Yachiru Unohana

East District Two

The Thirteenth Division's headquarters was here.

Unlike the other divisions, the Thirteenth Division's barracks were not a single integrated complex, but an entire cluster of courtyards.

The infirmary, training grounds, records office, and squad members' quarters were scattered across several streets in East District Two.

Saizo Sakigane had said that this was more convenient. With the members spread out, they would not be wiped out in one stroke when Hollows attacked.

But today, that scattered layout became a disaster.

Blue flames rose among them.

Holy Soldiers poured out of the shadows, flooding the entire district like a white tide. Because of their scattered arrangement, the Thirteenth Division's members had no time to assemble before they were forced to draw their blades and fight.

Washio, Saizo Sakigane's vice-captain, a middle-aged Soul Reaper, had his chest pierced by a Holy Arrow in the third minute after the battle began.

When he died, he was still standing at the entrance to the squad quarters, using his body to shield the wounded from the first volley of arrows.

Then came the Third Seat.

Then the Fourth Seat.

Then the ordinary members whose names no one could recall.

Faced with the sudden assault of the Holy Soldiers, those ordinary members were nearly useless.

One member's Zanpakutō could create smoke, but before it could spread, the Holy Soldiers' barrage of Reishi arrows blew it away.

Another member's Zanpakutō could accelerate his comrades' spiritual pressure recovery, but his own leg was pierced by arrows first. He fell to the ground, and no one could save him.

Another member's Zanpakutō could heal wounds, but before her Reishi Bow could fully form, a vice-captain-class Quincy cut her down from behind.

The Thirteenth Division's members did not flee.

They fell one after another, but not a single one turned and ran.

Saizo Sakigane usually did not speak much, nor did he meddle in his members' private affairs. But the squad he had raised possessed a stubborn streak in their bones. Even if they could not win, they would still fight. Even if they died, they would still take a bite out of the enemy.

But the casualties were too severe.

In just a few minutes, the Thirteenth Division had lost nearly half its combat personnel.

Then Saizo Sakigane appeared.

He emerged from the innermost room of the barracks, one slow step at a time.

He leaned on his Zanpakutō.

Its sheath was planted against the ground, supporting his body like a cane.

Saizo Sakigane looked terrible.

Not because he was wounded. Because he was old.

Saizo Sakigane was the oldest captain in the Gotei 13.

His body had long since ceased to be what it was in his glory days. His spiritual pressure remained, but his stamina, reaction speed, and fluidity in Shunpo were all declining. Normally, he relied on his Zanpakutō's ability to make up for those shortcomings.

Leaning on the sheath, he stepped out of the room and stood in the corridor, looking at everything before him.

Holy Soldiers ran through the streets. Barrages of Reishi arrows blanketed the sky. Thirteenth Division members lay in pools of blood, their white Shihakushō soaked red.

Saizo Sakigane closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

Then he drew his blade.

Black mist coiled around the blade, writhing like a living thing as it spread outward. The mist filled the air, concealing Saizo Sakigane's figure and blocking the Holy Soldiers' vision.

"Rescue them, Nightmare!"

Saizo Sakigane's Shikai—Nightmare.

Its ability was visual interference and mental corruption. The black mist released by the blade could disrupt the enemy's sight, preventing them from seeing his position clearly. The Reishi particles within the mist could invade their consciousness, slowly eroding their minds and creating anxiety, fear, and hallucinations.

But it was not an ability meant to kill enemies head-on.

What Saizo Sakigane needed was not to kill the enemy, but to survive.

He moved through the black mist. His Shunpo was much slower than usual, but with the mist's interference, the Holy Soldiers could not catch his position at all. He would suddenly emerge from the fog, cut down a Holy Soldier, then vanish back into the mist. He would appear from another direction, strike again, and disappear once more.

Like a ghost.

The Holy Soldiers began to panic. They could not see the enemy; they could only watch their comrades fall one after another. The Reishi particles in the mist were corroding their minds. Fear began to spread. Some started firing arrows wildly, while others began to retreat.

Using this method, Saizo Sakigane held out in the streets of East District Two for nearly ten minutes.

He killed more than a dozen Holy Soldiers and severely wounded a vice-captain-class Quincy.

But his stamina was draining rapidly.

Then he heard a voice.

"Soul Reaper Captain!"

The voice boomed like thunder from the other end of East District Two, shaking the walls along both sides of the street.

Saizo Sakigane raised his head and looked through the black mist toward the source of the voice.

A man approached.

His hair was red and spiked upward like a rooster's comb. He wore a white Quincy uniform, though its collar hung open to expose his solid chest. There was no bow in his hand.

His spiritual pressure was powerful.

The red-haired man strode forward, each footfall heavy enough to crack fine lines across the stone road beneath him.

