"TIS the la~ast rose of summer~
Left blo~ooming alone~"
The carelessness and contempt on the man's face were certainly off-putting, yet he compensated for his lack of charisma with sheer involvement. He recited with a honeyed, sadistic exaltation that almost made one want to believe in his sorrow and sympathy.
Preferably, while being as far away from him as possible.
"All her lo~ovely companions~
Are fa~aded and gone~"
The bandit shuffled awkwardly through the sand, dragging his leg, but deliberately stepped over the corpse still clutching the shaft of a spear in its hand. The second guard had never received salvation. Only one fighter remained.
The ring of Hollows around the poetry lover and his victim tightened with every step the traitor took towards the caravan's sole surviving defender. Or rather, the sole surviving female defender.
She could fight no longer. Her arm, broken in three places, had long since lost its modified axe. Her torn cloak revealed terrible black wounds. A strange, material… Reiryoku? A veritable energy cloak flickered, ready to vanish completely at any moment.
Only the hateful voice of her enemy, and the hope of taking him with her at the last moment, kept the woman conscious. Since she was fated never to return to her beloved daughters and her good-for-nothing husband anyway.
"I'm so sorry…" she whispered, and the wind drowned out the words for all but herself.
Her treacherous eyes closed before she could witness her own death and attempt to take the treacherous murderer with her.
The battle was over.
Okumura watched as a malicious, yet deliberately weakened, blow sent the last defender tumbling to the foot of some thorny plant. Her comrade lay at the victor's feet, of no interest to him whatsoever. Instead, a dozen of the strange, almost template-copy Hollows remaining after the battle were bestowing greedy looks upon the dying body.
Bestowing them, yet none dared disobey the order of the strange man, swathed from head to toe in grey-beige rags the quintessential attire of desert nomads across all worlds and dimensions.
Only the misplaced top hat on his head, and the transparent, inhuman eyes in the patch of sun-darkened skin, distinguished him from the deceased caravan drivers.
Ah, no, there was one more peculiarity.
The strange parasite in his left hand, which felt like a fully-fledged, low-level Hollow, unlike the beast-like, identical, cookie-cutter Hollow fragments surrounding him.
Six wolves, three bears, the remaining fours corpions. Similar to one another, utterly devoid of individuality, inexplicably black in color, with a pitiful shard, a remnant of a Minus soul, yet sporting the standard white porcelain mask that pointlessly covered their inner void.
"These aren't fragments," Okumura realized suddenly. "Or not quite fragments."
More than anything, these strange beast-Hollows resembled, in their Reiryoku signature, artificial Minus souls analogous to the Shinigami Research Institute's "Modified Souls," the Plus souls.
Something dark stirred within him again as he understood: this new world was, in some ways, even worse than the last. Of course, throughout the history of the Seireitei, Aizen was far from the first traitor. Not even the only fool to dabble with the powers of Hollows.
But never, never before had interactions with the Minus resulted in such success as was now being casually displayed by this rag-swathed killer. Total subjugation, like the Call of higher Menos, of the Adjuchas or Vasto Lorde class.
"I see you've found your new duty," his Spirit Blade spoke up.
"I cannot take the renegade alive for interrogation. Too powerful a soul; the only serious wounds are a gunshot to the left leg and a broken, em, some bone above the chest. 'Clavicle.' Yes, that's the one.
The traitor has less than a third of his Reiryoku left. Plus, all these not-quite-Hollows could buy him time, help him escape, or simply distract me enough for a lethal strike."
He did not wish to die so quickly simply for underestimating an opponent.
At the peak of his power, Seki could have defeated this traitor without issue… perhaps even without releasing his Spirit Blade, his Shikai. But now, with the body of a child, an unaccustomedly short sword, a meager, unstable Reiryoku, a dissonance between soul and body even a wounded opponent with a local, primitive combat style could prove an insurmountable obstacle.
Especially if he had to hold back to capture, not kill.
"Don't capture the monster. Take his victim," Seki felt his Zanpakutō shrug within his inner world. "She has an emblem on her cloak, like some of the other corpses: there's an entire organization of her kind. Quite convenient."
"… Played your last hand, Huntress," the eyes of the man, standing half-turned away, screwed up with satisfaction. "How does it feel to die a pathetic pawn of a worm-parasite from prehistoric times? Well, girl, did your Ozma help you? Used up like disposable socks. Ah, it's so pleasant to witness the shock when your own guides turn their weapons against… Ah, Brother Gods and the Black Queen, you can't hear me anymore."
"Fine. I'll bring HER your head. I think the new boy, Tyrian, might like a trophy from such a heretic. If that idiot Basil manages to drag him to a healer in time."
The Hollows around the rag-swathed killer began to grow restless.
The black bears in white porcelain masks twitched their noses and bared their maws. The scorpions clicked their mandibles, turning in place as their tails swayed threateningly, stingers poised. The wolves howled, flecks of foam dripping onto the sand with every sound they made.
"Quiet, you beasts!" The desert gentleman was clearly not pleased with this interruption of his triumphant moment.
He stood there, in a circle of dozens of nightmarish monsters, and his hands trembled involuntarily, his fingers twitching towards the weapons on his wide cloth belt.
Not because of the Hollows themselves, not from any real threat they posed too insignificant even for the locals but because of the abnormal proximity to them, the unnaturalness of such company, because of ingrained reflexes.
"If he is a traitor, and not just a lucky man with strange artifacts, then he underwent the transition relatively recently. I cannot let him grow accustomed to wielding such power. Even in the unlikely event he did not consciously betray his race."
"Quiet!" he repeated.
To no effect.
Whatever his ability to control such creatures was, it lacked finesse. All interaction ended at 'kill-don't kill' or 'kill-ignore.'
All the better for Okumura.
The words of the Kido spell begged to be spoken, though articulating them using the air in this inconvenient respiratory organ, the tongue, and the vibrations of the nasopharynx, proved far more awkward than he had anticipated. No matter. He would adapt. The advantage of the first strike lay in the preparation time it afforded.
"Ruler, he who wears a mask of flesh, before whom all that exists flaps its wings, he who is granted a human name…"
He waited not a moment longer.
The killer had grown too complacent, secure in his own safety and the absence of survivors. The Hollows around him were bound by his command, forming an impatient, twitchy ring around the two people, even though a pair of scorpions and one wolf had undoubtedly sensed the Shinigami's energy being gathered for the Kido.
Another drawback of Hollow subjugation the lack of feedback.
No matter, he could finish the thought later.
His primary objective now was to save the "Huntress," as the bandit had called the girl.
Secondary was killing the collaborator, but his escape was a lower priority compared to rescuing an informed and motivated warrior, whose group had been targeted for elimination by a personal team of executioners, with no regard for collateral damage to the caravan or their own potential losses.
The third priority was to remain whole and unharmed, without inconvenient and painful injuries that could set back his progress in mastering this body significantly.
"Right. The bastard picked up someone else's spear; his own cutlass with the overly thick hilt is on his belt, he can't draw it quickly. The spear is in his dominant hand. There won't be a better chance. The energy level in the spell should be sufficient, so… Now!"
"Hadō #12: Fushibi! Hadō #11: Tsuzuri Raiden!"
Simultaneously incantating two spells, even low-level ones, nearly boiled his brains. Fortunately, his Zanpakutō shouldered part of the formula, and the group of attackers had been gracious enough not to interrupt the casting of such a complex construct with a word, an action, or even a clear intention.
An orange, flesh-like substance, unsettlingly reminiscent of a spiderweb, materialized from nowhere, hanging suspended in the air. It instantly adhered to all the Hollows and their human shepherd.
Only the farthest scorpion, which twitched at the last moment, and the wounded Huntress, whom the web deliberately avoided, were spared.
"What the…"
The desert man didn't get to finish. The second part followed the first. Tsuzuri Raiden, a yellow lightning bolt, instantly passed through the orange web, absorbing the energy stored within it. And it struck everyone who had been caught in the sticky mess of the sole binding technique in Hadō, the Way of Destruction.
The explosion seemed to Seki the loudest of the entire battle, and the ensuing cloud of sand drastically obscured the view for all participants.
The experienced Shinigami harbored no illusions: the strange defensive technique of the locals, based on expending internal Reiryoku, could very well allow one to survive this far-from-powerful attack.
If he had used Hadō #31, Shakkahō, there would have been at least a small hope for a decisive blast: amplified by the energetic flesh of the Fushibi web, it might have concussed the enemy enough for a finishing blow to be an easy task.
But Okumura definitely lacked the strength, control, and time to incant Shakkahō simultaneously with Fushibi. He had to settle for Tsuzuri Raiden, which was more effective for this combination but far less powerful.
The former Third Officer didn't wait for the sand to settle.
Shunpo propelled the body, unaccustomed to such speeds, forward. His leg almost twisted a couple of times, his shoulder cracked, his toes and heels burned from the extra Reiryoku channeled into his feet trivialities compared to the first "flash step" in this body.
Okumura stepped next to the wounded warrior, shielding her with his own body, his sword held out before him. He wouldn't have time to carry her away from the battlefield, nor to strike his opponent he was too far away. But he had bought enough time to…
"Oikakero, Aogari." The tanto in his hand flared with blue fire. The flames crawled up the blade, became a blue glint in his pupils, cast false blue highlights on his black hair, only to then be lost as sparks in the air fouled with sand dust.
Shikai.
