Moyu spoke in a faint, unhurried tone, his voice carrying the weariness of someone who would rather avoid needless movement. He didn't want to keep running around—but a mission was a mission. There was no way out except to finish it quickly. Only then could he return to his quarters in peace.
He had already swept through several ridges, eradicating three out of four hostile footholds. Now, only the final one remained.
As the last hill came into view, Moyu's eyes gleamed faintly. Once they secured this position, the task would finally be complete.
The two young Shinigami following behind him were both injured to varying degrees, yet their growth was unmistakable. The repeated clashes had honed their reflexes and sharpened their reiryoku control. Combat, after all, was the purest forge of skill—and Moyu had no intention of wasting that opportunity.
"Not bad," he remarked with a calm smile. "You two go on ahead. I'll observe from here."
Truth be told, he simply wanted to be lazy. Crossing his arms, Moyu leaned against a broken pillar and watched the two rookies engage their opponents.
But it didn't take long before the tide shifted against them. When danger closed in, Moyu vanished from his spot. In the blink of an eye, he appeared in front of the two, his Zanpakutō slicing through the enemy with a single clean arc.
The young Shinigami blinked, stunned.
"Didn't you just say," one of them began, "that you wouldn't interfere—that we should gain experience through actual combat?"
Moyu gave him a sidelong glance, a faint, amused smirk tugging at his lips. "You think I'd stand by and watch you die? That's not training—it's foolishness. What I said was to push you both to fight seriously, to make you draw out the will to survive. That's how you awaken your true potential."
Their expressions softened with understanding. They realized that behind Moyu's detached tone lay genuine intent—to force them beyond comfort, not abandon them.
Turning away, Moyu's gaze locked on the last group of surviving raiders atop the hill. His voice dropped, edged with quiet steel. "Stay here. I'll finish this."
Without another word, his spiritual pressure surged. The ground trembled as the air thickened under the weight of his reiatsu, heavy and suffocating. A crimson glow flickered in his eyes as his Sharingan spun to life, its tomoe rotating in perfect rhythm.
Sasuke, standing behind him, felt his breath falter. There was something ancient and overwhelming in that gaze—something that radiated authority. It was as if he were looking upon the true King of the Sharingan, a power that tolerated no defiance.
Moyu unsheathed his blade, its steel glinting with cold light. Then, in a burst of speed that blurred the air, he cut into the enemy ranks.
His strikes were precise and merciless. The weaker opponents fell immediately under the influence of his Sharingan, their wills breaking as they turned their blades on one another in frenzied confusion. Within seconds, the battlefield dissolved into chaos—cries of fear mixing with the shriek of clashing steel.
Yet Moyu moved through it all with chilling calm. His steps were measured, his blade an unbroken line of death. Reiryoku pulsed in waves from his every movement, each strike collapsing resistance like fragile glass.
The once-orderly skirmish had become a storm of blood and fear, and at its heart stood Moyu—silent, unstoppable.
When the last enemy finally fell, the wind carried only silence. Moyu exhaled slowly, lowering his sword.
Blood ran down the hill, soaking into the dirt around his feet. He gave a small, satisfied nod. "That should be enough."
He cast a glance at the bodies scattered across the slope. "Plenty of heads to claim credit for," he murmured. "A day well spent."
With that, he turned and walked back toward his subordinates, his reiatsu fading into calm serenity once more. Behind him, the battlefield lay still—another quiet testament to the efficiency of a Shinigami who never missed his mark.
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