The warped street twisted like a mirage, neon colors bleeding into black. Akio's sandals scraped across a ground that no longer felt solid—stone one step, liquid shadow the next. His instincts screamed danger, his skin prickling under the suffocating spiritual pressure that saturated this pocket dimension.
The pocket world stretched like a frozen echo of reality — twilight skies painted in muted indigos, silent forests shrouded in mist, and a ground that shimmered faintly as if woven from spirit threads. Time felt suspended here, every breath thick with spiritual weight, sharpening instinct and perception alike.
And Akio he was surveying the surroundings with a confused expression.
And then he heard it .
"Welcome, Kurozume Akio…"
The voice was calm, too calm, its tone carrying the weight of someone who already believed victory was inevitable. Akio spun, blade half-drawn, eyes narrowing.
A man stepped forward from the folding darkness. His uniform was not of the Gotei, though it mimicked it in cut and form. Black fabric, sleeves tucked tight, a scarf bound around his lower face. What drew Akio's gaze, though, were his eyes—cold gray, glinting like steel tempered for killing. He carried no visible Zanpakutō in his hands, but his Reiatsu lapped out in sharp, disciplined waves, cutting the air thinner than blades.
"Who are you? And what is this place? How did you bring me ere?" Akio demanded, forcing his stance wide.
The assassin tilted his head, studying him as if measuring the worth of prey. "Names mean little. Consider me… your executioner. Orders are orders. You weren't meant to walk this far. As for how I got you here, this is the pocket dimension inside the artifact the lord gave me."
He snickered, "I could have just killed you outside without the trouble of using this artifact but the lord said that your case shouldn't leave any trace as Yamamoto is involved with you."
'Isn't he too bold for calling the Captain Commander as Yamamoto? But from this, I can deduce he is sent by the nobles.' Akio eyed him curiously with a smile, "Well, well aren't you talking too much for an assassin?"
The assassin smiled, "You are a dead man any way so a little chatting is nothing much."
The statement was simple, but his intent was clear. This wasn't a spar. This wasn't a Hollow. This man was here to kill him.
The assassin blurred.
Akio's eyes barely caught the shimmer before steel howled against his parry. A hidden blade—thin, short, and curved—slammed into his Asauchi with such precision it nearly slipped past his guard. Sparks hissed, illuminating the gray-eyed man's mask-like expression.
'Fast.'
Akio dropped low, pivoting with Mune to redirect the force. The assassin landed gracefully, one hand flicking his weapon into a reverse grip. He didn't pause—he pressed.
A storm of strikes came next, not wild but surgical. Slashes that sought arteries, thrusts that probed for joints, feints woven seamlessly into real killing intent. Akio barely kept up, each parry ringing through his arms. His Hakuda training with Shunsui kicked in instinctively.
"Toryū—!" His fist shot forward, Reiryoku sharpened into a piercing point.
The assassin twisted mid-step, avoiding the brunt but catching the fringe of the strike on his shoulder. His cloak tore, blood spotting, but he didn't even flinch. Instead, his knee lashed out, slamming into Akio's ribs with brutal precision.
The world rattled white. Pain shot through his side.
Akio staggered back, forcing breath into his lungs, blade between them. 'He's stronger and sharper than any Shinigami I have faced. Every move is meant to kill. If I slip once, it's over.'
The assassin followed, unrelenting. His blade flickered in shallow arcs, forcing Akio onto defense. But when Akio tried to counter with Sōryū, chaining strikes elbow-to-knee, the man absorbed the rhythm like water, redirecting with almost uncanny anticipation.
"Predictable," the assassin murmured, eyes like knives. "Even with your odd training, you lack the instincts of a true killer."
Rage sparked, but Akio held it down. He let his Reiatsu pulse instead, a shadowy thrum wrapping his strikes. He lashed out with Gekiryū, his hand gripping not the assassin's arm but his cloak. With a vicious twist, he slammed him into the warped ground.
The assassin rolled with it, landing catlike. Dustless shadow rippled instead of stone. He rose smoothly, only brushing his sleeve. "Aren't you quite good? You might last long enough to show me why I was sent."
Then his Reiatsu spiked.
The air thickened, almost as heavy as the Menos's crushing aura. He moved again, and Akio almost didn't see it this time. An upward slash carved through where his face had been a fraction of a heartbeat ago. Akio dropped into Utsusemi, his afterimage dissolving under the strike. He reappeared at the assassin's flank, blade cutting horizontally.
Steel met steel, their swords locking, faces inches apart.
The assassin's eyes narrowed. "Not bad. But you're burning too hot. Your body won't hold."
Akio gritted his teeth. He was right. Every clash rattled his arms, every dodge drained more breath. He needed an edge. Something decisive.
And then he remembered—the void-cut. The technique that had crushed through Ikkaku's ultimate strike the partial shikai. He hadn't perfected it, hadn't even named it properly, but it was all he had.
'If I don't use it now… I die here.'
He inhaled, steadying his core. In one smooth motion, he sheathed his blade. His free hand brushed the hilt, posture settling into the Iaijutsu stance. The assassin's eyes flicked, faint surprise there, but no fear.
Akio's Reiatsu condensed, shadows hissing around him. "Come."
The assassin blurred again, blade cutting for his throat.
Akio drew.
The world split with the hiss of a crescent moon. Darkness erupted from the slash, a void-like arc cutting reality itself, racing straight toward the assassin with unstoppable momentum.
For the first time, the man's calm cracked. His eyes widened. "Impossible—at your level?!"
The crescent roared closer, devouring the warped street.
And then the assassin answered, "Shit."
His blade glowed. "Scatter—Kageokami!"
Steel unraveled into twin daggers, each dripping with shadows that twisted unnaturally. With a fluid spin, he crossed them, releasing a whirl of condensed darkness. His Shikai.
The crescent met it head-on—void against void.
The collision was soundless but violent. The warped world shook, chunks of false reality peeling away like ash. Akio braced against the backlash, his technique splitting apart under the assassin's dual blades. The crescent shattered, fragments of shadow dissolving.
When the air cleared, the assassin stood unharmed, his daggers humming with dark power. His scarf had burned away in the clash, revealing a face lined with sharp scars, lips curled into something resembling a smile.
"You forced me to use my shikai," he said softly. "You are no ordinary brat, are you? Now I see. No wonder the higher seats… wants you dead."
He raised his blades, crossing them before him. The shadows around his weapons seemed to whisper. "Unfortunately for you, boy, I was not sent to test you. I was sent to end you."
Akio's lungs burned, his arms trembling from the clash. But beneath the exhaustion, something else stirred. A pulse from his sword—not a technique, not borrowed training, but a voice. Faint, whispering through the shadow that clung to him.
He gripped the hilt tighter. His own will resonated with the echo.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised the blade before him. His Reiatsu bled out—not in wild waves, but a controlled, consuming veil of darkness.
The assassin's eyes narrowed. "You're—"
Akio sighed, "I didn't want to use this anytime soon but you have now forced my hands. Well since this is a pocket dimension no one will know I can use it."
Then Akio's voice rang clear.
"Shikai Release: Whisper,—"
The blade shifted, shadows wreathing into a form no longer just an Asauchi. His Zanpakutō spirit stirred awake, answering his call.
The warped world trembled as the assassin took a step back, with taunting expression .
[End of Chapter]