A/N: Hi! I'm Yoru! First post here, so reviews are appreciated, constructive criticism is welcomed, and flames are going to be used in helping me prepare my dinner. We're eating spaghetti. Oh, and there are spoilers from manga chapter 345, The Sloth.
EDIT: Changed the summary, not the story.
Disclaimer: If I'd own Bleach, Orihime would have used her Shun-Shun-Rikka to save Ulquiorra. She hasn't, so, obviously, Bleach is not mine.
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His moves were quick, the long tailcoats gracefully following his movements. His reiatsu was still under control, without signaling his activities to anyone.
One of the things he hated the most was someone staring at him while he trained.
Most Arrancar trained sparring or attacking unanimated objects. They trained their attack. Especially Nnoitra and Grimmjow. Those two firmly believed in raising their attack power to win their battles.
They were all trash.
He quickly used Sonido to position himself behind the big pillar located at the center of the room. He swung his sword, stopping it right before it came in contact with the white stone. He wasted no time in using Sonido again to attack from a different angle, just to stop the movement of his sword again before repeating the cycle. For him, it wasn't the attack, the defense or the speed the ones who determined the winner in a battle.
It was the skill one had with his zanpakutou.
If your opponent's attack is higher, your defense is useless.
If his defense is higher, your attack is useless.
If his speed is higher, your speed is useless.
If your skillfulness is higher, you can think of a way to trap him even lacking the necessary attack, defense or speed.
He didn't know where those words came from. Each time he recalled them, it was his own, stoic, impassive voice the one that almost shouted them in his mind's ear. But he never remembered when exactly he had said them. Also, he had never raised his voice that much. It was as if he was talking to a room full of noisy people. And, if he ever was obligated to raise his voice to be heard, he'd prefer to just launch one or two Cero to clean up the disorder.
He swung his sword again. The tip passed so close to the stone that he was half expecting debris to fall and taint the immaculate white of the room.
Nothing happened.
He realized his movements had come to a halt. Closing his eyes in frustration, he sheathed his sword, deciding to take a few seconds to rest before starting the endless cycle again.
It's like dancing with death.
Those words echoed through his mind, spoken by an unfamiliar voice. Ever since he discovered he had a memory he didn't remembered having, he had spent most of his free time trying to understand it. Who said it? Why? When?
He couldn't remember. He just had the feeling that voice spoke about his fighting style. Usually, he would fight only using his hands, as sharp as any sword. He never really tried his best in any fight. But that changed when he used his zanpakutou. Murcielago. It meant he was fighting someone worth killing. Someone strong.
Someone with the bad luck to face him at his best.
Stark had commented once he was very skillful with a sword from the start, so the possibility he had trained with a sword as a human was considerable high. Judging by an average Hollow evolution, he had to die more or less by 1930 in order to become what he was before turning into an Arrancar. But that date didn't make him feel any different. Sometimes, at night, he would think of other date, an exact one, as if it had been forever hidden in his memory, only accessible when the sheets of sleep had already covered almost his entire body.
October 6, 1942.
Two years before the Second World War ended.
He opened his eyes again, piercing green focused on the pillar. Again, he unsheathed his sword and used Sonido, beginning once more the endless cycle of cutting the air as near as the pillar as possible, not letting any marks on the perfect surface. Controlling his sword until it could cut with the perfect precision. He hadn't time to be thinking about something as trivial as the date that signaled the end of his human life. That date meant nothing to him. Guns, and not swords, were the main weapons used in that and many other wars. Besides, he was above all of it. As an Arrancar… no, as an Espada, he had to pay no attention to his past. He had to focus on the present. On the future. On becoming stronger and stronger for his creator, to give him the victory he had been seeking for over a century.
If the attack of his opponent was higher, he would parry and evade them.
If the defense of his opponent was higher, he would fight until he found the weak spot.
If the speed of his opponent was higher, he would never let his guard down and predict the other's movements.
Attack, defense, speed… they didn't matter that much. For him, being strong meant being one with his sword, being able to use it as an elongation of one's arm, being able to cut even a flea in mid-jump.
And, after an hour of not touching the pillar, no matter the force and speed of his swings when he first aimed at it, he sheathed Murcielago. The training had ended.
And, while he hid his hands in his pockets, no evidence of his secret training whatsoever, an unusual though passed through his mind.
Looking from the outside, it really seemed anyone fighting Ulquiorra Schiffer was dancing with death. It only required a single mistake for the dance to end, for the crimson of the spilled blood to mimic the deep red of the roses good dancers were given. For you to regret that single mistake for the rest of the eternity.
Only if you had time to register what happened before disappearing forever, though.
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A/N: Yep, you guessed right. The spoilers were for the name of Ulquiorra's zanpakutou. Soooooo… liked it? Didn't like it? Feel free to speak your mind!