"Find that little bug—immediately!"
Captain Suì-Fēng's voice was low but sharp, her expression colder than ice. Though petite in stature, the Second Division captain and head of the Onmitsukidō carried immense authority—surveillance, assassination, execution—duties that permitted no failure. And now, in the First District of West Rukongai, a region brushing the walls of Seireitei itself, someone had flared with captain-level reiatsu and vanished without a trace.
Such a lapse was unacceptable.
Her vice-captain, Omaeda Marechiyo, lumbered behind, face twisted with disbelief. "How could a nobody throw out reiatsu like that?"
The Second Division specialized in covert warfare, not honor or recognition. Success meant remaining in the shadows, often unthanked, always unseen. No one signed up for glory in their line of work—only death.
Suì-Fēng's expression didn't shift. A moment later, her glare snapped toward him, frigid as a blade. Omaeda froze, lowering his head beneath her gaze, lips sealed.
Elsewhere, other forces stirred—some openly, others in secrecy. Agents across Seireitei mobilized toward West District 1. Among them: Madarame Ikkaku of the Eleventh Division, bald and wild-eyed, his mouth curled in a grin that stretched like a scar.
His captain, Zaraki Kenpachi, had already dismissed the hunt as useless. "Whoever it is, they're good at hiding. Too good. I've no time to play tag," he had said before stomping off. But Ikkaku, ever hungry for a worthy fight, charged in with the same fervor he brought to every battle. For him, combat wasn't duty—it was oxygen.
He quickly drew the ire of stealth operatives from the Onmitsukidō and data trackers from the Twelfth Division. His reckless energy had no place in reconnaissance. They loathed his noise, his impatience, his love of open confrontation. But he didn't care. If it bled, he would fight it.
Meanwhile, Twelfth Division's finest had already deployed. The Department of Spiritual Wave Research ramped monitoring activity to full power. Detection instruments blanketed the district, recalibrated in real time by Lieutenant Akon himself, who oversaw the technical readouts.
Under normal circumstances, even the most disciplined suppression of reiatsu left residual patterns—traces of reishi fluctuations that could be measured and reverse-engineered to pinpoint location and strength. Twelfth Division had never failed a trace since the debacle of the Mask Rebellion. Hollows left chaotic spiritual signatures. Shinigami, even those attempting to mask their presence, always bled something.
But this time, nothing.
No footprints, no echoes, not even a ripple in the air.
The spike had appeared. Then it was gone. Just gone.
With every tool in their arsenal deployed, the results remained maddeningly the same. The reiatsu might as well have never existed.
The covert operatives of the Onmitsukidō, hardened by years of exposure to Bakkōtō and black ops, returned with empty hands. Their methods, brutal and methodical, yielded nothing.
When the dust settled, the captains reconvened in tense silence.
Only one figure seemed immune to the pressure: Lieutenant Rangiku Matsumoto. Citing 'ongoing reconnaissance,' she slipped away to her favorite sake joint just a stone's throw from the homes of Hitsugaya Tōshirō and Lu Yu. She toasted nothing in particular and drank enough to forget the formalities of war.
In the same district, a silver-haired boy in a plain shihakushō wandered with deliberate calm. Though his steps were measured, his eyes repeatedly flicked toward the restaurant bathed in warm, golden light. He wasn't just sightseeing. He was watching.
Back in Seireitei, the captains grew uneasy. For a captain-level presence to emerge in Rukongai without warning or explanation—and then disappear completely—was a threat that gnawed at the fabric of their confidence.
"Who the hell is this monster?" one murmured.
"Another anomaly? Or the consequence of our oversight?" another wondered.
Despite the proximity to Seireitei, despite the full deployment of several elite divisions, they had nothing. No clues. No face. No trail.
It felt… deliberate.
Whispers of conspiracy stirred. Kyoraku Shunsui and Jūshirō Ukitake, both vigilant since Aizen's betrayal, exchanged glances of quiet dread. Something about this felt like a mirror of the past—danger clothed in silence.
Among them, Suì-Fēng's eyes sharpened with ruthless suspicion. She refused to believe it was a solo act. Someone had covered it up. Someone with power and reach. Her thoughts turned not to the outer districts, but inward—to the seated officers, to the noble houses, even to the Gotei 13 itself.
If someone within was hiding a power like this…
Her gaze flicked from one division barracks to another, from the rooftops of noble estates to the shadowed windows of the Fifth Division.
Another traitor?
Her fists clenched.
"If anyone is shielding that bastard," she muttered under her breath, "I'll make them wish they'd died in the Mask Rebellion."
While captains and lieutenants whispered, doubted, accused, and watched, Lu Yu sat cross-legged in silence, grinning in the sea of his consciousness. Before him floated two radiant golden talent cards—S-Rank, shimmering with divine weight.
The Punch Card System, ever meticulous, had digitized his talents for perfect clarity. He could now see exactly what set him apart from the rest.
Super Spirit Body—S-Rank golden talent. A rare trait born of impossible lineage. A soul structure resilient beyond logic. Even at rest, he passively radiated captain-level reiatsu.
Absolute Concealment—S-Rank golden talent. A passive, flawless suppression field. His spiritual presence could shift, vanish, or alter at will. It would never leak unless he desired it. In the eyes of the world, he was a ghost.
Lu Yu's smirk widened.
This was perfect.
His new body pulsed with power—an energy that eclipsed his past self like the moon drowns a candle. He remembered the weak soul who could barely stand against a breeze and laughed with abandon. "Thief hahaha! Dreams never die!"
In Soul Society, strength spoke through reiatsu. With it, you crushed resistance, ignored protocol, and redefined reality. No Shinigami dared attack a target whose pressure alone could turn them to dust.
With what he now possessed, Lu Yu stood above most seated officers. Even among lieutenant-class fighters, his presence would bend knees. If not for the scheming nobles or Aizen's quiet ambition, he might have stepped into the light already and declared it plainly:
I am Soul Society's greatest genius. Bow. Even the Spirit King should make way.
But Lu Yu wasn't reckless.
He knew that even captain-level reiatsu could mean nothing in the eyes of those who lived in the margins between betrayal and godhood. The Gotei 13 had its heroes, but also its scapegoats. Many had worn the haori. Fewer had walked away with their name untainted.
"I've no interest in being another failed prodigy."
He remembered what happened to the once-promising captains, buried by schemes and politics. The strength alone wasn't enough.
Not in a world where Aizen had almost rewritten creation with a whisper.
But Lu Yu wasn't finished.
He possessed not just strength, but subversion. Unlike others, his reiatsu—normally as unique as a fingerprint—could change at will. He could replicate, distort, vanish, reappear as someone else entirely. The absolute concealment trait was more than passive defense—it was identity warfare.
In Soul Society, where reiatsu was currency and signature, Lu Yu was an anomaly that defied every rule. And with the Super Spirit Body enhancing his control, he wasn't just strong—he was undetectable, unpredictable, and untouchable.
Even Urahara Kisuke would have needed a week to guess.
Even Mayuri Kurotsuchi would have bled from the nose trying to map him.
And if anyone thought themselves safe because they'd mastered the art of hiding…
Even a master of evasion like Ukitake's protégé would end up drinking their own bathwater trying to keep up.