Room 303, third floor of the inn.
Two stunning women were trying on the latest Western outfits they'd just bought in the street.
Clothes they'd never seen before.
"Rangiku, do I look… too revealing in this?" Kabuma Sayako stood before the mirror, cheeks warm as the white, knee-length dress bared a long, snowy stretch of calf.
"How could it be too revealing? Sayako-san, it looks amazing on you! Look at mine~"
Matsumoto Rangiku, done changing into a European maid's outfit, did a slow spin. "Well? The shopgirl said it's a meido-fuku, the hottest thing in the West right now!"
"Mm~ it suits you, Rangiku. It really does."
"Really? Then I'm not changing. When Shuuichi-kun gets back later, he has to rate it too~"
While Rangiku moved to the mirror to admire herself, Sayako, deciding the dress was a bit much, turned to change back—when a heavy pounding rattled the door.
"Kensei-kun? Is something wrong?" Sayako called without thinking. Nagasawa Satomi had been dragged off earlier by Kisaragi Shūsuke; the only one still nearby should have been Muguruma Kensei.
But the urgent voice outside puzzled her.
"Open up in there! Lord Ranpo wants to see you!"
Not Kensei?
Sayako stepped back quickly, snatched Seyabasa (世弥婆娑) from the bed, where she'd set it while changing, and met Rangiku's eyes. Rangiku also drew her Zanpakutō.
"We don't know any 'Lord Ranpo'. You've got the wrong room!" Rangiku called back, voice hard.
One of the guards glanced back; the greasy man behind him—pig-cheeked, pot-bellied, scalp bald—gave a contemptuous snort and shoved the guard aside.
"True, you probably didn't know me before," he chuckled, "but we're about to get very familiar."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Rangiku's brows knit.
He answered with action.
Bang—the door kicked inward.
"Ohh… perfect." Lord Ranpo's stare glued itself to Rangiku's chest. The Western maid get-up only poured oil on his novelty and conquest lust.
"Be a good girl and serve your Lord Ranpo properly. I promise I'll play with you more than once this time~"
Drooling, hands already pantomiming a squeeze, he lunged.
Halfway across the room, a gale slammed his back. Instinct twisted him left; a blade whistled down and shaved his life by a hair.
"Not bad—dodging that one of mine." A silver-haired man grinned, rising from his swing.
"Kensei-kun." Relief loosened Sayako's shoulders.
"Relax! Shuuichi left you in my care. I'll protect you." Muguruma Kensei flashed a thumbs-up.
"You bastard! Do you even know who I am?!" Lord Ranpo snarled, scrambling up.
"Does it matter?" Kensei snorted. "Question is—do you know who we are, barging in like this?"
He looked the man over. Ugly, sure—but still a shade better than the mug on that "Yokozawada Tsuna" from the drawing Shuuichi had shown him on the carriage.
"You're just my playthings," Ranpo sneered. "Remember: the man sending you to Hell is Sugita Ranpo."
He yanked a black Colt revolver from his belt and snapped the muzzle up—right at Kensei—and pulled the trigger.
The gun roared. Blood splashed. Kensei stared, dumbfounded, at the neat hole punched through his right chest.
What kind of "sword art" was that? With his ability, he hadn't even seen the man move. Just the sound—and he was hit. And even though he wore a Gigai (Artificial Body), his true body was still Reishi—how had that attack actually hurt him?
"Kensei-taichō!" Rangiku saw it too—something was wrong. Her Zanpakutō sang free. So much for staying low-key in Osaka-fu—she slashed at Sugita Ranpo.
"Oh no you don't, my little treasure. You'll lie down on the bed for me~"
His eyes shone—women who fought back tasted better. The revolver cracked again.
The muzzle pointed at Kensei—but the bullet ripped into Rangiku's right leg.
"Rangiku!"
Fooled by the feint, Kensei blinked to the side with Shunpo (Flash Step)—rage boiling up. Fine—then we blow our cover in the World of the Living.
"Hollow-ka (Hollowfication)!"
The Gigai fell away. A white, skull-like mask settled; white cylinder "armoring" studded his back. Even muzzled, his Reiatsu tore half the room apart.
