Once Again...

The wind had stopped.

The heat wave that could have burned all of Soul Society away seemed to have taken the warmth from this world with it as the old man fell.

The air was filled with a nauseating scorched stench, the smell of flesh, blood, and Spiritual Pressure forcibly carbonized under extreme heat.

Shunsui Kyoraku knelt on the ground. The heavy body in his arms was gradually losing its warmth, like a collapsed mountain crushing even his soul into trembling.

Thick blood slid down the blade of Katen Kyokotsu, drip, drip, falling onto the cracked, scorched earth with soft sounds like a funeral bell.

Amid the deathly silence, a calm voice carrying even a trace of appreciation abruptly pierced through the membrane of despair.

"Thank you very much for this truly magnificent performance, Captain Kyoraku."

Since this grand play had begun, this was the first time Ross had spoken to the real Shunsui Kyoraku.

There was no mockery, no anger. His tone was as placid as that of an aristocrat who had just enjoyed an opera and was now offering polite greetings to the clown taking his curtain call.

To Ross, it might have been nothing more than praise upon seeing something worthy of appreciation.

But to Shunsui Kyoraku, it was an invitation from hell.

"Ross!"

Shunsui Kyoraku slowly raised his head.

In those usually languid eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his straw hat, not a trace of white remained. Bloodshot veins, like ruptured vessels, had dyed his vision crimson.

He glared at Ross with eyes wide enough to split.

At the edge of his vision, that absurd farce was still continuing.

Fake Jūshirō was single-handedly holding off the Captains in a tragic display, buying Fake Kyoraku time to catch his breath.

But in the true field of