The violet flames roared to life.
White lightning surged and exploded outward, flooding the entire battlefield with a brilliance bright enough to resemble daylight. Countless serpents of wild electricity coiled and tangled around Kisaragi Akira's body, weaving radiant patterns across his skin.
Compared to this overwhelming aura, the spiritual pressure he released felt almost insignificant. After all, even with his Soul-Binding Technique shattered, Gangyodai Anzai still possessed the genuine spiritual pressure of a Third-Class Reaper.
By contrast, Akira—despite being ranked among the upper-seat officers—had spiritual pressure that, in raw force, could be crushed outright by Anzai.
Which was why, when Akira's spiritual pressure flared, Anzai's twisted face even showed a flicker of mocking disdain.
As if sneering, So much for biting off more than you can chew.
But that smugness didn't last long.
Amid Kokuzan's mad laughter, Akira didn't retreat in the slightest. His body tightened like a drawn bowstring, fingers curling inward until his knuckles cracked—thunder exploding from his clenched fist.
Hit—!
Without hesitation, without doubt, Akira unleashed his strongest strike.
BOOM!!
At the moment of impact, when their fists collided, Anzai felt a scorching wave rush over him—so intense it made him hallucinate for an instant that he wasn't facing Kisaragi Akira at all…
…but Yamamoto Shigekuni himself.
It wasn't an illusion.
It was real.
His outward spiritual-pressure defense was being devoured—torched away—by the purple flames, burning and erasing it until his guard collapsed completely.
From the sidelines, Yamamoto observed the sudden shift in the battle.
He didn't know what method Akira had used, but Anzai had reverted to the state he was in before absorbing the Soul King's power.
Meaning he no longer posed the overwhelming threat he did moments ago.
In that case… letting Kisaragi Akira finish this wasn't a bad choice at all.
First, it would test the results of Akira's recent training.
Second, it would build momentum around Akira. Even if he hadn't achieved Shikai yet—didn't even know the name of his own Zanpakutō—his combat ability was already more than sufficient.
He was stronger than many captains, even.
Perhaps once he became a captain, the kid might finally learn some restraint.
As Yamamoto quietly mused over this, an excited roar echoed across the ruins of the barracks:
"SUPERNOVA… IGNITION!"
When a punch reaches its limit, it ignites the air—turning the world into a sea of flame.
Countless phantom fists erupted between them, overlapping, intersecting, exploding into sight.
It was like a pure, overwhelming symphony. The intense rhythm surged and blasted outward, turning the battlefield into an extravagant stage.
Gangyodai Anzai had lived over a thousand years, yet this was the first time he had ever experienced such a humiliating battle.
His spiritual pressure was stronger.
His combat technique was superior.
Everything in theory favored him.
And yet he was being beaten down so completely, so relentlessly, that he couldn't even fight back.
Akira's fists fell like torrential rain, drowning him completely. If not for his spiritual-pressure defense, he would already have been reduced to rubble—like the buildings collapsing around him.
This was nothing like the fight against Shiragi Shinichi.
Nor anything like the clash with Saal Apollo.
Akira understood perfectly: the gap between him and Anzai wasn't very large—especially since Yamamoto had already cut Anzai down once before the fight began.
Right now, Anzai was the perfect opponent for him.
Continuous overwhelming offense was the most effective strategy.
Even a moment of slackening would invite Anzai's thunderous retaliation—and then he would be the one getting pulverized.
Akira's eyes lowered, flames flickering within them.
He could feel his heart pounding violently. His surging battlelust flooded through him, blazing like molten iron and turning his blood into liquid magma coursing through his veins.
White lightning surged through his nerves, filling every fiber of his being.
His mind sharpened to a razor's edge, more focused than ever before. Everything he had ever learned flashed before him—
From the basics of hand-to-hand combat, to advanced tactics, to Shiranui-style, to Gen-ryū…
Each technique slid effortlessly into his movements, aligning into the perfect offensive stance.
Like a god descending.
Yamamoto's expression stiffened. His gaze locked not on the battle as a whole—but on Akira.
He had corrected Akira's flawed fundamentals. With sheer, overwhelming power, he had torn apart everything Akira once relied on, rebuilding his combat instincts from the ground up.
But the change Akira displayed now…
This was beyond that.
The refined instinct had fully fused into his very being.
Layers peeled away—skin, muscle, bone—engraving killing instinct directly into the deepest nerves, the most primitive strata of existence.
It was pure instinct.
Simply put—he'd become even more reckless.
The changes happened in the blink of an eye. Akira's speed became something Anzai's eyes could no longer track; the battlefield blurred with descending fists.
Each punch rivaled the devastating force of Gen-ryū: Collapse.
Anzai's spiritual-pressure defense broke again and again. His limbs felt heavier. His vision blurred.
And the youth before him… the silhouette overlapping with one in his memories…
They merged.
Two completely different people.
Yet in this moment… the same.
"Yamamoto…!"
Anzai roared with unwilling fury, draining every last bit of spiritual pressure he had, preparing a final counterattack.
Still firing on all cylinders, Akira blinked.
Why the hell is this old man shouting Yamamoto's name when I'm the one beating him senseless?
Unless… Yamamoto and Anzai had some unspeakable secret?
Akira's brain instantly flooded with forbidden mental images. He nearly soft-crashed on the spot.
"You've still got time to shout someone else's name? Looks like my punches aren't heavy enough!"
He violently shook his head, tossed the nonsense aside, and grinned savagely at Anzai.
"In that case… let's end this with my strongest attack!"
The moment the words fell, Anzai's pupils shrank.
