Dawn.
For the first time in a while, Higashino Shuuichi stepped out of Yushima Ōko's room and, following him, made for a gate in Seireitei he'd rarely paid attention to in the past—the South Gate.
As Shuuichi neared the southern barrier, a piercing alarm screamed on cue.
A huge figure dropped in front of him, glaring like a demon.
Higonyūdō—the guard of Seireitei's southern entrance, Zhuwa Gate.
Shuuichi remembered this Shinigami.
"Who are you?"
Higonyūdō's eyes bored into Shuuichi as he released reiatsu—the pressure of an average fukutaichō (vice-captain) pressed around Shuuichi like a physical wall.
"Lowly me—Musashi Kojiro."
Shuuichi kept his reiatsu folded tight and offered a mild smile.
"Musashi Kojiro?"
Higonyūdō frowned. He'd never heard the name.
Which meant he'd received no notice authorizing entry for anyone by that name.
So—
He swung the gigantic axe from his back and smashed it into the ground at Shuuichi's feet. The stone trembled.
"Haven't heard of you. This is as far as you go. Past here isn't for the likes of you."
As he spoke, several gate guards peeled off and approached. One wrong move and they'd attack.
Just then, Yushima hurried between them. "Higonyūdō-dono—this Musashi Kojiro is a volunteer we of the 12th Division just recruited from the far South Rukongai to cooperate in our experiments. He's not some ill-intentioned criminal!"
"Volunteer? What is that supposed to be?"
Yushima stuck to the script Shuuichi had given him—but Shuuichi had clearly overestimated Higonyūdō's… vocabulary.
"If that's hard to grasp, you can treat me as a 12th Division experimental subject," Shuuichi added smoothly. "I'm here with Yushima-dono to contribute my meager light and heat to 12th Division research."
"12th Division… experimental subject?"
Higonyūdō looked Yushima up and down—proper shihakushō, the 12th Division insignia. The boy's identity was real.
As for "Musashi Kojiro"…
Higonyūdō hesitated. So did Yushima.
Only Shuuichi stood there with easy calm.
Worst case, he got made. He'd run.
So long as it wasn't a captain up close, no one here could hold him if he cut his limiter and let his reiatsu roar.
And if things really went south and he got pinned, there was always Seyabasa—he could crash the gates of Hell and hide a while.
(Not a great vacation spot unless a certain man named Kariya Kenpachi happened to be waiting on the other side… Shuuichi would prefer not to gamble on that.)
In the end, Higonyūdō chose discretion. This wasn't some other division's escort—this was 12th Division. And their new captain, Kurotsuchi Mayuri, was… a touch unhinged. Even rumor alone gave Higonyūdō goosebumps.
There were many people you could afford to offend. The 12th Division wasn't one of them. If he stirred that man up, Higonyūdō doubted he'd sleep easy again.
"If he's vouched for, I won't stop him. But listen, Musashi Kojiro—once you pass this gate, don't look where you shouldn't, don't go where you shouldn't. And you—12th Division brat, Yushima Ōko—keep a leash on your 'experimental subject.' If he stirs trouble, I'm coming for you."
A bark of warning—nothing more.
"It actually worked! Shuuichi-sama, you're incredible!"
Inside Seireitei, on a quiet road toward the 12th Division barracks, Yushima could barely contain himself.
"Steady, Ōko. That was standard procedure," Shuuichi said, face unreadable.
Truth be told, there'd been some luck.
The original plan had called for Ōko to procure an experiment brief bearing Mayuri's personal authorization—true cover. But as it turned out, Ōko was treated abysmally in 12th Division—and, because he'd assisted Kisuke Urahara before, he was ostracized at every turn.
So Shuuichi had gone with a riskier attempt.
Fortune smiled.
The 12th barracks weren't far. But because his current persona—"Musashi Kojiro"—was an outlaw from the far South Rukongai, he couldn't exactly flash around with shunpo (Flash Step). It took time to reach the 12th.
