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Urahara once loved the godly realm. Fresh from his ascension to godhood and still reeling from a mortal lifetime of clawing his way up from the gutter, he first saw the endless blue skies and serene walled palaces as a paradise. The fresh fruit, comfortable household, gold paneling, and veritable ocean of knowledge in the form of the Library of the Enlightened helped uphold that image for a while.
However, Urahara was never naïve, even as a newcomer to ascension. He was a god of innovation, cunning, and dubious ethics. It didn’t take long to peel off the polish and see the seedy underbelly of the godly court for what it really was: a winding maze with a millennia of histories and interpersonal drama, and a competition to exert their godhood on the mortal realm and gain – more. More of what, he wasn’t sure. For some, it seemed like more of everything.
Just like that, paradise was shattered. Aizen’s actions as self-proclaimed ruler of heaven and definite bane upon the mortal ream only reinforced that sensation. However, melodramatic feelings of betrayal and disillusionment could only last so long, and existential ennui and boredom quickly took over. But maybe, just maybe, if his web springs properly, if his years of quiet meddling in the mortal realm finally pay off, the emptiness might come to an end today…
Urahara shuts the door to his household and locks it tight. The shutters are lowered, the curtains are tied back, and yesterday he took the time to move the courtyard furniture inside. Across the street, Ukitake, coming by on his daily stroll to the tea house, gives him a look.
“Preparing for a hurricane?” he asks.
“Most definitely,” Urahara responds, knowing full well that there are no storms in heaven.
Tucking his hands in his sleeves, he click clacks his way down the street in his geta and hat. Benihime bumps comfortably against his hip with every step, and her hilt glints in the sunlight. Ukitake goggles again as he passes, but Urahara pays him no mind. So he may have spent an extra half hour cleaning Benihime meticulously yesterday, and worn his nicest kimono – sue him. He has big plans today.
His destination is deeper into the central quarter, where all the important godly goods are. The great courtyard is framed by the Singing Belltower, which rings in the mortal seasons; the House of Minutiae, where every mortal name is listed; and the Divine Forum, where gods and goddesses grandstand, politic, and generally do the same things entitled mortals do. The great courtyard lacks capitalization not because its less important, but because it was first – Urahara thinks everything else was capitalized to differentiate them from it.
The great courtyard is not his usual destination. The Library of the Enlightened where he prefers to spend his time is higher up the hill and can be accessed through far less obnoxious routes. This time, however, Urahara takes in every tackily painted statue and gold-ornamented roof with relish, knowing (hoping) exactly what will happen to them.
Finally, he comes to the great courtyard, with the gods and goddesses coming and going around the edges. The centre is kept conspicuously empty. He can spot Byakyuya’s hair piece glinting in the sunlight on the far side; the martial god is discussing something quietly with Unohana, whose halo of healing is flickering in irritation. For several minutes Urahara stands there, hands in his sleeves. The banality of it all weighs on him.
Then, there is a tell-tale bubble of light in the central stones of the courtyard. At first it is barely noticeable, but the light grows stronger and arcs up from the stone like a soap bubble popping. The movement around the courtyard stills at the sign of an ascension.
Within a split second, the light swells up and out, and there is a pillar of radiance filling the courtyard. It shoots upwards without end, and its edges nearly reach the perimeter of the courtyard, where the crowds stumble backwards. A pressure wave shoots outwards; the Singing Belltower shifts in its foundations and gongs several times in protest. Roof tiles and ornaments are blown clear off, and obnoxious statues topple over. Under the doubling pressure, the saintly white flagstones shatter. Thunderous noise overtakes everything – a thousand birds chirping, a wave cresting, the rush of a headwind through trees.
Blinded, deafened, robes askew and skin stinging, Urahara feels more alive than ever.
The light flutters, then condenses into a kneeling figure with equally blinding hair. Radiance settles under their skin, and a long over robe, a glimmering pauldron, and a long sword flicker into being. Light wispily drapes around them and shifts like the arcs of a solar flare.
Urahara last saw this man months ago in the mortal realm. He watched him shatter upon trials he created, all to build him stronger and to last through the final, brutal push of the mortal realm’s war against Aizen. There are new scars on his arms and torso, but the breadth of his shoulders and the gentle slope of his brows are the same.
The defeater of Aizen the mad king, whose power bleached the earth like an exploding nova and upset the balances of the mortal realm, stood. A godly mark blooms on his throat, marking him the successor of that very same mad king. The mantle of ascension settles upon him, but he does not flinch. He has always born the duty of protector well.
Ichigo looks up and meets Urahara’s eyes across the courtyard. “Long time no see.”
Snap goes Urahara’s fan. He smiles from behind it, entirely genuine for the first time in centuries. “Welcome home, Ichigo.”