{🥳Joining Patreon keeps me motivated and eager to work diligently, so please support me.🥰 You can access upto 50+ advance chapter through Patreon by using the link: https://patreon.com/Oreski}
"The speed of repair is... unexpectedly fast," Kurotsuchi Mayuri muttered, his pale hand resting against the edge of the observation deck as he gazed down upon the cityscape below, his golden eyes calculating, absorbing every detail. The buildings, though damaged in parts, were already being restored by unseen forces; yet to someone like him, the faint disturbances in the spiritual environment told a different story altogether.
"The residual spiritual particles lingering in the air," he continued, his voice low and clinical, "clearly point to an intense battle—one that couldn't have occurred more than an hour ago."
With a sudden flick of his wrist, Mayuri pulled a thin, needle-like instrument from within his sleeves, the strange device buzzing softly as he guided it upward. It hovered midair, glowing as it began to scan the atmosphere, sucking in spiritual fragments like a mechanical leech.
"Trace Reiatsu detected... classification: Menos Grande. Estimated combat strength: eighty-three," he reported aloud, though no one else was present. His voice dropped to a hushed murmur as he studied the readout with growing interest. "But this spiritual composition… it's anomalous. Unfamiliar. Not aligned with any existing classification system. In all my recorded data, I've never seen anything like this…"
A strange gleam lit up his face, his lips curling into a smile that hovered between intrigue and mania—the kind of expression only Mayuri could wear when he stumbled upon something utterly alien to Soul Society's understanding.
"This is..." he whispered, licking his lips in anticipation, "…truly worth studying."
And then, almost imperceptibly, something in the air shifted.
"Hmm?!"
"Wait..."
"What is this?!"
His voice, fragmented and filled with sharp inflection, betrayed his sudden immersion in something entirely beyond his control. The instrument in his hand shook. His pupils dilated. His whole body went rigid, as though a sudden jolt had traveled up his spine. Every neuron in his brain aligned in the same direction.
"This Reiatsu..." he breathed, "...this signature..."
In an instant, the vague curiosity that had guided his prior mutterings transformed into something dangerously obsessive. His eyes sharpened to fine points, the yellow irises glowing with the thrill of recognition. Deep within them, a faint green spark began to dance.
"This structure... this layering of density and precision... it's utterly fascinating."
He inhaled as though savoring the scent of some exotic chemical compound. "This cohesion of spirit particles... it's intoxicating—far too intricate to be natural, and yet undeniably organic in its flow."
His fingers trembled slightly as he turned toward the direction of the spiritual signature, eyes wild.
"I must trace this phenomenon back to its source," he muttered, his voice growing darker, consumed by fixation.
So fully absorbed was Mayuri in his discovery that he failed to notice the figure who had appeared silently beside him, whose presence, despite being calm and unhurried, radiated with enough spiritual pressure to suppress even the loudest of monologues.
Moyu stood there in plain view, his arms folded across his chest, expression balanced somewhere between dry amusement and subtle concern. Though the man beside him was clearly a captain, a genius of the most dangerous kind, Moyu observed him with the casual detachment of someone who had already evaluated the threat and found it... contained—for now.
To any onlooker, Kurotsuchi Mayuri might have appeared mad: a talking scarecrow with greasepaint skin and a face painted in war markings, babbling to himself in cryptic fragments. Yet beneath that erratic behavior lay the unmistakable weight of compressed spiritual energy—structured, refined, lethal.
Despite his eccentricity, there was no doubt. This was the infamous Kurotsuchi Mayuri.
And strangely, something about him reminded Moyu of Mikami Saiki—not in form or talent, but in the unsettling sincerity with which both men surrendered to their respective obsessions. They were, in a way, cut from the same unstable cloth.
"Heheheh... what a delightful find…" Mayuri whispered to himself.
Then, abruptly, his head turned. "Wait—who are you?!"
Finally, he noticed the man standing at his side. He twitched in surprise, spinning toward Moyu with narrowed eyes.
"A Shinigami?" he asked, squinting suspiciously. As he leaned in, one eye enlarged grotesquely behind the bulbous lens of his high-tech monocle, magnifying his features in a way that was more comical than threatening—until one noticed how fast it was scanning Moyu from top to toe.
"Kuchiki Moyu," came the reply, steady and unbothered. "Currently stationed in Karakura Town as the designated field agent overseeing the three spiritual sectors in this vicinity."
Only then did Moyu notice that the monocle wasn't just ornamental—it was pulsing faintly, clearly equipped with detection software sophisticated enough to analyze spiritual density in real time.
