Intelligence

After the battle ended, in the fleeting moment of relaxation, Shuichi's legs gave out as he stood in place, and he collapsed facedown onto the ground with a thump, his sword still clutched in his hand.

Chōjirō noticed, but did not panic, because Shuichi's spiritual pressure was very steady, and his sudden collapse was nothing more than sheer exhaustion.

Shiba Chuanlu's landing from his Shunpo was almost silent.

His Zanpakutō was already sheathed, and the sword marks on his robes stood out clearly in the sunlight, but he was uninjured.

He glanced down at Shuichi sprawled on the ground, then looked over at the distant thunder curtain that was currently dissipating.

Chōjirō released his Bankai, the dark clouds rapidly retreating from the sky as sunlight flooded the entire battlefield once more; the pillars of thunder of Kōkō Gonryō Rikyū vanished, though the scent of scorching hung thick in the air.

He shunpoed to Shuichi's side, crouching down to grab Shuichi's arm with one hand, hauling Shuichi up from the earth.

Shuichi could not stand steadily, his knees trembling, yet his grip on his sword remained unyielding; Chōjirō did not let go, supporting Shuichi by the shoulder and letting him lean against his side to stand.

Then Chōjirō saw Shuichi's blade.

The blade was silver, the scabbard rose-red, the surface smooth without patterns or decorations, and even the tsuba had changed.

It was not a modification or a replacement; after the Shikai, the scabbard itself had transformed into this.

Shiba Chuanlu walked over, standing before Shuichi and looking down at the sword.

"An ordinary Shikai does not change the scabbard."

Shuichi looked down at the sword in his hand, his own face reflected on the silver blade. The red of the scabbard was not dazzling in the sunlight, possessing instead a quiet, restrained hue.

Chōjirō was silent for a moment. "Try releasing the Shikai. Like you practiced at the Genji School, pull the spiritual pressure back in."

Shuichi closed his eyes, attempting to withdraw his spiritual pressure from the sword, just as he had done with candles and stones, pulling back what he had cast outward.

The spiritual pressure did not move.

It stayed quietly within the blade, like water in a container, neither increasing nor decreasing.

He opened his eyes. "I can't pull it back."

Chōjirō glanced at Shiba, who crouched down to look Shuichi in the eye. "Try again. Don't pull it out; try to let it return on its own."

Shuichi tried one more time.

Spiritual pressure flowed from his body into the blade, then from the blade back into his body, cycling back and forth. He could cut off the flow, but the spiritual pressure inside the blade would not return; it remained stationed there, maintaining the state of Shikai.

"It's no good."

Shiba stood up, crossing his arms as his gaze lingered on Shuichi's sword for a moment.

"Certain direct-attack Zanpakutō and a small portion of Kidō-type Zanpakutō can maintain their regular state once the wielder's spiritual pressure reaches a certain level. Shikai becomes the natural state, requiring no deliberate maintenance."

He paused.

"There is another kind, which I saw in the Great Spirit Library, called a Permanent Shikai."

Chōjirō's hand tightened on Shuichi's shoulder. "Permanent?"

"Once the synchronization between the Zanpakutō and the wielder reaches a certain boundary, the Shikai state cannot be dismissed. It's not that it can't be undone; it's that the blade itself chooses to maintain that form."

Shiba looked at Shuichi. "According to the records in the Great Spirit Library, such cases are very rare."

Shuichi looked down at the sword in his hand, the rose-red scabbard and silver blade casting a warm, soft glow in the sunlight, while a distinct sense of presence emanated from the hilt.

"Which kind is my current state?"

Shiba was silent for a moment. "I don't know. We'll ask Old Man Yamamoto when we return."

The people of the Hachi Clan and the Kuchiki Clan returned faster than anticipated.

Once the spiritual pressure of the battle dissipated, they emerged one after another from behind the hills where they had taken cover, landing with cautious probing until they saw Shuichi leaning against Chōjirō's shoulder and Shiba standing to one side. There were no living enemies left on the battlefield.

Ryouka Hachi was the first to rush over, her short blade already sheathed, her black attire stained with blood and dirt. Her gaze swept over Shuichi, and upon confirming that he was still standing, she slowed her pace. Hiro Kuchiki and Kohei Kuchiki followed close behind with the remaining lower nobility, their expressions fatigued, yet no one had fallen behind.

"Casualties?" Chōjirō asked.

Hiro Kuchiki lowered his gaze. "Three dead from the Kuchiki Clan, seven wounded. We've brought all the bodies back."

Behind him, several lower nobility members carried bodies wrapped in cloaks, blood seeping through the fabric.

Ryouka Hachi continued, "One dead from the Hachi Clan, two wounded. The injured can walk on their own."

Shiba Chuanlu retrieved a piece of paper from his sleeve—written at some unknown time, the ink already dry—and handed it to Ryouka Hachi.

