The cold voice echoed in Rukia's mind like a devil's whisper, unsettling her soul.
Staring at the feral face of the transformed Hollowified Canglan and the gathering corrupted spirits, Rukia gripped her Zanpakutō tightly. A faint tremble ran through her fingers as she unconsciously stepped back.
She knew well: if Canglan went for Kuroba next, she could escape using Shunpo. Her squad badge would instantly emit a distress signal—someone from the nearby patrols might arrive in time.
But if she fled, her chances of survival were only about fifty percent. As for Shiba Kuroba, drunk and defenseless, his fate was certain—death.
Escape?
Or stand her ground?
The image of Kaien-dono, smiling even in his final moments as he sacrificed himself for her, flashed vividly in her mind. That day still haunted her.
Her eyes softened with regret, a bitter smile tugging at her lips.
'At the very least… perhaps I can return this life to the Shiba Clan…'
"Girl, still trying to protect that drunk?" Canglan snarled.
"You were already wounded earlier, and now I'm not holding back! This next strike will turn you into nothing but blood and dust!"
Canglan's warped body flexed. His bulging, veined arm tightened around the handle of a massive iron club—almost like a twisted version of Hōzukimaru. The weapon swung with a howl, slicing through the air with terrifying speed.
Rukia braced herself. The attack expanded in her vision like a devouring wave. She shut her eyes.
No fear. Just regret. And release.
But instead of pain, there was only a gust of wind. Grit and dust whipped her face, sending her hair flying. And then—
A strange, faintly warm scent drifted into her nose… alcohol, but not the pungent kind. It was mellow, tinged with calm, strangely grounding.
She opened her eyes.
"Hic… you can't just hit a girl when she's drinking…" muttered a dazed voice.
Kuroba was standing in front of her, one hand extended.
"…I got wine, but I ain't giving it to you…" he slurred.
"…You ask me for wine… or a woman? Idiot… 'course I choose wine…"
For a moment, Rukia was speechless. That spark of emotion in her heart—the guilt, the resolve—it was all instantly doused.
All she felt now was the desire to punch this idiot sober.
She didn't, but it was close.
Still, even as she seethed, her eyes—and everyone else's—were fixed on Kuroba.
He had stopped Canglan's club with one hand.
A monstrous strike that had injured Rukia earlier. That now-blurred blow that should have flattened a house.
Silence hung.
"…B-Boss Canglan… did you go easy on him?" one of the lesser Hollows stammered.
Canglan's eyes twitched. His pride flared.
"You think I'd play around with trash like him?! I'll crush him for real this time!"
However, just as the murderous intent surged, in the next moment, the Black Thief Canglan's eyes widened in disbelief.
He couldn't move—
The massive iron mace in his hand, once swung with ease, now refused to budge.
His right arm trembled, locked in place by a deceptively delicate-looking hand—the pale, noble fingers of the seemingly drunk young man before him.
The pressure on his arm felt like steel shackles, unyielding and absolute.
"Wh-What the hell… Who are you?!" Canglan bellowed, panic seeping into his voice.
Kuroba slowly lifted his head. His half-lidded eyes, glazed from intoxication, locked onto Canglan lazily.
"Hic… You're too loud. Can't you see I'm drinking? And this weird club thing… kinda looks like a pickled daikon…"
Rukia's expression froze mid-swing.
Pickled daikon?
How could anyone confuse a spiked iron mace with preserved radish?
Is this… the mind of a drunkard? Or is his reiatsu affecting his perception?
That absurd thought hadn't even settled before her pupils contracted in shock.
Bang!
With a flick of Kuroba's wrist, the iron mace—thick enough to crush a Hollow's skull—shattered like brittle glass.
Metal fragments scattered like petals, clinking against the stone street and glancing off the bodies of both Kuroba and Canglan.
Some even nicked Kuroba's sleeve, causing his drinking hand to flinch.
A shadow of anger flickered in his bleary gaze.
"Tch… Did you just… try to steal my wine?" Kuroba slurred, his tone slumping into irritation.
"You're gonna pay for that, pickle-stick guy."
"W-What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Rukia and the surrounding spirits were stunned.
Especially Canglan.
A moment ago, he'd planned to cave Kuroba's skull in.
Now the kid was crushing weapons and ranting nonsense about fermented vegetables.
But even in his drunken state, Kuroba radiated something Canglan hadn't noticed before—a terrifying reiryoku, coiling faintly like mist, causing the air to feel heavier.
"Tch… he's no ordinary noble…"
"He's bluffing!" Canglan barked, trying to mask the tremble in his voice. "We still outnumber him. Tear him apart!"
The dozen or so Hollow-like evil spirits snarled, baring their claws and teeth.
Rukia's fingers tightened on her zanpakutō. Her training from the Shino Academy kicked in—if he faltered, she had to step in.
But Kuroba was faster.
He took another careless swig, then in a blur of drunken movement that defied logic and balance, vanished from sight—
Shunpo?
No, it was sloppier… but the result was the same.
Boom!
Kuroba reappeared in front of the second-in-command: a grotesque spirit nearly five meters tall. The creature loomed over Kuroba like a building.
The Hollow sneered, believing size was strength, and slammed its hammer-like fist downward—
Only for Kuroba's fist—small, pale, reeking of sake—to meet it halfway.
Crack—!
The sound was like bones snapping and steel twisting.
The evil spirit's massive frame buckled, its eyes rolling back.
Kuroba yawned.
"Dunno what's tougher, your skin or my hangover."