In the desolate wastes of Hueco Mundo, Grimmjow and his Fracción—Naqiq, Edrad, Shawlong, and the others—rested in the shadow of a fractured dune. The air was still, save for the faint hum of lingering reiatsu.
"That bastard Shinigami…" Grimmjow growled, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. "Next time we see him, I'll rip his throat out with my teeth!"
Naqiq glanced at him, arms crossed. "Grimmjow… what's your next move?"
"After I recover?" Grimmjow's grin was feral. "We hunt him down. Tear him apart—along with that damn Arrancar he was protecting."
Naqiq's expression darkened. He thought of Di Roy, of the others who died. "...Revenge is all we have left."
Suddenly, the two Adjuchas stiffened. The sand beneath their feet trembled.
"Something powerful is approaching," Shawlong murmured, hand drifting toward his zanpakutō.
"Fast—too fast!" Edrad added, eyes scanning the horizon.
Before they could react, a deafening impact shook the desert. A figure slammed into the dunes miles away, carving a crater through the bone-white sands. Dust plumed into the crimson sky.
As the haze settled, a reiatsu—faint but unmistakable—washed over them.
Grimmjow's eyes flared wide. "No way… That's… a Vasto Lorde?!"
His breath hitched. The Vasto Lorde form—perfection among Hollows, the apex of evolution. He'd spent decades clawing toward it, sacrificing everything. And now… one lay broken before him?
Naqiq, however, grabbed Grimmjow's arm, voice urgent. "Wait! Don't get close—something's wrong."
Grimmjow frowned. Now that he focused, the truth hit him like ice water.
The Vasto Lorde's reiatsu wasn't just weak—it was dying. Collapsing inward, like a star moments from supernova failure.
"Who the hell could do this?" Grimmjow muttered, unease prickling his spine.
Then Naqiq's eyes narrowed. "Unless… this is bait."
Before Grimmjow could reply, the sky split open.
A jagged bolt of violet lightning tore across the heavens—not natural, but forged. And standing atop the storm's eye, silhouetted against the crimson moon, was a lone figure.
His white haori fluttered like ash in the wind. Blood stained his left sleeve, but his stance radiated absolute authority.
"It got blown this far?" the Shinigami said, voice calm yet laced with finality. "No matter. I'm done playing cat and mouse. Let's finish this."
Grimmjow's body locked up. His instincts screamed run—but his pride wouldn't let him move.
Naqiq staggered back. "That reiatsu… It's him. The one from Karakura!"
Impossible. That Shinigami had already fought Di Roy. And now… he'd felled a Vasto Lorde?
Then, from the crater, a rasping voice rose like dry bones scraping stone.
"I… am the King of Hueco Mundo…"
Baraggan Louisenbairn—once a god among Hollows—dragged himself forward, only his torso intact, his mask shattered, his axe gone. Yet his glare burned with undimmed arrogance.
"In the name of my dominion… even in death… I will not surrender my pride!"
The Shinigami landed silently a hundred meters away. He didn't raise his blade. He didn't need to.
"Pride?" he said, voice colder than the void between worlds. "You're a corpse clinging to a title. A relic rotting in a graveyard you built yourself."
Grimmjow's jaw tightened. This Shinigami wasn't just strong—he was rewriting the laws of Hueco Mundo itself.
And for the first time… Grimmjow felt not rage, but dread.
Lightning surged in Akira's hands, crackling with raw, devastating energy as he loomed over Baraggan Louisenbarn.
"The breath of death…!" Baraggan snarled, his voice trembling not from fear, but from fury. He poured the last of his strength into a swirling vortex of black mist—Respira, his ultimate technique, the very air turned to decay.
The miasma spread like a tidal wave, devouring the sky and bleaching color from the world. Even Grimmjow—arrogant, battle-hungry Grimmjow—felt a primal chill race down his spine. This wasn't just power; it was annihilation given form.
Yet Akira didn't flinch. He didn't retreat. He stepped forward—calm, resolute—through the corrosive haze that dissolved stone and steel alike.
Above, thunderclouds churned violently, drawn by the storm coiled within him. Baraggan's aura of death gnawed at Akira's reiatsu, seeking to erode his very soul… but found nothing to consume. His body, his spirit—untouched.
"Give it up," Akira said, voice steady. "Your power means nothing to me."
The storm reached its crescendo. Lightning forked across the heavens, weaving into a tempest of blinding white energy.
"No… We need to go—now!" Grimmjow barked.
He and Nakeem didn't wait for confirmation. They fled, shunpoing across the dunes without looking back. They'd seen enough. The outcome was already written.
Then—"Raikō!"
A colossal sphere of condensed lightning plummeted from the sky, a divine hammer wrapped in thunder. It struck Baraggan with apocalyptic force.
The former king of Hueco Mundo screamed—not in pain, but in defiance—as the searing current vaporized flesh, bone, and ambition alike. His final roar echoed for only a heartbeat before being swallowed by the storm.
When the light faded, only ash remained, drifting on the wind like forgotten embers.
Beneath his feet, the white sands of Hueco Mundo had been hollowed into a vast, glass-lined crater—a silent testament to Akira's overwhelming might.
He turned and flew back toward Ulquiorra and Nelliel, who had watched the entire battle in stillness. Neither had interfered. Neither had needed to.
The result had never been in doubt.
"How did it go?" Nelliel asked as he landed, her green eyes wide with concern.
"Did you win? Is he… gone? Or did he escape?"
Akira smirked and gently ruffled her hair. "Completely annihilated."
Nelliel clapped her hands together, beaming. "Yeah! Akira's seriously the strongest!"
Her enthusiasm made him pause. "…You're a Hollow. Shouldn't you be mourning one of your own?"
Nelliel tilted her head. "Baraggan was never our king. He only cared about power—and revenge. Not us."
That night, the three of them shared a quiet meal beneath the hollow moon. Akira had prepared a massive platter of crispy golden roast pork—a dish inspired by the culinary mastery of another world, scaled to feed Arrancar-sized appetites.
As he ate, a thought nagged at him.
I just defeated the self-proclaimed King of Hueco Mundo… so why haven't I received any advanced rewards?
Over the next few days, he scavenged minor items—spells, trinkets, fragments of reishi—but nothing substantial. That confirmed his suspicion.
The survival system isn't static. It adapts—not just to the environment, but to me. The stronger I become, the less "threatening" my surroundings appear. Difficulty scales inversely with power.
Baraggan had been a test. A deliberately isolated confrontation, orchestrated by Akira himself. He'd sent Ulquiorra and the others away beforehand, ensuring no outside variables. The battle's sole purpose? To artificially spike the survival difficulty—just enough to trigger a rare reward.
And it worked.
From the ashes of that storm, the system granted him the Goro Goro no Mi—the Mythical Zoan-type Devil Fruit of Lightning, now fused into his soul like a second zanpakutō.
"Baraggan was never the goal," Akira murmured, staring at the horizon. "Just a stepping stone."
With Hueco Mundo offering no further challenge—and the system yielding diminishing returns—it was time to move on.
He turned toward the east, where the boundaries between realms thinned.
"Looks like it's time to return to Soul Society."