A single vertical stroke descended—clean, deliberate, absolute.
The motion was neither swift nor slow, but carried a strange, rhythmic grace, like a calligrapher inscribing fate itself upon the canvas of existence. The air quivered as if filled with unseen ink—dense, dark, and alive.
Aizen's pupils shrank.
Every heart watching skipped a beat.
But the boy's hand did not stop. The brush—his fingertip—moved again.
A horizontal stroke followed.
On Aizen's chest, the two lines intersected—one vertical, one horizontal—forming a right-angled mark.
None understood its meaning. Not even Aizen. Yet an ancient dread coiled deep within him, a primal warning that screamed of something unspeakable.
Terror rose like a flood from his heart.
His expression twisted; then, with a flash of blinding speed, Aizen retreated thousands of meters in an instant.
Su Li didn't pursue. He merely smiled, calmly rolling up his sleeves, his movements graceful and unhurried.
If one chose to write with a pen, he thought, one mustn't let water stain the sleeves.
Aizen stared at the strange symbol burning faintly on his chest, his heartbeat pounding violently. He unleashed torrents of Reiatsu, forcing the Hōgyoku's regenerative power to cleanse the mark. But no matter how much energy surged through him, the black lines remained, indelible and cold, like ink that had merged with the paper itself.
It was no ink at all.
Aizen's eyes widened as realization dawned—it was a power beyond comprehension, something that rejected even the concept of healing.
His infinite regeneration… meant nothing.
"What… is this?" he muttered, his voice trembling.
Sui-Feng stared blankly at the symbol, her mind utterly blank. "The mark… it's not fading… Aizen can't heal himself!"
Unohana rose sharply, her eyes glinting with rare shock. "That power… what ability is this?"
Kyoraku Shunsui's gaze was heavy, his fan lowering as he studied the black light still gleaming at Su Li's fingertips. "The power that even the Hōgyoku can't counter… that's no longer within the realm of mortals."
Urahara Kisuke's eyes widened, disbelief written across his face. The small cushion he held was already crushed into cotton fluff.
Yamamoto Genryūsai stood silent. His wooden cane had splintered in his grip, sawdust piercing his hand. Blood trickled down his fingers, unnoticed, as his gaze remained locked on the young man's back—unable to look away.
The battlefield fell into stunned silence.
What kind of force resided in Su Li's fingertip that even Aizen's divine regeneration could not overcome?
The realization struck all at once—perhaps, at last, there was a way to win.
A spark of hope spread through every heart—ecstasy, disbelief, and wild exhilaration. For the first time, the impossible seemed within reach.
And among them all, none trembled more than Renji.
His body quivered as he stared at the black symbol on Aizen's chest. He didn't know what that energy was, this dark "ink" that flowed from Su Li's hand—but he alone understood what was coming next.
Because Su Li had once shown him the beginnings of this technique.
Renji's blood surged. Every drop within him boiled with pride. At last, he could witness his teacher's true art in combat.
The wind whispered across the broken plain.
Heaven and earth fell into breathless stillness.
But the tension hanging over the field was no longer despair—it was anticipation.
Aizen lifted his gaze slowly. Confusion flickered behind his calm. "What… is this power?"
Su Li only smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face as he adjusted his sleeves once more.
He wouldn't answer.
He didn't need to explain that what coursed through his hand was not ordinary Reiatsu but something far higher—a force known as Destructive Energy.
The power of a god.
Only divine power could undo divine power. Only law could shatter law.
The Hōgyoku's rule was regeneration and evolution.
The rule of Destructive Energy was erasure.
The mark on Aizen's chest refused to fade because "erasure" was a rule that stood above "regeneration."
Erasure was not death, nor simple destruction—it was the annihilation of existence itself.
That which was erased ceased to be, even conceptually.
Thus, no matter how infinite Aizen's evolution, how boundless the Hōgyoku's repair, they could not restore what had been removed from the fabric of reality.
Destructive Energy was a law of the highest order. Only creation could rival it—and Aizen's "regeneration" fell far short of that divine threshold.
Su Li rolled up both sleeves neatly, his calm face illuminated by a faint, black radiance gathering once more at his fingertips.
Aizen's eyes widened.
Before he could react, the air detonated—boom!—as waves of pressure exploded outward from Su Li's position.
When the shock subsided, the boy had vanished.
Aizen's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
Because the boy was already before him.
The fingertip—glowing with black light—descended again, slow and deliberate.
Aizen's chest burned where it passed, another stroke of living ink falling into place.
Aizen roared, his right arm transfiguring into a blade as it had during his final evolution. His body and Zanpakutō had long since become one.
He swung down in fury.
The strike was monstrous, its pressure enough to tear open the heavens.
But Su Li moved like a scholar lost in his art—focused, serene, untouched by the chaos around him. He tilted his body, his fingertip gliding across the page of flesh.
The blade missed him by a hair.
It struck the ground instead, splitting the land for miles, the shockwave shaking heaven itself.
And yet—at that same instant—the boy's fingertip completed its motion upon Aizen's chest.
The symbol was finished.
Aizen froze, his breathing unsteady.
Everyone stared.
For the first time, they saw the mark clearly—and it wasn't a strange rune or sigil. It was a word.
A single, elegant word written in living ink.
Silence fell like snow.
Even Aizen stood still, his mind blank.
All except Renji, whose entire body trembled with excitement.
Su Li… had truly done it.
He had written upon the enemy. Not a simple stroke or fragment—but a complete, perfect character.
Renji's heart burned. Memories of harsh training and every word his teacher spoke flashed in his mind.
At that moment, he felt no regret in life.
Every gaze fixed upon the single word that gleamed faintly on Aizen's chest.
It was the word for "Mountain."
The calligraphy was powerful, each stroke steady and alive, carrying both weight and serenity.
The penmanship of one who had transcended both battle and fear.
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