Despicable villain.
That was how the loudmouthed quincy, Masco, referred to Tousen Kaname. His words dripped with mockery, yet they revealed his ignorance. Even though Tousen Kaname had once taken into himself hollow power, even though his body bore the remnants of that evolution, his core remained shinigami. His justice, his conviction, and his very essence were bound to the world of the shinigami. To call him a "villain" so casually was not just a slander—it was a declaration of enmity.
And when Masco sneered further, saying he could not tell qhat one among them even was, his ridicule was aimed at Kariya Jin, the Bount leader. For someone like Masco, who viewed the world in the simplest extremes of "hero" and "villain", Kariya's existence as neither shinigami nor hollow, neither quincy nor human, was an abomination. The insult may have been spoken casually, almost as a jest, but those words carried venom. They drew the hatred of more than one present figure.
Before the silence could settle, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez's voice cut through, sharp and reckless as ever.
"The quincy, if I remember correctly, are nothing but a pack of bereaved dogs. Since when did so many strays manage to survive?"
He sneered with the ease of instinct. To Grimmjow, provoking an opponent came as naturally as breathing. He was a predator who bared his fangs before the fight even began. His words lacked tact, but they carried raw contempt.
The Espada knew little of the quincies, in truth. The only one he had ever clashed with was Ishida Uryu—an encounter he remembered vaguely, as the boy had stood out more for his defiance than his strength. When Mazuru had first told him that their new visitors were quincies, Grimmjow had been caught off guard. The name was almost a relic to him, a whisper of something old and forgotten.
The war from a thousand years ago? He had no knowledge of it. Even among hollows, such stories were little more than broken rumors. But he did recall something from more recent centuries: that the shinigami had hunted the quincies nearly to extinction. Two hundred years ago, the extermination was complete. Or so it was believed.
So when Grimmjow called them "bereaved dogs", it was more than an insult—it was a wound reopened.
The quincies before him bristled. Their faces darkened in unison, rage flashing in their eyes. Discipline could not conceal the sting of that truth. Whether it was Quilge Opie with his soldier's composure, Bazz-B with his fiery arrogance, Askin with his mocking smile, every one of them felt that insult.
For them, the memory of their slaughter was not distant history. It was scar tissue on their very souls, a humiliation carried in silence for generations. They had been forced into shadows, hunted to the brink of erasure. To be reminded so bluntly was unbearable.
Cangdu was the first to erupt.
"You trash!" he spat, voice trembling with fury. "Let's see if you can still talk like that after I crush you!"
Without hesitation, he lunged forward. His foot snapped the air as he unleashed a Hirenkyaku kick aimed directly at Grimmjow's chest. The steel claws on his hand gleamed, slicing through the void as he slashed down in the same motion. His movements were efficient, sharp, without wasted effort—the killing intent of a warrior who sought no games, only results.
Grimmjow smirked even as his body moved instinctively. His words had dripped disdain, but his instincts did not lie. With a shhhk of Sonido, his body blurred backward, retreating just enough to evade the first strike. His sharp eyes locked onto Cangdu's claws, and a low growl slipped from his throat.
"What a coincidence." he muttered, flexing his own hand. His Resurrección weapon, too, was a claw. Fate, it seemed, had given him a mirror opponent.
Back in the main hall of Las Noches, Mazuru reclined upon the throne, watching calmly. Aizen's old surveillance system flickered to life before him, the crystal screens displaying every movement of the battle outside. With a wave of his hand, he summoned more projections, spreading them in the air like a theater of war.
He glanced at his companions—Kenpachi Azashiro, ever silent and brooding, and Ichimaru Gin, whose foxlike grin never faltered.
"In your opinion," Mazuru asked softly, "is Grimmjow's Desgarrón sharper… or the claws of that quincy?"
Gin's smile narrowed into a slit, his eyes nearly vanishing. "Captain Mazuru… you really like to put us on the spot." His voice was silky, almost playful, yet carried a weight of calculation. "Grimmjow's no weakling. But these quincies… we don't know them. No intel, no precedent. And in battle, unknown is more dangerous than power."
