Permanent Shikai

On the return journey,

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

The scene within West Eightieth District was no 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 by the boundary marker.

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

They were spray patterns—specks and radiating splashes—stretching from her collar to her hem like flowers blooming across a white canvas.

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

She looked refined and scholarly, like a teacher, if not for all that blood.

Sensing the Reiatsu of the three of them, she adjusted her glasses. Her gaze swept from Shiba to Chōjirō before finally settling on Shuichi, pausing briefly 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 they had finished work so early.

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

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

Katori glanced at him without asking further questions. Her eyes fell on Shuichi's sword again, then quickly withdrew.

"West Eightieth District has been cleared."

Her tone was as calm as if she were reporting the day's vegetable prices. "The Quincy to the west have all retreated. The rest are inside District 80, and they've been left 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 silently in the twilight.

Several days later.

First Division Barracks.

Main Hall.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto sat behind a low desk, dozens of intelligence reports spread out before him. Each sheet bore the emblem of its respective division.

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 point on the map spread across the desk. Red cinnabar dots densely covered the gray-white map, stretching inward from the outskirts of Rukongai like a net drawing closed.

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

The Quincy marching routes marked in Quincy handwriting extended eastward from deep in the west, arrows pointing toward several entrances to the Seireitei.

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

They partially overlapped.

The Quincy stronghold distribution largely corresponded to their attack routes.

Every stronghold was a node along an attack route, and every route connected multiple strongholds. This was not an impulsive move. It was a long-term arrangement.

Yamamoto set the maps down and picked up another report, this one from the Eleventh Division. Unohana's handwriting was neat and orderly, utterly unlike her style of killing.

The report read: Beyond South Eightieth District, encountered three Captain-Class Quincy. All eliminated. Note: Captain-Class Quincy possess combat strength ranging from lieutenant to captain among the Soul Reapers, with significant individual variation.

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

Wang Tuchuan's handwriting was hurried and messy, as if written 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 report from Kumenoi was the shortest: Beyond North Eightieth District, four Captain-Class Quincy. All eliminated. Note: one of them called himself a "Sternritter" before dying.

The Eighth Division's report from Katori had not arrived yet, but an advance transmission had already returned: Beyond West Eightieth District, an unknown number of Captain-Class Quincy, at least three. No casualties on our side. Continuing the purge.

Reports from the Seventh, Sixth, Fifth, and Fourth Divisions on the cleanup within District 80 also arrived one after another. No Captain-Class Quincy had appeared inside District 80, 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. Before him, the map was covered in red dots. The arrows of the attack routes pointed toward the Seireitei, the stronghold distribution overlapped with those routes, and Captain-Class Quincy had appeared in every direction.

He closed his eyes.

Forty-six reports. Then the cleanup, the Quincy strongholds, 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 for establishing strongholds, mapping attack routes, and familiarizing their Captain-Class forces with Soul Society's terrain and the Soul Reapers' fighting methods.

He opened his eyes, picked up a brush, wrote several lines on a blank sheet of paper, then 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 map on the desk was thick with red dots, like a rash spreading across the skin.

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

When he pushed open the door, Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto was seated behind the low desk. There were far fewer documents before him than several days ago; most had already been filed away or distributed to the divisions.

Hearing the door, Yamamoto stopped working.

"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 lights, while a section of silver blade protruded from the mouth of the sheath, its reflection sharp and glaring.

Yamamoto looked at the sword at his waist, his gaze lingering longer than usual.

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

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

"Most Shikai cannot remain active because of their characteristics. Take my Ryujin Jakka, for instance. I can keep it released permanently, but it would not be appropriate."

Shuichi lowered his gaze to his Zanpakutō. Captain-Commander Yamamoto could keep Ryujin Jakka permanently released—the strongest Zanpakutō in Soul Society, the oldest fire-type blade. He could keep it in Shikai at all times, its blade forever burning with flame.

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

Shuichi was silent for a while. On that western battlefield, the red sword energy that had severed the lieutenant's arm after his Shikai was the only ability he had clearly used. 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, or where to begin. He also hesitated over how to speak to that red figure.

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

Yamamoto nodded and lightly tapped a finger against the desk. "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 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 small sip. When he set it down, its base gave a faint tap against the tabletop.

"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. The name of a technique can be given to you by your Zanpakutō, or you can choose one yourself. Of course, if you choose it yourself, your Zanpakutō may not necessarily acknowledge it."

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

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

Shuichi bowed, turned, and walked toward the door.

Two mornings later, while Shuichi was sorting patrol reports in the hall, he heard footsteps.

They were not Chongya's steady, powerful strides, nor Shimura's light, shuffling steps, nor Chōjirō's rhythm as precise as if measured with a ruler. They were footsteps he had never heard in this hall before—light but not floating, quick but not rushed. The soles struck the wooden floor with crisp taps, like raindrops against an eave.

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 in a high ponytail, revealing the clean line of her neck. Her face was not stunning, but her features were straight and composed, and there was a heroic spirit between her brows. It was not something deliberately put on; it came from her bones, as though her standing there was simply the most natural thing in the world.

Shuichi looked at her, and she looked at him. Their eyes met for a moment before Shuichi looked away first.

Chongya emerged from inside, a scroll of documents in hand.

"You're here?" Chongya said.

"I'm here," the woman replied. Her voice was lower than Shuichi had imagined—not soft and gentle, but steady and weighty, 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 of the communications room. Sakaki set down the supply inventory. Ukai emerged from behind the intelligence cabinet. Sakamoto and Endo came over from the far end of the corridor; the two had just been eating breakfast, rice grains still clinging to the corners of their mouths. Shuichi put down the patrol report in his hand and stood.

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

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

Kujo Shūi gave a slight bow, her movement crisp and without unnecessary politeness. "Kujo Shūi. Please take care of me."

Sakamoto and Endo exchanged a glance without speaking. Shimura adjusted his glasses, looked her over from head to toe, then lowered his head and continued sorting documents. Okabe smiled and said, "Welcome." Sakaki nodded with a serious expression, his gaze pausing briefly on the Zanpakutō at her waist. Ukai leaned against the wall and lifted his chin in greeting.