[Memories of Nobody Arc] Part 142: The Battle Rages On

Ichigo Kurosaki and Tōshirō Hitsugaya were locked in a relentless exchange of strikes, their zanpakutōs colliding with sharp metallic echoes. Despite the intensity of their movements, neither combatant had yet committed to unleashing their full power. Each strike, parry, and counter came more as a test of resolve.

For a moment, Ichigo's focus faltered. His gaze flicked toward the distant figure of Senna, who had just joined the battle. "Hey!"

That split-second of distraction was all Hitsugaya needed.

Before Ichigo could react, Hitsugaya shifted his stance and twisted his zanpakutō with ruthless efficiency. The tip of Hyōrinmaru caught Zangetsu, redirecting the oversized blade to the side and leaving Ichigo's torso wide open.

Hitsugaya's eyes narrowed. He lunged forward, pivoted on his heel, and drove his foot into Ichigo's chest with a sharp, decisive kick.

Ichigo was sent hurtling backward, skidding across the ground before rolling into a crouch. He rose to his feet, gritting his teeth.

"Damn it…" he muttered, tightening his grip on Zangetsu's hilt.

Elsewhere, another fight unfolded at blinding speeds.

Tatsuki Arisawa and Soi Fon moved with blinding speed, their figures reduced to flickers and distortions. Fists collided, kicks were blocked, counterattacks were executed with pinpoint accuracy. To the untrained eye, their battle was nothing more than a blur of motion, but to those with sharp enough reflexes, it was an intricate display of hand-to-hand combat mastery.

Yet, despite how evenly matched they appeared, Tatsuki was growing increasingly frustrated.

Her golden, draconic eyes narrowed as she tried to read Soi Fon's attacks, searching for familiar patterns. She had faced Soi Fon before. She had memorized her movements, predicted her patterns. Or at least, she thought she had.

Soi Fon's fighting style was reminiscent of Yoruichi Shihōin. Fast, efficient, and surgical. But where Yoruichi fought with explosive, overwhelming strikes, Soi Fon moved like a shadow, subtle and methodical. She didn't rely on raw power. She relied on precision.

Every time Tatsuki thought she had deciphered a pattern, every time she predicted the trajectory of an incoming strike, every time she knew where Soi Fon's next strike would land, the Captain would make a tiny, almost imperceptible adjustment to her form. A shift in her stance. A slight redirection of her momentum. A slight pivot of her foot, a subtle shift in her weight. Enough to throw off Tatsuki's counter, enough to make her misjudge the timing of her blocks. And then came the sting of impact.

A sharp elbow to the ribs. A quick knee to the thigh. A twisting kick that grazed her jaw, drawing a thin line of blood.

The two fighters disengaged, landing a dozen paces apart. Tatsuki's arms and face bore the early signs of bruises, and a crimson droplet trailed down her chin.

Soi Fon, by contrast, stood with practiced calm. A faint bruise marred her cheek, and faint scratches lined her arms, proof that Tatsuki's strikes hadn't been entirely futile.

But the captain's posture remained poised, her eyes gleaming with quiet confidence.

"What's the matter, Arisawa?" Soi Fon's voice cut through the air like a knife, tinged with amusement and curiosity.

She tilted her head slightly, lips curling into a taunting smirk.

"Is that all your so-called 'focus' can manage?"

Under normal circumstances, Tatsuki would have shot back with a sharp retort, maybe even a cocky grin to match Soi Fon's taunt. But today was different.

The weight of frustration pressed against her chest like an iron vice. She craved a challenge, sure—that was in her nature. Yet, something deeper gnawed at her resolve. The fear of losing control, of letting the simmering anger within her explode unchecked, held her back. The memory of that unbridled rage, that terrifying power she had once unleashed, haunted her still.

And then there was the Soul Society itself, its stubborn traditions, its rigid, irrational stance. The very thought of it made her teeth clench.

'I have to stay calm...' Tatsuki inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. But that single moment of hesitation was all Soi Fon needed.

The Captain of the 2nd Squad was suddenly upon her, fist slicing through the air. Tatsuki reacted on instinct alone, her arm snapping up just in time to catch Soi Fon's strike. Her muscles tensed as she grasped the Captain's wrist, the force of the impact reverberating through her bones.

