The silver-haired woman regarded Ito Makoto in silence. Her pale violet eyes shimmered like still water disturbed by a falling petalcalm, yet unfathomably deep.
"To think that a Shinigami born in Rukongai would rise to the rank of Fourth Seat in the Eleventh Division," she said softly, her voice smooth as silk. "Ito Fourth Seat, I have long wished to meet you."
Although her tone was courteous, the authority behind her words was unmistakable.
Ito Makoto offered a shallow bowperfectly measured, neither overly respectful nor discourteous.
"For someone of the Kasumioji Clan to know my name, I am… honored."
His voice was even. No tension. No awe.
With his current level of Reiatsusolidly within Vice-Captain classand the additional spiritual pressure he could temporarily draw upon, his combat power could approach that of a Captain for a limited duration. In Seireitei, only true Captains and certain dangerous individualssuch as Sōsuke Aizenwere beyond his consideration.
The Kasumioji Clan, influential though they were, did not possess a Captain-class combatant within their household.
And influence alone did not intimidate the Eleventh Division.
The woman smiled faintly.
"Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Kasumioji Rurichiyo, current head of the Kasumioji Clan."
Her posture remained flawlessgraceful, dignified, immovable like frost atop a winter lake.
"My late father," she continued, "was also born in Rukongai. He too rose through the Gotei 13. I find it… intriguing when history echoes itself."
Ito Makoto's gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly.
So this was the famed Rurichiyocentral figure of the Bakudō-forged Zanpakutō incident that had once shaken Seireitei's noble circles.
He maintained composure.
"There are many Shinigami from Rukongai, Lady Rurichiyo. Coincidence is not uncommon in Soul Society."
A deliberate response. Neither acceptance nor denial.
Rurichiyo studied him for several seconds, as though weighing not his words, but the fluctuations of his Reiatsu.
Then she smiled.
"Perhaps. Still, talent emerging from hardship tends to burn brighter. The Eleventh Division values strength above all else. It suits you."
There was no accusation in her toneonly observation.
Ito Makoto inclined his head slightly.
"You overestimate me."
Internally, however, his thoughts moved swiftly.
The Kasumioji Clan had once weaponized modified Zanpakutōdangerous constructs that distorted the relationship between Shinigami and blade. Though that incident had been suppressed, traces of that ambition lingered.
Their interest in him was unlikely to be sentimental.
Rurichiyo shifted the subject with practiced elegance.
"The Hunting Tournament is about to begin. Would you care to observe it from within our pavilion?"
A subtle invitationone layered with political implication.
To accept would be to signal alignment.
Ito Makoto declined without hesitation.
"I appreciate your generosity, Lady Rurichiyo. However, I prefer to stand among fellow Shinigami."
A neutral refusal.
For a brief moment, silence hung between them.
Then she nodded.
"As you wish, Fourth Seat."
Ito Makoto stepped out of the palanquin using Shunpo, reappearing among the assembled Gotei 13 members assigned as security.
Moments later, two clan retainers unfurled the massive ceremonial screens carried at the head of the procession.
Reiatsu surged through the air.
The painted landscapes upon the screens shimmeredthen expanded outward as if reality itself were being unfolded.
A low tremor shook the ground.
Courtyards, pavilions, and elevated viewing platforms manifested across the wastelandconstructed through advanced Kidō techniques woven into the screens themselves. Spatial compression and release. A refined application of high-level Bakudō arrays.
Impressive craftsmanship.
Noble families entered their assigned pavilions, positioning themselves according to rank. The Kasumioji pavilion stood at the centerelevated, dominant, deliberate.
When all were seated, an elderly retainer stepped forward to address the gathering. His voice, though quiet, carried effortlessly across the groundsclearly amplified through Kidō resonance.
"The Noble Hunting Tournament shall now commence."
Several white-robed attendants rolled forth a colossal sealed scroll. When cast into the air, it unfurled and dissolved into radiant streams of light.
The light struck the earth.
Iron gates erupted from the ground in precise formationeach gate reinforced by layered Bakudō inscriptions.
Behind each barrier, Hollows writhed.
They ranged from powerful standard Hollows to larger, more grotesque variantsyet none approached the spiritual density of a true Menos Grande.
Ito Makoto narrowed his eyes.
Each Hollow bore a black sealing crest carved into its mask.
A suppression mark.
Their Reiatsu was forcibly reducedstabilized at roughly one-third of natural output through binding Kidō.
So that was the purpose.
Manufactured sport.
A purple semi-spherical barrier rose overheadresembling a scaled-down defensive enclosure used in Seireitei emergencies. Its structure was stable, likely maintained by multiple Kidō specialists.
The iron gates creaked open.
Young noblessome wearing modified Shihakushō, others garbed in ceremonial armorrushed forward with eager intensity.
Steel clashed.
Reiatsu flared.
Zanpakutō were drawn.
Inside each enclosed space, Hollow and Shinigami engaged.
When struck down by Zanpakutō purified through proper spiritual alignment, the Hollows dissolved into reishi particles.
Yet the masksbearing the suppression crestremained intact.
The noble youths collected them as trophies, fastening them to their belts.
In the pavilions above, aristocrats observed attentivelytracking the number of masks obtained by their heirs.
Competition masquerading as tradition.
Ito Makoto exhaled quietly.
If these nobles desired Hollow extermination, the Gotei 13 accepted volunteers for Hueco Mundo reconnaissance regularly.
But true war carried risk.
This spectacle did not.
To him, the entire event felt hollow.
He leaned lightly against a pillar, arms folded.
The participants were competentsome even approaching low-Seated Officer levelbut nothing on the field demanded his attention.
Then
The sky tore open.
A distortion ripped across the heavens above the Hunting Groundsvast and jagged, stretching hundreds of meters.
Reiatsu flooded the air.
Not the suppressed, domesticated signature of captive Hollows.
Raw.
Wild.
Oppressive.
A Garganta.
The black void yawned open, splitting the sky like a wound.
From its depths descended a colossal, serpentine figureits mask elongated, its body towering and grotesque.
Behind it followed multiple towering silhouettes.
Menos Grande.
Gillian-class.
Their unified Reiatsu pressed downward like a falling mountain.
Gasps erupted from the pavilions.
Even within the barrier, the air grew heavy.
Ito Makoto's drowsiness vanished instantly.
His hand moved to the hilt of his Zanpakutō.
This was no part of the tournament.
The Garganta stabilized unnaturallyfar longer than a natural tear between worlds should remain open.
Someone had forced it.
Someone skilled.
Hundreds of meters above, the worm-like Menos opened its cavernous maw.
A distorted roar reverberated across the Hunting Grounds.
Ito Makoto's eyes sharpened.
"An artificial breach…?"
This was no accident.
And this
This was no longer sport.
The true hunt had just begun.