Fierce Assault

West District One

Seventh Division Grounds

Nobutsuna Shigyo stood before the squad barracks, the massive executioner's greatsword resting across his shoulder as his gaze swept over the street ahead.

Holy Soldiers surged out of the shadows, rushing toward him like a white tide.

Arrow barrages, Reishi blades, Hirenkyaku ambushes—all the attacks were aimed at him alone.

Nobutsuna Shigyo moved.

She merely swung her Zanpakutō mechanically. Every Shunpo was a slash, one step after another, neither fast nor slow.

The simplest combination. The most basic techniques.

Yet in Nobutsuna Shigyo's hands, the basics became overwhelming force.

Her Shunpo was not fast, but every step landed on the weakest point of the Holy Soldiers' formation. Her slashes were not flashy, but every strike cut precisely into a vital point—the throat, heart, spine.

One slash, one kill.

One slash, one kill.

The Holy Soldiers began to retreat.

This Soul Reaper had not released any oppressive Reiatsu or used any astonishing ability. She was simply killing people in the most ordinary way possible.

But that ordinariness was more despairing than any flashy ability, because it meant her opponent did not need to take them seriously at all.

Nobutsuna Shigyo walked halfway down the street, leaving more than forty Holy Soldier corpses behind her.

Then she stopped.

She looked at the two people approaching her from nearby.

Lotte Fischer approached from the left, short and stout, an oily smile on his face.

The stone pavement beneath his feet began to soften, turning into a gray-black substance like a swamp that slowly spread outward.

Schrift: Landslide.

Natalie Klein approached from the right, her slender figure barely casting a shadow.

She walked through corners untouched by sunlight, her body blending into the buildings' shadows, appearing and vanishing.

Schrift: Nacht.

"Captain of the Seventh Division, we'll be your opponents," Lotte said with a faint smile.

Natalie said nothing. She had already vanished, completely merging with the shadows.

Nobutsuna Shigyo glanced at Lotte, then at the spreading Reishi swamp beneath his feet.

She released her Shikai.

"Sever Steel Blades! Quejin!"

The Zanpakutō in her hand became an executioner's greatsword, Reiatsu clinging to its blade and radiating an incredibly dangerous aura.

Lotte's smile froze.

He could feel it. He could sense the power behind that sword's slashes. He had no way to take even one strike. He could not afford a single mistake.

Nobutsuna Shigyo raised her sword.

Lotte frantically drove the swamp forward. The Reishi mire surged up beneath Nobutsuna Shigyo's feet, trying to trap her legs, absorb her Reiatsu, and slow her movements.

Nobutsuna Shigyo swung her sword.

The blade cut through the air, forming an air slash.

Lotte Fischer's body was split in half down the middle. Left half and right half, perfectly neat, as though measured with a ruler. He did not even have time to feel pain or realize that he was already dead.

The Reishi swamp dissipated.

Nobutsuna Shigyo sheathed her sword and turned toward the direction Natalie had vanished.

Her Reiatsu was still there, but faint, like a candle about to go out, flickering within the shadows. She was hiding. She had been completely terrified, waiting for a chance to flee the moment Nobutsuna Shigyo lowered her guard.

Nobutsuna Shigyo would not give her that chance.

Her greatsword hung at her side as Reiatsu churned around her.

The surrounding air began to grow heavy, carrying the scent of rust and blood.

Natalie's Reiatsu flickered. She sensed the danger.

"Bankai."

Nobutsuna Shigyo's voice was low and steady.

"Heaven-Piercing Sword Tower."

A black throne rose from the ground.

A towering throne made of black Reishi, several meters high, stood behind Nobutsuna Shigyo.

Around the throne, sword-bearing guards emerged one after another from the void. They had no faces, no expressions—only black armor and silver-white longswords. Their numbers continued to grow: four, eight, sixteen. Soon, a complete sword formation surrounded Nobutsuna Shigyo.

"Find her," Nobutsuna Shigyo said.

The guards moved.

They had no sight, hearing, or smell, but they could sense Reiatsu. Any trace of Reiatsu, however faint, hidden, or suppressed, was as clear before them as a torch in the night.

Natalie's hiding place was found. She did not dare activate Shadow Domain to flee; the consequences of running were too terrifying.

