Drawing the blade…
Makoto's movements were unhurried—not at all like a typical sword strike. Instead, the entire process was so slow that any observer could clearly see every detail.
One hand gripping the scabbard, the other wrapped around the hilt, he drew his sword in an utterly ordinary motion—slow, deliberate, almost mundane.
Yet, to the Mantis-like hollow watching, the moment the blade left its sheath, it seemed as though a torrent of crimson liquid was gushing forth.
It was an illusion—so surreal that in the blink of an eye, the Menos questioned whether anything had changed at all. And yet, at the same time, it felt disturbingly real—so real that a suffocating aura of despair crept into its senses.
Its compound eyes widened, and its four razor-sharp forelimbs quivered imperceptibly as it muttered in disbelief.
"What… is this feeling of absolute despair?!"
Then, in the next moment, Makoto's gaze changed.
The playful calm that had once lingered in his eyes was gone, replaced by an abyssal stillness—an eerie, deathly silence, as if staring into a boundless sea of blood where not a single ripple could be found.
---
Meanwhile, within the Fourth Division's Unohana quarters, deep in the Seireitei…
Unohana sat quietly in her chamber, facing the ikebana 'Forest and the Spiraea', her gaze slightly lowered as she slowly drew her Zanpakutō from its sheath, meticulously wiping down its blade.
Her movements were tender, as if caressing the skin of a beloved. Only when the entire length of the blade gleamed flawlessly, devoid of even the slightest speck of dust, did she return it to its sheath.
She then lifted her gaze toward the ikebana, a faint sigh escaping her lips—her expression one of reminiscence and contemplation.
"Makoto, you always claimed your swordsmanship talent was average, that you weren't even as skilled as your peers at the Shin'ō Academy… But the instincts you've been hiding are far more terrifying than you realize."
"Time and again, through each battle, even though your technique was never truly refined, you still mastered the most essential instinct—the ability to kill with absolute efficiency."
A soft chuckle escaped her lips, tinged with amusement and regret.
"To think I failed to notice this at first… I always saw you as a Shinigami devoted solely to Kaidō and healing arts. But in truth, you are the most terrifying beast in all of the Seireitei."
Her fingers, which had been tracing the sheath of her Zanpakutō, stilled for a moment. Then, with a voice laced with anticipation, she murmured:
"When will you finally unleash your full instincts and face your teacher without restraint? That… would be the greatest pleasure imaginable."
"What are you holding back for? Are you afraid of truly harming me? But… haven't your instincts already pierced me countless times?"
Her lips curled slightly in a cryptic smile as she absentmindedly pressed a hand against her chest, lost in memories of blood-drenched battles—scenes of brutality and unrestrained joy.
For over fifty years…
Perhaps, in the beginning, Unohana had genuinely intended to teach Makoto the way of the sword. Yet, as the one she cherished most, she herself had begun to struggle against certain instincts.
But as time passed, she found herself becoming addicted—to their ceaseless battles.
When Makoto fought with reason, he was unquestionably at a disadvantage.
However, once he reached the point where most of his rationality was stripped away, his body, driven purely by instinct, would injure her time and time again.
His blade would pierce her chest repeatedly, each wound spilling warm liquid, drenching her body in crimson.
If not for the fact that he fought in a mindless state, Unohana might have even suspected he was deliberately striking the same exact spot each time.
And with each battle, she could feel his instincts growing sharper—so much so that eventually, he had reached the point where, without even releasing his Zanpakutō, he could stand on equal ground with her.
Thus, it wasn't just Makoto who would take a "sick leave" almost every month.
Unohana, too, remained withdrawn, rarely concerning herself with Fourth Division's affairs—after all, half her month was spent bleeding.
She let out another quiet chuckle.
"Come to think of it… it's about time for his monthly battle."
"I doubt he even realizes it yet… but his body might have already adapted to this cycle of releasing his instincts. And if he were to draw his blade now…"
---
Hueco Mundo.
The moment Makoto instinctively chose to draw his sword, his entire being seemed to enter an altered state—one that was at once frenzied, bloodthirsty… yet eerily calm.
The reason for gripping his blade?
The purpose of his blade?
The answer was simple.
To slaughter.
To indulge in battle.
His rationality was not completely lost—he simply no longer found any reason to think.
Why contemplate something as natural as breathing?
No one ever questions the necessity of their next breath.
And now, standing before him, the Mantis hollow felt as though it was being consumed by a crimson abyss of despair, an unseen force coiling around it, dragging it into the depths of hell itself.
Then, as though something had finally snapped, the hollow's bloodshot eyes burned with madness—not with fear, but with a frenzied battle lust.
It did not flee.
Instead, it roared hysterically and lunged forward.
"You're kidding me, right?! Facing despair head-on—THAT is the true meaning of battle!"
The hollow laughed maniacally, its spiritual pressure surging wildly, inching ever closer to the threshold of Vasto Lorde.
Its four scythe-like limbs, now glowing with an almost celestial radiance, slashed downward with devastating force, aimed to tear Makoto apart from every angle.
"SWOOSH! SWOOSH! SWOOSH! SWOOSH!"
Under the endless black sky, the four scything limbs cut through the air like streaks of light, converging upon Makoto in an instant—an all-consuming storm of destruction.
Then—
"BOOM!!!"
Four devastating shockwaves erupted simultaneously, carving massive trenches into the sands of Hueco Mundo. Torrents of white sand surged into the sky like a reversed waterfall, cascading upward into the darkness.
Within the billowing cloud of sand, time itself seemed to freeze—Makoto and the Mantis locked in a still moment.
And then—
As the last grains of airborne sand reached their peak and began to fall like rain—
The four glowing scythe-like limbs of the Mantis slid cleanly from their bases, severed completely, and tumbled into the sands below.
=====================
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