The wolf pack represented Stark's ultimate technique—equivalent to a second stage of his Resurrección, a final trump card reserved for only the most desperate situations. It was a powerful but risky maneuver, for the price of such overwhelming force was steep: if the wolf pack were to be destroyed, his soul would sustain corresponding damage. Each lost wolf diminished him in ways that transcended physical injury, striking at the very core of his being.

Seizing the opportunity created by Stark's dramatic escalation, Harribel forced her injured body into motion. Despite the accumulated wounds that slowed her movements and sent waves of pain through her form, she summoned her Reiatsu to its maximum intensity.

With fluid grace that belied her deteriorating condition, she soared skyward, her massive sword—Same Queen—raised high above her head. The several shark gill patterns etched into the blade's surface suddenly activated, spraying forth streams of water that resembled luminous pearls in the afternoon light.

In the blink of an eye, these modest streams expanded exponentially, transforming into a terrifying high-pressure water column of immense proportions. "Cascada!" she cried, naming her most devastating technique as it erupted forth.

The Cascada unleashed after releasing her Resurrección bore no resemblance to its unreleased counterpart. Where before she could generate only a focused stream of water, her released form produced a surging, majestic tidal wave—a veritable ocean compressed into a single devastating attack.

Like a white rainbow piercing the sun, like the unstoppable advance of a tsunami, the technique completely engulfed Uehara Shiroha's figure, leaving no apparent avenue for escape. The water roared with the voice of an angry sea god, churning with enough force to pulverize stone and tear steel.

"Respira!" Black flames erupted from Barragan's skeletal form as his Reiatsu exploded to its absolute maximum intensity.

Even a clay figure still possesses some measure of pride when struck—how much more so for one who had reigned as the undisputed king of Hueco Mundo for millennia? While Aizen had at least maintained a veneer of politeness when usurping his throne, this Uehara Shiroha treated him like a ball to be kicked around, a soft persimmon to be squeezed at whim—using him for entertainment, subjecting him to systematic torture disguised as combat.

He loathed Aizen with the burning intensity of a thousand suns, but his hatred for Uehara Shiroha had surpassed even that seething resentment, evolving into something primal and all-consuming.

"It seems you still don't understand!" Facing the desperate, all-out attacks of the three Espada, Uehara Shiroha's expression remained as relaxed and composed as ever. There was no hint of concern in his features, no tension in his posture—only the calm certainty of absolute superiority.

"Your abilities are indeed formidable," he acknowledged, his voice carrying easily over the cacophony of unleashed power surrounding him, "but they are ultimately meaningless when confronting someone like me!"

"First of all, it's speed!" After this declaration, Uehara Shiroha's figure simply vanished from perception. The time for games had passed—after toying with his opponents for his own amusement, he had decided to conclude matters decisively.

The Reiatsu of his clone was approaching its operational limit, making this the perfect moment to demonstrate his true capabilities rather than the restrained fraction he had been utilizing thus far.

This time, his Shunpo velocity tripled compared to his previous movements. If Uehara Shiroha, with his transcendent mastery of movement techniques, genuinely intended to kill someone, even Aizen himself would struggle to evade the strike.

In a heartbeat less than the time required to blink, he had completely circumvented all three incoming attacks, rendering the Espadas' ultimate techniques entirely futile.

Then, Uehara Shiroha's voice resonated once more: "Then it's power...!"

There was undeniable authority in his tone—a fundamental force that penetrated heart and mind alike, shocking the very soul of anyone who heard it. It wasn't merely volume or intensity that lent his voice such impact, but some intrinsic quality that commanded attention at the deepest level of consciousness.

Stark, Barragan, and Harribel felt a collective chill seize their hearts as primitive fear responses activated within them. Ancient survival instincts, ingrained over countless centuries of evolution as Hollows, screamed warnings of imminent destruction.

When they attempted to dodge, they discovered their bodies had become inexplicably leaden, refusing to respond to their desperate commands. Movement became impossible, as if they had suddenly been encased in invisible amber.

With dawning horror, they realized that their spiritual perception and mental faculties had been momentarily paralyzed by the sheer pressure of Uehara Shiroha's unleashed Reiatsu. When the mind experiences such profound shock, the body inevitably suffers corresponding dysfunction—nervous systems freeze, muscles lock, and even involuntary processes falter briefly.

This momentary stagnation—lasting perhaps a fraction of a second—was all Uehara Shiroha required. His sword was already in motion, cleaving through the air with impossible speed, and someone had been struck before the others could even process what was happening.

Barragan, with his heightened awareness of time's passage, experienced the moment in excruciating detail. He witnessed the approaching sword light—brilliant and boundless in its destructive potential—as it carved toward him with inexorable precision.

