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The battle's reversal crushed Szayelaporro into despair. He had believed that by regaining and surpassing his former peak, he could overwhelm Moyu in raw strength. Yet the reality before him plunged him to the bottom of the abyss with no path back.
"Quantity, in the face of absolute strength, means nothing… unless the quantitative change reaches the threshold of qualitative change." Moyu's blade angled downward, blackness bleeding from the hilt across the steel like a slow, inevitable tide. "Sorry, Szayelaporro. Your so-called pregnancy notifications haven't reached that level."
The words struck at the Espada's brittle pride. His head snapped up, eyes wild. "An existence like you can't understand true perfection. Qualitative change is only real when one achieves true immortality. It is not about transcending death—it is about folding death into the cycle of life itself. Only by endlessly revolving between death and rebirth can life be called perfect!" His voice rose, posture trembling with barely contained hysteria. "In me there is no end of death. Even if you kill me, I will resurrect elsewhere. You can't kill me—so you can never win."
But Moyu's expression remained calm from the beginning. He knew Szayelaporro's ability well. After devouring his brother Ilforte Grantz, the former Adjuchas had ascended again to the Vasto Lorde realm. According to his own words, Ilforte's body had been prepared for that very purpose, leaving him stronger now than when he had been the zeroth Espada. Against another opponent, thirty simultaneous Gran Rey Cero would have obliterated them instantly. His growth in power was undeniable, and his abilities—especially that parasitic rebirth—had likely strengthened as well. At his current level, even the smallest host might suffice to resurrect him, a survival trick surpassing even Kurotsuchi Mayuri's contingencies.
"Although I can't erase you entirely…" Moyu's Zanpakutō lifted, black wind swirling along the blade with the scent of annihilation. "No matter how much rubbish piles up, it's still rubbish. Your perfect life is just a troublesome insect. Crushing it twice is no different from crushing it once."
Szayelaporro's eyes flared wide. "Arrogant fool, as long as I don't—"
He never finished. Lan Yin's edge fell with a gale that split the air. The wind blade tore through space, through the so-called perfect life he cherished. A sound like cloth tearing whispered across the desert as a crimson line opened from his brow to his abdomen. Black wind roared from the wound, unraveling him into countless particles that scattered into Hueco Mundo's eternal night.
Espada No. 5, Szayelaporro Granz—dead.
Moyu watched the dispersing motes without change in expression. His purpose here was far from complete. This was only the beginning.
Across the battlefield, Nelliel and Harribel clashed in a deadlock. Neither could overwhelm the other quickly, their power too closely matched. To Moyu's eye, it was a worthy fight—far more satisfying than that gaudy pineapple Nnoitra. Harribel's voice rang sharp across the dunes as she swung Tiburón, the shark-cheeked greatsword spitting a flood of superheated steam that twisted the air into a mirage. "Scorching Sea Current!" The boiling torrent coiled into a dragon's shape, lunging to swallow Nelliel whole.
Nelliel didn't flinch. Gripping her twin-headed spear, the Antelope Knight charged headlong into the attack. The impact detonated the sand beneath them, collapsing the surface into a crater kilometers wide that still grew with every breath. If such a clash took place in the living world, a city would be leveled in an instant—and this was only a single exchange.
"Broken Waterfall!" Missing her mark, Harribel followed with another strike. From the gill slits on her neck markings, a cascade of water erupted, blotting out the sun as it condensed into a titanic column and crashed toward Nelliel. The impact left craters scattered like scars across the desert, but Moyu, seeing Nelliel holding the advantage, made no move to interfere. She was no decorative vase nor a pet; allowing her to test herself against an equal was as much for her spirit as her strength.
Elsewhere, the fight between Ishida Sōken and Yammy Llargo had tilted. Sōken's strength approached captain-class—perhaps equal in some measures. In his youth, when his grandson Uryū was still powerless, he had worn the Sanrei Glove and struck down Mayuri's Bankai; his current state was far beyond that. But such power came with limits. When the time expired, Sōken would be left unable to draw on Quincy abilities at all.
Yammy sensed this weakness. His anger grew with each retreat until, bellowing, he released into Resurrección, his wounds vanishing as if they'd never been. Sōken's efforts were wiped away in an instant, and the battle's difficulty multiplied. In his monstrous form, towering tens of meters, Yammy's offense and defense swelled enormously—though his speed slowed further, making him a perfect target for Sōken's relentless arrows. Bolts of Licht Regen raked his hide like a storm, each one feeding his fury and thus his power.
"Damn old insect, you can't kill me!" Yammy's roar shook the air, its force enough to make weaker hearts falter. Moyu's interest sharpened; Yammy's ability to grow stronger with rage meant his upper limit might not exist.
Sweat beaded Sōken's face. Even with the Sanrei Glove pushing his control to its pinnacle, he could not finish the fight. A quiet resignation touched his eyes. I am still old after all.
"Since my current power cannot defeat you…" Determination hardened his features. "Then I will take on a stronger form." Without hesitation, he tore the Sanrei Glove from his hand.
Reiatsu erupted—pure Quincy power at its zenith—shattering the clouds and sweeping Hueco Mundo's winds aside. Even the duel between Harribel and Nelliel paused at the sight of that blinding blue pillar.
"The ultimate art of the Quincy," Moyu murmured. "Absorbing and dismantling spiritual particles, forcibly making them your own. Not mere reishi control… this is spirit particle dominion."
The surging energy drew all nearby reishi into Sōken's frame, manifesting as vast wings of light at his back. His aging body could no longer sustain its peak through normal means, so he invoked a high-order technique meant for masters whose bodies had withered but whose will remained. By binding spiritual threads into his flesh, he forced his limbs to move like a puppet, allowing battle until his body turned entirely to dust.
His joints cracked as he adapted to the form. Then he raised his bow, light blossoming along its curve until space itself warped before the arrowhead. "Big man… the battle ends here."
Fear finally edged into Yammy's bloodshot eyes. "The winner will be me!" he roared, crossing his massive arms before him as the arrow launched. It struck like the judgment of the heavens, exploding into a beam so vast it split the horizon. The desert buckled and rippled under the blast; sand and the creatures beneath it dissolved into nothing.
Sōken lowered his bow, chest heaving, fingers raw and bleeding. "Mr. Moyu… this old man has fulfilled his duty…" His voice trailed into shock as the dust parted.
Laughter, deep and mocking, rolled from the settling haze. A mountain-sized silhouette staggered forward, each step shaking the desert. Yammy's voice rumbled out, soaked in wrath. "Humble trash. Now you will witness my greatest power—true anger."
The broken titan was healing before their eyes, flesh knitting, bones reforming, muscles swelling beyond their former size. A hundred meters… five hundred… a thousand… fifteen hundred meters. His frame blotted the sky, a horned demon from the depths, fur bristling along his lower body and tail. Rationality burned away in the furnace of his rage until only one instinct remained—kill everything within sight.
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