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The trio led by Kusajishi Yachiru was being pressed to the brink against Aaroniero. To be precise, the fight rested almost entirely on Yachiru's small shoulders; the other two Shinigami hovered on the edges, contributing little more than distraction. The clash was brutal.
Each time Yachiru swung her Zanpakutō, strange little spirits flickered into being around her, ghostly companions imitating her motions in eerie synchronization. Opposite her loomed a grotesque monstrosity with no trace of humanity left, countering her strikes with bizarre, shifting forms.
Moyu studied it quietly, recognizing fragments of the beings Aaroniero had devoured. The massive frame bristled with black fur, four hooved legs grinding against the desert, six arms dangling with grotesque strength, four wings beating gusts into the air.
Former Espada No. 10, Yammy Llargo.
Former Espada No. 8, Szayelaporro Granz.
Former Espada No. 5, Nnoitra Gilga.
All three had fallen to Moyu, yet their physical traits twisted grotesquely across Aaroniero's stolen body. The conclusion was clear—Aizen had claimed their corpses. Perhaps it was Hōgyoku's work, or perhaps he had arranged it long before his betrayal of Soul Society. Whatever the method, the result was monstrous. Even death did not grant release under Aizen's hand.
"Alright, Yachiru," Moyu appeared between them, ending the unfair fight with a single step. His palm pressed gently on her pink head. "You've done enough. Leave the rest to me."
He turned his back on Aaroniero without hesitation, exposing himself completely.
The Espada's twisted heart skipped. He had seen Moyu's earlier battles. He had watched the Reiatsu storms and the merciless executions. Against this man, victory was impossible—survival itself unthinkable. Yet here Moyu stood, back unguarded, opening the faintest sliver of hope.
"Carelessness leads to death!" Aaroniero roared, gathering all six arms, flesh twisting into the shape of a colossal hammer. Reiatsu thundered as he hurled it forward.
A single stroke cut the hammer in half.
The broken limbs fell uselessly to the sand. Aaroniero's eyes widened in disbelief, the pain in his body forgotten beneath the icy wave of terror. "Impossible…"
"It isn't carelessness." Moyu's Zanpakutō rested inverted in his grip, his voice calm as steel. "From beginning to end, you never grasped the distance between us. Yammy, Szayelaporro, Nnoitra—all of them died by my hand. What made you believe their remnants could change your fate?"
His blade fell in a single vertical line. Blood split silently across Aaroniero's brow.
"No!" the Espada screamed, voice warping with madness. "We had the strongest potential! This world should have—"
The words were severed. His body split cleanly in two and collapsed into silence.
The overwhelming disparity left Yachiru's two companions frozen. Matsumoto Rangiku let out a half-hearted laugh, masking her shame. As vice-captain, her strength seemed wasted on paperwork and soft comforts; beside Moyu, she felt painfully irrelevant.
Kotetsu Isane, in contrast, looked on with wide, star-filled eyes. Her reserved nature did not dim her admiration; if anything, her awe for Moyu's power burned brighter. Perhaps this was why Unohana trusted him so deeply.
Unaware of their thoughts, Moyu turned his gaze across the remaining battlefields.
"Cero Doble."
Twin Ceros burst from Nilu's palms, overlapping into a single devastating blast. Zommari, already bisected and staggering, raised his arms toward the oncoming light, face twisted in fanaticism. "Long live Aizen-sama! Ai—"
The detonation swallowed him. Espada No. 7, Zommari Rureaux, erased in fire.
On the far side, Zaraki Kenpachi laughed like a demon from the pit. His blade swung with manic joy, his grinning face as terrifying as the roar of his slashes. Ruby staggered under the storm, her arrogance shattered, body failing her.
Kenpachi, bored of her weakness, lifted his sword with both hands. The strike fell like a mountain, splitting her in half in a single cleave. Another Espada gone.
That left only one.
Unohana Retsu's serene face masked a killing intent more suffocating than any of the others. Her blade-work and Reiatsu smothered Grimmjow without pause, keeping him trapped in her rhythm. His body bore fresh wounds with every exchange.
"Is it over already?" Her soft voice drifted across to him, gentle as silk yet sharp as a blade. To Grimmjow, it was the toll of hell's bells.
"Good. I was beginning to grow bored."
Her pressure surged. Grimmjow's wounds deepened. Despair swelled in his chest. Just as her Zanpakutō tilted for the final strike, Moyu's voice cut across the battlefield.
"Sister Hua—wait."
Grimmjow froze, cold sweat on his cheek where her blade hovered less than an inch away. His chest heaved, every instinct screaming.
Was this Soul Society? Was this the Gotei Thirteen? A battlefield where hope itself could not survive?
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