A blur of fists—he was in Ranpo's face, trusting his boosted body to crush the man before he could pull any more tricks.
He was right to be wary. If Higashino Shuuichi—or even Kisaragi Shūsuke—were here, they'd have confirmed it instantly: Sugita Ranpo's name had been on the suspect list recited by that manager at Suwara Trading.
"A Hollow? No—one of the fugitive Shinigami?!" Ranpo was excited, not afraid. "Been waiting for you, Shinigami!"
"What?!" Kensei's eyes widened. So Shuuichi had been right—this place was a trap.
"Zetsubō Reborubā: Taiketsu (Despair Revolver: Duel)."
The words fell like a hammer.
In the next breath, Kensei stood on a strip of dusty street between leaning wooden facades, plank walks on either side, silhouettes watching from porches—an endless desert beyond.
Ranpo stood opposite.
"What the hell did you do to me?!" Kensei barked—hand flying to his hip and finding no Zanpakutō.
"Heh. You don't need to know. Just that a duel has only one winner," Ranpo smiled, then added, savoring, "I've never played with a Shinigami. Those women with you—also Shinigami, right?
Yoruichi? Yadōmaru Lisa? Kunan Haku? Or Matsumoto Rangiku and Sarugaki Hiyori?
Can't wait~"
"Damn you!" Kensei clenched his fists, tried Sonído (Sound Step)—but the Hollow's step failed him here. (If he knew Cero (Hollow Flash), he would have tried that too.) He could still move normally; so he ran like the wind and hammered away.
Nothing. Ranpo didn't even skid a step.
"Had your fun, Shinigami? The duel starts now~" Ranpo strolled to the center, turned, and began a five-count.
Five, four, three, two—
Kensei's mind spun. He had to be missing something. "Duel"? What did he mean?
Then he felt it—at his hip, where his Zanpakutō should be: a pouch. Inside, a weapon identical to Ranpo's Colt.
I'm supposed to use this?
Ranpo finished counting. "One!" He turned, lifted his gun, and beckoned. "Goodbye, Shinigami."
Bang.
The bullet kissed Kensei's forehead.
And then—like waking from a dream—he was back in the room. Still mid-punch. No hole in his head.
But—
Thud.
His body melted, down to the floor. Reiatsu and stamina drained out of him like water from a broken jar—so completely he couldn't even shape words.
So this was why Shuuichi loathed fighting Fullbringers—rule-twisters who didn't play by Reiatsu. Even they could stumble.
Sorry… Shuuichi. Kensei felt Ranpo's foot grind down on his back and could only apologize in silence. He'd failed.
"Next, it's you, my treasure~"
Ranpo didn't finish Kensei. Orders from above—bring Vizard Shinigami back alive if possible. "Alive" had… wiggle room.
Rangiku, seeing Kensei crumple with no idea how, wasn't a fool. She shed her Gigai (Artificial Body), Shihakushō snapping into place, and released her blade.
"Unare, Haineko! (Growl, Ash Cat!)"
"Zetsubō Reborubā: Taiketsu (Despair Revolver: Duel)."
He moved even faster.
Confusion, shock—Rangiku's expression matched Kensei's. She collapsed, powerless to even whisper for Sayako to run.
All of it, from the first knock to two bodies on the floor, took less than three minutes in Sayako's eyes.
"Kensei-kun… Rangiku…" Sayako clenched both hands around Seyabasa's hilt.
No retreat now.
"Just you left, huh~ Let me guess: Yadōmaru Lisa? Or Kunan Haku?" Ranpo grinned, closing in step by step, a little cruelty rising in his gaze. Maybe he'd play with this weak little Shinigami first.
"Shuuichi-kun…" Sayako didn't back away. She drew Seyabasa from the saya, inch by inch.
Now counted as "unless absolutely necessary," right?
Just as the blade was about to clear—
A roaring Cero (Hollow Flash) tore the sky, chewing through multiple rooms before exploding over Sugita Ranpo.
"What?!" Ranpo's eyes blew wide. His gun barked even as the blast swallowed him.
