The Eleventh Division is Dispatched
Bang!
The heavy iron door shattered into four pieces, crashing to the floor with a resounding echo.
A tall figure stepped through the wreckage, a jagged, saw-toothed Zanpakutō slung over his shoulder. His lone visible eye swept the room.
"Is this your true face, Nirvana?"
At the center sat a massive barrel. Inside, Mayuri Kurotsuchi leaned back, his upper body exposed above the liquid. His golden eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on the intruder.
"I don't recall inviting you," he said icily.
"That doesn't matter. Where's Shiraishi?" Zaraki Kenpachi demanded, striding closer. He glanced down, unimpressed at Mayuri's grotesque state—his lower half still submerged, reshaping itself in viscous fluid.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mayuri replied flatly.
"Cut the act. You went after Shiraishi two days ago. He beat you this badly, and your lieutenant's gone. Do you still think you can hide it?"
Kenpachi knew the truth thanks to Yachiru Kusajishi. When she tried to contact Nemu and failed, she slipped into the Twelfth Division's labs and overheard soldiers whispering about the missing vice-captain. The conclusion was unavoidable: Nemu had been destroyed.
"Silence!" Mayuri roared, slamming his hands on the rim of the barrel. His reiatsu erupted wildly.
At first, he had dismissed it. But the longer he thought about Nemu's absence, the more the feeling festered. Fear.
Nemu was his greatest creation—his masterpiece, designed to surpass even Urahara Kisuke. A miracle born of countless hours of experimentation. Even he could not guarantee he could reproduce her.
If Shiraishi had destroyed Nemu, everything was lost.
The thought gnawed at him, stripped him of composure, and twisted him into the kind of man he loathed: reckless, uncontrolled.
Zaraki's words had ripped open the wound, exposing the raw, bloody truth.
"How unpleasant."
Kenpachi ignored the outburst. "You know what happens when you fail acting on your own. If you don't want old man Yama to hear about this, then tell me where Shiraishi is."
"..."
Mayuri's chest heaved with frustration. Damn it. Why am I like this?
After a long silence, he exhaled and relented.
"West District Ten. Richun. He shouldn't have moved yet. The Hollow that appeared yesterday was quickly eliminated. Local patrol—Kawakami Saburō—was overwhelmed."
"You should've said so earlier," Kenpachi grinned, turning for the door. At last, he had Shiraishi's trail. His blood surged with excitement.
"Take off your eyepatch," Mayuri called after him. "That one isn't an opponent you can toy with."
It wasn't concern—it was calculation. Zaraki was a beast, Shiraishi another. Their clash would yield invaluable data. If Mayuri couldn't be there himself, he would send Akon to collect the results.
Even now… I almost thought of sending Nemu. The thought stung. He clenched his teeth. Pathetic. Unworthy of a scientist.
Kenpachi's grin widened. "Heh. Take off the eyepatch, huh? I like the sound of that."
It had been far too long since he'd faced an opponent worth unleashing his full strength upon.
---
Division 11
Kenpachi strode out of the Twelfth Division's halls. In the courtyard, his men lounged about—boisterous, rowdy, undisciplined.
The moment their captain appeared, silence fell.
A bald man with almond-shaped eyes stepped forward. "Captain Zaraki—did you find Shiraishi?"
"Richun. West Tenth District," Kenpachi replied.
A cheer erupted.
The Eleventh Division didn't fight for justice or to protect Soul Society. They fought because battle itself was their creed. Weaklings who feared death never lasted long among them.
"Same rule as always," Kenpachi growled. "Whoever finds him first—he's your prey."
It didn't matter that Shiraishi could cut them down one by one. If they had the guts to draw their swords, Kenpachi would honor it. That was the Eleventh Division's way.
He rested his sword on his shoulder and took the lead.
Kenpachi Zaraki had no grasp of kidō, no mastery of Shikai. Yet he bore the title of Kenpachi—the strongest Shinigami captain—on sheer brute strength alone.
His squad followed eagerly, flooding through the West Gate like a tide of bloodthirsty predators.
The sight of so many Shinigami storming through Rukongai froze the residents in fear. Doors slammed, eyes peeked nervously through shutters.
"Is there a war?"
"Hasn't it been ages since we saw this?"
"That's the Eleventh Division… monsters among monsters."
The voices of the terrified citizens trailed behind as Division 11 surged onward, spreading through the West Tenth District, sealing off roads, their search relentless.
Other divisions began to converge: stealth operatives from the Twelfth, and patrols from the Eighth. A tightening noose of reiatsu pressed down on the forest.
---
Shiraishi
Shiraishi stood amidst the trees, scanning the shadows. He saw no one, yet reiatsu pulsed from every direction. The hunt was on.
"The hell's with this overreaction?" he muttered.
Beside him, Nemu said quietly, "The Captain-Commander ordered four divisions to deal with you."
Shiraishi chuckled bitterly. "Guess the old man really thinks I'm worth the trouble."
Nemu's eyes shifted. "What will you do?"
"What else? Hide. I like beating others up, not getting beaten."
He rolled his eyes. The rank-and-file soldiers were no threat—but three captains in the field, especially Kyōraku Shunsui of the Eighth, were another story.
"Let them search the ground all they want."
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