He ignored the Holy Soldiers around him, ignored the black mist, ignored his comrades falling nearby. His gaze locked directly onto Saizo Sakigane's position.

"Your little life—"

The man raised his right hand, spreading all five fingers as Reishi gathered in his palm into a blazing fireball.

"I, Bazz-B, will take it!"

Saizo Sakigane tightened his grip on his sword.

Black mist condensed into a barrier before him.

South District Two

Eleventh Division headquarters.

When the Quincy column of blue fire rose here, before the first wave of Holy Soldiers could fully crawl out of the shadows, sword light had already arrived.

Yachiru Unohana did not wait.

She never waited for anyone.

The instant the pillar of flame rose, she had already charged out of the barracks. She plunged into the Holy Soldiers' ranks, cutting them down one by one, cleanly and decisively, without a single unnecessary movement.

The Holy Soldiers did not even see who was cutting them down.

The first Holy Soldier's throat was slit. The second had his chest pierced. The third lost an arm along with his Reishi Bow.

Sword light weaved through the crowd like a silver-white snake, every flash taking a life.

Isamu Shimura, the Eleventh Division's vice-captain, a horse-faced Soul Reaper, reacted in the third second after Unohana rushed out. Without hesitation, he drew his blade, raised his arm, and shouted, "Eleventh Division! All members, break through!"

The Eleventh Division's members surged out of the barracks, following their vice-captain as they fought their way toward the south gate.

There was an unspoken rule within the Eleventh Division: once their captain drew her sword, no one was to disturb her.

The vice-captain led the squad through a bloody path and pushed toward the south gate. The Holy Soldiers tried to intercept them, but Unohana swept in from behind.

She cut into the rear of the Holy Soldiers' formation, combing through them from east to west, from south to north. Wherever she passed, no one survived.

Holy Soldiers.

Holy Soldier squad leaders.

Vice-captain-class Quincy.

There was no difference between them before her.

All it took was one slash.

The Soul Society's second strongest Soul Reaper, and the titles "Sword Demon" and "Yachiru," were not empty boasts.

Below Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, Yachiru Unohana was the strongest.

Her swordsmanship had surpassed the boundaries of schools. Eight thousand styles had flowed through her, leaving behind only herself.

Her spiritual pressure was unfathomable. Her blade was too fast to see. Her combat experience was older than most people.

The Holy Soldiers began to fear her.

Not because they could not defeat her. They had known that from the beginning.

It was because they were dying too quickly.

This was not battle. It was slaughter.

Bodies piled up beneath Unohana's feet, one stacked atop another. Blood flowed from beneath the heap, gathering into thin streams through the cracks in the stone road. In only a few minutes, the streets of South District Two had become a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood.

Unohana stood atop the pile of bodies, surrounded by Quincy corpses.

Her brows were drawn flat, not in anger or pain, but in an almost calm focus.

Her eyes were deliberately opened a little wider, firelight and blood reflected in her pupils.

Her lips were slightly parted, as though she were breathing—or savoring the scent of blood in the air.

Her face was cold and expressionless, but that coldness was more terrifying than any rage.

She turned her head slightly.

Her pupils shifted sideways.

She looked toward a Holy Soldier who was still alive.

The Holy Soldier stood below the corpse pile. The Reishi Bow in his hand had already dispersed. His legs shook, and his lips trembled.

The moment Unohana's gaze swept over him, his entire body stiffened as though frozen in place.

Yachiru Unohana's spiritual pressure.

It was not an explosive release, nor an overwhelming crushing force. It seeped in bit by bit, like ice water seeping into the cracks of bone, like darkness closing in from every direction.

That spiritual pressure was so dense that it warped even the light, leaving almost black solid streaks in the air.

The Holy Soldier saw those black spiritual lines spread from Unohana like tentacles, winding around the pile of corpses, winding through the pools of blood, winding around his own ankles.

He broke down.

Pure, primal, uncontrollable fear.

He turned and ran.

His shoes stepped into the blood and slipped. He fell to the ground, staggered upright, and kept running.

He even forgot that he had Hirenkyaku. He simply ran with his legs on instinct, toward the pillar of flame, toward the shadows, toward anywhere that could take him away from this place.

Sword light flashed.

The Holy Soldier's corpse toppled forward and slid several meters, leaving a long smear of blood across the stone road.

Yachiru Unohana sheathed her blade and stood atop the corpse pile, her gaze sweeping over the entire battlefield.

She sensed presences coming from every direction, one after another like waves, each of them drawing closer to her.

Not Holy Soldiers. Not vice-captain-class fighters. Genuine members of the Sternritter.

The number kept increasing: ten, fifteen, seventeen, eighteen.

Unohana stood where she was, gripping her sword and counting those spiritual pressures.

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over the surrounding buildings.

On the rooftops, at the end of the streets, beside the pillars of flame, white figures appeared one after another.

