̟̙̳͇͉͎̟̪͇̲̖̝̰͍̤̻̙̪̮̻̯̭͔̙̺͔̙͕̳̲͓̬͈̯̍̔̽̽͂̄̓̒̃̈́̐̓̅̏̓̈́͝͠͠ ̴̛̤̗̣̗̩̦̤̼̘͈͔̞̦̝̖̂̋̂̿͑̽̓͂͆̓̐̉̈̌͗̎̽̋̃͒̒̀̍͆̊̆̂̽̓̕͝͝͝͝ͅO̷̢̡̡̯͚͔̗̞̰͓̰̙̹̎̆̀̓̽̈́̔̈́̌̈́͊̋̆̊̽͂̆́̏̓̋͘͠͠ ̴̧̢̛̪͔͓̞͈̙͉̣̱͈̼̠̜̗̮̖̤̜̠̩̥͖̝̘̠͖̖̰̼̰̮̽̀̍̉̈́̅̃̇̑̈̒̓̍̂̇̾̈́̈́͂̈́̽̂̂͗̅͑͗̕͘͜ͅͅḐ̷̨̯̜̻͖͍̦̼̬̳̙͚̝̜͔͙̠̦͎̪̪͍͖̈͑̔̽̑̓̅͂̔̓̾̅̽̄̓̓͂̓̉̉͑͊͊̂̑̀͊̐̆̈́̈̃̎̌̊̈́̋̓͐̃͆̔̓̚̕͘̚͝͠͝͝
The next few moments of his life came in brief flashes of mixed understanding.
He thought he heard screaming.
He thought someone had torn his throat out.
He thought he remembered burning alive but he was so cold. C̴̢̛̹̘̗̺̹̲̬͔͍̥͓̖͔̰͇̝̞̝͕̫͆̋͐̅̓͌̃͋͘̕͠͝ͅͅo̸̫̮̭̭̭̹̭̤̭̹̊̏̊̿̇̈̾͒͒̽̃̔̈́͋̇̈́̈̓̾̎͘͘ḽ̸̛̣̞̲̮̥͈̳̼̝͙͚̘͊͒̓̊͂̒̍͜ḋ̸͚͇̼̪̇̃
He woke up in Eden.
Naked, in a pile of fig leaves.
Grimmjow couldn’t remember how he came here o̸͉͉͖̱̲͙̪̲̦̝̠̰̦̓̄r̶̢̢̛̘̦̪͕̟̲̮̤͙̩̳̙̦̘͉̥̉̂̏͑̾̂̒̏͊̈́̑͗̈̔̏͋̃̚̚͘͜͜͜͠ ̵̧̢̨̛̬͎͍͇͍̦̘͙͈̳̞̺̝͇̞̩̜̰͕̬̟̤̟̣̑̓̓͒̂͐͋͑̐̂̎̿̉͋̏̌͑͋͗͊͒͐̀́̕͠͝͠͝i̶̡̭͇͌̉͛͊̀̽͗̑̌͑͆̋͊͗̚͝͝f̸̤͖̫̟͗̊̋͒ͅͅ ̵̢̡̡̡̰̫͎̱͖̳̗͙̹̼̙͔͓̤̹͙̘̲̥̙̹͈̙̜͈̿̑̊̓̌̍̈́̉̚ḩ̶̞̗̳̤̖̞͕̭̾̃̆͌͛͌̑̌̈́͒̏̓̋̎̀̋̿̆̅̒̃̿̓͝͝ͅe̸͕̦͎͖̠̽̓͐̏͑͛̄͑̿̉̏̒̍̿͂̚͘͠͠͠͝͝ͅ ̴̡̢̢̤̳̯̱̥͎̺̼̪̝͇̠͚͍̹̺̼̝̗̩̻̘̦̯͛͒̍̿̽̿͆̉̂̎̏͆̉̈́̾͐͂̄͒̂̍̑̅̈́̇̿͘͜͠͝͝ͅw̵̨̞̗̟̮̝̭̻͖̮̱̭̥̲̜̖̩͒̿̔ą̸̨̛̲̖̻̫̙͖̬̲̹͇͔̲̘̝̝̝̹̌́̇͋̉̓̄͐̽͆̿̔̀͋͊͘͘͝ş̸̧̡̡̫̪̞̫̖̮̫͈͙͕̮̫̜̒̔́̑̐̌̋̄̿̈́͐̔̊͒̕̕͝ ̴̧̝̩̩̺͓̘͕̺͚̙͍͇̤̤̱̻͂̆͊̃͂͑̒̈́̄̆̿̇̏͐̃͒̀͆̅̓͌̿̀̅̊͘̕̚͘͝͝ͅb̴̨̢̭̟̦̘̪̟͙̬̻͚͆̊͜͜ŗ̴̛̛̛̟̝̙̮̲̺̐̄̍̈̓̇̉̃̅͂̈́̏̓̈́̂̕̚ơ̸̝̞̏͗̄̈͌̅̒̆͐́̓͠ų̷̨̫̤̝̰̼̼̺̟̭̰̺̖͈͔͓̩͍̘̝̹̦̦͎̳̥̗̩͂͑̑͑͜͝g̶̨̢̛̝̱͚͔̲͉̩̯̲̤̠̠̰͎̝̜͖̯̭̮̼̹̋̀̅̈́̿͌̈́̓̀̈́͂̔̈́̌̈̿̀͆͛̀͋̚͘͠͝͠h̵̗̺̼̜͈͔͍̞̜̪̞̪̠͙̮̞̟̩̬͍̥͉̋̃̒͊͒̈́̔́͒̇̆̈́̀̈́́̾͑̿͋͐̆̈̈́͆͒͘͘t̴͓̬̗̯̲͔̠͚̼̗͍̜̤͖̖̮̫̮͓̰̀͆̑͋
Every part of his body felt pain.