There was something more than professional precision in Soi Fon's movements; there was a personal edge to every strike. The sting of her previous defeat against Tatsuki lingered beneath the surface, driving her to prove her superiority. Her pride demanded it.

"What happened to that cheap imitation of Shunkō?" Soi Fon's voice was sharp, laced with disdain. "Did you realize it's nothing more than a pathetic knock-off?

Tatsuki's jaw tightened. The gold glow of her eyes darkened "Shut. Up."

She lashed out with her free hand, aiming a vicious punch at Soi Fon's jaw. But the Captain mirrored her move, catching Tatsuki's fist mid-swing. The two fighters stood locked in place, straining against each other's grip.

The air between them crackled with tension, spiritual pressure colliding in waves of invisible force. Tatsuki's muscles burned as she pushed back with everything she had, but Soi Fon was faster, more methodical.

In one fluid motion, Soi Fon twisted Tatsuki's wrist, yanked her downward, and drove her knee upward in the same breath. Tatsuki's head snapped back as the blow connected with her chin, stars bursting behind her eyes.

Dazed, she staggered. Soi Fon wasted no time. With a sweep of her leg, she knocked Tatsuki off her feet. The tomboy hit the ground hard, the impact rattling her spine. Before she could move, Soi Fon's boot pressed into her chest, pinning her to the earth.

"Now do you get it?" Soi Fon sneered, leaning in slightly. "You're out of your league."

Tatsuki's breath came in short, ragged gasps. Anger surged like molten lava through her veins, scorching away the fear, the doubt, the hesitation. Her vision blurred, but not from pain. It was something more primal.

Soi Fon's eyes narrowed. She felt the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The air grew heavy, thick with spiritual energy so raw and untamed it made her skin prickle. Beneath her boot, Tatsuki's body trembled.

And then, she vanished.

Soi Fon blinked. One moment Tatsuki was beneath her, pinned and defeated; the next, she was gone, leaving only a fractured indent in the earth where she'd lain.

The Captain spun around, eyes scanning the distance. When she found her, standing a dozen yards away, she stilled.

Tatsuki was different.

Her stance was lower, predatory. Her breathing was heavier, deeper, each exhale accompained by a faint rumble like the growl of a caged beast. The golden hue of her eyes had sharpened. Her canines had elongated into fangs, glinting beneath her curled lip. Her nails had morphed into claws, each tipped with a wicked edge. But the most striking change was in her arms: the dragon-scale patterns that once adorned only her fists now stretched further, spiraling up past her elbows. The scales shimmered in a darker, more ominous shade of blue.

Soi Fon's gaze dropped to her chest, and for the first time, a flicker of s, urprise crossed her face.

Across the fabric of her black, sleeveless Onmitsukido uniform were five deep gashes, each cut cleanly through the material. Blood seeped from the wounds, staining the dark cloth.

"Tch..." Soi Fon clicked her tongue, her pulse quickening.

She hadn't even felt the strike land.

A short distance away, Chad stood locked in combat with Captain Komamura. The clash of their power reverberated through the air, a battle of raw strength against hardened experience.

Unlike their previous encounter in the Soul Society, where Chad had been swiftly defeated, this time was different. His spiritual power had grown significantly, and his rigorous boxing training had sharpened his instincts. His eyes now tracked even the subtlest of movements, his body instinctively reacting before his mind could fully process the attack.

Komamura towered over Chad like a mountain, his colossal zanpakutō gripped firmly in both hands. Each swing of the blade split the air with a whistling hiss, creating gusts strong enough to send loose debris scattering. Yet, Chad didn't falter. His right arm, clad in the dark, armored form, pulsed with energy, every fiber of his being grounded, steady, and unyielding.

The captain raised his sword high, preparing a devastating vertical strike meant to cleave through whatever stood in its path. But Chad anticipated the move. His training kicked in, honed by endless hours spent weaving around jabs and countering with precision. Shifting his weight onto his back foot, he sidestepped the strike just as the blade came crashing down, splitting the ground where he had stood moments before.