The first release of the sword, the mystical power of the soul, unique to every Shinigami. An increase in the volume and power of his Reiryoku by one and a half times, and the ability to utilize his Zanpakutō's ability.
In his case, the effect was spell-like, instead of the more common and straightforward "amplifying" type of Zanpakutō. For the first time, he regretted this: in such a situation, a simple, unadorned "club" would have helped more than the demanding, unpredictable powers of Aogari.
Powers he might not even be able to handle in his current state.
A furious roar from the man coincided with the surge of Reiryoku from his sword release, just as the yellow flashes of Tsuzuri Raiden ceased tearing through the rising sand clouds.
The preemptive strike of the dual spell had destroyed most of the Hollows, giving him enough time to activate his Zanpakutō.
Therefore, when all the sand suddenly settled and his eyes beheld the practically unharmed killer, Okumura only gave an indifferent nod. He expected nothing less from such an opponent.
"Your little trick cost me a fifth of my Aura," the man informed him politely, his mad, unreadable eyes scanning the figure before him with a glassy stare.
Hm. So that's what the locals call their perversion of Reiryoku.
"A pity. I was hoping for more," he replied.
Another Shunpo. A chance to deprive the enemy of his last advantage.
The tanto snapped at the man's fingers. He hissed, dropping the spear useless to him now but as the next strike came, his palm managed to close around his familiar cutlass. The clash of weapons produced a ring and sparks, making both the Zanpakutō and its owner wince.
"You know what happens to little boys who play adult games?"
He made no allowance for the age of his new body. He didn't attempt to capture him for interrogation, refrained from contempt, displayed no arrogance.
Only mild irritation at the extra work, restrained greed when glancing at the unconscious body of the woman he was protecting the unknown bandit showed nothing more.
Those ugly glassy eyes, unpleasantly reminiscent of the gaze of Aizen's little protégé the vile murderer Gin Ichimaru incessantly bore down on the slender, utterly non-threatening figure of the Third Officer, while the careless, jagged cutlass tried again and again to snuff out the life of a child.
The Reiryoku mixed with bodily energy "Aura" granted the enemy a significant speed boost, and the raw power of his blows was simply staggering. A single parried lunge cost him a surprised exclamation from Aogari and a dislocated left wrist, which he had used to brace the hilt at the last moment. A second time, the opponent would easily break through any block.
Another lunge, the rustle of desert cloth, the black top hat scraping against hair invisible to the eye, viscous, dirty-red droplets flying from the cutlass, staining the Shinigami's uniform with sloppy dots.
Seki managed in the last second.
The hilt of his Zanpakutō slid along the enemy's blade. Just barely, just enough to deflect the edge. Over a century of combat experience allowed him to predict the attacks of wielders of almost any weapon without much difficulty. With that much service, one needn't be a genius to deduce the tactical patterns for different tools of murder.
It was just that this new vessel couldn't keep up with his thoughts, his reflexes, or even part of his conscious motor impulses.
Everything was lagging intolerably: his arms rose too slowly, his palms sweated, his fingers lacked sufficient flexibility, and the foolish, seemingly necessary breathing of this body grew ragged so quickly that Okumura himself was even starting to adapt to this new, uneven, staccato rhythm of battle.
Dodge, lunge, dodge-dodge, leap back, catch a breath, gather the scattered streams of Reiryoku back into the necessary parts of the body, try to reinforce the internal organs, leap back, lunge, rest, then re-engage…
He couldn't fail to see he was losing the fight.
It was hard to say how strong his opponent was by this new world's standards, but he clearly outclassed the freshly-reborn Gotei 13 operative, who was suffering from a fatal dissonance between soul and body.
Only the wounded leg and energy reserves depleted to a quarter forced the man to be cautious; otherwise, the enemy would have simply overwhelmed the boy with a prolonged series of powerful attacks.
In a battle of endurance, the desert bandit would win ten times out of ten.
"Your Aura… It's not open!!!" The first words spoken in three minutes of silent combat.
Okumura had just disengaged from his opponent, who was now staring at him with genuine astonishment and a host of other, far more unpleasant emotions.
Changing tactics. I can't win a quick victory in close combat. Dragging it out will mean defeat.
"Hai kara teki wo yomigaerasero, Aogari!"
[Revive from the ashes of your enemies, Blue Hunter]
The first and most important ability of his Zanpakutō. The Shinigami could only hope he could manage to use even the weakest part of it.
"What the hell is this sh…"
His enemy didn't waste more time on words he drew a small rifle (a pistol? Seki poorly remembered the weapons from his first life) from under his cloak with his left hand and fired a burst at the small, nimble figure.
A crack announced the use of Shunpo. His muscles screamed silently in pain from the dangerous strain, but there was no other option left.