And new. F̸̛̛̼̝̹̜̺̺̞̙͍̥͚͍̫̯̺̦̙̠̈́̍̾͐̓̅̓̿̿͆̽̕̚r̸̡͖̱̫̣͉̺̗̬͎̺͓̱̹̖̭̫̳̝̰̮̉͑̋̀͗̔͒͆̌̈̆͝͝ͅe̸̯̫̎̐́͝ͅş̴̢̧̧̟̦͓̻̼̠͙̠̺̰̞͖̙̘̬͓͕̳̽̋̀̇h̴̛̺͖̍̆̿͐̆̆̿̃̔̑͒̑̓̈̈͗̇̉̌̐̚̚̚͝͝͠͠l̶̢̧̠̤̻̜͈̼̻͉͍͉̘͉̭͇͍̒͗͐͂̐͆͑̚y̶̨̛͕̣͇̟͙̤̙̙̘̬̜͉̜̬̫̣̬̤̼͖̩̥̫̼͙̔͌͋̈́͋̎̈̈́̿̄̌̿͊̂̋̃̔̍̇͆̾̄͊̂͘̕͜͝͝͠͠͝ ̶̡̻̜͛̑̐̋͊r̵̢͖̹͗̈̉̉̆̄̒̓͌̓̂̄̈́̈́̇̒̈́̌̄̇̏̽̆̊͘ͅę̶̢̨̗̟̻͎͍̠̟̣͕̬͚͈͉͌̈͗̽̂̾̔̆̍̌̈́͛̔̒̽̃͂̒̚͜͝͠b̵̡͍̣̻͕̠̮͖͖͕̘͙̺̥͆̈́̈́̌̈́̓̽̔̈̒͜͜͝͝o̵̮̙͛̈́͌̇̽̓̾̉̒̿̍̆̾̀̓͋̊̓͊͒͂͑̾͠͝͝͝͠͠r̷̛̛̛͉͍̞̮̼̣̞̦͎͎̖̻̞͓̲͍͒͗͗̆̉̃͑̐̋̐̽̽̓̈́͆͌̓̔̂̓̈́̕̚͠n̶̥̼͙̖͍͕̲̫̞̻̥̗͔̣̟̘̣̟̱͎͈̲̰̲̻̯̝̄̾͋͗̍̃̄͂̑͜
His eyes opened and he pre-morning dawn of a new era casted the clearing he was in a dreamy blue.
Ḫ̴̨̨̩̭͕̪̖̺͖̺͚̘͓̜͉͕̰͓̜̱͎̯͙̐̊̑̋͒̋͒̄̒̅̆̇͋͘̕̚͜͝͠ȩ̵̢̢̰̖̙̙͓͕̤̙̥̹̬͓͖̑̐̄̈̋͂́̽̑̌͌͝͝ ̶̧̧̧̛͚̘͙̳̭̯̰̜̗͎̮̜̘͙̘̺̙͕̻̓̅͌̀͛̊̓̊̆̅̆̈́̑̓͘͜͝d̸͚̤̊͜i̴̧̨̢͇̰͓̖̜̰͇̥͓̯͍̝͐ḑ̵̡̧̧͍͉̹̦̰̭̦̜̠͚̟̜̬͈̂̽̆̿͛͗͑̚͘͠ ̵̛̫͈̼͈̭͎͖̜̙͙̰͚̫͆͌͆̆͊̌̔̿̾̀̂̓̈͗̚̚͝n̷̢̡͙̜͎̤̗̻͈̤̭̞͖̭͉̭͉͎͚̦͓̲͈̭̓͂͛̊͑̀̍̎̑̋̅̀͛̆͋͊͛̕͠o̵͎̺̖̱̜͊̓̽̔͑̀̌̽͊͒͛̊̿̂̑͛̉̃̄͒͘̕͠͝͝ṭ̶̡̧̯̗̲͈̟͓͔̯̣̏̿͑͊̾͛͘͘͜ͅ ̴̛̛̫̱̜̏́̈̏͂̒̒̈̿͆̊̌̌͛f̸̨̧͙̰̣̤̣͖̘̬̫͔̮̺̅̓e̴̡̢̩̞̥̳̹̘̰̪͙͉̲͉͚̺̳̠̘̼̯̝̻̘̯̘̅̾͂̾̅̽̐̐͗̑͐̚ę̵̢̢̨̢̡̛̛̹͔̲̗̥̮̗̥͓̦̙͖̱͔͎͖͙̜͍̂̃̅͒̑̏́̎̉̉͌́̌̑̊̚̚̚͜ĺ̸̥͙̼͔̯̳̠̆̓̏̾̊̎̉͒̀̈́̈̎̍̇̊̇̚͠ ̵̼̘̥͔̯̞̣̭̮̞̭͈̰̺͈̣͚̼̯͙̈́̒̐͜͝͠ͅl̶̡̲̟̣̠͔̰͚̭̻̘͙̙̰̯͉̟̬̠͚̥̺̲̼͑͊̅̓̾͗͗̏͘͜͜ͅi̷̡̗̻̳̭̱̼͌̓̌̎̐́̋̽̂̈́͝k̴͉̹̩̼̝̟̘͚̬͙̟̜͔̜̺̣̣͍̝͙̺͓̱̏ē̵̛̗̟̹̱̯̹͉̦̉̅͋̉̐̆̐͝ ̵̡̜̫̗̭̹̜͓͍̖̺̗̩͗͑͜͠ḩ̵͇̜̠̜̲̙̟͔̫̳̹͎͗į̸͖͈̗̞̖͗̿̇̄̀̃̂̓͗̓̒͝m̶̛̜̣͉̫̄̈́́̅̔̊̐̽̒́̀̆̀̓̾͂̍̃̅̚͠͠͝ͅś̷̨̧̢̨̛͓̞͈̳͕̼̥̖̦̝̫͚̂͐͌͆̆̌̽̓̇̽͘͜͝͠ȩ̵̞̺̞̞̣̣̤͛̎̑̿͑͌̓͆͘̕͝l̶̨̛̼̘͙̜̥̤̙͗̔̄̊̿̓̐̓̾̐͌̔͐̏̋̊̕͝f̷̡͕͖̻͕̤̞̲̳͍̹͚̖͉̦̜̊̑̿̔̉͘.̷̧̨̨̡̞̮̖͈̺̻̦̭̱̩͉̥͒̔̐͂̃̓̈́͛̓́̕͜͝͝ͅ
“You are not yourself.”
