"Charge!"
Wails, roars, and the clash of steel rang out.
From above, two swarms of black-clad Shinigami, garbed in identical Shihakushō, collided like twin colonies of ravenous ants. The only markers distinguishing friend from foe were the red or white hemp cords tied to their shoulders. Eyes bloodshot, they bellowed and swung, muscles taut, teeth gritted against the pain, stabbing their blades into enemies even as wounds tore their own flesh.
Across the sprawling battlefield, bursts of immense Reiatsu flared sporadically. The radiant glow of Shikai or Kidō detonated with thunderous force, overwhelming nearby Shinigami in an instant.
Yet within moments, an equally fierce opponent wielding their own Shikai would surge from the opposing ranks, locking into brutal duels.
No strategy, no finesse.
Just the rawest clash of blood and sinew!
Clang!
Ryōma Kurayashiki brandished his blade with ferocious precision, cleaving through the Seireitei Shinigami swarming toward him.
These pampered nobles most untested in true life-or-death combat spotted a child on the field and hesitated not a second before pouncing like a pack of wolves on a perceived weak link.
Yet Ryōma, though barely twelve in looks, bore the scars of countless battles. His seemingly fragile frame belied a veteran's grit.
"Hadō 31: Shakkahō!"
A crimson blaze erupted from the boy's palm, its searing light engulfing a Seireitei Shinigami in a fiery blast. Ryōma pivoted, slashing behind him. Leveraging his small stature, he drove a sharp kick into a burly foe's shin, snapping bone with a crisp crack.
In a fluid roll, the diminutive youth evaded a descending Zanpakuto, plunging his blade into the man's gut as they brushed past.
With a ruthless yank, he let momentum rip the wound wide.
In the blink of an eye, entrails spilled across the dirt, accompanied by piercing shrieks of agony.
Ryōma didn't spare a glance, already lunging for his next target.
Young as he was, he'd completed the Genji School's curriculum, Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Kidō, and Hohō in a mere three years, a prodigy even among its ranks.
Orphaned by Seireitei Shinigami, he'd sworn from the day he joined the Genji School to topple these bastard nobles preferably wiping them out entirely.
Over a decade of slaughter had honed that vow into reality.
Today, as a vanguard of the western side, his long-cherished dream edged toward fulfillment!
How could he possibly show mercy now?!
"Die, brat!"
A Reiatsu rivaling his own spiked skyward, paired with a shrill roar. A figure dove from above, unleashing a gale that tore across the earth.
Ryōma looked up, a mocking smirk curling his lips as he eyed the Shikai-wielding Seireitei Shinigami descending.
Before the enemy could close in, he raised his blade, voice ringing clear.
"Massacre the auspicious omens and come into being; respect the darkness as you become decrepit with age!"
"Gagaku Kairō!"
The chant's final syllable unleashed a blinding flash. His blade morphed into five spherical, white masses of flesh, each the size of a grizzly bear, radiating an oddly fluffy charm.
But before the Seireitei Shinigami could sneer, the surfaces of those orbs began to writhe.
In an instant, gaping maws tore open across their forms, bristling with scarlet, razor-sharp teeth packed tight like a shark's.
Every onlooker froze.
Ryōma commanded, "Devour them!"
Without hesitation, Gagaku Kairō surged forward at Shunpo-like speed, barreling into the surrounding Seireitei Shinigami.
Screams of terror and torment mingled with the grotesque crunch of bone and flesh being rent apart.
Crimson pools soaked the pitted ground.
Ryōma who had long accustomed to such carnage endured the Reiatsu drain of his Shikai and the sweat beading from exertion, charging ever deeper into the fray.
Makoto's order was clear to breach this front!!
The 11th Division knew their instructor was a fool, a lech, a foot-obsessed weirdo who hung girls' tabi from his scabbard.
But on the battlefield, Makoto's authority was absolute.
His command demanded unflinching execution.
As Gagaku Kairō whirled around Ryōma, carving a bloody path through the Seireitei ranks, a voice thick with suppressed fury boomed ahead.
"Pretty cocky for a ryoka runt!"
The sound triggered an instinctive alarm in Ryōma's gut. He whipped his scabbard toward the source, slashing on reflex.
But before he could react fully, a figure cloaked in black smoke streaked across dozens of meters, closing in at inhuman speed. A vicious kick lashed out.
Ryōma's eyes bulged as his entire body was hurled backward, swept away by a single, devastating kick that cleaved the air itself. He crashed into a ravenous Hollow lurking in the corridor, and together they tumbled more than ten meters, a spray of blood erupting from his mouth.
The towering, burly man stood rooted to the spot, his voice a frigid growl. "Burn this into your memory in the name of Ryūtenji-"
Before he could finish, a golden bolt of lightning slashed through the sky.
