Dessler stood frozen, words dying in his throat. The gulf in strength was too vast; vengeance was nothing but delusion.
"So this… is the kind of monster Master Nnoitra fought." His voice rasped with despair.
The other Arrancar watching were no less shaken. What they had seen was beyond reason. To redirect a Cero with one hand required hierro of Espada class or higher—yet this was a Shinigami, clad in the white-feathered haori, black robes rippling in the desert wind, eyes utterly indifferent as if they had already dismissed them. Several Espada had already fallen beneath that blade—what were mere Fracción compared to that?
"Don't waste my time. Come at me together."
Moyu's cold gaze cut through them. Fear shuddered in their chests, yet anger smoldered too. Death no longer seemed terrifying—it became a choice, almost a release.
"Cut it down, Five-Clawed Worm!"
"Awaken, Volcano Beast!"
"Crush him, Prince Ashhorn!"
"Break him, Wheel Tieyan!"
Voices overlapped as release commands echoed, and Zanpakutō fractured into Resurrección. Blades dissolved into monstrosities, twisting flesh and bone until a mob of warped, inhuman forms loomed.
They charged as one, their cries merging into a single order—
"Kill him!"
Cero flared, lances of light tore the air, and abilities erupted in chaos, filling the chamber with annihilation.
Hum.
"Bakudō #81: Dankū."
The words came quiet, almost drowned by the roar of Cero, yet with their utterance a translucent wall pierced the chamber, soaring to the ceiling. Explosions hammered it in an instant, dazzling cascades of light shattering against its surface, collapsing the roof and sending stone raining down. But the barrier did not waver. Fireworks blossomed across its face, beautiful in futility.
"That's enough. I've indulged you long enough."
Moyu's voice carried no pity. He had allowed them their release—that alone was generosity. His palm rose, shadows coiling from his hand, voice steady as his incantation filled the darkened arena.
"It reveals the tainted crest, the arrogance of unruly talent. Surge, negate, paralyze, bind—deny eternal sleep. Crawl, iron princesses. Break, self-mutilating clay dolls. Gather, extend, embrace the ground. Know the depths of your own powerlessness…"
The words reverberated like iron chains, each syllable summoning deeper blackness from the corners of the colosseum. Reiatsu pressed down, crushing hearts and lungs. Their chests seized, beats quickening until every thud threatened to burst vessels from within. Fear hollowed their wills. It was as if invisible hands clenched each heart, squeezing until the smallest pressure could rupture them.
"…Hadō #90: Kurohitsugi."
His hand fell open. Black Reiatsu unraveled, rushing across the ground in silent streams, filling the air with suffocating night.
Walls erupted. Towering black monoliths locked together like puzzle pieces, surrounding the Arrancar in a perfect cube. Panic contorted their monstrous visages as the prison sealed. They raised their weapons, tried to strike back, but the weight of the spell drowned all resistance.
The crushing darkness closed in. Spikes pierced, pain seared mind and body alike, and their screams dissolved into silence. Sanity shattered before death even reached them.
A final tremor reverberated through the colosseum. Then there was nothing.
When the coffin dissolved, not a single trace remained. Only particles of spirit scattered back into Hueco Mundo, their bodies erased without ceremony.
Moyu lowered his gaze, eyes briefly resting on the place where shadows had vanished. He shook his head faintly, then stepped deeper into Las Noches. To invoke two successive high-level Kidō against mere Fracción was already more than they deserved. They had never touched the threshold of single-digit Espada; that much mercy should have been comfort enough before their consciousness was extinguished.
Boom.
Another wall blocked the corridor ahead. Moyu did not break stride—Kidō blasted outward, opening a straight passage through stone. The labyrinth of Las Noches meant nothing before him.
But as he advanced, a shift stirred in his perception. Ulquiorra's Reiatsu now brushed the edge of his awareness, faint yet precise. Alongside it, a strange and twisted signature coiled—one Moyu recognized from Grimmjow's words. Ouroboros.
Minutes later, he stopped. From the depths ahead, footsteps approached. Steady. Rhythmic.
Clack. Clatter.
Two silhouettes emerged from the shadows. One, he knew well—Ulquiorra, pale and unchanging, expression unreadable, as if untouched by the world's turmoil.
The other made Moyu's brows furrow. Clad in the uniform of an Espada, yet his entire face hidden beneath a sealed mask, his body twisting unnaturally beneath the cloth.
"…It has been a long time."
Ulquiorra's voice remained calm, cold as ever, his gaze steady on the Shinigami before him.
"Kuchiki Moyu."
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