The pain did not drown the first wave of fear that washed over him but it did stop Grimmjow from fleeing from the sight of the God he found.
Kurosaki sat on a familiar boulder in the clearing, clean of blood, his hair still long and black, his broken crown of horns on full display. He sat there staring at Grimmjow waiting for something, for what the Angel didn’t know.
Instinctively, he reached for his wings, wanting to shield himself from the other because he was hurt and surely the other would drag him back to the graveyard of Seraphims to be eaten.
His wings did not respond.
Instead there was a cold emptiness and Grimmjow knew.
Ḩ̵̧̨̢̛̹̹̭͚̝͚͍̮̫̞͚̙̼̺͍̣̤̻̺̻̰͎̤̰̞̙̣́̈́̈́̏̉̌̿̏̉̅̓̆̾̃̇̍̔͋̓̄̍͂͒̓̂̈̄̒͐͘͘͘̕͝͠͝͝e̶̯̫̳͖̬͈̖̜̥͙̪̫̲̤̮̳͓̟͋͑̾̓͂̆̂̿̈́͋̾̈́̈͊̓̕̚ ̸̧̛̛̛̻̫̖̦̥̱͍̗̳̳͖͇̲̟̤̬̝̙̄͒͛͒̐̂̂͌͛̈́̆̔̅͗̽̍̉̅͊͗̂̅͑̋̐̋͗͊̈̕̚͝͠͝h̵̡̧̧̡̨̟̪͍̝̤̥̺̲̹̙̙͖̯̝̼̟̼͍̺͖̘̪̥̹͈̘̺̜͉͙̜͇̝̹̱͒̃͐̔̇̍̍͑͂̅͌͂̽̓͐̅͆̈͗̏͑̎̋̾͂̀̔̆̄̌͆̓͊̿̈́͌͠͝͝͠ȧ̷̧̨̧̧̭̞̬̻͖̩̯̙̝̠̤̖̩̤̠̻͚̰͍̞̞̘͕͖̐̉̀́͗̊̔̀͗̕̕͜͠͝ḑ̶̼̝̱͙͈͎̮͍̠̰̞͙̩̹͚̗̟͍̪̼̪̣̳͉̬̜̱̤̜̱̜͚̲̩͉̬̊͜ͅ ̴̧̻̬͚̥̭͓̺͔͈̗͇̣̯̪͓̘̹̪͙̰̔͌̋̅̈́͐͌̓͆̈̐̆ͅn̴̡̧̡̥͉̳͙̯̦̱̮͉̼̯̯̭̩̳̼̪̳̆̑̾̒̌͛̽̆̒̓̾̄͛̆̌̀̎̈̈̈́̈́͋͊̋̒̚̕̕͝͠͠͠ǫ̷̨̧̧̨̜̥̬̬̬̩̩̣͙̳̣̘̟̭̳͍͉̞̦͈̻͍̱̳͕͎̯̱͎̰͊͗̈̇͗͌̈́̾͐̌̽̓̏͛͆̾̇̔̎͒̾̉͌̔́͂̉̓̊͋͌͘̚͜͠͠͝͝ ̶̧̢̨̨̧̯͍͈̗͕̯̻̖͙̣̭̘̫̭̟̠̟̤̱̯̰̼̩͕̪̗̖̮͍͉̣͈̩̓̿͑͊̔̏̈́̂͆̐̈́̇̏̅̇̏̌̈́̈́͐͗̀͘͘͜͜͝ͅw̷̨̢̨̠̻̞͖̖͉͈̣̲̦̰̠̖̝̩̰͍̘̠̬̣̬̞͑̈͊̊̏͊͂̉͛̕͠i̴̼̝̟̝͉̰͔̫̩͕̟̹͙̫̩̟̳͉͉̝͓̜̮̭̬͉̮͗̍̈́͘ņ̸̡̢̨̻̪͈͖̺͍̠̠͖̥̺͓̝̦̠̤̹̱̘͍͉̹̤̝̺͇̆̌̊̏̓̈̆̔͂͗̆̋͂̔̆̎̾͆̈̄͘̚͘g̷̢̛̟̱͓̭̲͙̳̈́̓̉̎́̊͒̓̂̈͆̍̃͌̕͘͠͝ͅş̴̢̛̫̮͇̥̖̰̼̖͙̘̱͚̜͚̰̰̰̲̣̩̖̩͉̙̘̯͓͖͓͈̠̔́̈́̍̏̈́͑̈́̂̐̕͜͝͠ͅ.̵͖̣̮̜̩̻̺̜͈̜̝̖̦̞̯̯͗̉
“You’re something new.”
Only the fallen have no wings, this he knew.