She was forced out of the shadows and tried to escape with Hirenkyaku. The guards' longswords stabbed in from all directions, sealing every retreat. She dodged the first sword, then the second. The third pierced her shoulder, and the fourth stabbed through her abdomen.

Natalie raised her head, her lips trembling as she tried to say something.

Nobutsuna Shigyo had already turned away.

She walked toward the throne. The guards around her automatically opened a path. Standing before the throne, she looked beyond the streets of West District One, beyond the burning buildings and fallen corpses, toward the Seireitei.

Captain-Commander Yamamoto was there.

Yhwach was there as well.

Nobutsuna Shigyo raised her sword and pointed it toward the Seireitei.

The guards turned in the same direction as one.

Nobutsuna Shigyo led her throne and soldiers, cutting a path toward Yamamoto's position.

West District One

Sixth Division Grounds

It was quiet here.

There were no battle cries, no whistling barrages of Reishi arrows, no crisp clashes of blades. There was only the wind passing through empty streets, sweeping up a few fallen leaves and making rustling sounds across the stone pavement.

The Holy Soldiers had not failed to come.

They had come, but now they lay quietly on the ground in every direction, each in a different pose. Some had fallen in the middle of the street, some leaned against walls, and some lay sprawled over thresholds. Their white Reishi armor was soaked in blood, their Reishi bows scattered at their sides.

The Sixth Division members had already left. After dealing with some of the Holy Soldiers, Furoufushi Saito activated her Bankai. Her Bankai did not discriminate between targets, so the division members had prioritized reinforcing other areas. The east was fighting, the south was fighting, and the north was fighting as well. Every division ground along the Seireitei's perimeter was burning, and every direction needed manpower.

Furoufushi Saito stood at the entrance to the grounds, gripping her sword with both hands, its tip angled toward the ground.

Her purple twin ponytails swayed gently in the wind. The loose strands over her forehead were damp with sweat and stuck to her skin. Her complexion was poor.

She could sense that Reiatsu.

The Reiatsu coming from the street corner was like an invisible mountain, slowly yet irresistibly pressing down on her.

Footsteps rang out.

A man emerged from the street corner.

Golden hair, pale eyes, a face as cold and sharp as sculpture. He wore a white Quincy uniform beneath a dark cloak, carrying a silver-white shield in his left hand and a Reishi longsword in his right. A faint glow rimmed the shield, while dense Reishi patterns coiled along the blade.

He wore neither the standard equipment of the Holy Soldiers nor the insignia of the Sternritter—at least, no obvious insignia. But Saito recognized at a glance that this man was no ordinary Sternritter.

His Reiatsu was too heavy.

So heavy that even Saito's Reiatsu trembled uneasily.

The man stopped twenty paces away from Saito and looked at her calmly. There was no killing intent, no hostility, not even any unnecessary expression. His blue eyes were like a winter lake—cold and still.

He did not introduce himself.

Saito did not ask.

She knew there was no need.

For some people, knowing their names changed nothing. What mattered was that this person stood here, and she had to stop him.

Saito took a deep breath, tightened her grip on the hilt, and activated her Bankai once more.

"Bankai!"

"Dairitsu Eighty Wrongs!"

Her Reiatsu erupted.

A massive phantom of an oni god slowly emerged from the void behind Saito. Its face was savage, its eyes blood-red, and its four arms spread wide, each holding a different vessel. The instant it appeared, an invisible aura spread in all directions—Taunting Aura and Misfortune Aura, a double curse.

Enemies near Saito would involuntarily feel the urge to attack, losing their calm judgment. At the same time, Misfortune Aura disrupted the flow of Reishi within them, causing their attacks to stray and their defenses to expose openings.

Meanwhile, Saito's slashing power and Shunpo speed would increase drastically within that aura.

This was her Bankai.

Saito moved.

First exchange.

She closed in with Shunpo, leaving an afterimage in the air as her blade shot straight for Jugram Haschwalth's throat.

Jugram Haschwalth did not move.

He merely tilted his shield slightly.

Saito's blade struck the shield with a dull sound and was bounced away. Her arm went numb from the impact. It felt as if she had not struck a shield, but a wall—a wall that could strike back.

Misfortune Aura had not affected Jugram Haschwalth.

Neither had Taunting Aura.

Jugram Haschwalth's expression did not change. He simply watched Saito in silence.

Second exchange.

