Perserverence -- Closed, Kameyama

With learned precision, his opponent reacted. A kick to the inner leg threw him off balance and ruined his stance. He didn't fight the disruption, instead choosing to follow the momentum, arcing his body so his hand was flat against the ground, his body in tow in a somersault in an opposite direction while Kameyama thought to do likewise. His eyes were trained on Kameyama from a distant, scrutinizing even the slightest twitch for intent.

Thump.

Time stood still. Silence. Something was different.

Thump.

As quickly as it had happened, things were normal again. Kameyama eyed him intensely, he knew he was about to charge.

Thump.

Again, eerie stillness. He realized that, now, the thumping and the shifting in perception... he was consciously aware of the moments between heart beats. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his head. He knew what this meant. Kameyama stood frozen, a dozen or so paces out from Osamu. Behind him, a shadow stood, arms outstretched in an exaggerated, bigger than life gesture. As though it were begging to be noticed. Everything about his surroundings seemed and felt off somehow. The colors less vivid, an uncomfortable hush, and of course the fact that the world around him was at a complete standstill.

Thump.

Everything faded, the world came back into itself, and Kameyama charged forward, his zanpakuto a practiced flurry. His lips tightened and he prepared against the onslaught, his mind not exactly in the moment anymore. He hastily threw his sword arm up in defense, parrying or otherwise blocking to the best of his ability. Sometime during the exchange, he felt it again.

Thump.

In the inches of space between himself and Kameyama's frozen body stood Andromeda. Osamu's eyes were fixed on the featureless shadow, roughly in the shape of man. Its arms rose from its side and loomed menacingly towards Osamu. His breathing hastened, though he felt nothing of a heartbeat. His eyes shook in their socket, his anxiety growing. He knew what was about to happen. He couldn't fight it, he never could. Its hands drew nearer and nearer to his exposed and unguarded throat. He gulped hard.

Thump.

He flared his nostrils and kicked back immediately, realizing he was free from whatever temporary prison he was being kept, and ending his defense against Kameyama, now failing to stop his blade from cutting him across his right shoulder and down to his chest a few inches. His shihakusho, now ruined across the chest, was torn so the wound was plainly revealed for all to see. If the blow bothered him, he didn't show it. For only a moment, his eyes fell from Kameyama and to the ground, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. His lips parted, and not pursed, he hurried to snap back into focus and get on with it all.

He stepped forward, tapping into the reiryoku in his feet to quickly close the gap between himself and his opponent, landing a three or so paces to Kameyama's seven o'clock. His sword arm was at his side, perpendicular to his body, while he pointed at Kameyama with his left. He drew upon his energy once more to channel an incantationless Bakudo. A novice as he was, he knew the resulting spell would be little compared to what it would be would he take the time to incant it, but the second or two he was out of the game put him behind where he'd like to be. After all, he was suppose to be keeping Kameyama on his toes, and he'd managed to let him get first nip!

"Geki," he shouted as he brought his own blade down in a devastating arc, aiming specifically for Kameyama's sword in an attempt to knock it from his grasp, in a cunning bid to disarm him. With his opponent disarmed, he would be able to unleash his own flurry of unarmed strikes in recompense for the mark his opponent had given him.

He hadn't counted on that chain, hmph. Still, a little worse for wear, Kameyama once again found himself on the retreat. It was clear for the most part that in close quarters, he was the more lethal foe. Yet that wasn't all Kameyama had, he suspected. Suspicions were confirmed when he'd muttered this or that, and his blade erupted with change. A smaller blade, Rambo styled lengths of ammunition, and a pistol. He smirked, How nea--

Thump.

Hah! So the gun had fired, had it? The deafening beat of his heart was almost enough to drown out the noise. Life seemed to lose its color once more as time came to a screeching halt. Andromeda stood several feet away, a... something just in front of its chest. Ah, the bullet. It was standing behind the bullet that was aimed at him. His eyes narrowed, he knew what it wanted. This time, he managed calm, collected breaths. He eyed the spirit down, refusing to give in and to show fear. He knew he was too far gone to dodge the projectile when he was released, but he wouldn't give it the satisfaction of seeing him squirm about it.

Thump.

The bullet tore through the fleshy spot between his pectoral major and deltoid, a clean hole a few centimeters in diameter. Blood dripped unlabored from the wound, though Osamu gave only a modest scowl in reaction. He wasn't sure whether he'd look psychotic or just nonchalant standing there with a hole in his chest. He'd get it taken care of soon.

"I see," he purred despite the searing pain in his chest. He refused to let anyone, Kameyama or his spirit, know it bothered him. "That's wonderful, isn't it?" He subtly motioned at the holstered six shooter. Well, this changed things. He didn't know what sort of combos Kameyama intended to perform with a close quarters melee weapon and a medium, at most, ranged pistol. How did he intend to mix it up?

Focus, he reminded himself, the goal's not to win against him, he thought of Kameyama, and brought his own blade above his head in ceremonial fashion.