He could still feel the thrum of power from within his blood. I̵̧̢̻̗̬͓̳̹͎͕̮̲̖̫̯̲̜s̶̡̢̢͎͍̥͚͉͔̯̫̼̺̻̦̟̰͉͚̤͎͙̝̃͑͗͒̈́͑͛̅̑́̇͊͘͘͘ ̵̼̭̭͈͕͆͗̒į̴͈̖̱̮̹̝̱̜̒̊̀̔̅̊́͛͘͝͝t̷̛̺̾́̒̍͒̈́̂̒͘͘͝͝ ̸̥̣͗̈́̒͐͋̏̆̒̿͑͒̐̈̓̎́͐͆̆͋͐̽͘͠h̷̢̛̗̺͇͓̥̼̮̓̂̈́̓̄͌̅͂̉͋͆͒̌̆͛̂̊̎͘͜͠í̶̢̢̡͈̰̳͚̲̭̭͙̬͉͚͈͍̗̲̰̬̪̑̂͐̍͋͝ͅs̵̢̧̟͕̠͕̺̥̖̦͚̠̪̹̈́͊̊͌͠ͅ ̵̮̼͗̒̈̉̾̒̅b̷̤̑̅͐̎̏́͊͝͝l̷̢̼͕̺̜̟̼̩̥̘̱͙͈̠̒͐̈͋̇̏͑̃̅̎̃̏̅̊̓͗͗͂͘͠͠͝͝ͅͅơ̷̡̨̡̢̺̺̲̖̟̞͒̅̏̇̉̀̃̀̃͘͘̕̕͝õ̴͙͕̫͔̥̇͑̉̑̏̐̿̎̓͗͘͝d̶̡̡̛̛̟̮̰͉̩̺̍̈́͗̔͋͂̊̏͂͐͗͆̎̃͊̚͝?̷̡̣̻͕̤͊̐͋́̿͆̓̈͌̊̑̈́͛͌̏͌͘͘͘
He was an Angel no more.
His hands came up to his face, fingers tangling in long blue hair that wasn’t there before. His halo, laid broken upon his brow like a crown of thorns.
Red-gold ichor still stained his hands, smearing across his face and by accident a single drop landed on his lip, dripping into his mouth. He tasted Grace-
-but found it lacking.
He had a lust for something better.
The memory was quick to flash through his mind of a screaming raw throat, pain immeasurable, his mouth held open by Kurosaki who smiled down upon him as his own black godly blood dripped viciously into his open neck, his ichor being drained as quickly as his body was being filled with something unnameable.
T̴̰͖̗̞̹̯̿̎̽̃̑̊̎̄̋͑̆͊͒͆͘̕̕͝͝ͅả̵̡̧͖̟̦̠͓̘̬̙͉͍͍̥̱̗́̄͐̉͋̿͒̄͒̉̈́̋̽͋͊͋̕͝͠ḱ̸̬̦͇̦̙̻̘̥̰̟̠̰͍͝ͅę̸̡͎̈́̿ ̶̡̘̼̲̭̖͚̼̋̓͌̆̓̑̔̾͑̓̿̈̽̉͜͠a̷̡̨̜̲̤̟͖͓̰̗̲͒̓ͅn̴͇̠̜̤̱͓͖͙̭̻̞̗̟̳̟̰̿̓̃̈́̄̒͂͑͒̅̌͒̃͂͝d̷̡̈́̍̈́͐̈́͒̐͗̈́́̽͊͗̕͘ ̵̢̡͚͇͚̱̜̪͉̳̓̓̂͒͗̈́̑͑̓̉͘̚͝͠ę̴̧͈̽͌̎̒̾̈́̄͗̾͑̇̂̎͘͘͘ȧ̴̧̤̦̱̖̹̹̰̳͚͉̜͚̼͍̪̭͉̼̒̇̃͆̌̈̌͗̊̆̈́̈́͌̉͐̽̇̒͘̕͝ͅͅt̷̢̬̯̻̮̗̳̰̝̮̺̝̟̠͇̮̬̳̙̋̈̉̒͒̌͒͘͝ ̷̤̗̞̪̮͍̘̈̀̋́f̵̛̞̖̩̱́͊̌̐̌͌̆͋̑̌͑́̾͗̕͝ò̸̢͐̾́̄͊͒̂̐̇͐̌͘r̷̨̢͈̻̫̯̩̺̱̣̄͌̉̾̓͊̾̆͒͋̈́͘ ̷̨̧̨͕̠̳̘̝͔̬̗̲̞̩̠̬̹̲͈͙̟̃̀͐̂̀̔̿̌ͅţ̴̡̰̱̻̦̩͙͕̳͚͈̒͛̏̓͜͜͝ḧ̶̢̬́̈́̇͑̐͂̈̈́͘̚i̴̧̨̢̛͇͈̳̘̝̥͓̺͕̳̤̺̤͎̥̦͇̞̖̽͛̄̀̏̎̔̇̈͂͐̑̌̅̒͋̚͠͠͠͝s̵̛̟̗̼̗̞͍̹̖̮͍̐̐̽͗̀̈͐̒͑͘͜ͅ ̸̡̛͉̳̻͖͍̾̒̏̓͋͒̋̐̽͌̿͋͗̇̐͆̕̕͝i̶͔̗̟̣̳̳̊̒̂͐͑̋̅̔̔̈́̄̋̽̆͋̒͐͘s̵̢̧̡̟͓̟̮̰̤̜̮͉͕̤̤̲̩̺̱̲̳̟̉ ̶̧̢̧̛̮̺͖̱̭̬͚͎̫̹̲̃̓̈́̇̏̐̓͐͂̊̔̐̀̅̌͑͊͘͠ͅm̵̧͖̘̘̼̻̓̍̍̾͌y̴̨̡̛̞̖̱͕̝̣̦̪̘̖̯͈̰̣͕̦̤͐̑͂̿̄́̆̈́̅́͆̽̄̇̓͗̚ ̶̲̫̼̳̫̗̜̲͆̿̈́̂̀̈́̓̓͐͂̾̿̃̓b̷̨̰͎̳͉̩̭̹͕̪̱̱͖͌̌̈́̽̌̎͑̑̔͋̉̚ͅở̸̡͎͉͖̺̽̊̀̒̄̊͌́̇̀̿̓͛̓̃͠͝ď̵̛͉̗̅̋̆ỹ̷̢͈̙̥̙͍̩̲̫̖̪̣̤̼̳̜̺̽̇͊̌͊̓̈́͌̃̃̓̚̕͝͝
̵̨̨̖͉̗̘͔͈͍̬̣̺̼͍̝̜̥͈̖̪̊̽̒̔͌͒͗̆̉͗͝T̴͎̤̙̻̯̼̻̊̍͊͌̔́̐̓͐̀̂̉́̑ạ̸̧̡̹̠̥̖̻̥͖̳͕̣̪̙̼͖̝̄̌͜k̴̡̧̡̠͕̝̘̯̬͚̗͚̱̺̙̘̭̂̀͊̀e̷̟̹̼̫͍̭̯̠̝͓̜͌͜ ̶̡̧̢̣̫̮̮̬̺̟̺̦̥̱͓̎̄̈́̇̄͆͊͗̂̓͒̈́͆̈̿̆̈́̕͝a̵̡̧̨̧͙̰̼̩̖̹͉͙̤̼̺͑͒͒̋͑̿̒̈́̒̉̈́̑̇͐̚̕ͅn̷̨͕̞̜͚̰̗̘̞̮̊͛̿̿̾̂́̚ď̴̢͍̹̲̬̘̳͇̹̱͓̺̗̞̦ ̷̨̮͇̦̤͔̫͍̖͈̬̓̽ê̶̛̖̮̱̬̙͕̖̮̥̱͚̰̦̘͍̮̈́̒̄͛̉͂͜͠a̷̧̡̨̹͙̞͓̲̦̤̝̺͉͓̭̞̬͕̺̤͐̿̓ͅt̷͎͙̳̿͛̔̋̐̈́̍̿̔̿͒̍̄̓͐̒͝͠͠ ̴̟̪̤̫̟̞͇͙̘͚̻͇͊͂̽͌͑͂̎̌͗̋́̀̀͊͘f̷̡̛̛̱̜̼̩̞͎͇̞̦͙̮͎͐͛̽͛̊̅͆̉̒̆͛̐̄͆̃̋͋̚͘͜͝o̷͖̪̽͊r̸̨͈̠̖̝̻͖̝̣͖̤̟̳̭̟͆̓̃̒͊̉̅͘͠ ̸̢̛̞̳̩̻̦̪͈̮͐͗̆̕t̸͍͔͎̮̩̋̃͂̓͝h̸̢̧̢̰͔͙̘̥͚͓͓̖̬̃̿̈́͊͜į̸̨̡̹̘̩̭̜̙̥̝̰͍̖̭͙̭̘̮͎̤́̏͊͛͐͒̋̾̌̋͛̅̅̽̐͘̚ͅş̷͈̠̥̮̟̱̪͈̫̟̪͎̥̞̞̻̘̻̳̫̂̿̎̆͌͋͛̿̈́͗̊͗̒̚̕̕̚͠͝ ̷̨͎̄̓̾͆̽̚͠ͅi̵̻̦̘̜͇̤̲̹̯̞̓̂͐͆̅̏̍̿̊͊̆͗̕͠͝ś̶̡̧͉͙͚̫̬̟͈̱̫͎̟̬̓̓̂̍̂̽͋͐̕ ̸̖̪͔̖͚͎͎͑͋͆͑̑͌̿͊̎̓̈͂̒̎͠͝͝ͅͅṁ̶̤͈̱͔̻̲͇̭́̓̏͝y̴͍͉̺̥͔̲̠̰̞̗͍̰̣͓̭̯̳͔̤̫̐͑̓̂̃̾̔̀͗̐͋͘ͅ ̴̛̞͙̹̰̗̤̞̼͇͔͍̦͍̼̰͍̳͂͑͋͛͋͂̆̚͜b̵̢͈̗̹̗̠͈͉̖̭͔̭́̈̍̈̾̒̑͑̉̆l̶̡̧̡̡̛̛͔͚̣͚̳͔̱̠̳̄͐̍͊͂̾̂̏̌̍̿͊͘͘͜ͅͅơ̷̩͈̼̘̗̖̏̑̀̏̏ō̶̢̨̨͇̳̣͔̺̩̞̥̫͕̰͎͙̬̼̰̼̙͈̔̅͑͋͝ḑ̵̨̢͈͉͚̳͈͎͉̞̙̻̰̮͓͔̒̊̂͂͘
“What is your name?” Kurosaki asked.
The bright light of the sun rising in the East broke through the last dredges of Night and what was once Grimmjow breathed his first breath as a god and looked to Kurosaki.
