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Bright red blood streamed from his wounds as Nnoitra stared down at his ruined body, his narrowed pupils trembling—not with rage, but with fear. The broken edge of his crescent scythe glinted dully, half-severed and drained of spiritual pressure. If the last strike had carried just a fraction more force, it wouldn't have left him alive enough to regret it.
He had clawed his way from the weakest of Hollows to stand atop the Espada, devouring rival after rival, tearing his way to dominance in Hueco Mundo. But now, that cold weight inside his gut—this unnamable pressure suffocating his soul—was something new. Something alien. Despair. True despair. And he felt it not from a Hollow, not from a monster, but from a Shinigami.
A manic grin split his bloodied face, laughter spilling out in ragged bursts as he screamed into the sky. "This is it! This is the fight I've been chasing, Nelliel! You see this? This is the kind of battle that matters!" His golden Reiatsu erupted again, screaming upward like a pyre. Despite his body hanging on by threads, the energy behind him refused to dim.
His broken scythe lifted high, the remains catching flame as the condensed beam of spiritual pressure ignited the skies over Karakura Town. Golden fire surged across the battlefield, searing the clouds and swallowing the terrain in chaotic flare. The death gesture of despair made landfall.
"I'll show you all what true strength is! The name that dominates the battlefield—Nnoitra Gilga!" His voice rose above the storm. "Pray, Holy Weeping Mantis!"
The golden torrent crashed down like an inferno, and as the light consumed his form, the dust exploded outward, blanketing everything in darkness and flame.
From afar, Masaki Kurosaki tensed, her bright eyes reflecting the chaos. "To fight like that while wounded... he's a monster," she muttered, tension creeping into her voice.
"He won't lose." The answer came from the small figure beside her.
Masaki glanced down at Nilu. The girl's voice was weak but steady, conviction glowing behind her quiet words. Something stirred in Masaki's heart as she looked from child to battlefield. Shinigami, she had always believed, were beings of death—remorseless executioners of balance. Yet Moyu had thrown himself into this battle to protect this small girl, fighting a nightmare like Nnoitra with no regard for his own safety.
That image shattered her perception.
Smiling faintly through her unease, Masaki whispered, "Yes. He'll win."
She raised her gaze toward the churning sky. A spiritual bow formed in her hand, its dense Reishi compacted into a weapon of shimmering light, locked and ready. Even now, with Moyu dominating the battlefield, she stood ready to join the fray. She didn't need to fight—she wanted to.
Above them, the cloudbanks split apart as though torn by some vast invisible blade. The golden pillar of Reiatsu remained, pulsing violently as Nnoitra completed his resurrection. The beam slowly dissipated, revealing a massive crescent silhouette amidst the smoke—a new shape, terrible and regal, crashing down like a false moon onto Karakura Town.
Dust cleared with the shifting breeze, and there he stood—Nnoitra, reborn.
Crescent horns jutted from his skull, curving like blades toward the heavens. Yellow facial lines streaked his manic features, his mask now a vicious jaw of fangs gripping the void over his hollow hole. Four arms spread wide, each gripping double-edged scythes. His Espada cloak hung in tatters, but his body was whole again. The wounds had vanished without a trace.
"How's that?" His voice cut through the wind, arrogant and jagged. "First time seeing an Espada's true form? Does it make you feel small, Shinigami? Does it feel like despair?"
But Moyu remained unmoved, his posture unchanged, his Zanpakutō held in reverse at his side. "If you've shown me your best, I suppose it'd be rude not to answer in kind."
He raised his blade before him.
"Tear the sky and sweep through Senluo—Lan Yin."
A bluish-white wind surged outward from Moyu's feet, spiraling upward in a violent vortex. It ripped clouds from the sky and pulled even loose stone from the ground. Spiritual pressure crackled around him, a storm called from silence. As the wind died down, his form emerged in the eye of the whirlwind, his blade transformed—longer now, sleeker, its edges glowing with wind-etched symbols. The Reishi around it vibrated with violent intent.
"This makes things fair."
A flick of his wrist and the wind exploded outward again, cleaving trenches beneath his feet, each deeper than the last. Nnoitra's brow twitched as his grin faltered. That pressure, that blade, that power—it was nothing like before. Why did he feel like he had been the one holding back?
So that bastard hadn't even been fighting seriously until now?!
Maddened fury cracked through his grin. "I don't care what you've released! I'll still crush you, Shinigami trash!"
