Night fell, and over Osaka Prefecture, jittery from a day of panic, a fine rain began to drift down.
The murmur of the rain slowly buried the cries of grief.
On an empty street, a lone figure moved through the drizzle.
Two rōnin peered through the veil of rain and caught sight of the young face beneath a straw cape and hat. Delight flickered in their eyes.
A fat lamb…
They each lifted their nicked katanas and slipped after the figure in silence.
Before long, the pair trailed him to a shabby, out-of-the-way hovel—obviously long neglected and uninhabited.
Their joy swelled. Heaven was lending them a hand.
No need to worry about being seen now.
Only question was: how much coin did this mark have on him?
They watched the youth step into the hovel. One rōnin moved to block the door; the other slipped around back.
Then they saw the youth open what looked like a hatch to a cellar and go down.
They were giddy.
A hidden vault?!
Greed burned away their last traces of caution. Without a word, both rōnin lunged from their positions toward the cellar door, threw it open, and dove down with blades raised.
They froze a breath later.
In the pitch-black cellar, aside from a web or twenty now clinging all over them, there was nothing. Nothing at all.
Where… where's the guy? Where's the vault?!
At the same time, in another space entirely, Kisaragi Shūsuke shrugged off his rain cloak and called out, "Shuuichi-sama, I'm back!"
Inside were Higashino Shuuichi and Kabuma Sayako, seated side by side as spectators, while, in the center, Matsumoto Rangiku was helping Muguruma Kensei train to extend the duration of his Hollowfication.
As for Nagasawa Satomi, the moment she saw Kisaragi Shūsuke return, she sprang up and ran to meet him.
"Why are you only getting back now!"
Pouting as she scolded him, Nagasawa Satomi took Shūsuke's cloak and spread it to dry near the entrance.
"Uh, well…" Kisaragi Shūsuke scratched his head, unsure how to answer, and hurried over to Higashino Shuuichi instead. "Shuuichi-sama, what happened this afternoon seems to have caused quite a stir among ordinary humans across Osaka Prefecture, but beyond that, I haven't seen any targeted move against us.
"I did hear this, though: at the Satō General's residence, the newly arrived General Satō flew into a rage and even killed a few pages who've been serving there recently."
"I see."
Higashino Shuuichi felt the matter turning troublesome.
No measures taken?
No state of emergency?
Are they certain we're not the group from Soul Society? Or do they plan to keep playing dumb and wait for us to walk into their net?
Either way, whoever is running the larger game behind Osaka Prefecture has ambitions on a grand scale.
After all, they just lost a competent piece out of nowhere, and they can still swallow the loss.
That can only mean that, in the eyes of the one pulling the strings, compared to the result they're aiming for, the death of Sugita Ranpo is hardly worth a frown.
But Sugita Ranpo was a Fullbringer who, armed with an information gap, one-shot Muguruma Kensei—a standard captain-class Shinigami.
So Higashino Shuuichi now had two choices.
One: drag Soul Society into the water. The situation was already clear. As he'd suspected earlier, the whole of Osaka Prefecture was a gigantic cage waiting for prey to step inside—then slam shut.
He didn't need to waste time hunting down that Yokozawada Tsuna anymore. He'd bet ten thousand times over: Yokozawada Tsuna was here somewhere in Osaka Prefecture, waiting for Soul Society's investigative team to arrive, ready to work with the local Fullbringers to devour them all; and maybe even keep waiting here for any reinforcements Soul Society sent next.
The upside of this option: Higashino Shuuichi would probably shoulder little risk.
The downside: he'd likely miss a good number of the Fullbringers gathered in Osaka Prefecture; in the end, the "care package" he could ship to Kurotsuchi Mayuri for research might not even fill one hand.
And, in front of Kabuma Sayako, Matsumoto Rangiku, and Kisaragi Shūsuke, he'd be cashing out a lot of goodwill.
Option two: Higashino Shuuichi swallows the entire Osaka Prefecture alone.
A cage works both ways—on enemies, and on oneself.
"Spinning one's own cocoon" exists for a reason.
They were in the open; he was in the dark. Judging by his current strength, if given a little time to scope each Fullbringer's ability and then pick them off one by one, it shouldn't be too hard.
But then he'd have to accept massive risk. Of course, risk and reward run together.
