"It can't be him!"
Kyoraku Shunsui clenched his teeth and forced those words out, one by one, through the gaps.
His gaze locked tightly on the Rosse beside him, the one who seemed to be staring ahead at the fake body, completely unaware of the conspiracy around him.
If Rosse were the mastermind, that truth would be horrifying.
It would not only be the ending Kyoraku found hardest to accept, but a nightmare for Soul Society.
If something happened to him and Captain-Commander Yamamoto today, Rosse would take over as Captain-Commander without question.
Letting a mole from the Hueco Mundo Royal Palace control Soul Society?
That would be the biggest joke in its history, and its final funeral bell.
Kyoraku did not dare believe it. He could not believe it.
"But according to that brilliant deduction you just made, once you eliminate every impossibility, whatever remains, no matter how unbelievable, must be the truth. Isn't that right?"
Kurosaki Masaki did not raise her voice, yet her words slipped clearly into everyone's ears.
She stepped forward on her long, full legs, moving lightly as if strolling through her own garden. The black high heels struck the rough stone of Sokyoku Hill with crisp, rhythmic taps.
Each step seemed to make the air grow heavier.
She finally stopped between Kyoraku Shunsui and Azashiro Soya, like an impassable chasm.
"Stop wasting your effort on those little tricks."
Masaki tilted her head slightly. Her hair brushed against her pale neck. There was a hint of pity in her eyes, as if looking at insects.
"Stalling for time is useless. As long as I stand here, every single particle of spirit matter in this space obeys only me."
"Trying to pass information? Or hoping that old man over there will release Bankai and break the seal? Save it. Within a hundred meters of me, you won't be able to move even a thread of spiritual pressure. Even that old man, without my permission, cannot force his flames through my blockade."
Her voice was calm in a way that made despair feel inevitable.
But it was not arrogance. It was a statement of fact.
Her ability was absolute and domineering control over spirit particles.
And Soul Society itself was made of spirit particles. Within this area, she was the absolute ruler.
Inside her domain, air was no longer a medium. It was an invisible wall.
Unless someone's spiritual pressure surpassed hers in quality or quantity, not even a single particle could be mobilized.
But she had already unified three powers into the strength of the Soul King.
In terms of absolute quality, not even Yhwach or that monk from Squad Zero could surpass her.
Even if they wanted to break her seal, they would have to grind it down through overwhelming quantity.
And once spirit particle perception was cut off, the Shinigami's greatest pride, their sensing ability, was instantly blinded. What remained were only the primitive five senses.
And the five senses were precisely Kyoka Suigetsu's perfect hunting ground.
The other three present felt their hearts sink at the same time, like falling into deep sea water.
Masaki's hidden meaning cut into their situation like a surgeon's blade.
They did not want to admit it, but reason told them she was right.
Azashiro Soya narrowed his usually still eyes slightly.
He did not give up. The hand hidden in his sleeve clenched tightly, trying to forcibly strip even a trace of spirit particles from the air to activate his ability.
But reality was cruel.
No matter how he tried, the particles refused to answer him.
His Bankai allowed him to merge his own spirit particles with the inorganic matter around him, letting him control everything nearby.
But Masaki's control over spirit particles far exceeded his. The difference in spiritual pressure level created absolute suppression.
"Stop wasting your energy."
From the angle only Azashiro could see, the elegant woman in a luxurious kimono, the manifested spirit of his Zanpakuto, was sitting in midair without any decorum.
Urozakuro yawned widely, scratched her neck, and curled her lips in annoyance.
"Give it up, little Soya. I don't like that big-chested woman either and would love to carve up her face, but she's telling the truth. This place feels like it's been poured full of cement. My power's completely locked down. I can't move at all," Azashiro answered only with his steady gaze, stubborn and cold.
Urozakuro had seen that look for centuries. She knew exactly what it meant.
He did not believe in fate. Even if there was only a one in ten thousand chance, he would try to carve a hole in that iron wall.
"Tch! Stubborn idiot. Do whatever you want. Looks like the big show over there's about to start anyway."
She shrugged and ignored his futile effort, turning her teasing eyes toward the main battlefield.
At this moment, neither Kyoraku nor Ukitake had time to dwell on whether Rosse was the mastermind.
Because a chilling pressure was radiating from the fake Kyoraku.
Under countless gazes, the fake Kyoraku suddenly stepped forward.
He slowly raised a hand and lowered the brim of his worn straw hat.
Shadow swallowed most of his face, leaving only a sharp jawline visible.
It was Kyoraku Shunsui's signature gesture.
Whenever he grew tired of a topic or did not want to hear more nonsense, he would do exactly that.
Ise Nanao knew it well. Ukitake Jushiro knew it well. Even Yamamoto, who had watched him grow up, knew it by heart.
"What? There's no need to listen to their arguments anymore, Shunsui."
Captain-Commander Yamamoto's voice rumbled like thunder.
The breeze on Sokyoku Hill had grown scorching under his rising anger.
His robes moved without wind. His long white beard drifted in the heat.
Deep within his aged yet sharp eyes, flames of disappointment and fury burned fiercely.
To him, his disciple's refusal to speak was as good as admitting every charge.
"Sigh!"
A sigh escaped from the fake Kyoraku, carrying an odd mix of mockery and arrogance.
