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Urahara's question, subtle yet pointed, referred to Nilu. Moyu didn't flinch.
"Of course. You think I'll leave her here?"
Hueco Mundo had clearly shifted. The Hollow density in the living world was declining, likely due to internal unrest among the Hollows. Soon, the balance might restore itself. The Human World, under steady suppression, would return to its former calm. The stationed Shinigami would retreat. So would Moyu. But he wouldn't abandon Nilu to an uncertain fate in the living world. Not now.
Bringing her into the Soul Society would require preparation. Urahara's invention—the second-gen disguise watch—was only the beginning. There were other measures Moyu needed to put in place once they crossed over. At the heart of it, only two names warranted caution: Yamamoto Genryūsai and Aizen Sōsuke.
The consequences of discovery would be severe. Genryūsai's black-and-white justice left no space for gray. Still, Moyu had made his choice. If he didn't act now, what was the point of reincarnation, of awakening, of escaping the fate of his past self?
Seeing the unwavering light behind Moyu's gaze, Urahara nodded silently. This wasn't his battle to lead.
"I'll accelerate the development of the third-generation disguise unit," he said, producing a transparent cube. "This is a Reiatsu storage matrix. Pour your energy into it—I'll handle the rest."
Moyu complied. He was fully aware of the uniqueness of his spiritual signature. Kurotsuchi Mayuri had chased after his Reiatsu more than once, luring with threats and temptations alike, but always in vain. Moyu simply couldn't trust someone like Mayuri, whose ethics shifted with his obsessions. Urahara, while hardly innocent, at least held to a line Moyu could anticipate.
He looked down at the cube. Inside, his Reiatsu pulsed like a wild, intelligent flame—dancing, resonant, unpredictable. He stared into the flickering current.
"This is the Reiatsu at the edge of this realm's evolution…"
His voice was quiet, directed only inward. "I'm close. I just need the right push."
Handing over the container to Urahara, Moyu left with the second-gen disguise wrapped around his wrist. He didn't reach the Shinigami outpost before something diverted his path.
A low chant echoed through an alley: "Heilige Vernichtung."
A sharp blue light cracked through the darkness, burning away shadows with its radiance. The spiritual pressure it generated pulsed in a smooth, overwhelming wave.
Moyu approached silently and saw Kurosaki Masaki, floating midair, her spiritual bow fading into particles. Her expression was stern, focused, but not cold. Before her, the void was already fragmenting, dispersing into spiritual particles—the remnants of a Hollow eradicated completely.
Even Moyu had to acknowledge her power. Masaki's bow technique, charged by Quincy might, carried explosive destruction—enough to atomize even an Adjuchas-class Menos in a single shot. Her speed was fierce, her strikes clean, her defense bolstered by Blut Vene. Compared head-to-head, Quincy—especially one like her—surpassed most Shinigami in raw performance. The only reason they lost the war a century ago was history's weight tipping the wrong scale.
As Masaki lowered her hand, she looked up and noticed the spiritual signature above her.
"Moyu."
Whether it was her tone or the surge of spirit energy she released, Moyu wasn't sure, but the way she said his name felt strangely warm. She approached with a light in her eyes that even battle hadn't dimmed.
Ever since their clash with Nnoitra, she had been drawn to him. Unlike other Shinigami, Moyu didn't react to Quincy with disdain or blind hostility. His presence shattered every preconception she had. That dissonance only deepened her interest.
"Moyu," she said again, her voice lighter now. "Was that your team I saw earlier? More Shinigami have appeared around town."
"They're from Seireitei, but not my division," Moyu replied. "If you see them, keep your distance. Not all of them are… open-minded."
Masaki smiled, her tone playful but sincere. "Don't worry. I'm smart enough to avoid trouble. I'll only come close to one Shinigami."
The moment passed without lingering too long, but Moyu saw enough to know this wasn't a one-time effort. Masaki wasn't just protecting civilians. This was her nature—kindness channeled into action. That, too, carried its own power.
They went their separate ways soon after.
Far above the skyline, a young man with short, silver-blue hair and light eyes stood atop a rooftop, white uniform fluttering in the breeze. His gaze followed Moyu's path.
"That's the Shinigami from before... the one who killed Nnoitra. What an interesting strength."
With the next gust of wind, his figure vanished from view.
