Bleach : Black Feathers

The battlefield had reached an eerie stillness.

Shunsui Kyoraku stood a short distance away, eyes sharp despite his easygoing posture. The wind carried the scent of charred earth and Hollow decay, the aftermath of Kurokujaku's relentless assaults.

But something had changed.

The Vasto Lorde stood motionless, his claws resting against the edge of his own mask, his golden eyes distant—lost in thought.

This was the perfect opening.

"Why am I hesitating?"

The thought unsettled Kurokujaku.

His instincts had been razor-sharp for centuries, refined by endless battle and survival. He had never once second-guessed himself.

And yet…

Now, in this moment, with his enemies still standing, with his victory within reach, his mind was elsewhere.

On his mask.

The thought had come unbidden.

A whisper in the back of his mind. A temptation he had never known existed.

"What would happen… if I broke it?"

Shunsui noticed it immediately.

The Hollow's stance was off. His spiritual pressure was shifting, fluctuating in a way that suggested he was trapped in his own thoughts.

It was an opening.

And Shunsui Kyoraku never let an opening go to waste.

"Sorry, buddy. But this is war." said Shunsui quietly to himself.

Without warning, he vanished.

His Shunpo carried him straight toward Kurokujaku, twin blades flashing.

The moment his swords swung down, Kurokujaku's golden eyes snapped back into focus.

His instincts took over.

He leaned back just in time, Shunsui's dual strike slicing through empty air—but he wasn't fast enough to fully evade.

A shallow gash opened across his chest.

A minor wound—but a wake-up call.

Kurokujaku's mind cleared instantly.

"Foolishness."

His hesitation had given them an opening.

His curiosity had nearly cost him his advantage.

His *aspect of death—Oblivion—*wasn't about uncertainty. It was about finality.

And he had almost strayed from it.

Unacceptable.

His claws clenched into fists.

If he wanted answers, he would find them after he crushed these insects.

No more distractions.

Kurokujaku's Reiatsu surged, no longer fluctuating, but solid, unrelenting. His presence thickened the air, pressing down on the Shinigami like an invisible weight.

And then—he attacked.

"Enough games." he said coldly.

He raised one claw, and a sphere of pulsating void crackled to life above his palm.

Cero Vórtice: Absolución.

The vortex spiraled out, expanding in all directions.

The Shinigami reacted immediately—Shunsui and Komamura moved first, retreating with bursts of Shunpo. The remaining soldiers, however—

They were too slow.

The expanding vortex tore through them, consuming their bodies with a horrific erasure that left nothing behind.

Screams filled the air, cut short as five seated officers were erased from existence.

The survivors scrambled, launching Kido barriers and defensive maneuvers, but the vortex was too fast.

It swallowed two more.

Lisa, barely managed to avoid its reach, flinging herself backward with a desperate Shunpo—but her horror was written across her face.

She watched as her comrades disappeared.

She watched as the battlefield turned against them.

She watched as Kurokujaku's golden eyes glowed with something beyond hatred—beyond cruelty.

This was absolute dominance.

Shunsui landed beside Komamura, his expression grim.

"This isn't good."

"Yeah, no kidding," said Shunsui softly, his gaze sharp.

The battlefield had tilted completely in Kurokujaku's favor.

He had adapted. Refocused.

His hesitation was gone.

And that was far more dangerous than anything before.

Shunsui took a deep breath, running his fingers along the hilts of his Shikai.

For the first time in this fight… he was genuinely considering it.

Bankai.

But before he could make a decision—

A new presence surged into the battlefield.

A deep, booming voice cut through the chaos.

???

"That's enough."

A heavy spiritual pressure descended.

A new force had arrived.

The battlefield lay in ruins.

The forest, once dense and vibrant, had been reduced to a scarred wasteland of obliterated trees and smoldering earth. The air shimmered with residual spiritual pressure, heavy with the lingering scent of destruction.

At the center of it all, Kurokujaku stood unmoved.

His golden eyes flickered as he studied the Shinigami.

Shunsui and Komamura were still standing. The survivors of their divisions had regrouped, shaken but alive.

It wasn't enough.

Not yet.

He raised his claw, preparing to unleash another wave of devastation—

And then the sky split apart.

A presence unlike anything before descended upon the battlefield.

A crushing force.

For a single moment, it felt as though the world itself was burning.

The clouds above ignited, twisting into a crimson inferno as if reality had caught fire. The wind ceased. The very air trembled beneath the weight of the spiritual pressure that had suddenly engulfed everything.

And then—he arrived.

With a single step, Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto emerged, his presence like the embodiment of judgment itself.

His ancient eyes swept over the battlefield, taking in the destruction, the fallen, and the Hollow standing at the center of it all.

His grip on his zanpakutō tightened.

The air grew hot.

Very, very hot.

Yamamoto (low, but carrying across the battlefield):

"I see."

He exhaled.

And the world seemed to catch fire.

Kurokujaku did not flinch.

This man… was strong.

Beyond the others. Beyond anyone he had ever faced.

His instincts roared, warning him of the danger before him.