It was a devastating blow beyond comprehension—a single strike whose aftershock alone could tear the fabric of reality asunder and rearrange the very heavens. The slash generated atmospheric disturbances visible as shock waves rippling outward from the point of impact, stirring wind and clouds in its wake.

With one perfect sword stroke, Uehara Shiroha negated everything the Espada had thrown against him. The wolf pack, water deluge, and death breath all dispersed like morning mist before the summer sun—rendered not just ineffective but utterly inconsequential.

The blade continued its perfect arc, piercing directly through Barragan's skeletal form with surgical precision. Time itself seemed to pause in acknowledgment of the moment's significance—the fall of one who had once commanded time's power.

"I cannot be reconciled..." Barragan's voice emerged hollow and broken, still clutching his giant axe as his face contorted with a mixture of reluctance and absolute despair.

He was the self-proclaimed king of Hueco Mundo, a Great Hollow who had existed for untold millennia, the sovereign ruler of all Hollows beneath the eternal moon. How could such a being meet his end at the hands of a mere Shinigami?

And not just defeat, but annihilation through a single strike! This conclusion to his long existence was fundamentally unacceptable, an affront to everything he believed about himself and his place in the cosmic hierarchy.

Barragan could not—would not—accept such a fate. Every fiber of his being rejected this outcome, even as that very being began to disintegrate around him.

The massive axe in his grip shattered first, fragmenting into countless shards that dissolved into spiritual particles. His skeletal body followed immediately after, crumbling like ancient parchment exposed to open flame, dissipating completely into Reishi that scattered on ethereal winds.

As a being who had built his identity around controlling the power of aging, who had dominated others through the very force that he himself feared most, there was a certain poetic justice in his being the first to fall. His avoidance of direct combat, his preference for intimidation over engagement, had ultimately left him vulnerable when faced with an opponent who could not be cowed.

When Stark witnessed Barragan's death, a shocked exclamation escaped him. The implications were staggering—one of the three strongest Espada, eliminated with a single strike.

He reacted with instinctive desperation, commanding his spirit wolves to converge and detonate, attempting to halt Uehara Shiroha's inexorable advance through sheer destructive force.

"Then the next step is defense!" Uehara Shiroha announced calmly as he walked untouched through the explosive maelstrom that should have torn apart the soul of any captain-class Shinigami.

Throughout the entire sequence, his expression never changed, his composure never faltered. He emerged from the conflagration as pristine as he had entered it, having treated the wolves' self-destructive attack with the same casual disregard one might show a gentle summer breeze.

Witnessing this impossible scene, Stark experienced a moment of pure shock before his features softened into a resigned smile. "So you haven't been serious all along!" he observed with bitter understanding.

"It seems you could have easily annihilated us from the beginning. I didn't expect things would end this way." The words carried no accusation—merely acceptance of an unavoidable truth.

Even as he spoke, Uehara Shiroha's figure had already vanished from his field of vision, moving faster than perception could follow.

Stark, now deprived of his wolf pack—and by extension, significant portions of his soul—no longer possessed any will to resist. In truth, his fighting spirit had always been tenuous at best, more a product of necessity than desire. Now, facing insurmountable odds, he surrendered completely to inevitability.

As a solitary wolf who had wandered Hueco Mundo's endless wastes, Stark's story contained elements of genuine pathos. Among the endless monsters that populated the world of Hollows, he stood out as a rare example of someone who retained genuine humanity despite his nature.

His personality resonated with Uehara Shiroha's own sensibilities, and the bond he shared with Lilinette represented something authentic and precious in a world defined by predation and consumption. There was a certain tragedy in the necessity of his destruction.

With this appreciation for his opponent's character, Uehara Shiroha channeled the last reserves of his clone's Reiatsu into his blade, determined to grant Stark a swift and dignified end rather than prolonged suffering.

"Stark, you are actually a good person," he acknowledged with genuine respect, "but you still have to die!"

With those words of acknowledgment, Uehara Shiroha executed a final, perfect sword stroke. The accumulated spiritual pressure erupted forth like a tidal wave, engulfing Stark completely. The energy expanded outward in all directions, covering not just his opponent in the sky but also demolishing the tall buildings on the ground below.

For a brief, terrible moment, all of Stark's defensive capabilities were utterly overwhelmed—swept away like leaves before a hurricane. The buildings below crumbled into rubble, while the remaining wolves in the air disintegrated into spiritual particles.

The attack resembled nothing so much as a natural disaster—a meteorite streaking from heaven to earth, leaving only devastation in its wake. It was power in its purest, most elemental form, unconstrained by the limitations that bound lesser beings.