"Defy, Andromeda."

A black aura swallowed the blade, coloring it with beautiful purples, blues, green. In truth, it seemed almost painted with a galactic backdrop in mind, this cosmic weapon. And ah, that trick of the eye again. His eyes, try as they might, could never make a distinct form. As soon as he was certain it was a katana, it looked more like a hatchet. Then a spear. Frustrating, but that's the nature of the cursed blade, Andromeda. All round the blade, reality seemed to bend and warp, giving credence to the blade's twisted nature.

He brought his weapon back down in a flourish before arcing it back towards the sky, releasing into the air dozens of feet above the landscape a black sphere no more than five or so inches in diameter. Nothing came from or to this sphere, instead, it simply loomed overhead, a mystery in the sky. Osamu had his eyes trained on Kameyama, the corner of his mouth hooked in a slight grin.

His face contorted to highlight just how much effort and focus he was putting into this match. This time, Osamu noticed the incantation. He brought his blade up twice, blocking both swipes, by now sufficiently familiar with Kameyama's method of attack. In anticipation of the coming Kido blast, Osamu performed another backward somersault as Kameyama spun on his heel with the momentum of his second strike, the two looking more a choreographed routine than a battle. So well they went blow for blow; just the right amount of hit and miss. Give, and take. The dance of battle.

As he leapt backward in the air, the orb above in the sky responded as if on command. With incredible force it drew everything around it towards itself, to the singularity. Loose debris, sand, rocks, leaves, tossed garbage, and just about anything otherwise not tied down or held onto from the entire courtyard flew at it with haste. As predicted, the pull from the singularity above was more than enough to pull his lean body the extra couple of inches to miss the follow up Kido which, by all accounts, came from the six shooter.

In the time between the Kido blast and the two follow up shots, he'd managed to put a half dozen extra feet from himself and Kameyama. He was plenty sure, too, that there was enough distance that the constant pull from the singularity above would throw off the accuracy of his bullets enough to keep him safe with minimal effort put into an active dodge.

And so the bullets came. He could see the both of them, inches apart from one another. He'd correctly assumed his singularity would screw with their accuracy, but was wrong in the exact impact it would have. He lamented -- because now he could since time was once more at a standstill, and everything around him bled dry of color -- that this spirit of his was intent on disrupting him any opportunity it had. But now things were different. Much like the blade in his impossibly still hand, the spirit was unleashed.

With unimaginable force, an open palm gripped at his exposed neck. It stood in front of him, its head jerking wildly in what Osamu could only assume was some sick parody of laughter. If he could scream, he would. If he could cough, he would. With its hand still on his throat, the other worked to claw at his face, thin lines of blood lining him from brow to chin.

But now he was back in the moment. His body lurched forward in pain and he let out a hoarse cough, his left hand instinctively gripping at his throat. Despite that, he didn't miss a beat. With his legs bent to accommodate his bent frame, he launched himself back and up, and farther away still, from those wretched bullets. Now twenty feet from Kameyama at the very least, he rubbed at his sore throat, bringing the sleeve of his shihakusho up to wipe the blood dripping from his chin and running into his eyes.

Tch, five, he counted to himself, paying close attention to the sensation blood running down his face. Least they don't feel too serious. I wonder what he's going to suspect...

He relaxed his body as much as he could, given his situation, and for just a moment peered inward with more clarity than he'd managed thus far. For just a moment, he gave it everything he had in a bid to be finely aware of the flow of Reiryoku throughout his body. He feel every detail about his person, even the monstrous thing inside of him. The energy inside of him, agitated on two fronts, raced through him with such force that consciously controlling it in battle or tense situations where Andromeda paid visits became impossible. He inhaled deeply, and stuck the length of his weapon into the ground, freeing his right hand -- this all should only take but another moment -- and waggled his fingers around. Consciously, and with his full focus, he grabbed the reins of his Reiryoku, so to speak, and began to force it back under his conscious control. He labored for a moment and found his hands to be excellent conductors of such a feat. As his hands and fingers moved around, intuition kicked in and waggling, bending fingers quickly became fully fledged hand seals. A dozen or so in rapid succession molded his Reiryoku, redistributing itself through his body according to what Osamu could only describe as "flexing," it. Inside, everything felt normal, and at relative ease, the sense of dread that accompanies his visits suddenly alleviated. His shot nerves seemed at ease, if only for a moment.

Back in the game, he pressed forward as though nothing noteworthy had gone on. He'd hoped Kameyama would write off those hand seals as some sort of technique and opt to not ask many questions. He tugged his weapon from the ground and pointed its tip towards the singularity and as though painting on canvas, lead its tip down to their level, dead center of the training grounds. The force of its pull was certainly not enough to make deadly objects out of anything, nor tear anyone from their feet. He intended to use it as a supplement to his fighting. To use its tug in unison with tactics and strategy to throw Kameyama off while also using it to his own advantage.

