Kuryashiki Kenpachi remained where he stood, unmoving.
He looked down at the young man sprawled across the ground, then lifted his hand to glance at the blade still gripped in his fingers. Down again. Then up. He repeated the motion three or four more times, his expression shifting from initial shock to blank confusion… and finally, a subtle trace of disappointment.
That was it?
The one who had sent chills up his spine, made every cell in his body tremble with anticipation, who he'd thought — finally — would give him a real fight… had gone down in a single swing?
His grip on the hilt slackened slightly.
That last bead of blood hanging from the sword's tip finally fell, landing with a soft thup in the dust, leaving behind a dark stain no bigger than a fingernail.
"Captain." Ashido's voice snapped him from his daze. "Told you. That guy wasn't strong."
Ashido had already moved over to the collapsed young man. He crouched, carefully rolling the body over.
The wound was brutal — a deep gash slashed from beneath the collarbone down to the side of the ribs. Flesh torn open, muscle exposed, blood still seeping steadily.
Ashido frowned and raised his hands, a soft green glow blooming in both palms.
He hovered his hands above the wound, Reiryoku flowing gently.
"My Kaidō's nothing special. I can stop the bleeding, at least."
He spoke while working, voice tinged with resignation. "We really shouldn't be the ones to kill these so-called 'Big Bads.' Otherwise, the higher-ups will find some excuse to ship us off on an all-expenses-paid tour of Hueco Mundo."
There was obvious distaste in his tone. He didn't enjoy those kinds of "trips."
In truth, Ashido felt relieved.
Apparently, his instincts had been right. This young man wasn't some hidden monster — just a bit more vicious than the usual psychos, but ultimately no different. Reiatsu didn't lie.
As Shinigami — and more specifically, as members of the Gotei 13 — there was an unspoken but critical rule they followed.
You don't casually kill the residents of Rukongai.
Especially not those "Big Bads" who, in chaotic regions like this, served as twisted stabilizers of the local order.
Why? Ashido knew. Many lower-ranked squad members or even some lieutenants had no clue, but as the Eleventh Division's vice-captain, he was qualified to know the truth.
Too many unnatural soul deaths could break the balance.
To maintain equilibrium between Soul Society, the Human World, and Hueco Mundo, any sharp spike in soul death rates could prompt Central 46 to issue a directive — dispatching the Gotei 13 to enter Hueco Mundo for what they euphemistically called "population adjustment."
In plain terms: go kill Hollows to make up the deficit.
In places like Zaraki, a strong enough tyrant actually brought stability. He could suppress the other violent types and keep chaos from spreading further.
He could die — but preferably at the hands of another tyrant. Not a Shinigami.
Because once the so-called "strongest" was suddenly taken down by an outsider, what do you think all the power-hungry Number Twos and Threes would do?
They'd pounce. Instantly. Fighting to seize the vacuum. A new, bloodier turf war would erupt — far worse than before. Rukongai would be soaked in the blood of its own residents.
That's why Shinigami had to be especially cautious in the higher-numbered districts.
Unless attacked directly and significantly threatened, or unless the target had a confirmed criminal record, the rule was clear:
Subdue, don't kill.
The green glow dimmed in Ashido's palms.
The wound hadn't closed, but the bleeding had mostly stopped, reduced to a slow ooze. The man's life was no longer in danger — whether he'd suffer permanent damage or lose power down the line wasn't Ashido's concern.
He stood, dusting off his hands, and turned toward his still-distracted captain.
"Let's go, Captain. Looks like this trip was a bust — no real gains."
Kuryashiki gave the unconscious young man one last long look. His expression was difficult to read: disappointment, confusion… and something else, a vague discomfort that clung to him like a splinter under the skin.
He didn't say anything. Just sighed deeply and sheathed his Zanpakutō with a click, turning to leave.
Ashido walked beside him, quietly noting the droop in his captain's shoulders — the lack of spark in his usual energetic stride.
He understood perfectly.
Kuryashiki Kenpachi. Captain of the Eleventh. The leader of the most battle-hungry division in the Gotei 13.
The name "Kenpachi" itself — a title passed down since ancient times — meant "Sword Demon," or simply, the best with a blade.
Among Shinigami, it stood for one thing: the strongest in battle.
Normally, Kuryashiki was cheerful, loud, a reliable older-brother figure. He'd help anyone in his squad with a grin, never acting above them.
But Ashido knew — that was only a part of him.
Just look at his Zanpakutō.
Or the terrifying Bankai he possessed — Gagaku Kairō, so devastating that Central 46 had forbidden its use within Soul Society.
A Bankai that devoured everything, leaving only destruction.
Someone with a power like that… what kind of hunger must be lurking in their soul?
Their captain craved worthy opponents. Craved battles that could truly challenge him.
That craving might have even surpassed the kindness he showed on the surface.
And today — that craving had been yanked up, dangled before him…
Only to be dashed to pieces.
The greater the hope, the harder the fall.
They walked in silence for a long while. Finally, Ashido broke it:
"Captain. When we get back… want to swing by Squad Four?"
"Hm?" Kuryashiki looked distracted. "Why go to Squad Four? I'm not hurt."
He patted his stomach. That rusted knife earlier hadn't even pierced his Shihakushō.
"It's not for injuries," Ashido clarified, tone serious. "I mean a routine checkup."
"…A checkup?" Kuryashiki raised an eyebrow.
"Maybe…" Ashido spoke gently, but firmly. "You've been craving battle so much, it's caused a mismatch between your instincts and your perception. Something subtle you haven't noticed yet. A scan might bring you peace of mind."
The wording was polite, but the meaning was clear:
You misjudged that guy's strength. Badly. And you've never made that kind of mistake before.
Kuryashiki slowed, scratching his short hair, a frown creasing his face.
"…Really? I've felt great lately. Eating well, sleeping fine."
"But the misjudgment did happen," Ashido pressed. His voice took on the proper weight of a vice-captain's duty. "And that's something that just doesn't happen to you. There's no harm in being cautious."
Kuryashiki looked at Ashido's serious expression… then back at the memory of that frustrating moment earlier.
And just like that, his self-assurance wavered.
Was something off? Was his perception warped? Had his intuition dulled from lack of challenge?
"…Fine." He gave in at last. "Guess there's no harm."
"Let's go see Captain Unohana. A checkup wouldn't hurt."
They said no more.
Both figures picked up speed — flickering into blurs of motion as they vanished from the desolate streets of Zaraki, headed back toward Seireitei.
Not long after their departure…
From the shadows of shattered buildings lining the central plaza — from cracks in the ruined walls — a dozen eyes slowly emerged.
They stared hungrily at the blood-soaked figure lying unconscious in the clearing.
There was no sympathy in those gazes.
No concern.
Only the most primal desires: greed, brutality… and patient opportunism.
Among them was the frail man Kuryashiki had flung away like garbage earlier.
He licked his cracked lips, a guttural sound rumbling from his throat.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
A glance. A flicker. A breathless exchange of looks.
Then—
One. Two. Three… a dozen figures emerged silently from their hiding spots.
They moved.