Moyu regarded the group before him with cold disdain, his lips curling into a faint snort. For a moment, their audacity almost amused him. "With the courage of frightened mice, you dare raise your voices at me?"
Their spiritual pressure trembled unevenly, unsteady like flickering lamps before a storm. He had been about to resume filling out the division records when the squad from the Detention Corps—realizing the shame of their own hesitation in front of their superior—decided they could not afford to lose face. And as all fools do when desperate, they sought to reclaim their pride by turning on the one who made them feel small.
Their eyes fixed on Moyu. He rolled his in silent irritation, his voice laced with dry contempt. "You really are remarkable. You've decided your honor depends on targeting me. Very well—let's see how that works out for you."
The two officers standing before him tensed, their hands tightening around their weapons. In the next heartbeat, they vanished from sight and reappeared at his flanks, Shunpo movements like jagged thunder. Without a word, they launched simultaneous kicks aimed at Moyu's ribs.
The blows landed squarely, yet the impact barely rippled across his body. His Reiatsu hardened beneath his skin like reinforced stone. He didn't so much as shift his footing. Instead, he caught one attacker by the ankle, his fingers locking with vice-like precision.
"An operative of the Detention Corps is supposed to represent the pinnacle of discipline," Moyu said with an edge of mockery. "But if this is the standard, I suppose they'll let anyone in now."
His voice darkened as his grip tightened, spiritual pressure flaring. With a single motion, he swung his captive through the air and hurled him across the hall. This time he allowed a pulse of Hōgyoku-enhanced force to surge through the throw.
The man tried to twist midair, to catch himself with a burst of Kido and redirect the motion, but Moyu's strength was overwhelming—too sharp, too sudden. The poor fool barely had time to gasp before he smashed through the wooden wall and out the Division headquarters window, glass exploding outward in a rain of shards.
The remaining officer's expression froze in disbelief, pride collapsing beneath humiliation. His shame turned to fury as he drew the short wakizashi from his back and charged, slashing at Moyu with reckless abandon.
Moyu didn't even unsheathe his blade. "Pathetic." He stepped into the attack, drove his heel into the man's wrist, and the sickening crack of bone silenced the air. The sword clattered to the floor, echoing through the hall as the man staggered back, teeth clenched in pain.
Moyu didn't let him recover. He pivoted and delivered another precise kick—this one to the side of the neck—cutting off his cry entirely. The man's body went limp before Moyu seized him by the collar and hurled him through the same shattered window as the first.
Outside, Shinigami on patrol stopped in their tracks as the two black-clad operatives crashed into the street. Murmurs spread quickly through the ranks, disbelief thick in the air. Moments ago, they had seen members of the Detention Corps—Soul Society's elite enforcers—thrown aside as if they were refuse.
More officers began to converge on the scene, their expressions shifting from confusion to indignation. This was no longer just a personal altercation; their division's pride was being trampled in front of the Seireitei's eyes. Even those who knew Moyu wasn't officially registered under any division could not ignore such an open challenge.
Inside the hall, Moyu's Reiatsu continued to build in heavy waves, pressing down on the floorboards and rattling the windows that still stood intact. He looked toward the gathering crowd outside, eyes cold and unbothered.
High above, the Third Division Commander—an elder whose spiritual presence was calm yet vast—watched from the balcony with a furrowed brow. His subordinates' humiliation burned his pride as much as theirs. But he knew Moyu's strength was not something ordinary Shinigami could endure. To send more men now would only deepen the disgrace.
He exhaled slowly, his decision forming like steel. If order was to be restored, he would face Moyu himself. With the composure of one who had seen centuries of battle, he stepped from the railing, letting his Haori ripple behind him as he descended.
"Enough," he murmured under his breath, his gaze hardening. "If I must remind him what it means to stand before a Captain, then so be it."
Confidence emanated from him like an approaching storm. Against such authority, few could stand—yet whether Moyu would kneel or strike back remained to be seen.
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