If she couldn't be pleased—
Then she would be cut.
If she couldn't be satisfied—
Then let blood be the price.
That was the murderous resolve behind Unohana Yachiryu's cold eyes after revealing her true name—the original Kenpachi, the deadliest woman in Soul Society's history.
Even when Ran Yan sheathed his blade mid-battle, there was no hesitation in her strike. No mercy.
In her eyes, that wasn't an act of respect.
It was an insult.
No Shinigami had ever dared to face her without a sword.
Not even the strongest Shinigami in a millennium—Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni—would dare.
"A sword is such an inconvenience."
The words fell from Ran Yan's lips like a whisper, brushing aside the gravity of the moment.
He raised both hands slowly—fingers forming a sword sign, as if calling down judgment.
CLANG.
The earth groaned.
Cracks radiated outward in a spiderweb of devastation.
From the fractured earth, eight ethereal long swords—each radiating terrifying pressure—rose like stars piercing the night, hovering protectively around him.
Unohana's Zanpakutō, poised to take his head, was stopped cold—repelled by the invisible force of the eight swords now orbiting Ran Yan like the moons of a sovereign god.
"What...?" Unohana breathed.
Even with all her centuries of combat, of carnage and conflict, she had never seen anything like this.
Eight swords—not wielded, not even touched—yet exuding a sword pressure that matched and surpassed anything she'd faced.
"The Way of the Sword — Eight Swords Fly Together."
Ran Yan pushed forward with one hand.
Immediately, the once-defensive blades shifted. The constellation of floating swords pivoted in unison, tips turning to face Unohana Yachiryu.
And then they moved.
The air screamed.
Dust and trees were annihilated in a breath.
A typhoon of sword pressure blasted toward her, forcing her back despite her tenacity.
Before she could fully brace, the eight flying swords—like comets—sliced through the darkness, leaving glowing gashes in the fabric of night.
CLANG!
Unohana's instincts kicked in.
She stabbed her Zanpakutō into the ground, anchoring herself, then arched her back like a bow and launched herself forward.
"The Way of the Sword — Yachiryu Style: Eight Thousand Streams!"
The culmination of every kendo school in Soul Society, mastered over centuries. Her greatest pride. Her legacy.
BOOM!
The clash was cataclysmic.
Where their powers met, the earth itself bent and broke. Ancient trees disintegrated. Stone hills were razed to dust. The very terrain became a canvas for devastation.
At the center of it all—a crater, vast and bottomless, formed from the storm of spiritual might.
From the abyss rose a pillar of spiraling light, carving into the sky like a second moon.
It shattered the night.
"You have talent," Unohana said, breathing hard.
"But my sword is stronger."
"You can't defeat Eight Thousand Streams, forged from all sword styles in existence."
She stood tall, blood dripping from her arms, her Zanpakutō radiating defiance.
"Disappointing."
Ran Yan's voice was calm—almost regretful.
"So short-sighted… for someone called First Kenpachi."
Before she could respond, he raised one finger.
The eight swords around him glowed fiercely—then merged.
One by one, they spiraled inward, coalescing into a single lightsaber forged from pure sword will, encased in a radiant, blazing corona.
Eight Swords as One.
CLANG!
The roar that followed was not of steel, but of the heavens breaking.
A sword of Reiatsu-born divinity burst across the forest, trailing a comet's tail of golden annihilation.
Unohana's eyes widened in disbelief.
"What… is this…?"
Then it struck.
PUHH—
The Reiatsu sword split the battlefield like a divine judgment.
A massive gash hundreds of meters long carved through the land. The very atmosphere trembled under the force. Everything in its path—trees, stone, mountain—was simply erased.
CRACK.
In every direction, hidden Kidō barriers erected to contain the fight began to shatter like glass, unable to withstand the force.
They peeled away in shards, disintegrating into dust.
At the end of the scarred ravine, a single figure remained.
Unohana Yachiryu.
Kneeling.
Her clothes were torn, her haori of the Fourth Division shredded like paper. Her trademark braid lay loose across her shoulders. Blood soaked through her uniform—most heavily around her abdomen, where the blade had nearly cleaved her in two.
But none of that mattered.
She was smiling.
Even as she bled.
Even as she clutched her sword for support.
Even as the battlefield around her lay ruined.
Her eyes held a glow—a feverish obsession.
She stared at Ran Yan as if he were the sun itself.
Because she wasn't mourning her loss.
She was reveling in it.