"San Arashi, Yamashita—split into two units of ten. Flank him from both sides and advance together. Now!"
Omaeda Marechiyo gripped his wooden training sword with both hands, barking out the order with strained authority as he instinctively stepped back, the mory of being helplessly pinned by Shiraha's spiritual gravity still vivid in his bones and pride. He hadn't fully recovered from that humiliating mont—nor did he want to confront Shiraha again—but with duty pressing down and eyes watching from every direction, there was no other choice.
"You got it!" ca the response.
Without hesitation, San Arashi and Yamashita led their respective units, ten sixth-cycle students apiece, all ard with reinforced wooden swords and executing their formations in flawless synchronicity. As they moved to encircle Shiraha, their speed accelerated—Shunpo cracked across the ground like displaced lightning, and in a single synchronized breath, the vanguard of twenty Shinigami-in-training had already converged.
Wooden swords slashed downward from every possible angle, a synchronized net of strikes that offered no room for retreat, no margin for escape, no breath between motions. Their strategy was sound, the coordination precise, the force behind it undeniable.
Yet they were cutting through nothing.
The swords passed cleanly through the figure of Shiraha, who stood unflinching until he didn't. The image wavered, blurred, and then collapsed into light. It was never him. It was an afterimage—created with such flawless timing and spiritual control that none had sensed the difference.
"An afterimage?!"
San Arashi's expression froze mid-strike, eyes wide in disbelief, while Yamashita faltered beside him, his mouth half-open in confusion as both began frantically scanning the area. The other students stumbled into similar panic, blades raised, eyes darting, but the real Shiraha was nowhere in sight.
Too late.
"Hadō Number Four—Byakurai."
His voice rang out from above, distant yet piercing. Standing atop a stone pillar nearly a hundred ters away, Shiraha extended a single finger, and from its tip, a crackling bolt of white lightning exploded downward like divine judgnt. The mont it shot forth, the spiritual pressure accompanying it intensified like a sharp gust before a storm's eye.
"Hadō Thirty-Three: Sōkatsui!"
Omaeda Marechiyo reacted on instinct, thrusting his hand skyward as spiritual particles gathered at his palm. A brilliant blue fireball burst into existence, rocketing upward to et the descending lightning bolt head-on in a radiant midair clash.
The collision split the sky, erupting into a violent bloom of heat and spiritual residue, but despite the theatrical explosion, the result was one-sided. Shiraha's Byakurai cleaved straight through the Sōkatsui, bisecting the fireball like a blade through cloth. The remnants of Marechiyo's Kidō scattered in harmless, glowing cinders that fell gently to the earth.
"No—that's impossible! How can his Hadō 4 overpower my Hadō 33?!"
Omaeda's voice cracked under disbelief as he watched his spell shatter uselessly. Before the words had even finished leaving his lips, the unrelenting bolt of lightning struck true, crashing into the clustered squads below and detonating across the field.
Thunderous arcs of energy lanced across bodies.
San Arashi, Yamashita, and their squads tensed violently mid-step, spiritual energy dispersing as their bodies convulsed under the lightning's paralyzing force. They collapsed in unison, uniforms smoking, limbs twitching as if the ground itself had rejected them.
A wave of stunned gasps erupted from the spectating students around the dojo.
"That was Hadō 4…?"
"He took down twenty students—just like that?"
"How can soone with such Kidō mastery also be that fast in Shunpo?"
"This guy… this isn't a freshman. This is soone who already belongs in the Gotei."
Renji Abarai pumped his fist with pride, shouting loud enough to be heard across the field. "That's Brother Shiraha! He's the real deal—strongest in our class!"
Momo Hinamori's eyes sparkled with admiration as her voice rose, filled with excitent she could barely contain. "That lightning—he made it look effortless! His Kidō control is amazing!"
Kira Izuru remained quieter, but his gaze held a steel determination. "Soday," he whispered, "I'll reach that level too."
Down in the ring, Shiraha exhaled quietly and shook his head, his tone laced with disappointnt that didn't quite hide the edge of boredom beneath it. "Is that all? I was expecting more than this."
"You arrogant bastard!"