With Komamura now exposed, Chad pivoted with practiced ease, bringing his torso into the motion. His fist, clad in its obsidian armor, slammed into the captain's ribcage with a resounding crack. The force behind the punch wasn't just brute strength, it was precise, measured, and enhanced by the momentum of his rotating hips and the downward torque of his shoulders.

The impact sent Komamura hurtling backward like a cannonball. He smashed through a thick concrete wall, disappearing into a cloud of dust and shattered stone. The ground trembled from the collision, and for a few heartbeats, all was still.

Chad exhaled through his nose, lowering his fist slightly but keeping his stance guarded. His expression remained calm, though his body was taut with focus.

The rubble shifted. Slowly, Komamura emerged, his breathing heavy, the front of his uniform torn and dust-streaked. A faint tremor ran through his chest as he placed a large hand over his side.

"I'm impressed, Yasutora Sado," Komamura said, his voice a gravelly rumble that carried across the distance. "Your power has grown significantly since our last encounter."

Chad's eyes locked onto the captain's. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment but said nothing. 

Komamura's sharp eyes lingered for a moment on Chad's right arm, memories of their previous encounter surfacing in his mind. The last time they had fought, the young human's power had been impressive but unrefined and lacking the precision needed to pose a significant threat. Back then, Chad's arm had taken on a simpler form blackened from wrist to shoulder, adorned with a magenta stripe that ran from the back of his hand, up his forearm, and across his shoulder. It was a manifestation of raw spiritual power, forceful but predictable, and ultimately insufficient against the strength of a captain.

The arm Chad bore now was no longer that basic form. Komamura recognized the transformation the moment he laid eyes on it. It was the same form Chad had manifested toward the end of their last fight, when his power had spiked so dramatically that it had rivaled the force of Komamura's own Tenken.

The captain shifted his stance slightly, his heavy boots pressing into the cracked concrete. The youth had evolved significantly since that day, not only in power but in technique as well. His movements were sharper, more deliberate. The wild, desperate swings of their last encounter were gone, replaced by precision and restraint.

'How much stronger has he become since then?' Komamura wondered.

This wasn't a fight he could afford to underestimate. His orders were to capture the Shinenju and subdue anyone who stood in their way. But using his Bankai in the World of the Living would cause extensive damage, and Captain-Commander Yamamoto had specifically instructed restraint. Komamura respected those orders. He would end this quickly, using only his Shikai.

The wind stirred as Komamura adjusted his grip on his zanpakutō. His massive hands flexed around the hilt of the weapon as his reiatsu thickened around him. The air shifted, growing denser with the weight of his intent. His eyes narrowed as he focused on his opponent.

Without another word, Komamura raised his zanpakutō high, the blade glinting ominously. His voice was low, guttural, and resolute as he released his power.

<< Tenken! >>

From the empty space behind Komamura, an ethereal colossus materialized, a massive, translucent arm clad in the same ornate armor as the captain himself. The giant limb mirrored Komamura's movements, gripping an equally oversized spectral sword.

The massive limb mimicked the captain's strike with terrifying precision. The enormous blade it wielded descended like a guillotine, slicing through the air with a sharp, resonant hum before crashing into Chad with catastrophic impact.

The earth split beneath the force. Concrete shattered into jagged shards. A cloud of dust and debris surged into the air like a volcanic eruption, obscuring everything in a swirling veil of smoke. The sheer pressure of the blow sent cracks spiderwebbing outward across the ground.

His eyes remained fixed on the point of impact.

Chad stood his ground, feet planted firmly, right arm raised defensively. His eyes were steady and calm.

Komamura hesitated for a fraction of a second. The boy's lack of movement... there was something different. Something… grounded.

'Is he going to try to block it?'

Komamura didn't allow himself to second-guess the moment. His mission was clear. With a decisive slash, he brought his zanpakutō down in a vertical arc.

The giant's sword mirrored the motion perfectly.

The impact struck full force. The earth splintering into jagged shards. Dust and debris exploded outward in a thick, choking cloud, obscuring everything in a swirling haze of stone and dirt. The ground beneath Chad's feet crumbled, leaving a deep crater etched into the battlefield.

Komamura exhaled slowly. The boy's decision to stand his ground lingered in his mind.