Little bridges, running streams, tiled eaves; two massive sakura out front shedding pink in the breeze.
After taking over, Mayuri hadn't torn down Kisuke's architecture. He'd only refit the captain's quarters—into a thousand-square-meter, hundred-meter-deep super-lab. He spent nearly all his time at the very bottom, tinkering alone; he allowed few others to touch anything.
He'd been captain almost three years and still hadn't named a fukutaichō.
"If you want to see taichō, I can go announce you," Yushima offered as they entered.
He earned a withering look. "And announce what? 'Soul Society traitor Higashino Shuuichi would like a word'? Or 'said traitor has invaded Seireitei'?
If announcing worked, why would I have bothered sneaking in?"
"R-right… fair point."
He'd gotten overexcited and clean forgotten.
"Go do your usual. From here, it's on me."
When Yushima left, Shuuichi took a slow circuit around the hulking, retrofitted lab.
He ran into a few 12th Division soldiers and a seated officer or two—he tapped each with Kidō: Byakufuku (White Subdue) and tucked them out of sight.
Only after he'd finished setting one of Kisuke's reinforced reiatsu-masking barriers around the lab—insisted from Kisuke by shameless persistence—did he lay a hand on the lab's great door.
He pressed. It didn't budge.
He smiled. An identity check, no doubt.
He wasn't so naïve as to think words alone would win over this mad scientist.
First: the prerequisite—meeting Kurotsuchi face-to-face.
"Well then, Mayuri—are you ready to receive me?"
No audience, but he knew the message—and what came next—would reach the man beneath his feet.
"Heisha! Zenpeisha—Kimō: Hi! (Heisha! Master of Arms—Cunning Stratagem: Fire!)"
Reiatsu gathered. Sparks licked. A terrible pressure—light that erased.
"Nadegiri (Gentle Cut)!"
One stroke. The lab above the ground split down the middle like a canyon.
If the door won't open—don't use a door.
Deep below, at the lowest level, Mayuri—busy cross-referencing reigai (Spirit Body) research and the gigai (Artificial Body) notes Kisuke had left, planning to fuse them with former 12th Captain Hikifune Kirio's Mod Soul techniques to create artificial Shinigami—felt the unsubtle surge of Shuuichi's reiatsu the moment it flared.
"So you've decided to fight your way in?"
He lifted his head. The pharaoh-like mask betrayed neither joy nor sorrow.
Shuuichi had guessed right: the door was a reiatsu gate. And Mayuri's impressions of Shuuichi were not poor.
Back then, the "kindly" Shinigami had brought him interesting toys—Bakkōtō from the Kasumiooji family, a spatial jewel from the West Administration; rarities he'd never seen before.
And if memory served, it had been with Shuuichi's help that he was allowed out of the Maggot's Nest to work under Kisuke at all. Kisuke would never have released him so easily otherwise.
Even after Kisuke's flight, the 8th Division's taichō, Kyōraku Shunsui, had recommended Mayuri for the 12th captaincy—"at someone's request," he'd said.
Mayuri had almost no cordial ties in Soul Society. Only Higashino Shuuichi had consistently shown him kindness. It stood to reason Shunsui's "someone" had been him.
Barring an accident, Mayuri thought he and Shuuichi could talk.
But then Shuuichi had undergone Hollowfication. It likely hadn't been Kisuke's doing—but the day he'd used overwhelming power to help Kisuke's group escape, he'd made himself Soul Society's enemy.
By extension—an enemy of 12th Division Captain Kurotsuchi Mayuri.
The logic was simple. Duty, not feeling.
He summoned a Jigokuchō (Hell Butterfly), condensed a brief report of the intrusion, and sent it to the Sōtaichō.
Then he waited. With his remodels, even a "nonstandard" captain-class like Shuuichi wouldn't break in swiftly.
Moments later, the butterfly fluttered back, dazed. Mayuri's eyes narrowed.