He saw something unbelievable—
The blazing purple flames drew inward, flowing like liquid toward Akira's right fist, forming a gauntlet-like shell.
His finger bones cracked like thin branches, as if crushed under immense pressure.
But the most terrifying thing wasn't the technique.
It was Akira's smile—twisted like a demon's.
Yamamoto's face paled. Something was wrong. His eyes narrowed sharply as he sent out his spiritual perception.
And then his eyes widened. Blood pressure spiking.
"You idiot! You're going to shatter every bone in your hand!"
Akira didn't respond.
The purple flames trembled violently across his skin. Muscle fibers and tendons quivered, compressing the entirety of his power into a single line—into a single point.
The engraved Kidō patterns glowed, gathering everything into one final release.
Crimson Thunder, Azure Blaze—Hit Strike!
Gangyodai Anzai screamed, forcing out every last drop of spiritual pressure. His lips split and bled as he shouted the final defense he had left:
"Bakudō 81 — Dankū!"
A transparent barrier unfolded instantly—a towering wall of absolute defense.
Akira's fist hit it.
A deafening crack split the air.
It… held?!
Anzai's eyes widened in wild joy. He inhaled, ready to unleash another spell—to finish Akira off while his defense was still raised—
But then—
A spiderweb of fractures spread across the barrier.
CRACK!!
Shards of glowing reishi burst outward between them.
Akira's fist broke through Dankū and slammed directly into Anzai's chest.
Bone shattered inside the old man's torso.
He didn't even have time to scream. His wide eyes locked onto Akira one last time—lips trembling as if to speak—
Then the thunderous blaze detonated inside him, erupting into a massive pillar of light that split the sky.
The scorching wind howled—obliterating everything.
The ground shook. Dust storms rose. Wind spiraled outward.
Every spectator stared in shock at the spectacle, worldview shattered.
So even without a Zanpakutō…
A Shinigami could unleash something this terrifying?
Or maybe—
This was what a true Shinigami really was.
When the firestorm finally subsided and the dust fell, Akira reappeared—staggering heavily. That final technique had drained all his spiritual pressure and damaged his body severely.
And that was with his unusually high physical resilience.
Any other Reaper would have lost half their body outright.
As for Gangyodai Anzai—
He had already turned to ash. His ambition turned to dust with him.
Yamamoto stepped forward, catching Akira before he collapsed. The moment he checked Akira's condition, his face darkened.
This brat had gone way too far.
He had forced out a technique far beyond his limits, shattering half the bones in his right arm—reduced to pulp, almost.
For injuries like this, most Reapers would retire on the spot.
Hopefully Unohana could—
…
…
He didn't know how long he was out when Akira slowly opened his eyes.
He was no longer in the ruins of the First Division barracks, but in the familiar Fourth Division infirmary.
"…Too weak," Akira muttered.
To think he had to use a finishing move to take down a villain so irrelevant he didn't even deserve a name…
He'd drained all his spiritual pressure, left himself exhausted…
And his right arm—
Wait.
Why couldn't he feel it at all?
Did his little righty…?
"Now you realize the consequences?"
A gentle, familiar voice spoke from beside him.
Akira turned his head.
Standing there was his personal physician—
Unohana Retsu.
"When you fight, do you ever consider the consequences?"
Her voice was calm, but the hint of reprimand was unmistakable.
Just when she'd found a genuine prodigy, he had pushed himself into this state.
"For opponents like that, you should have left things to Captain-Commander Yamamoto."
"Why did you insist on overexerting yourself?"
Akira sighed.
"Anzai was the head of the Gangyodai clan. Sure, he committed unforgivable crimes because of his ambition…"
"But even so, it shouldn't be the old man who deals with him. As Captain-Commander, he carries too many responsibilities."
"If the noble clans realize the Thirteen Divisions aren't as stable as before, unrest will follow. It could shake all of Soul Society."
"And the hard-won order we have would vanish."
Unohana stared at him in silence, her eyes carrying a strange nuance.
"…Did you figure that out yourself?" she asked softly.
"Hah, of course!" Akira grinned proudly, thumping his chest with his uninjured left hand—nearly broadcasting the word genius across his forehead.
"As everyone knows, my wisdom spans the ages—"
"What do you think will happen next in Soul Society," Unohana suddenly asked, "now that the Gangyodai clan's plot has been exposed and their family has suffered unprecedented damage?"
"Will this widen the rift between the nobles and the Thirteen Divisions?"
"And what role will the Shihōin and Kuchiki play in this upheaval?"
"C-captain Unohana… that's… a lot of questions…"
A barrage of political questions smashed into him.
Akira froze.
What do I do? Aizen never taught me any of this.
Help. Anyone. Please. Online now. Very urgent.
His mind was still foggy from the extreme exertion. He couldn't think normally at all. Otherwise, he might have at least produced an answer vaguely matching his usual personality.
Something like: Soul Society will enter a Warring States period where factions rise up!
Watching Akira struggle for a full minute without producing a single useful answer, Unohana sighed deeply.
Of course.
She hadn't taught him much, but her perceptive nature already told her the truth:
This boy, who occasionally brought a faint smile to her face…
Was not good at thinking.
Or rather—Akira solved problems with intuition more than logic.
"For now, think about how you'll spend the next few months."
Unohana folded her arms with a helpless expression.
"Even with the best medicine and my healing Kidō—and despite your abnormal recovery ability—your injuries are simply too severe."
"You won't be able to do any strenuous movement for months. Much less train or fight."
Akira stared blankly.
He knew it would be serious, but not this serious.
Right then, someone knocked on the door.
…