Tōshirō Hitsugaya’s promotion to Lieutenant was reported to the 1st Division that evening.
When news spread that Hitsugaya had mastered Bankai, most people reacted the sa way Kisuke Urahara did—disbelief. It was hard to accept, but with the truth laid bare before them, they had no choice.
Just how many Captain-level combatants did the 11th Division have now?
...
Inside the 1st Division barracks, within the Captain’s office, Chōjirō Sasakibe’s gaze unconsciously drifted toward the old man sitting beside him, looking completely at ease.
A trace of worry crossed his face as he spoke softly, "Genryūsai-sama, the power amassed within the 11th Division is far too great."
"Junior Masatsuki, Lieutenant Ichimaru, Lieutenant Zaraki, Lieutenant Hitsugaya, and Third Seat Mashiro Kuna..."
He paused, seemingly shaken by the sheer strength of that lineup, before continuing, "That’s five Captain-class individuals gathered within a single division—and that’s just among their own mbers."
"On top of that, there’s Third Seat Yoruichi and Fourth Seat While they’re not officially part of the 11th Division, they serve as Masatsuki’s personal guards."
"That makes seven Captain-level combatants in total."
"With power like this, they’ve already far surpassed what an ordinary division should possess."
Chōjirō Sasakibe furrowed his brows, concern etched on his face as he looked at Yamamoto.
It wasn’t that he feared Masatsuki Aozaki would commit so treasonous act—there was no real danger of that. But gathering so many strong-willed, eccentric warriors in one place was bound to cause problems.
However, Yamamoto didn’t address his concerns. Instead, he frowned slightly.
Masatsuki... junior?
Since when did he beco your junior?
And since when did you beco my disciple?
Are you trying to take advantage of , old man?!
Ridiculous!
I offered to take you as my disciple back then.
You refused, insisted on being my assistant.
Now you regret it?
Too late!
Expressionless, Yamamoto calmly lifted his cup of hot tea and took an unhurried sip. Setting the cup down lightly, he spoke in a leisurely tone, "Chōjirō, don’t trouble yourself over this. Consider it a little pop quiz for him."
"A... pop quiz?"
Chōjirō Sasakibe was stunned, his face filled with disbelief.
Under his gaze, Yamamoto slowly turned his head.
To his surprise, the old man was smiling—an amused, almost pleased expression.
"Didn’t he gather those troublemakers himself?"
"I’m far too old to be cleaning up after him."
Yamamoto let out a soft chuckle before adding, "If he can’t even keep that bunch under control, then what’s the point of the Gotei 13...?"
"This is a good chance to see what kind of ttle he really has."
A glint of expectation flickered in his eyes.
Chōjirō Sasakibe’s expression shifted.
"Isn’t it a bit too soon to be thinking about this?"
"Genryūsai-sama... could it be that you..."
He hesitated mid-sentence, carefully choosing his words before ultimately falling silent.
A thought crossed his mind.
Could it be that Yamamoto senses his ti is running out? Is that why he’s in such a hurry?
The lifespan of a Shinigami is incomparably long compared to that of ordinary humans.
But even they have a limit—three thousand years, at most.
Yamamoto had already lived for over two thousand years. He was truly an elder among elders.
Though he still appeared full of vigor, his youth had been spent on the battlefield, clashing with formidable foes ti and again. His body carried countless scars.
Would he even last until three thousand years...?
A tightness ford in Chōjirō Sasakibe’s chest at the thought.
He opened his mouth, about to say sothing, but Yamamoto cut him off.
"Relax, Chōjirō, I’m still in fine shape."
He shot Sasakibe a sidelong glance.
"Don’t believe ? Want to spar?"
"That won’t be necessary—I believe you."
"If you want to spar, I suggest you find Lieutenant Zaraki instead."
Chōjirō Sasakibe shook his head hastily.
...
"...So this is the strongest ice-and-snow-type Zanpakutō, capable of controlling the heavens?"
In a room covered in frost, Masatsuki Aozaki’s figure slowly erged.
A thin layer of ice-like armor coated his body, cold and unyielding, blending seamlessly into the frozen surroundings.
"This is undoubtedly a Zanpakutō on par with Ryūjin Jakka."
Masatsuki murmured to himself, a flicker of admiration in his eyes.
"Shiro-chan isn’t able to unleash its full potential—his own abilities are holding him back."
"Let Gin ramp up his training. He can’t afford to stay at half-strength forever."
Even as he spoke, Masatsuki had already mapped out a new training regin for Tōshirō Hitsugaya in his mind.
If Hitsugaya knew I doubled his training load, he’d surely be grateful!
Masatsuki thought smugly, feeling quite pleased with himself.
He withdrew his Reiatsu, and the ice and snow that had blanketed the entire room slowly receded under his control.
The frost lted away without leaving a single drop of water behind, as if it had never existed at all.
Surveying the now-restored laboratory, Masatsuki nodded in satisfaction.
He could still feel the lingering chill in the air, and the corners of his lips curled up slightly.
With this level of power, he no longer had to worry about destroying the world—he could finally cut loose.
"Now then... ti to take care of business."
Masatsuki spoke in a low voice before turning to leave, his figure vanishing into the silence of the laboratory.
...
Stepping into another chamber, a vast experintal facility, Masatsuki set his gaze upon a massive, grotesque arm with twin eyes embedded within it.
He advanced, step by step.
With each movent, the roaring flas that engulfed the area were suppressed by an unseen force, gradually diminishing.
Not a single ember dared to touch him.
Wherever he passed, the once-fierce flas beca docile, like a well-disciplined army awaiting the command of its general.
Before long, Masatsuki arrived before the enormous, disfigured arm.
He stopped, silently observing the entity in front of him.
"Let’s see how much more you can struggle."
His voice was barely above a whisper as he patiently waited for the last traces of heat to dissipate.
The mont the final ember faded, Masatsuki resud his approach, striding toward the charred arm.
Without the flas restraining it, the limb began regenerating at an alarming rate.
Despite days of relentless tornt, Pernida still retained the power of the Schrift—a clear indication that Yhwach had not fully abandoned him.
Yet, no one had been sent to retrieve him.
The reason was likely more than just the impossibility of using the Shadow Realm within this brightly illuminated space.
More likely, Yhwach still had his reservations.
After all, he had yet to fully resurrect. Launching an all-out war against the Shinigami at this stage would be unwise.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, Masatsuki slowly reached for the hilt of Banshō Senran.
In the next instant—
Without hesitation, he swung his blade.
A razor-sharp arc sliced through the air, aid precisely at Pernida.
A crushing wave of sword pressure erupted from Banshō Senran’s edge, cutting through the sea of writhing red nerves like a storm tearing through fragile reeds.
The sheer force of the strike didn’t just sever Pernida’s nerves—it cleaved his entire body in two.
The air itself seed to split apart, leaving a massive rift in its wake.
Yet, just as the sword pressure was about to collide with the walls—
It suddenly dissipated, transforming into nothing more than a gentle breeze.
Masatsuki didn’t stop.
He swung Banshō Senran again, unleashing another barrage of slashes.
Pernida’s Schrift had enhanced his regenerative abilities to an extraordinary level.
Even if his body was completely destroyed, he could rapidly restore himself.
Even severed fingers could multiply and form new limbs.
Against such an opponent, ordinary strikes were aningless.
Of course, Masatsuki could simply use Kidō to annihilate Pernida completely.
But that would an losing the Soul King’s left arm.
And that was the very problem that had plagued him all this ti.
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