Intelligence

After the battle ended, Shuichi, who had been standing where he was, relaxed for an instant. His body went limp, and with a thud, he collapsed onto the ground, still gripping his sword.

Chōjirō noticed, but he did not panic. Shuichi's Reiatsu was stable; he had merely collapsed from exhaustion.

Shiba Chuanlu's Shunpo landing was almost soundless.

His Zanpakutō had already been sheathed. The sword marks on his robes were especially conspicuous beneath the sunlight, but he himself was uninjured.

He glanced at Shuichi lying on the ground, then at the curtain of lightning dissipating in the distance.

Chōjirō released his Bankai. The dark clouds swiftly withdrew from the sky, sunlight once more flooded the battlefield, and the lightning pillars of Kōkō Gonryō Rikyū vanished. The scorched smell still lingered in the air.

He used Shunpo to reach Shuichi's side, crouched down, grabbed Shuichi's arm with one hand, and pulled him up from the ground.

Shuichi could not stand steadily, his knees trembling, yet his hand around the sword did not loosen. Chōjirō did not let go either, supporting Shuichi by the shoulder and allowing him to lean against him.

Then Chōjirō saw Shuichi's sword.

The blade was silver, the scabbard rose red. Its surface was smooth, without patterns or adornments. Even the guard had changed.

It was not an alteration or replacement. The scabbard had changed into this form on its own after Shikai.

Shiba Chuanlu walked over, stopped before Shuichi, and lowered his eyes to the sword.

"An ordinary Shikai does not change the scabbard."

Shuichi lowered his head to look at the sword in his hand. His own face reflected from the silver blade. The red of the scabbard was not harsh in the sunlight; it was a calm, restrained red.

Chōjirō fell silent for a moment. "Try releasing your Shikai. Like you practiced at the Genji School, draw your Reiatsu back."

Shuichi closed his eyes. He tried to pull the Reiatsu out of the sword, just as he had done with candles and stones, drawing back what he had released.

The Reiatsu did not move.

It rested quietly within the sword, like water in a container, neither increasing nor decreasing.

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

Chōjirō glanced at Shiba. Shiba crouched down to meet Shuichi's gaze. "Try again. Don't pull it out. Try making it return by itself."

Shuichi tried again.

Reiatsu flowed from his body into the sword, then from the sword back into his body, cycling endlessly. He could cut off the flow going into it, but the Reiatsu already inside the sword would not return. It remained there, maintaining the Shikai state.

"It won't work."

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

"Some direct-combat Zanpakutō, along with a small number of Kidō-type Zanpakutō, can maintain their normal state once their wielder's Reiatsu reaches a certain level. Shikai becomes their normal state, requiring no deliberate maintenance."

He paused.

"There is another kind. I saw it recorded in the Great Spirit Library. It is called Permanent Shikai."

Chōjirō's grip on Shuichi's shoulder tightened slightly. "Permanent?"

"Once the synchronization between a Zanpakutō and its wielder reaches a certain threshold, its Shikai state cannot be released. It is not that it cannot be done; the sword itself has chosen to retain that form."

Shiba looked at Shuichi. "There are very few recorded cases in the Great Spirit Library."

Shuichi lowered his eyes to the sword in his hands. The rose-red scabbard and silver blade glowed with a gentle sheen beneath the sunlight. From the hilt came a sense of presence.

"What kind am I?"

Shiba was silent for a while. "I don't know. We'll go back and ask old man Yamamoto."

The Hachi Clan and the Kuchiki Clan returned sooner than expected.

Once the battle's Reiatsu dissipated, they emerged one after another from behind the hills where they had been hiding. Their Shunpo landings were cautious and probing, until they saw Shuichi leaning against Chōjirō's shoulder, Shiba standing nearby, and no living enemies remaining on the battlefield.

Ryouka Hachi was the first to rush over. Her short blade had already been sheathed. Her black outfit was stained with blood and mud. Her eyes swept over Shuichi, and only after confirming that he was still standing did she slow down. Hiro Kuchiki and Kohei Kuchiki followed with the remaining lower-ranking nobles. Their faces were exhausted, but no one had fallen behind.

"Casualties?" Chōjirō asked.

Hiro Kuchiki lowered his eyes. "The Kuchiki Clan lost three dead and seven wounded. We brought all the bodies back."

Behind him, several lower-ranking nobles carried bodies wrapped in cloaks. Blood seeped through the fabric.

Ryouka Hachi continued, "The Hachi Clan lost one dead and two wounded. The injured can walk on their own."

Shiba Chuanlu pulled out a sheet of paper from his sleeve. He had written it at some unknown time, and the ink had already dried. He handed it to Ryouka Hachi.

