"Who's causing this mess? Are they tired of living?"
Abarai Renji appeared in a blur of flash step, his crimson hair whipping as he assessed the scene. If this were just a scuffle between inmates, it could be quelled easily. But the damage here went beyond a riot—an entire prison cell block had vanished.
I can't let this slide, Renji thought grimly.
He flashed forward, crossing dozens of meters in an instant. His hand reached behind him, gripping his Zanpakutō.
"Roar, Zabimaru!"
But before he could release the command, he saw the culprit—a lone figure swaying as if in a drunken daze.
"Burp..."
The man hiccupped and, like a weeble, tipped to one side without ever lifting his feet. Renji's blade sliced through empty air.
Bang!
His eyes widened. The man dodged—not with skill, but pure drunken luck.
"You…?" Renji frowned, now recognizing the figure.
"Kuroba?"
"Huh? You said this blade's for peeling fruit? A bit dull, isn't it?" Kuroba slurred as he straightened up, then casually batted at Renji's sword with the back of his hand.
Renji's expression darkened. A Zanpakutō was a Shinigami's soul. To mock it was unthinkable.
He brought it back around defensively—but it was too late.
Bang!
A shockwave exploded through his palm. He was launched backwards, his sword sent flying from his grip. The blade embedded itself halfway into a stone wall with a metallic clang.
Renji skid back, boots scraping across the stone floor.
What the hell was that…? That slap… had Reiatsu behind it.
"Kuroba's not supposed to have this kind of strength!" he thought, stunned. He was just a minor spiritual offender—wasn't he?
"Kuroba, snap out of it! I'm Rukia. What happened here? Where did you even get that wine?" Rukia Kuchiki dashed forward and yanked at Renji's lodged Zanpakutō.
She pulled again. And again.
It won't budge…
"Hic… Rukia?" Kuroba blinked, squinting through the haze.
He suddenly lit up.
"You're my fiancée! I came to take you home today."
Rukia's expression twisted in horror.
"Excuse me?"
Renji's temple twitched.
Fiancée? They've only met twice. If he calls her his wife next, I'm going to kill him…
"Rukia, move. I'm going to end this clown before he stains the Kuchiki name further!" Renji growled, storming up and gripping the hilt of his blade. He yanked.
It didn't move.
What the hell? Even I can't pull Zabimaru out?
Then—
"You need help peeling fruit again?" Kuroba's voice echoed behind him.
Chills ran down Renji's spine as Kuroba's hand landed lightly on the Zanpakutō's hilt.
Shink!
It slid free effortlessly.
Rukia's heart skipped. Kuroba's Reiatsu surged—just a flicker—but enough to make her react instantly.
She lunged, yanking the blade from Kuroba's hands before he could swing it.
If he swung with that force... he could cleave a person like a watermelon.
"Thanks for returning it, dear~" Kuroba chuckled, swaying again.
Then, blinking drowsily, he muttered, "Wife… Why are there three of you? My fingers look like thirty…"
Rukia paled.
His perception's totally off… That wine must've been spiritually enhanced…
Renji finally snapped.
"He went from calling you fiancée to wife in five minutes! If we let this play out, he'll be talking about your kids next!"
He gritted his teeth and flared his spiritual pressure.
"Zabimaru—roar!"
The Zanpakutō transformed, extending into a segmented blade like a striking serpent. Renji dashed forward, spiritual power crackling along the edge.
This time, he wasn't holding back.
A true Shinigami never underestimates his opponent twice.
To become a captain of the Gotei 13, one must possess Bankai—this is a foundational requirement, acknowledged even by Central 46.
At this moment, Abarai Renji was channeling his Shikai—Zabimaru—its jagged blade segments coiling with spiritual energy. This wasn't a mere spar. This was fury.
The woman he'd chased for years, the one he'd silently vowed to protect—Rukia—was now risking everything for a drunkard with no known background. Renji couldn't accept that.
Though he acknowledged Kuroba was strange and possessed an unusual aura, Renji didn't believe he could match a seated Shinigami in real combat—especially not one with full command of Shikai and Shunpo.
"Renji, don't!"
Rukia's voice rang out, anxious.
But it was too late. Renji vanished in a blur—Shunpo—the art of instantaneous movement.
The next moment, he reappeared in front of Kuroba, his Zanpakutō already transformed. The segments of Zabimaru were beginning to extend as he aimed to strike.
"Oi oi… I go drinking for a bit and come back to this?"
A rough, familiar voice boomed across the courtyard.
A massive figure dropped in, intercepting the blow with his bare hand. The sheer force of his reiatsu snuffed out the energy surging through Renji's Zanpakutō.
"Zaraki-taichō...!"
Renji's eyes widened in shock. His anger drained almost instantly.
He wasn't the lieutenant of Squad 6 in this continuity. After his demotion—citing "incompatibility" by Aizen of Squad 5—Renji had been reassigned as the Sixth Seat of Squad 11.
And Squad 11? It was full of monsters.
"Using Shikai on someone who can barely stand? That's not like you, Renji,"
Madarame Ikkaku smirked as he landed beside him. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight.
"But…"
Renji glanced at the snoring figure of Kuroba, sprawled on the ground with a half-empty gourd of sake.
"He didn't even react..."
"No kidding. The guy's out cold."
Ikkaku jabbed a thumb toward Kuroba, who muttered incoherently in his sleep, hugging his gourd like a pillow.
Rukia stepped forward quickly.
"Captain Zaraki, Ikkaku-san… This is all a misunderstanding. The sudden disappearance of the black cell has nothing to do with Kuroba!"
She gestured helplessly at the space behind her—once solid, now eerily empty—and at the unconscious prisoners strewn around.
The black cell was gone. Not broken. Not breached. Gone.
Rukia bit her lip.
The black cell, used to temporarily detain offenders before sentencing, had existed since the founding of the Gotei 13. It had endured for centuries—if not millennia.
Its construction was reinforced by Kido and sealed blackstone—a material capable of suppressing spiritual energy. Yet now, it had vanished without a trace.
It was impossible. Absurd. And yet… it had happened.
Still, blaming Kuroba felt equally absurd. The man couldn't even stand without wobbling. His reiatsu was... strange, yes—but fluctuating, not overwhelming.
Could a drunk Shinigami vaporize a centuries-old holding cell?
She doubted it. And more importantly—if the incident was traced back to Kuroba, Captain Ukitake would be implicated. He had personally vouched for Kuroba's participation in the Shin'ō Academy's special assessment.
If the black cell's disappearance turned into a scandal, it wouldn't just stain Kuroba—it would drag down the ever-sickly but righteous Ukitake Jūshirō with him.
Rukia clenched her fists.
She couldn't let that happen.