'Why didn't he move?'

Through the settling dust, the familiar spiritual pressure surfaced. It was steady—too steady. Unyielding. Unfazed.

Then came the voice, low and calm, cutting through the silence like a bell.

"I should thank you."

Komamura's eyes narrowed. The voice wasn't strained or weakened; it carried the same measured calm Chad always maintained. And what was more unsettling—it came from exactly where the blow had landed.

"Not just my friends… but you as well, Komamura-san."

Komamura's pulse quickened as realization struck. 'He's still standing.'

"Arisawa told me once," he continued, voice even as if discussing the weather, "that names carry a certain power. Something Yato taught her, apparently. At first, I didn't think much about it," Chad admi. "I never felt the need to name my abilities. As long as I had the power to keep my promise, to protect those I care about, that was enough for me."

Komamura shifted his stance. Every instinct told him to act, to press the attack while he could. And yet… something held him back. The boy's energy was changing, evolving, growing heavier with every word.

The veil of dust began to settle, swirling into faint streams as the wind carried it away. From within the dissipating haze, the silhouette of Yasutora Sado stood unmoved in the crater's center. His frame was rigid, his posture resolute, and as the dust thinned further, his voice cut through the quiet, calm yet resonant.

"In our last fight, your words reached me, Komamura-san," Chad said softly. "And because of that, I was able to grow stronger"

The remnants of the smoke finally dispersed, revealing Chad's figure in full. He remained unscathed, not a single scratch marring his skin. The earth beneath his feet was shattered, fractured from the colossal force of the Tenken strike, yet he stood untouched. His right arm, however, had changed.

The armor that once encased his limb had taken on a new, more intricate form.

From his wrist extended a shield adorned with patterns reminiscent of skeletal features. At the shield's core was a jagged, hollow-like mouth lined with sharp teeth, as though the very essence of a Hollow had been captured in the design.

The wing-like protrusion from his shoulder was gone, replaced by a large, hexagonal plate that anchored the armor to his frame.

Chad raised his right arm, palm outward, and uttered a name with quiet conviction.

<< Brazo Derecha del Gigante. >>

Komamura's eyes widened ever so slightly. Without warning, Chad shifted his stance and pushed upward with his right arm.

The colossal, spectral sword of Tenken, which had remained lodged against his arm, was flung skyward with alarming ease. The sheer force of the motion sent Komamura staggering backward. His connection to his zanpakutō reverberated through his body, throwing his balance off. The giant's sword, despite its massive size, sailed through the air before dissipating into shimmering spiritual particles.

Komamura's instincts screamed for him to react, but before he could, Chad vanished.

The captain's heart skipped a beat. He strained his senses to track his opponent's movement, but there was no flicker of Shunpo or signature of high-speed techniques.

His eyes dropped to the ground, and there, he saw it another deep, cratered fissure where Chad had stood mere moments before.

'He didn't use Shunpo…' Komamura realized with a mix of awe and alarm. 'He propelled himself with raw strength.'

The revelation came too late.

A sudden presence appeared just inches before him. Chad's figure materialized out of thin air, his right arm already raised. His eyes usually gentle and thoughtful, now burned with focused intensity.

"Komamura-san," Chad spoke, his voice low but unwavering. "In gratitude for the strength your words gave me, I will now defeat you with everything I have."

The air trembled as his spiritual pressure spiked dramatically. The ground beneath them cracked and groaned beneath the sheer force of his reiatsu. Komamura's muscles tensed instinctively, his grip tightening on his zanpakutō. His mind raced. This energy wasn't merely equal to his Bankai; it pressed against him with the same oppressive force, the same overwhelming potential.

'I don't have time to release my Bankai,' Komamura realized grimly. 'And even if I did…'

The captain's thoughts were cut short as Chad pivoted his hips, torqueing his body. His right arm snapped forward with blinding speed, the shielded limb becoming a blur of crimson and black. Energy coiled around his fist, condensing into a focused stream of raw destructive power.

<< El Directo. >>

The punch struck Komamura square in the chest.

For a fleeting moment, there was silence, an eerie, breathless pause as the impact registered.

Then the world exploded.

