Unohana Yachiru's Killing Intent
If you can't please her—
Then you'll be cut down.
If you can't satisfy her—
Then pay for it in blood.
That was the murderous intent of Unohana Yachiru, laid bare after revealing her true self.
Even when she saw Aiyan sheath his Zanpakutō mid-fight, there was no flicker of her usual mercy. No restraint. Only deeper dissatisfaction.
No Shinigami had ever dared to abandon their sword in a duel with her.
Not even the strongest Shinigami of the last millennium—Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni—would take such a risk.
"A sword is such an inconvenience."
As though he could read the fury in her heart, Aiyan slowly raised his head and glanced at her.
Clang.
He extended both hands outward. His index and middle fingers touched—and a monstrous torrent of Reiatsu erupted.
Just as Unohana Yachiru's Zanpakutō came within a breath of slicing into his neck, the earth beneath her feet cracked apart. One after another, long swords surged from the ground—each one uniquely shaped yet exuding the same chilling sword pressure. They rose like celestial bodies, surrounding him like stars orbiting the moon.
Boom.
Her blade, along with the crushing force it carried, was completely repelled—isolated by the eight floating swords of pure Reiatsu. They formed a barrier no blade could cross.
"You… you really do wield a stronger sword…"
"What… what is this?"
"How can it be this powerful—when you're not even holding your Zanpakutō?!"
Unohana's strike, launched with full force, failed to break through the defense. For a moment, shock paled her expression—but then, an intoxicating, mad gleam lit up her eyes.
This was it. This was swordsmanship.
A battle worthy of the name. A warrior worthy of her blade.
This was the kind of opponent she had longed for—one who walked the ultimate path of the sword.
"The Way of the Sword: Eight Swords Soaring."
Aiyan pushed his left hand through the air.
The eight swords, once passive shields, immediately shifted to an offensive formation. They glided through the night like celestial blades, each one radiating overwhelming sword pressure.
With a storm-like force, the swords tore through the forest, turning trees to splinters and dust to a sky-filling cloud.
Unohana's feet skidded backward under the sheer pressure emanating from the swords—even before they struck.
And then—
Eight sword-lights. Eight meteors. Eight death sentences.
The night was slashed open, eightfold.
Clang.
But Unohana didn't flinch.
The reflexes honed through a thousand life-and-death battles kicked in. Without hesitation, she reversed her grip and stabbed her Zanpakutō into the ground, anchoring herself.
Right foot forward.
Spine drawn taut like a bow.
And then—
Release.
"The Way of the Sword: Eight Thousand Styles!"
Against the oncoming storm of spiritual blades, she advanced—not retreated.
Her kendo, forged over centuries, absorbed and surpassed every sword style in Soul Society. Her name, her legend, her pride—all poured into this one strike.
Unohana's sword met the Reiatsu blades head-on.
Boom.
The impact ripped the world apart.
Trees shattered. Hills collapsed. Stone was sliced into dust. The ground caved in, forming a massive crater—like a meteor had struck the earth.
In its center, a pillar of spiraling spiritual light shot skyward, splitting the heavens.
It was as if their clash had summoned dawn itself.
"Your swordsmanship is excellent," Unohana said coldly.
"But it pales in comparison to mine."
"You think your mere technique can overcome my Eight Thousand Styles—formed from the essence of all schools in the world?"
She gripped her sword with both hands, brimming with unshakable confidence, her presence that of a swordswoman looking down on all others.
"What a disappointment," Aiyan said softly.
"So this is all the vision the first Kenpachi possesses?"
Before she could respond, he raised his hand—index and middle fingers extended once more.
The eight Reiatsu swords, which had just been pushed back, blazed with light. Under Unohana's widening eyes, the swords merged—forming one colossal sword of divine pressure, surrounded by countless sword lights.
Eight become one.
Clang.
With a thunderous roar, the massive blade of light crashed downward like a comet, engulfing both Unohana and her sword in a tide of incandescent force.
"Impossible…"
Unohana's mind blanked. Everything around her vanished in the blinding surge.
Only one thing remained—a titanic blade that could split the heavens and shatter the stars.
Pfff.
The sword tide roared across the landscape.
In the aftermath, a gully stretching hundreds of meters was carved into the earth, obliterating everything in its path.
Crack.
A Kidō barrier shimmered into view—meant to contain the battle. But it had long since fractured. Cracks spiderwebbed across it like broken glass before it finally shattered.
At the end of the gully, a lone figure knelt.
Bloodied. Torn.
Unohana Yachiru, her Zanpakutō embedded in the ground, leaned on it like a cane.
Her tightly braided hair had unraveled into a waterfall of silk. The white haori of the Fourth Division had been shredded, falling like petals to her feet. Only a tattered Shihakushō clung to her form, blood soaking through her waist and abdomen.
But she didn't care.
Not for the wounds.
Not for the ruined uniform.
Not for defeat.
All that remained in her mind… was that sword.
Her eyes were dazed. Obsessive. Ecstatic.
...
[If you are enjoying the story so far, consider dropping power stones.]