He vanished with Sonído, reappearing overhead in the blink of an eye. His four scythes dropped in tandem, golden Reiatsu trailing like comet tails as they descended on Moyu's head.
The crash of steel rang through the battlefield.
Four scythes met one blade. Moyu raised Lan Yin with practiced calm, stopping every strike at the moment of impact. The perfect angle. The precise timing. Nnoitra's eyes widened. It shouldn't have been possible.
Moyu looked up, smiling faintly. "This is how battles are truly fought. Wild instinct is the crutch of beasts. But blade and skill—those are what define warriors."
Zaraki Kenpachi's brute strength had once been worshipped as the peak of battle, overwhelming even the elegant swordsmanship of Unohana. But Moyu had seen through it. The power wasn't in the wildness—it was in the man. Kendo had its own truth. And it had its own future.
"I'll show you what technique really means."
"You arrogant bastard!" Nnoitra roared, every muscle tense with rage. "Shinigami like you don't get to talk about honor!"
He twisted all four arms and wrenched Lan Yin backward, yanking with brute force, forcing Moyu's stance open. The motion resembled a mantis, limbs converging for a single lethal blow. All escape routes were closed.
But again, steel rang out. A second clash burst through the field, the shockwave vaporizing the surrounding buildings in every direction. The debris lifted into the air before turning to dust. Yet Moyu held fast, his body unmoved. He hadn't flinched.
"How?!" Nnoitra's shriek tore from his throat. "Why can't I break you?!"
"I told you," Moyu said, voice still even. "There's more to this than brute force."
Fury rising, Nnoitra opened his mouth. Reiatsu condensed into a dense golden orb, hovering just above his tongue—marked by the black numeral 5.
Cero Oscuras.
This was his final weapon—Wang Xu's Flash. At this range, it was death itself.
With manic joy burning in his eyes, he released the blast.
A column of golden destruction erupted, swallowing Moyu whole and punching a hole through the battlefield. The energy thundered across the landscape, ripping it apart in a single, furious scream.
"He's gone!" Nnoitra howled, laughter shredding the silence. "He's finally dead! That coward who hides behind words—gone! Victory belongs to—"
"Talking too much dulls your blade."
The voice returned.
Nnoitra froze mid-laugh. Slowly, stiffly, he turned around. Moyu stood several feet away, untouched. Calm. Alive.
"No… impossible! I saw it hit—!"
Only silence answered him. From the air before his eyes, a shred of black cloth drifted down, torn and weightless.
Shunpō Style Three—Empty Cicada. A high-level decoy technique. He'd never struck Moyu at all.
"That's the difference between us," Moyu said, eyes sharp. "You're a beast trying to roar louder. I am the wind."
Rage boiled over. Nnoitra disappeared and reappeared beside him, all four scythes slashing in perfect sync. The ground shattered beneath them, columns of dirt surging upward like tidal waves. They clashed again, but this time something shifted.
A faint click echoed beneath the chaos.
Moyu's hand snapped forward, catching something from Nnoitra's abdomen.
"You really thought I wouldn't notice your sixth arm?" Moyu said, smirking as the hidden blade trembled in his grasp.
Nnoitra's eye twitched in disbelief. No one who'd seen that secret ever lived. Yet this damn Shinigami not only knew—but had been waiting for it.
"So what if you know?" Nnoitra snarled, shoving the arm forward, trying to impale him with brute speed.
But just before the blade touched Moyu's chest, the air thickened.
A spiritual stillness pressed down on it, halting the strike mid-motion.
"You feel it now?" Moyu whispered. "The wind's voice?"
Nnoitra raised his gaze, confusion and fury blurring his vision.
"The wind that carries you back."
Lan Yin rotated, wind screaming along its edge, and slammed upward. The impact threw Nnoitra's scythes wide. The wind swelled.
Moyu reversed his grip.
"This form is called—Slay Evil."
With a single slash, the bluish-white wind blade roared into the sky, cleaving cloud and storm alike. It shot forward, cutting a gash across the earth and sky, piercing Nnoitra's chest clean through.
The golden Reiatsu dimmed. His body staggered. His vision dimmed.
"So… this is death?" he whispered, knees buckling.
Blood poured from him, painting the ground in swathes of crimson. He knelt, unmoving.
Moyu said nothing.
Nnoitra had sought death in the hands of a worthy enemy. He'd found it. The final expression on his face was not fear, nor anger—but relief.
And as his breath faded, Moyu spoke the final words like a benediction.
"This… is the destination of despair."
Nnoitra Gilga's light vanished.
And the battlefield was silent once more.
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