Only now does he know how deeply mistaken he had been that day, when he was roaring at the top of his lungs in a fit of raw, unfiltered rage at the human boy who dared to oppose him.
“You lost, Kurosaki Ichigo. Look. My sword is disappearing. You know what this means...”
The shocking truth is that Aizen misunderstood what that really meant, at least in that moment.
Now, he has all the time in the world to ponder that fateful day, and he can't even tell which part of his defeat wounds him the most. Is it the fact that a mere human surpassed him, or that a mind as brilliant as Urahara's would rather stand for the marionette king than join his righteous cause?
Or perhaps it's as simple as it sounds – he lost, and Aizen has never lost before. He lost more than just a battle.
He lost control over the Hōgyoku, and so his well-earned, transcendental powers faded away like a morning mist, leaving him empty and bitter.
He lost his zanpakutō, abandoning it at his own reckless wish to transcend beyond the need for it.
And the worst of it all, he lost his composure, letting his enemies see the real him – a desperate man, not a god; a man filled with spite and anger, sick and tired of how the world operates.
Never before has he shown this part of himself to the outside world. The memory of it feels like a nail scratching at an open wound. It feels embarrassing, like standing bare in front of a laughing crowd. What he hates most is being in the wrong, and he was wrong – and so he lost.
Sealed away and thrown into Muken, there is nothing Aizen can do now to undo the damage. What he does have is time – plenty of it. His captors can be sure he will make good use of it.
Down under the First Division's barracks, at the bottom level of the Central Prison, nothing but silence surrounds him. No sound disturbs his meditation.
The black prisoner garb they made him wear is meant to weaken him, it leaches onto his body, eating at his reiatsu like a pesky parasite.
It doesn't matter, not with Aizen's enormous amount of spiritual power.
Bakudō spikes keep him in place, piercing his chest and burrowing into his soul with a burning heat. Urahara’s handiwork. It's a little painful, but nothing Aizen Sōsuke can't handle.
He is the god among the Shinigami after all, superior to any other being in every possible way.
The restraints around his arms and legs keep him immobilized, keep him hanging from the Muken's cross like a divine martyr. Each time he so much as twitches a finger, the bindings tighten around him, letting him know that there is no escape.
No way to get outside.
But there is always the opposite direction.
With his eyes closed beneath the seals, Aizen shuts himself off from the thick darkness around him, the sensation of restraints and bindings trapping his body, even his own thoughts and feelings. He dives into the depths of his soul – something he hasn't done in hundreds of years, but after his defeat it needs to be done – he has to understand, to refine himself, make himself flawless.
The cold brightness awaits him on the other side of the darkness, forcefully invading his stimulus-deprived eyes with the flash of light, causing him to squint. When he gets used to this light, he steps forward, heels clicking on the shiny surface.
The Hall of Mirrors.
The place is a huge, empty sphere made of countless mirrors. They cover every wall, every curve, under his feet, and above his head. As he walks toward the center, he can see thousands, if not millions of his own images reflecting back at him from every possible angle.
Right at the center stands a small, cylindrical column, no taller than a few feet.
Aizen reaches down to touch the top, his fingers brushing against the smooth reflective surface. As he presses down on the right spot, an invisible mechanism clicks in place.
With a quiet hiss, the lid slides to the side, revealing what's hidden inside the container.
A small glass-like orb, glowing blue and purple.
The Hōgyoku – a truly magnificent entity able to make gods and monsters.
The little thing rests innocently in his palm, relentlessly swirling an insane amount of pure energy.
The power that once was his. And it still can be.
He smiles to himself, a small, confident smile, as he closes his fingers around the wish-granting orb.
“Show me,” he commands, voice soft but decisive.
The Hōgyoku seems to obey him.
All the mirrors in the hall start to tremble slightly. Then, they slowly shift, light flickers inside them.
The space keeps changing before Aizen's eyes, morphing into something else. Soon, it's no longer the spherical chamber, but something entirely different.
Aizen stands in the middle of the well-maintained garden. The grass is soft and soothing under his bare feet. He can feel the coolness coming from the ground, not yet scorched by the summer sun. The crescent moon hangs above his head in the cloudless sky.
It's May – he can tell by the constellations visible from his spot, and by the picturesque sight of blooming white azaleas, and purple garlands of wisteria flowers cascading down from the heavy branches. He takes in the fresh, pleasant scent of the night air.
A perfect illusion, so intricate and detailed that Aizen can almost believe he is there, and not down in Muken.
“Interesting,” he muses, looking around. He knows that garden; it feels oddly nostalgic, like a long-forgotten memory coming back against his will.
“So this is where I want to be, how ironic…”
He looks down at his hands, the Hōgyoku has vanished from within his grasp, but his arms are free of restraints – no prisoner garb anymore. Instead, he is wearing his old black Shinigami uniform, and a white haori with the symbol of the Fifth Division.
“Good grief,” he sighs, smiling absentmindedly. The Hōgyoku is playing dirty tricks on him.
He takes a walk around the garden of his former division, just as he used to. It feels like ages have passed since he last did that, though in reality, he was still the captain less than five months ago. He strolls toward the small pond to admire the koi fish. Frogs are loud, as he expects them to be, croaking relentlessly for their future mates’ attention.
He has always enjoyed solitary midnight walks like that. It was when he pondered his grand plan, away from dull faces and the empty pleasantries of his subordinates.
The garden of the Fifth Division – Aizen finds it inspiring. To him, it is a prime example of how nature bends to the will of a skilled gardener, creating something intentionally beautiful.
He thinks himself a master gardener, and the rest of the world is nothing more than plants he can rearrange as he sees fit. What a waste of potential – locking him away, when he is the only one capable of reshaping this world.
Aizen's walk, and his train of thought, comes to an abrupt halt before he reaches the small bridge, leading across the pond.
He senses a presence before he spots her.
There she stands, midway through the arch of the red wooden bridge, gazing at the water. The gold, floral ornaments on her emerald-green kimono glitter in the moonlight, making her look noble.
Aizen cannot see her face, but he knows, he simply senses she is displeased with him, avoiding him on purpose.
Yet he tries to reach her.
“It's been a while,” he says in a calm voice, and with a gentle smile, as he approaches.
She turns her head toward him.
Her face is a mirror set in a golden frame, and as she looks at him, Aizen see only his own reflection.
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