The Ceiling of the God of Death
The June sun blazed overhead, drenching the Soul Society in a scorching light.
Oda Nobunaga moved swiftly, his steps silent yet full of purpose. As he neared the shadow cast by the towering Bipolar Hill, he leapt onto a nearby attic. Carefully, he set Guidie down from his arms. His dry lips brushed against her trembling ones.
"Wait for me to return."
Guidie's voice quivered. "Yes." She wanted nothing more than to keep him at her side, but she knew abandoning his ambition would be a death worse than any blade could deliver.
Nobunaga smiled faintly before descending into the Hill's shadow without hesitation. The cool air beneath its looming presence was a stark contrast to the burning sun behind him.
He pressed forward, accompanied by Okita Souji and Minamoto no Yoshitsune.
Moments later, Nobunaga called out, "Souji, you take the charge. Yoshitsune, hold off the Seventh Division. We split here!"
Yoshitsune, having studied the map, knew where the Seventh Division would approach. Without hesitation, he darted off to intercept. Souji, memorizing his own path, sprinted toward the Central 46 Compound.
Soon, a looming structure appeared. Several First Division soldiers emerged to block his way.
Souji's gaze hardened. He had lived through countless ambushes. With a sudden burst of speed, his blade flashed upward, tearing through a soldier's throat. His left hand seized the falling man's weapon and stabbed backward, skewering another through the mouth. His Zanpakutō swept sideways, gutting a third.
The three fell in silence, their blood barely dripping before the swordsman moved again.
"Hadō no. 31: Shakkahō!" Two fireballs erupted from either side.
A poor tactic at such close range. At this distance, steel moved faster than Kidō.
Souji ducked low, the flames scorching the air above him. He lunged forward, severing one Shinigami's arm. Blood sprayed, the man shrieking in agony. Another soldier cried out his name—only for Souji to silence him with a clean strike that split his skull.
The sun glinted crimson on the bloodied ground. The air stank of iron. Souji's face grew colder.
More reiatsu signatures closed in.
"Ring, Twilight Bell."
His Zanpakutō glowed white, reshaping into a blade with a tiny bell affixed at the hilt. The moment it chimed, the soldiers who had surrounded him collapsed in unison, throats slit, blood spraying from wounds that had not been seen.
Souji stood among them, untouched. His Shikai—Twilight Bell—erased seconds of time itself. His blade struck in moments that were simply… missing. His enemies never saw their deaths arrive.
He pushed forward.
The slaughter reached Yamamoto Genryūsai. The old captain grasped his staff, the wooden facade peeling away, revealing the legendary Zanpakutō—Ryūjin Jakka.
He leapt from the guardrail, his body still as solid as steel despite his age. But before his blade could ignite, an overwhelming reiatsu surged.
From the shadows, Oda Nobunaga unleashed his Bankai.
"Bankai: Floating Life Dream."
Yamamoto's eyes narrowed. His hand closed on air. Ryūjin Jakka… was gone?!
With reflexes honed over a thousand years, he spun midair, redirecting his momentum, landing atop a pristine white tower. His beard swayed in the wind as his thunderous voice boomed:
"You… it's you, boy!"
His reiatsu roared like a volcanic eruption, a thousand suns spilling molten fire. Even kilometers away, Okita Souji collapsed to his knees, sweat pouring down his face. His will nearly shattered under the sheer weight of Yamamoto's spiritual pressure.
"This… is the strongest Shinigami," Souji whispered, trembling. Just sensing him was enough to break lesser men.
Before he could recover, the gates of the Central 46 Compound exploded. Dust and rubble filled the air as another figure descended from above. Emerald green eyes glared through the haze.
Souji's instincts screamed—this was someone else entirely. Not Nobunaga. Not Yoshitsune. Another intruder.
The dust cleared. Shiraishi.
Beside him, Nemu Kurotsuchi appeared—yet she was supposed to be under surveillance, even held captive. But here she was, aiding Shiraishi's assault.
Was his goal to free Shiba Kūkaku? To strike at Central 46?
Yamamoto's mind churned, but his face remained carved from stone. He could not afford distraction.
"Long time no see, Yamamoto Genryūsai," Nobunaga called out, stepping forward with cold defiance. "I've come to take your world."
The old captain's laugh rumbled like thunder. "Arrogant brat. You still dream of ruling the world?"
"Yes," Nobunaga said, smiling. "And today, my dream becomes reality."
"Naïve."
Yamamoto shed his Shinigami top, his battle-scarred torso bared. His haori fluttered to the ground, revealing muscles carved from centuries of war. Every scar writhed like a serpent, a testament to the battles he had survived.
"You think sealing Ryūjin Jakka will save you? Fool. I'll wake you from your dream!"
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