"Take this back to Seireitei and hand it to the First Division. There is intelligence that the Quincy have a captain-class commander. Hurry."

Ryouka Hachi accepted the paper, folded it, and tucked it into her clothes. "Understood."

Shiba then looked at Hiro Kuchiki. "Your mission is over. Take the dead back. Do not leave the Quincy corpses here; dispose of all of them. Return them to the Reishi cycle as quickly as possible. Anyone below Third-Class Spiritual Might does not need a special funeral. Purify them on the spot."

Hiro Kuchiki nodded. "Yes."

The Kuchiki Clan's lower-ranking nobles began gathering the Quincy corpses from the battlefield. The light of the Reishi Purification Technique lit up over the bodies, and one after another, they turned into fine motes of light, rising into the sky and dispersing into the air.

The Hachi Clan assisted with the cleanup. They moved quickly, and before long, only bloodstains and scorch marks remained on the battlefield.

Ryouka Hachi left first with the Hachi Clan. Hiro Kuchiki followed afterward, and the procession carrying the fallen disappeared behind the eastern hills.

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

Chōjirō supported Shuichi to a rock sheltered from the wind and let him sit leaning against it.

Shuichi's Zanpakutō lay across his knees, its rose-red scabbard especially conspicuous against the gray-white wasteland.

Shiba Chuanlu stood some distance away, facing west with his arms folded.

His gaze rested on the western horizon. There was nothing there, only endless wasteland and low clouds.

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

Chōjirō sat beside Shuichi, Gonryōmaru across his knees. He said nothing, merely closed his eyes and adjusted his breathing.

Shuichi lowered his head to look at his sword. He tried once more to release his Shikai, but the Reiatsu still would not move.

The sense of presence coming from the hilt became clearer and clearer, as though something were quietly staying by his side.

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

Half an hour later, they would continue west.

After traveling west for half an hour, a gray-white castle appeared on the horizon.

It was not a stone-built village like those in Rukongai, but a true military fortress. Its walls towered high, watchtowers stood densely packed, and the gray-white stone gleamed coldly beneath the gloomy sky.

Figures moved along the walls.

They were guards. Not just one or two, but organized patrols.

Shiba Chuanlu stopped.

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

Shuichi tightened his grip on his Zanpakutō, while Chōjirō placed a hand on Gonryōmaru's hilt.

Shiba drew his sword.

"Bankai."

"Three Thousand Feathers of Weak Water."

The Zanpakutō melted within his Reiatsu, turning into countless blue motes of light.

The motes swelled, changed shape, and reassembled. Dozens of enormous water birds burst out from the light. Their wingspans were greater than during Shikai, and their feathers no longer shone like metal, but were flowing, translucent water.

The water birds circled overhead, the sound of their wings like the tide.

Shiba raised his right hand, spreading his fingers toward the castle.

"Dream of Watery Heaven."

The dozens of water birds gathered in the air, merging into a single gigantic water bird.

Its wings blocked out the sky. Its body was formed of pure water Reishi, with vortex-like power churning within.

The water bird dived and crashed into the castle's main gate.

At the instant of impact, its body turned into a surging torrent that smashed apart the gate.

Gray-white stone flew everywhere. The gate and the wall above it were blasted open into a massive breach. The torrent's aftershock surged into the castle, overturning watchtowers and collapsing corridors.

Shiba raised his left hand.

The giant water bird's remnants rose from the ruins and split apart once more into dozens of smaller water birds.

"Thousand Feather Crossing."

The flock dived. Every water bird became a water arrow, shooting through the breach into the castle and exploding within. The detonations were as dense as drumbeats. The guards atop the walls were hurled away by the shockwaves, their white uniforms spinning through the air.

The continuous bombardment lasted fewer than ten breaths. The Reiatsu inside and outside the castle went from dense to sparse. Most of the Quincy had lost their ability to fight in the first barrage.

Shiba lowered his hand. The flock circled above the castle, awaiting its next command.

"Search," he said.

Chōjirō used Shunpo to enter the castle. Shuichi followed, with Shiba walking last as the flock remained vigilant overhead.

Corpses and wreckage littered the ruins. Blood spattered the gray-white stone, and the light of Reishi purification began rising from the bodies.

Chōjirō kicked open a half-collapsed iron door and entered a relatively intact room.

Maps and documents were pinned to the walls, while sheets filled with writing lay spread across the table.

Shuichi picked up a sheet of paper.

It was a handwritten list. The neat script densely listed dozens of names.

