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The violent clash endured far longer than expected—first a contest of raw strength, then a duel of sheer will.
Kenpachi Zaraki, never one to heed the state of his own body, had ignored his worsening wounds. Blood seeped endlessly from the gash across his side, sapping his stamina with every passing second.
As the last flare of light finally dimmed, Kenpachi crashed to the ground in a thunderous impact, sending another wave of dust spiraling into the air.
Moyu's own condition was hardly enviable. His Siba-style battle garb hung in tatters, shredded by the constant strain of channeled Reiatsu. Without that spiritual reinforcement, its defensive properties were all but gone. Against Kenpachi, relying solely on swordsmanship without that buffer was an act of reckless defiance—and surviving it at all was, in its own way, a small miracle.
Kenpachi lay sprawled on his back, staring up at the open sky. The exhilaration in his eyes refused to fade, lingering like the aftershocks of a quake.
"Little sword, sword!"
At some point during the fight, Kusajishi Yachiru had bounded over, her small frame radiating barely contained energy. She beamed down at her captain, cheeks flushed with glee.
"Did you enjoy that one?"
Kenpachi rolled his head to the side, catching sight of Moyu's ragged form. He let out a low, dismissive grunt.
"Ohh… so-so."
With that, he shut his eyes again, letting the memories of the clash replay in his mind. By the strictest measure, neither man had claimed victory—a fact that left Kenpachi faintly dissatisfied.
Moyu, however, paid no mind to his opponent's thoughts. His attention was inward, fixed on the subtle shifts within his own blade work.
Your kendo has greatly advanced through your battle with Kenpachi Zaraki. You have comprehended the state of ultimate sword pressure.
Because you did not defeat Kenpachi Zaraki, you feel yourself lacking. Out of that guilt, you have set a towering goal—kill Kenpachi Zaraki.
Moyu nearly choked on his own breath.
The system's setting goals for me now?
And not just any goal—kill Kenpachi Zaraki?
A wave of embarrassment washed over him. Perhaps being a slacker for so long had dulled his instincts. He hadn't always been this way; once, he'd fought tooth and nail without hesitation.
That restless spark began to stir again.
Jade appeared without ceremony, kneeling beside the downed Kenpachi and releasing Kaidō into the wound she had inflicted earlier. Deep lacerations that had carved to the bone knit themselves closed with unnatural speed under the healing kido's glow.
Kenpachi barely spared her a glance. For him, healing was merely a prelude to the next battle.
"Thanks, Mo!" Yachiru chirped.
"You're welcome." Moyu reached out, ruffling her pink hair. The warmth of her smile felt oddly different, though he couldn't quite name why.
The gain of ultimate sword pressure had pushed his strength another step higher, but his next leap forward would require facing more captains.
The clash between him and Kenpachi had, naturally, drawn Seireitei's notice. Yet, since neither combatant had caused structural damage within the Court Guard walls, Head Captain Yamamoto had limited his response to a verbal warning—one that never even reached Moyu's ears.
For now, Moyu was occupied elsewhere.
—
Second Division Headquarters, Stealth Force Training Grounds
The facility was a labyrinth of traps—kido wards, concentrated sword-pressure slashes, and volatile spirit-device detonations. Two figures, each radiating pale light, darted through the hazards, meeting again and again in bursts of explosive impact.
Minutes later, the light faded. Suì-Fēng stood, breathing heavily, a flicker of frustration in her eyes.
"I didn't expect you to grasp Shunkō so quickly," she admitted, her voice tight.
Moyu approached shirtless, rolling his shoulders with an easy smile. "Shunkō is just kido condensed to its extreme. Once you've mastered Hadō, the rest is refinement. Though… your stealth-force battle garb isn't exactly suited to me."
In truth, Shihōin Yoruichi's original Shunkō attire had been designed without fabric over the back and shoulders for freedom of movement—a fact Suì-Fēng seemed unaware of, believing Shunkō to be her own original technique.
Seeing Moyu close the distance, Suì-Fēng's cheeks warmed faintly under the shifting light. He paused mid-step, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
He opened his mouth to speak—
"Captain, assassination list—"
"Out!" she snapped, temper shattering the moment like glass. She very nearly unleashed Jakuhō Raikōben then and there.
The interruption reminded Moyu exactly where they were: the heart of the Second Division's covert training base, no doubt watched over by hidden guards.
"Ahem. Thanks for sparring," he said lightly.
"It's just an even trade," she replied, regaining her composure. "Your Hakuda is… very strong."
She clearly wasn't used to offering praise, but Moyu let it pass without comment. He reached out, gently pressing his palm to her hair.
"In any case, thank you for your company."
Suì-Fēng froze, stiff as if her joints had rusted. Before she could answer, he was already walking away.
Biting her lip, she watched him go, an unfamiliar complexity in her gaze. In her mind, the image of Shihōin Yoruichi grew dimmer—blurred, then gradually replaced by another.
Your Hakuda defeated Suì-Fēng. Your mood improves. Training efficiency doubled. Shunkō output increased by 150%.
Moyu barely noted the upgrade. The real issue was the technique's side effect—Shunkō always destroyed his clothing upon activation. If he could alter its release point, he might shape it into something that suited him better.
Outside, the Seireitei sky stretched cloudless and bright. He looked up, already planning the next stage of training. Every step now was preparation for the coming shift in the world.
—
Karakura Town, Early Morning
Moonlight pooled like liquid silver across the rooftops. Abarai Renji leapt from building to building, movements honed from a decade stationed in the Living World. Moyu's words had long since burned away his initial doubts.
Ten years of patrols had sharpened him through countless battles, many fought on the knife's edge between life and death. A certain enigmatic shopkeeper had also taken an interest, though in ways Renji still didn't fully understand.
The result was a gap in strength so vast it filled him with quiet pride.
"In a few months, I'll file to return to Soul Society," he muttered, adjusting the goggles on his forehead. A grin spread across his face. "When I do… Moyu's gonna be shocked."
The messenger device in his uniform blared. Renji flicked it open—multiple urgent alerts flashing across the screen.
"Menos Grande again? They've been showing up a lot lately…"
After the recent upheavals, their appearances in the Living World were no surprise. Gillian-class Hollows weren't much trouble for shinigami of his level anymore—more like roaming beasts that offered training experience.
"Well then," Renji said, pulling the goggles down over his eyes, his voice taking on a serious edge. "Guess I'm working overtime."
With a burst of Shunpo, he vanished, racing toward the reported coordinates. But as he neared the fluctuating Reiatsu, it abruptly vanished—snuffed out like a lamp smashed in the dark.
Renji's eyes narrowed. "I hate this kind of game."
Battle-hardened years had done nothing to dull his temper—if anything, it burned hotter.
"Can't you just stand still and die?"
Using the messenger device's detection mode, he traced the residual energy. The signal pointed straight toward a looming building ahead.
"So you're hiding in there, huh?"
He didn't bother noting the nameplate on the front as he approached—Jiangmu Hospital
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