The shockwave blasted outward in a deafening roar, uprooting the ground in concentric waves. The force of the strike sent Komamura hurtling backward, his body a blur of motion as it crashed through buildings and trees alike, carving a devastating path through the battlefield. His zanpakutō was ripped from his grasp, clattering to the ground as his massive form eventually slammed into a distant concrete wall, embedding itself within the structure.

Chad slowly lowered his arm, smoke wafting from the shield's jagged edges. His chest rose and fell steadily, though his muscles trembled faintly beneath the exertion. He gazed toward the distant wreckage where Komamura lay.

"Thanks, Komamura-san," he murmured, voice tinged with quiet respect.

Yato's eyes flicked toward the place where Chad had been fighting. From his vantage point, he could see the devastation left in the wake of his friend's strike. The ground was shattered, the surrounding structures reduced to rubble, and in the distance, Komamura's form lay embedded in the concrete. The sheer power behind that single punch sent a chill down Yato's spine.

'Damn… Chad really doesn't hold back when he gets serious.'

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His gaze shifted to the path Komamura had carved through the landscape after being launched into the distance. The thought struck him suddenly, unbidden but immediate.

'Wait… were there houses in that direction?'

The concern must have shown on his face because, as if sensing Yato's thoughts, Chad glanced in his direction. With that ever-calm demeanor, Chad raised his right hand and gave a reassuring thumbs-up.

"Don't worry," Chad called across the battlefield, his voice calm but clear. "There were only trees and a few abandoned houses."

Yato froze, blinking in disbelief. Another bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

'How the hell does he know that…?'

He opened his mouth to ask but quickly thought better of it. Some mysteries weren't worth unraveling, especially in the middle of a war zone. With a resigned sigh, he shifted his focus back to the present.

Tatsuki, further down the street, had lost control of her powers again, her reiatsu flaring wildly as she traded feral blows with Soi Fon. Near the eastern edge of the place, Senna and Inoue fought side-by-side against Matsumoto, Ichigo was locked in a relentless duel with Hitsugaya and not far beyond them, Rukia was battling Renji.

The spiritual pressure from all these simultaneous battles weighed heavily on the environment, distorting the air like heatwaves rising from scorched asphalt. The souls who had lingered nearby, innocent and unaware of the conflict's true nature, had long since fled. Some darted away instinctively, others stood frozen until the shockwaves became unbearable.

And yet, despite the uncertainty, Yato's frustration stemmed from one singular, immediate concern.

The man standing directly in front of him.

'Of all the captains in the damn Gotei 13… it had to be Ukitake... Come on...'

The thought came with a groan of exasperation. Yato shifted uncomfortably, tightening his grip around the hilt of his zanpakutō.

Jūshirō Ukitake stood a few paces away, calm and composed, with that ever-gentle smile that never quite reached his sharp, perceptive eyes. His long, white hair cascaded down his back, swaying faintly in the wind stirred by the ongoing battles.

Yato felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He knew better than to let Ukitake's seemingly relaxed demeanor fool him. The man wasn't just another captain, he was one of the oldest and most experienced Shinigami in Soul Society. Yato had fought Tōsen during his infiltration of Seireitei and had managed to hold his ground, a feat that, at the time, filled him with cautious confidence. But Ukitake?

That was a different beast entirely.

'Tōsen was tough, yeah… but Ukitake's on another level. He's been around since forever. Hell, he probably knows every trick in the book. And I'm supposed to go toe-to-toe with him? Yeah. Great. Fantastic.'

Yato's lips pressed into a thin line. He shifted his weight onto his back foot, subtly adjusting his stance while never taking his eyes off Ukitake. The captain simply smiled, a faint glimmer of curiosity behind his eyes.

There was something familiar about the way Yato moved, a certain wariness mixed with a relaxed, almost lazy posture that reminded Ukitake of Shunsui. That same deceptive ease, the same sharp, calculating gaze just beneath the surface. It was a style that masked the predator beneath, a mind always assessing, always searching for an opening.

Ukitake knew better than to underestimate his opponent. Yato was far from weak. The young man had proven that much during the events in Soul Society. He had stopped a downward strike from Captain Kuchiki with a single hand, a feat that should have been impossible.

