Tachikawa Shin's fighting spirit, wound tight like a drawn bow, was mostly deflated the mont Ikkaku began his ridiculous "tiptoe dance."
When the bald Third Seat finally finished his little number, he stood tall, clearly pleased with his own performance. But the look on Shin's face—blank, unimpressed—irked him.
"Oi! What's with that face, huh?!"
"...Nothing. Your dance was... unique," Shin said, lying through his teeth.
"Hmph! Of course it was. That was my masterpiece—the 'Tiptoe War Dance'!"
Shin sighed and drew his Asauchi. "Are we fighting or not?"
Ikkaku's grin sharpened. His posture changed in a blink, blade raised.
"You want a fight that bad, brat? Fine! Don't bla when you get cut!"
Though Ikkaku only held the Third Seat of the Eleventh Division, his true power had already reached lieutenant-level—far beyond most seated officers. Even in the future, after mastering Bankai, he refused promotion just to remain under Zaraki Kenpachi.
They stood, blades drawn, the air in the dojo suddenly heavy as lead. Silence took over.
Ikkaku's breathing slowed, eyes narrowing. He fixed his sharp gaze on Shin—but sothing was wrong. Shin... wasn't giving off any opening. It was like he was a part of the room itself. Like a still-life painting.
Then that "painting" moved.
A single blur of motion—like a figure leaping straight out of the scroll. Shin's Asauchi glead as it ca screaming toward Ikkaku's face.
Ikkaku's eyes contracted to pinpricks.
CLANG!
The thunderous crash of tal rang through the air. Ikkaku was sent flying backward, boots scraping over wooden floorboards, struggling to stay on his feet. He skidded several ters before grinding to a stop, wind knocked out of his chest.
Ayasegawa Yumichika, leaning against the wall with feigned indifference, jolted upright in shock.
Shin now stood exactly where Ikkaku had been monts before, his blade pointed casually at the floor, lips curved into a faint smile.
"Carelessness," he said lightly, "cos with consequences, Third Seat Madara."
Ikkaku planted his blade into the ground and exhaled hard, chest heaving.
"...Not bad, kid."
That speed... that power... Definitely not your average Academy student. No wonder Kaien had sent him. At first Ikkaku thought Kaien was annoyed with this kid and wanted soone to beat so manners into him.
Now it seed Kaien simply hadn't wanted to risk losing.
But rather than making Ikkaku angry, the exchange only lit his fire.
"All right then! Let's see what else you've got!"
He charged, blade raised in both hands, wild and direct like a collapsing avalanche.
But behind that seeming recklessness was death-honed instinct. Each strike concealed a hidden edge. Ikkaku wasn't so Academy-trained swordsman—he'd grown up brawling in the lawless depths of Rukongai. His every move was born of countless real battles.
Shin t his charge, blade flickering left and right, expertly deflecting the strikes, slipping through the narrowest of openings.
Then he took a half-step back—blade twisting, slicing diagonally just inches from Ikkaku's cheek.
A shock of cold ran down Ikkaku's spine. He ducked instinctively, barely avoiding the killing arc.
The swing turned downward, aid at his torso. Ikkaku raised his Zanpakutō and caught the strike. Sparks exploded between their blades as their guards locked.
"Gnh—!"
Ikkaku shoved Shin back and lunged again, ferocity in every step.
But Shin was already gone.
He slipped through Ikkaku's guard, moving like smoke through cracks in stone. Every ti Ikkaku committed to a swing, Shin found the blind spot behind it.
Is he reading my moves?
Even as the thought ford, a blade's edge flashed before his eyes, forcing his body to freeze.
SWISH!
The sound of slicing air cracked past his ear, not touching flesh but stealing his breath all the sa. Cold. Precise. Fatal.
Ikkaku froze in place, limbs locked. Heart thundering.
Shin stepped back, resheathing his blade with casual grace. He turned, took a few steps forward, then pivoted to face him again.
"Shall we continue, Third Seat?"
Ikkaku blinked. If Shin hadn't held back just now... he'd be dead.
"...Ikkaku..." Yumichika called quietly from the wall, voice laced with worry.
Madara Ikkaku was no slouch. To be Third Seat of the Eleventh Division—Zaraki's division—ant you earned it through sheer grit. He had followed his blood-soaked Captain into countless deathfields, and never once backed down from an enemy stronger than himself.
But this guy—
This Shin wasn't like the others.
Most Academy graduates were rigid, formulaic, and soft. Their swordplay, though technically sound, lacked instinct and kill intent.
Not this one.
Shin's swordsmanship wasn't flashy. It didn't dazzle. But every strike landed where Ikkaku was weakest. As if Shin saw his entire rhythm—every feint, every opening.
As if he could read the flow of battle like a book.
"...You're a damn freak," Ikkaku muttered.
Shin smiled lazily. "This spar isn't limited to swordplay, you know. Releasing your Zanpakutō is fair ga."
Ikkaku scoffed. "I don't need you to tell that. I'm not so old geezer obsessed with seniority. Question is—do you even have a Zanpakutō to release?"
Shin's smile didn't falter. "That depends. Can you force it out of ?"
Ikkaku's grip tightened.
His fighting style—brutal and overwhelming—was completely countered by Shin's precision and insight.
"Cocky little bastard!"
Ikkaku slamd his blade and scabbard together. "Grow... Hōzukimaru!"
A flash of reiryoku lit the dojo. His Zanpakutō transford into a crimson-tasseled spear, long and nacing.
The mont it did, Ikkaku's entire presence changed. Sharper. More focused. Confidence burned in his eyes.
Yumichika, watching from the side, couldn't hide his surprise.
So it's co to this already... This Shin—wait...
He suddenly rembered. Long ago, there had been talk about a Shinō Academy student who'd single-handedly slain a nos-class Hollow.
A na floated up from mory.
Wasn't that student nad Tachikawa Shin...?
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