Can't please her?
Then she must be cut.
Can't satisfy her?
Then let blood compensate.
This was the killing intent of Unohana Yachiryu—the First Kenpachi—now that her true identity had been revealed.
Even when Akira suddenly sheathed his Zanpakutō, she didn't hesitate. No trace of her usual serenity remained; she didn't restrain herself in the slightest. In fact, his action only deepened her discontent.
No Shinigami had ever dared to cast aside their blade in front of her.
Even the late Head-Captain, Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni, known as the strongest Shinigami in a thousand years, had never tried such arrogance before her.
"A sword is such an inconvenience," Akira muttered, as though he had read the disapproval in Unohana's heart.
Clang—
His fingers opened outward, the index and middle fingers of both hands aligned, and a storm of spiritual pressure surged violently around him.
Just as Unohana's Zanpakutō was less than a centimeter from his throat, the cracked earth beneath Akira ruptured in rings of explosive force. One after another, ethereal long swords emerged from the ground—each one radiating a different yet overwhelming sword pressure. Eight in total, they rose like celestial stars and hovered protectively around him.
Boom—
Unohana's blade, imbued with her ferocity and honed skill, was repelled by the protective barrier formed by the eight floating swords. Her killing intent couldn't pierce through their unified defense.
"You really do wield a greater sword."
"What is this?" she asked in a hushed, awed voice.
"How can something hold such power… without even wielding a Zanpakutō?"
Unohana's disbelief turned quickly into feverish delight. The Zanpakutō she had swung with her full strength had failed to reach him. Instead of despair, a mad joy spread across her face—the same madness she had once shown in her final duel with Zaraki.
This… this was the swordsmanship she had been waiting for.
This was the true path of the sword.
"The Way of the Sword: Eight Swords Flying Together," Akira declared, thrusting his left hand through the air.
The once-passive eight swords surrounding him abruptly shifted to an offensive formation. Like stars propelled by gravity, they accelerated forward. Sword pressure whirled violently, cutting through the forest, tearing trees into splinters, and casting clouds of dust to the heavens.
Unohana was forced back despite herself.
Her spiritual pressure wavered under the immense force radiating from the flying swords.
Without hesitation, she slammed her Zanpakutō into the ground, anchoring her stance.
Her right foot pivoted, lumbar spine bowing like a great bow drawn to its limit. Arms extended like arrows loosed in a deadly arc.
"The Way of the Sword: Eight Thousand Styles!"
Unohana charged forward—not retreating, but advancing.
Her technique, perfected over centuries and encompassing every kendo school in the Soul Society, met the eight swords with unflinching resolve.
This wasn't merely her name.
It was her legacy.
Boom!
Blades clashed. Spiritual pressure exploded.
The resulting shockwave flattened everything in its path. Ancient trees were sliced cleanly. Earth was upheaved. The terrain became a cratered battlefield.
From the heart of the pit, a spiral of spiritual light burst upward, so blinding that even the dark canopy of Soul Society's night seemed to peel away, replaced by an artificial dawn brought forth by overwhelming spiritual conflict.
"Your swordsmanship is strong," Unohana declared between breaths.
"But my way of the sword is stronger. With your crude techniques, you cannot hope to defeat Eight Thousand Styles—the synthesis of every known school of combat in the Soul Society."
She stood upright, Zanpakutō firm in both hands. The aura around her was vast, commanding—a blade mistress who had stood unmatched for generations.
"What a disappointment," Akira replied softly.
"As the First Kenpachi, your vision should have reached further than this."
Before she could retort, Akira raised one finger and calmly made a pinpoint motion in the air.
Suddenly, the eight floating swords that were being pushed back burst into radiant light. In the next moment—under Unohana's stunned gaze—they merged into a single colossal sword wrapped in an endless storm of sword energy.
Eight Swords as One.
Clang!
The sound was like steel cracking the heavens. A single lightsaber of Reiatsu tore through the sky. It descended like a divine punishment, swallowing Unohana and her Zanpakutō in a brilliant cascade of destructive energy.
"How…?"
Unohana's eyes widened. Within the rushing torrent of sword light, all she could perceive was the blade.
It was all-encompassing.
The ground split in a gouge hundreds of meters long, vaporizing everything in its path.
Click.
In the distance, a Kidō barrier revealed itself. It had been erected long ago, likely by Aizen himself, to contain the consequences of such a devastating clash.
But as the edge of the sword wave touched it—
Hairline cracks spread instantly.
Like a shattered mirror, the barrier broke into shards and fell away.
At the end of the ravine, kneeling at the edge of destruction—
stood a broken silhouette.
Unohana Yachiryu, the First Kenpachi.
Her hair, once tightly braided, now fell in disarray across her back.
The white haori bearing the insignia of the Fourth Division had been shredded to ribbons. Her Shinigami uniform was soaked in blood, barely clinging to her body.
Yet she didn't care.
The pain, the torn clothes, the failing strength—
meant nothing.
Her gaze was fixed on the place where the sword had passed.
Her eyes—dazed, reverent, obsessed—reflected only one thought.
The sword.
That sword.
She was entranced. Drowned in the afterglow of the strongest swordsmanship she had ever witnessed.
Even in defeat, she had found ecstasy.
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