The smell of alcohol made people braver?
Drinking alcohol could kill someone?
Rukia stared in disbelief.
It was the first time she had heard such a ridiculous reason to drink.
But what shocked her even more was that Kuroba had taken the sake gourd from her hands without her even noticing.
She was still an unseated Shinigami, yes—but she was trained, formally inducted into the Gotei 13, and had undergone years of combat practice. A man who hadn't even enrolled in Shin'ō Academy shouldn't be able to move like that.
"Hah! Kid, do you really think drinking will help you kill someone? Unfortunately, we're not just men—we're the damned!" The bandit leader known as Canglan gave a twisted smile.
"Come! Show me how your sake makes you strong enough to kill me!"
Boom!
Canglan lunged forward.
Despite his burly frame, he moved with shocking agility. Like a beast unleashed, he leapt more than eight meters in a single bound. With each vault, the wind howled.
Rukia's expression tightened. She recognized it now: this was no ordinary thug. Canglan's spiritual pressure was murky, but dense—far beyond a regular plus. Possibly a mutated soul or a Hollow-tainted soul—dangerous, unpredictable.
The distance between them vanished in a breath.
There was no time to chant a Hadō. No time to cast a Bakudō. Just reflex.
Worse, Kuroba was still standing there—swaying slightly, still swirling the sake gourd in his hand like a connoisseur at a tasting event. Meanwhile, the massive mace in Canglan's hand was already swinging down, a direct path to Rukia's head.
She gritted her teeth.
She thought of Kaien-dono.
Of how he'd once shielded her with his life.
The memory hardened her resolve. Whatever disdain she felt toward this good-for-nothing lush, she wouldn't let another comrade fall.
Flash Step.
With a burst of Shunpō, she blurred forward.
Bang!
A thunderous impact rang out.
Rukia had gotten there just in time.
Her Zanpakutō—drawn in both hands—caught the descending mace in a desperate block. The blow drove her backward, her small frame skidding seven or eight paces before she planted her feet and stopped.
Pain flared up her arms.
The tiger's mouth—the skin between thumb and forefinger—tore open under the pressure. Blood dripped down her grip. She bit back a cry.
Canglan's strength had changed. It wasn't just brute force anymore. It was something warped. Twisted by spiritual mutation, like a soul gone halfway to Hollow.
"Hah! Not bad, little girl. I didn't think you could take that blow. But don't get cocky," Canglan sneered, tightening his grip.
"You only blocked half my power."
Muscles bulged grotesquely on his mace-wielding arm. Blue veins snaked across his skin, pulsating like something alive. His spiritual pressure began to spike. Like a boiling storm.
Rukia's heart sank.
One more blow like that, and her arms might be shattered. She wouldn't be able to hold a blade.
Run…
A cold, precise voice echoed in her head. Kuchiki Byakuya's teachings.
The weak only drag others down.
You do not belong on the battlefield.
It was the same judgment passed on her after Kaien-dono's death. Since then, Byakuya had leveraged his noble status to keep her on soul purification duty—safe, distant, away from real combat.
And now?
Now she was here again—bleeding, barely standing—and the man she tried to protect?
"Hic… Truly exquisite. Bold, smooth, with a bite at the end… Ah, to sing of wine, for life is fleeting. Wine is life. Life is wine."
What?
Rukia froze.
This wasn't a hallucination.
It was real.
Shiba Kuroba… was still drinking.
Still. Drinking.
On the battlefield. While she bled. While she fought for his life.
Her spiritual pressure flared in fury.
Was this… a joke?
Was he mocking her? Mocking Kaien's memory?
Suppressing her seething rage, she shouted, "Shiba Kuroba! What are you doing!? You should be running! This is battle—one mistake could cost lives! Get out of here before you make this worse!"
The words rang through the air like steel.
Words that weren't hers—at least, not originally. They were Byakuya's. His cold, noble judgment.
The same words he'd once used to rebuke her.
And now, in this cursed, ridiculous moment, she had spoken them too.
Rukia's eyes narrowed.
Because somewhere, beneath the absurdity… something about Kuroba's actions didn't feel like carelessness.
They felt deliberate.
Is it because I was too weak… that I dragged him down and got him killed here?
An absurd, bitter thought flashed through Rukia's mind as chaos erupted around her.
"Hic… Rukia, did you say something about giving me peanuts with the wine? Wine makes peanuts better. Or… wait, is it the other way around? Hahaha! You're so thoughtful."
Kuroba swayed unsteadily, clearly intoxicated after finishing a gourd of sake he had stolen earlier. His laughter was carefree, almost mocking the danger closing in on them.
He was completely unaware that Rukia had just regained consciousness, her expression dark, her teeth clenched in frustration.
At that moment, a series of ethereal prompts echoed in Kuroba's mind like a dream:
"Ding! Congratulations to the host. Upon tasting high-quality sake for the first time, you've unlocked: Ultimate Hakuda!"
In the Soul Society, a Shinigami's combat prowess is divided into four core disciplines: Zanjutsu (swordsmanship), Hakuda (hand-to-hand combat), Hohō (mobility techniques like Shunpo), and Kidō (demon arts). Mastery in each varies across individuals.
Hakuda — often overlooked in favor of Kidō or swordsmanship — represents the pinnacle of unarmed combat. Few have achieved true mastery.
If Kuroba hadn't been so drunk, he might've been excited by the data flooding into his mind.
Though Hakuda was less flashy than Kidō or Shikai abilities, if pushed to its peak, its effectiveness could rival that of even the most elite captains.
Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni, for instance, despite being a master of flame-based Zanpakutō, possessed unmatched physical strength — enough to incapacitate even captain-class foes barehanded.
And defeating an Adjuchas-class Hollow — the evolved form beyond Gillian and just below Vasto Lorde — in a single punch?
That was a feat worthy of terror and legend, even in Hueco Mundo.
"You brat! You think this is a joke? You dare get drunk in front of me? First, I'll crush you, then I'll enjoy killing that little Shinigami!"
Canglan, the black-robed thief, bellowed. His grotesque mask split as he roared, leaking thick spiritual pressure from his Hollow transformation.
In the past, this monstrous display had caused others to flee in terror. Even low-ranking Shinigami had once been overpowered by his monstrous strength.
Once, Rukia herself had been sent flying by a blow from this same brute during a patrol in the Rukongai outskirts. The memory stung.
Now, with a dozen masked spirits circling them like vultures, Rukia felt her grip tighten on her Zanpakutō.
"Tch. This noble brat looks like he'll break with one punch."
"Let's cripple him, then make this female Shinigami beg. I want to hear her scream when we kill her partner!"
The surrounding pluses-turned-Hollows jeered and laughed, inching closer with bloodlust.
Rukia's expression turned grim. She was indeed a Shinigami, but not at full strength — her injuries hadn't fully healed since her last assignment.
Worse, if she engaged Canglan again without backup, she doubted she could win in her current state.
Her fingers trembled. Not with fear — but frustration. Shame.
Captain Byakuya's voice echoed in her mind...
"When you carry a burden, Rukia, your first task is to learn how to survive."
She exhaled shakily. She had to make a decision — not as a noble of the Kuchiki clan, but as a Shinigami. One with duty and judgment.