"So… so strong…"
Kurosaki Ichigo and Ishida Uryū lay battered and bloodied, their bodies screaming with every shallow breath. Yet the pain was nothing compared to the crushing weight of despair settling over them.
Only now did they truly understand what it meant to face a being whose power dwarfed their own.
This wasn't just strength—it was something beyond comprehension.
Rukia Kuchiki stood a short distance away, silent but tense. After that last strike… Ichigo must finally see the gap between them, she thought. If only he'd just step back…
But she knew him too well. He never backed down.
Sure enough, Ichigo pushed himself up onto one knee, coughing blood onto the cracked pavement.
"I… I haven't lost yet! Come at me again!"
Akira let out a quiet sigh, his expression unreadable. "You really think you walked away from that unscathed? How naive."
He glanced toward Rukia—briefly, almost imperceptibly—before continuing. "Just now, for her sake, I held back. Don't waste the chance she gave you by standing there like a fool."
Ichigo's grip tightened on his Zanpakutō. His voice wavered, but his resolve didn't. "I don't care! I won't back down!"
Akira's eyes narrowed. "...How shameless."
In an instant, his Reiatsu surged—not like a wave, but like a tidal cataclysm.
Buzz—
The very air fractured under the pressure.
Ishida gasped, his limbs locking in place as if pinned by invisible hands. Ichigo staggered, teeth gritted, barely able to remain upright. Rukia's knees threatened to buckle; sweat beaded on her forehead as she stared at Akira in disbelief.
"What… what kind of spiritual pressure is this?!" she whispered, voice trembling.
Akira said nothing. His mind was already weighing a single, grave question: Should I kill Kurosaki Ichigo?
Logically, keeping Ichigo alive served the long-term stability of the Human World—and perhaps even Soul Society. But at this level of power… Akira was confident he could shape fate himself, with or without Ichigo's interference.
The choice was his alone.
Yet before he could decide, a new voice cut through the suffocating silence.
"Oh dear. If you go through with that, it'll cause me terrible paperwork."
From the shadows of a nearby alley, Urahara Kisuke stepped forward, cane in hand—though his usual playful lilt was absent. His eyes were sharp, focused.
"Urahara Kisuke?" Akira's eyebrow lifted slightly. "So you've decided to interfere."
Byakuya Kuchiki, standing rigid despite his injuries, narrowed his eyes at the name.
Urahara smirked, though it lacked its usual mischief. "Impressive. You recognized me on sight—despite never having met me. Truly, Captain Akira's reputation for perception isn't exaggerated."
"But," he added, shifting his stance, his hand resting lightly on the hilt hidden within his cane, "I'm afraid I can't allow you to kill Ichigo."
Akira scoffed. "You? Alone?"
"Well…" Urahara exhaled, his tone turning uncharacteristically serious. "Facing two captain-class opponents—even limited—is rather troublesome."
He glanced pointedly at Byakuya. "Especially when one is already on the verge of collapse."
Rukia's breath hitched. She turned sharply toward her brother—and this time, she saw it: the unnatural pallor beneath his composed facade, the slight tremor in his grip on Senbonzakura.
Her mind raced back to Akira's earlier words.
Wait… You're the one who hurt Nii-sama?!
Torn between her brother, her best friend, and the inexplicable power before her, Rukia felt the first true pangs of helplessness.
Akira merely chuckled. "You honestly believe you can challenge me with only twenty percent of your power?"
Urahara's smile didn't reach his eyes. He had assumed that even with limiters, two captains—especially Byakuya—would be more than enough to counterbalance any threat in the Human World.
But this man…
Was he delusional enough to compare himself to the likes of Yamamoto?
Or… was he genuinely that strong?
"Is this arrogance?" Urahara murmured, almost to himself. "Or something far more dangerous…?"
Urahara Kisuke narrowed his eyes, fingers tightening around the hilt of Benihime as he studied his opponent.
"A captain-level combatant… yet I've never laid eyes on him before," he murmured. "A new prodigy from Soul Society, perhaps?"
He forced a light chuckle, though his usual playful cadence carried an edge of caution. "I'd strongly advise we avoid this dance. Otherwise—"
A streak of light slashed through the air before he could finish.
Instincts flared—move!—but even Urahara barely reacted in time. His opponent had already closed the gap, faster than sight could track.
"So fast!"
His pupils contracted. Benihime snapped up just in time, steel clashing with steel in a split-second parry. The two figures crossed paths in a blur, the air between them trembling with the aftershock of spiritual pressure.
"From the moment you draw your blade… you've declared war on me."
Behind him, the stranger—Akira—stood with his back turned, flicking a single drop of blood from his unsheathed katana.
Urahara froze. A searing line of pain erupted at his waist. He glanced down: a clean, deep gash split his haori, crimson already soaking through the fabric.
"Gh…!"
"That speed… even with the sekkiseki seal suppressing his reiatsu?!"
The wound stung, but the realization cut deeper. This man should be operating at only twenty percent of his full spiritual power… and yet he landed a hit clean enough to draw blood from me?
And it wasn't just raw speed—every motion was surgical. The timing, the angle, the follow-through… flawless. This wasn't brute force; it was masterful iaijutsu, the kind that decided duels in a single stroke.
In that instant, Urahara understood: he's already surpassed me.
Akira exhaled, blade lowering just slightly.
"Technically," he said, voice calm and devoid of malice, "you're still a fugitive in Soul Society's eyes. But you're not my target today."
A beat of silence. Then, colder:
"Still… if you insist on throwing your life away, I won't hold back."
Urahara's mind raced. His calculations had been catastrophically wrong.
Normally, a Shinigami's combat efficacy scaled directly with their reiatsu—suppress the energy, and you cripple their speed, strength, and technique. But Akira… he was different. His reiatsu wasn't the source of his power—it was merely fuel. Even with eighty percent sealed, his swordsmanship remained nearly untouched, hindered only slightly in endurance.
And worse—his reserves were monstrous. At just twenty percent output, he could still summon his zanpakutō's shikai release without strain… maybe even attempt a bankai.
Urahara let out a slow, measured breath and tightened his grip on Benihime.
This… is far more dangerous than I anticipated.