Shinichi Shiraki grinned, revealing shark-like teeth that made his already terrifying presence feel even more monstrous.
He let out a guttural, almost mechanical chuckle, like the roar of an engine brought to life.
"So the little brats of the Spirit Arts Academy have gotten this bold, huh?" he sneered.
"Who gave you the confidence? The Genryu?"
"Pathetic!"
As he spoke, the muscles on his body bulged, stretching the shackles that had restrained him without the aid of kido enchantments, sending terrifying waves of spiritual pressure rolling outward. Without a doubt, he radiated the power of a vice-captain, almost touching the level of a full captain. Just standing before him, the sheer aura of danger was enough to send chills down Kisaragi Akira's spine.
This wasn't just raw spiritual pressure. Shiraki was a living weapon, far stronger than the monstrous Kurokisa he had faced before—not just in raw power, but in sheer presence. His instincts screamed danger from the very beginning, a warning that any misstep could be fatal.
"You have no idea what a true warrior is," Shiraki hissed. "The captain I once followed could strike down lower-level Hollows with a single blow, capture mid-tier ones without effort, and even make the highest-level Hollows cower in fear."
Shiraki's voice, strained from decades of confinement, was relentless. "Hah… and when I led my team on a mission, those so-called high-tier Hollows? Fragile, all of them." He lowered his massive frame slightly, his heat radiating through the dojo like a living furnace. "I tore them apart myself!"
Kisaragi Akira, unfazed, went through a simple warm-up, stretching his joints and loosening his muscles as an athlete would before a match. Then, he looked up, meeting the towering monster's gaze, and cracked a small, confident smile.
"Done talking?" he said. "Then let's get this over with."
A flicker of surprise passed over Shiraki's eyes. Beneath the brute exterior, he was meticulous and cautious. Decades of imprisonment hadn't dulled his instinct, and he approached even this seemingly fragile opponent with extreme care. His earlier words? Pure intimidation, meant to plant fear in the boy and weaken him mentally.
In the Spirit Arts Academy's manuals, it was written clearly: "High-level Hollows are to be treated with the utmost caution, ideally handled only by the Zero Division." Most students would shiver at the mere mention of such a name. Yet Kisaragi Akira remained unnervingly calm, as if Shiraki's tales hadn't even registered. Had his teacher not taught him the horror of high-level Hollows?
Shiraki's bloodshot eyes locked onto the boy. A wave of barely contained madness simmered beneath his skin. In an instant, his enormous hand shot downward, aimed as if to crush Kisaragi Akira's skull like a melon. The air ruptured with a deafening roar.
The spectators froze, hearts pounding. Even witnessing his monstrous frame from a distance, their fear was palpable. Limbs trembled. Thoughts of resistance faded.
But Kisaragi Akira's eyes gleamed. He wasn't afraid. On his youthful, determined face, a spark of exhilaration shone. He understood why Yamamoto had orchestrated this. Shiraki belonged to the same category—a naturally formidable spiritual body.
This wasn't merely a graduation exam. This was crucial training.
Muscles rippling like water, Kisaragi Akira stepped forward, projecting his own spiritual pressure openly. His level? Ninth-class. Comparable to a mid-tier vice-captain. Shiraki's eyes widened in disbelief. The audacity of a boy, not even at vice-captain level, daring to face him head-on—it was insane.
Kisaragi Akira's right hand flexed, the tendons humming like taut strings.
Genryu Strike: Palm Wave!
"Tch, a prodigy, indeed! He's already mastered Palm Wave?" Fuzuki muttered in amazement. "I still can't get it, and Shunmei never liked this kind of technique."
Even Yamamoto's half-closed eyes flickered with surprise. He hadn't taught Kisaragi Akira this move, yet the boy had learned it perfectly from just a few training bouts. Truly, he was talent worthy of investment.
Boom! The boy's fist collided with Shiraki's massive knuckles. The shockwave tore through the air, sending ripples across the dojo. Shiraki's pupils constricted. His face contorted in a mixture of rage and disbelief as the force coursed through his arms, threatening to destabilize him entirely.