Sato's furious voice broke through the aftermath like a thunderclap of resentnt. His face burned with humiliation as he pointed his blade at Shiraha and snarled, "Stop looking down on us like we're nothing! We're sixth-years—you're still a kid in your first term!"
Driven by wounded pride, he shouted to the remaining students, "We can't let him pick us off one by one—everyone, together now!"
With desperation surging in their blood and their numbers still on their side, more than seventy students burst into motion. Omaeda and Sato took the lead, and a collective Shunpo cracked across the ground as the remaining forces charged with renewed aggression.
Shiraha didn't move. Not right away.
He allowed the charge to unfold. His eyes half-lidded, his posture relaxed.
Then he smiled.
As they closed in, he moved.
A blur of motion—a sweeping strike.
His wooden sword arced in a wide, fluid motion, carving through the air like a conductor's baton orchestrating a storm. Six strikes in sequence, each executed with perfect rhythm, released six massive arcs of energy, deep violet and crescent-shaped, which exploded outward in six directions with imnse pressure. These were no ordinary sword slashes—they were the Six Paths Slash, shaped by control, reinforced by will, sharpened by battle instinct.
Each arc extended over ten ters in length, cutting through the approaching forces like walls of pure montum.
"Bakudō Thirty-Nine: Enkōsen!"
The cry of defensive Kidō echoed across the formation. Desperation swelled into tangible fear as dozens of students raised golden circular shields in a desperate attempt to absorb or block the incoming wave of spiritual force. Light ford quickly—but it would not be enough.
The first purple arc collided and obliterated the Enkōsen on impact, scattering golden fragnts into the air. The second crushed another shield. The third, fourth, and fifth carved through everything left in their path, while the sixth—though weakened—still blasted away what resistance it t before finally dissolving into fading sparks.
Their defenses had held, but only barely—and only due to coordinated effort and overwhelming desperation.
Yet the cost was clear.
Dozens of students collapsed to their knees, drained of breath and reiatsu, barely able to remain conscious after the combined physical and spiritual strain. Even those who dodged by Shunpo or blocked with ergency Kidō stood hunched and trembling, their stamina frayed to the edge.
"He's not even using a real sword…"
"This isn't just talent. This is terrifying."
"I thought this would be a lesson for the freshman. Turns out, we're the ones getting schooled."
Omaeda and Sato regrouped at the edge of the formation, shoulders heaving, expressions locked in disbelief. The others, scattered but listening, looked to them for leadership—though barely clinging to it.
"We have one shot," Omaeda murmured to Sato, his voice low. "You take thirty and draw his attention. I'll start the chant for Hadō Thirty-Three. Buy ti. This is all we've got."
Sato gave a tight nod and turned to the others. "Last push! All remaining forces, with ! We just need a window—hold him off while Omaeda casts!"
"Yes!"
Though their limbs ached and their minds scread for rest, thirty students pushed forward, following Sato's lead with a mix of resolve and desperation, barely staying upright but unwilling to fall just yet. Their pride and reputation refused to allow it.
anwhile, Omaeda retreated with the remaining forces, drawing a deep breath as spiritual particles gathered around him. He raised his arms and began the chant, his voice trembling but clear.
"O you who rule the skies, mask of flesh and blood… all creation, the na of man…"
But Shiraha was already moving.
"Courage," he said with a quiet nod, "is comndable."
Then he disappeared.
A series of Shunpo cracked like thunder, and his figure flickered across the battlefield—impossible to pin down, impossible to read. One second, he was at the outer ring. The next, behind a charging student. The next, right at the center of the formation.
Each movent brought another fall.
He didn't rely on his blade anymore. He didn't need to.
His hands beca weapons—strikes to pressure points, precise kicks to knees and ribs, palms to torsos that knocked the air out of lungs. His control was immaculate, every motion refined, every strike powerful without being fatal.
Students dropped in pairs, in threes, in clusters. So never even saw him. Others tried to block, but the strength behind each blow collapsed their defenses before they could mount counterattacks.
And through it all, Shiraha remained the sa—his breathing calm, his gaze unwavering, his presence steady like an immovable pillar in the storm of chaos he had created.
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