The world was still that world, and under his feet was still the familiar Seireitei…
Yet not far ahead, a light seemed to appear—along with a door. A crack opened, as if beckoning him.
Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni sat cross-legged on the corridor of his small courtyard, basking in the sun. Beside him lay his rustic cane that concealed Ryūjin Jakka. He quietly stared at the sudden door and the light. His old eyes narrowed sharply, and two beams of sharp radiance shot out—startling the orange cat and the calico in the yard into bristling fur.
"What is it, Eijisai?"
Sasakibe Chōjirō—wearing shihakushō with a high-collared undershirt, white hair and golden eyes, sometimes dressed in a Western style—was tending two pots of greenery as usual. He sensed something off and turned around.
The old man said nothing. He only lifted a withered hand to his chest, feeling the heart that had beat steadily through two thousand years of war and weathering… only for it to suddenly skip again.
Yamamoto stared at the glowing doorway and said slowly, "Chōjirō. You can't see it?"
"See what?"
"The door. It's right behind you."
"…?"
Chōjirō frowned. He knew Yamamoto's temperament well—his captain didn't lie, and even less would he bother to.
If he said there was a door behind him, then there was a door.
Chōjirō set down the watering can without a sound. Then, in one swift motion, he snapped his arm up and threw it in the direction Yamamoto indicated.
Bang—
The watering can passed straight through that faintly glowing doorway and flew onward, landing in front of Yamamoto. The old man casually reached up and caught it, steady in his palm.
"It seems… it isn't waiting for you."
The doorway was clearly there, yet Chōjirō couldn't see it or touch it. How many years had it been since something sparked Yamamoto's curiosity—something he couldn't see through at a glance?
Thump—
That battle-worn heart beat faster by half a step again, for no reason at all.
Yamamoto pressed a hand to his chest, then tossed the watering can back to Chōjirō.
He rose slowly, his long beard trailing. With a lift of his hand, the cane—hiding Ryūjin Jakka within—slid perfectly into his grip.
Then Yamamoto vanished in a flicker, bathed in that spilling light, and stepped into the doorway—disappearing.
"I'll go take a look," he left Chōjirō with.
Chōjirō bowed slightly, watching him go with no worry at all. One: his absolute faith in Yamamoto Genryūsai. Two: if there truly was danger, it wouldn't be Yamamoto alone who fell—Seireitei, perhaps all of Soul Society, would go with him.
After all…
For two thousand years, Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni had been the strongest Shinigami—the strongest being in the Human World, Hueco Mundo, and Soul Society. No exceptions.
But what Chōjirō didn't expect was this—
His captain's soul went, yet his body still sat cross-legged on the corridor.
Chōjirō froze.
Shinigami were pure beings of spiritual particles—single, unified life-forms. Unlike humans, they didn't have a "body" as a shell for a "soul." Everything that moved in Seireitei—Shinigami, wandering souls, even cats and dogs—was a soul by nature.
So in theory…
There shouldn't be such a thing as "the soul leaving the body."
And yet it happened.
Chōjirō frowned at Yamamoto's seated form, eyes shut, still sunbathing as if nothing had happened.
So what, then, was the one who just left with a sword and vanished through that door?
He couldn't make sense of it. He had no desire to keep watering flowers.
He sat down beside Yamamoto instead—quiet, alert, guarding.
Meanwhile, half-asleep and half-awake, Yamamoto himself noticed the strangeness too. He followed the pull through the doorway—
And the moment he raised his eyes, he saw a blade.
A dazzling blade.
It wasn't a katana. It was straight—long—and its surface was veined with black flame-like patterns. In shape, it oddly resembled the rustic cane in his own hand.
Planted in the ground, it looked like a staff.
Drawn free, it was a sword.
And as the old man approached along the path of gathered light, he felt it—heat.
Heat that boiled the air like scalding water, rolling outward in waves.
At first touch, it was already nearing ten thousand degrees.
A blade wrapped in flame, gathering light…
Is this… summoning me?
As he got closer, Yamamoto finally saw what lay ahead:
A lush garden.
