Wortlich, Schatten Bereich
A group of individuals sat around a grand table, each clad in pristine white uniforms that signified their rank and allegiance. Unlike the numerous Quincies gathered outside the chamber, these select few bore silver pendants adorned with a star-shaped insignia—a mark of their distinction. They were not mere soldiers but the chosen elite, personally selected by their sovereign and granted unique epitaphs reflective of their abilities and personas. These individuals were known as the Sternritters, or Star Knights in the common tongue.
Among them sat a man with short, pink-tinted hair styled into a mohawk. His hands, encased in black leather gloves, rested idly on the arms of his chair as he lounged with his feet propped up on the table in a display of impatience. This was Bazzard Black, or Bazz-B , as he was more commonly known. Bearing the epithet H for The Heat , he wielded the ability to manipulate flames with nothing more than the motion of his fingers. He had been among the fifteen Sternritters who led the invasion of the Soul Society, demonstrating his prowess by decimating an entire division of its forces. His power had also ensured the survival of himself and his comrades, Ås Nödt and Nanana Najahkoop, during a failed ambush against the Head Captain of the Soul Society, Genryūsai Yamamoto. Though they had barely escaped with their lives, the three had managed to withstand the captain's onslaught, albeit severely scorched.
Now, Bazz-B sat in restless anticipation, his patience wearing thin as he awaited the arrival of his childhood friend, Jugram Haschwalth. The latter had yet to return, despite the battle having long concluded.
"What's taking them so long?" he muttered irritably.
Sensing his growing agitation, Nanana stepped forward, offering a casual reassurance.
"Bazz, there's no need to worry about Jugram or His Majesty. We've already fulfilled our objective—the Soul Society lies in ruin. If they are delayed, it is likely because His Majesty is entertaining himself with an adversary."
"I know that, Nanana," Bazz-B replied, though his frustration remained evident. "But something feels off. We can't access the Shadow Realm anymore. Even His Majesty is aware of this."
"Relax, rooster-head. Everything is proceeding as planned. All we need to do is wait a little longer."
Bazz-B's expression darkened at the remark, his irritation momentarily flaring at the mockery of his distinctive hairstyle. However, his annoyance was quickly overshadowed by the foreboding unease gnawing at him.
Before further words could be exchanged, the doors to the chamber swung open abruptly, and a Quincy soldier—a Soldat—stepped inside, his expression composed but urgent.
"Lord Yhwach and Sir Haschwalth will be arriving shortly. All Sternritters are to assemble in the main hall."
Bazz-B let out a low sigh, pushing himself up from his seat.
"About time," he muttered, his impatience far from abated as he prepared to make his way to the hall.
At the halls of Schatten Bereich
A great assembly of Quincies had gathered in unison. The Soldat, the rank-and-file foot soldiers of their order, stood in rigid lines, their posture disciplined and unwavering. Before them, the Sternritter—the chosen elite—stood apart, forming a vanguard that set them above the common ranks. Their presence alone commanded fear and reverence, each bearing an epithet that encapsulated their unique and formidable abilities.
Above them, three figures loomed over the gathered forces, standing at an elevated position that made their superiority unmistakable. The first was a dark-skinned man, his left eye adorned with a crosshair-like mark even though it remained shut, as if peering into something beyond mortal sight. He was the harbinger of judgement, one who could bend fate itself. Beside him stood a towering warrior, his body sculpted with muscle, clad in a winged helmet that symbolized his dominion over all things below. He bore the strength of a colossus, his very presence exuding the arrogance of one who knew his own supremacy. The third figure, shrouded in a flowing black cloak, remained an enigma. A mystery hidden within shadows, silent yet ever watchful. These three were no ordinary Sternritter. They were the Schutzstaffel , the Imperial Guard—handpicked by Yhwach himself, their abilities bordering on the divine, setting them apart even from their fellow knights.
A ripple in the air. The sudden appearance of a shifting shadow at the heart of the Schutzstaffel's gathering caused the assembled warriors to straighten, their expressions
shifting to focus. The darkness coiled and writhed, giving way to the emergence of a figure they knew all too well.
