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Golden thunder tore the skies above Naruki City, the explosion so violent that Rangiku instinctively covered her ears, eyes wide at the devastation before her. She had already rated Moyu's strength higher than most captains, but even that judgment now felt laughably small.
The three Arrancar were swallowed whole by the lightning, their bodies erased without so much as a scream. When the glare finally faded, nothing remained. Not a trace. Not a flicker of resistance.
"Gone…?" Rangiku whispered, staring at the clearing sky. Three Arrancar, each radiating power on par with captains, had been erased in a single instant. Could a chantless Hadō number sixty-three really carry such overwhelming force? She knew Kidō well—its ranks, its limits. Even if she layered incantations and doubled the chant, her output could never reach such extremes. This was not technique. This was a gulf in existence itself.
Moyu's calm voice broke her thoughts. "Rangiku, handle the remaining Hollows in the northern district. Confirm whether any Thirteenth Division survivors remain."
Her eyes widened. "Captain… what about you? Don't tell me—"
Moyu's gaze turned south, pupils sharpening. "There are other guests." And in the blink of an eye, his presence vanished.
When he reappeared, it was upon the rooftop of a thirty-story tower. Steady footsteps echoed across the concrete. Facing him was a figure clad in white and black: high-collared jacket trimmed in shadow, hakama falling neat over boots, expression blank as porcelain. His pale eyes reflected only Moyu's silhouette. The Reiatsu rolling from him bent the very air.
There was no mistaking that form. The maskless face, the void-like aura. Espada No.4—Ulquiorra Cifer.
"Kuchiki Moyu," Ulquiorra intoned flatly. "Lord Aizen spoke of you. His evaluation was… particular. My order is simple: deliver your soul back to him."
Moyu's brows flickered upward. "Aizen said that himself?"
Ulquiorra's silence was confirmation enough. Moyu exhaled softly. To send Ulquiorra here—was Aizen ignorant, or was this deliberate? With his current strength, Ulquiorra could not hope for parity, let alone victory.
"If that's true," Moyu said with faint pity, "then it's unfortunate."
Before Ulquiorra could answer, a surge of killing intent roared in from the side. The rooftop trembled, concrete fracturing under raw pressure. Even without looking, Moyu knew the source from the wild, predatory Reiatsu. Espada No.6—Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez.
"Ha! So this is one of Soul Society's strongest?" Grimmjow's grin was all teeth, hands buried in his pockets as though the battlefield itself were a game. "Finally—something worth tearing apart!"
His fist came first, whistling through the air with storming wind, feathers of Moyu's haori snapping under the gust. Yet before the strike could land, Grimmjow's instincts screamed, and he yanked his arm back to guard.
The impact came like a cannon blast.
Crack—!
He flew, body hammered through the sky as scarlet welts carved across his forearms. The ground below split open in gorges as his body plowed into earth, dust billowing high.
"What—?!" Pain flared sharp through his arms. His ulna and radius cracked from the single blow. The casual test strike he'd meant to throw had been answered with overwhelming force.
Ulquiorra's eyes, usually calm, flickered with the barest trace of surprise. Shinigami were supposed to struggle against Arrancar at their weakest points, yet Moyu had crushed Grimmjow's guard outright. Was this man before him truly a Shinigami?
Grimmjow twisted in midair, landing hard but upright. Dust curled around him as he flexed his arms, Reiatsu flooding in a desperate attempt to knit the fractures. His gaze cut upward through the haze toward Moyu's figure above. Speed he couldn't track. Power he couldn't measure. Even his Pesquisa had failed him.
He snarled, but deep down he felt it—the gap.
Moyu dropped from the rooftop in a flicker, arriving before him without effort. "How does it feel?" he asked evenly. "Still confident you can fight?"
Grimmjow's rage snapped back into flame, pride refusing surrender. "Don't you dare look down on me!" he roared, voice like a jaguar's snarl.
"Grimmjow." Ulquiorra's voice cut across, low and sharp. His gaze never left Moyu. "Remember Lord Aizen's orders. As we are now, we cannot defeat him."
Grimmjow seethed, teeth bared, but fell silent.
Ulquiorra's eyes narrowed. "Lord Aizen told us of your philosophy… of the way you see battle."
Moyu's brow creased faintly. So Aizen had studied him in such detail? Why? To groom an opponent? To stave off his own solitude, as he had with Kurosaki Ichigo? No—Aizen's interest felt heavier, more deliberate.
Ulquiorra continued, voice cold. "I have brought the legacy of Szayel Aporro into this world. Lumina and Verona were altered before their deaths. They exist now as special spiritual tools. And they are meant—specifically—for you."
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