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Hueco Mundo
A fierce wind swept the pale sands, the gusts clashing in the air with shrill, haunting wails as they howled across the endless desert where a fortress of white stone towered like a wound carved into the land—Las Noches.
A lone figure stepped into its cold, echoing interior: short black hair framed an emotionless face with dark green eyes, pale skin etched with emerald Arrancar markings, and a fragment of a horned mask clinging to his left cheek like a deathly crown, his slender, almost fragile form lending him a stillness that was not weakness but menace incarnate—Ulquiorra Cifer, Espada Number Four.
"The seal has been broken. Task complete," he announced, his voice flat and mechanical.
"You really are Aizen-sama's most efficient weapon," came a voice laced with mockery from a man leaning lazily against a high column; pale-pink hair framed a face almost hidden behind exaggerated spectacles, and in his eyes flickered a madness like a virus searching for its next host—Szayelaporro Granz.
Once the Eighth Espada, now elevated to Fifth after Nnoitra's fall, his altered form bore four wings that drooped from his back while strange crimson etchings pulsed across his body like blood-stained tattoos, his Reiatsu radiating in volatile waves that distorted the air around him as if Las Noches itself recoiled from his presence.
"Tch. What a boring man," Szayelaporro muttered at Ulquiorra's silence, though he composed himself and asked, "How is your mission progressing?"
"Smoothly," Szayelaporro answered his own question with a sharp grin, "though studying the soul is unlike combat—without inspiration, progress crawls," he added, his tone shifting to one of fervor as he continued, "that Shinigami's Reiatsu is exquisite, easily one of the finest experimental subjects I've dissected in weeks."
But Ulquiorra's expression never changed as he offered only, "Make haste. Aizen-sama could return at any moment, and he does not tolerate delay."
The warning hit deeper than Szayelaporro would admit, and though his smile faltered as a cold shadow passed over his expression, his voice snapped back, "Are you questioning my research?"
Ulquiorra, without a word, had already turned and was walking deeper into the palace, his indifference more biting than any insult, while Szayelaporro's eyes burned with venom as he watched the Espada vanish into the shadows—he was a beast leashed by science, desperate to bite.
Soul Society
Yamamoto Genryūsai's command thundered through Seireitei like a spiritual quake: the gates were sealed, patrols doubled, and entire squads mobilized to full alert—all because a seal had broken.
Moyu, for his part, wasn't surprised, not when the one behind the disturbance was Kuchiki Hibiki, or more precisely, his Zanpakutō, Muramasa—a spirit capable of communicating with and materializing other Zanpakutō, manipulating their instincts, turning them against their masters, and threatening the very hierarchy of Soul Society itself.
Though Urahara Kisuke had once researched Bankai embodiment by external means—converting Zanpakutō into physical forms for training—Muramasa required no such science, as his power flowed not from devices but from suggestion and instinct, weaponizing rebellion into a tangible force.
That alone had earned Hibiki the infamous title of "Shinigami Killer," for if left unchecked, his ability could fracture Soul Society from within like a virus corrupting its most sacred bonds.
Byakuya Kuchiki had initially offered to handle the matter alone, citing family responsibility, but Yamamoto had rejected the request without hesitation, for time was a luxury they could not afford; should widespread rebellion erupt, the devastation would be irreparable.
Thus the command was simple, brutal, and absolute—every division, all hands, capture Kuchiki Hibiki.
Kuchiki Estate
As Moyu stood among his gathered clan members, their precision and discipline clicking together like gears in a machine, he felt his headache deepen.
"How the hell did Hibiki break the seal?" he muttered, to which Byakuya, cold and resolute, replied, "Regardless, the Kuchiki clan must be the first to respond; we bear this responsibility."
To Moyu, however, the concept of communing with a Zanpakutō spirit had always seemed useless, especially when, after all this time, he still didn't even know his own blade's true name.
"I just hope the bastard's interesting enough to surprise me," he sighed, watching as the family's hidden strength roused into motion like a sleeping dragon stirred.
11th Division Barracks
The dojo's roof trembled as combat roared inside, cheers from bloodthirsty spectators erupting in rhythmic thunder—"C'mon, Ikkaku!" "Smash that bastard!" "Let him feel what it means to challenge Eleventh Squad!"—for in a Seireitei brimming with tension, the 11th Division found bliss in chaos.