Saito gritted her teeth and cut in from the side, her blade sweeping toward Jugram Haschwalth's waist rather than his shield.

Jugram Haschwalth moved.

He raised his Reishi longsword and effortlessly blocked Saito's slash. Sword and blade collided, sparks flying. Saito felt as though she had struck an iron pillar. It did not move an inch.

Then Jugram Haschwalth returned a strike.

Just one strike.

Saito barely blocked it with the flat of her blade, but the impact sent her flying back more than ten paces. Her feet plowed two deep furrows through the stone pavement.

Third exchange.

Saito did not retreat.

She drove her Bankai to its limit. The oni god phantom gave a soundless roar as Misfortune Aura condensed to its peak. She charged with all her strength, the tip of her sword thrusting toward Jugram Haschwalth's chest—

Jugram Haschwalth raised his shield.

He did not block. He shoved.

The face of the shield rammed into Saito's sword tip.

Rip.

Saito's blade slid away along the shield's surface.

Then the force of Jugram Haschwalth's shield bash hurled Saito away. She crashed to the ground and rolled several times before barely stopping, her sword falling aside.

Only three exchanges.

Jugram Haschwalth stood where he was. From beginning to end, he had barely moved his feet. His expression remained indifferent, his Reiatsu steady, his breathing even.

Saito raised her head and looked at the blond man.

Cold sweat covered her forehead.

She knew she could not beat him.

Three exchanges. She had given everything she had, while he had not even stated his name or used his true ability. That shield and sword were merely the most ordinary offense and defense. Jugram Haschwalth had not even gotten serious.

East District One

Fifth Division Grounds

The Holy Soldiers here had likewise been completely wiped out. Their corpses lay scattered across the street, white Reishi armor stained with dust and blood, Reishi bows strewn everywhere.

The Fifth Division's clearing efficiency was high. Danjiro Obana's Bankai could control water, covering an extremely wide area with its killing power.

But the battle was not over.

It could even be said that the real battle had only just begun.

Battle cries still continued through the streets of East District One, but they came from the wrong direction. Soul Reapers were not pursuing Quincy—they were fighting other Soul Reapers.

"Move! Get out of the way!"

A Fifth Division member shouted, but the Zanpakutō in his hand swung uncontrollably toward his own companion. His eyes were clear, his mouth shouting, "Dodge!" Yet his body refused to obey him, as if invisible strings were pulling him, making him slash at his comrades again and again.

The companion facing him gritted his teeth and blocked. Great beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. It was not that he could not defeat him. Their Reiatsu was similar, and so was their Zanjutsu. If they truly fought, it was impossible to say who would win. But he could not strike to kill. That was his teammate, the brother who slept in the same barracks, the man who had sweated beside him on the training grounds just yesterday.

"Find a way to restrain them!"

But they could not be restrained.

The controlled division members possessed abnormal strength, and their swordsmanship had changed. It was no longer the style taught in the Fifth Division, but a stranger and trickier style, as though something was controlling them and using their own bodies to perform movements they had never learned.

Even stranger were the patterns on their bodies.

White markings spread from their feet to their necks, crawling over one side of their faces, shoulders, and arms like roots. The patterns were irregular. Some resembled veins, some cracks, and some ancient writing. Wherever the markings covered, the skin lost its normal color and became a sickly gray-white.

There was more than one controlled person.

Nearly one-third of the Fifth Division members bore those white patterns. Some fought their companions, while others stood motionless as if frozen, only their eyes moving as they repeated, "Run," "Don't come closer," and "Kill me."

And the Soul Reapers fighting them had to contend not only with their companions' attacks, but also with the thin, nearly transparent white threads beneath their feet, above their heads, and along the walls.

The threads extended from a figure at the far end of the street, spreading across the entire district like a spiderweb.

That figure was tiny, less than half the height of an ordinary person. A white cloak wrapped him tightly from head to ankle, concealing every outline of his body. Its hood was large enough to cover his entire head, but beneath it was no face—not hidden, but absent. The shadow under the hood was completely empty, filled only with darkness like a bottomless void.

Deep within that darkness, two points of golden light flickered.

Pernida Parnkgjas.

No one knew that name.

The Fifth Division members only knew that this small, faceless monster walked very slowly, one step at a time, like a toddler who had just learned to walk. Yet along the path he passed, the relatively intact corpses of the Holy Soldiers rose to their feet again, only to have all their limbs severed once more.

