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Soul Society.
Emerging through the towering stone gate of the Senkaimon, Moyu stepped once more into the land that had forged him, the place etched deepest into his bones—the world where the rhythm of spirit particles pulsed in harmony with every breath, where the silence of tradition was louder than war drums, and where even the wind seemed to remember his name.
"Finally back," he murmured, though the words barely left his lips before a small, curious head peeked out from the shelter of his arms, eyes wide and brimming with wonder.
"Is this Moyu's hometown? Nilu likes it here!" she chirped, the contrast between her innocence and their surroundings stark enough to draw a faint smile from him. Compared to Hueco Mundo's endless, sunless expanse of pale sand and crushing spiritual hunger, Soul Society felt like a sanctuary drenched in color, balance, and the quiet hum of order. Even for Moyu, who had wandered both the Human World and its chaotic mirror, the return stirred something deep—an echo of belonging wrapped in the scent of dry stone, wind-worn wood, and old Reiatsu.
He ruffled her soft green hair without speaking further, the moment already slipping into motion as he vanished into a flash of Shunpo, heading toward the noble districts with the speed of someone who didn't wish to be stopped.
The Shinigami on gate duty barely caught the trailing blur of his movement, eyes struggling to process what they'd just seen, his hand halfway to a salute that was never completed. He turned instinctively toward the Senkaimon, blinking at the faint traces of activated kido still shimmering around it, his mind racing to catch up.
"Huh… was that a returning Shinigami just now?"
His question dissolved into the wind, unanswered and increasingly irrelevant as a firm, clear voice rang out from the distance—measured, formal, and immediately recognizable.
"Kuchiki Moyu. Third Seat, Fourth Division."
The name fell like a stone into still water, rippling across the stunned silence. Recognition bloomed quickly; even those far removed from the pulse of Seireitei's politics had heard the name whispered between barracks, muttered beneath breaths, and etched into mission logs with reluctant awe. Kuchiki Moyu, strongest seated officer in recorded memory, wielder of a blade swift enough to strike down Menos-class Hollows with minimal effort—his return would not go unnoticed, no matter how quietly he wished to pass.
Unbothered by the stir his name was causing, Moyu moved quickly, settling Nilu within the protective walls of the Kuchiki estate before making his way—alone—toward the First Division barracks. The incident in Karakura had long since ended, the spiritual tremors that had rocked the Human World already fading into history. Orders had been dispatched to retrieve him, then ignored, then resent, until finally Captain Kuchiki himself had intervened, his silent authority succeeding where protocol had failed.
Now, Moyu stood before the Captain-Commander, his report delivered with clinical precision.
"…That is a summary of my operations in the Human World."
Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni sat unmoving at the head of the chamber, his white haori pristine despite the weight it bore, purple sash tight above his waist-length beard, both gnarled hands resting atop his wooden cane as though the centuries balanced there required his constant attention. Though his eyes remained closed, their presence loomed heavier than any gaze; the spiritual pressure that radiated from him felt ancient, dense, and impossibly still, like a volcano waiting for provocation.
Even as Moyu's own strength had grown far beyond the boundaries of a typical officer, that oppressive gravity remained inescapable—raw command distilled into silence and held within human form.
Surrounding them were the captains of the Gotei 13, each standing in silence, arrayed like weapons unsheathed and waiting. Even Ukitake, long absent due to illness, stood among them, his presence a signal of the meeting's gravity. This was the peak of Seireitei's military structure—an assembly rarely convened in full.
"Is that the full account?" Yamamoto asked at last, opening his eyes with the kind of precision that suggested deliberation, not fatigue. Within their depth flickered something sharp, assessing, and impossible to deceive.
Moyu met that gaze without flinching.
"Your performance exceeded expectations, Third Seat Moyu," the old man said, his voice betraying no emotion—only judgment rendered with surgical finality.
Moyu offered a faint, noncommittal smile but withheld reply, his bearing neither submissive nor arrogant, simply anchored.
"For that, you may request a reward—within reason."
Whispers passed like wind between the captains' shoulders, subtle and wordless. It was rare—unheard of—for Yamamoto to offer anything beyond acknowledgment. To survive a mission unpunished was considered honor enough. Yet here stood Moyu, not only unscathed, but rewarded. The unspoken truth settled among them: standards were shifting.
"You mean I can actually ask for something?" Moyu replied, his voice touched by faint amusement, not surprise.
"Yes," Yamamoto said, the word heavy, not just with permission, but expectation.
"Those who serve with distinction will be recognized. Those who fail will be punished. This is balance."
Though spoken to Moyu, the Captain-Commander's words cracked across the chamber like a whip, falling on every shoulder as a reminder that none were immune to consequence or favor.
Moyu paused, considering. When he finally spoke, it was with the same calm that had defined him from the start.
"I don't need anything now. May I defer this reward, Captain?"
Where others might stumble in phrasing or tone, Moyu's strength allowed directness. His words weren't challenge—they were clarity.
"If there's something I need in the future, I'll bring it to you then."
The eyebrow Yamamoto raised said everything. This was new territory; rewards had always been declarative, not transactional. And now, before the Gotei's highest authority, Moyu had opted out.
