The mont Captain-Commander Yamamoto entered the eting hall, the temperature in the room spiked dramatically.
Standing at the head of the room was a bald old man with a long beard, his muscular body covered in scars—most notably, a cross-shaped one etched into his forehead. He leaned on a staff as he walked, but even so, the mont Kyūjō laid eyes on him, he instinctively held his breath.
The spiritual pressure swirling around him was overwhelming, intense enough to burn the skin of weaker souls. Kyūjō could feel it crawling across his skin like fire—so thick it pressed against his chest and slowed his breath.
There was no doubt about it.
That old man's power… had reached the pinnacle.
With a deep breath, Kyūjō quickly began analyzing Yamamoto's strength.
Then, as if realizing the futility of it, he shifted his gaze.
Just from that glance… he knew. Right now, he wasn't strong enough to defeat this man.
Zanka no Tachi – East: Kyokujitsujin.
Even one technique from that Bankai could erase him in an instant.
What baffled Kyūjō the most wasn't the Captain-Commander's strength… but how he concealed it.
Despite his heavily built fra and muscle-bound body, Yamamoto leaned on a cane and feigned the weakness of age. But Kyūjō wasn't fooled.
That staff… wasn't a staff at all.
It was his Zanpakutō—Ryūjin Jakka.
In its sealed form, it looked like a plain katana tucked into a wooden cane, with a dark purple hilt, an oval guard, and a simple brown sheath. But its true nature was anything but simple.
It was the strongest, oldest fla-type Zanpakutō in all of Soul Society.
Its Shikai alone could incinerate anything in its path, and its Bankai—
Zanka no Tachi.
It didn't unleash fire.
It concentrated the flas into the blade, compressing them to such a degree that it reached the heat of the sun's core.
15 million degrees Celsius.
No ordinary person could even get close. Anyone without the spiritual strength of at least a third-rank captain would be vaporized just by standing near him.
Rumors said that, in his pri, if Yamamoto went all out, he could destroy three worlds simultaneously.
Even maintaining Bankai for too long could evaporate every drop of water in Soul Society.
That was why… he always finished battles swiftly.
And even if he set aside his Zanpakutō, Yamamoto's raw physical strength was still monstrous.
With spiritual pressure surpassing the first-level ceiling of Shinigami and mastery of Hakuda, he could probably wipe out the entire Gotei 13 on his own.
…Well, perhaps with one exception now.
If it ca down to a swordless fight, Kyūjō might still stand a chance.
— — —
"Captain-Commander!"
The captains of the Gotei 13 all bowed in perfect unison as Yamamoto took his place. The eting was officially in session.
The first half of the discussion was filled with standard reports and routine chatter—nothing particularly notable. Kyūjō stood quietly behind Captain Unohana, keeping a low profile. Not far from him stood Kuchiki Byakuya, the picture of composure. Together, they looked like calm statues of poise and beauty—two of the most refined n in all of Soul Society.
But as the eting neared its conclusion, a towering man with a savage face and a scar slashing down his left cheek stepped through the curtains behind Yamamoto.
That was when the Captain-Commander made his announcent.
"The Captain of Division 11—Kiganjō Kenpachi—is dead."
"The one who defeated him is Zaraki."
"In accordance with Division 11 tradition, anyone who slays the forr Kenpachi inherits the title."
"Thus, by my authority as Captain-Commander of the Gotei 13, I hereby appoint Zaraki Kenpachi as the new Captain of Division 11."
— — —
Once the eting ended and the captains began to disperse, Kyūjō, who hadn't spoken a word the entire ti, simply followed Captain Unohana back to Division Four.
She licked her lips—thirteen tis, he noted.
Kyūjō rolled his eyes and murmured just loud enough for her to hear, "Captain seems awfully interested in this… Zaraki Kenpachi fellow."
Unohana turned toward him with an almost seductive smile. Her voice, though soft, held a dangerous glint.
"Tachibana-kun… that man called Zaraki is strong."
"I t him once when he was just a boy. We fought."
She chuckled, but it wasn't the laugh of joy or fondness. It was the laugh of soone intoxicated.
"And I lost. Hahaha… I lost!"
It wasn't the loss that shook her—it was the mory.
The thrill of that fight.
Because in that boy, she had finally found soone… soone who could fight her without limits.
Soone who could die with her… on equal ground.
"But co to think of it, Tachibana-kun… we've never fought one-on-one, have we?"
Unohana's gaze sharpened. Her tone shifted.
"How about now? I'd really like to see… just how much strength you've been hiding all this ti."
A wild gleam lit up her eyes—bloodlust and battle hunger bursting to the surface.
Kyūjō narrowed his eyes in thought… then nodded.
After all, she'd been his captain for decades. She had taught him countless Kaidō techniques. If making her happy ant a little sparring… well, he could indulge her.
Even if it wouldn't be a peaceful bout.
"Where exactly do you want to fight, Captain?" Kyūjō asked, glancing around. "We obviously can't do it inside Seireitei."
Unohana rely smiled, lifting a single finger to her lips.
"Tachibana-kun, I'll take you sowhere perfect."
— — —
The 80th district of North Rukongai—the outermost, lawless sector.
A land of broken streets and silent ruins. Yellow dust danced on the wind, swirling over cracked stones and crumbling buildings.
And in the heart of that emptiness… stood Unohana.
Gone was the graceful, serene captain the world knew.
In her place stood the original Kenpachi.
Her Zanpakutō—Minazuki—was already unsheathed, its blade longer than a standard katana, its edge gleaming under the dying light.
She raised it slowly.
"Tachibana-kun… show . Show your true strength!!"
The mont those words left her lips, she vanished.
CLANG!
Kyūjō barely raised his Zanpakutō—Mugen—in ti to block the strike.
The impact of their spiritual pressures colliding sent a shockwave tearing through the ruins. Every structure within a hundred ters was reduced to rubble.
"So this is your power, Tachibana-kun?" Unohana laughed wildly, her eyes gleaming with madness. "This is wonderful. Absolutely wonderful!"
She pulled back, then unleashed a flurry of slashes.
One. Two. Three.
Each swing blurred with speed, her blade becoming a spinning shadow that rained down upon him without pause.
The air hissed and scread as their swords danced, the weight of her strikes shaking the entire district.
This was no practice duel.
Unohana's style… was pure aggression.
Relentless strikes. No defense. Every slash aid to kill.
A deathmatch in its purest form.
"Shikumai – Yachiru…"
This was the sword style Unohana had created herself—after mastering every other known technique.
The Yachiru Style.
The legacy of the first—and deadliest—Kenpachi.
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