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Szayelaporro Granz—once the zeroth Espada, later the eighth—stood before Moyu. Though Moyu hadn't yet seen the exact tattooed number on his body, the man's rank had clearly risen again; the sheer pressure of his reiatsu rivaled even that of Harribel at his side. Harribel might not have shone in the original events, but as a Vasto Lorde–class Arrancar she could dominate any Adjuchas-level opponent with ease, and had it not been for a series of ill-timed blunders, she would have been counted among the most formidable.
"Shoddy recovery," Moyu remarked without interest. This degree of high-speed regeneration was nothing rare; many Menos Grande could achieve it, and Arrancar born from them often excelled at the technique, though none more than Ulquiorra.
"What?!" Szayelaporro cocked his head, cupping a hand mockingly to his ear, disdain curling his lips. "It seems you, who understand nothing of my abilities, still cling to your prejudice," he said, his smile sharpening. "No matter. Soon, I will show you true despair."
Before his words had fully faded, a figure flashed past. "Damn it, Harribel! What are you doing?!" Szayelaporro snarled, fury twisting his face. "That one is my prey!" Harribel's sonido carried her directly before Moyu, Tiburón raised high, water streaming off the blade as her cold gaze pinned him like a corpse already claimed. "I just want to end this fight quickly."
La Gota—golden reiatsu bloomed along her blade, the slash exploding forward like a cannon shell. She expected panic in Moyu's eyes and found none; his gaze remained still as a calm lake, unshaken by the incoming strike.
"Your opponent is me." The soft voice came from her flank, a single flash of steel carrying massive reiatsu—then release. Dark green light flared against Harribel's vision.
Steel rang, cutting across the desert and silencing all other sound. Blades locked, dust spiraled, and when the haze cleared the sight left the onlookers stunned. "Another Arrancar… a Menos Grande?" "How—how can such an existence be on our side?" "This is too much. Shinigami and Hollow fighting together? It's worse than Shinigami joining Quincies."
Szayelaporro's eyes narrowed in recognition. "Nelliel… you've recovered?!" Nelliel Tu Odelschwanck ignored his words, focusing only on the opponent before her; if helping Moyu required her life, she would pay that price without hesitation.
"Vasto Lorde–class Menos Grande," Harribel murmured. "And you've chosen to side with a Shinigami." Nelliel's muscles tightened as she twisted low and slammed a fist forward. Even Harribel, armored in hierro, was launched hundreds of meters away by the blow. Nelliel's sonido carried her instantly after the Espada, her unreleased Zanpakutō cutting down in a merciless arc.
Their clash drifted across the dunes—two female Vasto Lorde, both bearing the number three, alike in strength yet different in temperament. Moyu wasn't concerned; Nelliel had recovered fully, and after devouring Nnoitra's reiatsu her strength had grown. Even if she couldn't bring Harribel down quickly, she would hold the advantage.
Roars in the distance deepened Szayelaporro's scowl. From the first instant of battle, his side had already lost one combatant; the three-on-one slaughter he expected was nowhere in sight.
"Never mind," a deep voice rumbled. Yammy Llargo cracked his neck, a feral grin splitting his face. "Just a worthless Shinigami. Watch me twist his head off." Like a charging locomotive, Yammy thundered toward Moyu, fist raised like a boulder. The air groaned under the pressure of the blow—until a blazing shaft of reishi split the pale sky.
In an instant, Yammy's massive forearm was pierced through, the force hurling him nearly a kilometer across the sands as the ground split beneath him in long, deep cracks. Moyu turned, mildly surprised, as Ishida Sōken strode forward, eyes steady as steel and wind stirring his white Quincy robes. Moyu's gaze fell to the glove on the elder's hand—white as bone, traced with blue lines of reiatsu—the Sanrei Glove, ancestral treasure of the Quincy and last remnant of their pride. Those who wore it could not form a bow for seven days, forced to refine their control to near perfection, but once donned, it could never be removed; its power would push their spirit energy beyond safe limits, burning them out.
"The final battle for the Ishida family's survival will be fought by this old man," Sōken said gravely as he reached Moyu's side. "Mr. Moyu, I will deal with him. I ask nothing else—only that after this, you leave a shred of hope for my family."
"I understand," Moyu replied quietly. "But that depends on the Ishida family's choices. I only hope no fools squander your goodwill."
Sōken bowed deeply. "Thank you." In the next instant, he sonidoed after Yammy, leaving Moyu and Szayelaporro alone.
The Espada felt unease coil in his chest. That Shikai from before—so close to despair—still haunted him. Even if he was stronger now, the memory clung like a shadow.
"Enough wasting time," Moyu said calmly, raising his arms. "Prepare yourself."
"Hmph. Even one-on-one, I am stronger than you!" Szayelaporro snapped, his body sloughing apart—arms, legs, and chunks of flesh peeling away and regenerating instantly as his grin widened with renewed confidence. "Kuchiki Moyu, you know nothing of my power! Ilforte's years of cultivation have brought me to harvest!" The scattered flesh glowed pink, swelling into human shapes—thirty Szayelaporros, each radiating Vasto Lorde–level reiatsu.
"The battle has only begun!" he laughed, waving his arm. "Tear him apart!"
The duplicates vanished in sonido, their wings blotting the sky above. Far off, the Quincies retreated—they couldn't survive the crossfire, let alone interfere. Purple reiatsu surged across the heavens—Cero Rhapsody—thirty voices overlapping as thirty Cero crashed down, scouring a hundred-meter swath of desert into molten glass. Moyu's presence vanished in the storm.
From afar, Kurosaki Masaki's eyes widened in horror. "Moyu…" She started forward, but the other Quincies restrained her. "That thing is too strong! Even a Shinigami can't—" She ignored them, activating Blut Vene and breaking free of their grasp to run toward the heart of the blast.
But her steps faltered as the sky split open and wind froze mid-current. A single slash tore through the heavens, devouring the Cero's purple light with ink-black darkness. Szayelaporro's grin died, replaced by creeping, familiar terror. The thirty clones froze, then dissolved into dust, scattering on Hueco Mundo's eternal wind.
From the heart of the molten crater, Moyu stepped forth untouched; everything else had been reduced to nothingness. A black pillar of reiatsu roared skyward, drowning the desert in divine pressure. True despair settled over Szayelaporro as his body locked rigid, and he looked at Moyu as one might look upon a god.
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