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What caught Moyu off guard wasn't the Eleventh Division's usual chaos—their feverish Reiatsu, their relentless war cries, or the clang of steel ricocheting through the martial arena—but the unmistakable presence of someone buried in the thick of the melee, battling shoulder to shoulder with Madarame Ikkaku himself.
Red hair pulled high in a warrior's tail, streaks of blood crossing a dust-caked uniform, and eyes fixed ahead with the kind of unwavering resolve that didn't belong to a man half-defeated—Moyu blinked, momentarily stunned. "Renji?" His voice held a note of disbelief. "Wasn't he assigned to the Fifth Division? Don't tell me... Aizen's already tossed him out?"
Even with all his sharpened instincts, Moyu hadn't accounted for this sudden shift. Abarai Renji's rebellious streak had clearly bloomed faster than anyone expected. Aizen once said he was never the kind to kneel easily; now that truth played out before Moyu's eyes—a variable cloaked in red, fighting with all the fire of a man who refused to be controlled.
"Don't hesitate!" Ikkaku's roar cracked across the arena, voice booming with the glee of a man fully alive in combat. His fingers curled, beckoning more, his grin wide and wild. "Come on! Keep fighting!"
A dozen soldiers surged toward him, blades raised, steel gleaming under sunlight. The clash was deafening—swords crashing into swords, sparks flying in frenzied rhythm as footwork, instinct, and desperation collided in the open ring. In a single breathless moment, shadowed blades danced and sang their violent hymn.
Dang! Dang! Dang!
Ikkaku's manic grin deepened as his footwork accelerated, weaving between attacks with reckless grace. He let himself get boxed in deliberately, drawn into the crush of bodies just to feel that chaos against his skin—to bask in the storm of battle, where blood and adrenaline drowned out thought.
In the Eleventh Division, anyone not wearing a Captain's or Lieutenant's badge wasn't worth dodging. So Ikkaku fought the way he knew best—surrounded, wounded, laughing, and toe-to-toe with the world.
"This is what real men call battle!" he bellowed, twisting with savage joy through the crowd. His Zanpakutō shrieked as it smashed into enemy steel, each collision detonating outward in miniature shockwaves.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Twenty-three crushing impacts exploded across the platform before bodies were hurled from the center, landing with bone-rattling force on the cracked stone of the arena floor.
When the dust lifted, only two remained upright.
Moyu's voice came soft but steady. "Renji's improved. To be standing at all against Ikkaku at this level... impressive."
Ikkaku cracked his neck and turned toward the lone figure still clutching a Zanpakutō.
"You a new recruit?" His voice had lost none of its edge, though something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
Renji stood, blood streaming from his side, both hands wrapped around his weapon. His breathing was harsh, his uniform ragged, but his stance was unbroken. "Joined yesterday," he replied, and though the words came ragged, they held a defiance that refused to break.
Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but his eyes never wavered. His skill hadn't yet caught up to Ikkaku's brutal efficiency, but his raw determination kept him on his feet.
Ikkaku's lips twitched into something between approval and anticipation. "Tell me your name, kid."
"...Abarai Renji." He spoke slowly, every syllable sharpened by will.
"Good." That feral grin returned. "Let's see where your limit lies."
Then, with no more warning than the tightening of his grip, Ikkaku lunged forward, a surge of unfiltered Reiatsu rolling off his frame. His blade came down hard, fast—every swing a test of steel and spine. Renji blocked, barely, steel clashing against steel in a storm of force and grit.
"I haven't met someone this stubborn in ages!" Ikkaku laughed between crushing strikes, his pace quickening as his blade came in unpredictable angles, pressure mounting with every heartbeat. The rhythm was chaotic yet purposeful, every blow calculated to push Renji back.
And it worked. Step by step, Renji lost ground, his heels nearing the edge of the arena.
One more push, and he'd be out.
But instead of flinching, Renji's eyes flared with something sharper—fury, not fear. He shouted, calling on everything left inside him, his Zanpakutō raised with both hands before crashing down in a defiant arc.
Clang!
The sound thundered across the platform, tremors shaking the ground as shockwaves burst outward. Cracks split the stone beneath them, radiating in jagged lines from the point of impact.
Ikkaku stepped into the space between them, gaze burning bright. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But guts alone don't win fights."
He leaned in, voice low and deadly. "Failure's the fastest way to get strong."
With one final push, he surged forward. The impact knocked Renji's Zanpakutō from his hands, and a heartbeat later, his body followed—hurtling from the arena with a heavy, echoing crash.
Boom.
Standing tall in the aftermath, Ikkaku called after him, voice still ringing with amusement. "I'll remember your name, Abarai Renji. You earned it."
