The Bakukōtō squad died peacefully.
Though these elite Onmitsukidō assassins—specially selected to eliminate Genryū's key figures—were skilled, one must remember: the war between the Seireitei and the Genji School had raged for over two years.
Most of the Onmitsukidō's top operatives, the kind that took decades or even centuries to produce, had already perished in the early stages of the conflict—slaughtered in the relentless "saturation assassination attempts" against Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni.
Some were reduced to ash. Others left behind charred corpses, fertilizing the soil.
The current Onmitsukidō? Calling them "scraps" would be generous.
Even with the Kasumiōji Clan's Bakukōtō, they stood no chance against the Genryū Shinigami who had survived the "Hollow Rift Incident."
The hunt was a one-sided massacre from the start.
---
Run. Run. RUN.
Nukui Samasa's entire body was drenched in cold sweat as he pushed Shunpo to its limit, flickering through the darkened forest like a phantom. He didn't even dare glance at the writhing Bakukōtō fused to his right arm—his sole focus was escaping.
He wasn't afraid of death!
Before receiving the Bakukōtō, every Onmitsukidō member knew their fate: burn their spiritual pressure to kill a strong enemy and die on the battlefield.
But he never expected to run into Fujimiya Makoto!
"Between life and death lies true terror!"
Now, Nukui understood.
He really didn't want to become a human donut with his head stuffed into his own—!
If Fujimiya knew what these assassins were thinking, his feelings would be… complicated.
On one hand, the Seireitei's propaganda was so effective it had brainwashed their own forces.
On the other hand—what the hell?! Since when was he, a model Soul Society youth, turned into this kind of monster?!
"AHHH—!!"
Just as Nukui began to relax, thinking he'd shaken off pursuit, a bloodcurdling scream tore through the night.
His entire body froze.
That was an Onmitsukidō member—someone who had endured torture resistance training since childhood!
What kind of pain could make them shriek like a little girl?!
Unless…
Fujimiya had already—?!
Nukui shuddered.
Nobles had no limits when it came to sadistic entertainment. They'd done worse—and enjoyed it.
No wonder no one chased me!
They were toying with them, like cats with mice!
Kill the body, then the dignity!
Nukui finally understood.
Just then, a black figure materialized beside him with a soft "whoosh."
"Finally stopped running?"
Fujimiya stood atop a branch, gazing down coldly.
Nukui's eyes were bloodshot, veins bulging like the tortured souls he'd once played with. He snarled:
"Come on!"
"Show me what you've got, Fujimiya!"
His voice was hoarse, his body rigid—but his spiritual pressure surged, reaching a lifetime peak.
The Bakukōtō coiled around his arm pulsed violently, emitting blinding light.
"Tear him apart—Hangyaku!"
With a roar, Nukui blitzed forward, the Bakukōtō morphing into grotesque white tusks that spiraled into a spear.
Fujimiya simply watched, then slowly drew his zanpakutō.
Hangyaku's ability was simple: extreme speed amplification.
But simplicity bred perfection—against an ordinary Shinigami, this strike would be unavoidable.
"Shhhk—!"
Nukui's form blurred into a streak of white, the air itself screaming as he closed the distance.
Yet to Fujimiya, it was meaningless.
As always, against non-hax zanpakutō, spiritual pressure was everything.
"Second Form: Wakamizu."
The slash veered off harmlessly. Fujimiya's blade became a disjointed, flickering light—
—aimed straight at Nukui's torso.
They passed each other.
Nukui's lips twisted into a relieved grin.
At least…
…he wouldn't suffer that humiliation.
But before he could collapse, Fujimiya called out to the approaching Genryū forces:
"Hey, drag this one to Medical."
"That thing on him is interesting—harvest it intact."
"YES, SIR!"
Nukui's face contorted in horror.
"NO—!!!"
---
Unohana Yachiru sat quietly in camp, twirling a golden eyeball-like core between her fingers.
The heart of a Bakukōtō.
By slaying Shinigami or feeding it spiritual pressure, it could grow indefinitely—eventually reaching absurd power.
Yet in Unohana's hands, it was just a toy. Her condensed reiatsu was inescapable.
After a glance, she tossed it back to Fujimiya, disinterested.
"Heretical trash."
"Only hinders a Shinigami's growth."
Her tone was unusually stern.
"You're forbidden from using it."
"Understood."
Fujimiya had no intention of grafting this thing onto himself. Still, the idea of "augmentation" or "exo-skeletal bioweapons" was intriguing.
Imagine future Shinigami shouting "Henshin!" like the Visored.
That'd be fun.
He'd hand it to Shutara later.
---
The minor delay didn't slow them.
At dawn, the 11th Division marched toward the rendezvous in District 20.
Genryū's strategy was simple:
Scatter, purge the nobles, regroup, then storm the Seireitei.
Initially, progress was smooth. The noble resistance—mostly former losers who'd barely escaped last time—fled faster than ever.
The Seireitei's defense was strangely passive.
Fujimiya grew suspicious.
According to Tsunayashiro Senju, the Tsunayashiro Clan's true strength far surpassed this.
His doubts lasted until they reached District 20.
Then—
"BOOM—!!"
A distant explosion lit the horizon, a mushroom cloud of dust rising skyward.
Two colossal spiritual pressures clashed, their shockwaves trembling the earth.
"Unohana-sensei?"
Fujimiya turned to her.
Unohana's brows furrowed slightly as she observed.
"That's… Ōka's reiatsu."
Ōka Danjirō—5th Division Leader, former South Rukongai Overlord. His Bankai specialized in brutal close-quarters annihilation.
But after a glance, Unohana coldly declared:
"The enemy is strong. Fast."
"He's losing."
Fujimiya stiffened.
Before he could react, Ōka's once-rising spiritual pressure plummeted.
"What the—?!"
"He's here."
Unohana's voice cut him off.
For the first time, her usually placid face twisted into a bloodthirsty grin.
"CRASH—!"
A massive white pillar slammed into the center of their formation, sending soldiers flying.
Atop it stood a man in a sleeveless vest—afro gleaming, a bloodied Ōka Danjirō dangling from his grip.
"Thud."
Ōka's unconscious form hit the dirt. Gasps erupted.
"T-That's Ōka-sensei!!"
"Who the hell is that?!"
"Get down here, bastard!"
The man just laughed, spreading his arms like a rapper hyping a crowd:
"Style~!"
"So High—!"
"Who am I? I'm the NUMBER ONE zanpakutō creator!"
"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three—"
He counted down on his fingers, ending with a thumbs-up and a flashy grin:
"—Nimaiya Ōetsu!"
He shielded his eyes like a monkey, scanning the crowd.
"Hey!"
"Where's your strongest guy?!"
"Hurry up! I'm on a schedule!"