"So be it," the old man rumbled, voice final as a sealed fate.
From the side, Shunsui tilted his hat back and let out a low chuckle, voice coated in mischief.
"Leave it to Moyu to get Old Man Yama to bend."
Unohana didn't even turn her head to respond. Her eyes, calm and steady, remained forward.
"A man of merit deserves his peace," she murmured, words floating through the air like a blade drawn halfway but not used.
Shunsui's grin faltered as he adjusted his posture. He knew better than to test her tone, having done so once—and once was enough.
Moyu inclined his head, voice respectful but detached.
"Thank you, Captain."
All around the room, captains held their silence, their gazes subtly shifting. Though many had only read fragments of Sui-Feng's report or heard scattered rumors from returning patrols, every line, every whisper, every piece of testimony painted the same portrait—Kuchiki Moyu was no longer just a promising officer; he had become something else.
His strength was no longer questioned.
Yamamoto's expression, once neutral, hardened like stone setting in flame.
"Now that Moyu's report is complete, we must address the emergence of Arrancar-class Menos in the Human World."
The chamber seemed to tighten with the steel in his voice, and the attention of every captain turned as one.
"Hueco Mundo has grown far too bold."
What followed was no longer Moyu's concern. Attendance at the Captain's Meeting was already an exception. He listened briefly, registering key terms, watching faces, weighing reactions—before allowing his thoughts to drift.
The true concern wasn't Menos.
It was Aizen.
Beneath that polished façade, behind that gentle voice, lay something infinitely more dangerous than Hollow aggression. Kyōka Suigetsu's illusionary reach stretched too far to counter openly. Striking prematurely would be suicide. Even with his newfound strength, Moyu wouldn't survive the weight of mistaken judgment.
And so he said nothing.
The meeting ended. Orders issued. Investigations launched. Hueco Mundo's audacity would not go unanswered. The gears of Seireitei began to spin with precision and urgency.
All moved with purpose.
All, except one salted fish savoring his recovery like a lazy cat sunbathing after rain.
At the Kuchiki estate, Byakuya stood facing Moyu across a lacquered table, his expression glacial, one hand resting on his blade, the other clenched just enough to betray emotion.
"You… brought an Adjuchas-class Arrancar into Soul Society?"
Moyu, utterly unbothered, nodded as he casually popped a fruit into his mouth, chewing with deliberate slowness.
"Yep."
He reached behind him and tugged a small, squirming figure forward by the hood, holding her like a child proudly presenting a kitten.
"Her name's Nilu."
Byakuya's silence was thunderous.
"Hello! I'm Nilu!" she chirped, waving both hands with relentless cheer.
For a moment, only the rustling of leaves disturbed the stillness. Then Byakuya exhaled slowly, the twitch in his brow barely concealed by decades of noble discipline. Spending more than five minutes with Moyu, as ever, threatened his cardiovascular health.
Once, Moyu had been untalented—barely worthy of the family name. After receiving his Zanpakutō, he had rocketed through the Academy's ranks, surpassing expectations so rapidly that even Byakuya had felt something like admiration.
Then, of course, came the chaos.
"It's fine," Moyu said offhandedly, waving a hand. "I've taken precautions. Even Captain Yamamoto wouldn't detect her."
Nilu giggled, raising her tiny arm like a proud student.
"Moyu gave Nilu a special reiatsu cloak!"
Byakuya's eyes narrowed toward the green bracelet at her wrist, its design precise, its aura subtle but unmistakable.
"Third-Generation Camouflage Watch. Prototype," Moyu explained, his tone casual. "Courtesy of a certain researcher."
Byakuya's gaze sharpened further. He seemed to remember the device's source but said nothing for a long moment.
"…Understood. I'll keep Nilu's presence secret. But—"
"The Kuchiki family's duty is to uphold Soul Society's laws," Moyu interrupted, perfectly mimicking his cousin's measured cadence. "You've said that since we were kids. My ears have calluses."
Byakuya opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. For the first time in years, his shoulders sagged—just slightly.
When had this reckless child become so sharp?
Without another word, he turned and walked away, silent trust laced through each step.
Moyu didn't need confirmation. They understood each other. Trust, built across years of shared history and opposing philosophies, would hold.
"Did Nilu cause trouble for Moyu?" she asked softly, eyes following the vanishing figure.
Though fragments of her old memories had returned, her form preserved the innocence that anchored her.
Moyu reached down and tousled her hair, voice low but kind.
"Not at all. He just hides a soft heart behind sharp words."
Time in Soul Society passed strangely. Days melted into weeks, folding into months as Moyu resumed his healing duties, sparred with Unohana, deepened his quiet bond with Rukia, and endured Sui-Feng's increasingly suspicious visits that somehow always circled back to Yoruichi. Her presence at the estate had grown unnervingly regular.
Peaceful, dull days stretched onward.
Then, two years later, just as Moyu prepared to leave for another shift with the Fourth Division, a hell butterfly fluttered down in front of him, its black wings slicing through the morning light.
He extended a finger. The butterfly landed. Its message was brief.
Moyu's eyes widened.
His expression didn't change—but everything froze.
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