Snow danced gently through the air over Seireitei.
Higashi Shuuichi flicked a few scattered flakes off his sleeve.
After parting ways with a rather reluctant Soi Fon, he left the Second Division barracks. But before he'd walked more than a few steps, he could already feel it—several unfamiliar spiritual pressures had quietly emerged around him.
"Heh."
Shuuichi smiled faintly, forming a specific hand seal with his left fingers. A pre-arranged signal surged forth, racing toward the Fifth Division… where Aizen Sōsuke would receive it.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he strolled right out of Seireitei—heading toward South Rukongai, District 73.
This district had once been designated a noble hunting ground. After that bloody incident, all civilians had been forcibly relocated, and the place had suffered significant damage during the chaos. With Seireitei's usual indifference to outer districts, especially one as far down the number line as the 70s, reconstruction had barely even begun.
Now, it served as the perfect hideout for high-numbered-district criminals—or for clandestine meetings that couldn't happen under the sun.
"You've been tailing me all this way," Shuuichi said, finally stopping in his tracks, sword case sliding from his back to the dirt. "Still not ready to make your move? What—planning to wait till I walk all the way to the 80th district?"
A few figures dropped silently into place, surrounding him in a loose formation. Lines of Bakudō had already been quietly etched into the air and ground, sealing off every potential escape route.
"Higashi Shuuichi. Former Vice-Captain of Fourth Division. Currently Third Seat. Known for high proficiency in Kaidō and Hakuda. Zanpakutō's Shikai under heavy regulation—unauthorized release forbidden unless granted by a Captain-class Shinigami..."
The lead figure recited like a proud bureaucrat, fingers raising one by one for emphasis.
Shuuichi raised a brow. "...Are you reading my wiki page to me?"
Honestly, was this guy trying to flex how much intel he had?
That info was so public even cleaning staff knew it.
"Unless you're about to tack on 'currently riding with Fifth Division's lowest seat Aizen Sōsuke,' none of that is worth reciting."
He rolled his eyes internally.
"Three things," the man finally said."First, hand over the Zanpakutō at your feet.""Second, tell us how you got your hands on it.""Third, account for every detail from the moment you returned from the World of the Living to the moment you stepped out of Second Division today."
He held up three fingers like he was laying down holy law. But to Shuuichi, it looked more like he was posing for a dramatic portrait.
"Goddamn," Shuuichi thought, "do I look like the one playing dumb here? They're acting like they're the ones with the hidden cards."
"You want three things," he said aloud, brushing back his hair.
"I'll give you one."
The man's face immediately twisted with displeasure.
Shuuichi smiled coldly, sharp teeth glinting.
"What kind of trash-tier nobodies do you think you are, talking to me like that?"
"Hadō #63: Raikōhō!"
The man snapped. A roaring blast of thunder exploded toward Shuuichi without incantation—full power, practiced to perfection. It had felled many before, even a few Vice-Captains.
There was no hesitation. He was sure this blast would silence the insolent dog before him.
But the dog didn't bark.
It raised a single hand.
"Bakudō #39: Enkōsen."
The circular spirit shield snapped into place—and the Raikōhō crashed against it like a wave breaking on stone. Not a single crack formed.
"What?! That was only Level 39! How the hell did it block Raikōhō!?"
The attacker shouted in disbelief.
Shuuichi didn't bother replying.
He extended one finger, pointed with icy precision.
"Hadō #63: Raikōhō."
Same technique. No chant. No mercy.
The enemy fumbled, panicking, reflexively casting Enkōsen as well—he should've dodged, but didn't.
Too late.
The blast tore through the shield like wet paper. When the smoke cleared, the man was on his knees, most of his torso missing.
"Not qualified."
Shuuichi didn't even look at the body. His eyes scanned the remaining enemies.
Surprisingly, none of them looked afraid.
Instead, they silently raised their blades—each wielding a Bakkōtō—and rushed in, as if driven by orders that outweighed survival.
Shuuichi sighed.
He didn't waste another breath.
"Shunpō.""Tesshō.""Sekkotsu."
No Kidō. No flair. Just pure Hakuda and footwork. Within a minute, not one was left standing.
He hadn't even broken a sweat.
He hadn't spared a single one.
Because right when the first corpse hit the ground, Shuuichi had sensed it—
a faint fluctuation of spiritual pressure… concealed. Watching. Waiting.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
A slow, deliberate applause echoed through the air.
The shimmer of Bakudō #26: Kyokkō faded, revealing a man in noble robes—an old man with a composed expression, posture elegant like a sharpened brushstroke.
"Well, well. So this is the real Higashi Shuuichi. Former Vice-Captain of Fourth Division, beloved for his warmth and gentleness… yet here you are, ruthless, merciless, hiding power far beyond your station."
Shuuichi turned.
He didn't recognize the man, but his instincts screamed one thing: high-ranking Kasumiōji.
"You flatter me," Shuuichi replied coldly. "In Soul Society, most of us wear masks. Mine just has sharper edges. Besides… I was being gentle. They didn't suffer."
A pause.
The old man's smile deepened.
"Is that so? Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Yunoi Takusatsu, steward of the Kasumiōji family… and, more importantly, the creator of the Bakkōtō you have at your feet."
He stepped forward slowly, eyes gleaming.
"I believe you've heard of me, haven't you?"
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