While Akio engaged in his cold, precise dance with the lightning-whip assassin, the rest of the bridge erupted into a symphony of violence.
The three lower-ranking guards, their faces set in grim determination, moved to form a protective wall between the two oncoming assassins and the terrified young noble. They were outmatched, and a part of them knew it. Their Reiatsu were standard, their stances competent but unremarkable. They were soldiers, not specialists.
The two assassins approaching them moved in eerie silence. One, slightly taller, held his Zanpakutō in a standard grip, his movements fluid and economical. The other, leaner, held two wakizashi-like short blades in a reverse grip, his steps making no sound on the stone bridge.
"Hold the line!" one of the guards shouted, his voice cracking with adrenaline.
The taller assassin moved first. He didn't use Flash Step; he simply accelerated, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His first thrust was a blur, aimed not to kill, but to test. A guard parried it, the clang of steel ringing out, but the force behind the blow numbed his arm. The assassin flowed past him, his sword already changing direction to block a strike from the second guard. He was a whirlwind of precise, minimal movement, each parry and counter-strike creating openings for his partner.
The lean assassin with the twin blades was the real threat. He slipped into the gaps created by his comrade's assault. He was a phantom, his movements a series of short, lethal bursts. He didn't swing with power; he cut with precision. A guard lunged at him, and the assassin simply pivoted, one of his short blades flicking out to slice the tendons behind the guard's knee. The man cried out, collapsing as his leg gave way.
The third guard, seeing his comrade fall, roared and charged, his Zanpakutō held high for a powerful overhead chop. It was a telegraphed, emotional move.
The lean assassin didn't even bother to block. He dropped into a low crouch, letting the powerful strike whistle harmlessly over his head. As the guard overextended, the assassin's twin blades struck upward like a serpent's fangs—once, twice, three times—puncturing the guard's abdomen in a tight, brutal pattern. The guard gasped, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, his life bleeding out onto the cold stone.
The first guard, still trying to fend off the taller assassin, never saw the killing blow from the lean one coming. A single, perfectly thrown wakizashi took him in the throat from the side. He dropped, gurgling, joining his comrades.
The fight had lasted less than ten seconds.
The taller assassin flicked the blood from his blade. The lean one retrieved his thrown weapon, wiping it clean on a dead guard's uniform. They exchanged a single, silent nod. The perimeter was clear.
As they killed the three guards they ignored the noble heir cowering at the distant and focused on the fight between Akio and the 1st assassin. As they saw him losing, they went to help the 1st assassin.
Meanwhile, Hiro, the head guard, found himself locked in a duel that felt like a waking nightmare. His opponent, the fourth assassin, was a stark contrast to the others. He moved with a languid, almost graceful indifference, his plain Zanpakutō held loosely at his side.
"Out of my way," the assassin said, his voice a hollow monotone. "The child is the target. Your death is merely a formality."
"Like hell!" Hiro roared, his Reiatsu flaring. He knew he was outclassed, but his duty was absolute. "I won't let you lay a finger on the young master! Shatter, Gantetsusei!"
His Zanpakutō erupted in a flash of grey light. The blade expanded and reshaped itself, not into a cleaver, but into a massive, brutal-looking tetsubo, a studded iron war club. It was a Shikai of pure, unadulterated destructive force, mirroring Hiro's own straightforward nature.
Hiro swung the massive weapon with a grunt of effort. It wasn't fast, but it carried enough power to pulverize stone and shatter bone. The air whistled around it.
The assassin didn't try to block. He simply wasn't there when the blow landed. The tetsubo smashed into the bridge railing, sending chunks of masonry flying.
"An ape with a club," the assassin commented, his voice dripping with disdain. He reappeared behind Hiro. "Predictable."
Hiro spun, swinging the tetsubo in a wide, desperate arc. Again, the assassin vanished, only to reappear just outside his range.
"You rely on power alone. You see the world as a thing to be smashed," the assassin said. His voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "A limited perspective. Allow me to broaden your horizons."
The assassin finally raised his own blade. "Weave, Gen'eikyō."
His Zanpakutō didn't change. Instead, the world around Hiro did.
The bridge, the moon, the dead bodies of his men—everything shimmered and fractured like a broken mirror. Suddenly, there were a dozen assassins surrounding him, each one raising their sword. Hiro yelled, swinging his tetsubo in a wild circle, but the weapon passed through the illusions without resistance.
From his blind spot, the real attack came. A sharp, stinging pain lanced across his back. He cried out, stumbling forward. He turned, but there was no one there. Only the multiplying, shimmering figures, their hollow laughter echoing in his mind.
"Where are you?!" Hiro bellowed, swinging again. "Fight me for real, you coward!"
Another cut, this time on his arm. Then a shallow puncture in his thigh. The assassin wasn't aiming to kill quickly; he was dissecting Hiro's defenses, both physical and mental. He was using his illusion-type Shikai to create perfect openings, to make Hiro doubt his own senses, to tire him out and make him bleed.
Hiro was a brawler, a man of direct confrontation. This fight was his absolute worst nightmare. Each swing of his powerful tetsubo cost him immense energy, and he was hitting nothing but air. His breaths became ragged gasps, his movements slower, more desperate. The wounds, while not fatal, burned with a strange, draining fatigue. The Gen'eikyō was likely sapping his will along with his blood.
He was losing. Badly. He could barely protect himself, let alone the cowering heir behind him. A cold dread began to seep into his heart, colder than the assassin's blade. He was going to fail. His charge, his men, his honor—all of it was about to be erased on this silent bridge by a phantom with a thousand faces.
His eyes, wide with frustration and fear, flickered for a split second toward the other fights, where the unseated officer, Kurozume, was destroying one assassin whereas his fellow guards where all getting choped one after another. It was a fleeting, hopeless thought.
Back to Akio's situation after the two assassin saved the assassin who was fighting Akio.
After all the three assassins regrouped. They brought their Zanpakuto infront of them ready for the upcoming fight.
Then, their Reiatsu shifted. The air grew thick and heavy with intent.
"Envenom, Dokugumo," the lean assassin murmured. One of his short blades shimmered and melted, reforming into a gauntlet that covered his right hand and forearm, from which dripped a viscous, iridescent purple fluid that sizzled where it hit the ground.
"Strike true, Jinpūken," the taller assassin stated calmly. His Zanpakutō didn't change form, but the air around its edge began to warp and hum, as if the space itself was being sharpened. His Shikai allowed him to extend the cutting edge of his blade far beyond its physical length with invisible, razor-sharp projections of compressed air.
"Hah! Well guess its time to reveal it." Akio said.