"You'll have to do better than that, I'm afraid," came a croak of a taunt.

Several shots from varying different angles all produced similar results. The closer they got to the singularity, the faster they sped up, and into the blackness they fell, never coming through the other side and posing a threat to Osamu. Knowing the singularity would protect him, he went back on the defensive when he'd heard the chanting of yet another spell. He thought for a moment what a terrible burden spoken incantations must be for how quickly and easily they give you away. If only something could be done to mitigate that, without losing any of the raw firepower...

Unlike the bullets before it, Oukasen -- a great deal heartier than the spells Kameyama's fired off previously -- slammed into the singularity, and for a moment, seemed to fall into the sphere. A hiccup, nothing more. It tore past the singularity, wiping it and its effects on the battlefield from existence as it tore across the courtyard before slamming against the thick stone walls that lined the perimeter of the place, thankfully only causing cosmetic damage. Osamu, who'd ran a half circle round Kameyama and thus safe from the blast, stood with his eyes fixed, caught a little off guard by the inquiry that followed.

He spun the weapon round with a flick of his wrist in a nonchalant gesture, "I'd try not to worry too much about me," he suggested, shrugging off the question. There was no reason for anyone to know he hadn't exactly mastered his Zanpakuto, and that it had such ruinous effects. Nonetheless, those seals he wove seemed to do the trick at calming his spiritual nerves. So, he left it at that.

He lifted an arm to wipe the thin lines of blood that once again dripped from his face, and to stem the thicker globs of blood that leaked from the wound near his shoulder. Blade still in hand, he brought both hands about chest level.

He recalled in his mind the words Kameyama had used minutes ago when calling upon the Byakurai. He went over them twice in rapid succession, his fingers twitching in response. Finally, sure of what he could only describe as muscle memory from calling upon the spell himself, his hands began weaving seals again. Two, four, six, eight, all in rapid succession. His unencumbered left hand cracked with energy and he pointed Kameyama's direction.

"Byakurai!"

A bolt of electricity tore through the distance between the combatants, racing for its target. A sense of pride filled him as the fruits of his labor were paid off. So, he now knew that with it being possible to even out one's Reiryoku with precise control, so too could one mold it for offense that would otherwise require spoken weaving. Despite his success, he could tell from the energy it took to perform it that he was not proficient in yet doing so, and the tradeoff at this point made it almost not worth it. He'd have to work on it.

He watched with a clenched jaw, the pain of his shoulder wound and fatigue from keeping up with two scenarios at once finally beginning to set in. He wasn't exactly proud of it, but he was approaching his limit, and things would need to be wrapped up here shortly so he could get the hole in his shoulder treated. Besides, he'd gotten a fair enough glimpse into both the prowess of the Fifth Division, and a growing profile of interest with Kameyama. He had much to explore and contemplate...

If he was excited to see what may come of this attack redirection, he didn't show it. He followed Kameyama's lead, sealing his blade with a flick of his wrist, sliding the sword into its inky black scabbard, its distinct hiss filling the air around them.

He approached, placing his hands just above his shoulder wound, a pale green light washing it over. The flow of blood seemed stemmed, though he imagined there was little that could be done about the hole itself without a trip to the triage, all the while letting fly a stream of inquiries. He stared off, considering his questions.

Again he waggled his fingers and hands, molding them into nine distinct different forms of varying complexity, getting a feel for how each tug of the fingers paired with precise control reminded him of certain aspects of Shinigami Kido. Thus, he associated how an incantation pulls from you and from where, with how his fingers and hands direct it when intended. He wasn't quite sure how to put it into words for Kameyama, hence his growing silence.

"You've just got to pay very close attention to what works where spellcasting is concerned. There are more ways, and always have been, of bring about forces than simply incanting something," he speculated, finally relaxing his hands. He was already working at familiarizing himself with this interesting new method, intent on testing its bounds. He was sure there would be lots of interesting trial and error, and he was pleased to report an initial success at casting Andromeda from his mind, a never before accomplished feat he's known of in the history of his family.

"Truth is, it was my first attempt at it. You're free to check back in and see what I've done with it."

He thought to himself about the profile he now had for Kameyama of the Fifth Division. Combat effective, spell casting effective, and a gun n' knife combo. Not to mention the thing at the end where he absorbed a hefty portion of Osamu's Byakurai. He can only imagine what would have came after that if he were an actual enemy on the other end of the barrel. As if in response, his shoulder throbbed, despite Kameyama's treatment earlier. Yes, he imagined it probably would until the hole was filled back with body.

"I should head to the Third and get this taken care of. I'll be seeing you, Kameyama. Make sure you keep up," he said, turning on his heel and heading towards the exit and to the Third, ignoring the stares, scowls, or otherwise from the denizens of the Fifth, no doubt shocked or upset over the effects of his singularity. It was the Fifth, surely they'd come to respect it!

As soon as he reached the end of the court yard, he disappeared in a flash, covering fair distance and beginning the interdivisional trek.