Kisaragi Akira felt the impact too, but he didn't waver. Shiraki's spiritual body was enormous, but the boy's technique was flawless. Both stepped back, reassessing each other with grave focus. Outside the kido barrier, the audience erupted in astonishment. Those familiar with Shiraki could scarcely believe their eyes.
"That kid… he's fine?!"
"The world's changing too fast…"
"I thought the last prodigy was impressive. This one's even stronger!"
Before graduation, Kisaragi Akira had already bested a veteran vice-captain. His future glowed with limitless potential.
"You're impressive," Shiraki admitted, voice serious. "In a few years, you may surpass me. But unfortunately… some people make very bad decisions."
His massive frame swelled even more, muscles twisting like steel wires, tearing the white prison uniform apart, the dojo floor cracking under his weight.
Kisaragi Akira's eyes narrowed, recalling a familiar figure: Toguro, though only in appearance.
"The real fight begins now," Shiraki growled, dashing forward, leaving multiple afterimages in his wake. His hands, vast as fans, smashed toward Kisaragi Akira, tearing the air with ear-splitting roars.
Yet the boy smiled, muscles tensing and rippling with energy. With a flash, he closed the distance and intercepted the strike with a palm wreathed in violet flames.
The blow rocked Shiraki back across the dojo, slamming him into the kido barrier. Ripples spread outward as spectators gaped, unable to comprehend how a seemingly slight boy could wield such destructive force.
Shiraki struggled to rise, abdominal muscles torn and bleeding, while Kisaragi Akira remained composed, a smirk playing across his blood-spattered face—an infernal figure of power forged in the heat of battle.
Shiraki stared, incredulous. The boy's unarmed strike had functioned like a kido-infused attack, executed without incantation or weapon. Outside the barrier, Yoshida Bokken clenched his jaw, analyzing the technique.
Exquisite… combining the Red Flame Cannon and Azure Fire Drop into a single, seamless attack… even Master Gakuryu couldn't do this. His talent in kido… unprecedented.
Lightning crackled around Kisaragi Akira's legs, shredding his pants and fortifying his muscles further. He looked up at the towering Shiraki, a smile of fierce intent on his face.
"When did you get so arrogant?" Shiraki growled.
Laughter escaped Kisaragi Akira as he launched forward like a thunderclap, muscles coiled like drawn bows, fist igniting with raw energy.
Genryu Strike: Crushing Impact!
The impact smashed into Shiraki's abdomen, launching him like a cannonball across the dojo. He crashed into the kido barrier with a shuddering explosion, and the ripples radiated outward.
The spectators were paralyzed with awe. The terror they had felt at Shiraki's arrival had been replaced with reverent fear of this burning young prodigy. How could someone so slight wield such power?
Shiraki struggled upright, ribs shattered, body bloodied. Even he wondered if beneath that skin lay a Hollow of some sort. Never in centuries had he encountered a Shinigami who attacked with self-combusting force.
"Appearances can be deceiving," he muttered.
As he readied his next strike, Kisaragi Akira had already closed the distance, fists flashing faster than the eye could follow, each punch fueled by violet flames, each strike a masterclass in precision and relentless aggression.
Shiraki's face shifted from calm, to shocked, to fearful. Every attempt to call for mercy was stifled by the boy's onslaught.
Finally, Kisaragi Akira concentrated every ounce of his strength, muscles trembling under the violet inferno, compressing his force into a single devastating strike.
Genryu Strike: Thunderclap Press!
His fist slammed into Shiraki's chest, a resounding boom vibrating through the dojo. Shiraki's eyes went blank, lips quivering as if he had lost his voice. Bone and spirit strained under the force, and his spiritual pressure faltered.
With a monstrous roar, Shiraki Shiraki collapsed.
Kisaragi Akira stood in the center of the dojo, blood speckling his pale face, exuding the aura of a demon risen from the depths of hell.