Permanent Shikai

On the return journey,

the boundary marker of East Branch District in West Eightieth District came into view.

Nothing in West Eightieth District looked any different from when they had set out.

Fragments of Reiatsu lingered in the air. Some were still dissipating, while others had vanished completely.

Bakuzan Katori stood beside the boundary marker.

She wore the captain's haori of the Eighth Division, its white fabric splattered with dark red bloodstains.

They were sprayed stains—dots and radial streaks—spreading from her collar all the way to the hem like flowers blooming across a white canvas.

Her twin braids hung over her chest, and thick-framed glasses rested on her nose. Her eyes behind the lenses were calm.

She looked refined and scholarly, like a teacher, if not for all the blood on her clothes.

Sensing the Reiatsu of the three men, she adjusted her glasses. Her gaze passed from Shiba to Chōjirō before settling on Shuichi, lingering for a moment on the rose-red scabbard at his waist.

"Why are you back so soon?" Her voice was soft, as though she were asking a neighbor why he had finished work so early.

Shiba Chuanlu stopped in front of her. His expression did not change—languid, indifferent, without the slightest hint of a smile.

"We obtained valuable intelligence. There was no need to go any deeper."

Bakuzan glanced at him without pressing further. Her gaze fell on Shuichi's sword again, then quickly withdrew.

"West Eightieth District has been cleared."

Her tone was as flat as if she were reporting the day's vegetable prices. "The Quincy to the west have all retreated. The ones remaining within the Eightieth District have been handed over to the Fourth Division."

Shiba nodded.

Then she left.

Chōjirō patted his shoulder.

"Let's go."

The three headed east. Behind them, the boundary marker of West Eightieth District stood silent in the dusk.

A few days later.

First Division Barracks.

Main hall.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto sat behind his desk, dozens of intelligence reports spread before him. The papers bore the flower emblems of the various divisions.

He read them one by one.

Reports from the south, the east, the north, and the west.

For every report he read, he marked a spot on the map spread across the desk. Red cinnabar dots densely covered the gray-white map, extending inward from the edges of Rukongai like a net slowly drawing tight.

The attack route map signed by Shiba Chuanlu lay on top.

It showed marching routes marked in Quincy handwriting, stretching eastward from deep in the west, with arrows pointing toward several entrances to the Seireitei.

Yamamoto overlaid that route map with the Quincy outpost distribution maps sent in by the other divisions and held them up to the light.

They partially overlapped.

The distribution of Quincy outposts largely corresponded with their attack routes.

Every outpost was a node along an attack route, and every route linked multiple outposts. This was not an impulsive move, but a long-term deployment.

Yamamoto set down the maps and picked up another report, this one from the Eleventh Division. Unohana's handwriting was neat and orderly, completely unlike the way she cut people down.

The report read: Beyond South Eightieth District, encountered three captain-class Quincy. All eliminated. Note: Captain-class Quincy possess combat ability ranging from Soul Reaper lieutenant level to captain level. Individual differences are substantial.

He set down the Eleventh Division's report and picked up the Tenth Division's.

Wang Tuchuan's handwriting was sloppy, as if he had scribbled it out in the middle of a battlefield: Beyond East Eightieth District, encountered two captain-class Quincy. One killed, one escaped. No casualties on our side.

The Ninth Division's report from Kumenoi was the shortest: Beyond North Eightieth District, four captain-class Quincy. All eliminated. Note: One of them called himself a member of the "Sternritter" before dying.

The Eighth Division's report from Bakuzan had yet to arrive, but an advance message had already been sent back: Beyond West Eightieth District, an unknown number of captain-class Quincy, at least three. No casualties on our side. Cleansing operation ongoing.

Reports from the Seventh Division, Sixth Division, Fifth Division, Fourth Division, and the clearing operations inside the Eightieth District also arrived one after another. No captain-class Quincy had appeared within the Eightieth District, but the number of Hollows cleared was thirty percent lower than expected. The Quincy had already dealt with them in advance.

Yamamoto set down the final report and leaned back in his chair. The map on the desk before him was covered in red dots. The arrows of attack routes pointed toward the Seireitei, the outpost distributions overlapped with the routes, and captain-class Quincy had appeared in every direction.

He closed his eyes.

Forty-six reports. Then the clearing operations, the Quincy outposts, the attack routes, and captain-class Quincy appearing everywhere.

This was not infiltration. It was an advance.

The Quincy's activities in Rukongai were not for hunting Hollows. They were to establish outposts, map attack routes, and familiarize their captain-class forces with Soul Society's terrain and the Soul Reapers' methods of combat.

He opened his eyes, picked up a brush, and wrote several lines on a blank sheet of paper. Then he rose and walked to the window. Outside lay the Seireitei at night, several distant lights flickering. That white wall still floated in the air, glowing faintly in the darkness.

Behind him, the red dots on the map covered the desk like a rash spreading outward.

