"In my name—Fuin (Sealing)!"
"All contaminated heroic spirits, temporarily return to the hall!"
The instant the order was given, Shinju proactively detonated the link between himself and those heroic spirits.
Agonizing pain tore through his body.
A mouthful of scorching blood erupted from his lips, splattering onto the ground before him and dyeing it red.
His vision flooded with crimson, the world spinning violently.
His knees went weak—he nearly collapsed to the ground.
Only by forcing himself with everything he had did he barely remain standing.
He was no longer the all-powerful master of the Hall of Heroic Spirits.
At this moment, he was simply someone who had suffered a devastating blow.
Before the pain could fully swallow his consciousness, he mobilized the last remaining source chakra of his Uzumaki Sage Body.
Golden energy surged out of him.
It wasn't used to attack, and it wasn't used to defend.
Instead, it rapidly formed a complex golden barrier in front of him.
At the barrier's core were the soul imprints he had forcibly stripped out—belonging to Sakumo, Yahiko, Rin, and the others.
He had to use his most fundamental power to build them a temporary shelter, cutting off the virus's continued erosion.
This was the only compensation he could offer them.
The moment the purification barrier was completed, Shinju's body shook violently again.
On the battlefield, the massive projection of the Hall of Heroic Spirits began to contract at a terrifying speed.
The grand divine palace that had once covered the sky collapsed by more than ninety percent within a few breaths.
Countless halls turned into motes of light and dispersed, leaving only the most central core—a faintly glowing phantom of a shrine—hanging alone in the air, fragile and pitiful.
Sakumo, Yahiko, Rin, and the others… vanished.
Almost all heroic spirits were erased from the battlefield at the same instant—forcibly recalled and sealed into that trembling core shrine.
The once-crowded battlefield became empty in a heartbeat.
The only ones still by his side were just a handful:
Minato.
Hashirama.
Tobirama.
Madara.
These were the core heroic spirits—the strongest, the most steadfast—those who had not yet been deeply corroded by the virus.
Aizen had been watching in silence the entire time.
He watched Shinju give the order, watched him cough blood, watched his aura plummet like a cliff.
The smile on Aizen's face became unmistakably clear the moment Shinju spat out that blood.
The moment he had been waiting for… had arrived.
This man who called himself a god had finally fallen from the clouds.
He had severed his own wings, retracted his claws, and exposed his most vulnerable side to his enemy.
Foolish…
And yet, what a tragic decision.
"So… even gods bleed."
Aizen's voice sounded softly, laced with amused mockery.
He moved—unhurriedly walking toward Shinju.
Behind him, the Arrancar legion advanced as well, pressing forward with him.
Minato stepped in front of Shinju immediately.
His expression had never been so heavy. He gripped his Flying Thunder God kunai until his fingers tightened white.
He could feel the ragged breathing and weakened life force behind him—his son's.
Hashirama and Madara flanked Shinju on left and right, shielding him in the middle.
Hashirama's warmth vanished—his face was all vigilance.
Madara's eyes had already become Eternal Mangekyo Sharingan, his icy gaze locked tightly onto Aizen.
The power surging from the two of them formed an invisible bulwark, resisting Aizen's oppressive presence.
Tobirama stood on the flank, hands already set in seals, ready to unleash space-time ninjutsu at any moment.
They all understood: the battle ahead would be the hardest—and the most dangerous—since they arrived in this world.
They were no longer guarding an invincible god.
They were guarding someone crippled—someone they would have to protect with their lives.
Shinju raised his head and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.
His gaze passed over Minato and Hashirama's shoulders, meeting Aizen's bottomless eyes.
Shinju knew he couldn't fall yet.
If he fell, everything would end.
He had lost the link to most of his heroic spirits. His power had dropped drastically.
Aizen stopped at a safe distance.
One side weakened—one side strengthened.
Now, the balance of power had started tilting toward Aizen.
Rush in and kill him directly?
No. That was too crude.
That was the fighting style of someone like Barraggan.
The fall of a god was worth far more than mere physical death.
His collapse should become a monument—foundation stone of a new order.
Aizen quietly felt the emotions spreading across the battlefield.
The weaker Arrancar were trembling.
