The next morning, Momo woke before dawn.
She tiptoed out of the room so as not to disturb her brother.
When she saw two neatly wrapped lunchboxes on the table, her steps slowed.
For a moment, her chest tightened.
She opened the bedroom door just a crack.
"Thank you, big brother…" she whispered.
Sombravida, eyes closed, allowed himself a faint smile before sinking back into stillness.
Two hours later, he rose.
Washed.
Ate the rice ball she had left.
Then headed toward Tōshirō's house.
"Grandma, it's me."
"Tsu-ki-shi-ro? Come in, child."
The old woman was seated near the doorway.
Sombravida removed his eye band once inside.
She smiled knowingly.
"I wondered how long you'd keep that up in front of me."
Sombravida scratched his head sheepishly.
"I'm still not skilled enough."
"My late husband lost his sight," she said gently. "I learned to recognize the way blind men move. You still walk like someone who trusts his eyes."
Sombravida bowed slightly.
"I have… reasons. I need to maintain the disguise."
She nodded.
"You're kind to Momo and Tōshirō. That's enough for me."
He spent the afternoon listening to her stories—about blindness, about survival in Rukongai, about posture, hesitation, micro-reactions.
It was invaluable.
If he was going to deceive someone like Aizen in the future—
There could be no flaws.
By evening, Sombravida returned home with a borrowed handcart.
He planned to explore the forest beyond the district soon—collect soil samples, seeds, perhaps even spiritual herbs.
But when he opened the gate—
Silence.
No cheerful greeting.
He checked the house.
Empty.
A faint unease stirred.
He headed immediately to Tōshirō's home.
Grandma was sitting outside, staring down the road.
"They haven't come back," she said before he asked.
Sombravida's chest tightened.
How long?
"Since afternoon."
He helped her inside.
Then ran.
The stream lay beyond the district's safe boundary.
Sombravida tore off the eye band mid-stride.
His perception spread outward.
Still limited.
Still crude.
But enough.
At the riverbank, he found it—
A dropped sandal.
Small.
Tōshirō's.
Nearby, a woven fish basket lay overturned.
Two fish flopped weakly in the dirt.
Fresh.
Not long abandoned.
Sombravida's gaze hardened.
He followed the footprints.
Two sets at first.
Then—
Irregular gouges.
Deep impressions.
Four-pointed weight distribution.
Not human.
Hollow.
Earlier that afternoon—
Momo and Tōshirō had caught a respectable haul.
They were returning happily when Momo noticed something glowing in the shallows.
A plant.
Slender stalk.
Red fruit.
Radiating faint Reishi.
Tōshirō frowned.
"It might've floated down from upstream."
From Seireitei.
Spiritual plants cultivated by nobles occasionally drifted into Rukongai waterways.
Such plants enriched soil dramatically.
For Rukongai residents—
It was treasure.
Momo's eyes shone.
"If we plant it—"
She stepped into the stream.
The fruit drifted slightly.
Tōshirō's instincts screamed.
The water warped.
Distorted.
"Peach—run!"
Too late.
The "plant" lunged upward.
Water exploded outward.
A massive Hollow burst from the riverbed.
Its body resembled a scaled amphibian.
Four limbs.
Fishlike head.
And a bone mask fused over its upper skull.
The "fruit" had been a fleshy lure extending from its crown.
A trap.
The Hollow's Reiatsu slammed down on them like suffocating pressure.
Momo froze.
Her breath vanished.
Tōshirō grabbed her wrist and ran.
The Hollow gave chase.
On land it was slower—but relentless.
Spirits tire.
Hollows do not.
Soon Momo stumbled.
Fell.
Skin tore.
Blood dotted the sand.
The Hollow's hunger sharpened.
Blood.
Fear.
Reiryoku.
All irresistible.
Tōshirō threw a stone.
No effect.
He lunged with his fishing spear.
The Hollow's tendril whipped outward, knocking him aside.
He hit the ground hard.
The Hollow loomed over Momo.
Maw opening.
Mask gleaming white.
Momo's vision blurred.
"Big brother…"
BOOM.
The Hollow's head slammed sideways.
Forced into the dirt.
A second later—
Sombravida was already atop it.
He had arrived in a blur of motion, using Shunpo-like bursts—crude but explosive footwork born from Hollow combat memory.
In his hand—
A simple watermelon knife.
Not a Zanpakutō.
Not spiritual steel.
But sharpened.
He drove the blade into the seam where mask met skull.
The Hollow shrieked.
Unlike a Shinigami's blade, this would not purify it.
But enough force could shatter structure.
Sombravida twisted.
Hard.
Cracks spread across the mask.
The Hollow thrashed violently.
Sombravida anchored himself.
Compressed Reiryoku surged into his arm.
He wasn't using Hollow devouring—
He was using raw density.
He kicked downward at the fracture point.
CRACK.
The mask split.
The Hollow convulsed.
Without purification energy, its body did not dissolve cleanly.
Instead, it destabilized violently.
Sombravida leapt backward—
Just as the spiritual body ruptured and dispersed into unstable Reishi.
Silence returned to the riverbank.
Sombravida exhaled slowly.
He turned.
Momo was staring at him.
Eyes wide.
Shaking.
"Brother…"
Sombravida knelt beside her.
"Sorry, Momo."
He wiped blood from the knife.
"Sorry I was late."
Behind him, Tōshirō stared in stunned silence.
He had seen Shinigami fight Hollows before.
But never like that.
Not with a kitchen blade.
Not with that level of control.
Sombravida picked up the broken sandal.
His breathing steady.
But inside—
His heart was pounding.
He had just revealed far more than he intended.
And somewhere deep within—
The part of him that had once ruled Hueco Mundo—
Had stirred.
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