[64] Stronger

"Senjumaru!"

The moment Zeidritz's voice rang out, Makoto's figure sliced through the air in a sharp arc. The shallow blade in his hand whipped up a shrill whistle of wind as it slashed toward the old man's shoulder.

The old man, however, remained unperturbed. With a calm motion, he extended his hand, pointing the short staff toward Makoto.

"Alchemy!"

Yet Makoto neither dodged nor flinched. His form hurtled onward, unrelenting, straight toward his target.

No effect.

A flicker of astonishment crossed the old man's weathered face.

Before he could fully process it, Makoto's low growl echoed from behind him,

"Second Form - Silent Stream!"

Supported by a jet-like burst of Shunpo, Makoto's lithe figure twisted through the air like a serpent, carving several elegant curves. The blade in his hand flashed with deadly precision.

The winged boots on Zeidritz's feet fluttered.

His form vanished, then reappeared.

A blink, and he was gone again.

This strange, emaciated agility gave Makoto the uncanny sensation of striking cotton, utterly devoid of the visceral, bone-crunching impact he was accustomed to from battles against Shinigami or Hollows.

Before he could adjust, Zeidritz raised his staff a third time,

"Alchemy!"

Instinctively, Makoto shifted into a defensive stance,

"Bakudō #39: Enkōsen!"

A circular gate of light materialized before him, a shield-like barrier. Yet in the brief moment it held, the entire surface shimmered into a brilliant, radiant gold.

A chill crept up Makoto's spine.

At the same time, a faint understanding of this ability's pattern began to crystallize.

So it only turns what's in his line of sight into gold?

While Makoto bought himself a sliver of time, on the other side, Okikiba had finished chanting his incantation. Hands cupped forward, he roared,

"Hadō #63: Raikōhō!"

A golden beam of light tore through the sky, accompanied by a deafening crack of thunder that reverberated through the clouds.

This time, Zeidritz didn't evade. Instead, he dismissed the staff in his hand, transforming it back into a small, unassuming mirror. With a single hand, he directed it toward the oncoming lightning.

"Mirror of Reflection."

The golden thunderbolt vanished into the mirror's glass surface as though swallowed whole.

Then...

The explosive roar erupted once more, redirecting the blast toward Okikiba. He scrambled desperately, barely managing to veer out of its path.

The air grew thick with the acrid stench of scorched ozone.

Yet before Zeidritz could relax, another slash came from behind.

A flicker.

His form pierced through the air, reappearing dozens of meters away.

The old man's lone eye swept over the two figures with a cold, detached gaze, his expression devoid of warmth.

"Two left, then…"

"So this is the so-called instructors and this is all they amount to."

"It seems Orado was far too careless."

Makoto and Okikiba locked eyes with him, their stares heavy with resolve.

This fight was proving far too bizarre.

For generations, Shinigami had clashed with Menos Grande and fellow Shinigami but never had they encountered someone like this, an opponent who refused to engage in straightforward combat.

And even now, they still had no clue what their enemy's goal was.

However…

A faint smile tugged at Makoto's lips.

"Underestimate me, and you might find your tongue pierced."

"Shigarami."

From behind Zeidritz came a soft, feminine voice, faint yet unmistakable.

The old man's expression froze for a heartbeat before he barked.

"Iron Cloak!"

Almost instantly, a series of muffled punctures resounded from within his body. His coat, now inexplicably heavy and hardened, revealed long, narrow needle marks piercing outward from within, as though threatening to skewer him entirely.

The oversized needles scraped against the steel-like fabric, producing a grating, ear-splitting screech like claws raking across a chalkboard.

Zeidritz coughed up a mouthful of blood, his eyes bulging.

Not an attack from outside, but one launched from within?

When?!

Senjumaru's tall, elegant golden figure appeared soundlessly behind him.

A long needle burst from within the gilded shell, extending into the open air.

Then, the layer of gold encasing her, like a delicate veil of metallic gauze was deftly peeled away from the inside by three skeletal hands with effortless grace.

The noblewoman-like figure, as if anticipating his thoughts, chuckled softly.

"Of course, it was the moment you laid eyes on me…"

"Stitch him! Shigarami!"

But before the needles piercing from within could fully act, Zeidritz hurled the mirror aside and bellowed,

"Skin Drawer!"

In an instant, his original body split open like a massive leather trunk, unzipped from within by another figure.

Soon, a second Zeidritz clothed anew, unscathed leapt forth from the husk, darting toward Olado's corpse. At most, his face bore a slight pallor; the discarded shell remained behind.

'I underestimated them!'

'I must report this to His Majesty!'

'The Shinigami are not as feeble as they appeared in the living world.'

Zeidritz's mind remained sharp and calculating. He knew full well that this incursion into the Soul Society was merely a pawn's errand for His Majesty.

To him, the priority wasn't victory, it was returning to the living world with this intelligence intact.

And ensuring the Quincy's secrets didn't fall into Shinigami hands.

[Makoto-san, Makoto-san! Look, a Doraemon old man!]