Another paper bore the name "Jugram Haschwalth." It was not marked as commander, but the name had been bolded and placed alone on a line.

Shiba tore a map off the wall.

Different colors marked troop routes, assembly points, and targets of attack.

The same word appeared repeatedly in several letters: "His Majesty."

Some read, "His Majesty's will." Some read, "By His Majesty's order." Others contained only a lone "His Majesty," like a prayer in some religious ritual.

"Battle plan." Chōjirō pulled a thick roll of paper from beneath the table and spread it out.

It showed detailed attack routes, marking every entrance to Soul Society, weak points in Seireitei's defenses, and the distribution of Hollow groups in Rukongai. No time was written, but the arrows pointed east, toward Seireitei.

Shiba rolled up the maps and documents and stuffed them into his sleeve.

"Take them."

He turned and walked out of the room. The flock gathered over the ruins, returning to blue motes of light and entering the scabbard.

Shuichi gave the list one last look. Bazz-B, a member of the knight order favored by His Majesty; Jugram Haschwalth, His Majesty's other half and the commander of the knight order; and more.

He folded the list and followed the group.

After their footsteps faded away, movement stirred among the ruins.

A slanted stone slab was pushed up from below. Gray-white dust rustled down. A hand stretched out from the gap, braced against the slab's edge, and shoved the entire piece aside.

A middle-aged man in a Quincy uniform crawled out of the rubble. Half his face was covered in blood. His left arm hung at his side, clearly broken. He knelt on the ground and gasped for breath several times before raising his head and scanning his surroundings.

One after another, several more people rose from the ruins. Some crawled out from beneath collapsed watchtowers, while others staggered out from behind the remnants of the walls.

They all wore squad leader uniforms embroidered with emblems different from those of ordinary Holy Soldiers. Their Reiatsu was far stronger than that of the people lying motionless on the ground, but every one of them was injured. Not a single one was whole.

One young squad leader pushed himself up against a broken wall and looked at the corpses covering the ground. His white uniform had been dyed dark red with blood. Twisted limbs were crushed beneath the rubble. The glow of Reishi purification had begun to rise from some bodies, fine motes of light slowly drifting into the sky. His lips trembled, and so did his hands.

"Soul Reapers." He forced out the words, his voice hoarse, like it had been scraped from the depths of his throat.

The middle-aged squad leader with the broken arm stood and walked to the center of the ruins. He looked toward the blasted-open gate. Nothing remained there but shattered stone and blackened marks. The Reiatsu of the three Soul Reapers had completely vanished to the east.

"The information was taken," he said, his tone as calm as if he were commenting on the weather.

It was not that he did not grieve. He had known this would happen.

A captain-class battle was not something they could interfere with. Surviving was already a stroke of luck.

Those documents, maps, and lists had never truly been expected to remain secure. They simply had not expected that Soul Reaper to act so decisively, leaving them no opportunity even to burn the materials.

The young squad leader punched the broken wall, scattering stone chips. "Those bastards!"

"Shut up."

The middle-aged squad leader cut him off. "You should be grateful to be alive. Remember their faces. Remember their swords. Pay them back next time."

The surviving ordinary Holy Soldiers and Quincy crawled out from all across the ruins. Some supported one another, some dragged broken legs, and some had even lost their weapons. They watched their comrades' bodies crushed under the rubble. They watched motes of Reishi purification rise from their fellow soldiers. No one cried. No one shouted. There was only silence, and beneath that silence, something that nearly burned through their chests.

Hatred.

Not the fierce kind of hatred that was shouted aloud, but cold, heavy hatred, like embers buried beneath ash, smoldering slowly.

The middle-aged squad leader walked through the ruins and gathered together every survivor who could still stand.

He counted their numbers, asked each of them what they had seen and heard, and pieced together the scattered information.

"The one in the ornate clothes," a Holy Soldier said, pointing toward the castle's main gate. His voice still trembled.

"His sword turned into birds. Huge birds. One strike brought down the wall, then they turned into lots of smaller ones and exploded everywhere."

"They were made of water."

Another Holy Soldier added, "Blue, transparent, like water."

The middle-aged squad leader nodded. He did not ask for that Soul Reaper's name. No one knew it. He only knew that the Soul Reaper's clothes were expensive and unlike those of the other two. He looked like a noble.

His Zanpakutō could turn into water birds. Enlarged, they could break fortifications; reduced, they could clear the field. That was all.

He committed the information to memory, then turned to face the silent, wounded survivors, hatred suppressed in their eyes.

"Move."

"Go back."

The survivors began moving west. The gray-white castle gradually shrank behind them, becoming a gray speck on the horizon. No one looked back.