Ethereal. Silent.
Though it shared the same name, the Muken Hell was nothing like the hell Higashi Shuuichi had survived before. The differences were stark.
There seemed to be a dimensional discrepancy, too—after all, Shuuichi knew that the man who inherited the title of Kenpachi after killing Kuryashiki—Jisaki Kenpachi—was supposed to be imprisoned here. Yet as far as he could see, there was no prison at all.
Opposite him, Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni was already prepared.
Higashi Shuuichi didn't hesitate.
"Captain-Commander... Forgive me."
Bankai.
Crushing reiatsu surged over him.
Then Shuuichi drew the Zanpakutō-like divine blade of the Tōma Clan, Seyibasa, shaped like an engraving chisel.
Though he could initiate its Shikai, the blade wasn't truly his—it was a sacred heirloom of the Tōma family. Its activation required permission from Tōma Sayako, who remained sealed in the clan's subterranean chamber.
So Bankai? Impossible.
"Cross the Sanzu, Seyibasa."
Silver petals scattered, reconstructing the familiar gate.
At that very moment, deep in actual Hell, Ikeda Kōsuke—locked in vicious battle against ancient Vasto Lorde-class Hollows—suddenly clutched his chest.
Where Shuuichi had branded him with a divine seal, heat like molten iron surged. His spiritual energy felt like it was being siphoned—ripped through the brand.
"What the hell—what's happening to me?!"
His screams were useless. The force was unstoppable. His power poured out, drained through the seal and sent somewhere beyond comprehension.
He died. Was revived. Then died again—an endless, grotesque loop.
Each time, he felt his spiritual pressure weaken—subtle, almost imperceptible—but in Hell, even a tiny shift was enough to breed fear.
Back in Muken, Shuuichi stood still, breathing in all that stolen force—rage, lust, hatred, despair—every sin poured into his veins.
His body trembled.
So this is what Jinmakurō must've felt—fighting while suffocating under Hell's madness...
He grit his teeth.
He couldn't let it stay. Letting it fester would turn him into a beast—soulless, mindless, damned.
Far ahead, Yamamoto watched Shuuichi now swathed in churning, thick gray-black energy. The aura surpassed even Jinmakurō's in corruption and chaos.
The old man slowly reached for his cane.
Too much, he thought. Far too much.
Of course the Tōma Clan had failed to control this power. Why else would they come crawling to him?
Yamamoto began to lift his blade.
But from within that hellish mire—a voice rang out. Broken. Hoarse. Determined.
"Hado... Jigoku Chōkinkyoku!"
The already dim space went slate-gray.
The viscous black energy around Shuuichi fell, spreading like ink through the ground. Mist coiled up.
The screams of the dead. The howls of beasts. The prayers of the damned.
They came from everywhere. Everywhere.
Then—
A skeletal arm, pale and ghastly, shot up from beneath Yamamoto and grabbed his ankle.
"What...?"
He frowned. There had been no sign of it. And yet the moment it touched him, he felt something pull at the core of his soul.
A disturbance from the deepest recesses of himself.
"Caress Slash!"
A flash of silver.
A canyon split across the blackened ground where the arm had risen.
Higashi Shuuichi's eyes lit up.
So this... this is the real Caress Slash.
His version—taught by Unohana—was a child's version compared to this. This... this was Yamamoto's blade, refined over a millennium.
But even so, it wasn't enough.
The skeletal hand held fast.
"Just severing the link isn't enough?"
With sheer willpower, Yamamoto crushed the invading force, suppressing the emotional tide within him.
"All things... to ash. Ryūjin Jakka."
With a solemn incantation, his cane unraveled, revealing its true form: a Zanpakutō with a deep purple hilt and oval guard.
Then, from Shuuichi's perspective—
The Captain-Commander leapt into the air without hesitation.
Blade drawn, he drove the tip of his sword into the skeletal arm.
Jōkaku Enjō.
Fire didn't erupt—it consumed.
The arm was swallowed by blazing infernos shaped like a giant hand. The flames spread, igniting the floor itself.
Steam and smoke blanketed the battlefield.
The arm, charred to ash, finally vanished.
And so—Higashi Shuuichi dispelled the Jigoku Chōkinkyoku.
Because he could feel it—Hell's core force was about to burn him away.
Once the black-gray corruption reached his soul, he'd no longer be a thief of Hell's strength.
He would become its slave.
A branded wretch, unable to return to what he once was.
Not even the Spirit King's Nail Fragments could reverse such a fate.
But even if he lasted less than ten seconds, one thing filled Shuuichi with pride:
Even Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni, the Gotei 13's strongest—
Had to use his Shikai. Had to call forth Jōkaku Enjō. Had to injure himself just to destroy that skeletal arm.
That alone made the risk worthwhile.
Through the battle, Shuuichi learned a great deal about his technique:
Its strength was devastating. The strongest offensive move he had. And it struck at the soul.
But its drawbacks?
It was slow to activate. Its speed lacking. Worst of all—its power scale was dictated by Shuuichi's spiritual pressure.
And under the erosion of Hell's essence, he wouldn't last more than a few seconds.
If Yamamoto hadn't deliberately allowed the corruption to touch him—stepping willingly into the mist to test the danger—there was no way Jigoku Chōkinkyoku would have even grazed him.
Against agile opponents? Useless.
Against Aizen or Yhwach?
One had Kyōka Suigetsu. The other—The Almighty.
Shuuichi had no delusions of fighting either. Not yet.
But even so... today marked a turning point.
He had his trump card now.