Night fell on Osaka, its rain a soft veil over a day already shaken. The drizzle gradually muffled the city's undercurrent of sorrow.
On a desolate street, a lone figure moved through the rain.
Two ronin, seeing the youthful face under the straw cloak through the watery blur, exchanged greedy glances.
Fresh meat.
Each gripping chipped katanas, they stalked the shadow silently as it headed for a decrepit hut—clearly abandoned, falling apart from neglect.
Their eyes lit up. Fortune favors us.
No one around to witness.
Just how much loot did this lone traveler have?
When the man descended through what appeared to be a hidden trapdoor into a basement, the two could barely contain their excitement.
A hidden vault?!
Blinded by greed, they rushed in without speaking, one guarding the door, the other circling behind.
They flung open the door to the basement and leapt down, blades raised—only to be ensnared by cobwebs and choking blackness.
Nothing. No one.
No vault. No man.
Where the hell was he?!
Elsewhere—in a concealed inner space—Kisaragi Shuusuke shed his raincloak and called out,
"Shuuichi-sama, I'm back!"
Inside the room, Higashi Shuuichi and Kabu Masayako sat together, observing, while Matsumoto Rangiku helped Muguruma Kensei with Hollowfication duration training.
Nagasawa Satomi ran to greet Kisaragi the moment he entered.
"What took you so long?"
She pouted, taking his coat and carefully laying it beside the doorway.
"Uh... well..." Kisaragi scratched his head, then walked over to Higashi Shuuichi.
"Sir, the incident earlier today caused quite a stir among the local civilians, but no further action seems to have been taken against us. Though I heard at General Satou's estate, the new General completely lost it—he even executed several of his own pages."
"I see."
Shuuichi frowned. Something didn't sit right.
No lockdown? No security measures?
Were they certain Shuuichi's group wasn't affiliated with Soul Society? Or were they simply playing dumb, waiting for them to walk into the trap?
Either way, it was clear—the one orchestrating things behind Osaka's facade was aiming for something far bigger.
They'd willingly sacrificed someone as powerful as Sugita Ranbu—a Fullbringer who had instantly overpowered a captain-class Soul Reaper like Kensei by exploiting an information gap.
Which left Higashi Shuuichi with two options:
Option one: involve Soul Society.
Clearly, Osaka had become the massive cage he'd previously theorized—waiting for prey to enter before snapping shut.
He no longer needed to pursue Yokozawa Tsuna. He'd bet anything that Tsuna was already stationed somewhere in Osaka, ready to assist the Fullbringers in devouring any incoming Soul Society investigation team—perhaps even waiting to ambush subsequent reinforcements.
The upside? Minimal risk to himself.
The downside? He'd miss the chance to personally eliminate many of the gathered Fullbringers—only a handful might be left for Mayuri Kurotsuchi to study.
And more importantly, he'd lose favor with Kabu Masayako, Matsumoto Rangiku, Kisaragi Shuusuke—possibly even Kyouraku Shunsui.
Option two:
He could claim Osaka for himself.
After all, cages can trap enemies—or become chrysalis.
That's the meaning of binding oneself in a cocoon.
Right now, the enemy was in the open. Shuuichi was not.
Given time, he could probe each Fullbringer's abilities, then destroy them one by one.
It was riskier—but the rewards were immense.
He'd gather rare Fullbringer data for his soul-modification research, and skyrocket his reputation with those around him.
Play it safe or bet everything?
Shuuichi—normally decisive—hesitated.
He'd only gambled twice before.
Once: staging the assassination of a corrupt noble to draw Aizen's attention.
Twice: entering the Kabu household to chart a path into Hell.
What about this time?
Watching Rangiku and Kensei spar in the distance, Shuuichi sank into thought.
By morning, in that same basement, one of the two ronin—still covered in dust and webs after fruitlessly searching all night—swore he saw the trapdoor creak open again.
Must be a dream.
He slapped himself and fell back asleep.
Beyond Osaka, the rain-soaked dirt roads turned to sludge.
A bald man and a strikingly feminine male trudged through the muck.
"Argh! This is so damn annoying! Why are we sneaking around a city full of humans?! Just unleash our reiatsu, and that Yokozawa Tsuna guy will crawl out and fight us himself!"
The bald one tugged at his Gigai clothing in frustration.
"If he doesn't want to fight? Ikkaku?"
Ayasegawa Yumichika—ever elegant—shot him a pointed look.