"Hadō 63: Raikōhō!"
The searing roar of thunder mingled with the crackle of scorched air, coalescing into a blinding cluster of light over a meter wide. In an instant, it pierced through a hundred meters, its spiritual pressure so tightly contained it was almost suffocating. With unrelenting force, it tore through the hulking man's frame, swallowing him whole in a flash of obliteration.
Vanished alongside him were several Seireitei Shinigami standing in his wake.
Thud.
What remained of his lower half, severed as if devoured by some monstrous beast collapsed heavily to the ground. The air carried the faint, acrid scent of singed flesh from the jagged cut, punctuated by a dull, resonant thud.
Witnessing this, Ryōma's pupils constricted sharply. Instinctively, he turned toward the source of the thunderous echo.
"Wasting time." Behind him came a cool and deliberate voice.
Makoto emerged from the formation, his Zanpakuto dangling casually at his waist. His steps appeared unhurried, yet they carried an unmistakable weight. The Genji shinigami around him turned their gazes toward him, their eyes alight with something akin to reverence.
In stark contrast, the Seireitei shinigami on the opposing side those who had just seen their vaunted champion, the formidable Ryūtenji, felled by a single chantless Kidō felt a tidal wave of terror crash over them. Their running faltered frozen by the dawning realization of their peril.
"M-Makoto-sama…" Ryōma stammered, a flicker of shame passing through his gaze as he beheld the man before him.
Makoto merely stepped in front of him, his large hand ruffling the boy's wild, straw-like hair with a firm yet affectionate vigor. Shoving him gently back, he chuckled, "Idiot. Why you charging in so recklessly."
"Leave this to me!"
Ryōma stumbled a few steps, swallowing the blood that clogged his throat with effort. His eyes fixed on the broad back of Makoto, now standing as a shield before him.
In the Soul Society, strength was the ultimate arbiter, a force that could silence all doubts with a single, decisive blow. It transcended age, appearance, or reputation. To crush every enemy before you with overwhelming might was to become the towering figure etched into the hearts of all who bore witness.
The diminutive boy strained to widen his lifeless, fish-like eyes.
Without question, at this moment, Makoto standing alone against a thousand was the most radiant presence in Ryōma's world.
A light seemed to shimmer from him!
This was his aspiration, his dream.
As the small boy marveled in quiet awe, a youthful and exuberant female voice erupted from Makoto's waist, slicing through the minds of everyone present.
[Moshi moshi!]
[Excellent! Everyone's brimming with energy!]
[Now, I'd like you all to stand still and line up nice and neat!]
[Today, this Makoto-sama will strip every last one of your Kutsushita down and use your scabbards to stuff you all into a hundred-man centipede mouth by mouth!][1]
[Men, women, men, women, men!]
[All of you! I'm going to take down a hundred!!]
In an instant, that crystalline voice swept through like a frigid gust, chilling the blood of every Seireitei shinigami present. Those who had clung to fleeting thoughts of resistance felt their resolve shatter. The vivid, grotesque image of bodies linked in a nightmarish chain left their hands trembling around their Zanpakutō.
Within the modern Seireitei, the Genji School had long since morphed into an unspeakable monstrosity, a reviled band of killers in the eyes of the nobility. From Yamamoto to Saizō Sakahome, every captain had been vilified by the Seireitei's relentless propaganda, cast as the vilest of demons despised by all noble houses.
As for Makoto Fujimiya's infamous renown, it had spread like wildfire through the Seireitei. Legend held that this wicked man had subjected the Asaimon nobles from top to bottom to unspeakable torment with ruthless, barbaric cruelty. The sheer horror of it was said to have driven the Head of the Shiba to defect on the spot.
Even the Head of the Shihōin arriving later to lend aid had fallen into this demon's ambush, reduced to a plaything beneath the heels of the Genji School's wicked horde.
Among the Soul Society's most nefarious murder cults, the Genji School, Makoto Fujimiya stood as one of its most depraved lunatics.
To fall into his hands was a fate worse than instant death.
At that thought, the rearmost stragglers broke into a desperate rout.
Swift and resolute!
"…"
Meanwhile, the Genji shinigami on his side gazed at Makoto with unbridled admiration.
Truly worthy of Makoto-sama.
Only Makoto's expression froze in place.
The spark of light in Ryōma's eyes snuffed out in an instant.
Makoto-sama was impeccable in every way.
Except for these… peculiar hobbies.
Weren't they just a tad too perverse?
***
Bonus Chapter:
100 Power Stones = 1 BC
300 Power Stones = 2 BC
500 Power Stones = 3 BC
700 Power Stones = 4 BC
1000 Power Stones = 5 BC
***
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