"Damn… damned thieves!"
The wiry Head of the Asaimon sprawled on the ground, his left arm and leg gone, blood gushing relentlessly from the stumps.
In the hall's center, corpses lay strewn in grotesque tableau, the acrid tang of rust and iron saturating the air, pressing heavy against the chest.
He strained to lift his head, glaring at the disconcertingly youthful figure before him. Eyes splitting with rage, he roared hoarsely, "The Seireitei will surely avenge me... avenge..."
Thud!
Kuruyashiki Ryūma reversed his blade and drove it into the old man's back, pinning his final breath to the floor.
The frail frame quivered briefly before stilling.
"So much chatter."
The small boy muttered under his breath.
Around him, the other shinigami who'd completed their tasks darted between the hall and courtyard, hauling supplies for the Genji School.
Massive wooden crates piled up outside, forming an imposing mound.
And this was merely the stockpile of a single upper noble house.
Whoosh!
As Makoto's squad busied themselves, a figure appeared in the courtyard via Shunpo.
Ryūma tensed briefly, then relaxed upon recognizing the familiar reiatsu.
"Makoto-sama!"
"You're slow today."
The kid had no grasp of manners.
Makoto casually raised a hand, tossing the figure slung over his shoulder to the ground. "Ran into a tough one."
"Ryūma, have Andō tend to his wounds."
"We bringing this one back?"
Ryūma gave him an odd look.
In the past, Makoto never spared nobles.
Today, though… He glanced down.
Heavy wounds, but still breathing.
"Mm."
Makoto nodded. "This is the new Head of the Shiba. He's got a head full of intel, worth getting Senjumaru and the others to pry out."
"Don't let him die."
"Yes."
As Makoto spoke, he strode into the hall. A middle-aged Shinigami flashed to his side via Shunpo.
"Makoto-sama."
"The remaining Asaimon have fled toward the western exit."
"Per the plan, they'll encounter the target force in a day."
"Good."
Makoto inclined his head, turning to the team hauling supplies. "Then we rest here tonight. Keep shifts on watch."
"Yes."
The middle-aged Shinigami acknowledged promptly.
Makoto gazed out at the deepening night beyond the window, a faint unease gnawing at him.
In a world of supernatural prowess like the Soul Society, finding an enemy force was no great feat.
Whether Bakudō 58: Kakushitsuijaku or Bakudō 77: Tenteikūra, such spells served admirably for scouting and communication.
The true challenge was catching them.
Thus, as the vanguard elite reconnaissance unit of the Genji School's main force, Makoto's squad wasn't tasked primarily with purging nobles or raiding their estates. Their top priority was luring out the Seireitei's main army.
In short, bait.
A role steeped in peril.
Letting some nobles escape, as they'd done now, to bait the real combat troops was a common tactic.
Yet, whether due to today's mission going too smoothly or the absence of any trace of enemy elite movements along their path, Makoto couldn't shake a lingering disquiet.
"Cough… Cough... Cough..."
Suddenly, Yorita Shiba sprawled on the ground, rasped painfully. His chest heaved like a broken bellows, his face pallid.
His gaze darkened as he looked at Makoto. "You… you'd better flee now."
"Per the original plan, tomorrow… cough… the new frontline commander arrives."
"When that happens, you won't escape."
"As for the Asaimon's crimes…" Yorita's eyes dimmed further, "The Shiba will see the Central 46 handle it."
"Tch."
Makoto let out a scornful laugh. "And what good will that do?"
Yorita faltered, words failing him.
In that silence, a childish voice, tinged with barely contained glee, burst from Makoto's waist, chanting rapid-fire.
[Thief haha! Thief! Hahahaha!]
[Exactly!]
[Losers eat dust! You think a confession's enough?]
[Makoto-sama exhausted himself beating you to your knees, of course, we're dragging your body back to taste it as an atonement prize!]
Makoto nodded faintly at the start.
But by the final line, his composure cracked, nearly choking on a surge of indignation.
"Shut the fuck up!"
The voice fell silent.
Not just the little battered sword's.
The shinigami hauling supplies around him turned as one, pausing mid-step. Their subtle, weighted glances stabbed at Makoto's back like unseen blades.
Yorita's eyes widened, veins bulging with fury.
His already pallid face drained to a ghostly white in an instant.
He'd begun to accept his fate.
Now, on second thought, maybe he should run?
Only Ryūma, the little dimwit, pointed outside with earnest intent. "Makoto-sama, I just saw a few women on the ground out there."
"Dead not long ago. Still warm."
Makoto rapped him on the head with a sharp thunk. "You punk, where'd you pick that up?!"
"Satō-san said it last time."
Makoto's glare snapped toward Satō. The squad member shrank back, feigning deafness, and bolted outside.
"Go! Get to work!"
"Don't you want to rest?!"
The team scattered in a flurry.
Makoto crouched before Yorita, slowly drawing his Zanpakuto. With a grim smile, he gestured at it. "Shiba, you heard what my sword just said."
"Next, I'll ask you a few little questions."
"If you lie…"
"See this blade?"
Makoto stabbed the tip into the ground with a vicious thrust, his expression darkening with menace. "You want this blade to get inside your hole?"
"Got it?"
After all he'd endured, shame was a stranger to him.
If his little sword craved perversity, he'd see it through to the end!
"…"
Before Yorita could muster a response, the battered blade at Makoto's waist jolted to life, shrieking in protest.
[Eh?! Wait, wait, wait!]
[No! Don't make me as a cock to get inside his ass! Don't get me dirty!]
[That's not okay!]
[Makoto-sama! Please!]
[Spare me, please!]
For the first time, that once-brash childish voice carried a pitiful plea.
Ryūma shook his head beside them, a faint regret in his eyes.
Makoto's taste was worse than a child's.
Makoto froze at his sword's outburst, a flicker of glee not yet reaching his face. Instinct seized him, he gripped the hilt and rolled sideways.
At the same instant, Ryūma tensed, every muscle coiled.
Boom!
The moment Makoto tumbled clear, a fist brimming with explosive force thundered down like lightning, striking where he'd stood. A deafening blast cratered the floor, hurling shattered stone in all directions as the shockwave rippled outward.
Makoto half-crouched, sliding back a dozen meters from the roll's momentum. He raised his Zanpakuto across his chest and looked up.
"Yo."
"You dodged that one?"
"Not bad."
As the dust settled, a lean figure emerged, dark-skinned, white-haired, adorned with a scarf and long earrings. He stood before Yorita, voice lilting with mockery.
A confident smirk played across his face.
Makoto's left thumb traced his cheek, licking the blood trickling from his fingertip.
He hadn't fully evaded it.
But if it was this guy, it wasn't surprising.
He fixed his gaze on the small, dark figure in the crater.
Chika Shihoin.
The fastest man in the Soul Society.
The moment the noise erupted inside, a cacophony of battle cries flared outside the hall.
"Hey!"
Chika Shihoin tucked one hand in his pocket, the other resting his blade on his shoulder. With a lazy tilt of his chin, he grinned at Makoto, unrestrained. "You've got some skill."
"Give me your name."
***
Bonus Chapter:
100 Power Stones = 1 BC
300 Power Stones = 2 BC
500 Power Stones = 3 BC
700 Power Stones = 4 BC
1000 Power Stones = 5 BC
***
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