If he succeeded, he'd reap a trove of Fullbringer samples, paving the way for soul-modification tech to help him master Fullbring later. He'd also rack up a big wave of impression points with Kisaragi Shūsuke, Muguruma Kensei, Kabuma Sayako—and even with Kyōraku Shunsui.
Play it safe, or bet big?
Even a man of decisive action like Higashino Shuuichi hesitated this time.
Since crossing over, he'd really only gambled twice. Once to draw Aizen's gaze: painstakingly staging the killing of a lower noble who'd been slaughtering civilians. The second was staking his future to go to the Kabuma clan, opening his road to Hell.
And this time?
He stared at Muguruma Kensei and Matsumoto Rangiku locked in training, and fell into thought.
At dawn, back in that little hovel's cellar, one of the rōnin—who'd spent the whole night searching for a secret passage before finally collapsing asleep—thought he saw the hatch crack open a sliver.
A hallucination?
I must be dreaming!
He slapped himself and went right back to sleep.
Outside Osaka Prefecture, along a muddy track soaked by the night's gentle rain, two men picked their way forward: one bald, the other a strikingly beautiful male.
"So annoying! Why are we tiptoeing around to investigate a human city? Just crank up the reiatsu and force that Yokozawada Tsuna to come fight us!"
The bald man tugged at his clothes, grumbling.
"If he doesn't want to fight, then what, Ikkaku? According to intel, that former 3rd Division lieutenant has been settled here for quite a while. Who knows what preparations he's made against us in that time? Better to be careful."
If the bald one was being called "Ikkaku," then the beautiful man was, of course, Ayasegawa Yumichika—his near-constant companion.
"But this gigai is suffocating."
Madarame Ikkaku yanked at his collar, disgusted.
He hated the reishi-blocking gigai he wore with every fiber of his being.
Thud.
Distracted mid-complaint, Ikkaku walked straight into someone.
It hurt—a little like walking into a steel plate.
"Tch, you—"
Ikkaku focused. In front of him stood a samurai queued to enter Osaka Prefecture.
The samurai, clearly irked by the collision, turned around.
"Baka—what are you, to dare bump into your grand-daddy, Musashi Kojirō?"
"Musashi Kojirō?"
Ikkaku laughed. "Sounds fun. You look tough. If you're not convinced, fight me. Remember my name—Madarame Ikkaku!"
Meeting Higashino Shuuichi by chance under this alias didn't change Ikkaku's nature. Even with the gigai masking reishi and reiatsu, the man's body and presence alone told Ikkaku what he needed to know: this was a formidable swordsman.
"Ikkaku—"
Yumichika, uncharacteristically, tried to stop his dear friend. They were on a mission, after all.
But Ikkaku was already too fired up. He drew his Zanpakutō and slashed at Musashi Kojirō.
"Pah. Parlor tricks."
Musashi Kojirō gave a cold snort, slid his left foot half a step back, and set his right hand on his hilt.
"Ittō Iai (Single-Stroke Draw)!"
Before the words had faded, Ikkaku saw nothing move. The swordsman still looked frozen in the draw stance—only his right hand on the hilt had changed minutely.
Then a brutal impact hammered Ikkaku's blade and hurled him back more than a hundred meters.
What just happened?
Even Ayasegawa Yumichika, who'd been watching closely, hadn't seen the moment of impact. It was like Ikkaku had been swatted by some invisible force mid-charge.
Yumichika's face tightened.
This human—this Musashi Kojirō—was no simple foe.
"That's it? Who gave you the nerve to strut in front of me?"
Musashi Kojirō stared coldly at the mud-plastered Ikkaku.
"Pfft—ha! Not bad. Again!"
Ikkaku yanked his face from the muck, spat out grit, and grinned.
"Again? Oi, brat, I don't have time to play house with you."
Musashi Kojirō sneered, turned, and, to the wary respect of the gate guards, moved to step over the border into Osaka Prefecture as if Ikkaku didn't exist.
But Ikkaku wasn't the type to stop. Eleventh Division diehards were all the same: fight, or keep fighting.
Won't come? Then I'll beat you until you want to.
He leapt, bringing his Zanpakutō down toward the back of Musashi Kojirō's head.
"Noisy."
Musashi Kojirō halted, clearly vexed. He pivoted, steel flashed.
"Tsubame Gaeshi (Swallow Reversal)!"
The crack of riven air snapped outward like firecrackers. Ikkaku felt a chill lance through him from head to toe. His vision smeared red.
