You Couldn’t Even Make Me Go All Out

Zaraki Kenpachi's first strike came down with the force of a mountain-splitting quake. His jagged blade, cloaked in roaring spiritual pressure, slammed against Shin's shoulder. The wooden flooring cracked outward in a spiderweb, and the dojo's ceiling trembled beneath the impact, a rain of dust drifting from the beams above.

And yet—the jagged edge bit into Shin's skin and went no further. It didn't break through. It didn't even scratch.

"Is that all you've got, Captain Zaraki?"

The voice was calm. Dispassionate.

Zaraki's already-narrow pupils contracted.

Shin still stood there, his shihakushō open, exposing a perfectly unscathed torso. Not a drop of blood. Not a single cut where the blade had struck.

Dust trickled down again from the rafters. Shin casually caught a few flecks in his palm, brushing off his sleeves without care.

Without a word from him, Zaraki roared, raised his blade again, and brought it down even harder.

This time he didn't hold back.

The moment his blade descended, the spiritual pressure surrounding him compressed the air into silence. So thick and violent it distorted the space around him, choking Ikkaku and Yumichika near the edge of the dojo, leaving them wide-eyed and breathless.

But just before the blade struck—

Clack.

Shin raised one hand and caught it. Barehanded.

The backlash of Zaraki's reiryoku slammed outward in a delayed explosion. The dojo's floorboards shattered. The air howled. The structure groaned like it would collapse.

He'd caught Kenpachi's full-force strike… with one hand.

Ikkaku and Yumichika were frozen, awe and dread fighting in their eyes.

"I've heard," Shin said softly, one hand still gripping Zaraki's blade, "that your eyepatch was made by the Department of Research and Development. It suppresses your spiritual power."

Zaraki's glare was sharp. "So what?"

"You wear it because you're too strong—and want to hold yourself back."

"…"

A smirk touched Shin's lips. "And the bells on your hair… a handicap to make your position obvious in battle?"

Zaraki's gaze darkened, voice rasping, "What the hell are you getting at?"

Shin's other hand dropped to his side. He slowly unsheathed his zanpakutō—Asada—and raised it toward Zaraki's chest.

"Just that your confidence is... unique, Captain Zaraki. Is it because your blade's carved through too many weaklings, that you've started thinking you're invincible?"

The tip of Asada pressed gently into Zaraki's chest. With the slightest force, it drew blood—red trickling down the blade in a slow, steady line.

"I grew up in the Zaraki District too," Shin murmured. "I know what it's like there. Before I ever became a Shinigami, I'd already killed my share. And your blood… doesn't seem any redder than theirs."

Zaraki swung again—fierce and wild—a cleave aimed to take Shin's head clean off.

Shhhk—

The blade cut through nothing but afterimage.

A soft whisper of shunpō, the hiss of steel drawn—"Yasha Shankū."

Zaraki spun, too late.

A slash of sword pressure flew like a wave—visible, near-solid—and ripped past his shoulder. It tore through the dojo wall in a blinding arc.

BOOM.

Wind howled in the aftermath, throwing his hair into the air, bells jingling like broken chimes.

Blood sprayed from Zaraki's shoulder in a thick burst.

His body staggered. The ground swayed beneath him. He nearly fell—but caught himself on his sword.

He looked down at the spreading pool of crimson at his feet. The pain in his shoulder was sharp and cold.

"That was your sword, huh?" His voice was low, gravel-filled. "If that cut had been aimed at my body… I'd be in two pieces now."

Shin's eyes didn't flicker. "Probably."

"Incredible," Zaraki whispered. "So Ikkaku wasn't lying after all."

He raised his head, eyes narrowing, lips peeling into a savage, toothy grin.

"Then why… didn't you aim for my body?"

He pointed his blade at Shin.

"What are you holding back for?!"

Shin answered coolly, "We don't have any blood grudge, Captain Zaraki."

"But fighting—real fighting—is only worth it if it's to the death!" Zaraki snarled. "I told you. One of us leaves this room on our feet. One."

He raised his wounded arm again. Pain lanced through it, sharp enough to make him flinch—but he welcomed it. With his free hand, he ripped off the eyepatch. Bells flew loose, tearing strands of hair with them.

He stood wild-haired and blood-soaked, half his face shadowed, posture twisted in violent ecstasy.

He looked more oni than man.

Shin narrowed his eyes. "You really are insane."

He flicked the blood from Asada's blade.

BOOM!

Zaraki charged like a cannon shot. Blade swung down like a thunderclap.

Shin didn't move.

He took the hit. Full-on.

Zaraki's reiatsu exploded again—raw and deafening—shaking the entire dojo.

At the same time, Shin's sword lunged forward, stabbing into Zaraki's abdomen.

Zaraki didn't dodge. Didn't even flinch.

"Good!" he bellowed, laughing like a man possessed. "GOOD!!"

He hacked again and again, each strike landing on Shin's body with earth-splitting might—yet none of them even tore cloth.

Slash.

Another blade stroke—blinding, silent—skimmed Zaraki's head, grazing his cheek, leaving a clean gash on his stone-hard face.

He paused—only for a blink—but fury flashed in his eyes. He roared and struck harder, faster. Every swing blasted waves of spiritual pressure like shockwaves across the room.

"WHY—WHY ARE YOU HOLDING BACK?!"

Shin lunged forward. Another precise stab—this time toward the chest.

Zaraki let it pierce him.

But this time—he grabbed the blade.

Shin's eyes twitched, just slightly. Zaraki was covered in cuts, his body slick with blood. And yet his expression hadn't changed. The madness in his eyes was undiminished.

Zaraki stared down at Shin—so much smaller, yet untouched.

The thrill in his eyes faded. Cold settled in its place.

"You think I'm not worth your full strength?"

He released the blade and stepped back. Fresh blood flowed freely down his chest.

Shin didn't flinch. He casually flicked Asada, scattering the blood from its edge.

"No," Shin said quietly. "It's just that…"

"So far… I haven't met anyone who could make me use my full strength."

He paused. His gaze firm.

"And sadly, Captain Zaraki—you're not the one either."

Zaraki's teeth clenched hard. His grip on his sword trembled. He looked down. His weapon—ragged, gnarled—was chipped and bloodless.

He'd never been beaten like this. Not dominated—humiliated.

Was Tachikawa Shin really that strong? Why? How?

He'd seen the match with Ichimaru Gin. There hadn't been that much difference between them… had there?

Or maybe…

Maybe his blade had gone dull.

Zaraki's entire body ached. Blood loss made the world spin. But the pain kept his mind sharp.

Kept the thrill alive.

"…Then kill me."

His voice was strangely calm.

From the side of the dojo, Ikkaku and Yumichika tensed. The words chilled the blood in their veins.