Quincy

Shuichi had no idea how long they had been walking. After crossing the boundary marker, the ground began to crack, the grass changed from withered yellow to ash gray, and eventually even the grass vanished, leaving only rubble, sand, and endless wind. The wind blew for a day and a night, drying out their eyes and splitting their lips. No one in the group spoke; there were only footsteps and the wind.

Then the desert abruptly ended.

The sand beneath their feet turned into grassland, and the grassland into fields. The outlines of trees appeared in the distance. A river wound down from north to south, its water clear, poplars growing thick along both banks.

Shuichi stood by the riverbank, looking at the village across the water.

"This isn't the West Tip Bureau," Chōjirō said from beside him.

"Quincy territory." Shiba Chuanlu still sounded lazy, but his gaze was no longer unfocused.

The group waded across the river. The water was shallow, reaching only their knees. Once they crossed, spiritual pressure began to appear.

It was not the sparse, scattered spiritual pressure of Rukongai. It was dense, like a net—some strong, some weak, some moving, some still. Shuichi focused, extending his senses to their limit.

"Over there." He pointed northwest.

Chōjirō nodded.

Shiba Chuanlu said nothing and headed directly in that direction. The group followed.

After walking for about half an hour, the riverbank became farmland. Beyond the fields lay a village: stone houses, chimneys, tiled roofs, orderly streets lined with low shrubs and green trees.

Shiba Chuanlu immediately drew his sword and charged ahead. Only then did his voice drift back from the distance.

"Battle."

Shuichi could also feel the spiritual pressure ahead moving, gathering, surging toward them at great speed.

"Prepare!" Chōjirō's voice was low.

The twenty-odd members of the Kuchiki Clan drew their swords. The eight Hachi Clan members spread out and advanced in a fan formation. Shuichi drew his sword as well and moved forward with the group.

People poured out from behind the shrubs.

Not one or two, but dozens. They wore identical gray uniforms and carried standardized Reishi bows and crossbows. Their steps were orderly. They stopped around fifty paces from the group, their weapons aimed at Shuichi and the others.

Their leader was a tall man with short gray hair and a stern face. He stood at the forefront without a bow or crossbow, a short blade hanging at his waist.

"Shinigami!"

His voice was cold. "This is not a place you should have come."

Shuichi did not answer. He was watching the spiritual pressure of those people across from him—it was not Quincy spiritual pressure. That violent, pure thing, like flame, was absent from them. Their spiritual pressure was... that of tools. As though something was assisting them, strengthening them, replacing them.

Reishi Armament.

"They aren't Quincies," Shuichi said.

"Most aren't," Chōjirō said quietly. "But there are a few mixed in."

Shiba Chuanlu stood at the front with his arms crossed. His eyes swept over the crowd, lingering for a moment on several people. "Three."

Shuichi followed his gaze. Those people stood at the rear of the formation, wearing the same gray uniforms, but their spiritual pressure was different—not that of tools, but their own. That violent, pure quality.

"Engage them all!" Shiba Chuanlu placed a hand on his sword hilt.

Shuichi circled around the flank. He tightened his grip on his Zanpakutō as spiritual pressure flowed from within him, pouring down his arm and into the blade.

The leader on the other side raised his hand.

"Attack!"

Reishi arrows rained down.

Chōjirō drew his sword. Gonryōmaru's blade flashed beneath the sunlight, its golden guard reflecting a blinding gleam.

"Pierce them! Gonryōmaru!"

Lightning burst from the sword tip, a curved chain of electricity sweeping across the front row of Reishi Armament users. The arcs struck their bows and crossbows. The Reishi Armaments exploded, gray-white smoke spreading through the air. Seven or eight people fell to the ground and did not move again.

Shuichi charged into the crowd.

His first strike landed on a Reishi Armament user's neck. The blade cut in without resistance. Blood sprayed out and splashed across the back of his hand. He did not stop. His second strike followed, stabbing into the chest of the person beside him. When he pulled his Zanpakutō free, that person dropped to their knees, both hands clutching the wound as blood poured through their fingers.

The eight members of the Hachi Clan flanked them from the other side. Their Hakuda and Zanjutsu were no mere show.

They plunged into the crowd, fists and feet moving in tandem, spiritual pressure concentrated over their knuckles and knees. Every hit brought the sound of bones cracking, every slash sent blood flying. Those struck fell and never rose again.

The twenty-odd Kuchiki Clan members charged in as well. Their swords struck the Reishi Armaments in showers of sparks, but their Reishi Armaments were superior to those of these Quincies. One gray-uniformed fighter after another fell.

Shuichi felt spiritual pressure erupt beside him.

