Superego & Causality

The next plaque transported Fujimiya to a palace coiled around a cloud-piercing cliff.

By now, he understood: each aspect of his Zanpakutō preferred different environments.

If "Id" was primal lust and "Ego" was rationality...

Then this could only be—

"Superego."

Fujimiya's expression hardened.

Past battles had taught him parts of his Shikai's "rules."

The "Id" brat embodied pure, bestial desire—eating, mating, shamelessness, backtalk, and ahem attempts at dominance. She was instinct incarnate.

The "Ego" girl had rationality. She knew right from wrong and wouldn't obstruct his growth—since his death meant hers.

But the "Superego"—the moral compass shaped by society, the voice of restraint—what trials would she impose?

The thought alone made Fujimiya sweat.

After all, I'm no saint.

Steeling himself, he entered the stone palace.

Vast yet austere, its white halls were bathed in celestial light. At the cliffside throne sat a marble-statue-like woman with waterfall-length white hair.

Draped in a loose yukata, her lake-deep eyes watched the clouds.

Only Fujimiya's footsteps stirred her.

"Leave." Her voice was mellifluous yet flat. "Your Reiatsu can't bear my power."

"Not without losing... parts of yourself."

Fujimiya drew his blade. "Let's test that."

The woman stood, summoning a bladeless sword.

"The minimum requirement is third-class Reiatsu."

"Too much for you now. The cost?"

"Your personality."

Fujimiya's pupils shrank.

Personality?!

"You're... joking, right?" he echoed Deaf's cadence.

The woman continued, unfazed:

"For example..."

"—Do you recall how you felt the first time a girl pinned you to a bed?"

Fujimiya's face burned. Why ask something so private?!

But as he opened his mouth—

Her bladeless sword flicked downward.

A chunk of his memory vanished.

The fluttering heartbeat, the dizzying rush—gone.

The "thread" connecting him to that blurred first love... severed.

"Now," she said, "your schoolboy self is a chaste honor student."

Fujimiya's scream could shatter eardrums:

"I DON'T WANT THAT—!!"

This was bad. Her ability was insane!

Reiatsu erupted beneath him as he Flash Stepped forward.

"First Form, Revised: Arc Strike!"

The woman didn't flinch.

"Why raise your sword?"

Her "blade" descended.

The thread of his intent to fight... snipped.

His strike slowed to a crawl. She sidestepped effortlessly.

"What drives you to wield it?"

Memories of every slain or victorious foe flashed through his mind—countless "threads" woven over two years.

Another flick of her sword.

Severed.

Fujimiya stood hollow, the fire of battle extinguished.

A person is the sum of their experiences.

Strip those away, and all that remains is...

An empty shell.

His katana clattered to the floor.

Staggering forward, Fujimiya met her "blade's" tip.

"Even after losing so much..."

"Do you still seek this power?"

The woman's voice echoed as Fujimiya's vision darkened:

"Return when you're ready."

---

Consciousness returned with the scent of yarrow and the warmth of lap pillows.

A gentle hand stroked his hair.

Still dazed, Fujimiya instinctively embraced the slender waist above him, nuzzling deeper—

"Awake, Makoto-kun?"

The voice was honeyed, maternal...

And terrifying.

Fujimiya launched himself upright like a sprung trap.

Unohana Yachiru sipped tea, her smile serene.

Cold sweat drenched him.

Right.

I forgot it was HER lap.