He tilted his head slightly, silver hair catching the glow of the screens. "Without knowing their abilities, it's impossible to predict the outcome. Sometimes, the strongest blade is blunted not by strength, but by surprise."
Azashiro, meanwhile, said nothing. His eyes were fixed entirely on the combatants, unblinking. For him, words were unnecessary. The clash of strength, the feel of reiatsu colliding, the rhythm of strikes exchanged—these were the truths he sought. And through them, perhaps he could measure what set these quincies apart from the scattered remnants he had once heard about.
What was the difference between the soldiers of Yhwach's army and the ordinary quincy? This battle might provide the answer.
Outside, as Cangdu and Grimmjow squared off, the other Sternritters shifted their gazes to the remaining figures. Five warriors stood from Las Noches, five Sternritter had come. The symmetry was deliberate. Both sides recognized it immediately.
"This isn't by chance." Askin drawled, his eyes narrowing. His gaze slid past the battlefield, as though seeing beyond the walls themselves. His pupils focused on the distant throne where Mazuru sat. Two kings, he thought. But only one could truly rule.
He chuckled under his breath. "Sending five scumbags to match us perfectly? Testing our strength?" His lips curled. "Who do they think they're dealing with?"
His disdain was echoed by the silent confidence of the Sternritters beside him. Each of them now stepped forward, selecting their opponents as naturally as predators claiming prey.
Bazz-B's gaze snapped toward Harribel. The fiery-haired quincy smirked, flames almost crackling in his eyes. He had heard of her before. They all had. The battle at Karakura Town had been watched closely from the shadows of the Wandenreich. They had studied the powers that appeared there, the ones who threatened to alter the fate of the worlds. Harribel's command over water had not gone unnoticed.
To choose her, despite his flame being inherently opposed, was arrogance—yet it was also pride. Bazz-B's schrift "H" stood for Heat. And what better way to prove his flames than to consume her waters?
Quilge Opie, disciplined as a soldier, set his eyes on Kariya Jin. "J" for Jail, his holy power demanded an opponent who could resist, who could test his chains. Kariya's aura was chaotic, inhuman, neither hollow nor shinigami. It intrigued him. Their battle would be one of willpower and cruelty.
Askin, smirking all the while, cast his gaze between Ulquiorra and Tousen. Logic guided him. Tousen was a shinigami—blind, weakened in appearance, his reiatsu muted compared to Ulquiorra's abyssal presence. To Askin, the choice was obvious. "The blind man isn't worth my time." he murmured, stepping instead toward the Espada. Ulquiorra's gaze met his, cold and indifferent. The atmosphere between them thickened immediately, oppressive and absolute.
That left Masco. The self-proclaimed "hero of justice" puffed out his chest, throwing his cape-like mantle dramatically over one shoulder. Seeing Tousen Kaname standing silently, Masco pointed. "So, my opponent is you? Perfect!" His grin widened into a ridiculous parody of righteousness. "The hero of justice always arrives last, and his foe is always the vilest villain. Don't you agree, James?"
From behind him, a short, round boy waddled forward, bald head shining, glasses glinting nervously. James, Masco's ever-faithful fan, clapped his hands eagerly. "That's right, Masco-sama! You're the true hero! Show them all your justice!"
Masco raised his fist skyward, posing as though the entire battlefield were his stage. Kaname, however, remained still. His expression unreadable, his blind eyes hidden behind the visor, he neither acknowledged nor dismissed the ridiculous theatrics. His silence was heavy, a weight that even Masco's bombastic shouts could not pierce.
The square of Las Noches trembled with tension. Two sides stood opposite one another, perfectly matched in number, their powers poised to collide. The first insults had been thrown, and the first blades had already clashed. Now, the war between Hueco Mundo's chosen and Yhwach's handpicked warriors was about to ignite in earnest.
*****
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