Defeating a Shinigami who once bore the title "Kenpachi," especially the original, was no small feat. By the unspoken laws of Seireitei, that victory should have earned Akira the right to inherit all that belonged to his opponent—title, rank, and the fearsome legend that accompanied it.
But that was the problem.
Unohana Yachiru no longer held the title "Kenpachi." Nor was she, at this moment, recognized as the Captain of the 11th Division. The name, once feared across the Rukongai and whispered even among captains, lay buried beneath layers of time and bureaucracy.
Thus, tonight's victor, Akira, was left with nothing to show for his victory—at least not in the eyes of Soul Society's political machine.
"It doesn't matter," Akira said, brushing dust from his haori with casual elegance. His voice was calm, but the subtle sharpness behind it made the air tremble. "Maybe to others, that title carries some kind of grandeur. But to me? It's neither here nor there."
His tone was not dismissive—no, it was something far worse. It was absolute indifference born of superiority.
"If I want the title of Kenpachi, I'll take it. If I want the 11th Division, I'll claim it. But for now, I have no need for toys."
Unohana Yachiru, whose blood still clung faintly to her lips from their battle, looked at him with a rare softness. Not maternal. Not admiring. Something deeper, more primal.
"If it's you," she said in that ever-calm tone, "you have the right to say such things."
She paused. The rising light of morning spilled through the broken wooden frame of the training hall they had obliterated together, casting gold over her pale face. "I will be there the day you graduate early and go to the Fifth Division… to challenge Hirako Shinji."
Akira raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "A graduation present, then? For defeating the original Kenpachi with nothing but my blade?"
Though he spoke with jest, the undertone was real. He remembered what Shiba Isshin had told him long ago—there were only three ways to join the Gotei 13:
One: rise through the ranks as a noble-born genius.
Two: graduate through standard channels and wait for appointment.
Three: defeat a seated officer—or captain—and claim their spot by force.
The third path was not just a feat of strength, but one of political suicide. Without proper support, even a victorious challenger could be buried under false charges.
Especially someone like Hirako Shinji—a man known for his deceptively laid-back demeanor and deadly cunning.
Unohana gave a small nod. "Sure."
"Then we part here," Akira said, brushing past her. "Until next time, the only man in Soul Society who could impress you, Captain Unohana."
Unohana turned her head slightly, hiding a smile behind her blood-smeared sleeve. Her torn uniform hung loosely over her shoulders, exposing fresh sword wounds—wounds she had not received in centuries. Though she had no vanity, she still did not wish for others to see her like this.
She glanced back one last time, her ancient eyes burning Akira's image into memory.
Then she disappeared into the dawn.
A shadow moved behind Akira. Without turning, he said calmly, "Aizen. What did you think?"
Sōsuke Aizen, stepping into the fading moonlight, adjusted his glasses and looked out at the broken training ground. "The water in Seireitei runs deeper than I thought."
He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd misjudged things.
Aizen had always been meticulous. As a student of the Shin'ō Academy—one of the top in his generation—he had already started viewing Soul Society from an elevated perspective. But even his formidable intellect hadn't fully accounted for the ancient chaos hidden beneath the surface of Seireitei.
"You underestimated her," Akira said, no accusation in his voice—just fact.
"I underestimated the institution," Aizen corrected. "To think that someone like her—someone so powerful and blood-soaked—could be concealed in the guise of a healer for centuries…"
Akira nodded slowly. "Gotei 13 is full of monsters hiding behind paper titles. But Unohana… no, Yachiryu… is a different breed entirely."
"Even she doesn't belong here," Aizen said, watching a broken tree sway. "Soul Society doesn't know what to do with her. Without Genryūsai Yamamoto's presence, she's already obsolete. No one else has the spine to tolerate a being like her."
"And once Yamamoto falls," Akira said plainly, "Gotei 13 will fracture. The old man is the pillar that keeps this house of cards upright. Remove him…"
"And chaos," Aizen murmured, eyes narrowing.
He didn't disagree.
In fact, he welcomed it.
"She might join us then," Akira continued, speaking more to himself than anyone. "She's not driven by morality, only purpose. Give her a purpose, and she'll follow."
Silence lingered between them for a moment.
"You're thinking about killing her," Akira said, breaking it.
Aizen did not flinch. "No. I'm thinking about whether there's a better use for her than death."
"Smart," Akira said with a smile. "A king doesn't stand alone. He needs subjects beneath his throne."
"Exactly, brother."
To hear Aizen Sōsuke, one of the most brilliant minds in Soul Society, refer to the First Kenpachi in such dismissive tones would have shocked most. But between them, it was just truth. Raw and unvarnished.
"Then we aim higher," Akira said, his voice low and deadly. "Yamamoto Genryūsai."
A flicker of interest passed through Aizen's eyes.
"Yes. That's the right place to start."
Behind the Academy, deep within the forest near the cliffs, Shihōin Yoruichi danced through the trees like a shadow come alive. With each step, her body disappeared in a flash of Shunpo, only to reappear ten meters ahead.
Every move was precise, every shift silent.
Her movements weren't just training—they were art. She was already developing the flair that would one day make her known as the "Flash Goddess."
Then she stopped.
There, perched at the edge of a cliff, was Akira. He sat cross-legged, Zanpakutō across his lap, staring out over the lights of Seireitei. A cool wind brushed his hair as he focused inward, breathing slowly, surrounded by silent power.
"He's meditating?" she whispered to herself. "No… sword meditation."
Yoruichi crouched low and moved forward with deliberate stealth, feet gliding across the grass. She was less than five meters away when it happened.
"Bakudō #4: Hainawa."
The voice rang clear through the still air. In an instant, yellow spiritual ropes shot out toward her.
But Yoruichi was faster.
Before the ropes reached her, her body shimmered—clothes falling empty to the ground, tangled in the binding spell.
What remained was only her coat, swaying in the breeze.
Akira didn't turn around, but a faint smirk played on his lips.
"I was wondering how long you were going to sneak around."
From behind a tree ten meters to the right, Yoruichi stepped out, arms crossed, wearing a new robe and looking entirely unbothered.
"Not bad," she said, amused. "You noticed me a full ten seconds before I got close. You're getting sharper."
"I have to. You're the hardest test I have."
Akira opened his eyes.
They glinted with clarity.
His interface buzzed faintly in the background.
[Your White Hits has advanced. By combining textbook principles with real combat training, you have developed a unique close-combat system—Shinigami Six Styles.]
A true evolution.
Akira stood, brushing the dust from his knees.
The war was still far off, but he had begun crafting the weapons he'd wield in it—blade, body, and mind all honed for the storm to come.
Yoruichi watched him closely.
"Just don't forget, prodigy," she said, eyes glinting. "The stronger you get, the more enemies you attract."
"I know," Akira replied, voice like steel. "Let them come."
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