Seeing that Akira finally unleashed the Hundred-Step Flying Sword she had long yearned to witness, Unohana Retsu finally stopped holding back.
As the first Kenpachi—the original bearer of that brutal title—she held her own pride and conviction.
If Akira refused to rely on his Zanpakutō's special ability, then she too would refrain from invoking Minazuki's monstrous healing capabilities or shikai.
Boom.
In the face of the golden Reiatsu dragon descending from the heavens, Unohana erupted with a vortex of blood-red spiritual pressure.
The air thickened with a coppery scent; the aura she exuded was ancient, menacing, and steeped in slaughter.
This wasn't mere Reiatsu—it was killing intent honed through centuries of battlefield carnage.
As the golden dragon collided with her rising pressure, she raised her blade one-handed.
The crimson sword light she released wasn't fueled by Kidō or Bankai—it was the sheer manifestation of the first Kenpachi's will.
Their collision split the air, their energies exploding in all directions.
No swirling Kidō incantations.
No flashy Shikai tricks.
Just pure swordsmanship, refined to its brutal essence.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Though lacking embellishment, the resulting shockwaves carved the terrain open.
Ancient trees were uprooted and instantly shredded into splinters, their trunks ripped apart by the spiraling blades of pressure.
The earth cracked into fractured lines like glass, dust surging in violent tides.
The raw clash of their sword energies tore the darkness in half.
To the left—pure golden brilliance.
To the right—a storm of crimson bloodlight.
Heaven and earth had been bisected by the will of two warriors.
Click.
No one could say how long the confrontation lasted.
Until, finally, there came the sound of something tearing—like silk splitting.
The crimson light shattered.
The golden dragon began to dissolve, particles of Reiatsu falling like divine rain.
Even the towering dust cloud that had risen into the sky was torn apart.
Silence returned to the forest—or what was left of it.
No longer a forest, but a battlefield-turned-plain.
Then came the clear, unmistakable sound:
Drip. Drip.
Blood hitting earth.
"The sensation of a blade piercing flesh… How nostalgic."
Unohana Retsu's voice was almost serene, quivering with delight.
"After centuries of restraint… I'd nearly forgotten what it felt like."
"Only blood. Only pain. Only the strong… can stir my soul like this."
Her body trembled, but she stood tall.
Lowering her gaze to her own chest, she observed the wound: a straight stab that entered just below her clavicle and pierced clean through her lung, exiting her back.
Any other captain—even those with tremendous endurance—would've been writhing in agony or unconscious.
But not her.
Unohana's pale lips curved into a smile so intoxicating it bordered on madness.
Her face was flushed with the euphoria only battle could bring.
Pain didn't register.
The wound was meaningless.
She was intoxicated—not with bloodlust, but with art. The artistry of Akira's swordsmanship.
"So… this is your way of the sword."
She gently traced the bleeding hole with her gloved fingers.
"How is it?"
Akira reached out, and the golden dragon that had been part of his Hundred-Step Flying Sword dissipated, leaving his Zanpakutō flying back into his palm.
It landed with a dull thud, as if gravity itself bowed to it.
"Unrivaled. Commanding. Supreme."
Unohana didn't hesitate with her reply.
"Do you want to continue?"
Akira accepted the compliment calmly but shot a quick glance at her still-bleeding wound.
"I'm the captain of the Fourth Division. That much, you already know."
"But you don't understand why I chose to master Kaidō."
She smiled faintly and began applying Kaidō to herself.
Her fingers glowed with green light, weaving it into her wound.
The gaping hole began to shrink rapidly.
"Injury, pain, fatigue—they get in the way."
"They interrupt the fun."
"And more importantly…"
"I fear accidentally killing someone like you before I get the chance to enjoy our fight to the fullest."
As she spoke, the healing progressed—though only superficially.
The outer flesh knitted back together, but both she and Akira knew:
Wounds left by the Hundred-Step Flying Sword weren't so easily undone.
Not unless she had access to Inoue Orihime's Sōten Kisshun, which denied causality itself.
Unohana was fully aware.
But she wasn't healing to survive.
She was healing to remove the distractions: the fatigue, the bleeding, the hindrance to pleasure.
That much, Kaidō could handle.
"Is that so?"
Akira smiled lightly.
"Then you'll only have one concern from now on—whether Kaidō can heal you… after you lose."
"I look forward to it."
Then, as if recalling etiquette, Unohana's tone softened.
"Oh, and before we continue—I owe you an apology."
She bowed ever so slightly.
"My name is not Unohana Retsu."
"Based on that sword you showed me… you deserve to know my true name."
She straightened and revealed her true identity with a smile touched by pride:
"It's our first meeting, truly."
"I am Unohana Yachiru. Named after mastering every style of swordsmanship in the Soul Society."
"Hmm… maybe this version sounds more familiar to you."
"The First Kenpachi of the Gotei 13."
The moment the words dropped, Aizen, who had been watching from the sidelines, stiffened.
Surprise and clarity flashed through his golden eyes.
All the mysteries unraveled.
Why did the Fourth Division's captain possess such terrifying swordsmanship?
Why such bloodthirst beneath the surface?
Why such madness coiled behind her calm eyes?
Because she wasn't just any healer—
She was the first Kenpachi, the original captain of Squad 11.
"Master of all sword styles in Soul Society?"
Akira chuckled softly.
"That's not quite right."
"Captain Unohana…"
He gave her a small nod.
"My swordsmanship isn't something you can master."
"That's why I came tonight."
"To see if a sword prodigy like you—who could form an entire school—still has another level to show me."
"Now use it."
"Everything you have—use it to please me."
Unohana Yachiru's eyes blazed with excitement.
Gone was the angelic healer.
In her place stood a war demon, drunk on battle.
"Akira Sōsuke!"
With a cry, she vanished into Shunpo, her figure blurring into motion.
In an instant, she reappeared with her Zanpakutō cleaving through space, aimed directly at Akira's neck.
The pressure it carried was suffocating.
"To please you?"
"You underestimate me!"
"Then it's time you saw what I'm really capable of!"
Akira didn't even flinch.
As the blade closed in, he did something that stunned even Aizen.
Clang.
He sheathed his sword.
"What are you doing?"
"A Shinigami without a blade… is like a tiger without fangs."
"Or have you reached your limit already?"
Unohana Yachiru narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
But her blade did not slow.
The sword pressure surged—aimed straight at the unarmed neck of Akira.
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