Renji groaned faintly where he landed, pride hurt far worse than his battered frame. But before he could say a word, unconsciousness pulled him under.
Moyu was already there by the time the others rushed over, kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his chest.
"Reiatsu burnout, physical exhaustion, multiple fractures," he muttered as Kaidō light gathered around his palm. "Still breathing. You'll live."
A soft green glow surrounded Renji, healing wounds with practiced precision. Moyu allowed himself a faint smile—he had no real reason to help, but for an old classmate, a little kindness cost nothing.
From the edge of the stage, Ikkaku spotted the Kaidō light and lit up with glee. "Kuchiki Moyu!" he shouted, practically vibrating with excitement. "You finally come around?! I knew no real man could resist a proper fight!"
He dropped from the platform in one leap, fists clenched, eyes gleaming. "Let's go! Just you and me! My Hōzukimaru's starving!"
Moyu's answer came with a calm smile and a glint of steel behind his eyes. "Seireitei's barely finished rebuilding. I'd rather not be the one to tear it down again."
He looked westward. "Rukongai's got plenty of room. We'll fight there."
Renji stirred under the last pulses of Kaidō, his eyes fluttering open. "Moyu...?"
"You passed out. I patched you up." Already standing, Moyu's voice was casual, as if this were a mundane check-in, not the aftermath of a full-blown arena fight.
"Th-thank you," Renji said, still dazed. Despite their past, the moment caught him off guard.
"Don't ignore me!" Ikkaku shoved into the space between them, nose almost touching Moyu's. "We've got a fight to finish!"
Moyu didn't flinch. "Let's not keep Hōzukimaru waiting, then."
The trio set off across the training grounds. Moyu needed more than strength for what lay ahead—he needed trust, alignment, and pieces in place. Renji, with his impulsive heart but steady backbone, might yet become one of them.
Everything needed to unfold precisely. Fate wasn't allowed to stray.
Renji followed close behind, his eyes locked forward, burning with something stronger than regret. His loss stung—but more than anything, it lit a fire in his chest.
This—this was the path forward.
---
Rukongai, Western Third District – Li Fushan
Shiba Kaien's past training sessions had already left this region scarred beyond recognition. The terrain lay shattered, its natural beauty broken beneath relentless sparring. Even the Shiba clan had grumbled about the destruction.
Ikkaku took it all in with a wide, appreciative grin. "Perfect battlefield," he said, shielding his eyes against the sun. "No buildings, no rules, no complaints."
He turned to face Moyu, voice rising. "Kuchiki Moyu! I officially challenge you!"
Moyu's smirk was answer enough. "Then stop talking. Start swinging."
Without hesitation, Ikkaku drew his Zanpakutō, Shunpoing backward to create distance.
Nearby, standing with arms folded and a feathered design etched under his eyes, Ayasegawa Yumichika observed the scene with rare seriousness. "Watch closely," he told Renji. "Not many get to see Ikkaku go all out."
Renji nodded, pulse rising. "Who's going to win?"
Yumichika wrinkled his nose. "'Senior' sounds dreadful. Just call me Yumichika. And as for your question—there won't be a winner. Not in a fight like this."
Renji frowned. "What do you—"
"Shh." Yumichika's eyes sharpened. "It's starting."
Ikkaku vanished in a blur. A moment later, he was in front of Moyu, blade already mid-swing.
But Moyu didn't draw. He simply pivoted—one fluid step to the side—and the attack passed through air.
Ikkaku, undeterred, attacked again, his movements sharper, his strikes now loaded with more fury, more intent. His blade came in low toward Moyu's torso.
Click.
A solid stop met the attack. Moyu had parried him—using only the scabbard.
Their weapons locked midair, power grinding against restraint. Ikkaku gritted his teeth. He was giving it everything, but Moyu hadn't budged. His face was calm. Unshaken.
Sweat trailed down Ikkaku's face. The red paint around his eyes blazed like war paint.
"I can't even make you draw your blade?"
His roar came a heartbeat later. "Then I'll stop holding back!"
His Reiatsu detonated outward in a raw, violent pulse as he slammed hilt and blade together in a practiced motion.
"Extend—Hōzukimaru!"
A burst of spiritual light flashed. In his hand now stood Hōzukimaru in its true form—a massive spear gleaming with intent, spiritual pressure crashing through the ruined field like a tidal wave.
Though ranked as Third Seat, Ikkaku's power easily rivaled any Vice-Captain. And now, with Shikai released, that strength stood revealed in full.
Renji's breath caught. "That's his... Shikai?"
"Of course it is," Yumichika replied, voice low, eyes unreadable. "And this?"
He looked again at Moyu, then back at Ikkaku.
"This is only the beginning."
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