He sat in the jungle marshes just outside Kirigakure, surrounded by the stench of rot and rain, Nozarashi stabbed upright into the mud beside him.
The air was still, but his pulse was roaring in his ears.
He'd been hearing it for days now—ever since that last mission. Ever since he fed Nozarashi more blood than even he thought possible.
It wasn't a sound.
Not really.
More like a vibration. A low rumble. Like distant thunder inside his skull. The longer he held the blade, the louder it got. Not constant… not annoying… just there. Waiting. Like a caged beast licking its lips.
He wasn't afraid.
He was curious.
"What are you?" he muttered aloud, one hand resting against the jagged edge of the cleaver.
The wind shifted. The mist stirred.
And then—
It spoke.
Not with words. With weight.
A sudden pull in his gut. A spike in his chakra that didn't originate from him, but from the blade. It twisted—not painfully, but like it was testing him. As if it were… amused.
Kenpachi's grin widened. "So you are alive."
The cleaver vibrated in his grip. Just once.
It wasn't his imagination anymore.
Nozarashi was responding to his chakra. Not just channeling it, but recognizing it. Aligning with it. Not passively, like most ninja blades did—but actively. Violently. It was hungry. It wanted more.
Kenpachi stood and pulled the blade free from the earth. The metal howled as it tore from the mud, flaring with faint crackles of chakra—his chakra—unfiltered, chaotic, storming with a volatile blend of fire, lightning, and wind.
His chakra nature had always been unstable, high-output. But now it was being amplified by the blade.
And now… it was talking back.
And then the dreams began.
That night, he slept in a cave outside the training grounds. The mist crept in like fog-draped fingers. His breathing slowed. And in the blackness behind his eyelids…
He stood in a battlefield made of bones.
The sky was scarlet. Blood rain fell like mist.
And in the center—buried in a mountain of corpses—was Nozarashi, howling like a storm-torn god.
It wasn't the sword as it was now.
It was larger. Older. Bleeding power. Screaming a name he hadn't yet earned.
It turned—he swore it did—and stared into him without eyes.
And then it said something—not in language, but in feeling.
𓂃 " 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺."
He woke up laughing.
—
Nozarashi isn't just a cleaver. Not anymore. Thanks to Kenpachi's immense chakra pool, combat instinct, and chakra nature resonance (Fire, Wind, Lightning, Water), he's awakened the dormant sentience within the blade—born of the blood-forged chakra-metal core used in its reforging.
Like chakra beasts, certain legendary weapons in this era of shinobi warfare develop semi-sentient echoes when constantly saturated with violent, high-density chakra—especially if forged through blood rituals.
Nozarashi has become a proto-spirit—its own will sharpening in tandem with Kenpachi's.
And now, it's watching him. Testing him. Whispering…
Not in fear. But in curiosity.
He may wield it now.
But one day soon, it may ask:
"Can you 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 wielding me?"
Far away, in the snowy stillness of the Yuki compound, Yachiru paused in her sword form kata.
Her fingers twitched.
Her heart skipped.
The mist felt different again.
She touched the tip of her blade to the ground—and the ice beneath cracked.
"…it's talking to him now," she murmured.
Her attendant blinked. "My Lady?"
Yachiru turned away, her soft smile returning.
"Nothing. Just wondering if the boy with the broken sword is ready to be broken himself."