"Take this back to Seireitei, and hand it to the First Division. The intelligence that the Quincy are led by a captain-class commander—hurry."

Ryouka Hachi took the paper, folded it, and tucked it into her bodice. "Understood."

Shiba then looked at Hiro Kuchiki. "Your mission is finished. Return with the dead. Do not leave the bodies of the Quincy here; deal with all of them, and let them return to the reishi cycle as soon as possible. Without third-class spiritual might or higher—no special funeral is necessary; purify them on the spot."

Hiro Kuchiki nodded. "Yes."

The lower nobility of the Kuchiki Clan began to round up the bodies of the Quincy on the battlefield. The light of the Reishi Purification Technique flared over the corpses, turning them one by one into fine points of light that rose into the sky and dissolved into the air.

The members of the Hachi Clan assisted with the cleanup, moving quickly, and before long, nothing remained on the battlefield except bloodstains and charred marks.

Ryouka Hachi led the Hachi Clan members away first, followed by Hiro Kuchiki, the procession carrying the fallen disappearing behind the eastern hills.

The battlefield grew quiet, leaving only Shuichi, Chōjirō, and Shiba Chuanlu.

Chōjirō supported Shuichi over to a wind-sheltered boulder, sitting him down with his back against the stone.

Shuichi's Zanpakutō lay horizontally across his lap, the rose-red scabbard striking against the gray-white wasteland.

Shiba Chuanlu stood not far away, facing west with his arms crossed.

His gaze fell upon the western horizon, where nothing existed save for endless wasteland and low-hanging clouds.

"Rest for half an hour," he said without turning his head.

Chōjirō sat down beside Shuichi, Gonryōmaru resting across his knees. He said nothing, simply closing his eyes to regulate his breathing.

Shuichi looked down at his sword, attempting once more to release the Shikai; the spiritual pressure still refused to budge.

The sense of presence emanating from the hilt grew increasingly clear, as though something were quietly waiting by his side.

He tightened his grip on the hilt and closed his eyes.

Half an hour later, they would continue westward.

Half an hour after pressing deep into the west, a gray-white fortress appeared on the horizon.

It was not a stone-built village or town like those in Rukongai, but a genuine military stronghold with towering walls and dense watchtowers, its gray-white stonework casting a cold gleam beneath the gloomy sky.

Figures moved along the ramparts.

They were guards—not just one or two, but an organized patrol unit.

Shiba Chuanlu halted.

"Go into the castle and see if there is any intelligence."

Shuichi gripped his Zanpakutō tighter, while Chōjirō's hand rested on the hilt of Gonryōmaru.

Shiba drew his blade.

"Bankai."

"Three Thousand Feathers of Weak Water."

The Zanpakutō melted amidst the spiritual pressure, transforming into countless blue points of light.

The points of light expanded, deformed, and reorganized. Dozens of huge water birds rushed out from the light, their wingspans even larger than during Shikai, their feathers no longer possessing a metallic sheen, but instead composed of flowing, translucent water elements.

The water birds circled in the air, the sound of their flapping wings resembling a tidal surge.

Shiba's right hand rose, his five fingers spread wide, aimed at the fortress.

"Dream of Watery Heaven."

Dozens of water birds converged in the sky, fusing into a single giant water bird.

Its wingspan blotted out the sun and sky, its body constructed from pure water reishi, swirling with vortex-like power internally.

The water bird dove, crashing into the main gate of the fortress.

The body of the water bird transformed into a raging torrent the moment of impact, the torrent shattering the city gates.

Gray-white stone fragments flew in all directions, and the gate along with the wall above it was blasted into a massive breach. The aftershock of the torrent rushed into the interior of the fortress, overturning watchtowers and collapsing corridors.

Shiba's left hand rose.

The remains of the giant water bird rose from the ruins, splitting apart once more into dozens of smaller water birds.

"Thousand Feather Crossing."

The flock of water birds plunged downward, every single bird transforming into a water arrow shot from the breach into the fortress, exploding within. The sounds of detonation were as dense as drumbeats, and the guards on the city walls were blown away by the shockwaves, their white uniforms tumbling in the air.

The continuous bombardment lasted less than ten breaths, the spiritual pressure inside and outside the fortress shifting from dense to sparse. Most of the Quincy had already lost their combat capability during the initial bombardment.

Shiba lowered his hand, the flock of water birds circling above the fortress, awaiting the next command.

"Search," he said.

Chōjirō shunpoed into the castle, Shuichi followed closely, and Shiba brought up the rear, the flock of water birds maintaining vigilance overhead.

Corpses and debris littered the ruins, bloodstains splattered across the gray-white stonework, and the light of reishi purification began to emerge from the bodies. Chōjirō kicked open a half-toppled iron door, stepping into a relatively intact room.

Maps and documents were pinned to the walls, and papers covered in writing were spread across the desk.

Shuichi picked up a piece of paper.

On it was a handwritten roster, the handwriting neat, densely listing dozens of names.

