Chapter 4: Drunkard's Fist
Byakuya's cold words echoed in Rukia's mind like a curse at that moment. Staring at Sōran's savage face and the encroaching pack of oni, her grip on her Zanpakutō trembled faintly. She unconsciously took half a step back.
She knew exactly what would happen next. If Sōran attacked Kuroha, she would have a slim window to use Shunpo and escape at full speed. Her squad badge would also send a distress signal, summoning any nearby patrols as quickly as possible. But if she ran, she had roughly a fifty-percent chance of surviving—while the drunken Shiba Kuroha would be dead without question.
Run? Or stay?
Conflicting thoughts raced through her head.
BOOM!
A heavy, sudden footfall rang out. Rukia snapped awake. Her muscles moved on pure instinct. The memory of Kaien Shiba giving his life to save her flashed once more. A bitter, resigned smile touched her lips—along with a strange sense of release. This time, choosing to protect him… maybe she was finally repaying the Shiba Clan with her life.
"You little brat—dare to interfere again?!" Sōran roared. "That last hit already injured you. This one will be twice as strong. Since you're so eager to die, I'll oblige—I'll smash you into paste!"
His right arm—now swollen even thicker, veins bulging like ropes—tensed to the limit. The seven- or eight-meter spiked club swung in a vicious arc, tearing through the air with a chilling whistle that echoed to the sky.
Rukia watched the weapon grow larger in her vision. The bitter smile deepened. Facing imminent death, she simply closed her eyes. There was no fear—just a complicated mix of relief and regret. At least this life… felt like it could finally end.
BOOM!
A thunderous collision rolled outward. The resulting shockwave kicked up clouds of dust and sand, whipping Rukia's hair loose. But the expected pain never came. No shadow of death descended. Instead, a faint scent of sake—warm, oddly calming—drifted into her nose on the wind. It wasn't the usual overpowering reek of a drunkard. This was something different: steadying, almost meditative. It smoothed the frantic edges of her racing heart.
Confused, Rukia opened her eyes.
Burp… "Why… you trying to hit a woman if you want to drink…?" "I do have booze… but… I'm not sharing…" "You ask for booze… or a woman… idiot… obviously booze…"
The slurred, disjointed words spilled from Kuroha's mouth. Seeing the thin figure now standing in front of her, the brief flicker of gratitude in Rukia's chest instantly vanished. Right now she wanted nothing more than to punch him sober herself. (If Kuroha ever realized that even drunk he was still single by sheer strength, he'd probably curse out loud.)
But amid his rambling nonsense, the real focus wasn't on his words. Every eye—Rukia's, Sōran's, the entire pack of oni—stared at Kuroha in stunned disbelief. Some even swallowed hard.
"He… blocked it. With one hand… he stopped an attack that weighs thousands of pounds…" One of the oni blurted out nervously. "Boss Sōran… did you hold back on purpose? Just toying with him?"
The question snapped everyone's nerves taut. The blow that had already sent Rukia reeling—now supposedly twice as powerful—had been casually stopped. It shattered their entire understanding of the situation.
"Yeah… must be my lingering mercy. I went easy. This time I'll turn you into paste for real!"
Sōran jolted back to his senses and roared in fury. Ever since his sudden mutation into an oni, this was the first time he'd felt genuine unease. Instinct screamed that the source of that unease was this scrawny, one-drink-and-done noble brat standing right in front of him.
But the killing intent had barely formed when— —he froze. He couldn't swing. The massive spiked club wouldn't budge.
The reason was simple: Kuroha's pale, slender right hand had clamped onto the weapon like an immovable vise. No matter how hard Sōran pulled, it refused to move even a millimeter.
"Impossible… who the hell are you?!" Sōran panicked and bellowed.
Kuroha slowly lifted his head, barely cracking his drooping eyelids. His bleary, drunken eyes glared. Burp… "You're yelling… disturbing my drinking. And this thing… why does it look like pickled radish…?"
Rukia went blank again. She couldn't even process how he'd connected a spiked club to pickled radish. Was this the true charm of drunkenness?
But before the absurd thought could fully form, the next scene made her pupils contract sharply.
CRACK!
Kuroha's five fingers suddenly clenched. The giant spiked club shattered like dry paper. Fragments exploded outward, raining down on Sōran and Kuroha like hail on banana leaves. The faint sting made Kuroha pause mid-drink. A flicker of anger flashed through his hazy eyes. "You… you attacked me… trying to steal my booze?"
"I'm gonna teach you a lesson!"
Insane. Rukia, the oni pack—especially Sōran—were all speechless. He really had intended to smash Kuroha to death, but his strength simply wasn't enough anymore! Now the kid had crushed the club like a vegetable and was blaming him for it. Sōran absolutely refused to take the fall for this one.
Because he finally understood: This noble was no ordinary man. They'd kicked an iron plate this time.
"Quick—everyone, tear this drunk apart together! We've got dozens of us—he can't beat all of us!"
Sōran roared, desperately clinging to numbers for courage.
Rukia snapped back to reality. She tightened her grip on her Zanpakutō, ready to join the fight.
But Kuroha casually took another swig, swayed forward unsteadily, and appeared in front of one charging oni before she could move. This particular oni stood five meters tall—second only to Sōran in size. It had lunged forward to show off as the second-in-command.
The oni saw the slender, sake-scented fist coming—like a soft punch from a child. It swung its own millstone-sized fist in a brutal counter, confident that sheer size difference would crush the "kid" in one hit.