Yet, beneath that, there was something else.

That same nagging feeling from before.

The whisper of temptation.

The quiet, relentless thought:

"If I broke my mask… could I face him as an equal?"

He dismissed it—for now.

There was no time for hesitation.

Yamamoto took a single step forward.

Kurokujaku moved.

One moment they stood apart.

The next—

Fire and darkness erupted.

Yamamoto's sword swung down, a simple but devastating strike, backed by centuries of unmatched power.

Kurokujaku met it head-on.

His claws clashed against steel, the impact shattering the ground beneath them. The very air detonated around their collision, the sheer force sending shockwaves in every direction.

The forest was erased.

The surviving Shinigami were forced back, barely able to withstand the aftershocks of the collision.

The difference in raw power was clear.

But Kurokujaku was not overpowered.

He moved with perfect fluidity, avoiding the roaring flames that threatened to consume him. His speed was unparalleled, his attacks relentless—each claw strike laced with the power of Oblivion itself.

A single mistake and even Yamamoto's existence could be erased.

And yet—he did not falter.

The Captain-Commander met every attack with calm, terrifying precision.

He did not waver.

He did not hesitate.

"You are powerful, Hollow. But power alone does not win wars."

Kurokujaku's golden eyes narrowed.

His instincts told him—this man could not be defeated here.

And worse…

If Yamamoto chose to fully release his power, the entire battlefield would be engulfed.

Every human in the city beyond this wasteland.

Even the Shinigami standing behind him.

The old man knew this.

He would not risk their lives.

And Kurokujaku knew it too.

A sudden shift rippled through his spiritual pressure.

Yamamoto sensed it immediately.

The Hollow was withdrawing.

Kurokujaku took a step back, lowering his claws.

His golden eyes lingered on the Captain-Commander for a brief moment longer, assessing him.

Then—without another word—he turned.

The void twisted around him as he prepared to open a Garganta.

A retreat.

Not out of fear.

But because there were questions that demanded answers.

What was this feeling?

Why did the thought of his mask continue to gnaw at him?

What lay beyond his current existence?

Before stepping through the portal, he cast one final glance at Yamamoto.

"Next time, old man… I will not turn away."

The Garganta sealed behind him, and the battlefield was left in silence.

The Shinigami remained motionless, stunned by the encounter.

Yamamoto exhaled slowly.

And the flames in the sky faded.

Shunsui stepped forward, adjusting his hat with a slow, careful motion.

"So, uh… that was terrifying," Shunsui said lightly, but with a serious undertone.

Komamura remained silent, still feeling the echoes of Kurokujaku's power.

The battlefield was devastated. The loss of life was great.

And yet—it could have been much worse.

"That Hollow… was different," said Yamamoto grimly.

His gaze turned toward the empty sky.

He had seen many powerful Hollows in his time.

But this one—this one was something else entirely.

There was something dangerous brewing.

Something far beyond the usual evolution of a Hollow.

And if left unchecked…

It could become a threat.

"We will meet again," Yamamoto said quietly, to himself.

The black void of the Garganta twisted and writhed as Kurokujaku stepped through, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts.

His clawed feet met the cold, pale sand of Hueco Mundo, the desolate expanse stretching endlessly beneath the eternal night sky. The wind howled—a whispering reminder of his existence as a Hollow, as something monstrous and incomplete.

He did not pause.

His path took him deep into the Forest of Menos, where the dim light of the surface world barely reached. Towering, gnarled trees stretched into the darkness, their skeletal branches weaving a labyrinth of silent decay.

He walked without thought, led only by instinct.

By that feeling.

That wretched, gnawing sensation that had haunted him since his battle.

His claws clenched at his sides.

Why?

Why did it feel like something was missing?

He had been on the verge of crushing those Shinigami. His power had been absolute, his presence undeniable.

Yet, Yamamoto had stood before him, unshaken.

The old man had not even unleashed his full strength.

And Kurokujaku knew it.

It disgusted him.

Not because he feared Yamamoto's power—but because he had hit a wall.

For the first time since his evolution into a Vasto Lorde, he had felt his limits.

And that was unacceptable.

He came to a halt.

The silence pressed against him.

The towering trees of the Forest of Menos loomed around him like silent specters.

His golden eyes gleamed with realization.

There was only one path forward.

His gaze dropped to his clawed hand.

Then he lifted it—and gripped the edge of his mask.

"What would happen if I broke my mask?"

The thought was no longer a whisper.

It was a command.

A resolution.

His claws tightened.

And then—he ripped.

The crack was deafening.

A jagged fracture split across his mask as his strength shattered the barrier between what he was and what he could become.

His body seized.

A surge of power unlike anything he had ever felt tore through him, ripping at his very existence.

The air around him distorted, spiraling inwards like the pull of a collapsing star.

His breath hitched.

His flesh burned.

And yet—he felt no pain.

Only transformation.

Only evolution.

The last thing he saw before his vision blurred was the sand beneath him turning to dust, as if reality itself was being erased by the force of his metamorphosis.

And then—darkness.