Aizen. Yhwach. Ryūjin Jakka.
The names echoed in Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni's mind as he lay broken on the ground. His weathered eyes, still filled with unyielding fire, glared at the three figures standing before him.
Rage and bitterness filled his chest. This was not how the strongest Shinigami was supposed to fall.
If only he had acted faster. If only he had realized immediately that something was wrong with his own Zanpakutō, Ryūjin Jakka. He should have noticed its instability sooner, should have sealed himself away at the first sign of betrayal.
But he had hesitated.
And because of that hesitation, Ryūjin Jakka had turned against him.
The shame gnawed at him. Yamamoto was not defeated because of lack of power, nor because his enemies had outmatched him. No—he was being undone by the very sword that had made him feared as the greatest Shinigami in the past thousand years.
If Ryūjin Jakka had not betrayed him, he would never have fallen so easily. Even facing the combined threat of Aizen Sōsuke and Yhwach, he would still have stood tall, his Bankai blazing with enough strength to crush them both.
But now… that possibility no longer existed.
"Goodbye, Captain-Commander."
Aizen's voice rang out, smooth and mocking, yet with that faint trace of elegance that always made his words cut deeper. A cruel smile curved his lips as he gazed down at Yamamoto's fallen form.
"Once you're gone, I'll make my way to the Soul King's Palace. The Lingchō will join you soon enough. You won't be lonely."
His words dripped with arrogance, each syllable sharpened with confidence.
Even as Aizen spoke, flames stirred.
A figure stepped forth from the inferno—its body entirely formed of fire, clutching a Zanpakutō wreathed in burning light. The figure's voice thundered like the roar of a wildfire.
"Torch!"
It was the spirit of Ryūjin Jakka itself, the living embodiment of Yamamoto's blade.
The fiery entity raised its sword, and as it drew the weapon from its sheath, flames erupted with terrifying force.
The world was consumed by fire.
Each flicker of the blade scattered waves of flame, bursting into shapes like countless swords. They filled the sky, a storm of burning blades descending upon everything below.
Yamamoto could do nothing but watch. His eyes widened as the heat seared his skin and the sky itself seemed to collapse in fire. The air grew unbearably hot, hot enough to burn even a captain's body to ashes.
He—the strongest Shinigami of the past thousand years, the man who had commanded the Gotei 13 with absolute authority, the one who wielded the most powerful flame-type Zanpakutō in all of Soul Society—
Was about to die by his own sword.
The irony cut deeper than any wound.
As the flames roared and his beard caught fire, as his skin blistered and his flesh began to burn away, the Captain-Commander could hardly believe it. He was being reduced to nothing, burned into ash by the very weapon that had made him invincible.
At that moment, when despair threatened to consume even him, something strange happened.
Through the raging inferno, a flock of crimson paper cranes fluttered into existence. They moved lightly, gracefully, each wingbeat vivid against the sea of fire. Their delicate forms danced among the flames, untouched, alive.
And then—
They vanished.
In their place, a figure appeared, hands shoved casually into his pockets, standing tall against the fiery backdrop.
It was Qiye.
He hovered above Yamamoto, his eyes calm, his posture relaxed, as if the inferno around them were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. He looked down at the burning, battered Captain-Commander and let out a laugh.
"Well, well. Look at you, old man. What a sorry state you're in." His tone was light, mocking. "What's this? Trying to put on a magic show about being burned alive?"
Yamamoto's eyes lit with recognition and, immediately after, with anger.
Magic? He was about to be roasted alive! This was no performance.
Even with three of the most dangerous enemies in existence surrounding them, Qiye seemed completely unconcerned, as if he were strolling through a marketplace instead of standing in the middle of a battlefield.
He smirked and added, "If you're going to do a fire trick, at least get yourself a bigger audience. You're wasting a good show."
Yamamoto's face darkened. His pride burned almost as painfully as his flesh.
"Little brat," he spat, forcing the words out past the pain, "can't you see I'm about to be roasted alive here?!"
His voice cracked with desperation, his anger unable to mask the truth.
"Hurry up and save me!"
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and as soon as he spoke them, Yamamoto felt as if his entire being rebelled. He wanted to vomit blood.
Him? Begging for help from a human?
How disgraceful!
How could the Captain-Commander of the Gotei 13, the man who had stood above all Shinigami for centuries, the man who had looked down on countless enemies, now cry out for aid from some arrogant human boy?
This was not who he was. This was not the way he lived.
And yet…
As the flames gnawed at his flesh and death loomed over him, Yamamoto could not deny it. Somewhere in the depths of his heart, he already knew the answer.
He had grown used to Qiye saving him.
The first time had been humiliating, unbearable. The second time, it had become familiar. Now, it was almost expected.
The saying was true: the first time is strange, the second time familiar. After Qiye's previous intervention, Yamamoto had somehow accepted the idea that being rescued by him was no longer shameful.
It was… routine.
The realization stung worse than the flames.
Across from him, Qiye let out a chuckle, his expression infuriatingly casual.
"Hah… hahahah…" he laughed twice, unable to hold it back. His tone carried the same teasing amusement as always, light yet cutting.
And Yamamoto, despite the fire consuming him, despite the enemies watching, despite his own pride—could only stare in silence.