In Yumichika's eyes, a razor-clean line split Ikkaku from the crown downward. The blood flooding Ikkaku's face came spraying from that seam.
Fast.
Strong.
Ikkaku dropped from midair, landed on his knees, and only kept from falling flat by jamming his Zanpakutō into the ground.
"Ikkaku! Are you all right!?"
Yumichika couldn't help it—he started forward, more to check the state of Ikkaku's gigai than his actual body. As long as they remained in gigai, pure human steel, no matter how fierce, shouldn't be able to deliver a truly fatal wound to a Shinigami.
That was the qualitative gulf between human matter and Shinigami reishi.
But the instant he moved, Musashi Kojirō stepped between him and Ikkaku.
"You—since a moment ago it's 'Ikkaku, Ikkaku' with you. You're just as noisy."
Yumichika understood the deeper note in that line.
He's coming for me next.
He didn't like fighting. But when he'd chosen to join his dearest friend and enter the Eleventh, he'd accepted everything that came with it.
"Ayasegawa Yumichika. Please, teach me."
No excuses, no babble—only the sudden heat of resolve in Yumichika's eyes.
Vengeance for a friend?
Or just the desire to fight?
No one knew. Yumichika struck first.
A vertical cut from the front—feint; the real kill came off a step change into an up-thrusting slash from the side.
He learned the truth in the next heartbeat: it was useless. Musashi Kojirō had read every inch of his motion.
One stroke was enough.
"Tsubame Gaeshi (Swallow Reversal)!"
The same technique that had swatted Ikkaku from the sky. Seeing it was one thing; feeling it was another. Only under that blade could one grasp its terror—and the despair of having no defense at all.
Yumichika's Zanpakutō spun away; a neat red line formed down his center, just like Ikkaku's.
As Yumichika weighed ripping off the gigai and risking Kidō, Musashi Kojirō turned to the gate guards and said, "Here's some money. Find your best doctor and treat these two. Keep the rest as your tip."
He tossed a roll of bandages to each of them as well.
"I'm just passing through and travel light. Make do with those for now."
Yumichika stared at the bandage in his hand, then up at Musashi Kojirō, confusion plain. "Why? Why dress our wounds? Didn't we annoy you?"
"Why? I don't know. Maybe because you two have talent.
"In this world, there aren't many who can take a single cut from me and live.
"You both took one and didn't fall. That's already pretty good.
"As it happens, I haven't taken on disciples in a while. You two—interested in learning my sword?"
Musashi Kojirō laughed, fingers stroking his scruffy beard, eyes shifting to Yumichika.
"Disciples? Who wants to be your disciple? You haven't even killed me yet! Come fight me!"
From behind Musashi Kojirō, Ikkaku pushed himself up, spirit flaring again.
And then it was over. Musashi Kojirō's brows pinched; his right foot traced a small circle back, blade drew and returned. A deeper red line opened across Ikkaku's abdomen.
However tough Ikkaku thought he was, his gigai didn't care. It dumped him to the ground again.
Unless he bled out reiryoku now.
But unlike Higashino Shuuichi—who had trained under Hell's reiryoku-suppressed conditions to master Yakuryū (Flow-Choke) and gain ruthless control—he was like ninety-nine percent of Soul Society's Shinigami: there was no way to output power without letting reiatsu leak.
"Oh? Still not dead after two cuts?"
Interest tugged at Musashi Kojirō's mouth.
"Seems I have no choice but to take you as my disciple."
While Musashi Kojirō was strong-arming Ikkaku and Yumichika into apprenticeship on this side of Osaka, at the other edge of the city a modern carriage rattled in—an emergency transfer after yesterday's "accident."
A middle-aged man in a red cleric's uniform, a cross hanging at his neck, stood alone by the carriage.
He nodded faintly as a youth dismounted—stone-faced, yet radiating an aura that prickled at the skin.
"We only managed to manufacture this one in this batch. You people wasted the first prototype already. Don't make the same mistake. The materials are… not easily gathered. If this yields nothing, the next one will take years."
The driver's tone was glacial as he warned the cross-wearing cleric.
"Don't worry. We're going after that Shinigami."
Feeling the temperature climb around them with the youth's mere presence, the cleric smiled with confidence.
//Check out my P@tre0n for 20 extra chapters on all my fanfics //[email protected]/Razeil0810