"The Kuchiki family... interesting," Mayuri muttered, eyes narrowing again. Something in his mind clicked as he recalled the intelligence report he had briefly skimmed before departing Soul Society. "You're responsible for maintaining control over the radius that includes Karakura Town, which means..."
Without warning, Mayuri lunged, arm snapping forward as he tried to grab hold of Moyu's forearm.
But for all his mastery of scientific tools, Mayuri was no hand-to-hand combatant. He may have been brilliant, but in close quarters, he was no different than Szayel Aporro—calculating, arrogant, and ultimately fragile when forced into direct confrontation.
Before his gloved fingers could even brush the edge of Moyu's uniform, a single fingertip had already pressed itself firmly against the captain's forehead.
At that very point of contact, a thin arc of reishi surged outward.
A bolt of thunder cracked through the silence.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate—violent and heavy.
"I don't like being touched," Moyu said, voice calm and flat, though the reishi blazing from his fingertip burned bright enough to reflect in Mayuri's stunned pupils. "For both our safety, I suggest you keep your distance."
Though known throughout Soul Society as the Chief of the 12th Division and the Director of the Technology Development Bureau, Kurotsuchi Mayuri had never been the sort to inspire loyalty or trust. For those who knew his record—the secret experiments, the undocumented dissections, the borderline war crimes—he was less of a commander and more of a walking ethical hazard, second only to Urahara Kisuke in brilliance, but far surpassing him in moral ambiguity.
And Moyu, whose instincts had never failed him, had no intention of letting his guard down.
Mayuri was the kind of man who might dissect your soul just to see how it ticked.
Even Uryū Ishida—who had once bested him—was left implanted with tracking bacteria. That was how Mayuri operated. His danger was never in what he showed. It was in what he hid.
Now, with Moyu's thunderlight sizzling inches from his skull, Mayuri felt a chill ripple down his spine. Sweat gathered beneath the rim of his eye socket.
The reishi arcs snapping in the air hissed like electric serpents.
Though no blow had landed, every nerve in Mayuri's body was reacting with primal urgency. His skin tingled. His instincts screamed.
His pupils contracted, pupils trembling in slow, horrified realization.
This spiritual pressure—this density and clarity—it wasn't simply powerful.
It was terrifying.
Kuchiki Moyu, a man not even ranked among the Gotei 13's vice-captains, was projecting spiritual force that didn't just match his own.
It crushed it.
Overwhelmed by it.
This wasn't mere strength. This was a warning crafted from experience, precision, and madness.
A very specific kind of madness—the refined kind, the cold and calculating kind Mayuri had only seen in the deepest wings of the Maggot's Nest.
This boy standing before him wasn't just dangerous.
He was lethal—calmly, unapologetically lethal.
If Mayuri had moved a muscle more aggressively than he already had, he had no doubt that Moyu would have obliterated him on the spot.
Yet even with death practically humming against his forehead, Mayuri couldn't help but smile—twisted and sharp, as if the threat only deepened his interest.
"Ha... Mr. Moyu," he said at last, trying to sound cordial despite the bead of cold sweat trailing down his cheek. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Kurotsuchi Mayuri—Captain of the 12th Division."
Only once he saw the gleam recede from Moyu's fingertip did he dare move. The lightning faded. The deadly aura that had flooded the atmosphere evaporated, leaving behind a vacuum-like silence.
Adjusting his posture with slow, deliberate movements, Mayuri exhaled and tried to collect what remained of his dignity.
"I was dispatched to this world," he explained, resuming a more measured tone, "in response to an anomalous surge of spiritual pressure recorded and relayed to the Technology Development Bureau approximately forty-seven minutes ago."
Moyu's expression darkened slightly.
Of course Mayuri would come sniffing around Szayel Aporro's lingering energy. Even though the creature was only Adjuchas-level, his unique Reiatsu structure made him a walking laboratory—one Mayuri would undoubtedly find irresistible.
Seeing Moyu's silence, Mayuri leaned forward, his voice rising slightly into that theatrical pitch he often adopted when about to say something outrageous.
"So, on that note… might I request…"
His smile widened into something borderline disturbing.
"…a sample copy of your Reiatsu, Mr. Moyu?"
{ Enjoying the chapters? Please Support me on Patreon and unlock 50+ advanced chapters, with 3 new chapters released every two days!
The fanfic is also available for one-time purchase on Patreon – unlock lifetime access to the full collection, no membership needed! Don't miss out –support and own it forever!
patreon.com/Oreski}