CHAPTER 52

Hirako Shinji opened his mouth to retort, his signature smirk forming—until he heard it.

Pata. Pata. Pata.

Footsteps.

Rhythmic, measured, and multiplying. From distant alleys to broad avenues, the sound grew louder. Shinigami clad in black standard-issue shihakushō emerged from the streets surrounding the Fifth Division barracks.

Squad after squad appeared until a dense semi-circle of over two hundred Shinigami stood behind Akira. Uniforms varied slightly, reflecting their divisions and specialties, but their posture was unified: alert and disciplined.

Before them, closer to the main Fifth Division courtyard, stood the still-loyal subordinates of Captain Hirako—over 600 strong.

But Shinji wasn't looking at numbers.

He was staring at the three figures walking slowly ahead of Akira's formation—each wearing the haori that marked them as high-ranking officers. One wore long sleeves that swayed gently as she walked. The other two—one younger, one older—walked with their own brand of quiet confidence.

Hirako's eyes narrowed.

"…Captain Unohana."

"…Captain Shiba Isshin."

"…Vice-Captain Sasakibe."

His voice was low, nearly flat—but the tightness in it betrayed his rising frustration. His gaze stopped on Unohana, whose serene eyes locked with his like a blade.

"What's the meaning of this?" Shinji demanded, his tone hardening.

"I heard a captain-level duel was taking place," said Unohana Retsu, her voice soft but icy. "As the captain of the Fourth Division, I am obligated to oversee any potential casualties."

She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.

Shinji's expression darkened. Unohana Yachiru—the original Kenpachi, sealed beneath her healing persona—had no fear of blood. She had once been the most feared killer in Soul Society. Even he, a captain with centuries of combat experience, knew better than to provoke her lightly.

Unohana continued, smiling faintly. "Of course, I wouldn't miss a duel between two such interesting men. Would you?"

Hirako's lips twitched. "And you, Vice-Captain Sasakibe? You know the Captain-Commander won't appreciate this kind of interference."

Sasakibe Chōjirō stood calmly, his posture perfect. "I am here on the Captain-Commander's orders."

That simple statement landed with more weight than any Kidō incantation.

A thousand years of loyalty spoke in his words. Sasakibe wasn't a flashy officer, but when he invoked Yamamoto Genryūsai's will, even captains listened.

Isshin stepped forward now, hands in his sleeves. "You once accused Akira of disgracing the Shiba name back at the Kendo Gym, remember?"

Shinji tensed.

"Well," Isshin went on, "today I get to return the favor. You've dragged the Fifth Division into disgrace. I misjudged Aizen, that's true—but I misjudged you worse."

Shinji turned his head slightly, his gaze shifting toward Akira. For the first time, a flicker of doubt passed through his eyes.

He realized it now.

Everything—the timing, the support, the reinforcements—had been anticipated by Akira. He had planned for Shinji's tricks, the isolation, the false command structure. Unohana's presence was a deterrent. Sasakibe's was an endorsement. Isshin's was personal.

"Akira Sōsuke," Shinji said at last. "You're a dangerous man."

His tone was even, but his fists clenched. "More dangerous than Aizen ever was."

Once, he had believed Akira was either a manipulative schemer or a naïve protector—perhaps both. Now he knew the truth.

Akira was strategic. And worse—he had the moral clarity Aizen had lacked. That made him unpredictable.

"Is that your final word," Akira replied calmly, "as Captain of the Fifth Division?"

Hirako bristled. "Don't talk like you've won already."

"You're right," Akira replied, voice calm. "We stand on the same battlefield now. Let the sword decide."

Shinji inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

Years of experience steadied his nerves. Though the ground had shifted beneath him, he wasn't finished yet. He was still a captain of the Gotei 13.

"Then speak through your Zanpakutō," he said.

Akira adjusted the black-framed glasses on his face. A glint of sarcasm flashed beneath the lenses.

Did Shinji still believe this was a level playing field?

Pitiful.

Akira said nothing. His hands slid toward his Zanpakutō, sheathed neatly at his hip.

"Captain Isshin," Unohana said gently, "if you would."

Isshin nodded and crouched, slamming his palms against the stone tiles of the courtyard.

"Hachijuuhachishiki: Fūinjō Keiji."

(Eighty-Eight Form: Barrier of Sealing Formation.)

A glowing orange Kidō barrier erupted around the dueling ground, forming a containment field. The spiritual pressure within shifted immediately—dense and suffocating.

"I reinforced it with a high-tier Bakudō," Isshin said, rising. "This should contain even Bankai-level output for a short time."

It needed to.

A clash between two high-level Shinigami—especially one wielding Kendō mastery and the other possessing an illusion-type Zanpakutō—could devastate the Fifth Division compound without it.

Within the barrier, Shinji made the first move.

"Collapse, Sakanade."

His Zanpakutō shimmered as it transformed. The hilt curved, the blade's reverse edge glinting. Five small circular holes appeared along the blade's length, and a sweet floral scent spread instantly through the air.

Akira's pupils narrowed.

Sakanade's Shikai.

He remembered the reports—how Shinji's Zanpakutō inverts the target's sense of direction. Up becomes down, left becomes right. A master of disorientation.

Hirako spun the blade once. "Welcome to the world of inversion, Akira."

He grinned. "Hard to believe, huh? But that's my Zanpakutō—it flips your perception. Up is down. Left is right. Forward is backward. Whatever you think you see, it's wrong."

Akira reached out for his Zanpakutō.

But as he grasped the hilt, he noticed something subtle—his right palm had flipped up instead of down. The sensation of movement had inverted. His footing shifted awkwardly.

Most Shinigami would have stumbled.

Akira blinked once. His expression didn't change.

Hirako tilted his head. "No reaction? Still composed? You sure you're not Aizen's long-lost cousin?"

"I've studied over two hundred Zanpakutō profiles," Akira replied coldly. "Yours included."

A beat of silence.

"I don't need to see straight to cut straight."

"Oh?" Shinji raised a brow. "Then try dodging this."

He lunged forward, the inverted movement making it almost impossible to read. Even trained Shinigami had fallen for his illusions within seconds. His blade spun, aimed for Akira's left rib—but in the inverted space, it should've connected with his neck.

But—

Clang.

Akira parried.

He didn't dodge blindly—he read the angle of the swing, factored in the inversion logic, and deflected the blow precisely where it would have struck.

Shinji recoiled slightly.

"…That was fast."

Akira's left foot slid forward—awkwardly, at first—but within seconds, he was adapting. Like a martial artist training with weights, he let his body feel the dissonance, then adjusted.

"You were right about one thing," Akira said. "Swordsmanship alone won't win this."

He unsheathed his Zanpakutō fully. The blade gleamed—cold and still.

"But you forgot something else."

"I'm not just a swordsman."

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