On the sparring stage, two men clashed with the ferocity of gods—one bald, his head gleaming under the lights as his narrow red eyes burned with mischief; the other black-haired, wearing sleek sunglasses and a disciplined mustache, his stance steady as bedrock—Madarame Ikkaku versus Tetsuzaemon Iba.
Their Zanpakutō collided in a symphony of steel and sparks, the roar of metal echoing through the hall as they fought without Reiatsu, relying solely on brute strength and honed instinct.
"I thought joining the Seventh would soften you," Ikkaku jeered between savage swings.
"Hah! I train harder now that you're not around!" Iba shot back, parrying with grounded precision.
Then, without warning, an unnatural surge pulsed through the air as both blades ignited with light; Reiatsu erupted like a storm, shattering the sparring platform and sending smoke billowing into the rafters.
"What the hell—Zanpakutō aren't supposed to be released in here!" someone shouted as the crowd recoiled in shock, and even the combatants themselves froze.
Ikkaku stared at Hōzukimaru, which shuddered violently in his grasp, its blade glowing with fierce, uncontrollable energy, while Tetsuzaemon's sword flared in kind, crashing recklessly against Ikkaku's guard.
"Did they... initiate Shikai?" someone whispered, but the truth was stranger.
From the light surrounding Hōzukimaru emerged a muscular man with dark skin, crimson hair, and long red shadows under his eyes—a silent warrior cloaked in menace—Hōzukimaru, materialized.
From Iba's blade, a thick mist rolled outward, blanketing the dojo in fog until a deep voice echoed from within, "Navigate danger and command the helm," and a second figure, veiled in steam and mystery, stepped forth, identity obscured.
"A fishing captain...?" Iba murmured, baffled.
Neither of them understood what was happening, but Ikkaku, ever the brawler, grinned with violent delight.
"Whatever it is—let's take 'em down!"
All across Seireitei, similar manifestations were erupting as Zanpakutō—spiritual weapons once bound within—materialized in physical form, creating a wave of internal uprisings.
Fortunately, thanks to earlier captain briefings, most divisions had anticipated the phenomenon and were able to regain control swiftly; panic was brief, containment procedures activated, and the order was clear—target, subdue, and contain.
Kuchiki Estate
Byakuya and Moyu stood in tense silence as an unexpected presence emerged from the shadows—Senbonzakura, fully materialized, clad in battle-worn samurai armor and staring them down with expressionless intensity.
"Byakuya," Moyu said with a smirk, "your sword's better-looking than you."
Byakuya's brow twitched, clearly unimpressed.
"You saw his outfit," he said quietly. "Why hasn't your Zanpakutō materialized?"
Moyu scratched his head with mock innocence.
"Maybe mine's just loyal?"
Even Nemu raised an eyebrow at that obvious lie, though Moyu knew the truth well—his Reiatsu still overpowered Lanyin, rendering her dormant not from loyalty, but sheer inability; a spirit too weak to manifest under his unchecked presence.
Senbonzakura stepped back, subtle tension in every motion; though he feared Byakuya's discipline, he feared Moyu more—unpredictable, volatile, and utterly unconstrained.
"You thinking of running?" Moyu asked casually, tilting his head. "Running from the Kuchiki estate is harder than toppling Seireitei itself."
Senbonzakura didn't speak, but the sudden scatter of petals said enough—he was going to flee.
"I'll handle it," Moyu said before Byakuya could speak. "The faster we deal with this one, the faster we help the others."
Byakuya paused, then gave a slight nod. "Do it."
Moyu's grin sharpened like a blade as Senbonzakura stepped back again, the air thickening with spiritual pressure.
"Scatter, Senbonzakura."
Thousands of tiny blades burst outward, their shimmer disguised as cherry blossoms, forming a breathtaking and deadly storm.
"Not bad," Moyu muttered, unimpressed. "Your control's nearly perfect. Shame it's wasted."
As the petals surged toward him, Moyu lifted his hand without urgency.
"Bakudō 81: Dankū."
A wall of light carved through the air, splitting the wave of blades with ease and halting their advance mid-flight.
Senbonzakura hesitated, then turned to escape—but Moyu's voice sealed his fate.
"Bakudō 6-10-3: Binding Chains."
Golden light exploded from the ground as serpent-like chains lashed upward, racing through the air toward the fleeing spirit like justice given form.
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