In it, a black-haired youth stood with his back to Yamamoto, raising his sword toward the sky, drawing in the sunlight.
The youth was young—yet sharp. He seemed to hear footsteps. He turned.
Across the spill of light, an old man and a boy faced each other in silence—one leaning on a cane, one holding a sword like a staff.
Silence filled Kukuroo Mountain.
"What's he looking at?" It was eight in the morning. Spring was turning into early summer, the air growing warmer. And with Eclipse drawing in sunlight and pushing out heat-waves—
Once Silva returned with the doctor he'd called for the delivery, he stood with Maha, arms folded, watching Roy stare toward some unseen point, brows faintly knit.
"I don't know," Maha said, picking at his ear.
"Even you don't know, Grandpa?"
"And you don't know what your own son's Nen ability really is either, do you?"
Silva: "…"
Silence.
Maha's eyes stayed on Roy. He didn't press. "Existence is reasonable. If the kid doesn't want to say, you don't need to ask. He's got opinions."
"…More than you."
Silva: "…Yeah."
Grandfather and grandson—one tall, one short; one broad, one wiry—fell quiet together.
Not far away, Tsubone had helped Kikyo back inside to rest. The garden was empty except for Roy, holding his sword with a dazed, almost hungry focus.
That old man with the long, carefully groomed beard—drooping to the ground—came into view in Roy's mind as he stepped forward and nodded with proper courtesy.
"Roy Zoldyck," the old man said.
"Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni," Roy answered.
"You're training?" Yamamoto narrowed his eyes at Eclipse. "What's its name?"
Roy tasted the "light" and "heat" in the air. For the first time, he wasn't treating the blade as an extension of his arm, but as an extension of his life—his Ren reflecting his heart's "visualized object."
He answered gently, "Eclipse."
"Eclipse…"
Bold. Recklessly bold.
If he could hear a nameless asauchi calling out and know its true name… then this boy had fully mastered Shikai, and perhaps even…
Bankai.
A spark flared deep in Yamamoto's eyes.
His geta shifted.
In a blink, he was at Roy's side—facing ten-thousand-degree heat as if it were nothing.
He praised, almost begrudgingly, "It fits. But… the temperature's still a bit low."
Shunpo…? Roy caught the drifting, instant step, like a blur of displacement. Truly worthy of the name.
He smiled. "Compared to you, it's nothing."
Ryūjin Jakka—one blade, a single swing, cremation made law. At its peak, heat nearing the sun itself—no empty legend.
Yamamoto's eyes moved, and he looked over at Roy. "You know me?"
Up close, he could sense the overwhelming vitality rising from Roy's soul. In an instant, he judged: this boy's true age wasn't large. Perhaps even… too young.
Maybe it was old age. Maybe it was the nature of Shinigami. But in Soul Society, a hundred years, two hundred years, still counted as "young."
And this boy—at most thirteen.
That was small. Too small to have ever had reason to learn his name, or even know Seireitei existed.
"Let's say I do," Roy said, half-honest. "Before today, I hadn't met you. But now I have—so we can call it 'knowing.'"
Roy didn't wait for more questions. He let Eclipse drink the sun and said openly, "I didn't expect you to come. Earlier… I was just thinking about what it means to be grateful to the sword."
Yamamoto paused, fingers rubbing his cane. "So this is your realization?"
Roy blinked. "Is something wrong with it?"
Yamamoto didn't answer.
He only drew his sword—Ryūjin Jakka—
BOOM!
Flames erupted into the sky.
A crushing spiritual pressure poured down.
In an instant, Roy—and Eclipse—were pressed beneath it.
Like a firefly meeting the sun. Like an ant facing an elephant.
Yamamoto didn't use Bankai. He didn't even need to.
He stared at Ryūjin Jakka, then said flatly, "My blade's name isn't as grand as yours. But it has one thing you don't."
"It can kill."
A scream—despair, shrieking, hatred—suddenly burst from within Ryūjin Jakka itself.