That alone had been enough to pique Ukitake's interest. But Yato didn't stop there. He had not only managed to deceived Tōsen's senses during their confrontation but had also done something far more dangerous. He had misled Aizen himself, long enough to prevent the man from taking the Hōgyoku.

That wasn't strength alone. That was something more.

"You're quite the cautious one, Yato-kun." Ukitake said at last.

Yato swallowed hard, resisting the instinctive urge to roll his eyes at the obvious observation.

"Something like that…" he muttered under his breath. "You're not exactly an easy opponent to size up..."

Ukitake chuckled softly, the sound carrying no trace of arrogance, just genuine amusement. "I appreciate the compliment. Though, truth be told, I'd rather not fight at all if it can be avoided."

"Yeah… same here." Yato's voice was steady, but his mind raced through potential strategies.

The situation was more complicated than it appeared. If the enemy group hunting Senna hadn't made their move yet, it likely meant they were waiting for the right moment, biding their time until everyone on the battlefield was exhausted, waiting for the moment when both Soul Society and Yato's group had spent their energy.

That realization made Yato's next steps crystal clear. He needed to conserve his strength. A prolonged fight with Ukitake was not an option. The captain wasn't just strong; he was a veteran of centuries of battle, someone who didn't rely on brute strength alone. If Yato committed fully to this fight, he'd burn through his reserves, and that would leave Senna vulnerable.

The second problem gnawed at him like a splinter buried deep beneath the skin: Yato preferred to pick his battles. He didn't like engaging unless he was confident of his odds. Facing Ukitake? That was a fight he was absolutely certain he would lose. The man was on a completely different level. Strength, technique, experience, he had the advantage in every category.

Yato could accept that reality. What he couldn't accept was the taste of inevitable defeat. Losing was a sensation he despised more than anything else. The very idea of being outmatched made his jaw tighten and his grip on his zanpakutō grow rigid.

And so, for the moment, he simply stood there. Watching. Calculating. Hoping to buy time for a better opening.

The silence between them stretched. Ukitake, ever patient, didn't push the issue. He, too, seemed content to let the tension settle.

The voice that broke the silence didn't come from Ukitake. It didn't even come from the battlefield. It came from within Yato's own mind, oozing with lazy sarcasm and the faintest hint of irritation.

'So… are we just going to stand here while you photosynthesize in front of the nice captain?'

Yato's eye twitched.

'Cheshire.'

'Ah! He remembers me! I was beginning to think I'd been replaced by this tragic inner monologue of yours.' The voice purred, silky and mocking. 'Seriously, Yato. You're supposed to be the crafty one, right? The trickster? The unpredictable wild card? And here you are, rooted to the ground like a houseplant.'

Yato exhaled slowly through his nose, fighting the urge to respond out loud. From an outsider's perspective, his sudden tension might have looked like simple battle-readiness. But inside his mind, his spirit companion prowled restlessly.

'I'm being careful. Ukitake's dangerous.'

'Dangerous? Of course he is. That's what makes it fun.'

'Fun? You've got a really messed-up idea of fun.'

'I'm a talking spirit manifestation of your powers. Psychological stability wasn't part of the package.' Cheshire's voice was laced with wicked amusement. 'You're hesitating, Yato. And if you keep hesitating, that nice white-haired man over there is going to skewer you like a marshmallow at a campfire.'

Yato's grip tightened on his zanpakutō's hilt. The weight of the blade felt familiar, grounding. The sword itself vibrated slightly in response to his tension, like a predator stretching before the hunt.

'I'm not hesitating. I'm waiting for an opening.'

'Waiting for an opening is just fancy hesitating if you don't actually move when it comes. Tick-tock, Yato. The captain's waiting. The others are fighting. And somewhere out there, our real enemies are licking their lips.'

Cheshire's voice slithered across his consciousness like silk threaded with thorns. The spirit's mockery was too familiar. It was the voice of his instinct, of the primal part of himself that craved unpredictability, and clever solutions. The side of him that despised stillness.

Yato's eyes flicked to the side, toward Senna's location in the distance. She was still holding her ground with Inoue against Matsumoto, but the tension in her stance was growing. The strain of maintaining her power was evident even from here.

