Outside the First Squad barracks—

Araki swaggered in as if returning home, completely ignoring the patrolmen trying to halt his advance.

"Captain Araki, please wait a moment!"

"Captain Araki, Commander-in-Chief Yamamoto instructed that if you returned and came here, you are to go back to the Eleventh Squad! He doesn't wish to see you right now!"

One after another, First Squad members blocked his path, attempting to stop him.

"Boom!"

In response, Araki expressionlessly released his spiritual pressure.

Instantly, the surrounding First Squad members collapsed to the ground, their eyes rolling back in their heads.

Only one figure remained standing—his face flushed, breathing ragged, knees trembling under the sheer weight of Araki's pressure.

"What's your name?" Araki asked, his gaze fixed on the last man standing.

"Captain Araki! My name is Okiga Genshiro!"

Despite the pressure, Genshiro's face lit up with excitement and awe. To have Araki Kenpachi, whose name shook the Soul Society, ask for his name—it was an honor he would never forget.

"Not bad..." Araki muttered.

In the next instant, he vanished—appearing behind Genshiro in a blur of motion—and pushed open the doors to the First Division's command room.

"So fast! I couldn't even react! Is this the power of a true, modern-day Kenpachi?!"

Genshiro's eyes widened in disbelief as cold sweat dripped from his chin, splattering onto the floor.

"Stand down, Okiga Genshiro."

"Araki, come in."

By the time Genshiro turned around, Araki had already stepped into the command room, and Yamamoto Genryūsai's deep voice echoed from within.

"As you command!"

Okiga Genshiro dropped to one knee in salute as the door began to close behind Araki.

"Click."

As the door sealed shut, only the faint silhouettes of three figures radiating oppressive pressure could be seen—Yamamoto Genryūsai, Sasakibe Chōjirō, and Araki.

"Unparalleled strength..."

Genshiro silently assessed the spiritual pressure of the two captains within. Titans.

Inside the command room—

"Araki, you're back?" Genryūsai greeted him with an expressionless gaze, his Zanpakutō standing firm beside him. Sasakibe stood silently to his right.

He had expected Araki's arrival. He had also known that no one in the First Division could stop him—this entire charade was for show, aimed at someone else entirely.

"It seems you've brought back some strange powers from the Zero Division," Genryūsai remarked calmly after a moment of silence.

The change in Araki was obvious. While he still had room to mature, his Reiatsu had already reached the level of the elite. Given time, he might even rival Genryūsai himself. More notably, the steps Araki took when bypassing Genshiro… were not Shunpo.

"Old man Yamamoto! Just what did those nobles offer you?! To make you hand over the Gotei 13—the very force you built over centuries?! What the hell are you thinking?!"

Araki cut straight to the point, his tone laced with fury.

"Araki, Genryūsai-sama has his reasons!"

Sasakibe couldn't bear the sharpness in Araki's voice. He stepped in immediately, worried that this confrontation might shatter the fragile reconciliation between master and disciple.

"Enough, Chōjirō. There's no need to explain. As Araki said, this was my decision."

Genryūsai raised a hand, cutting him off.

"Genryūsai-sama..." Sasakibe hesitated, visibly frustrated.

But Genryūsai only shook his head and turned back to Araki.

"Araki. The Soul Society is in ruins. What it doesn't need... is a Gotei 13 that only knows how to kill."

Araki fell silent.

He understood exactly what the old man meant.

Indeed, the first generation of the Gotei 13 was forged in blood and war—legends among monsters. But when the war ended, and peace returned, what was the place of such killers? How could a society thrive when its defenders knew nothing but death?

In peacetime, what becomes of warriors forged only for slaughter?

A pack of hungry wolves, locked in a cage of stillness... eventually, they turn on each other.

Genryūsai wasn't willing to gamble on that.

So he had begun replacing them—quietly, deliberately.

But had peace truly come?

That... was another question entirely.

"So, now that we've entered a peaceful era, we have to 'hand over' these weapons—like 'guns' and 'blades'? I get it. Carrying a sharp weapon naturally leads to bloodshed."

"But since there's no place for these 'weapons' in Seireitei anymore… why not hand them over to me? As it happens, I know a place that desperately needs a lot of 'weapons'."

After understanding Genryūsai's intent, Araki reached out without hesitation—like a bold heir asking his wealthy father for startup funds. But Araki wasn't some pampered rich kid. He had the power and will to back up his ambition.

"Huh?"

"Do whatever you want," Genryūsai finally said, stunned at first, then smiling faintly.

"If you can deal with these 'murder weapons,' then I won't interfere. Nor will I allow anyone else to meddle. But if you fail—if they return to villainy and threaten Soul Society—don't say I didn't warn you. I'll personally destroy every last one."

There was anticipation in Genryūsai's eyes. He was entrusting Araki with more than just dangerous relics—he was entrusting him with a legacy of violence, hoping Araki could master the sword rather than be mastered by it.

With their agreement made, Araki decided to broach a more personal matter… something from the heart.

He flung aside his haori and drew the second Zanpakutō from his waist.

"Hmm...? That sword… feels familiar..." Genryūsai muttered, narrowing his eyes.

A strange unease flickered in them. That blade in Araki's hand—it stirred an old, buried memory.

"Awaken... Miyabi-ra."

Araki called the name softly.

BOOM!

An ominous spiritual pressure filled the command room, and from thin air emerged a vast, ghostly-white Hollow. Its aura was suffocating. This was the creature once named by the monk—Jijiba.

"Agh..."

Genryūsai's eyelids twitched violently. Now he remembered. The blade. The Hollow. The humiliation.

This… this was that same cursed creature! One of the few stains on his thousand-year legacy.

For the first time in a millennium, the Grand Captain of the Gotei trembled with confusion, surprise, even panic—emotions utterly alien to his ironclad persona.

"Ah! I won't forget you! You're that bastard who used some scrap of firewood to set my ass on fire! Hah! You've got a beard now? And you've aged! Guess I've been asleep a while!"

Before Genryūsai could speak, the tiny Jijiba piped up cheerfully.

"Araki!! Where the hell did you dig up this evil creature?!" Genryūsai roared.

"Haha! Old man, I didn't expect you to be such a chump in your youth! You got outwitted by a little 'Kipa'? Even got your butt set on fire? This guy even calls your Zanpakutō a fire stick! I can't take it—this is too good!"

Araki burst out laughing, acting like a mischievous son teasing his flustered father. Truthfully, the future of the First Gotei 13 had been only a side mission. His real goal in visiting the First Division today… was to laugh at his master's embarrassing past.

And now, seeing that exasperated look on Genryūsai's face, Araki was thoroughly satisfied.

Time to go home—

"In that case… why don't you feel for yourself the true power of this 'fire stick'?! Bankai."

Araki's smugness froze in his throat.

"...Damn it."

Genryūsai expressionlessly drew his Zanpakutō, flames already rising from its edge. Without a word of warning, he activated his Bankai.

"Evil disciple… after all these centuries, let me show you what this sword truly means again."

"Let's see if you can last a bit longer this time."

With each step, he advanced—like a god of flame, a demon straight out of hell.

Of course, it wasn't about revenge. No, not entirely.

This was the test of a master. A test only a Bankai could give.

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