Chapter 3: One Sip, One Fist
"A little alcohol gives a man courage?""Drinking makes me hit so hard people die?"
Rukia froze, stunned. She had never heard such a bizarre philosophy about drinking. What shocked her even more was how effortlessly Shiba Kuroha had lifted the sake gourd from her waist without her noticing. She might be only a trainee Shinigami, but she was confident her strength far surpassed someone who hadn't even entered the Shin'ō Academy.
"Haha, little brat—you say drinking will make you kill people? Too bad… we're already oni!" Sōran of the Black Thieves grinned savagely. "Today, show me how you kill me after a drink!"
BOOM!
Sōran charged first. Despite his massive frame, he moved with startling agility—like a monkey, leaping seven or eight meters in a single bound. In just a few strides, the gale from his movement forced Rukia's expression to darken. At this range, there was no time to chant Kidō. The dozens of meters closed in the blink of an eye. Worse—Kuroha, the one who'd stolen her sake, was still standing there lazily shaking the gourd, completely oblivious to the enormous spiked club descending toward his head.
The memory of Kaien Shiba sacrificing himself for her flashed through Rukia's mind. Any lingering irritation toward this clueless drunkard vanished. She stepped forward, pushing Shunpo to its limit.
BANG!
A dull collision rang out. Rukia intercepted just in time, planting herself between Kuroha and the club. Her Zanpakutō met the weapon head-on with both hands. The sheer impact felt like being rammed by a rhinoceros—her blood churned violently inside. Her palms throbbed; her slender body staggered back seven or eight steps before she barely stabilized. Pain shot through her wrists. Crimson blood seeped from the torn skin, and her face paled.
Even in his mutated form, Sōran's power was monstrous—easily a thousand pounds per strike. Even a Shinigami skilled in Hakuda would struggle to match that raw force.
"Haha! Didn't expect a little girl like you to block a casual hit from me. But let me remind you—that was only half my strength." Sōran laughed again. The muscles in his right arm ballooned like an inflating sack. Veins bulged like writhing dragons, radiating explosive power. Seeing the arm swell noticeably thicker, Rukia's face drained of color. Her palms were already injured from the first blow. If she took another like this, both hands would be shredded—useless.
Run. The single cold lesson Byakuya Kuchiki had drilled into her surfaced instinctively. The weak only drag others down. She didn't belong on the battlefield. She had no right to stand on it. That was exactly why Byakuya had pulled noble strings to place her in the weakest division—the purification squad—for routine soul cleansing.
Burp "Worth every sip. Smooth, fiery kick—'Sing while drinking, for life is short!' Finally get it: wine is life, life is wine!"
The disjointed muttering rang out at the worst possible moment. Rukia's mind went blank. No— She was about to lose it. In a life-or-death crisis, while she risked everything to protect him, this idiot was still drinking and spouting poetry? Was he even human? Was he even a ghost?
Swallowing her rage, Rukia shouted urgently: "Shiba Kuroha! Why aren't you running? You're still drinking? On the battlefield, even the tiniest mistake drags everyone down and causes irreparable damage!"
The words slipped out before she could stop them. They were Byakuya's exact words—his judgment of her after Kaien's death. Ever since, they had haunted her like a curse, preventing her from facing true combat. Am I too weak… will I get him killed here too? A ridiculous, bitter thought crossed her mind.
Burp "Rukia, you got any peanuts to go with this? Peanuts and booze—the more you drink, the better it gets. You're thoughtful."
Kuroha finished the bottle in one long pull, swaying unsteadily. He had no idea Rukia was glaring daggers at him, teeth gritted. In his mind, a series of ethereal system notifications chimed.
Ding! Congratulations, Host—first taste of fine sake acquired.Unlocked: Extreme Hakuda!
In the world of Shinigami, the four arts were Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Hohō, Kidō—collectively the Shinigami's core skills. Mastery progressed from basic → proficient → exceptional → extreme. Hakuda referred to hand-to-hand combat. If Kuroha weren't already tipsy and light-headed, he'd have been thrilled by the new info. Extreme Hakuda might not rival Kidō, Shunpo, or Zanpakutō in versatility. But at its peak—reaching the level of someone like Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni—a single punch could obliterate an Adjuchas. An Adjuchas was the evolved form of a Gillian-class Menos Grande, second only to the Espada in power—among the elite of Hueco Mundo. One punch to shatter an Adjuchas: that was the pinnacle of raw strength.
"You damn brat—daring to ignore me, standing there drinking and babbling nonsense! I'll kill you first, then the woman!"
Sōran roared in fury. In the past, revealing his oni form had made everyone flee in terror. Even a Shinigami like Rukia had been sent flying by one blow. It had fed his ego as a former soul in Rukongai. But now, his overwhelming power—strong enough to rival Shinigami—was being completely disregarded. To Sōran, that was an insult.
"Boss is right—this scrawny noble can't even take one hit from you." "We'll cripple the arrogant noble first, then torture the female Shinigami right in front of him. Let's see if he stays drunk then!" "…"
The pack of oni closed in, eyes gleaming hungrily. Rukia's expression darkened further. She was a Shinigami—but she couldn't stomach the thought of being toyed with and humiliated by a gang of monsters. That fate was worse than death. Yet facing Sōran, whose arm had visibly thickened with power, she had almost no chance of winning.
She unconsciously took half a step back. Byakuya's voice echoed again in her mind: "A liability's first duty is to learn how to run…"