"That's why I said earlier, people only believe what they want to believe. Since you've already decided I'm the criminal, anything I say will just sound like a weak excuse."
As he spoke, the hand pressing the brim slid upward and grasped the edge of the hat.
Then he slowly removed it.
In that instant, everyone held their breath.
The face revealed was no longer the lazy, tired one with muddied eyes and a crooked smile.
Instead, it was cold, expressionless, almost godlike.
There was not a trace of emotion in those eyes. Only the cruelty of watching ants struggle.
Even his posture felt unfamiliar.
The man who usually seemed slightly hunched and carefree now stood straight as a spear, exuding a suffocating pressure like a king.
The impact of that sight was so overwhelming that even Ukitake, as a bystander, could not help but glance at the real Kyoraku beside him.
If the real Shunsui were not standing right there, even he might have believed that the one before them was the true Kyoraku, stripped of all disguise.
"That's not me."
The real Kyoraku forced a bitter smile and murmured softly.
But he knew that in this sealed space, even the wind could not carry his words.
It was useless.
No matter how he shouted or acted, to the audience whose senses were controlled, he was nothing more than air. Or a stone.
In this carefully staged play, the real had become fake, and the fake had become the only truth.
He had already tried everything in secret.
Just as Masaki said, not only Azashiro but even he could not release Bankai in this area.
The method of forcibly interfering with reality through a Bankai domain and making others sense something was completely blocked.
Shikai still worked, but it would not change anything.
Touch was one of the five senses too.
Even if he rushed over and slashed the old man, as long as the one controlling the senses wished it, Yamamoto might not even feel pain.
That ability, paired with absolute spiritual pressure suppression, was a dead end.
Just as helplessness rose within Kyoraku, the battlefield shifted suddenly.
The fake Kyoraku casually tossed his hat into the air. As it fell, a terrifying spiritual pressure erupted from his body, so intense it seemed to warp space itself.
BOOM!
A column of pink spiritual pressure shot into the sky and pierced through the clouds.
But this pressure was no longer the seemingly frivolous yet deep aura Kyoraku usually had. It was filled with naked domination and control.
The surrounding atmosphere groaned under the strain.
This was spiritual pressure simulated by Rosse. It carried Kyoraku's traits, but also displayed the change in his state of mind in full.
In that moment, it was as if Kyoraku had torn off every mask.
The violence and ambition suppressed for a thousand years poured out without restraint.
Under such extreme and flawless performance, no one would doubt it was real. They would only be shocked at how well Kyoraku had hidden himself.
"Th… that pressure!"
Ukitake's pupils shrank sharply. His face changed.
His focus was different from the other deceived captains.
Sight and hearing could be faked. But the tremor deep in the soul, the suffocating weight of spiritual pressure, could not.
Which meant whoever stood there pretending to be Kyoraku truly possessed that vast, tyrannical power.
He had not even released his Zanpakuto, yet the quality and quantity of his spiritual pressure had already surpassed Yamamoto's Bankai state.
Even Ukitake, a first-class spiritual force, struggled to breathe. It was instinctive fear before a superior being.
"This pressure… So this is the true face you've hidden all along, rebellious disciple! You hid it well!"
Yamamoto stepped forward without retreating even under that overwhelming force.
With a roar, blazing spiritual pressure like the sun erupted from his aged body.
Though his base level could not match the fake Kyoraku's in sheer volume, with support from the other captains, golden flames formed a barrier that barely protected the vice-captains behind him from fainting.
"You hid for so long. Why reveal yourself now?", Yamamoto demanded.
"Old man, why do you think it was my choice to reveal it?"
In the center of the raging storm, the fake Kyoraku took another step forward.
The wind whipped his black curls wildly, making him look like a demon returned from hell.
He did not even draw his blade. He simply looked at Yamamoto with pity, as if seeing the script's end.
"If you had just cooperated and followed the script, this would have been a perfect ending. Everyone would have gotten what they wanted. I would not have needed to prepare a grand funeral for you so soon."
"Cooperate with your script? Let you keep playing this old man in your palm? Let this old man continue believing Captain Aizen is the culprit?", Yamamoto's hand gripped Ryujin Jakka. Veins bulged on the back of his hand.
"Yes. What would have been so bad about that?", The fake Kyoraku spread his arms as if embracing the coming slaughter. The smile on his face made both the real Kyoraku and Ukitake feel a chill to their bones.
"In my script, you would have had a complete falling out with Captain Rosse over certain disagreements. Then, under the tide of the new era, you, symbol of the old age, would have stepped down with honor. Your reputation preserved. The future fulfilled."
"And what would you gain, rebellious disciple? Is it simply power?"
Yamamoto's spiritual pressure melted the stone beneath his feet into magma.
"Power? No, old man. You never understood me from the start."
With a casual wave, the white haori symbolizing a captain's honor and the pink coat he always wore were torn apart by violent spiritual pressure, shredding into countless fragments.
White cloth and falling pink scraps turned to dust in the clash of two monstrous forces.
Standing at the storm's center in only his black shihakusho, his eyes held wild arrogance.
"I never had any grand ambition. I have no interest in so-called power."
"If you had not exposed me, at most I would have made a few small moves in secret. Just nudged this rotten, stagnant Soul Society forward a little."
"I want to do it not because it will change anything."
"But because it's interesting."
"That's all!"
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