A few days later, Shuichi was summoned to the main hall.

When he pushed open the door, Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto was sitting behind his desk. There were far fewer documents before him than there had been days ago; most had already been archived or distributed to the various divisions.

Hearing the door open, Yamamoto stopped working through the documents.

"You're here."

Shuichi walked in and stopped before the desk.

His Zanpakutō hung at his waist. Its rose-red scabbard gleamed warmly beneath the main hall's lamps, while a section of silver blade protruded from the mouth of the sheath, its reflection glaringly bright.

Yamamoto looked at the sword at his waist, his gaze resting on it longer than usual.

"A Permanent Shikai that remains active from its first release is rare, but not unheard of."

His tone was as calm as it had been two years ago, when he taught Shuichi to control his Reiatsu, as though this were nothing worth making a fuss over.

"The vast majority of Shikai cannot remain active because of their traits. Take my Ryujin Jakka, for example. I can keep it active, but it would not be suitable."

Shuichi lowered his head to glance at his Zanpakutō. Captain-Commander Yamamoto could keep Ryujin Jakka active—the strongest Zanpakutō in Soul Society, the oldest flame-type blade. He could leave it in its Shikai state forever, its edge perpetually burning with fire.

But he chose not to. It was not that he could not do it; there was simply no need. Yamamoto then asked, "What ability does your Zanpakutō possess?"

Shuichi fell silent for a while. On the western battlefield that day, the red sword energy he had used to sever the lieutenant's arm after releasing his Shikai was the only ability he had clearly manifested. Other than that, he had never tried anything else.

It was not that he did not want to try. He simply did not know how, did not know where to begin, and hesitated over how to speak to that red figure—and whom exactly he was meant to speak to.

"A red sword energy. It came out when I released it. I haven't tried anything else since then."

Yamamoto nodded and lightly tapped the desk with one finger. "Does the technique have a name?"

Shuichi shook his head.

It had no name. He did not know what to call that sword energy, nor did he know whether his Zanpakutō had already prepared a name for it. Maybe it had, maybe it had not. He had never asked, because he did not know how.

Yamamoto lifted his teacup and took a light sip. When he set it down, its base touched the desk with a soft tap.

"Then practice Sword Meditation properly. Your Zanpakutō has already awakened. What you need to do now is not learn its abilities, but understand its words. It can tell you the names of its techniques, or you can name them yourself. Of course, if you name them yourself, your Zanpakutō may not necessarily acknowledge them."

Shuichi stood there, listening to Yamamoto's words, then nodded.

"Go." Yamamoto picked up another document, signaling that the conversation was over.

Shuichi bowed, turned, and headed for the door.

Two mornings later, Shuichi was organizing patrol reports in the hall when he heard footsteps.

They were not Chongya's steady, forceful strides, nor Shimura's soft, shuffling steps, nor Chōjirō's rhythm so precise it seemed measured with a ruler. They were footsteps he had never heard in this hall before—light but not floating, quick but not hurried. Shoe soles struck the wooden floor with crisp taps, like raindrops against the eaves.

He looked up.

A young woman stood at the entrance to the hall. She wore a black uniform and carried a sword at her waist. Her long hair was tied into a high ponytail, exposing the clean line of her neck. Her face was not strikingly beautiful, but her features were well-defined, and there was a heroic air between her brows—not the kind deliberately put on, but something that came from her bones, as though her very presence there was only natural.

Shuichi looked at her, and she looked at Shuichi. Their eyes met for an instant before Shuichi looked away first.

Chongya emerged from inside, holding a rolled document.

"You're here?" Chongya said.

"I'm here," the woman replied. Her voice was lower than Shuichi had imagined—not softly feminine, but deep, steady, and substantial, like the middle register of a cello.

Chongya turned and clapped his hands toward the hall. "Everyone, come over."

Shimura raised his head from the pile of documents and adjusted his glasses. Okabe poked half his body out from the communications room. Sakaki put down the supply list in his hands. Ukai emerged from behind the intelligence cabinets. Sakamoto and Endo came over from the far end of the corridor; the two had been eating breakfast just moments ago, with grains of rice still clinging to the corners of their mouths. Shuichi set down the patrol report and stood.

Seven people gathered around. Including Chongya, there were eight. The hall had never been this lively.

Chongya pointed at the woman. "This is our new field operative, Kujo Shūi, an official member of the First Division."

Kujo Shūi gave a slight bow. Her movement was crisp, without unnecessary pleasantries. "Kujo Shūi. Please take care of me."

Sakamoto and Endo exchanged a look without speaking. Shimura adjusted his glasses, looked her up and down, then lowered his head and continued sorting documents. Okabe smiled and said, "Welcome." Sakaki nodded, his expression stern, his eyes pausing briefly on the Zanpakutō at her waist. Ukai leaned against the wall and lifted his chin in greeting.