"That former Third Seat has been here for a long time. We don't know what traps he's laid. Better we tread carefully."
Ikkaku Madarame, then.
He grunted, clearly annoyed.
This Gigai cut off all reishi flow—he hated it with a passion.
SPLAT.
Distracted, Ikkaku slammed into someone.
A wall?
No—felt like steel.
"You bastard..."
Ikkaku looked up.
A samurai. Apparently queued to enter Osaka. Now turning with clear fury.
"You punk! Do you know who you just bumped into? I'm Musashi Kojiro, dammit!"
"Musashi Kojiro?"
Ikkaku's eyes lit up.
"Heh. You look strong. Let's go! Name's Ikkaku Madarame!"
Despite whatever changes Higashi Shuuichi may have triggered in fate, Ikkaku's personality hadn't changed.
He couldn't sense spiritual pressure through his Gigai—but the man's posture and sheer presence screamed combat monster.
"Ikkaku..."
Yumichika tried to intervene—this was not the time.
But Ikkaku was already swinging his Zanpakutō.
"Howl, Hōzukimaru—"
"Trivial."
Musashi Kojiro's expression barely changed. Left foot slid back. Right hand pressed against the hilt.
Iai—Single Slash.
Before Ikkaku even registered motion, he was already flying backwards—blown hundreds of meters by a strike he never saw.
Even Yumichika, who'd watched carefully, didn't know what had happened.
It was as if an unseen force had just deleted Ikkaku mid-charge.
Musashi Kojiro stared coldly.
"That's it? Who gave you the balls to challenge me?"
SPIT.
Ikkaku grinned from the dirt, wiped blood off his mouth.
"Hah! Not bad. Again!"
"You brat—I don't have time to play."
Musashi turned to enter the city.
But Ikkaku wasn't the kind to give up. Ever.
He leapt again, blade arcing straight down—
"Annoying."
Kojiro stopped. Muttered. Blade flashed—
Tsubame-Gaeshi.
Lightning exploded through the air.
Blood washed over Ikkaku's vision as a new crimson seam split down his body.
Yumichika watched, aghast.
A perfect line of red, straight from forehead to chest.
That speed.
That power.
Ikkaku collapsed, only staying upright by bracing on his Zanpakutō.
"Ikkaku! Are you alright?!"
Yumichika rushed forward, but Kojiro appeared between them.
"You've been squawking Ikkaku this, Ikkaku that for a while now. You're just as annoying."
Yumichika read the subtext.
A fight. Now.
He didn't like combat, but he'd made his peace with it the day he joined Squad 11.
"Ayasegawa Yumichika. En garde."
He struck.
A feint—then a sidestep lunge from below.
But it was futile.
Kojiro saw through everything.
Tsubame-Gaeshi. Again.
Same result.
Yumichika's blade flew from his hand. A precise cut blossomed across his chest.
He considered unleashing his reiatsu—breaking the Gigai, using Kidō—but then he heard Kojiro speak.
"Here's some money. Get your best doctor and patch these two up. Keep the rest."
Then, to Ikkaku and Yumichika, he tossed bandages.
"I've just arrived, not much on me. Make do."
Yumichika, stunned, asked:
"Why? Why help us? Weren't we annoying?"
"Heh. Why? Don't know. Maybe you've got potential."
"Not many survive a single cut from me."
"And you two did. That's something."
He stroked his scruffy chin and laughed.
"Haven't taken disciples in ages. Interested in learning kenjutsu?"
"Disciple?! Hell no!"
Ikkaku, newly conscious, rose and roared.
"You still haven't killed me! Come fight!"
Shink.
Another flash.
Another deep line carved into Ikkaku's stomach.
His Gigai collapsed again.
Unless he released his reiatsu, he was helpless.
But Ikkaku, like most Soul Reapers, didn't have the delicate control to do that without exposing his presence.
"Oho~ Still not dead after two cuts?"
Kojiro smirked.
"Guess I've got to take you as my students now."
Meanwhile, across Osaka—
A new carriage, high-end and strange, arrived amid the drizzle.
Beside it stood a man in a crimson clerical uniform, cross around his neck.
The boy who stepped off the carriage was young, expressionless—and terrifying.
"This is the only one from this batch," the boy's handler said.
"You wasted the prototype. Don't screw this up. Materials aren't easy to find. If this fails, we won't get another chance for years."
The man with the cross nodded slowly.
"No worries. After all… he's that Soul Reaper."
The air around them heated from the boy's presence.
The man smiled.