Roy staggered in his mind. For a heartbeat, he saw billions of dead souls clawing their way out of that flame. The sheer impact slammed into his eyes, into his heart, until his breath caught.
Yamamoto stood beside him, unmoved, blade held upright. With a single wipe of his hand, he erased the wailing spirits—forced them down.
Then he looked at Roy and said calmly, "It's stronger than you."
"Kill."
The word struck like thunder.
Roy's senses lurched. He was still in a garden, but he felt as if he stood in a sea of corpses—charred bodies underfoot, faces burned away, features indistinguishable.
At last, Yamamoto gave no further pressure. He sheathed the sword back into the plain old cane.
As Roy's "cognition sea" gate—the one marked with a horned corpse-demon—closed, Yamamoto's presence broke into scattered motes of light and began to fade.
At the end, he left Roy one last deep glance and a single line—echoing in Roy's ears long after, as if it would ring for days:
"I don't understand gratitude. I only understand slaughter."
"Roy… if we meet again, let me see what you've become."
The light-door vanished.
Yamamoto's consciousness snapped back.
He opened his eyes—
Back in Seireitei, in that familiar courtyard.
"Meow." On the corridor, an orange cat and a calico sat side-by-side, staring curiously. Chōjirō remained nearby, still guarding.
Yamamoto remembered Roy's face. His long beard dragged along the corridor floor.
After a long silence, he spoke to Chōjirō without looking away from the sky:
"You were right."
"It's time I take a student."
Chōjirō: "…?"
He'd mentioned it before as half a joke. Now he couldn't help asking, "What did you see in there?"
Yamamoto raised his face toward the sun—warm, unbearably warm—and said quietly,
"Light."
"A very bright light."
Then he closed his eyes and said nothing more.
Chōjirō was left in a fog. He didn't press. He picked up the watering can again and returned to his flowers—just as, back in the Zoldyck estate, the household staff quietly began repairing the lawn and tending the garden once Roy finally lowered his sword and returned to himself.
A system prompt appeared—its chime landing cleanly:
[Notice: Your gratitude triggered a sword-path epiphany and drew Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni's attention. You were fortunate enough to exchange blades and witness Ryūjin Jakka. "Swordsmanship" +1000]
[Current "Swordsmanship": Lv4 (41570/100000)]
The notification faded.
Under the sun, Roy exhaled. With reverse conjuration, he broke Eclipse back into a thread of Nen and returned it to himself.
He carefully chewed on Yamamoto's words.
Then he lifted his head, took a deep breath—
A swampy blur spread underfoot.
In the next instant, he was in the corridor again.
Maha looked over at him at just the right moment. "Find your answer?"
Roy's gaze slid past the old man to Silva. He gave him a small nod, then said after a moment of thought,
"I thought 'gratitude' should point inward—toward my heart's 'visualized object.' But then…"
"I realized I'd ignored something huge."
Silva: "What?"
"Slaughter." Roy's expression sharpened. "Swordsmanship isn't only gratitude. It's killing—or rather, killing intent. That's the blade's true nature."
Ryūjin Jakka was only a sword, yet it had buried billions of souls.
Roy felt it in his bones: he'd killed too few. Far too few.
Not enough.
Enough that Yamamoto didn't even need to say it—just drawing his sword had crushed Roy completely.
Roy didn't want to lose that badly again.
Not next time.
Maha nodded, almost approving. "Yeah. As an assassin, you really are underqualified."
"Then I'll kill more," Roy said, already moving.
Silva brushed past him, heading upstairs to check on Kikyo. "After Killua's born, you can go wherever you want. Kill whoever you want."
"Fine." Roy watched him go, then turned toward the training room.
His shadow stretched long behind him.
Maha stood with hands clasped behind his back, watching Roy leave. For a moment, it almost felt like he was watching Zigg again—headstrong, charging forward like a mule.
The old man called after him softly:
"Since you're back… go see Zigg."
Roy stopped and nodded, solemn.
No need to say it.
He planned to.
And while he was at it—
He'd kill.
Until he could kill a god.
~~~
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