Yhwach.
The Sovereign of the Quincy. The one who had led them through their triumph, who had torn the Soul Society asunder with nothing short of divine authority. He had returned to them at last.
But instead of triumph, there was horror.
Gasps rippled through the ranks, from the disciplined Soldat to the elite Sternritter, and even the ever-composed Schutzstaffel. None had expected their almighty ruler to return in such a state.
His left arm—severed, bone and sinew exposed beneath the tattered remnants of his once pristine robes. His left eye socket—a ruin of clawed flesh, blood flowing freely in rivulets down his regal visage. So much of his lifeblood had drained that he barely took a step before collapsing onto one knee, his towering form suddenly frail, vulnerable.
The Schutzstaffel moved instantly, breaking their composed stance to support him before he could fall further.
" Giselle! Get to His Majesty, NOW! " the dark-skinned knight commanded, his voice a sharp blade slicing through the stunned silence.
A figure stepped forward in haste, a girl of slight frame yet carrying an air of unsettling playfulness even amidst urgency. Strands of blue hair jutted upward in an insect-like fashion, and an oversized trench coat draped over her form, far too large for her petite frame. Giselle Gewelle , the Sternritter marked with Z for The Zombie , she who could twist life and death to her whim.
Her wide, impish grin was absent for once, replaced by a flicker of tension. "I still need a body to treat him," she uttered, voice edged with both urgency and frustration.
Her words were understood in an instant.
A sharp crack echoed through the hall. Without hesitation, a woman with flowing green hair, clad in a sleek double-breasted jacket, lifted a finger, releasing a bolt of lightning so potent it rendered a nearby Soldat into a convulsing husk. The energy coursed through him, searing flesh and bursting his heart within his chest. His body collapsed, twitching.
"Here's your body," she said, her voice indifferent, gesturing toward the smoldering corpse.
Without delay, Giselle set to work. The dead man's flesh warped and twisted, his very essence liquefying into drifting particles under her command. The floating remnants of his being coalesced, reshaping and reforming—melding into Yhwach's wounded body. Slowly, steadily, his lost arm grew anew, the raw stump sealing, muscle and bone reconstituting until it was whole once more.
She moved to mend his eye next, only for a powerful grip to seize her wrist. " No. "
The command was final, absolute. Even weakened, his voice carried undeniable authority. "No amount of healing can restore the power of my left eye. Leave it be."
The gathered Quincies fell into an uneasy silence. His words bore an unfathomable weight— one none among them could yet grasp. What had transpired? What had been taken from him that he refused to reclaim?
It was then that another voice, brash yet shaken, cut through the air.
" Where's Jugram? "
All eyes turned to the speaker—Bazz-B. His usual fiery demeanor was subdued, an unspoken apprehension lurking beneath his casual tone. And yet, as the question hung unanswered, a different silence settled upon them.
Yhwach said nothing.
His gaze fell, a solemn shadow darkening his already weary expression.
The realization came slowly, creeping into the minds of those present like ice seeping into the marrow of their bones. The Sternritter, the Soldat, even the Schutzstaffel—all understood the meaning of their sovereign's silence.
Jugram Haschwalth was dead.
Bazz-B took a step back as the words he never heard spoken rang louder than any battle cry. He had spent lifetimes at Jugram's side. They had walked the path of war together, fought, argued, and challenged each other for centuries. Despite their differences, despite the paths they had chosen, Jugram was the one constant in his life. And now, he was gone.
His throat tightened, words failing him. His fingers curled into trembling fists, but what was there left to fight?
"I… I need to return to my quarters…" His voice faltered, barely above a whisper. His Majesty's permission was sought, though his heart already knew the answer.
A voice tried to stop him. "Rooster head, you shouldn't—"
"You are free to do so," Yhwach interjected, his voice weak but permitting.
And so, without another word, Bazz-B turned and left, his footsteps hollow against the polished floor.