The other was beautiful in his h̵̙͉̘̓̈̿͒̃̑͐̾̀̕ǫ̷̮̣͇̼͖͙̖͈̦͉͖̝͉͔̗̳̲̺͈̬̳̎͗͊̒̂̽̏͂́̿̋͋̍̾̽̐̽͊̏͒͂͌̈́̒͊͝͠͝ͅr̴̢̧̢̡̛̯̮̫̲̻͇̞͍͕͙̙̟͋̾̆̂͗̃̌̊͗̄̏̇͂͂͛̌͑͆̐̈́̒̔͗̿̄͘̕̚̚͜͝͝͝ͅr̸̡̺̳͓̠̼̫̀͋̈́̋͒̓̓̓̎͗̎̔͗̈́̈́̏͛̃͑̇̚͜͝͝͝ͅe̵͕̙͇͔͎̝̭̗̙͈̮̝̜̖̗̙̜̹͕͍̺̞̞̖̖̭̮̰͓͉̯̫̫̔̌͘͜n̵̡̨̨̛̹̤̹̲̟̝͙̜̳̜͓̦͔̦̫̱̙̈́̂̒̋̊̒͊̾͛̎̍̈́̽͠͝ͅḑ̷̳̹̳̦̺̮͓͎̘̦̰̺͖̼̺͕̼̳͔̼͈̼̥̜̲̲͚͎̟̩̩̼̺͓̠̄̐̍̎̃̓̅͒͑͒̎͜o̴̧̧̙̬͖̖̱̘̞͍͓̗̬̺̤͚̭̪̮͙͛͑̌̍̐͊̔̽̕ͅư̸̛̰͔̻̮̣͖̼͍̙̩̲̜͉͎̹̈̎̈́̿̓̊͐̒̔̏̂́̇̔̇̍̽͐̂̅̔̑̇͆́͋̾́͆͘̚͘̕͘͝͝͠͝s̴̗͓͙͙̫̃͑̈́̉̉́̇̌͗n̴̢͓̗͇̺̳̮͍̊͂̀̍ę̴̛̠̼̯̮̬̥͍̰̥̼̠̥̬̖͔͒͒̉͆̆͒̒͆͗̅̽͂͛͘͠͠͝͠͝s̴̡̢̡̡̡̮͔͇͙̼̗̝̣̱̥̥̣̥͍̖͈͕̣̝̘̔̏͒ͅs̴̡̢̧̘̭͔͚̼̦̭͖̼͖͙͈͇͍͈͚̪̬̙͓͚͈̪̍̍͋̈̅̂̂̏́̒̊̉̌̆̌̊͗͊͗̈́͛̂̔̽̌̈́͂̂̇̎͌̅͘͘͠͠͝ͅ and for once, he felt the same.
There was something terrible in his blood, an ache to his bones, how could ̶̡̰̬̥̠̝̬̬̈́̌̍̾̅̆̂̅̇̊͝Kurosaki live with so much power and not r̴̭͗͑̀͛e̵̛̫̤̮̤͋̓n̴̪̲̼̥̯͍͙̤̱̪͛d̸̝̹̙̒̾͐͝e̴̛̮̼̗̹̺͎͌͑̐͋̆͝ŗ̶̻̯̫̒̈̋̀̏́͊ the entirety of E̶͍̥̲̥̗̝̬̓́̈́̓̃̚͜x̵͈͕̳̬̰͎̬̩̺̽͆͆̇̾̒̈́ǐ̴̪̰̻̹͙̱̗͒͘͝s̶͈̫͖̈́t̶̛̝̪̺̩͙̞̜̣͇͆̌̐̋̈̏̎͗e̵͓̮̤̻̐͆̓̿́̌̋̔͜͜͝n̸̼̳͍͙̤͗̾̈́͂͘̕͝c̵͕̮̘̟̟̟̫̙͉̫͋̆͂̎̑͘ͅȅ̵̺̬̠͐͗̈́̇͛͘ apart. Now he understood why Kurosaki ̵̼̦̠͍͈̐̓̅ could live dragging another dead god’s angels to endless suffering, why he himself felt the need to take the tranquility of Eden and make a myth out of her creation. ̸̢̢̡̪̯͖̠͙͎͇̥̹̙̰̠̥̙͎̖̦̺̰̟̰̣͎̭̯͖̲̗̠̪̰̟̤͙̐̾̓́̒̒̒̔̈́̑̄̐̉͋̐̄̏̏̓̉͜͝ͅͅͅ
He took his ichor soaked fingers into his mouth, sucking away the last few mouthfuls of godliness, a name coming to him as terrible as his creation;