Jigokuchō travel freely—Soul Society, the World of the Living, Hueco Mundo, even the Dangai (Precipice World). If it couldn't escape—
Only one conclusion: the lab's local space had been forced out of phase with the world.
Normally, hard. But if Kisuke Urahara was behind him—and with the pseudo-space tech they'd derived together back when they studied that West Administration gem—
It was doable.
Breaking out was "simple," too: smash the set space nodes below the stability threshold.
Also hard—Shuuichi wouldn't give him the chance.
In other words: he was on his own.
"Fortunately—this is my home ground."
He dispelled the butterfly.
Time to get serious.
By the time Shuuichi reached B3, everything was going as he'd expected.
The upper floors were ordinary traps he didn't bother to dismantle; a shell of defensive Kidō carried him through.
B3 was different.
Five black-helmed samurai. Twenty red-helmed. Forty red-helmed arquebusiers he hadn't seen before.
"Mayuri made these?"
Shuuichi frowned inwardly.
These hadn't existed in the "script."
And at this point in time, Mayuri should still be obsessed with artificial Shinigami.
The armored soldiers had already been autopsied by Kisuke in the Living World—no souls inside. They shouldn't interest Mayuri.
Even Kisuke couldn't immediately identify the animating core—what drove them, let them emit reiatsu, even cast Kidō.
Shuuichi wasn't belittling Mayuri—but fresh from Kisuke's shadow, he wouldn't outpace Kisuke on black tech Kisuke couldn't parse.
In the Thousand-Year Blood War era? Maybe.
"Intruder—die!"
The same mechanical voices.
These were like programmed robots—only these had coordination.
The five black-helms opened with Kidō, and the others supported in smooth concert:
Hadō #33: Sōkatsui (Blue Fire, Crash Down).
Bakudō #30: Shitotsu Sansen (Beak-Piercing Triple Beam).
Bakudō #61: Rikujōkōrō (Six Rods Light Prison).
Hadō #63: Raikōhō (Thunder Roar Cannon).
Bakudō #63: Sajō Sabaku (Locking Bondage Stripes).
Interesting.
Prearranged responses. Against typical Shinigami, this would look impressive.
Against him—it was one stroke.
A landing, a turn—Nadegiri (Gentle Cut).
A waltz of arcs—and limbs turned to scrap.
In a blink, only the arquebusiers remained—set in four ranks, firing in sequence.
The copper slugs were laughable; they didn't even scratch—
"Hm?"
He glanced at his abdomen. Something had embedded there.
Shallow—not even a millimeter deep.
But it wasn't a "bullet."
A thin tail, a tadpole head—another shape entirely, one he recognized.
"Three."
Mayuri's voice reverberated through B3.
Shuuichi smiled, wry.
Aizen liked to say his combat sense was rare under heaven. Hear it enough, you start to believe it.
He'd gotten cocky.
Maybe because his reiatsu had soared. Maybe because his power had grown. Maybe because the last brilliant victory still glowed too bright.
He'd relaxed—against a man who shouldn't match him, now.
A Reishi Stopper, isn't it?
With Mayuri's countdown, control of his body vanished.
His reishi froze—only his thoughts moved.
"Two."
Mayuri appeared—all boldness—bearing a released Ashisogi Jizō.
At last Shuuichi had time to examine the arquebusiers properly. One barrel was different—an add-on device at the muzzle.
A compact reiatsu amplifier.
Crude—and fatally effective: brute-force the spell's strength.
No one would expect it: the "elites" were bait. The real fangs hid among the weakest.
"One."
Three blades of Ashisogi Jizō slid into Shuuichi's unguarded chest.
And just before the stopper's effect ended, Mayuri flashed away.
A strange keening rose from the blade in Shuuichi's chest.
He didn't waste time pulling it out—the gesture would be meaningless. Mayuri had left it on purpose to mislead his judgment.
