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

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"This is a premeditated war," Urahara Kisuke said, his final words hanging heavy in the dimly lit room as he fixed his complex, unreadable gaze on Moyu.

Moyu remained silent, absorbing the weight of what he'd just heard, his thoughts spiraling inwards as his mind frantically scoured memory, fragmented data, and the whispers of forgotten rumors for anything that might anchor this madness in reason.

A war designed to accelerate Hollow evolution—unmistakably sinister, and yet strangely calculated.

Naturally, the first name to arise from such an equation was Aizen.

The Espada had already assembled under his banner, and Las Noches, once a stronghold of chaos, now stood as Aizen's fortress—his dominion carved into the heart of Hueco Mundo like a throne etched in ivory and blood.

If it wasn't Aizen, then who in Hueco Mundo possessed the authority, the ambition, or the sheer intellect to engineer warfare at this level of precision?

Before Aizen's ascendancy, Hueco Mundo had been ruled by the monstrous Barragan, the so-called king reduced to Espada No. 2 beneath Aizen's heel; and deeper still, the Primordial Menos had long since been sealed away by Ōetsu Nimaiya and the other Royal Guard, vanquished into obscurity.

On the surface, there remained no visible faction or singular being with the power to challenge Aizen's rule or sow a rebellion on this scale.

Which only led to one conclusion—this orchestrated war reeked of his fingerprints.

But that implication birthed an even more unnerving question.

Why would Aizen ignite a full-scale Hollow war before securing the Hōgyoku, the very object that would solidify his transcendence?

Could this be part of a deeper, more insidious contingency?

Or—worse still—was someone else pulling the strings, someone whose shadow even Aizen had failed to detect?

The speculation clawed at Moyu's focus, tightening the crease in his brow, dragging his thoughts into a spiral that felt dangerously beyond his ability to track.

"This has already slipped past what I can handle alone," he finally said, his voice calm but edged with a decision that had hardened beneath the weight of what he now understood. "I'll need to send this intelligence back to the Soul Society."

But before the resolve had even fully settled in his chest, Urahara Kisuke dismissed the notion with an immediate shake of the head and a sudden shift in tone.

"That's not wise, Mr. Moyu," he said, leaning forward, the gravity in his voice demanding attention. "Think it through—what do you truly believe Seireitei will do with information like this?"

"Do you honestly think they'll hesitate before launching a full-scale assault on Hueco Mundo with the full force of the Gotei 13?"

"And you—of all people—should know better than to invite that kind of consequence."

Moyu's eyes flicked toward him, gaze sharp and cool, his words cutting. "You sound more worried about your own secrets being exposed."

Urahara responded with a low chuckle, his usual flippancy returning like a tide. "Well, I do have enemies far more troublesome than Aizen, believe it or not."

"Aizen is terrifying, no doubt about it… but that man—and this war—don't even exist on the same tier."

He leaned back, limbs slack with his signature laziness, then added with a smile laced with mischief, "And since I've been rather generous in answering your questions, don't you think it's fair to return the favor and tell me a bit about how things are unraveling over in Seireitei?"

Moyu's expression tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he measured the eccentric shopkeeper's words, dissecting their intent before crafting a reply.

———

As the conversation continued, the dynamic between them shifted.

From Urahara, Moyu learned far more about the volatile currents churning within Hueco Mundo than he had ever anticipated, and in exchange, Urahara quietly pieced together scattered data from Moyu's account of Soul Society—using it like puzzle fragments to sketch the outline of Aizen's next moves.

Urahara wasn't simply theorizing—he was tracing the trajectory of a mastermind, trying to find the hidden seams that held the plan together.

And Moyu understood—this conflict had already ascended to a level where titans clashed in silence, their influence weaving through shadows too vast for others to follow.

Between such monsters, there was little room left for mortals to intervene.

Which meant this knowledge, as dangerous as it was, had to remain buried for now.

Everything came back to a single truth.

He had to keep growing stronger.

———

Back at the warehouse, Moyu returned to his usual rhythm, falling back into the salted-fish lifestyle—but this time with a sharper awareness of his own stagnation.

His spiritual energy had begun to plateau, and that familiar, suffocating bottleneck had re-emerged like a collar tightening with each breath.

Without external pressure to force a breakthrough, he knew nothing would change, no matter how many hours he spent refining his form.

In the days that followed, his time drifted between his temporary residence and the Urahara Shop—not just to see Yoruichi, whose presence never failed to jolt his heartbeat, but to tap into the shopkeeper's bottomless well of Kidō expertise.

Very few had ever pushed the boundaries of Kidō beyond textbook theory.

Urahara Kisuke, the one who had cast Hadō #99: Goryūtenmetsu and lived to tell the tale, stood among that rare echelon of spellcraft geniuses.

Moyu intended to extract every drop of knowledge from that mind.

Then there was Yoruichi—the Flash Goddess herself.

Her mastery of Shunpo was legendary, a spectrum of movement so refined and devastating that even captains hesitated when she vanished from their sight.

Her techniques, drawn from the secret footwork of the Shihoin clan, remained classified as forbidden arts, unattainable to all but the elite few.

And her Hakuda—polished to an apex of elegance and brutality—was unrivaled in close-quarters combat.

Together, Urahara and Yoruichi covered every gap in Moyu's current foundation, fortifying his growth like twin whetstones sharpening a single blade.

All gaps—except one.

Mikami Saiki.

Moyu had once naively assumed that Karakura Town's long-serving overseer could at least manage the pest-level Hollows that trickled into the area.

But Mikami had proven less reliable than anticipated.

His efficiency in combat bordered on humiliating; even minor Hollow infestations required hours of fumbling intervention, and more often than not, he left the job half-finished.

More than once, Moyu had to intervene personally, cleaning up the spiritual mess like a reluctant janitor.

Worse still, Mikami had developed a habit of calling for backup with wild desperation, sometimes for threats that barely deserved attention.

———

"MASTER MOYU!!"

The scream burst through the soul transmitter with static-laced urgency, every syllable vibrating with pure panic and incompetence.

"A massive Menos Grande Reiatsu signature just flared northwest of Sector 2238—Block 6026 in Karakura Town!!"

"MY LORD—COME AND SAVE MEEEEE!!!"

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