Bleach: The Shinigami’s Zanpakutō That Unleashed Bankai On Its Own

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The moment Urahara Kisuke asked his question, Moyu noticed the subtle but unmistakable shift in Shihouin Yoruichi's posture—her golden feline eyes narrowing slightly, the lines of her body tensing as if reacting to a familiar predator's scent, a coiled readiness slipping into her limbs like instinct rekindled by memory.

With a faint sigh, Moyu spoke with deliberate calm. "I only became aware of Kyōka Suigetsu after the damage was already done—too late to guard against its influence." He kept his voice measured, even as old frustration stirred beneath the surface. "Back at the Spiritual Arts Academy, Aizen would 'casually' perform his Shikai, always framed as a demonstration, a tutorial, something innocent and routine. Of course, no one questioned it. That was the genius of his deception—there was no grand reveal, just a slow erosion of perception until everyone, even the unseen insects crawling through the building, had likely witnessed the release without ever realizing what they'd seen. It was methodical. It was perfect. And now, the illusion is embedded too deeply to untangle."

There was no merit in feigning superiority or pretending foresight; Aizen had manipulated time, trust, and familiarity so thoroughly that Moyu couldn't fault himself for being ensnared. He had been swept into a web long before recognizing the strands.

Across from him, Urahara's playful demeanor faltered for just a breath before something quieter surfaced—disappointment, perhaps not directed solely at Moyu, but at the implications of such a successful manipulation. He exhaled slowly, his voice carrying reluctant acknowledgment. "I suppose that's fair. Given the circumstances, Aizen's scrutiny may ease around you slightly, and while that doesn't absolve the danger, it does offer a sliver of advantage—if you're careful."

Moyu inclined his head slightly, then shifted the topic with crisp efficiency, returning to the real reason for his visit. "The Head Captain assigned me to the World of the Living with two primary objectives. The first was to expedite my combat growth—he believes field experience will sharpen my instincts beyond what training alone can offer. The second, more pressing, stems from the unstable spiritual activity that's been growing unchecked. Something here is shifting."

He met Urahara's gaze directly, letting no ambiguity remain in his tone. "Yoruichi indicated the source of that instability might be tied to Hueco Mundo. So I'll be blunt—what exactly is happening over there?"

A wry chuckle escaped Urahara's lips, though it was far from genuine. "My, my. So quick to point fingers, Yoruichi? Betraying me already?" His teasing, while light on the surface, carried a thin edge as he turned to her with a raised brow. "I suppose it's true—you are wearing the same pants as Mr. Moyu now."

Unimpressed, Yoruichi scoffed and crossed her arms, her disdain clear in every movement. "Don't be ridiculous. I came to monitor you, Kisuke—not to run errands for Hirako or anyone else. You've always been the one Soul Society should've kept on a shorter leash."

Urahara, as always, responded with a theatrical shrug, lifting both hands in exaggerated surrender. "Fine, fine, I get it. If Moyu's here for answers, and Yoruichi's siding with him, I suppose the time for secrecy has passed." The weight in his voice deepened as he continued, the humor draining from his expression like light from the sky before a storm. "Three years ago, I infiltrated Hueco Mundo for the last time. I traveled through one of its more remote sectors—dead zones that even Las Noches hasn't claimed."

His eyes dimmed with memory. "What I found was not a skirmish, not a territorial dispute, but a massacre. Tens of thousands of Hollows were engaged in relentless slaughter, not out of instinct, not for dominance, but because something had hijacked their will. They fought like rabid animals, not even acknowledging the danger around them. There was no hierarchy, no semblance of strategy—just an overwhelming hunger to kill anything that moved."

"I collected several of the more unusual specimens—mutated forms, unstable shapes. Yet, upon analyzing their spiritual structures and Reiatsu, I found no significant deviation from what you'd expect in lower-tier Hollows. On paper, they were ordinary. But in function, in behavior, in sheer bloodlust—they had become something else entirely."

Moyu's brow furrowed as he listened, already predicting the next question. "And that wasn't enough to drive you out?"

Urahara's response was immediate and resolute. "Of course not. You know me well enough by now to understand that I wouldn't retreat at the first mystery. I circled the region, slipped through its outskirts, and pressed deeper into the chaos. That's when I found the true scale of the war."

He leaned forward, voice lowering as if the memory itself carried weight. "A battlefield of Menos Grande, endless and hellish, stretched out like a panorama of nightmares. Gillian-class Hollows stood like black towers, clashing with thunderous steps, while countless Adjuchas—twisted, grotesque, malformed—fought and died with no rhythm or purpose. Even those emitting vice-captain level Reiatsu were shredded by the entropy."

Moyu's thoughts turned cold. The implications spiraled beyond simple Hollow conflict. "This… wasn't in any records. This isn't part of the timeline we know."

"No," Urahara said, his voice firm. "It's something else. A new evolution, one hidden even from the Espada, from Aizen, from Soul Society's gaze. Whatever this war is, it's not part of the known script."

"And if it's not part of history," Moyu murmured, "then it's still unfolding."

He hadn't accounted for this—a full-scale civil war erupting in the desert shadows, unknown even to the canonical timelines. A shifting tide beneath Aizen's empire, possibly older or deeper than Las Noches itself.

Urahara continued, his words grim. "And it gets worse. If you think the chaos is the extent of Hueco Mundo's threat, you're missing the deeper infection. I stayed longer than I should've—followed energy trails that sank into the lowest strata of that world. What I discovered there wasn't another battlefield. It was something else entirely. Something intelligent."

Raising his right hand, he summoned a tight orb of crimson spirit energy—Reishi compressed into a glowing sphere. "You know the principle already. Hollows consume their own to evolve."

He created another orb. As the two touched, they merged seamlessly, forming something larger.

"This is how they grow. Cannibalism is part of their natural progression."

"But during this war," he said slowly, crushing the orb into fine particles that scattered like dust, "when a Hollow ascends beyond its current tier… it disappears."

Moyu narrowed his eyes, his tone razor-sharp. "Where do they go?"

Urahara's gaze didn't waver. "They descend. Into deeper layers—far below the surface regions Soul Society has ever touched. Past the places Las Noches calls its borders. Into darkness we've never mapped."

Moyu processed the revelation in silence, his mind already reconstructing contingency paths. If Hollows were evolving not into Arrancar, but into something else—something so foreign and advanced that it left no trail—then Aizen's kingdom wasn't the apex of Hueco Mundo. It was merely its visible shell.

"There's something alive in those depths," Urahara concluded, voice heavy with warning. "Something organizing the chaos. Something watching. And if the war we see on the surface is just the opening act, then the real conflict hasn't begun yet."

Moyu exhaled, his body still, his thoughts anything but. This wasn't a warning—it was a declaration. Hueco Mundo wasn't fractured. It was incubating.

And whatever would rise from its depths… would not be content to stay buried.

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