The Shinigami managed to register the result of the shots out of the corner of his eye and raised his eyebrows in surprise as some of the projectiles… the bullets… bloomed into thick chunks of ice on impact, others exploded, and a third type simply compressed the space upon detonation, as if a patch of dune had been subjected to intense gravity.
"Fast one, you little brat," the first curse he'd heard from the enemy.
Another swing of the cutlass, a new burst aimed at his back. He had to use another Shunpo, this time the last one. He had less than a sixth of his Reiryoku left, and the flash step, aside from consuming vast energy, also placed a serious strain on the body.
A human body, which had never been a problem for the Third Officer before. It was partly why Shinigami were considered the fastest beings in all Three Worlds.
Souls generally had far fewer limitations compared to the living.
Meanwhile, the last living scorpion, with whistles and clicks, scurried towards its new prey. Terribly bad timing, as he was just emerging from the Shunpo, yet neither of Okumura's enemies managed to capitalize on the advantage.
His Shikai had granted him far more possibilities than the enemy could imagine.
"Shō!"
The Destruction spell, cast without an incantation, was much weaker than usual, but it was enough for the enemy scorpion. A not-too-large specimen its modest size had allowed it to avoid the Fushibi net, but those same modest size meant it was easily thrown aside.
"Bakudō #8: Seki!"
A sphere of blue energy materialized at the caster's wrist. A second later, the roar of a weapon reached his ears as the desert killer discarded his empty rifle, turned the cutlass grip towards the Shinigami, and pressed a trigger hidden within the threaded design.
The shot pellets shattered harmlessly against the small sphere, spraying as ricochets in all directions. The second and third shots met the same fate: the Shinigami only needed to position his wrist with the attached technique into the easily readable (for him) line of fire.
Fortunately, the short distance prevented significant spread, and the enhanced rounds flew with greater accuracy than regular shot.
"What in the deathstalker's name are you?!" The traitor closed in for melee again.
Okumura smirked involuntarily. The Bakudō he'd used was his peculiar calling card. A stupid reason: the assonance between his name and the spell's name, even though they were written completely differently. But it had given him the necessary zeal for study.
Though, even the idiots from the 11th Division had one or two favorite Kido, let alone the rest.
The spell finally dissipated after the first blow from the cutlass, but it completely absorbed the opponent's momentum. The man only managed a surprised grunt as his arm was thrown back from the impact with the Kido. Seki instantly thrust his sword into the opening, but the blade's length only allowed for a wide slash across the chest, and even that was absorbed by the enemy's strange Reiryoku.
The damn local version of Hierro. How irritating it is…
He barely managed to evade the counterstrike. The cutlass whistled past his left ear. Aogari hissed in its own counter-attack, biting into the enemy's wrist… And the foreign energy once again absorbed all the damage!
Bang!
A small, utterly non-threatening looking pistol fell from the desert killer's wide sleeve. A single shot from such a tiny thing a weapon not of last resort, but of truly desperate measures and it worked.
Okumura managed to release his Zanpakutō, jerked his shoulder, but failed to get out of the line of fire. A small bullet grazed his wrist, and then the impact of yellow lightning paralyzed his body.
He collapsed onto the sand, a lifeless heap of black rags.
"All I can say is: that was a surprisingly intense fight, kid," the rag-swathed criminal didn't stand on ceremony.
Wounded or helpless an enemy must die. So, with a mocking chuckle, he tossed the pistol back into the depths of his belt pouch and then raised the cutlass over his head.
Can't say I disagree, the emotion of humiliation now surpassed all other feelings in his small body.
The opponent's total dominance, the vision of a stupid death, the shame of his own weakness, his miscalculation, the overconfidence that prevented him from taking out the single human first before dealing with the monsters.
As if I couldn't have killed that pack of Hollows without using Shikai. Seriously, I might not have even needed Kido. And now I lie here like a leaky sack of rice at the feet of a commoner…
"Without control, they would have killed the Huntress," Aogari noted dispassionately.
AUOOOOO
The all-too-familiar sound of a Hollow's roar allowed him to shake off the last of the paralysis.
Seki's opponent flinched. The cutlass landed slightly to the left, so all the Shinigami left on the sand was drool, blood from his nose, and a sleeve severed by a piece of sharpened metal.
"What is it this time, boy? You didn't… Grimm!!!" He stared sharply at the creature ahead.
A tall, powerful-looking monster, taller than an Ursa but not by much, with an extremely detailed mask where red and green lines gave the white porcelain the stylized features of a baboon.
Unlike other Grimm, this menace's body was the color of a fresh piece of chalk, and its outline glowed dully with small tongues of blue flame that ran across its torso like electrical sparks.
The picture was starkly different from the usual ink-black coloration of Remnant's monsters.
And the hole. A huge, unnatural hole in its muscular, ape-like chest.
AUOOOOOO
Okumura Seki allowed himself a sarcastic smirk.