Elsewhere—in the hidden levels of Rukongai, where the Soul Society's shadows converge—lay a sealed underground lab laced with Kidō seals and twisted science. A massive petri cylinder stood at the center, surrounded by neatly aligned equipment humming with spirit energy.
Floating lifelessly inside the tube was a tall, humanoid being—white-skinned, expressionless, suspended in sleep.
Ichimaru Gin's voice broke the silence, his Kyoto lilt curling at the edges.
"So, Captain Aizen... you're really gonna throw this monster into the living world?"
He wore his usual grin, but the tension in the air was unmistakable. Aizen stepped forward, calm and composed, the white folds of his haori barely rustling.
"You misunderstand, Gin," Aizen said, eyes locked on the being inside. "He's not a masterpiece. Merely a byproduct—unrefined, irrational. A failed experiment with too much power and no control."
"Even with all those Kidō barriers, I can still feel it," Gin muttered. "That's one hell of a mistake, Captain."
"He will serve a purpose," Aizen replied with ease. "Hueco Mundo is stabilizing. The Gotei 13 will soon turn their eyes back to the Human World. Letting Xubai stir chaos buys us time. Time to expand our reach. Time to move without interference."
Gin's smile deepened, more fox than man. "And here I thought you didn't like improvising."
"I'm simply setting the stage."
"And what about Yu?"
Aizen's eyes narrowed only slightly. "That's precisely why I'm interested. I want to know just how far he's come."
Karakura Town.
Back at the Shinigami outpost, Nilu rested atop Moyu's head, happily twirling his hair between her fingers as if counting threads of fate. Repairs to the city neared completion, the substitute squad preparing to return.
Moyu, no longer needed on the front line, took time to enjoy a rare break.
Thanks to a prosthetic skeleton from Urahara, he could once again savor Human World delicacies. Compared to the stagnant structure of the Soul Society, this world's culture was rich, absurdly entertaining—life in technicolor.
Moyu sprawled on the sofa, drink in hand, thinking that being mistaken for a four-year-old by locals might not be so bad after all.
Then the world cracked open.
A beam of lavender Reiatsu erupted in the south, shaking Karakura Town. His drink crumpled in his hand, soda spilling as Moyu stood in an instant, his smile gone. He gently set Nilu aside.
"Stay here. Don't come out."
Then he vanished.
South Karakura.
Sui-Feng and Rangiku stared in stunned silence at the towering pillar of deathly spirit energy splitting the sky. It bled pressure like a collapsing star.
Sui-Feng's skin prickled as sweat crawled down her spine. "What kind of Reiatsu is this?!"
Buildings rattled. The air thinned. Civilians froze in place, eyes blank, caught in spiritual paralysis. Even Shinigami were overwhelmed.
Matsumoto staggered, barely upright. Her body trembled, soaked in sweat beneath her uniform as if drowning in vacuum. Her lungs refused to move. This was not a Reiatsu meant for mortal space.
Then another pressure swept in—clean, blue-white, sharp.
It wrapped the city in protection, isolating the deadly field to the south. It felt like salvation.
Moyu arrived, Kaidō already glowing in his hand. He pressed his palm to Matsumoto's back, siphoning out the trauma with skillful care.
Matsumoto gave a faint nod, her breathing gradually stabilizing under the glow of Kaidō, though her eyes still quivered with the imprint of what she'd just felt—an overwhelming spiritual pressure not born of strength alone, but the raw, suffocating presence of death incarnate.
Moyu rose without pause, shifting his gaze toward Sui-Feng, voice steady with purpose.
"Stay here and shield her. That spiritual pressure—it's not something you're equipped to face yet."
Sui-Feng's expression faltered, hesitation crackling in the silence between them, her mouth parting as if to protest, yet unable to find the words that could anchor her shaken composure.
Before anything could be said, Moyu was already gone, his form consumed by Shunpo, vanishing into the collapsing distance with the speed of conviction and necessity.
Left behind in the stillness, Sui-Feng stood rigid as the last trace of his Reiatsu dissipated into the air, her clenched fist trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the visceral recognition of disparity.
That single moment of paralysis had stripped her of all illusion, forcing her to confront a bitter truth no training could shield her from.
This wasn't just spiritual combat, wasn't textbook Kidō or Gotei protocol.
This was the true battlefield.
This... was the world as it really was.
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