"Heh… heh heh…"
"The strongest Espada?"
"Wow, Nnoitra—you really do know how to polish your own ego."
The moment realization struck, Grimmjow was the first to sneer, rolling his eyes in open contempt.
He didn't even try to hide it.
That arrogance—
that laughable self–importance—
was pathetic.
"Seriously," he continued with a scornful grin, "if that's what it takes to be 'the strongest,' maybe I should start calling myself the King of Hueco Mundo next."
The hall burst into uneasy murmurs.
Even by Arrancar standards, Nnoitra's shameless boasting was over the top.
Because let's be honest—
The real strongest Espada, Coyote Starrk himself,
had already been obliterated by Kyōraku Shunsui in the last ranking!
And that wasn't some narrow victory either.
No—
Starrk, the Primera Espada, had been crushed.
A one–sided slaughter.
No suspense, no redemption, nothing but cold, clean defeat.
So now, hearing Nnoitra yelling about being the "strongest"…
Grimmjow's lip curled.
"Man, you're making us all look like idiots."
And he wasn't the only one fed up.
Even Baraggan, the former King of Hueco Mundo himself, had finally lost patience.
He turned, his cold, heavy gaze locking on Nnoitra like the glare of death itself.
"Hmph…"
"Pitiful fool…"
"If you lose this next fight," Baraggan rumbled, voice deep as thunder, "you will disgrace every Hollow that ever existed!"
His white beard trembled, his ancient fury filling the frozen hall.
Yes, even now—
forced to serve under Aizen—
the old skeleton's pride as ruler of Hueco Mundo still burned fiercely.
To him, every Espada's failure was a stain on his former kingdom.
And Nnoitra's childish bragging?
It was unforgivable.
"You dare call yourself 'the strongest,'" Baraggan hissed, "when you can't even protect your own pride?"
"You bring shame to all of us."
Meanwhile—
as the insults piled up and the Espada's laughter echoed through Las Noches—
the video resumed.
And in an instant, the atmosphere shifted.
"CLANG—!!"
Steel met steel.
A shockwave burst outward, shaking the heavens.
Dust and smoke erupted skyward, spiraling into the clouds as two silhouettes clashed in the storm of spiritual pressure.
Kenpachi Zaraki versus Nnoitra Gilga.
The monster versus the madman.
Their weapons collided again and again, each swing sparking blinding fire.
Every impact echoed like thunder across the battlefield.
"Hah… so this is what it takes to hurt you, huh?"
Kenpachi's grin widened, his voice brimming with excitement.
"One cut after another… yeah, I'm finally getting used to the hardness of that skin of yours."
He laughed—
not mockingly, but in pure, savage joy.
Blood dripped from his cheek, yet his spiritual pressure only grew stronger, wild golden light swirling around him.
With a sudden twist of his wrist—
he swung.
"SHRAAA!"
A single devastating slash.
The blow cleaved through Nnoitra's scythes and armor, hurling the Espada backward.
His body hit the ground hard, his long hair scattering in the dust, his entire frame laced with deep crimson cuts.
The self–proclaimed strongest Espada was on his knees—barely breathing.
"Ken-chan, that was amazing!"
In the Eleventh Division barracks, Yachiru's voice rang with delight.
Her tiny frame hopped up onto Kenpachi's broad shoulder, giggling.
"Future you looks so cool! You don't even need both hands anymore!"
Kenpachi tilted his head with a toothy grin.
"Yeah… that so–called 'strongest Espada' sure looks like trash to me."
He scoffed.
"If he doesn't transform soon, I'll split him in half with my next swing."
And right on cue—
the future Nnoitra on the screen roared, his voice cracking with rage and desperation.
"PRAY—Santa Teresa!!!"
Light burst from his body.
Golden reiryoku exploded outward like a solar flare, shaking the screen itself.
The sheer pressure made the audience instinctively flinch—
even through the projection.
The entire battlefield drowned in radiance as six massive scythe–arms unfolded from his back, each one glimmering with killing intent.
The air quivered.
The ground split apart.
Even distant mountains began to crumble.
"Hah!"
"See that, everyone?!" Nnoitra's present self shouted from Las Noches, laughing manically.
"That was just warm–up! This—this is my true power!"
"My reiryoku after Resurrección is leagues above that brute's! Now it's my turn to cut him apart!!!"
And indeed—
after his transformation, the tide shifted violently.
The screen erupted in chaos as six enormous scythes danced like bladed storms, cutting through the air with deafening shrieks.
Each strike ripped through the landscape, battering Kenpachi's body again and again.
"DIE, YOU WORTHLESS BEAST!!"
Nnoitra's crazed laughter mixed with the clang of metal.
Blood flew through the air.
Slash after slash carved across Kenpachi's flesh.
But the man didn't flinch.
Didn't slow.
Didn't stop.
The audience watched in disbelief—
each wound deep, fatal, relentless—
and yet Kenpachi only grew more feral, his golden aura burning brighter with every hit.
His breathing grew ragged, but his grin only widened.
It was horrifying.
Mesmerizing.
Unreal.
"What the hell…"
"Why isn't he falling?!"
"Does he even feel pain?!"
The spectators murmured in disbelief.
Even the Espada fell silent, unable to look away.
Because at that moment, Zaraki Kenpachi was no longer a man—
He was a monster.
A creature born for war.
Bathed in blood, blade gripped in one hand, eyes wild with hunger—
he looked less like a Shinigami, and more like a god of carnage.
His laughter echoed through the halls of Hueco Mundo.
"Keep cutting," he growled.
"Come on. Hit me again."
His voice shook the air, heavy with exhilaration.
And as the smoke cleared, his silhouette loomed, unbroken, unstoppable.
The King of the Sword—the one and only Kenpachi Zaraki.
(End of Chapter)
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