Only two people throughout history have ever stood at the true pinnacle of the Shinigami.
One of them, Aizen Sōsuke, once made a bold assertion:
"The battles between Shinigami are battles of Reiatsu."
In other words… strength on a soul-deep level determines invincibility—seamless offense and defense. An elephant cannot be injured by a hound; its mere movements can crush all opposition.
Theoretically, this logic was flawless.
But the other—
Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni—held a different belief.
"To fight as a Shinigami… is to stake your life with every ounce of your being."
Sword, hand-to-hand, movement, Kidō.
The four pillars of combat—each bears traces of Yamamoto's direct contribution, involvement, or research.
Thus—
The old man's fighting style carries a grace that belies his appearance.
When his Zanpakutō proves ineffective…
He immediately adapts—switching to another offensive style.
Hakuda.
After his first blow failed, the old man didn't withdraw.
Instead, he stepped in closer, his left hand crashing down like a hammer!
The Twin Bones.
Whoosh…!
The sound of wind and bone slicing air—Seiya barely blocked in time, but was hurled away.
No pause for breath.
Yamamoto's body surged forward like a blazing missile, flashing through the air with impossible speed.
Shunpo!
An advanced form, no less.
The old man, now a living wrath, launched a powerful spinning kick toward Seiya's face!
Such momentum—such force.
If it landed, whether one lived or died was uncertain.
Seiya twisted, guarding with his arm—but the pain contorted his expression instantly.
"Guh…"
"Is this all you learned from me?"
No time to reply.
Another attack!
Spinning punch!
It came for his jaw, but Seiya narrowly dodged, ducking and pivoting.
He drew in breath, tensing for a counterstrike.
The moment of exchange—this was it.
But just as the thought formed—
Yamamoto's cold snort cut through the air.
"Cheap trick."
The old man seized Seiya's arm.
His thin frame belied monstrous strength. Seiya couldn't break free.
He was caught—though not entirely helpless.
"Hadō #88…"
"Hadō #96…"
Two voices overlapped.
Their intentions were clear.
Close-quarters Kidō. Unavoidable, brutal, decisive.
But Yamamoto's number caught Seiya off guard—a moment of shock flickered in his eyes.
Too late.
Crackle… pop!
There was no chant.
No delay.
Yamamoto's skin turned a deep black-red—like burning coal.
Breath hissed from him in milky white bursts.
Face grim, the old general looked at his former disciple and said, clear as thunder:
"Ichigeki Kasō."
One-Blade Cremation.
In Seiya's shrinking pupils, a towering inferno erupted.
Their forms were swallowed whole by the scarlet blaze.
The world around them was reduced to ash.
The flurry of blows, feints, counters…
To the watching soldiers, it was all invisible—too fast, too chaotic.
Even Komamura, his head hidden beneath an iron helm, muttered nervously:
"Is it… a stalemate?"
Only a few could see the truth.
"Cough, cough… No… the advantage is the teacher's," Ukitake rasped.
Kyōraku stood beside him, frowning deeply.
Their expressions puzzled Sui-Feng.
"If he has the upper hand, why do you look so grim?"
Why, indeed?
Kyōraku's lips pressed thin.
After a moment, he sighed.
"Because… it's unbelievable."
A simple truth.
"Seiya… isn't even a hundred years old, is he?"
How many peers his age have accomplished this much?
Sui-Feng herself, of similar age, was now little more than a spectator.
Even Hitsugaya Tōshirō, hailed for his rare talent, wouldn't survive this level of battle.
This wasn't just talent.
This was power—true power.
"Give him time, and Seiya might've become Head Captain."
"And yet…"
"With all that promise… he's now our enemy."
Tragic.
Terrifying.
While some despaired, others burned with purpose.
Sui-Feng steadied herself, looking to the distant battle.
"If I can't help there… I'll stop that bastard at least—"
She stepped forward—
Only to be stopped by Kyōraku, who placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
"Best not to rush in."