But then, the white threads began to spread.

The first to be controlled was a member standing too close. A white thread touched the back of his neck, and he did not even feel pain—only a chill at his neck. Then white patterns began spreading from the back of his neck, crawling over half his body within seconds. His eyes could still move and his mouth could still speak, but his body no longer belonged to him.

"Don't touch those threads!" someone shouted.

But there were too many threads. They stretched out from beneath Pernida Parnkgjas's cloak, covering the streets, walls, and rooftops like a spider's web. When the wind blew, they drifted upward and slowly swam through the air like jellyfish tentacles. The members weaved, dodged, and rolled through the gaps between the threads, having to evade their comrades' blades while keeping the threads from touching their skin.

They were drenched in sweat.

It was not merely physical exhaustion, but psychological torment.

At last, a young member could not endure it any longer. He saw his senior—the one who had taught him Zanjutsu, taken him on patrols, and blocked a blade for him during his first mission—covered head to toe in white patterns and charging at him with a sword raised. He neither dodged nor blocked. He simply stood there, his sword falling to the ground as tears streamed down his face.

"Senior..."

Before the blade could come down, another member rammed him aside from the flank.

"Are you insane?!"

The one who saved him roared, "He's not your senior anymore! If you don't dodge, you'll die!"

"But..."

"No buts!"

Pernida Parnkgjas stood at the far end of the street, his golden eyes gleaming in the darkness as he watched everything unfold.

He did not move.

He did not need to. The threads did everything for him—controlling, spreading, killing. He only needed to stand there and watch.

The Fifth Division captain was positioned in the rear.

Danjiro Obana lay on a stretcher, his face pale and his forehead covered in cold sweat. His Shihakushō was soaked through with blood from the thighs down. Thick bandages wrapped both his ankles, beneath which was a mangled mass of flesh and blood.

He had cut them himself.

When Pernida Parnkgjas's white threads first coiled around his ankles, Obana had felt it. It was not pain, but an indescribable sensation, as though something were crawling up through his blood vessels and seizing control of his body. He looked down at the small patch of white markings on his ankles and, without the slightest hesitation, drew his Zanpakutō from his waist. One slash for each ankle—he severed the tendons in both, leaving his feet unable to move.

His feet had been saved, and so had his body. But he would never stand again—not until this battle was over, at least.

A member responsible for medical treatment knelt beside him, frantically tending to his wounds: stopping the bleeding, applying bandages, using Kidō to suppress infection. Her hands trembled, not from fear, but because she knew the captain's injuries were among the most difficult she had ever encountered. Severed tendons were not hard to reconnect, but the white patterns still lingered around the wounds, writhing like living things, waiting to seize control of his body the instant he could move again.

"Captain..."

The medic's voice shook. "I... I can't do it..."

Danjiro Obana leaned against the base of a ruined wall, his eyes closed.

"Don't panic."

His voice was soft, but steady. "Stop the bleeding first."

"But those white—"

"Stop the bleeding. Don't worry about anything else," he repeated.

The medic bit her lip, nodded, and continued treating his wounds.

Obana raised his head. His Reiatsu told him of the small white figure at the far end of the street. His Zanpakutō, Pure Spring, rested across his legs.

He wanted to go over there.

But he could not.

It was not because he could no longer stand. It was because Pure Spring was a purification-type Zanpakutō. It could neutralize illusions, but Pernida Parnkgjas's white threads did not resemble an illusion. They were a kind of power Obana had never seen before, something he could not understand.

Could Pure Spring purify them?

Obana did not know. He did not know whether those threads would control him and make him release his Zanpakutō.

But he knew that if he went over there, if even Pure Spring could not block those threads, then once he was controlled, the Fifth Division would truly be finished.

So he lay in the rear, watching his own members be controlled, slaughtered, and tormented.

"I'm sorry," Danjiro Obana murmured, not knowing whom he was speaking to.

The medic did not hear him clearly. Her head was lowered as she desperately tried to stop the bleeding.

On the battlefield ahead, another controlled member fell.

His comrade stood before him, sword raised in midair, unable to bring it down.

"Save... save him..."

That member's voice trembled. "Can someone save him...?"

No one could answer.

Pernida Parnkgjas's golden eyes gleamed in the darkness, silently watching it all.