He turned. A gray-uniformed man stood three steps away, holding a short blade condensed with Reishi. Its edge glowed a pale blue.

The Quincy's eyes were cold as he looked at Shuichi and brought down his short blade.

Shuichi blocked. His Zanpakutō collided with the Reishi short blade, producing a shrill metallic scrape. The Quincy was incredibly strong—not through brute force, but strength enhanced by Reishi. Shuichi's feet slid half a step across the ground, but he did not retreat.

He shifted sideways, letting his blade slide down along the Quincy's weapon and slice at the man's fingers. The Quincy released his grip and retreated, his short blade falling to the ground. Shuichi gave him no chance to catch his breath.

Straight Cut.

The sword came down from overhead, splitting along the centerline. Chōjirō had taught him the Straight Cut for two years.

That Quincy had no way to evade the strike.

The blade entered through his collarbone and stopped at his chest. Shuichi pulled it free. Blood ran down the blade and dripped onto the ground.

The Quincy dropped to his knees, staring at Shuichi before falling backward. Then his spiritual pressure vanished.

Shuichi stood there, gripping his bloodied Zanpakutō and looking at the corpse on the ground.

Behind him, the battle continued. The sounds of clashing metal, screams, and Reishi bowfire blended together. He drew a deep breath, turned around, and walked toward his next target.

The battle lasted less than a quarter of an hour.

More than forty corpses lay on the ground, all in gray uniforms. Fragments of Reishi Armament littered the battlefield. Shuichi's side had suffered casualties as well. Three Kuchiki Clan members were injured, along with one member of the Hachi Clan. As was customary, the wounded received simple treatment.

Shiba Chuanlu stood in the center of the battlefield. He looked at the corpses on the ground, his expression unchanged.

"Only three Quincies. The rest were not."

He said, "Routine rest. The place with the densest spiritual pressure is still ahead."

The battle had ended, and they had rested for less than half an hour when a surge of spiritual pressure suddenly appeared, like a mountain dropping from the sky.

Everyone was immediately drawn to the disturbance.

On the distant horizon, white figures stood in formation.

There were roughly a hundred of them. White military uniforms, blue Reishi bows, standardized cross swords. At the front of the formation stood a man unlike the others. He wore an additional long white cloak, its collar set with a silver insignia. A cross-shaped longsword hung at his waist. His golden hair stirred lightly in the wind, his expression stern.

A blond adjutant stood beside him. His uniform was the same as the man at the front, though simpler in design and without an insignia. Behind them stood hundreds of Quincy soldiers in white uniforms, their spiritual pressure aligned as neatly as a wall.

"Hirenkyaku," Shiba Chuanlu said.

His voice was low. "The Quincy high-speed movement technique. It differs from a Shinigami's Shunpo, but the effect is similar."

Shuichi looked at the people in white uniforms. Their spiritual pressure did not have the artificial feel of Reishi Armament. They were genuine Quincies.

Several hundred of them—not scattered fighters, but an army.

The blond man at the front stepped forward. His pace was not fast, yet each step carried him an immense distance. After only a few steps, he stood a hundred paces ahead of the formation. The adjutant followed behind him, equally light-footed.

The blond man stopped and drew the cross-shaped longsword from his waist. The sword tip pointed upward, the blade vertical to the ground, the hilt level with his shoulder.

A shoulder-height vertical sword stance.

"Sternritter, Johnsen Kreuzitis."

His voice was not loud, but every word reached them clearly. He was not shouting; his spiritual pressure carried the sound, vibrating through the air.

The cross sword pointed forward, its tip aimed at Shiba Chuanlu.

"Shinigami, state your name."

Shuichi felt Shiba Chuanlu's spiritual pressure change. It did not erupt—it condensed, like scattered sand suddenly clenched into stone.

Shiba Chuanlu placed his hand on his sword hilt and drew. The sound of the Zanpakutō leaving its sheath was short and sharp.

"It seems you Quincies have no intention of negotiating."

Before the words had faded, he had vanished. Shunpo. Shiba Chuanlu's Shunpo was not the straightforward burst Chōjirō had taught him, but an eerie, unpredictable zigzag movement, like a bird changing direction in the wind.

Johnsen's spiritual pressure contracted in an instant, then erupted. Hirenkyaku—his body vanished from where he stood.

Two spiritual pressures rose simultaneously in the distance. Shiba Chuanlu's was steady and heavy, like a mountain. Johnsen's was violent and pure, like a blaze. The two collided, and a dull boom rang out from the distant hills. The ground trembled slightly.

A clash of spiritual pressure.