They had witnessed Shinju's power—and now they had seen the "god" spit blood.
The strong among the Espada were stirring.
The nobles among the Shinigami were used to the old order.
Yamamoto's authority had always kept them in check.
But now, a stronger existence had appeared—and then rapidly weakened.
These emotions…
Were the best kindling.
The Hogyoku within Aizen began resonating with those emotions.
He didn't need any complex movements.
He only needed a single thought—
Ignite the fuel.
The Hogyoku's power expanded silently.
Like a catalyst, it seeped into the deepest part of everyone's heart on the battlefield.
Fear was amplified into despair.
Greed was amplified into ambition.
Resentment was amplified into rebellion.
Barraggan's gaze nailed itself onto Shinju in the distance.
He had truly been intimidated earlier.
A Hall of Heroic Spirits spanning the sky had made him feel a long-forgotten helplessness.
He had once been the King of Hueco Mundo—death itself.
He had never imagined he could be suppressed so thoroughly.
But now…
The god had bled.
The god… actually needed his subordinates to protect him.
Was an injured god still a god?
Barraggan tightened his grip on his scepter.
The aura of aging swirled around him, now tinged with aggression.
He looked at Aizen's back—and something in his eyes changed.
Aizen was strong, but he relied too much on schemes.
A true king should crush everything with absolute power.
Once he sat on that throne, even Aizen would have to bow.
Szayelaporro's breathing grew rapid.
He stared only at the Hall of Heroic Spirits—still praising it as a beautiful creation.
An independent realm, built through spiritual rules.
Even if it looked broken now—energy leaking, structure extremely unstable—
That imperfection only made it more valuable for research.
Countless research questions exploded in Szayelaporro's mind.
What was the composition principle of this "Hall of Heroic Spirits"?
How did it link so many powerful souls?
How did it grant those souls power?
As the core, what kind of energy circulation existed between Shinju's body and chakra—and this divine kingdom?
And he had actually severed the link himself.
Stupid! Brutal! Savage!
A blasphemy against a perfect creation!
Szayelaporro's body trembled with excitement.
He had to obtain that shrine.
Obtain Shinju's body.
Dissect it completely, find its flaws, then use his own knowledge and technology to perfect it.
By then, he would no longer be a mere imitator of creation—
He would be a true creator.
What Aizen sought was merely a throne in the heavens.
But he…
He would become the being who created "heaven" itself.
Aizen felt the change in the gazes behind him.
Barraggan's ambition.
Szayelaporro's fanaticism.
And the other Espada—each with their own desires—
All had been catalyzed to the peak.
The timing…
Was ripe.
He stepped forward and spread both arms.
"Everyone… do you see it?"
Aizen's eyes swept across every Arrancar, and then across the Shinigami harboring hidden agendas.
"That so-called god—was never flawless."
He pointed at Shinju, who was being protected by Minato and the others.
"The order he established is a lie built on fear. He used absolute power to make you submit—made you forget your own desires."
"Now… he has weakened."
"This is the only chance to break the shackles and build a world truly ruled by ourselves!"
No coercion.
No command.
He simply said what every ambitious person most wanted to hear.
Barraggan was the first to move.
He stepped forward and stood at Aizen's side.
With action, he declared his stance.
Next, Szayelaporro also walked out.
He adjusted his glasses. The lenses reflected the faint light of the shrine phantom.
One by one, the other Espada expressed their position.
Their eyes differed—but their target was shockingly aligned.
On the other side, within the Shinigami camp…
Some noble Shinigami—those who had long resented Yamamoto's iron-fisted rule and craved higher standing—had their eyes shift.
They didn't step out immediately.
But they exchanged glances in the shadows, and their bodies subtly leaned a little closer toward Aizen's direction.
Yamamoto noticed the tiny movements, his brows drawing tight.
A "rebel coalition" against Shinju was being formed—quietly, in the space of a few sentences.
Aizen succeeded.
Without spending a single soldier, he had won the most allies—completely isolating his enemy.
Now, what Shinju had to face was no longer just Aizen and his Arrancar legion.
It was the entire battlefield—every ambitious soul whose desire had been set ablaze.
Even within the Gotei 13, an invisible rift had formed because of those words.
(End of Chapter)
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