Part 1
A young man stands in the midst of a dark forest glade. The massive trees surrounding the glade tower around him large as buildings, their canopy out of sight in the darkness. A rustle. The faintest breath of a breeze in the desolate stillness. In his hand, the young man resolutely clutches a sword. Even in the growing gloom, the blade's iridescent sheen faintly glitters with anticipation, with fighting spirit. Another gentle breath, this time echoed by the young man as he adjusts his stance, recounting lesson after lesson. This blade is a Zanpakuto, a Soul Slayer, the divine weapon of a god of death. It resonates with the power of the wielder's soul, the young man's soul. His hands grip the pale pink Tsuka not tightly nor anxiously, but reverently, artfully. He exhales as a third breath of wind teases the fringe of blond hair at his brow.
"This blade is life. This blade is death. With its edge I slay my foes. With its hilt I hold the line. The blade is forever with me. With it, I am the god of death." The young man solemnly speaks the lines with reverence.
"Giving away your position to pontificate? Foolish." A deep and cold voice emanates from the darkness. The young man's eyes narrow and scan the shadow. "And yet you speak," he replies to the shadows, never dropping his ready stance. Without further warning a burst of wisplike shadow erupts like an explosion of black flame from a gap between two trees, its source out of sight.
The young man vanishes from the middle of the glade with the faintest whisper of a sonic boom, reappearing instantaneously a few metres from where he stood and striking a new, active stance. His wrist flashes as it erupts with energy and a ball of pink light envelops his hand for a split second, before rocketing forth and into the shadows, where it explodes, shaking the ground and trees and reverberating in the very air itself.
"Your Bala is impressive. And predictable. A worthy opponent would never be caught unawares by the likes of such a technique." The voice comes from somewhere else this time, seemingly in motion but its start and end are obscured by darkness. The young man's eyes narrow further, his scanning more intense as he frowns at his unseen opponent's taunt.
The sound of the breeze whispers in a flash all around, yet no breeze is to be felt. And beneath it, the faintest hint of a bestial growl echoes in the darkness. An eerie miasma of shadows like mist begins to drift from amidst the trees and into the glade, creeping toward the young warrior. Every few seconds one of the shadows leaps upward or forward, dancing as if invisibly disturbed. Probing for an opportunity.
Suddenly it strikes, the moment of breaking tension. One of the shadows darts forward, reaching and swelling with a ghastly whisper as it gropes for its target. So close to this moment that it might be the very same, the young man disappears in another truncated burst, sidestepping the attack faster than the eye can follow. Lunging forward with his blade, the warrior stabs at the air where the shadow's caster might stand.
Nothing connects, and finding only air before his sword, the young warrior once more vanishes, to reappear with a boom the next instant as another shadow, this one from behind where he stood, suddenly springs forward to pounce on him. Had he not evaded, this claw would have grasped him. The young man's eyes are narrow and calculating as he emerges from his evasion just to the side of his attacker's shadowy appendage. His sword slashes down upon it, making to sever the shadow with a killing edge. This time the shadow is tangible, and a spatter of black, viscous fluid erupts from the cut.
"A 'worthy' adversary would not grow so confident as to put all his strength into a sneak attack with no guard up in case he missed," the young man coolly tells the shadows, in no direction in particular. A low rumble echoes in the glade as the shadow arm recoils, and the ghost of a satisfied smirk crosses his face. His features are fine, angular, and clean, his orange eyes intelligent and confident. Though young, his face is that of a man who knows his own strength.
Yet a moment later, the glimmer of confidence falters as he staggers, beginning to turn around but finding his feet immobile. A third arm of shadow extends from the dark perimeter, its grasp holding him down, locking his feet in place. His feet have sunk into the shadow as if encased in deep mud. To his right, another shadow arm extends from beyond, to his left another. Fear, anger, frustration flash across the young man's face as he realises his predicament. Then, reaching from behind him, the deathly cold iron of a sword presses against his neck.