[He's pretty good at changing, huh?]

[I want one too, make me one!]

Yet before he could reach Orado's body, a voice, childlike and innocent, suddenly chirped in his mind.

A shiver ran through Zeidritz's heart.

Another expert?!

Before he could turn his head, he instinctively tried to shout some new invention.

But this time, before Zeidritz could even open his mouth, he suddenly felt as though an invisible hand had seized his throat, choking off all sound.

What in the world?!

The question still lingered in his mind when Makoto's whisper slithered through the air behind him.

"Third Form - Needle Star!"

In an instant, a dazzling arc streaked across the sky like a meteor. The young man's lithe figure pierced through the clouds without a whisper of sound, his Reiatsu condensed entirely into the blade in his hand, narrowing into a singularity so fine it was nearly invisible.

When his form reappeared, he stood before the old man, frozen in the stance of a silent thrust.

Tiny droplets of blood spattered across the ground.

As for the old man, nicknamed "Doraemon" a smooth, head-sized hole had been carved clean through the side of his waist and abdomen.

Visible from front to back.

Makoto turned his head, still clutching a seemingly ordinary lens in his hand.

He tossed it onto Doraemon's body and murmured, "Your Inventor can only maintain three at a time, right?"

"Better keep track of your own belongings."

Just moments ago, Makoto had pinned that lens down, preventing it from dissolving into pure Reishi. That single act had stopped Doraemon from calling forth whatever gadget he'd intended to unleash.

For someone who relied so heavily on external tools, losing the power of their Schrift left them defenseless, ripe for the slaughter.

Still, the Quincy from a thousand years ago were laughably weak.

With that thought, Makoto let out a soft "pfft" and drove his blade horizontally through Doraemon's throat, finishing the job.

A clean follow-up strike was a fine tradition.

It ensured certainty.

"Makoto!"

But just as he prepared to hack Doraemon's corpse into smaller pieces, Senjumaru's voice rose sharply, laced with indignation,

"That's my trophy!"

"This is a new species, something unseen in years!"

"Even a sword-swinging monkey like you should show some restraint, at least leave me an intact body!"

"Huh?!"

Makoto wasn't about to indulge her. "A finishing blow is standard Soul Society combat etiquette."

"If you don't shred the corpse, how can you be sure they're out of tricks?"

"This is Unohana-sensei's golden rule. What, do you think you know more about fighting than her?"

"Tch! You act like they're some kind of freaks…"

Senjumaru was about to fire back with her usual mocking retort when her eyes suddenly widened.

"Dodge!"

Makoto froze for a split second.

Then, a searing surge of heat erupted beneath his feet.

Boom!

Doraemon's corpse swelled grotesquely, like an overinflated balloon, before exploding in a violent blast.

The detonation devoured everything within a twenty-meter radius in an instant.

Blinding flames and light swallowed the scene, the sheer force of the shockwave hurling those nearby into the air.

Zeidritz's figure reappeared in the distance.

In his hand, he held what remained of Orado's corpse, just a head and one arm attached to a mangled upper torso.

The old man gazed at the chaos from afar, his expression cold as he muttered,

"To think… they saw through the Schrift's weakness so quickly?"

"Impressive."

"A pity I couldn't retrieve all the fragments."

Makoto's guess had been spot-on.

Zeidritz's Inventor did indeed have a limit.

But it wasn't three, it was four.

For safety, he always kept one in reserve, Explosive Decoy. The Skin Drawer he'd discarded earlier had been his true body all along.

Still, an explosion of that magnitude shouldn't have been enough to take them down, should it?

Sure enough.

Before Zeidritz could even finish the thought, Makoto, Senjumaru, and Okikiba turned to face him.

Unfortunately, the distance between them was now well beyond their attack range. There was no stopping him.

"This time, we were unprepared."

"But rest assured."

Zeidritz's flat gaze swept over the group as he spoke coolly, "Next time, you'll all witness the divine radiance of His Majesty."

With that, a spiritual blade slashed open a spatial rift behind him.

The old man, gripping Orado's half-corpse, stepped toward the portal.

Makoto let out a low chuckle and called after him.

"Oh, I forgot to mention earlier."

"We're not Captain."

Zeidritz's body stiffened for a moment. His piercing single eye locked onto Makoto, sharp and menacing.

Makoto met his stare fearlessly, pointing to himself with a grin as radiant as a monster.

"There are at least thirteen others stronger than us!"

"Every single one of them could crush the three of us with one hand."

"I wonder how many could your pitiful Majesty take down?"

"…"

Zeidritz stared at him in silence. Not one of the others refuted the claim. The pupil in his lone eye contracted sharply.

"Hmph!"

Without another word, Doraemon quickened his pace.

This was too much.

Time to run.

***

Bonus Chapter:

100 Power Stones = 1 BC

300 Power Stones = 2 BC

500 Power Stones = 3 BC

700 Power Stones = 4 BC

1000 Power Stones = 5 BC

***

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