A white-masked figure appeared in front of Sayako; a warm hand covered hers on Seyabasa's hilt. A gentle voice came from behind the skull grin.
"I'm back~"
Together, larger hand over smaller, they slid Seyabasa back into its scabbard.
"Shuuichi…" Sayako looked up, joy and calm washing her eyes.
Higashino Shuuichi nodded, turned toward the settling dust. Without the Gigai, he felt the ember of Reiatsu still burning inside the blast.
"Ahhh! Damn Shinigami!" Ranpo's hoarse curse came from the smoke.
Gunfire again. So the Fullbring medium was the handgun?
Shuuichi leveled his Zanpakutō, thinking. He'd hit him with almost full power; plenty of captains would have gone down. If the man lived, credit the Fullbring.
And he'd floored Kensei and Rangiku so quickly… best be careful.
"Bungetsu-giri (Crescent Divide Cut)!"
Steel flashed.
Another shot answered. An immense force smashed Shuuichi's blade aside mid-arc—the trajectory shunted off its killing line.
A second shot followed before the cylinder finished its turn. A half-melted slug embedded in Shuuichi's chest—no warning beyond Ranpo's finger moving. His Reikaku (spirit sense) hadn't caught the bullet leaving the barrel.
A "must-hit" rule?
He flared Reiatsu; the slug popped free and clinked away. If that was all, it wasn't so bad.
He sank his breath, gathered himself—fingers closing, one by one, around the tsuka.
Nadegiri (Clean Stroke).
No blood—only an endless street of sand.
"Zetsubō Reborubā: Taiketsu (Despair Revolver: Duel)."
Six faint syllables scraped his ear.
Shuuichi blinked at his empty right hand, then at the half-remembered silhouettes around him.
A Western street. Cowboys.
Of course such a scene existed in this world, but tucked away from the East Bureau's closed circuits; few here would know it well.
"Hehehe. Despair yet, Shinigami? No matter how strong you are outside, in my world your Zanpakutō is worthless. You fight me with my weapon!" Ranpo preened.
"Your weapon? You mean this?" Shuuichi lifted his gun.
Ranpo's smile died.
Because Shuuichi wasn't holding a Colt like his.
He was holding a weapon Ranpo had never seen—sleek, balanced, long barrel and a folding stock.
A submachine gun.
Impossible. No Shinigami should know guns. He should only be able to imagine my revolver!
"Ahh. So the whole game is jōhō-sa—an information gap." Shuuichi's laugh was light. The first bullet had been a key; whoever it struck got dragged into this rulespace for a duel. Both combatants used the "gun they knew best."
Ordinary Shinigami in the East Bureau? In this era, they might conjure only a revolver. Firearms had yet to stride the world stage; matchlocks were too primitive to impress anyone.
But Shuuichi wasn't ordinary. Even after centuries, some images from a past life never faded.
One of them was his favorite from a certain battle royale game: an UMP45.
Cold sweat traced Ranpo's scalp. He forced a sneer. "Don't get cocky. The duel measures speed and accuracy. We walk to the middle, turn our backs, count five, and fire together. That's the real test!"
He hurried to the center, trying to seize tempo.
Shuuichi simply raised the UMP and squeezed.
—You're right. But I'll try shooting now, okay?
A soft storm of casings chimed.
Ranpo hit the dust, bleeding. Out of a dozen-plus shots, only two landed.
"Tch. Still as trashy as in the games," Shuuichi sighed. Lucky Ranpo panicked first—otherwise a clean ten-pace duel might have gone either way.
As Ranpo's breath rattled out, the street peeled away. Back to the room—Shuuichi's Nadegiri (Clean Stroke) finishing its path, a sudden flood of strength pouring into his limbs.
This time, the sight he'd expected arrived: Sugita Ranpo's right arm flew; his body sagged, boneless.
He wanted to scream—he didn't even have the strength.
"Shuuichi-kun, is he…?" Sayako stared. Every time Ranpo spoke those words, someone collapsed—now it was he who fell.
"Don't worry, Sayako. It's over. But we need to leave—fast." Shuuichi scooped the fallen Colt and glanced toward the door.
His Reikaku already felt multiple strong Reiatsu sources converging on their position.
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