OVERGROWN OVERTURE05: BALLAD OF FALLEN ANGELS

There was a lull in the combat. Nabill had not noticed it at first, though the feeling of Anneliese at his back explained to him everything. He did not turn to look at her, nor did he say anything. While she had managed to draw off the two biggest of the arrancar, the two smallest stood at both of his sides. One wrong move, he knew, and his head would be rolling at his feet.

Nabill spit a glob of blood to the ground and blinked once. A cut over his left brow had dyed his face red, and a busted lip and broken tooth made it hard ask the rebels any questions. His rags were a mess, but his swords were steaming from the heated air of the constant ceros and rapid movements. A rib was broken, Nabill sensed, and his right ankle was sprained. Even with his enhanced skin and supersonic speed, their mysterious ability to slow him down and hit as hard as Ezelrick combined in the form of the various gnarly gashes covering his torso, arms, and legs.

“You’re pretty strong, Nabill,” the long-haired arrancar known as Roc chimed in. His smile was cocky, and his tone arrogant. “To survive our ability is pretty good. It’s almost as if you were born to fight like this, eh?”

Nabill responded with a lightning-quick slash to Roc’s head, which the arrancar melted away from. With Anneliese fighting, the slowing was reduced, which was a good thing. Still, it gave no hint as to what the ability was.

From behind, the other arrancar leapt at him. Two ceros appeared in his hand, each forming into thin blades that left hissing trails of steam as they cut through the air. Had Nabill not been slowed, he would have easily been able to exploit the gaps in the arrancar’s stance. As he was, it took all of his speed to simply match the blows. Each strike forced him to give up ground, and from behind he sensed Roc coming in with another attack. This has to end now.

Nabill fell to his knees, dodging the kick Roc had made, and forced an immense amount of power into his legs. In the next breath he was catapulting through the air at hundreds of miles per hour, shattering the sonic barrier and feeling what was left of his clothing strip off of his body. The higher he went, the less he was slowed, and looking down, the Cero Espada found his answer. He had put a massive amount of distance between him and his foes, and the further away he was and the less they focused on him, the weaker their ability to dull his movements. Four of them—Roc and his partner, as well as Giz and the other stoic arrancar—were flying through the air to catch up. But it was already too late; Nabill’s swords glistened under the moonlight as he lifted them into the air.

“Slash—”

Cracks of white light spread like vines throughout the blades, and Nabill smashed them together.

“--Guerrero.” 

侍の疲弊 

(samurai of ruin)

It was neither the shockwave nor the blast of white, bright as a second moon, which stopped the pursuers. It was the sudden blur of black that obliterated the left half of Roc’s body and crashed down on top of the fat arrancar dashing at Anneliese. Large chunks of granite and a plume of dust and dirt went flying into the air, forming a cloud around the Cero Espada. It lasted for a moment, but that moment was all it took for the four remaining arrancar to regroup with sonido. They appeared back in their original spot, each one having a different weapon drawn.

“Something tells me that you faithless mongrels failed,” Nabill’s said. His voice was different than before, darker and heavier. A heavy boot stepped out of the cloud, black and covered in pieces of gore.

The Cero Espada’s released form, Guerrero, was something to be feared. Even the other Espada had only seen it a handful of times, and that was during the Civil War against the Hohlreich ten years ago. It was a terrible form, and the armored plates hummed along with the naked blade drawn. On his right side were two more katana, and a third on the left. When the smoke behind him settled, a massive great sword streaked in crimson and bits of organ stood impaled in the back of the fat corpse. Nabill’s eyes gleamed a red glow when he raised his drawn katana into the air. The weapon’s edge was highlighted in the same color, and reality itself seemed to warp around the weapon. It was as if he were taming some evil spirit trapped within the steel.

“Anneliese, forgive me.” Nabill turned the blade right-side up and pointed it at the four arrancar before him. “I am not holding back.”