"Coordinates west three-six-zero-four, north six-two-seven-three. Detecting an abnormal flow of spiritons."
Outside the nearly collapsed mountainside, the research team worked in tense silence, instruments scanning every fragment of lingering energy, searching out the hidden traces left behind.
"There are Hueco Mundo-type spiriton components present. We can confirm the Black Kishā Hollows originated from Hueco Mundo."
"Residual spiritual pressures on-site belong to Captain Hirako Shinji, the Hollow swarm, the assassins from the rebel faction, and First-Year Spirit Arts Academy student Kisaragi Akira."
"What about that student named Aizen Sōsuke? Did he not engage?"
"Most likely he was shocked speechless by the sudden appearance of the assassins and the Gillian-class Hollow. Probably froze up and couldn't react."
"This incident already exceeds what academy students are supposed to handle. The fact those two aren't dead on the spot is already a miracle."
"We can't expect the Spirit Arts Academy to be full of prodigies."
Similar exchanges rippled through the gathered researchers and squad members as they compared findings and reconstructed the chain of events, trying to uncover the true reason a Gillian-level Hollow appeared inside the Soul Society.
But just as they were drawing closer and closer to the truth—
—the anomaly struck.
The air wavered.
Concentric ripples shimmered across the barren clearing.
Several pitch-black figures—faces, bodies, everything concealed—materialized around the perimeter. With them came a massive Kido barrier, deployed in an instant, engulfing the entire investigation team under a towering half-dome of glowing ghost-script.
"Who's there?!"
The researchers snapped out of their discussions, voices rising in panic.
The Shinigami assigned to protect them instantly shifted into combat stance, blades drawn, points low, spiritual pressure flaring.
"Kill them all."
The voice was low and hoarse—clearly altered, impossible to identify.
At that command, the masked figures unleashed overwhelming spiritual pressure and launched a one-sided massacre.
The Shinigami present here were no rookies—at minimum, lower-seat officer level, some possessing even upper-seat spiritual pressure. But even so, facing elite assassins whose power far outstripped any standard unit—there was no real fight to be had.
In moments, the battlefield dissolved into fresh chaos.
A few Shinigami attempted to break the barrier using Hadō, hoping to transmit a warning to the Seireitei.
But after several attempts, their shoulders slumped, despair washing over their faces.
The attackers had planned ahead.
They had evaluated power levels.
They had eliminated every unpredictable factor.
There was no path to victory.
The only ending left to them… was to die.
Members of Squad Twelve and Squad Two—normally the sharpest and most precise responders in the Gotei—now wore expressions of pure, naked fear. Back-to-back, they tightened their grips on their Zanpakutō, forming a small defensive knot as if huddling together could stave off the inevitable.
The masked figures didn't give them long to hesitate.
A series of dark flashes—
—and several Squad Two officers fell, blades clattering on the bloody ground.
Assigned to protect the research unit, they had fulfilled their duty.Now, the assassins fulfilled theirs—efficient, silent, merciless.
No one spoke. Except for the leader's first command, the masked killers followed the cardinal rule of all villains who live long: the more you talk, the sooner you die.
The scent of blood thickened.
Scarlet filled their vision.
Explosions of crimson Kidō and roaring flames surged and spread, igniting everything in the vicinity and reducing it all to ash.
The assassins' leader watched the carnage with unnerving calm. According to their superior's orders, every trace left at the scene must be erased—completely and without exception.
Everything was proceeding perfectly.
Until—
A hazy, distorted glow—familiar, yet entirely unexpected—appeared at the edge of his vision.
The masked leader's pupils shrank.
"Behind… someone—!"
He failed to finish the warning.
A brilliant arc of sword-light blossomed across the battlefield, followed by the blooming of an even more vivid flower—one made of blood.
He knew that light.
He knew it far too well.
Bakudō #26: Kyokkō.Bending Light. Cloaking. Concealment.
Just moments ago, their team had used Kyokkō to slip unnoticed into the area and ambush the Shinigami.
But the moment they engaged, they had to drop the technique—Kyokkō required stillness, calm, stability. One could not fight while maintaining its concealment.
Yet the newcomer—This mysterious figure now carving through them like paper—
Even while maintaining Kyokkō, they were unleashing incredible combat ability.
Just the simplest, most fundamental Shinigami sword technique—
—but every stroke killed as easily as slicing apart a helpless bird.
Even at the lowest estimate… this was upper-seat officer strength.
More likely—something far, far above that.
"Form the kill net!"
Realizing the disparity in power, the masked leader responded instantly, shouting the new order before the third assassin's corpse hit the ground.
The assassins snapped back to awareness, shifting their positions with Shunpo, encircling the Kyokkō-veiled figure from multiple angles.
Their overlapping spiritual pressures pressed into the air until it felt thick enough to swallow.
"No matter who you are,"the leader rasped, voice like stone scraping sandpaper—unnaturally grating, unnaturally wrong.
"Your fate is the same."
"Die!"
With that roar, they struck from all directions at once—
A spray of blood burst into the air.
Through the slits of his oni-mask, the leader saw one of his comrades freeze in shock, disbelief twisting his expression.
A split second later came the searing agony in his own chest.
Impossible!
As life drained from him, he caught a clear glimpse—the true face hidden under Kyokkō.
Calm brown eyes.
Deep and still as an unmoving lake.
Not the slightest ripple of emotion.
As if all this meant nothing.As if killing them was no more troublesome than brushing dust from a sleeve.
He tried to warn the others.
But his throat filled only with bubbling blood, no sound escaping.
"Rise and tear the wind, Kamaitachi!"
Seeing the kill-net fail, the leader released his Zanpakutō without hesitation. Blinding white light burst from the blade.
Once the glow faded, the standard katana had transformed into a curved, wickedly sharp wind-scythe.
He swung downward, unleashing a storm of slicing wind.
The shrieking gale howled forward, countless razor-thin blades hidden within it—anyone caught inside would be shredded into scattered chunks of flesh.
The cloaked figure did not move.
Not until the wind touched striking range—
—when their left hand lifted slightly.
A single finger extended.
"Hadō #63: Raikōhō."
The assassin leader's pupils constricted—
The screaming wind abruptly ceased—
—replaced by a blinding eruption of golden lightning.
A thunderclap like the splitting of the heavens detonated.
Twisted arcs of blinding electricity tore skyward, igniting the battlefield in unbearable, scorching radiance. The faces of the remaining assassins froze in expressions of utter shock.
And then—
The lightning condensed into a massive pillar, crashing forward with unstoppable force—
—obliterating everything in its path.