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

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As Moyu stared at the restless Soul Messenger trembling in his grasp and listened to the hoarse, panicked voice crackling through the connection, his brow arched in slight confusion. The word "Menos Grande?" hovered in his mind with disbelief. There had been no alert from the Technology Development Bureau, no indication from surveillance, no warning sirens, no breach notifications. Irritation flared beneath his calm exterior.

"What the hell are those guys doing all day?" he muttered, the words quiet but edged in contempt.

Without wasting another breath, he tucked the communicator away, locked instantly onto the coordinates Mikami Saiki had transmitted, and disappeared in a blur—silent, immediate, absolute.

---

Karakura Town – Sector 6026-NW, Zone 2238

Frozen in place, Mikami Saiki stared in horror at the figure stepping calmly from the vast, yawning maw of the black Garganta that had ripped open the sky. The being's tall, slender frame exuded a cold grace, clad in skin-tight white garments laced with bone-like armor that clung to his form like a second skin. Pale and cruelly beautiful, his face was framed by shoulder-length, soft pink hair that swayed slightly with each movement, and his eerie, goggle-like glasses—more bone than ornament—glinted beneath the fading sun.

But the most overwhelming feature wasn't his appearance. It was the way the air seemed to collapse around him, sucked into the void of his arrogance. His presence wasn't simply oppressive—it was erasure. He stood not as a threat, but as a being that rendered all other existence meaningless.

Even from thousands of meters away, Mikami's body shuddered uncontrollably beneath the crushing weight of the figure's spiritual force. It bore down on him like a mountain collapsing, thick as death, cold as the void.

His skin prickled violently. Every nerve fired in warning. His pupils shrank to tiny dots, and his heartbeat skipped in sheer panic.

"What… what kind of being is this…?" he whispered, the words barely forming.

With difficulty, he suppressed his Reiatsu and ducked behind the shattered remains of a nearby building, tucking his enormous frame into the shadows. Yet even the darkness offered no shelter; the presence continued to bear down with suffocating force, an invisible rope tightening around his neck.

His lungs struggled to expand. He could feel his instincts screaming.

"No… I have to inform Lord Moyu…"

Fingers trembling uncontrollably, Mikami fumbled for the communicator, his thoughts scrambling to push past the pressure. "This… this is way beyond anything I can handle…"

Initially, the Bureau had only registered the opening of a Garganta and faint Menos-class spiritual residue leaking through—troubling, but not catastrophic. That alone had driven Mikami to contact Moyu without hesitation.

But now, confronted by the entity firsthand, he understood the terrifying truth.

This wasn't a battle between Shinigami and Hollow.

This wasn't even a battle.

This was existence on entirely separate levels.

His chest felt crushed by the sheer awareness of how insignificant he was. The gap between them was more than strength—it was reality itself fracturing under comparison.

Then, with chilling abruptness—

Zila... Zila... Zila...

The communicator crackled with static before Moyu's voice cut through, calm and unfazed. "Moshi moshi?"

But before the Head-Captain could even ask a question, a scream—raw and panicked—ripped through the line.

"L-Lord Moyu—run awa—!"

The transmission severed instantly, replaced by a voice devoid of warmth.

"Oh? Is this one of the Shinigami's little communication tools?"

The intruder's voice held no urgency, no emotion—just casual contempt. "How utterly primitive. No research value at all."

A dull impact followed.

BOOM.

And then—absolute silence.

The line went dead, the air heavy with implications.

Moyu stood still, exhaling quietly as he returned the communicator to his robes. His gaze narrowed, expression unreadable. "...This may be a bigger problem than expected."

Without warning, his form blurred once more and vanished.

The wind shrieked in his absence, ripped apart by the force of his departure. A violent sonic boom shattered the sky seconds later as the aftershock thundered through Karakura's airspace.

Shihōin Secret Footwork—Step Two: Jinghe.

---

Mikami Saiki stood paralyzed in primal terror, his wide eyes locked onto the figure now standing directly in front of him. The Espada had appeared behind him without the slightest sound or spiritual ripple. No fluctuation. No pressure shift. Not even a breeze to warn him.

He hadn't realized the Hollow had moved until the distance between them had already vanished.

One meter.

A single meter of space—and yet, for Mikami, it might as well have been an endless chasm of despair.

Every inch of his being screamed in helplessness. Resistance didn't even enter his thoughts. It wasn't that he couldn't fight—it was that the idea of trying had already been disintegrated under the weight of that crushing spiritual presence.

The Hollow's eyes, cold and utterly disinterested, regarded him with disdain.

"A weak, worthless organism."

The voice was not cruel. It was clinical. Detached.

"If your soul didn't hold some minimal research potential, I'd have crushed you without a second thought."

There was no malice in the tone—only the cold curiosity of someone observing a new test subject. The words didn't aim to humiliate, only to categorize, to classify him like an insect pinned beneath a microscope.

"Now then—time to harvest this soul."

Just as the Espada raised his hand, palm glowing with cold finality—

A wave of Reiatsu slammed into the world like a divine force uncoiling from the heavens.

HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMM—

The air itself groaned beneath the spiritual pressure. Buildings shivered. Loose gravel floated from the earth. The world felt like it had been dropped into the deep end of the ocean, the pressure pressing into lungs and bones from every direction.

And then, a voice—calm, layered, and utterly disdainful—cut through the weighted silence like a blade.

"You think you can harvest souls in my domain...?"

Each word struck with the precision of a honed blade, the disdain laced so deeply into the tone that it felt like the atmosphere recoiled in response.

"You must be confusing me for someone irrelevant."

The final insult was razor-sharp.

"You arrogant clown."

The words landed like a slap across the face.

For the first time since arriving, the Espada's expression shifted. The cold detachment faded, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. Interest. Recognition.

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing as the spiritual force opposing his own began to rise.

Another Shinigami.

But not an ordinary one.

Raising both hands in exaggerated mockery, the Espada offered a slow, sarcastic clap.

"My, my. Another stray officer from Seireitei."

The tone was light, almost playful, but his stare pierced like a scalpel.

"I suppose it's only polite to introduce myself first…"

He extended his arms wide, as though presenting a theatrical performance.

"I am the Octava Espada—Szayelaporro Granz."

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