Long, permanently colored, pitch black hair, sways in front of his face due to the cool breeze. Fresh green grass and unscathed sidewalks and streets, are splattered with blood of the fallen. Very few had survived the onslaught, those being a minority of captains and lieutenants from Soul Society. None of those he cared about had lived and that drove through him like a nail pinning him down. Dull brown eyes scan over the bodies again, for what seems like the millionth time, his mind still not wanting to process the end of their fight. He hadn't meant for it to end this way.
Yes, he had used the last technique. He had thought he could save everyone; defeat the Espada, stop Aizen, and so much more. Killing wasn't something he was accustomed to yet, and never would be. Due to that technique, he lost all hints of Soul Reaper power. But that is just fine with him, he doesn't ever want to pick up that sword again. It's time to pass the torch anyway.
The bright sunshine beams down, causing al