The instructor was no nobody; in live-combat classes the students both respected and feared him.
Clearly, the Academy had weighed Isayama Yomi's strength and hand-picked an opponent whose experience and fundamentals were rock-solid, aiming to test her all-round ability without surprises.
The referee stood between them and shouted, "Graduation exam, match six-hundred seventy-one! Contender—Isayama Yomi! Opponent—Instructor Kitagawa! Ready… begin!"
The moment the syllable "Be-" left his mouth—before the echo of it had even faded in the air—
There was no prior ripple of spiritual pressure.
There was no tell-tale dip of the body that always precedes Shunpo.
It was as though, the instant the word "ready" finished, her figure dissolved into a blurred black after-image on the spot.
Not a straight line: a faint, untraceable deviation.
Instructor Kitagawa felt only a wisp of cool air brush his side, so slight it could have been imagination.
His battle-honed reflexes, forged over years of training, had just registered something amiss when—before his nerves could even order limbs to defend or counter—
The outer edge of a hand, cold yet oddly springy, struck with surgical precision and no wasted motion just below the side of his neck.
No earth-shaking crash—only a dull thud, almost drowned by the roar of the stands.
It was the sound of flesh and muscle meeting the reinforced collar.
Instructor Kitagawa hadn't time to grunt; a vast force flooded through his neck, the world went black, every ounce of strength fled, and he crumpled forward like a puppet with its strings severed—unconscious before he hit the ground.
The arena fell dead silent.
The cheers and chatter of a second earlier were cut off as though by an invisible hand around the throat.
Every eye stared, mouths slack, unable to believe what lay before them.
Isayama Yomi now stood behind where Instructor Kitagawa had been. She unhurriedly lowered her right arm and flicked her wrist once, as if brushing away dust that wasn't there.
Her face remained blank, her gaze calm as still water, as though she had done nothing worth mentioning; even her breathing was unruffled.
One move.
Just one move.
And nothing flashy—only speed married to power, aimed with pinpoint accuracy at a vital point: a knife-hand strike.
A heartbeat of silence, then a thunderous roar that seemed ready to rip the roof off Seireitei Academy.
Students flushed with excitement, leaping and screaming.
They might not grasp the subtleties, but that overwhelming dominance, that utterly cool poise—
It ignited every spark of youthful passion in them.
"She's incredible!!"
"Long live Isayama Yomi!!"
"See? Six years—worth every second!"
"Did anyone even see her move?"
Yet, in stark contrast to the wild cheering below, the captain seats sank into a strange, awkward hush.
Kenpachi Kiganjō's impatience froze into deeper frustration; he growled,
"That… that's it? I hadn't even—damn it, I was waiting for a show!"
Kyoraku Shunsui lowered his sake jug and tugged his hat brim down, hiding his face, voice thick with disappointment: "Well, well… not even a chance for us old folks to enjoy the drama."
He had hoped for a riddle worth solving, but the lid had barely lifted before the answer slapped him in the face.
Behind Aizen's lenses something flickered; his gentle smile carried the faintest stiffness.
He had never doubted the outcome, but such a blunt finish revealed none of the finer points he wished to observe—spiritual-pressure control, Kido finesse, fighting style.
Unohana Retsu kept her smile, yet a thoughtful glint crossed her eyes: clean, decisive… but too simple? Too little information.
Soi Fon showed no emotion, only two near-silent taps of a finger on her chair arm.
Too fast—so fast even she had caught merely a blur. Yet the foe had been too weak to gauge the girl's true limits of speed and power.
Komamura Sajin let out a low grunt: "Hn…" —approval or simple dissatisfaction, impossible to tell.
Shiba Isshin rubbed his chin, brows knitted. "Strong, sure, but... I didn't see a thing. It was like slicing melons." He'd wanted a clash that set blood on fire.
Shiba Kaien gave a wry smile and shook his head. "Isayama Yomi... With strength like that, no wonder... but she's left the rest of us no face at all." The opponent was an academy instructor, after all.
Tōsen Kaname's shut eyes trembled slightly, as if straining to feel the fleeting ripple that had flashed past.
Uchiha Shisui stared at Yomi in silence, his gaze far heavier—So fast!
That burst of acceleration carried a faint echo of the Body Flicker Technique, yet it was different—more... direct.
Closer to raw, physical explosive speed.
Shisui couldn't help comparing it in his mind to his own Body Flicker.
"Everyone..."
Captain Kyoraku Shunsui broke the silence among the captains. He cleared his throat and turned to Soi Fon and Aizen.
"This... really is a bit dull. We want to see Isayama Yomi's true strength—at least give us a chance to glimpse her value. A move like that, brilliant as it was, flashed by like a startled swan; we can't judge the whole picture."
Soi Fon spoke coldly, her low voice carrying across the arena, cutting through the cheers: "Opponent too weak. No reference value."
Aizen nodded. "Indeed. A talent like this needs a matching opponent to test her. If it's only this, we can hardly reach a decision."
Kyoraku turned toward the black-haired girl still standing quietly, unmoved by the roaring cheers, and raised his enticing, provocative voice:
"Miss Isayama! The display was splendid, but your foe was ultimately outclassed and couldn't let you fight freely, leaving us spectators up here empty-handed, unable to appreciate the finesse earned through six years of training!"
He spread his arms, indicating the ring of mighty figures behind him.
"So, we captains have talked it over and decided to make an exception for you!"
He paused, making sure every eye— including the surprised Isayama Yomi's—was fixed on him.
"You may choose again!" Kyoraku's smile turned teasing and expectant.
"Pick any one of us seated here—captain or Vice-Captain—as your new opponent. No need to be reserved; choose boldly! Let us old folks see what kind of world-shaking blade you've forged in your six years at the academy. How about it?"
The instant those words fell, the arena plunged into perfect silence.
Even deeper than when Yomi had just obliterated her opponent—utterly soundless.
"Wh-what?! A captain personally stepping in?!"
"Did I hear that right? Captain Kyoraku is letting her challenge a captain?!"
"My god... This treatment is unheard-of!"
"Isayama Yomi... Do the captains really value her so highly?"
"So... so amazing!"
Disbelieving gasps and sharp intakes of breath rose and fell; every gaze toward Yomi brimmed with envy, awe, and boundless curiosity.
On the captains' dais, expressions turned subtle.
Aizen's smile stayed, yet his eyes weighed her swiftly.
Soi Fon remained expressionless, but shifted slightly, ready to fight at any moment.
Unohana Retsu's smile deepened, curiosity piqued.
Komamura Sajin slowly closed his hand around his sword hilt.
Kenpachi Kiganjō blinked, then bared a wild, eager grin, battle-lust blazing in his eyes.
Shiba Isshin rubbed his hands in glee. "Now this is fun! Pick, pick!"
Shiba Kaien was both thrilled and worried. "Hey, isn't this too much... Will Yomi be okay?"
Vice-Captain Kotetsu Hagane and Uchiha Shisui both looked grave— a student versus a captain? The gap was vast, but if the captains willed it, they could only obey.
Under every stare, Isayama Yomi slowly lifted her gaze. Her deep, faintly wicked black eyes truly swept across each captain for the first time.
Her glance brushed gentle Aizen, icy Soi Fon, unfathomable Unohana, towering Komamura, inscrutable Kyoraku, dignified Tōsen, hearty Shiba Isshin, eager Kenpachi Kiganjō, the composed... "Then..."