The air burned. The ground hissed and vanished into steam.
This Kidō—Ittō Kasō, developed by Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto based on the power of his own Zanpakutō—unleashed its might without restraint.
"I told you—it won't work! Sokune Ryūgin!"
What could have forced any other Captain into full alert, what should have threatened death with a whisper, was rendered toothless before Senjō Ryū's Zanpakutō—a blade that seemed tailor-made to nullify such overwhelming power.
But Higashi Shūichi had known this. Every Kidō, every explosion and illusion, was nothing but sleight of hand—distractions masking his true assault.
And he had succeeded.
By the time Senjō Ryū sensed his spiritual pressure, Shūichi was already within ten meters. For someone versed in Hakuda and Shunpō, that was as good as breathing on the enemy.
"Bonecrusher."
His fist drove forward, a single knuckled hammer aimed at the Captain's chest.
It was a technique he had developed from observing Yamamoto's Ikkotsu—but where that technique focused on piercing, concentrating force to a single point, Bonecrusher did the opposite. It spread out, collapsing an opponent's defenses across a wider zone.
Shūichi's aim was clear: to shatter as much of Ryū's defensive capacity as possible in one blow.
He never expected a Captain-class opponent to fall from a sneak attack. And he was right.
Even with all his planning, the instant before the punch landed, Ryū's instincts kicked in. His left hand moved on reflex, raising his Bakuyaōtō—his mimic blade—in a desperate block.
Boom!
A deep, echoing impact. Blood sprayed from Ryū's mouth. Even with the blade absorbing much of the blow, Shūichi had held nothing back. The force sent him careening through the sky, crashing hundreds of meters away—
—right into Starrk's line of pursuit.
Shūichi's arrival on the battlefield had changed the game. Starrk could no longer unleash his absurdly large Cero volleys with impunity. He wasn't Baraggan Louisenbairn, after all—he couldn't afford to torch an ally with collateral.
But restraint didn't mean helplessness. With a flick of his wrists, the twin pistols became the Fangs of the Lone Wolf once more.
Sonído. Starrk was behind Ryū in a breath, blades slashing from the shadows.
Even wounded, Senjō Ryū was still a Captain. His sword rang out, deflecting blow after blow.
But the worst part—the part that squeezed the breath from his lungs—was the coordination. That nameless Shinigami wasn't just assisting the Arrancar. They moved like trained killers—alternating roles, attacks flowing in a rhythm too practiced for coincidence.
"Why have you betrayed the Soul Society?!"
Ryū barked the question at Shūichi, hoping to stagger him with righteous fury.
But Shūichi didn't flinch. His response was a cold laugh:
"Do you really consider yourself loyal to the Soul Society?"
That stunned Ryū. Was he loyal?
Of course not. He had accepted the Bakkōtō—a synthetic Zanpakutō forged in secret by the Kasumiōji Clan—and kept it hidden. He had never reported it. The day he gripped that blade, he had already turned his back on Seireitei.
Joining the Expeditionary Force was his silent penance.
But how did this man know?
Was he sent to purge him?
Then why fight alongside a Hollow?
Too many questions. Too many cracks in his focus.
"Bonecrusher."
Shūichi struck again, the fist crashing into Ryū's sternum. This time, the Captain wasn't lucky enough to block. He plummeted like a stone, blood trailing behind him.
Shūichi surged forward for the finishing blow, but Starrk was already there.
The twin blades rose. They would end it.
Then it happened—a surge of spiritual pressure erupted from Ryū.
"Another technique?!"
Shūichi's instincts screamed. He vanished with Shunpō, narrowly avoiding the blast.
But Starrk wasn't as lucky. Though he sensed it coming, he couldn't stop mid-strike. The Kōen Ryūga—a burst of dragonfire—slammed into him, hurling him through the sky. His white uniform disintegrated into ash, and charred flesh smoked beneath it.
"Shit. He's trying to escape!"
Even wounded, even cornered, Senjō Ryū still fought like a cornered beast. In a normal battle, he might have survived.
But this wasn't normal.
Higashi Shūichi had spent decades under Aizen Sōsuke, the only Shinigami left in the traitor's service. Where others had gifts, Shūichi had been forged—every skill honed to the limit through relentless training. Were his talent any higher, he might've stood toe-to-toe with names like Unohana Retsu or Kyōraku Shunsui.
Instead, he fought alongside Starrk, still unable to finish a single Captain in one clean blow.
But the fight was ending.
He felt Ryū's spiritual pressure collapsing—his Bakkōtō finally turning on him.
"It was never your power. You knew that. You must've accepted this ending long ago."
Shūichi raised his Zanpakutō, cold and sharp. The edge gleamed.
"Master of War—Cunning Stratagem! Bakudō #79: Lightning—Kyūyōbaku!"
A single thunderclap split the sky. Black restraints of arcing electricity slammed down, forming a prison of nine jagged bars that sparked and hummed with destructive power.
Unlike Cunning Stratagem: Ice, which froze and slowed, Cunning Stratagem: Lightning was for speed and annihilation. It gave Shūichi incredible reach—both to support allies from afar, and to crush enemies up close with inescapable swiftness.
Before, Ryū's mimic blade suppressed even this power.
But now? His Reiryoku was faltering. The mimic blade was devouring its master.
"Break!"
Ryū roared, forcing his numbed arm to swing. The lightning prison shattered.
But that moment, that single breath of rebellion—that was all Shūichi and Starrk needed.
And this time, Shūichi moved faster.
As he passed Ryū, he whispered by the dying man's ear:
"Hope you're born luckier next time."
His Zanpakutō plunged into Ryū's chest, piercing clean through.
Cunning Stratagem: Control activated.
Before Starrk's eyes, Senjō Ryū dissolved into particles of light.
And the devouring mimic blade—no longer fed—clattered to the earth, inert.