J̶̨̡̡̢̧̧̢̠̣̘̗̮͕̫̬͙͈͕̝͎͓̹̠̩̱̹̲͙̗̱͎͚͎̠̳̗̯͓̲͈̭̳̟̩̦̙͇̤̫̳̻̠̣̩͊͗͜͜͜ͅͅ ̸̡̨̢̜͎̝̩͎̜̹̮͇̻̟̭͎͉̗̭̩̩̟̱̯̲̼̠͚̱̹̝̺̮̭͑͛̄̒̇̃͒͒͌̋̅̈́̽̇̏̂̿̅̈͛̔̐͊̍̊́̄̅̋͘̚̚͝ͅĄ̶̡̨̢̧̢̡̣͖͎͈̰̬͍͍̞̪̻̳̣̮͍̻̜̜̤͓̦̜̜̼̭̼̘͇̱͎̳̤̱̙̟̹̰̣̼͓̹̫̰̺̙͍͙̺͓̮̞̻͇̯̦̟͚̰̞̮͇͙̘͔̙͍͕͍͈͚̭̈́̍̑̾̇̈́̉̆̈͌̿̎̿̉̏̒̓́̎̆͒̄̄̂̂͊̀̎̆̌̉̉͒͑̏̀̀͊͐̽͛̎̆̀̉͋͌̌̓͗͐̑͂͗̄̂͗̈̈́̒̉̃̓̌̈́͗͒̓̽̀̽̽̽̒͒̑̔̄̔̈́͊̄̈̊̇̕̚͘͘̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͠ ̸̢̧̢̨̧̧̨̛̛͈̯̰͖̖͍̭̼̜̪̲̪͚̹̪̘͇͉͈̥̱̜̰͇̱̫̗̗͇͈͕͔̙̰̤̩̯̻̘͈̹̹̻̜̮̗͖̘̝̫͙̦͓̈́͐͂̿͋̉̏̏̿̉̑̃̌͐̒̎̾͗̇̃̈́̈́͊̉̔͌̕̕͜͜͝ͅË̵̛̛͉̥̰͚̺̣̝̖͙͔̪͙͇͇̭̜͓̫͕̦̰̜̎̾̃͑̉̊̾̌̊̎͑̑̓̋̄̏̿̄̿̂̃̓̿͂̄̀̇̂̓͊͐̉̎͆̌̃̀͌̒̎̂̏̔̐̾͊̈́̄͂̾̈̋͂͆̌̐͆̀̅͑͊̚͘͘̕͘͘͜͝͝͝͝͝ ̶̨̨̨̢̨̧̛̛̗̝̫̤̙̠̟̩̬̞̥̩̗̱̯̮̙̩̬͇̞͔̲͕͉̙͕̗̭̪̼̜̙̬̙̱̫̣̙̣̙̟̗̦̹̠͔̼̗̪̱̯̻͙͉̯̫̻̥̪̘͓̮̫̩̥͕̩͕͔̮̜͇͈̻̔̌̒̀̈́̇̽͂̍̌͗͆̐͐̈́̈́̓̅̎̓̉͋̐̑̎̌͑̌̒͌̆̍̒͛̐͐̒͒͐̂̔͘̕͘͘̚̕͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅG̷̨̢̨̢̗̣̤̲̫̬͙̪̫̻͙̼̫̞͈͕̺̯̥̾͂̈́̀̽̽̀͊̂͐̅̎̋̒̄̈̃̉̊͐̔̾̿̐̆̍̈́̇͑̄̄͋̋̃̽͂̾̾̍̆̓̌̈́̇̉̊͐̀̇͑̀̌͑́͋̐̀̋̓́̋̌͗̏͒̓̑̽̆͐̚͘͘͝͝͠ͅ ̵̢̢͎͙͖̞̣͇̝͕̯̥̠̭̖͔̻̙̹̬͇̲͔͚̜̥̙̹̦̱̘͖͇̺͍̗̙͖̻̺̰͑͒̏͌̍́̈̋̀̉͐͋̔̎͛̓̓̉͂̏̑̍̋̉̀̉͘͝Ą̸̡̡̡̨̨̛̞̝͚͔̗̗̰̪͓̥̤̤͕͖͖͇͍̣̳̳̯͓͍̳̘̗͎̗̦͉͎̹̪̟͙͕͚̲͔͚̦̱̬̠̳̝̈͑̉̓͑̄́̑͐͊̔̆̾̎͑̇͌̿́̒͆͌̏͂̽̿̓͊̔̀̍̊̓͌͐́̊̍͂̄͗̐̋͐̅͐͐̄͋͐̂̓̃̑̎̇̂̃̐͛̽̌͌̿̎͋̓̀͂͌̈́̌̌͊̓̅͋̓̚̚̚̕͘͝͠͝͝͠͝ ̸̢̨̧̧̡̨̨̧̧̧̡̛̛̬̗̭͉̮̼͓̰̠̦͚͔̹̹͎̼̘͈͓̙̺̲̘̖̣͙̱̰̝̱̥͓̥̼̦̲͓̯̱̯̜͍͙̲̖̮̘̜̰̩̰͔̼̼̤̹͇͎̼̤͎͍̺̻̦̘̖͎̣̭̺̬̫̳̹͕̠͎̯̖̦͈͕̣̜̞̙̥̮̪̫̟̼͕͚͂̎̂̒̽̎̆̈́̈̽̎̓̃͌͌̈̍̆̇͗͐̔́̌͒̄̚͠ͅȒ̶̢̨̨̢̢̡̢̨̛͇̻̟̰̙͓͕͇͙̻͍̞̩̰͉̺̦̻̣͎̖̙͇̥̪̩̮͇̤͍̮̙̰͕̰̫̘̻̹̬̹̯̟͙͙̱̬̯͓͈̲̙̩̠͉͕̼͍̗͔̹̤͍͍̗̈́̇̏̈́͑̀̔̀̈́̔̓͋̌͑̎͂̌͌̋̅͛̐̉͋̔͒̇͊̏̃̒̈́͐̋̍͑͂̋̌͊̓͑̒̌́̊̾͗̂͛̌̃̒̋̆͊̒̃̈͂̑̕̚̕̚̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͠ͅ ̷̧̨̡̨̨̡̛̛̛̛̰͕̜͚̹̙͕̯̲͇͙̺̱̼̹̗̭͖̺̣̯͙̞͚͎̘̹̭̮̫̭͙̥͚͇͔͈̫̜͈̱͖̩̥͍̻̗͍̠̘̜̦̭͔̮͖͉͖̝̥͉̫̮̮̼̠̺͚̬͚̖͎͈̼̫͕̩̹͕͉̝̘̗̮̝̒̋̑̃̓̑̌̄̍̽̒͛̂̓̽̌͂̄̍͊̈́̃̈́͛̿̿̑̈́̽̈́̈̑̐̈́͂̂̾̈́̎͑̂̋̄̽͊̀̽͋̊̄̆͆̽̽̃̒̄͌̊̍̿̇͒̎̍̈͒̎̚̕̚͘͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅJ̴̧̢̡̢̨̨̧̡̡̛̺̙̠̘̝̤̺͖̹͉̰̼̘̳̟̜̲̮̤͕͖̱̖̰̣̱̥̪̜͕̣͈̳̻̪͓̬͈͖̹̗͚͓̘̦̙͚͎̦̫̞̱̞̞̤͉̙̈́͗̈́̊͒̓͌̈͊́̂̎̆̎̌͊͒̅̌́̓̔́͊̏̓̽̓̏̒̄́̈́͌̍̀͒͋̓̽̒͑͂̍̄͑͒̌͐̎͐̀̆͛̎̽̇̾̋́͒͂̆̾͘̚̚̕͘̕̕͜͜͠͝͝͝ ̷̢̘͕͚̭̟̟̇͆̓̆̿̉͆̂̒̽̋̎̉́̋͠A̴̧̨̨̨̧̧̡̧̻̥͙̖̗͎̹̜̝̥̯͕̟̯̰͎̣͕͍̹͓̦̩̺̩̬̠̞̘̯̻̙͈̗̺̺̝̯̣̜̲͎̮͇̰̟̰͈͉̘̮̯̙͚̟͓͖̹̥̘̜̘̮̬͔̣̠̝̣͍̖͍͉͎̪̙̐͒͗͆̇̀͂̆̽̅̐͌̍͂̋̈́̇̄͆̊̊̓̐̈́̔̅̅̓͌̄͂̓̚͘͜͜ ̵̛͖̻̤̙͕͇̹̘̥̳̹̋̈͌͐̑̐̎̐̋̉̓̄̏̍̊͒̽͑̎̉̄̃͂̃̿͛̅̅͂̐͂̏̋̎͛̓̂̉͊̈́̿͗̈́̈́̊͂̎̕̚͘̕͝͝͠͠ͅQ̵̨̡̢̨̢̢̛̛̲͔͔̞̻͔͚̳̖̳͈͖̼̥̩͚̮̘̙̬̲͔̣͙͉̼̺̦̠̫̘̜̩̜͙̩͚̫̱̦͎̪͈̹͎̭͎̰̬͖̟̝͔̼̦̠̺͈̝̝̬̠̜̯̭͎̰͓̰̪̺̙̼̰͕̝̦̯̥͈̦̈́͑̒̈́͑̉͒̎̈̎͋̓̋͗̉̀̉̅͑͛̂̎̓̋̃̽͊͌̎̓̀̒͋͋̃̋̓̎̋̔͑̾̿̅̓̐̎̿͋͆̋͋̂̈̀̃̄̋̄̏̄̚̚̕̚̕͜͝͠͠ͅͅ ̶̧̛̛̛͚̅̎̌̅̐̔͂͒̈̀̏̑͋̌̒̃̔̇͂̈̔̿͋̀͊̂͊̂͆̌̈́̅̓̈̃̃͂͂̇̋͌͋͒̅̊̏̌͂̾̈́͒͛̈̃̅̈́͑̐̓̿́͗̿͒͘̕͘̚͠͝͠Ư̸̧̧̢̧̢̨̨̨̛̛̛͎̱̫̪͕̺̹̫͎̗͇̲͍̬̬͙͓̣̝͙̼̠͍͈̘͈̞̻͍̤̹̥̤͈͈̣̖̜̯̘̺͓̺̖̱̦̭̥̣̦̦̖̪̱͇͙̳̪͖͖̤̥̝̳̙̱͉̘̬̗̺̤̜̼̮̰̦͇̩̤̝͎̳̠͋̓̽͊̄̈́̄̆̓̈́̓̑̄̐̽̉͐̅̽͐͋͊̉̃̀̔̒̈̏͛͒̀̀͒̔̅͆͛͒̿̌͌̈́̈́̔̚͘̕̕͜͜͜͝͠͠͝ ̷̡̧̧̨̡̡̫̯͖̫͇̰̬͕̠͖̤͚͕̙̱̪̗͓̫̜̦̣̬̻͓̱̹̘͍̦̝͉̦͈̟͔̣͍̙̥̯̲͈̭͍̬̖͓̥̳͓̒̎̾̈́̊̉̍̄͜͜͜E̸̢̨̢̧̢̛̛̖̜̥͕͕̼̱͇̩̖̬͖̙͇̱̙̩͇̼͙̦̜̠̮͙̩̟͚̜̞̝̝̗̐̆̆͊̃͌͑͒̈́͐̏̿͛̋͑͑̀̉͂̐̋̃͊́͐̎̑̈́͒̎̅́̇̍͒͒̾̈̾̽͐̈́̋̌̈́̏̚̚͘͘̕̚̚͜͝͝͝͝͝ ̴̡̨̢̢̧̡̡͎͍͎̜̯̙̗͕͍͍̼͚̼̻̤̲̲̮̱̱͎͈͙̭͇͍͙̱̔̿̓̈̋̈́̒͂̏̓̏̅́̿͗̈̂̓͒͐͂̾̈́͐͒̈̌̕̚͘͜͝ͅS̸̡̨̧̧̡̢̨̧̭͚͙͎͓̪̙̭͔̯͙̲͙̱̣͖͚̠͉͇͈̬̝̪̜̹̥͉̗͚̥̰̱̜͓͚̲̜̱̺̠̺̯̟̮͙̤̦̮͍͇͔̗̖̳͓̲̳̱̣̞̼̱͋̀̃͛̈̆̽͆́͑̐̿̉͆̍̓̾͋̂̊͛̓̿̋̈̽̈́̓̈̍̌͑̈̏̌̌͆̉̍̋͆̈́̃͗̓̀̇͆͛̋̋̎̀͆͌̑́͗͛̅̅̑̎͌̄̄̽̒͊̈́́̎͊̑̅̇̈́̈͗͒͛͆͐̎̐̐̚͘̕̕̚̚͘͘̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