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"Saito, left flank! Yuta, front right!" Sweat slid from Ishida Munezuru's weathered brow, sinking into the deep grooves of age. The Quincy search party had tracked faint spiritual traces across the desert, hoping to find their missing kin, but as they drew near, the ground split and from the dunes rose dozens of Menos Grande— not just Gillian, but several Adjuchas stalking among them. Even with the combined might of Ishida Munezuru and Kurosaki Masaki, the numbers were overwhelming. The Adjuchas scattered their formation, forcing the Quincies into brutal, desperate skirmishes, and worse still, more Menos emerged by the moment.
Crimson Cero flared through the pale expanse, detonating the white sand in great, smoking plumes, while azure Heilig Pfeile clashed with them midair, shockwaves carving deep craters into the dunes. The battle ground to a stalemate, leaving the others to pin their hopes entirely on Masaki and Munezuru. Masaki—her reiatsu burning at captain-class intensity—moved like a spearpoint through the tide of hollows, her eyes sharp and her steps light, each volley of radiant destruction from her raised hand shattering Menos flesh into fragments of bone. Against Gillian, she could kill in an instant, but Adjuchas with unique abilities shrugged off even her fiercest attacks, forcing her to fire again before they could retaliate. Whenever one fell wounded, another lunged in, devouring nearby Gillian to heal its injuries, their movements making the intent clear—they meant to bury every Quincy here.
Feral howls broke across the dunes, saliva slicking the hollows' teeth, the sight alone enough to freeze the unseasoned in place. A scream cut through the din as one of the Quincies fell lifeless. Masaki's body stiffened, her eyes darkening, the weight of loss pressing against her yet hardening her resolve. "Chaos—Heilig Vernichtung!" Her voice rang sharp above the roars as brilliant light erupted from the bow in her hands, flooding the sky with a color alien to Hueco Mundo before descending like a second heaven to drown the hollow swarm. "This will only hold them! Don't waste it!" she commanded, jolting the others awake. They raised their bows and fired everything they had, the air thickening with arrows that rained death upon the Menos. Impact after impact tore bodies apart, shockwaves ripping the desert open, and in moments the dunes were littered with hollow corpses fading into reishi motes that scattered across Hueco Mundo's winds.
Masaki exhaled, pale and shaking—her last technique had drained a dangerous portion of her reiatsu. She had come to Hueco Mundo at the Ishida family's request, knowing full well the elders had gambled on her power to draw Moyu here under the pretext of shielding their search for the missing pure-blood Quincy. Though she had sworn to keep Soul Society out of it to protect him from danger, she underestimated Shihouin Yoruichi's skill and Urahara Kisuke's precision; within half a day Yoruichi had tracked the Ishidas' movements and Urahara had pinpointed their route through the Garganta, warning Moyu without hesitation.
"Rest, Masaki," Munezuru began, but sharp, mocking laughter sliced through his words. "Well now, does bait need to be strong or not?" A figure stepped forward—Szayel Aporro—his reiatsu crashing outward like a collapsing mountain and suffocating the Quincy warriors where they stood. "The soul of a Quincy… perfect material for research," he murmured with greed gleaming in his eyes. "Shinigami use hollow powers to don masks. Menos evolve into Arrancar by mastering Shinigami techniques. Can Quincy transcend their limits too?" Fear spread like frost across the Quincies' minds.
"Enough, Szayel Aporro." The calm, cold voice belonged to a tall, dark-skinned woman with golden hair braided in three strands down her back, her face hidden beneath her half-jacket and hollow mask save for emotionless green eyes—Tia Harribel, Espada Tres. Szayel's smile thinned. "If I fulfill my orders, can't I take them for experiments? Half of Hueco Mundo's current power is my doing!" Harribel's gaze sharpened; she knew exactly what his 'experiments' entailed—vivisection of the soul, the carving and splicing of spiritual essence—acts even hollows recoiled from. Another voice boomed, deep and eager: "I want half! Quincy souls must taste incredible!" Yammy Llargo, Espada Diez, loomed over them, horned head and beastlike mask giving his grin a savage edge. "Impossible," Szayel hissed. "Not even for you." "You want to taste my fist instead?" Yammy growled, stepping closer.
Masaki had heard enough. She drew her bow to its fullest, manifesting a massive Heilig Pfeil, and the arrow tore the air as its light cut through the crushing reiatsu. "Split." Szayel raised his arm—and it separated, multiplying into a living wall of flesh. Masaki's arrow struck, detonating with such force that it tore the desert into pits and chasms. When the smoke cleared, cracks marred the wall, but Szayel stood unharmed, his arm already regrown. "Excellent," he purred, staring at Masaki with open hunger. "Such a powerful Quincy… I must have you."
He vanished and reappeared before her, hand outstretched for her throat, but her counterstrike came too slow. "Retract your claws." The words cut through the air a breath before a blade's pressure split the sky, twisting the air into warped, dangerous patterns as blue-white wind roared across the sands. In a blink, Szayel's arm was severed. He turned toward the source, fury burning in his gaze, and at the edge of a canyon carved by a single stroke, a figure walked forward step by step until, in an instant, he stood before Masaki.
"Moyu…" she breathed, guilt heavy in her voice. "I'm sorry. I've only dragged you into this. You shouldn't have come." He met her eyes, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Don't. If you hadn't come, you'd spend your life in regret. So would I." Her breath caught and tears welled, slipping down her cheeks. "You've done enough," he said, wiping them away. "Leave the rest to me." Cold killing intent flashed in his gaze as he turned to face the enemy.
Zongxian gave a bitter smile. "Retribution comes, after all. Let this old body serve the Ishidas one last time." Moyu ignored him, stepping forward. "Szayel Aporro, you've changed." "For you," Szayel's voice cracked into a mad grin, "I've paid dearly. Kuchiki Moyu—you've made me wait too long." Granulation burst from his stump, knitting into a new arm in a single breath. He spread both arms and laughed. "See? This is my power."
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