Unfortunately for him, Shuuichi knew Ashisogi Jizō's trick better than Mayuri did.
"Four seconds of the lullaby, and you freeze," Shuuichi thought. "Shikai—understood."
Which meant—four beats.
Beat one—Bankai.
"Heihō Sogen—Bankai! Shōri Zōtō (Blade Hidden Behind a Smile)!"
Beat two—close.
Raw power made speed. Mayuri was not a brawler. He couldn't dodge.
Beat three—the face behind the mask… chuckled.
"Nikubakudan (Flesh Bomb)."
Still in the very lowest floor—Mayuri hadn't moved at all—he breathed out the words.
Light flared—then explosions savage enough to level half the refitted lab.
"I don't know how you learned my zanpakutō's ability, Higashino Shuuichi. But I read your file. I know how you fight—how well you fight.
To defeat you—I have to look further ahead."
He wasn't surprised in the least by Shuuichi's immediate response.
He hadn't expected simple bait to kill him, either. He'd merely used remote-control tech parsed from the armored soldiers to move a gigai wearing his face and a released Ashisogi Jizō upstairs.
Since the day of the defection, Shuuichi's capabilities were no secret to a researcher like him. Central 46 and the Sōtaichō had shared the data.
Including the "infinite regeneration."
Only by shattering that body again and again—by burning his stamina—could you kill him at the moment his strength ran dry.
Hard for others. For Mayuri—a modest challenge.
Back in the wreckage—no, deeper now, B10 by where the floors had fallen—Shuuichi reformed, breathing hard.
He hadn't expected the "Mayuri" he met to be a gigai, or that Mayuri knew both his regeneration and Shōri Zōtō's limits, and had wired the lab with layered charges.
Shōri Zōtō (Blade Hidden Behind a Smile) needed a target to "return" the blade—no target, no counter.
Fine. Another place where his technique lost to Ukitake Jūshirō's elegant shikai.
"At least, at this point in time, he probably hasn't invented the 'Superhuman Drug'…"
He scanned the mangled lab and let himself be quietly grateful.
If he'd been careless enough to let Mayuri seed him with that compound—no amount of reiatsu would have saved him.
Infinite regeneration didn't reboot ideas—or souls.
A shadow fell over him.
He looked up—at a vast, hideous being: golden infant's head; massive gray eyes; a steel halo; a neck bristling blades; centipede legs; a pillar-body trailing a red cloak.
Konjiki Ashisogi Jizō (Golden Ashisogi Jizō).
No mistaking it.
"So—that one's coming, is it?"
Shuuichi let himself sag to one knee, both hands propping him on his zanpakutō.
Poison mist.
Konjiki Ashisogi Jizō's fog—brewed from Mayuri's blood—packed with a thousand pathogens. Touch it, and your body failed.
Fail to move—and—
The monster dove. The maw yawned.
Eat. Digest. The end.
Just as the mouth closed over him, Shuuichi smiled at last.
"Mayuri… you still don't grasp how wide the gulf in reiatsu can be between us."
Even Soi Fon's rule-type certain-death could be blunted by a gulf in power—what was your poison to me?
"Nadegiri."
He'd knelt for this—one perfect cut.
The "sky" tore. Light poured in—not the clouds parting, but the thing overhead, split like wet paper.
At the bottom of the lab, Mayuri drew his gaze back from the ceiling and turned to a bench on the left.
"…I think I see it."
A whisper to himself.
Then he began the experiment he'd been hesitating over.
At least—try it once.
One minute. Two.
Sweat—rare for him—beaded beneath the mask and fell onto the bench.
Normally he'd wipe it away—don't contaminate the results. Now, he couldn't be bothered.
Three minutes. Four.
Not finished yet—
and a man dropped hard onto the floor behind him.
"Give me half an hour."
The words left Mayuri's mouth without thought.
"Mn."
He hadn't expected an answer.
Strange—but Mayuri treasured it.
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