Kurosaki Rei stood barefoot on the pitted tatami, blood streaming down his body until he looked like a man carved from gore.
Unohana's mastery of swordsmanship was undoubtedly far beyond his. After barely a dozen minutes of relentless combat, more than half of his life force had already been depleted.
Blade wounds covered him from head to toe. Several cuts were deep enough to bite into muscle.
He stepped forward, slowly approaching Unohana, who stood midway across the room near the wall. It felt as though he were climbing a precipitous, snow-covered peak—the summit he gazed up at was her overwhelming swordsmanship, while the snowflakes drifting down upon him were the bone-chilling killing intent.
Is this it? Am I going to die?
What bitter irony. This was the first time he had ever experienced such a cathartic battle—yet it was about to end so soon?
No.
He hadn't fought enough yet. He still wanted to climb higher.
His path of martial pursuit had only just begun.
Kurosaki Rei glanced at the Asauchi in his hand. Aizen had once said that he was rejecting that power himself. Even now, he couldn't say for certain whether that was true.
But after entering that purgatory time and again, after trying to communicate with that demon-god-like presence, a realization had gradually dawned on him.
Why did he need to ask it for its true name?
Shouldn't the name of his Zanpakutō be decided by him?
Isn't that right—
Prison Demon.
...
The atmosphere changed.
Unohana, who had been about to step forward and bring the battle to its final, bloody conclusion, halted abruptly.
Because Kurosaki Rei's presence had changed.
The dying sunlight streamed through paper windows slashed apart by blades, illuminating Kurosaki Rei's back. Blood slid down his knotted muscles like tears from a demon's mask.
Drops of blood fell at his feet, blooming into purplish-black stains upon the tatami.
From Unohana's perspective, the man stood before the massive painting. Behind him was the glow of the setting sun, and just above his shoulder—within the artwork—were the eyes of the painted tiger.
The man spoke.
His low voice struck Unohana's heart, flinging open the gates of purgatory.
"Shatter the chains, Prison Demon."
With those words, purplish-black mist rose from Kurosaki Rei's body, drifting upward with the faint breeze. In that instant, the tiger in the painting seemed to come alive—its eyes gaining spirit.
Its corded limbs tensed in a pouncing stance, facing the ferocious oni. Purple-black flames ignited in its gaze, mirroring the surging battle intent of the man beneath it.
Roar—
The shockwave of reiatsu sounded like a tiger's roar and a dragon's cry intertwined—like a demon god imprisoned through countless cycles, laughing in exultation while pouring out its wrath.
The man stood there, gripping a newly born Zanpakutō.
The blade was jet black, with a hollowed blood groove along its midsection. Twisted purple-black patterns like creeping vines covered its surface, extending all the way to the hilt—where they transformed into chains of the same hue, coiling around the man's arm.
Purple-black mist wrapped around his bloodstained body.
Like an asura.
Kurosaki Rei slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air, as though reborn. His reiatsu surged temporarily, rising to the same tier as Unohana's. At the same time, he felt the suppression take hold of him as well—proof that his reiatsu could have climbed even higher.
At that moment, all of his combat-related attributes increased by one point, while his previously lowest attribute—Strength—increased by two.
More than that, his senses sharpened dramatically, and his neural reaction speed leapt to a new level.
And Prison Demon in his hand—its sharpness was on an entirely different plane compared to the Asauchi.
Watching Kurosaki Rei after his Shikai, Unohana smiled dangerously.
"So you've achieved Shikai, Rei-kun. It seems you can entertain me even more."
She held Minazuki but did not release it. Her Zanpakutō was a biological type—once released, it would transform into a massive, flat, one-eyed creature resembling a manta ray. That form offered little advantage in this battle; if anything, it would detract from her enjoyment of the slaughter.
"It's finals…"
Kurosaki Rei shifted to a two-handed grip, lowering his stance. Purple-black battle intent surged within his eyes.
"…time to turn in my paper, Sensei!"
As his words fell, the tatami behind him flipped and soared. Shockwaves burst outward, and the purple-black mist stretched into a long, gleaming streak—like a line slashed across the great painting.
Minazuki and Prison Demon collided, sparks erupting like iron trees blooming with silver flowers.
In an instant, they exchanged dozens of strikes. Killing intent and delight shimmered in Unohana's eyes.
Yes—just like this. Entertain me.
Prison Demon came down in a vertical slash. Unohana blocked it, one hand gripping her blade while the other braced against the spine.
To her surprise, Kurosaki Rei didn't flip backward to disperse the force. Instead, he increased his output at the moment of contact, using the violent rebound to launch himself skyward.
He shot toward the ceiling like a bullet, twisted midair, and inverted himself—finding footing once more. His legs bulged with coiled muscle, just like the tiger in the painting, his bare toes gripping the ceiling like claws.
The next instant, Kurosaki Rei blasted downward like a cannonball, the black blade wreathed in purple-black mist as it cleaved toward Unohana's head.
Clang—
Unohana blocked the strike, but her body sank, and she was forced to retreat several steps to dissipate the force. Drawing on a millennium of combat experience, she shifted instantly, narrowly avoiding Kurosaki Rei's follow-up slash.
Both fighters accelerated again.
Blades and blood danced together, sketching a portrait of violence and slaughter within the drifting mist.
The floor, the walls, even the ceiling became footholds as the battle rose from two dimensions into three.
Amid the sparks thrown off by grinding Zanpakutō, crazed gazes collided—killing intent and battle lust intertwining.
After another titanic clash, both leapt backward, planting their feet against opposite walls.
Boom—
The wall behind Kurosaki Rei shattered as he launched forward, transforming into a streak of purple-black light.
Unohana's charge was soundless, yet packed with terrifying killing intent, becoming a pale sakura-white afterimage at extreme speed.
They met at the midpoint—and passed each other.
A crescent of blood splashed across the massive painting like thrown ink, staining the oni crimson as it slid down from her chest like a rain of eerie petals.
Kurosaki Rei turned and glanced at the arm that had just fallen from the air and hit the floor.
His left arm—nearly severed clean off.
He flicked his blade in a blood-shaking motion, tracing an elegant arc upon the floor, and looked toward Unohana standing beneath the painted demon.
"Hahahaha…"
With her back to him, Unohana's slightly unhinged laughter rang out.
"Rei-kun… would you like to join the Fourth Division?"
Kurosaki Rei raised his remaining hand and used Kaidō for emergency treatment, stopping the bleeding. He shook his head.
"Tempting as your offer is, Unohana-sensei, I want to go out and see a bigger world first."
"Is that so… then that truly is a shame. But you're right—the Fourth Division wouldn't suit you."
Unohana slowly turned around.
A wound ran across her chest, from left shoulder down to her abdomen—just like the one she used to carve into Kurosaki Rei when teaching him Kaidō.
She had lost.
If not for her originally overwhelming reiatsu, Kurosaki Rei's final strike would have cleaved her in two.
In that last instant, Kurosaki Rei had been not only faster by a fraction—but more decisive. The result was that he lost an arm, while she suffered a "fatal wound."
With her combat experience, Unohana could clearly judge victory and defeat.
That slash had cut her awake.
She could continue fighting, continue indulging in slaughter until Kurosaki Rei died—but now that clarity had returned, she knew that would be irresponsible to the examination, and a waste akin to chewing peonies like cattle.
She gazed at the one-armed man before her, eyes glimmering with longing for the future.
How I wish…
…to fight you once more, at our respective peaks.
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