Another sheet of paper bore the name "Jugram Haschwalth" without the title of Grand Master, the name emphasized in bold on a line of its own.

Shiba tore a map from the wall.

Marching routes, assembly points, and attack targets were marked on the map in various colors.

The same word, "His Majesty," appeared repeatedly within several letters.

Some read "His Majesty's will," some "His Majesty's orders," and others consisted merely of a solitary "His Majesty," resembling incantations from some religious ritual.

"Battle plans," Chōjirō said, unrolling a thick scroll of paper he had fished out from under the desk.

Detailed offensive route maps were drawn upon it, marking the various entry points to Soul Society, the defensive weak points of Seireitei, and the Hollow herd distributions of Rukongai. No time was noted, but the heads of the arrows pointed eastward, toward Seireitei.

Shiba rolled up the map and documents, stuffing them into his sleeve.

"Take them."

He turned and walked out of the room. The flock of water birds gathered above the ruins, transforming back into blue points of light before being reabsorbed into the scabbard.

Shuichi cast one final look at that roster—Bazz-B, the knight favored by His Majesty; Jugram Haschwalth, His Majesty's other half and leader of the Sternritter, and so on.

He folded the roster and hurried to catch up with the group.

After the sound of footsteps faded into the distance, movement stirred within the ruins.

A slanted stone slab was shoved open from below, gray-white dust cascading down as a hand reached out from the gap, pressing against the edge of the slab and pushing the entire plate aside.

A middle-aged man wearing a Quincy military uniform crawled out from the rubble, half his face covered in blood, his left arm hanging limply at his side, evidently broken. He knelt on the ground, panting for a few breaths, then raised his head to survey his surroundings.

One after another, several figures stood up within the ruins; some crawled out from beneath collapsed watchtowers, while others staggered out from behind the wreckage of the city wall.

All of them were squad-leader types, their uniforms embroidered with crests distinct from ordinary holy soldiers, and their spiritual pressure far surpassed that of the individuals lying motionless on the ground. Yet every single one of them bore injuries, and not one was unhurt.

One young squad leader leaned against a broken wall, gazing at the sea of corpses. His white uniform was dyed dark red with blood, twisted limbs were pinned beneath the rubble, and the light of reishi purification had already begun to surface from certain bodies, fine points of light slowly ascending toward the sky. His lips trembled, and his hands shook as well.

"Shinigami," he spat out those two words, his voice hoarse as though scraped from the depths of his throat.

The middle-aged squad leader with the broken arm stood up, walking to the center of the ruins and casting a glance toward the direction of the blasted city gate. Nothing remained there save for a pile of rubble and charred marks. The spiritual pressure of the three Shinigami had completely vanished toward the east.

"The intelligence was taken," he said, his tone as calm as if he were stating the weather.

It was not a lack of grief; rather, they had known all along that this would happen.

Battles involving captain-class combatants were beyond their intervention; surviving was already a stroke of fortune.

Those documents, maps, and rosters had never been expected to hold out from the start, though he had not anticipated that these Shinigami would be so decisive as to leave them no opportunity even to burn the data.

The young squad leader punched a broken wall, stone chips flying everywhere. "Those bastards!"

"Shut up."

The middle-aged squad leader cut him off. "Be grateful you're alive. Remember their faces, remember their blades, and pay it back next time."

The surviving ordinary holy soldiers and Quincy crawled out from various parts of the ruins, some supporting one another, some dragging broken legs, some having even lost their weapons. They watched as their comrades' bodies were pinned beneath the rubble, watching the points of reishi purification rise from their fallen brothers-in-arms. No one cried, and no one shouted—there was only silence, and compressed beneath that silence, something threatening to burn straight through their chests.

Hatred.

It was not the fiery, shouted kind of hatred, but a cold, heavy variety, burning slowly like charcoal buried beneath ash.

The middle-aged squad leader walked a circle through the ruins, gathering the survivors who could still stand.

He tallied the numbers, asked about what each person had witnessed, and pieced the fragmented information together.

"That one wearing ornate clothes," a holy soldier pointed toward the direction of the fortress's main gate, his voice still trembling. "His sword turned into a bird—a huge bird—and knocked the wall down with a single hit, and then it turned into lots of small ones that blew everything up everywhere."

"Made of water," another holy soldier added. "Blue, transparent, like water."

The middle-aged squad leader nodded. He did not ask for that Shinigami's name—no one knew it. He only knew that the Shinigami's garments were expensive, distinct from the other two, and gave the impression of nobility.

His Zanpakutō could transform into water birds, growing large to assault fortifications or shrinking to clear the field. Nothing more.

He engraved that information into his mind, then turned around to face the silent, injured survivors with hatred suppressed in their eyes.

"Move."

"Back we go."

The survivors began to move westward, the gray-white fortress gradually shrinking behind them until it became a gray speck on the horizon. Not a single person looked back.