She turned sharply, protesting.
"Why?!"
Kyōraku remained calm.
"Because of Aizen's troublesome ability."
Kyōka Suigetsu.
They had no way of knowing when they'd been hypnotized, or whether the illusion had ended.
To act without knowing—
Would mean stabbing your own allies.
That fact alone silenced Sui-Feng.
She stepped back.
The memory of Ōmaeda still fresh in her mind—his near-death a cautionary tale.
"What, then? We just watch?"
Komamura's voice was raw, his hand tightening on his sword.
Kyōraku's helpless look said it all.
"There's nothing else we can do. This… this is part of the battle too."
That statement alone—
Summed up the entire world of the Shinigami.
Betrayal at this level.
The future battle at Karakura.
Even the thousand-year blood war.
In the shadows lies power.
And from the shadows comes the strike.
Aizen had waited. He wouldn't act without certainty.
Thus—
"For now, we wait and watch. There's nothing else."
Frustration. Rage. Powerlessness.
But none of the captains let those feelings cloud their minds.
Watching from above, Gin looked at them and muttered:
"Not a single one moved."
Tōsen said nothing.
But Aizen only smiled.
"No surprise there, Gin."
"People fear the unknown."
"And when they only know a little… they tread even more carefully."
"They hesitate… and miss their chance."
"And when it's over—they finally realize it's too late."
"That's humanity."
His mask removed, Aizen's gaze swept past them.
They no longer mattered.
What mattered—
Was below.
"Tōsen."
"I'm here, my lord."
"We've gathered enough data. Don't let Seiya's efforts go to waste—bring that person here."
"As you command."
Tōsen vanished.
Gin and Aizen stood side by side, eyes on the battlefield.
Aizen asked:
"What do you think, Gin?"
Gin thought briefly, then replied:
"He's strong."
Seiya's power was undeniable.
Gin had trained under him once. He knew.
But even so—
"Still not on Genryūsai's level."
Aizen agreed.
Even among first-class Reiatsu holders, there were levels.
Yamamoto had reached the very ceiling.
Seiya had only just entered the room.
His challenge was brave—foolish, even.
But Aizen understood. He sighed.
Just then—
A battered figure rolled from the flames, flames extinguishing as he crashed.
He staggered to his feet.
Seiya.
His right arm hung limp. His left eye swollen shut.
Burns and blood covered his face.
From the blaze, Yamamoto emerged.
Unhurried. Calm.
But not untouched.
His left hand—charred black. His pinky, gone.
It crumbled to ash in the wind.
A small dent on his chest—Seiya's blow.
He hadn't been helpless. He'd fought back.
But Yamamoto remained unshaken.
He sheathed his sword in a slow motion, flames vanishing as he walked forward.
Each step pressed harder.
Seiya wiped sweat from his brow.
"Whew… I thought I'd last a little longer, honestly."
"You're nowhere near enough."
Yamamoto's words hit with finality.
Seiya understood.
He stared at his teacher, his gaze heavy with reverence.
Ichigeki Kasō.
A forbidden Kidō—because it harms the caster as well.
That was the price of its power.
"It's a real problem I can't absorb all types of fire…"
Garuda had let him consume Ryūjin Jakka's fire.
But in the chaos, he hadn't been able to fully utilize that ability.
Yamamoto's instincts were terrifying.
Instant analysis. Bold decisions.
So this… this was the Thousand-Year War Demon.
Even with preparation, even with his trump card…
Seiya realized the truth.
He wasn't equal yet.
"Let's call it here, old man."
Because—
"What's next… won't be just a duel."
Zanpakutō—release canceled.
Without Garuda's protection, Seiya would be exposed to Ryūjin Jakka.
So what was he thinking?
With everyone watching, Seiya smiled.
He raised his sword overhead and spoke:
"Bankai—Eight Aspects of the Heavenly Dragon: Gandharva."
Let it begin.
This… is the second bout.
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Powerstones?
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