Watching him go, one of the elder Sternritter, Robert Accutrone, murmured under his breath, his expression unreadable.
"It's understandable… He and Jugram were closest in their youth."
And though the hall remained filled with Quincies, the air had never felt emptier.
Bazz-B walked through the dimly lit corridors, his head bowed, his footsteps slow and heavy. The weight pressing against his chest felt suffocating, an ache that clawed at something deep within him—something he thought had long since withered away.
A memory stirred. One he had buried, discarded like an old, unwanted relic. Yet, no matter how hard he had tried to erase it, it now surfaced with a vengeance, as if demanding to be acknowledged.
"Jugo, you'll be my underling starting today."
He had tossed that sentiment aside the moment Jugram had left him behind. "Don't listen to what the adults have to say."
He had challenged him over and over, desperate to prove himself, only for Jugram to sidestep every fight, never engaging, never meeting him head-on.
"I'll teach you whatever you want to know."
That unwavering patience. That quiet strength. It had infuriated him. He despised the way Jugram always carried himself, the way he remained steadfast even in the face of Bazz's anger.
"So let's be the strongest Quincies out there."
He had told himself he hated him. That he resented him. That he felt nothing but contempt for him.
So why…?
"Jugo..."
Why did it hurt so much now that he was gone?
Bazz-B stopped in his tracks, his breath unsteady. He clenched his fists so tightly his gloves creaked under the strain. Before he realized it, he had turned toward one of the grand marble pillars lining the hallway. With a sudden, violent outburst, he threw a punch, his knuckles striking hard against the stone. A deafening crack resounded through the empty hall as fractures spread along the surface, dust and debris crumbling to the floor.
His shoulders heaved, his pulse pounding in his ears.
"It sure is raining," he muttered, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling.
But there was no rain. Only the quiet shimmer of tears slipping past his lashes, tracing a path down his face.
From a distance, five figures watched in silence. The Sternritter women, each formidable in her own right, had never seen Bazz-B like this. He had always been loud, brash, infuriatingly cocky. But now, standing beneath the dim light, his face shadowed with grief, he looked… vulnerable.
Liltotto Lamperd, her sharp golden eyes unblinking, noted the way his hands trembled at his sides. So, even he can be fragile…
The tension thickened as they stepped forward. Bazz-B felt their presence before he turned to face them, quickly brushing his sleeve across his eyes, wiping away the evidence of his sorrow. His voice, however, was raw, his usual fire barely flickering.
"What the hell do you want?" he growled, trying to shove them away before they could dig into wounds he had no words to explain.
"You're not the only one upset about this," Bambietta Basterbine responded, her tone edged with restrained anger. "I expected him to follow His Majesty's path. Whoever did this to him —" her fists clenched, her breath uneven, " they need to pay."
"As much of a strict jerk as he was, he was still one of us," Giselle Gewelle chimed in, her usual playfulness absent, her expression strangely subdued.
Bazz-B turned his gaze toward them. For once, there was no smugness, no overconfidence— only something darker, something resolved.
"Are you willing to help me hunt down the bastard who killed Jugram? Even if it means going against His Majesty's orders?"
A moment of stunned silence followed.
They all knew what it meant to defy Yhwach. To disobey him was to invite death. And yet…
The fury in their eyes burned not for Bazz, not for his recklessness, but for Jugram's killer. A silent understanding passed between them, unspoken but absolute.
Bazz-B let out a quiet, satisfied breath, the corners of his lips twitching into something that barely resembled a smile.
"How do we even find him?" Meninas McAllon finally asked, crossing her arms, her voice tinged with reluctant skepticism.
Bazz's expression darkened. "We won't have to. He'll come to us."
The six of them stood together in the dimly lit corridor, bound by something deeper than loyalty—by vengeance, by grief, by a need to make the one responsible pay.
What they didn't know—what none of them could yet understand—was that Jugram's killer was something beyond their comprehension. Beyond their reach.
And soon enough, they would realize just how terrifying their enemy truly was.