"She actually came to challenge me—in the middle of the night!"
Akira revealed the true intent behind Unohana Retsu's visit.
"The captain of the Fourth Division, here for a duel?"
Aizen furrowed his brow in disbelief.
The medical division, responsible for healing and logistics—not known for combat initiative—especially not midnight sparring sessions.
"The same," Akira nodded, surprised himself. Still, he didn't shy away. With Zanpakutō in hand, he moved toward the source of Reiatsu.
"Interesting…"
Aizen's voice grew quiet. "So the Gotei 13 hides blades under its robes… This goes far beyond captains like Hirako Shinji—he's just raw material for my experiments."
Watching Akira's back disappear into the distance, a curious smile crept across Aizen's lips.
This wasn't just intriguing—it was valuable. So he followed.
Guided by the hauntingly clear trail of Unohana Retsu's spiritual pressure, the two left the Academy grounds and headed into a remote forest clearing.
There, atop a rugged hill, stood a figure cloaked in moonlight—motionless and regal.
"Hope you don't mind an audience, Captain Unohana," Akira said calmly, eyes fixed on the silver silhouette.
"If you can't satisfy me," she said with a serene voice that chilled the blood, "I may as well slice him open for amusement. So long as he doesn't interrupt, he may stay."
She gestured slightly toward Aizen with the same softness she'd use offering tea.
Her words, however, sent a pulse of danger through the clearing.
Aizen narrowed his eyes. That gentle façade no longer fooled him.
"It won't come to that," Akira replied, unmoved.
"Then draw," she said, a spark flickering in her tone. "Let me see your swordsmanship—the blade that made my hand tremble with anticipation. My Zanpakutō has been restless since I saw that wound on Hirako's shoulder."
In that moment, Akira understood.
Of course—it was his sword strike on Shinji that lured her here.
Unohana, the First Kenpachi, awakened only by the scent of battle and untainted swordsmanship.
And what could excite her more than a style never before seen in the Soul Society?
A hundred-step flying slash born from instinct and concept, not inherited doctrine.
"As you wish."
Even before the words finished leaving his mouth, Akira had vanished.
A heartbeat later, he reappeared in front of Unohana—Zanpakutō already descending like a phantom's guillotine.
Clang!
Unohana drew her blade with perfect timing, parrying the lumbar strike with a single hand.
A shower of sparks flared between them, lighting up the night.
"Kuchiki house's sparkling petals?"
Her brow twitched. "You're using a sword form derived from nobility… but this isn't your swordsmanship, is it?"
With a twist of her wrist, she deflected the blade and released a dense wave of Reiatsu.
It cracked the earth and sent Akira airborne.
Before he even landed, she was already mid-flash step—her Zanpakutō aimed like a fang at his exposed heart.
"The Way of the Sword: Two Breaks."
Still in mid-air, Akira rotated his blade, now gripped in both hands. Calmly and without panic, he channeled all his spiritual energy into a crushing vertical slash.
His Reiatsu surged and warped the surrounding space. The massive wave of force tore through the forest like a midnight tsunami, converging to a single devastating edge aimed at Unohana.
But she didn't retreat.
She didn't dodge.
She stepped forward.
With one hand, she caught the slash on her blade. Her feet skidded back slightly, but she held firm.
Where Hirako Shinji had stumbled and gasped, Unohana remained statuesque.
And then—
Her left arm shot from within her sleeve. A second blade—a hidden tanto—arched at an impossible angle toward Akira's throat like a serpent.
"Is this really the capability of a medical corps captain?"
Aizen's voice, quiet from the sidelines, trembled with awe.
In just seconds, he had seen at least five completely unorthodox sword forms.
Forms not recorded in the academy's manuals. Forms born of instinct and battle-hardened fury.
Unohana wasn't just fighting.
She was teaching—through blood and steel.
And the lesson was clear.
This was Kenpachi's Kendo—the origin of death.
What is the captain of the Fourth Division?
That's clearly the original Kenpachi—the hidden monster now wearing the robes of the Eleventh Division's enemy.
Even Hirako Shinji?
Let alone Shinji. Even someone with Shiba Kaien's raw strength wouldn't survive a direct clash with Unohana Retsu. She'd carve him apart before he could lift his blade.
"Tonight… I came to the right place."
"For a captain like her… even if you wanted to hold back, your instincts wouldn't let you."
"Right, brother?"
That last thought rippled through Aizen's heart, his golden eyes alight with quiet fervor.
Since entering the Shinō Academy, he had begun to feel it—that subtle yet widening chasm between himself and Akira.
Each passing day added another layer to that invisible wall.
It had only been four days, but already, Akira seemed more distant—blurred like the sun through fog.
And if he couldn't measure the gap, how could he ever close it?
Aizen had considered initiating a duel soon. A test. An excuse to pull back the curtain.
But now—Unohana Retsu had spared him the trouble.
She would be the mirror.
She would reflect just how far Akira had risen.
"A Guard Captain…"
"A true master of the sword…"
"Hirako Shinji? Hah. That man's not even fit to touch the hem of Unohana's robes."
As the hidden short blade curved toward his throat like a serpent spitting venom, Akira silently sighed.
Compared to his match with Shinji—this was a real battle.
That fight? Over in three strikes. One-sided. A dismantling.
But this—this was mutual.
A dance between equals, where each slash earned its answer.
Between siblings born not of blood, but of the sword.
"…Warm-up's over."
"How long do you plan on holding back?"
"Akira—use your blade… to please me."
Unohana's deep blue eyes shimmered.
Not with cruelty—
But with a wild, almost tragic longing.
An ancient ache to feel again.
"You want to see the Hundred-Step Flying Sword?"
Akira's voice was low but resolute.
"…As you wish."
He flipped his Zanpakutō backward and flung it with all his might.
RRRRRAAAAAHHHHHH—!
A roaring thunder split the sky.
The sound of his sword leaving his grip was like the cry of a dragon awakening from centuries of slumber.
It tore through the forest canopy, scattering clouds and birds alike.
A thousand creatures stampeded away in panic, as if fleeing a natural disaster.
CLANG!
Bathed in moonlight, Unohana Retsu's eyes widened in rapture.
The blade—no longer mere steel—had become a dragon forged of golden Reiatsu.
It spiraled skyward, roaring like a sovereign beast, coiling with divine majesty.
Then its tail flicked.
Just once.
Unohana's Zanpakutō was batted aside like a branch in a storm.
It sliced through a dozen towering trees—ancient, wide as towers—like paper.
At the same time—
Akira stood motionless in the air, right hand pressing downward as if taming the heavens.
The saber's voice howled endlessly, resonating across the sky.
The Golden Dragon of Reiatsu dove from the heavens, encircling itself in a spiral, then plummeting like a collapsing star.
The weight of its pressure made the night sky tremble.
Unohana's face broke into a radiant smile.
"This… is the sword I've longed to face."
"This… is the fight I've been searching for."
"Soul Society has never seen this kind of kendo before. Let me—let me cut it down with my own hands."
The golden pressure bore down like a divine punishment.
But Unohana did not flinch.
How long had it been?
How many centuries since she last felt this thrill?
Not since she shed the name of Kenpachi and buried herself in white healing robes had her heart raced like this.
Excitement. Exhilaration. Joy.
All of it crashed through her like a wave.
She was no longer Captain of the Fourth Division.
She was Yachiru Unohana, the First Kenpachi—
—and she was alive again.