That realization alone would have been enough to spur Yato into action. But then another voice joined the fray. One smoother, silkier, and far more eager than Cheshire's playful taunts.

'I'm curious, Yato…' The voice was feminine, smooth but electric with anticipation. 'Curious to see how I fare against Sōgyo no Kotowari. What use are my abilities if we never put them on display?'

'Ōkagetsu…' Yato's breath caught for half a second. His blade's spirit. The embodiment of his own resolve, impatient, eager, and unyielding when challenged.

And now she, too, was pushing him to act.

He almost smiled at the irony. His Fullbring spirit, Cheshire, taunting him like a cat swiping at a lazy mouse. His zanpakutō spirit, Ōkagetsu, practically vibrating with anticipation at the thought of clashing with one of the oldest and most renowned swords in the Soul Society. And both of them were, ultimately, manifestations of his own psyche.

They weren't just separate voices, they were fragments of himself. His caution. His curiosity. His instinct to protect. His hunger to test his limits.

'Damn it…'

The thought was intoxicating. Beneath the calculated exterior he maintained, there was a flicker of curiosity burning in his chest. A question he hadn't dared voice aloud. 'How far am I, really, from someone like Ukitake?'

Was the gap insurmountable because of Mimihagi… or just intimidating?

Ukitake's eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing the shift in Yato's mental state. His expression didn't change, still calm, still patient, but his stance shifted ever so subtly.

Yato lowered his body into a looser stance, knees bent, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. His right hand gripped Ōkagetsu tightly, the blade shimmering faintly beneath the sky.

'You want to fight Sōgyō no Kotowari, huh?' he thought toward his zanpakutō.

Ōkagetsu's voice purred with satisfaction. 'Let me correct that...' She giggled. 'You want to win against someone stronger... So... Let's show them the moon doesn't just reflect the sun. Sometimes… it eclipses it.'

Cheshire snickered, the sound like silk torn in amusement. 'Oh, this is going to be fun.'

Yato exhaled slowly. His reiatsu coiled around him like smoke, subtle and restrained, yet pulsing with restrained force.

"Ah… so you've made your decision, Yato-kun." Ukitake said softly.

"Yeah. My partner finally wore me down."

The statement was met with a knowing nod from Ukitake. A zanpakutō's will was a reflection of its wielder's soul, after all. The fact that Yato's own blade had grown restless only confirmed what the captain already suspected: beneath that cautious exterior was a fighter aching to test his limits.

Ukitake's smile softened, but the sharpness in his eyes did not waver. "Then let us not keep it waiting."

He had no desire to defeat Yato outright. After all, he still considered the young man a potential ally, someone who had once helped protect the Soul Society from Aizen's schemes and risk his life to save Rukia Kuchiki. Ukitake was grateful for that, and gratitude, for him, carried meaning beyond mere words.

However, Yato's fighting style was… problematic. Calculating, opportunistic, and relentless the moment a weakness presented itself. That fact alone was enough to make the captain cautious. If he left even the slightest gap, Yato would capitalize on it with surgical precision.

So, while Ukitake wasn't intent on crushing his opponent, he wasn't about to go too easy either.

He moved with practiced grace, raising his zanpakutō vertically before his chest. His left hand came to rest just above the blade, fingers splayed as if preparing to touch the surface of a tranquil lake. His reiatsu stirred in response, rippling outward in soft waves. It wasn't the oppressive, crushing force one might expect from a captain. Ukitake's spiritual energy was like the sea: vast, deep, and deceptively calm on the surface, while unimaginable power roiled in the depths.

Ukitake's eyes softened for the briefest of moments, as though offering Yato a silent apology for what was about to unfold. Then he spoke:

"All waves rise, and become my shield... Lightning, strike now, and become my blade!"

The blade in Ukitake's hand split apart, not with the clean, mechanical precision of steel being forged, but with an organic grace that mirrored the sea itself, fluid and unyielding. The metal separated into two symmetrical swords, connected at the hilts by a crimson rope-like chain. Five square silver charms dangled from the cord, catching the dim light with every subtle sway.

<< Sōgyo no Kotowari. >>