Jūshirō Ukitake and Shunsui Kyōraku had initially assumed Akira lacked proficiency in melee combat. After all, he was barely a century old—a mere child by Shinigami standards—and it stood to reason that his talents would lie in long-range techniques.
Human lifespans were short, and even among Shinigami, true mastery of every combat discipline within a hundred years was virtually unheard of. And given Akira's past displays—devastating kido, precise energy projection, and overwhelming ranged Zanpakutō abilities—it only reinforced their assumption that close-quarters combat wasn't his forte.
But the scene before them shattered that belief completely.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Steel met steel in a rapid, deafening rhythm, like a blacksmith's hammer striking white-hot iron. Akira wasn't just holding his ground—he was matching Kenpachi Zaraki blow for blow.
"No way…" Shunsui muttered, his straw hat tilting forward as his eyes narrowed beneath it. "He's actually keeping up with Zaraki?"
Jūshirō's breath caught. "He's still only a hundred years old… right?"
"But this swordsmanship…" Jūshirō's voice trailed off, awe tinging his words. "Can someone that young really possess such skill?"
It wasn't just raw power or overwhelming Reiatsu—those could be explained by innate talent or a uniquely potent Zanpakutō. But swordsmanship? That was different. There were no shortcuts. True mastery demanded relentless training, decade after decade of sweat, blood, and unwavering discipline. Even the most gifted prodigies could only shorten the path—they couldn't skip the journey entirely.
"Wait—look again!" Shunsui suddenly exclaimed, his voice sharp with disbelief.
Jūshirō's eyes snapped back to the duel—and his expression mirrored Shunsui's shock.
"That's… not even his limit!"
It was unmistakable now. Akira wasn't merely defending himself. With every clash, every feint, every parry, his movements grew sharper, his footwork more precise, his timing more intuitive. He was learning—not just adapting, but evolving in real time.
"This… this is impossible," Jūshirō whispered, a cold bead of sweat tracing his temple. "He's getting stronger—mid-fight?"
They'd seen countless prodigies over the centuries—geniuses who shattered expectations and rewrote the rules. But none like this.
"In the face of Captain-class powerhouses like these two…" Jūshirō murmured, "no one else can truly call themselves a genius."
What they didn't know was that Akira's mind worked like a forge in battle—every strike from Kenpachi was fuel, every opening a lesson. His neural pathways, honed by unknown methods or perhaps something beyond conventional Shinigami physiology, allowed him to integrate combat data instantaneously, refining his swordsmanship with terrifying speed.
Kenpachi noticed it too—and he loved it.
"Hahahaha!" His laugh boomed across the battlefield, raw and exhilarated. "That's it! That's exactly it! This is what makes a fight worth fighting!"
His grin stretched wide, eyes blazing with bloodlust and wild respect. "Besides Unohana… you're the only one I've ever respected in a real scrap!"
Without warning, Kenpachi's Reiatsu erupted like a storm breaking over the Seireitei—dense, crushing, and suffused with primal ferocity. His movements sharpened, his strikes faster, his presence overwhelming.
"Then I'll give you everything I've got!" he roared. "Try not to die too fast… or I'll be real disappointed!"
As the battle unfolded, the expressions of Jūshirō Ukitake and Shunsui Kyōraku tightened.
"Zaraki… he truly is a monster!"
Watching Kenpachi's overwhelming speed and strength, the two seasoned captains couldn't help but feel an almost instinctive dread. Silently, they asked themselves—if they were in Akira's position, enduring Zaraki Kenpachi's relentless onslaught, could they withstand even his raw swordsmanship in close combat?
The answer was clear: no.
Yet at that moment, Akira—who had fought in silence until now—spoke calmly.
"You told me to be careful not to die? When did I ever say I was using my full strength?"
He had already absorbed every nuance of swordsmanship he'd encountered, and now he activated his Observation Haki. With this heightened perception, Kenpachi's every movement became transparent—no strike, no feint, no burst of reiatsu could escape his awareness. There was no room for surprises.
"Is this… a joke?"
As the clash between Akira and Kenpachi intensified, sweat beaded on Kyōraku's brow. The sheer spectacle sent a chill down his spine.
"Akira's swordsmanship… it has no openings!"
The realization struck both captains at once. Kenpachi's attacks were growing faster, wilder—yet no matter how furiously he struck, he couldn't breach Akira's defense.
"Impeccable swordsmanship," Ukitake murmured. "Like a rock standing unshaken before a raging tide."
Through Observation Haki, Akira anticipated Kenpachi's moves before they were fully formed. Every shift in stance, every tensing muscle, every hitch in breath—he read them all.
For the first time in his life, Kenpachi felt something truly unfamiliar.
"What is this?! No matter what I try, it's like he already knows!"
It was alien to him—being outmaneuvered, his ferocity rendered useless. And yet, despite being cornered, he felt only exhilaration.
"You're strong…! This is incredible!" Kenpachi roared with laughter, his wild reiatsu surging and coiling around his blade.
"Sword Pressure!"
A devastating slash tore through the battlefield, forcing Akira to leap back. The shockwave sent Kyōraku and Ukitake stumbling, their robes whipping in the spiritual gale. The air within a hundred meters seemed to scorch and warp.
Akira merely smirked.
"Switching tactics?" he said. "Fine. Then I'll respond in kind."
He channeled his reiatsu like Kurosaki Ichigo would in the future—compressing immense spiritual energy along the edge of his blade without releasing it outright. The restrained power maximized destructive force while conserving stamina. Now, each strike carried nearly the impact of a Bankai-level release.
Kyōraku and Ukitake could only watch in stunned silence.
They knew—the real battle had just begun.
Without hesitation, they retreated several hundred meters.
They had no intention of being caught in the crossfire.
Happy new year 🎊