After opening his complete holy form, Askin felt the ravaged tissues in his body begin to knit. Non-fatal injuries sealed themselves with unnerving speed. In this state he could rapidly adapt to toxins, analyze their composition, and recalibrate his internal balance on the fly. His speed climbed; his striking power sharpened; his margin for error narrowed to a sliver.
Even so, he didn't delude himself.
He didn't think simply activating the holy form would be enough to kill Ulquiorra. Not outright. The opponent possessed High-Speed Regeneration—a monstrous advantage that overturned many otherwise perfect equations.
So, after unveiling his holy form, he deployed the ability he reserved for this state alone.
"Gift Bereich."
A purple sphere bloomed outward, swelling in an instant. Its scope was immense—like a barrier cast across heaven and stone—covering most of the square. Yet unlike ordinary barriers, this one was saturated with a lethal atmosphere: a thick, invisible ocean of killing components. Within it, each step sent razorwire pain through the nerves. Even the simple act of breathing became sabotage—every inhalation meeting an engineered wall of hypoxia.
He flexed the molecular light wheels and the twin wings arcing behind him, and the density changed at once. He could raise the concentration of the poison gas, thin it, or reshape the very "planet" of the sphere at will. The purple enchantment became a world in miniature—his world—its physics rewritten by chemistry and malice.
Inside this sphere, there was only death.
Worse still, killing Askin wouldn't necessarily shatter the domain. If he died, the power of the poison ball would convulse—sometimes weakening, sometimes collapsing in unstable spikes—but not in a way that guaranteed escape. In more than one modeled outcome, "no one gets out" remained the answer. A fortress of poison; a mausoleum that sealed friend and foe alike.
Bazz-B knew what it was the instant the darkness engulfed him. As a fellow member of the Sternritters, he had seen Askin's trump card on paper if not in person. His expression turned ugly, then uglier.
He wasn't alone. Cang Du's jaw tightened. Quilge's face, poised over his opponent, went cold.
Quilge had Kariya Jin suppressed across every vector. One more clean sequence—one more Heilig Pfeil aligned alongside close-quarters pressure—and he would have finished the Bount decisively. Then Askin's sphere swept in, a tidal night.
'Isn't this a pit?' The thought flashed like lightning. He didn't say it. He didn't need to. The situation said it for him.
Even if you meet a formidable enemy and must activate your holy form—fine. Even if you must deploy your domain—fine. But you still consider your perimeter. You still consider your own side.
Askin had considered it. The square, however, was too small; the Gift Bereich too large; the timing too narrow. He forced the radius tighter, tighter still, but the edge still lapped over allies, swallowing them into the cage.
If he hadn't throttled the spread at the last instant, every quincy who had followed him into Hueco Mundo would have been devoured by the same poison meant for their enemies.
As for the rest of the Sternritters?
He believed they would survive until detoxification. They had to. His calculus allowed no other path. Kill Ulquiorra first—then dissolve the field.
The other quincy didn't share that confidence. They didn't know his full plan or the snag that had forced him to spring the domain this early. To them, the world went purple, the air turned to knives, and death grinned from every breath.
Quilge moved first.
Facing the suffocating wall of poison, he invoked his Schrift "The Jail".
A reishi cage surged from his blade—not toward the enemy, but to envelop himself. Space folded. From the outside, his form remained visible, a distortion trembling in the air like heat over stone. In truth he'd slipped sideways, isolated in a pocket like a target under Negación's amber light. Seen, but distant. Present, but elsewhere.
Jin, bleeding and exhausted, stared. "This guy…?"
A heartbeat later, the answer struck his lungs like a hammer. He drew a breath and the inside of his body ignited. Pain radiated from organs to fingertips; a cold, iron band clamped his chest.
He understood at once. This was the purple enchantment's work—the poison domain sweeping across the square.
"What did those bastards do?" he growled through clenched teeth. He pictured the quincy turning all their toys on every living thing and felt a needle of helpless fury. This wasn't finesse. This was extermination.
Cang Du felt it too.
Moments ago, behind the armor of steel, he'd been bathing in momentum. Grimmjow was scoured raw—cut, bruised, panting—and Cang Du had begun to enjoy the kill. Back in the Invisible Empire's palace, he'd opposed any alliance with Hueco Mundo. Scum, he'd called them. Weaklings. If cannon fodder was required, conquer them and be done.
The present battle had confirmed the prejudice. The Sixth among the Espada should have been formidable; instead, Grimmjow had buckled under the simplest, purest application of hardness and pressure.
But he was still human beneath the steel. He still needed to breathe.
Two, three breaths inside the domain and a hand closed around his throat from the inside. Muscles pricked with needles. Vision sharpened, then dimmed at the edges. Every step sent a weight of pain climbing his shins.
Across from him, Grimmjow swayed on his feet—suffering, yes—but when he saw the stiffness in Cang Du's posture, a broken laugh forced its way out of him.
"It looks like your partner plans to kill you too."
He laughed harder, ragged, delighted. "Hahaha…!"
"You bastard!" Cang Du hissed, face sinking into shadow. Pain flared in his calves as he lunged anyway. Even compromised, he meant to crush the beast. Pride demanded it. Rage required it.
Elsewhere, Bazz-B and Kaname had only just engaged—feints exchanged, gauges taken. Their skirmish hadn't yet put deep marks on either of them when the blackness rolled over their field. Bazz-B's flame guttered, then snapped back, the poison grinding against the heat in an invisible war.
"Damn you, Askin." he snarled. "You're going to doom us all."
In the main hall of Las Noches, eyes tracked darkness.
Mazuru, Ichimaru Gin, Kenpachi Azashiro, Harribel newly returned and stabilized, and the Espada present at dawn—Nelliel and Starrk among them—watched the feed from the square. First, they had seen Kaname bring down Mask, and surprise had rippled even through those long past surprise. Then had come Ulquiorra's Resurrección: Segunda Etapa—an evolution none of them had believed possible. Even through the projection's flat pane they felt the oppressive weight of that form.
Now the screen was blind. The instant Askin cast the field, the instruments cut to black.
Those who hadn't felt that pressure in person whispered anyway. Could Ulquiorra withstand it? Could Grimmjow? Could anyone?
Kenpachi Azashiro didn't need the screens. Merged with the greater body of Las Noches, he felt the domain's texture through stone and darkness. The sensation was not merely spiritual; it was architectural, an invasive chemistry hissing along corridors and bones. His expression grew grave.
Mazuru knew as well. Not merely that the domain had been cast, but the shape of it—the limits pressed by Askin, the sickly grace with which Quilge sidestepped, the grind of Cang Du's breath, the crackle of Bazz-B's fire pinned against a chemistry that didn't care about fire.
And another tremor at the edge of perception—Ulquiorra, still moving; Ulquiorra, still rising.
"Five abilities displayed." Mazuru said softly. "And almost all the data we require."
Gin's smile slanted. "Almost?"
"Almost." Mazuru repeated, crimson eyes half-lidded. "It's time to end this battle."
*****
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✓ Killed For 100 Years in Hueco Mundo, Aizen Invited Me To Soul Society!
✓ Naruto: Senmei Asahi
✓ Naruto: Uchiha's Intelligence Dealer
✓ Naruto: The Fifth Hokage Is Naruto's Uncle
✓ Naruto: Who Made Him a Ninja?
✓ Bleach: In My Second Reincarnation, I Became The Ninth Kenpachi
✓ To Love-Ru: Spoiler Route [R-18]
✓ Naruto: The Accidental Incubus [R-18]
✓ The Academy's Saint Is Too Popular, But He's Not the Protagonist [R-18]