Once, twice, three times. Each collision shook the air and made the ground beneath their feet quiver. Shiba Chuanlu's spiritual pressure was steady as a mountain; every time it was suppressed, it rebounded even more fiercely than before. Johnsen's was like a blade—sharp, precise, each strike trying to cut through Shiba Chuanlu's defense.

Chōjirō kept a hand on his sword hilt, feeling the distant collisions of spiritual pressure while looking toward the hundreds of Quincy soldiers in white uniforms. Their formation remained neat, their spiritual pressure steady as a wall. They did not move.

"Our problem is ahead of us."

The blond adjutant stood at the front of the formation and had not followed Johnsen into the distance. His gaze passed over Shuichi, fixed on the direction where Shiba Chuanlu and Johnsen were fighting. His expression was calm, as if waiting for a result.

Chōjirō took his hand off his sword hilt.

"Wait," he said.

Shuichi watched the two clashing spiritual pressures in the distance and tightened his grip on his Zanpakutō.

Just as Shiba Chuanlu and Johnsen vanished beyond the horizon, the blond adjutant moved.

He drew the longsword from his waist, sword tip raised, blade vertical to the ground, hilt level with his shoulder—the exact same opening stance as Johnsen. Shoulder-height vertical sword stance. The blade flashed beneath the sunlight.

"Holy Soldiers!"

His voice was not loud, but every word drove into the air like a nail.

The hundreds of white-uniformed Quincies behind him moved at once. They raised their bows in perfect unison, Reishi gathering in their hands, drawing light from the void to form bowstrings and arrows. Hundreds of Reishi longbows opened simultaneously, the sound of taut strings ringing out as one thunderclap.

Shuichi's pupils contracted sharply.

"Scatter!"

Before Chōjirō's voice had faded, the Hachi Clan members had already moved. Ryouka Hachi led her eight people in Shunpo to both sides. The twenty-odd Kuchiki Clan members spread into a fan formation and gathered Reishi to create Reishi defenses.

Everyone knew that scattering would only keep them from becoming easy targets. It still could not completely block the Reishi arrows.

Chōjirō stood at the front of the group. His left hand gripped Gonryōmaru's sheath while his right slowly drew the sword. The sound of the blade sliding free was not the crisp ring of metal, but a deep hum like distant thunder, accompanied by flickering strands of golden lightning.

The blond adjutant pointed his sword forward.

There were no words, no command—only that motion. The sword tip tilted forward from shoulder height, pointing at Shuichi's group.

Hundreds of Reishi longbows released at once.

An arrow rain.

The Reishi arrows gathered overhead into a curtain of deathly light, blotting out the sky. Their shriek through the air was sharp and piercing, like a thousand birds screaming at once.

Shuichi clenched his teeth, holding his Zanpakutō horizontally before him to build a Reishi defense as he chanted Kidō. He knew he could not stop them—hundreds of arrows. He could block ten, perhaps twenty, but the rest would turn him into a sieve. Yet he did not retreat. He had to stop the arrows and carve out a relatively safe space for himself.

Chōjirō raised Gonryōmaru.

The sword tip pointed toward the sky. Dark clouds appeared from nothing above his head—not drifting in, but condensing into existence. Gray-black clouds roiled, swelled, and pressed downward above the sword tip, like a vast whirlpool.

Then the lightning descended.

Yellow lightning poured from the storm clouds, weaving around Chōjirō into a vast canopy. The arcs were blinding. The air ionized, crackling with explosive pops.

"Bankai!"

The arrow rain struck the lightning.

The Reishi arrows were swallowed the instant they touched the curtain of lightning. The lightning was like an enormous mouth, devouring hundreds of arrows in one bite and leaving nothing behind. The Reishi within the arrows exploded inside the lightning curtain, turning into countless tiny motes of light before dispersing.

Standing behind Chōjirō, Shuichi could feel the power of that lightning. It was not ordinary Kidō lightning. It was Bankai—Gonryōmaru's Bankai.

"Kōkō Gonryō Rikyū."

Chōjirō's voice was not loud, but Shuichi heard it clearly. The vice-captain stood straight within the lightning curtain, Gonryōmaru pointed toward the sky, its golden guard especially dazzling amid the lightning. The yellow lightning canopy slowly revolved over his head like a huge, living barrier.

The blond adjutant lowered his sword.

He looked at the lightning curtain, his expression unchanged.

The Holy Soldiers drew their bows again. A second wave of arrow rain could come at any moment.

Chōjirō swung Gonryōmaru. The lightning curtain flashed in the sky, then split off a bolt that struck toward the blond adjutant. The blond adjutant blocked with his sword and neutralized the attack.