"Why didn't you say that sooner? Why are you acting shyer than my woman? Is the old man a tsundere now?!"
"Tian Li Shou!"
In a blink, Qiye and the old Captain-Commander switched places. Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni suddenly found himself standing in the sky, while Qiye's calm figure had taken his place on the ground. Nanaya's words — cruel and teasing — still echoed in Yamamoto's ears.
The thousand-year-old Shinigami didn't know if he should be angry or embarrassed. Either way, his face turned red. Pride and shame warred on his features.
"Shut up, boy," Yamamoto barked, his voice rough with pain. "I'm not used to asking a human for help. Don't make this worse."
Qiye — or Nanaya, as some called him — didn't bother answering. He ignored Yamamoto's grumpy complaint and instead focused on the battlefield. Calmly, Qiye raised his hand and called out a technique:
"Amaterasu!"
"Flame Control!"
Black fire burst from the Sharingan-like eye Qiye used, a flame unlike Ryūjin Jakka's red blaze. It was deep and black, a cold, immortal flame that burned quietly but fiercely. When it touched the red fire of Ryūjin Jakka, something unexpected happened: black burned red. Flame met flame, and the black circle of fire swallowed and pushed back the red inferno. The sight was wild and hard to believe.
The black immortal flame tore apart and spread, becoming a sea of black fire that clashed with Ryūjin Jakka's burning waves. The sword-spirit in the flames — Ryūjin Jakka itself — went from dominating the sky to glaring with pure rage. As the oldest and most powerful flame-type Zanpakutō, Ryūjin Jakka was proud. It would not stand for any other flame to try to dominate it.
Qiye stepped back and looked past Aizen Sōsuke and Yhwach, his eyes fixed with curiosity on the burning figure that had been the Captain-Commander's blade.
"Is that... the embodiment of Ryūjin Jakka?" he asked aloud.
Compared to other Zanpakutō spirits, Ryūjin Jakka's form was extreme. It was a creature of fire—its whole body a living blaze. Its eyes were white flames, fierce and bright. It looked like a demon wreathed in fire: violent, explosive, proud and cruel. All the traits of flame itself seemed to beat within that form — wrath, arrogance, and raw power.
Qiye glanced back at Yamamoto with a grin. "Old man," he said lightly, "looking at your Zanpakutō, I can picture what you were like a thousand years ago."
It was true. A Zanpakutō often reflected its wielder's soul. Ryūjin Jakka's tyrant-like appearance could only come from a wielder with a matching nature. A thousand years ago, Yamamoto must have been as fierce and untamed as the blade that took his name. Over the centuries, perhaps his fires had cooled. Time and duty can calm even the hottest temper.
Yamamoto, regaining some of his composure, didn't answer Qiye's mockery. His voice was thick with warning as he spoke instead to the younger fighters.
"Be careful, little ghost," he warned. "These three aren't weak. Even at my peak, I wouldn't be sure of beating them all."
He pointed out the threats plainly. Aizen Sōsuke was not just a cunning foe; he had broken the boundaries between Shinigami and Hollow and could even transcend dimensions. In the battle at Karakura Town, if Nanaya — Qiye — hadn't arrived in time, the Shinigami side might have lost everything.
Then there was Ryūjin Jakka, the living spirit of his own Zanpakutō. It was like fighting a second Yamamoto: it had his memories, his reiatsu, his combat patterns — and it could use Bankai, which the real Yamamoto, injured and disabled, could not.
Finally, Yhwach. Yamamoto's face grew darker when he spoke that name. Yhwach was the most dangerous of all. In the earlier fight, Yhwach had shown a power that felt like knowing everything and doing everything — omniscient, omnipotent. Yamamoto's cremation blade had failed to hurt him.
Three enemies — any one of them was terrible. Together they made pressure a thousand times worse than the battles of the past. Yamamoto felt a weight that even his legendary strength could not easily bear. It made him think of the old wars a thousand years ago — and how the danger now far outstripped those old fights.
"You can try to hold them off for a little while," Yamamoto advised, voice steady despite the pain. "Wait for the Zero Division to arrive and support you."
He didn't believe for a second that Qiye could beat all three alone. Reinforcements from the Zero Division would be the safer plan. Yamamoto hoped the sudden appearance of allies might turn the tide.
"Ugh, you're such a worry," Qiye pouted, rolling his eyes. "Do you think I'm that arrogant? Of course I'll wait for back-up." He smiled, but it was the easy kind of grin that didn't sound like a promise.
At that moment, help actually came. Shinigami from the Seireitei poured onto the field. Captain Kyoraku Shunsui called out, voice loud and urgent: "Nanaya! Hold on! We're coming to help!"
Qiye blinked and then snorted. "Are you coming to die?" he said, looking at them with deadpan eyes. "Who gave you the confidence to help me?"
His tone was half challenge, half joke, but the message was clear: this fight was no joke. Even with more Shinigami around, their arrival alone might not be enough. The cost could be high.
Still, lines were being drawn. Flames clashed in the sky. The sword-spirit raged. Allies were arriving. And amid the chaos, Yamamoto stood, wounded and proud, while Qiye — cool, teasing, and dangerous — readied himself for whatever came next.
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