They wore identical Quincy uniforms and the same cross-star insignia on their chests. The texture of their spiritual pressure varied, but every one of them was enough to make an ordinary Soul Reaper choke.

The Sternritter.

Unohana's gaze settled on two people.

One was huge, his muscles knotted and his skin an unnatural grayish white, like a moving slab of stone. His spiritual pressure was thick and oppressive. Every step he took cracked the stone road in spiderweb patterns.

The other was slender, his face pale and nearly bloodless, like a walking corpse. His spiritual pressure was cold and hollow, without the slightest trace of life.

Schrift Q.

Schrift T.

Looking at the two strongest among them, Unohana was the most excited.

Eighteen captain-class Quincy.

Even her calm, expressionless face could not conceal her excitement and anticipation. This was the fighting spirit that welled up from the bones of the strongest swordswoman when she faced powerful enemies.

She tightened her grip on the hilt and charged forward.

The battle erupted in an instant.

All eighteen Sternritter members attacked at once. Barrages of Reishi arrows, Schrift abilities, Hirenkyaku ambushes—every kind of attack surged toward Unohana from all directions.

Unohana weaved through the gaps in their attacks. Sword light flashed. Every swing forced back an enemy, and every dodge barely grazed the edge of an attack.

She was wounded.

The first wound came from Schrift T, the pale Quincy. His ability, "Toughness," raised his body's hardness to the extreme. Striking him felt like cutting steel, numbing Unohana's hand.

During a gap in her slashes, she was struck in the shoulder by his fist. A faint sound of cracking came from her bones.

The second wound came from a Sternritter member wielding a Reishi spear. The spear grazed beneath her ribs, tearing a deep gash. Blood immediately poured out, soaking the side of her clothing.

The third wound came from Schrift Q. The gray-skinned giant's ability was "Quake."

He created earthquakes and controlled the ground to attack targets on the ground. Using an earthquake to raise stone spikes, he caught Unohana by surprise.

This was something Yachiru Unohana had not experienced in a long time.

Injury.

Bleeding.

Pain.

She did not retreat.

The battle continued. Unohana's blade grew faster, her footwork more elusive, her spiritual pressure more intense. The eighteen Sternritter members began to feel pressure—not because she had grown stronger, but because she was not defending at all.

She only attacked.

Every slash was meant to kill. She did not care whether she would be injured, how many enemies there were, or how many wounds she had sustained. Her blade was always one step faster than their attacks, because she did not care whether she was hit.

One Sternritter member had an arm severed by her blade, blood spraying from the stump.

Another had his chest pierced by her sword. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Schrift Q's chest was carved open by a long gash, exposing dark red muscle beneath his grayish white skin.

Schrift T's cheek was cut by the tip of her blade, a line of blood seeping from his pale skin.

But the wounds on Unohana's body were increasing as well.

Her left arm had been pierced by a spirit particle arrow, leaving a bloody hole in her forearm.

Her right leg had been cut by a Sternritter wielding a scythe. Blood ran down her calf to her ankle, leaving bloody footprints on the stone-paved road.

A Holy Arrow had grazed her back, burning through a large section of her black uniform and exposing the charred skin beneath.

Unohana stopped.

She stood in the center of the battlefield, surrounded by eighteen Sternritter, with shattered paving stones and mottled bloodstains beneath her feet.

She was covered in wounds, her clothes soaked through with blood. It was impossible to tell which blood belonged to the enemy and which was her own.

Yet she stood perfectly straight.

Her right hand gripped the hilt, holding the blade across her chest.

Then she grabbed the blade with her left hand.

And pulled outward.

The blade began to change in her hand.

Its metallic sheen faded, replaced by a flowing, viscous red like blood.

The blade melted in her hand, becoming a flowing blood blade. Drops of blood fell from it, landing on the ground and gathering in the cracks between the paving stones.

A pool of blood began to form.

Centered on Yachiru Unohana, blood seeped from the ground—not blood flowing from corpses, but blood that appeared from spirit particles, from the air, from nothingness itself.

The blood pool rapidly spread, flooding the entire street, rising past their ankles and then their calves.

"Bankai."

"Minazuki."

Yachiru Unohana's voice was not loud, but every word was like a blade stabbing into the ears of everyone present.

The pool of blood began to boil.

The blood in the pool began spreading in all directions, pursuing the Sternritter like living creatures.

One Sternritter was splashed on the ankle. His skin immediately began to redden, blister, and rot away.

He screamed and leaped up, trying to escape with Hirenkyaku, but the blood had already spread to his knees.

His flesh began to dissolve.

It was not corrosion, nor was it burning. It was dissolution, like sugar melting into water; his muscles peeled away from his bones and became part of the blood.

He lowered his head and saw white bones exposed beneath the dissolving flesh of his legs, saw his internal organs slipping loose within his abdominal cavity.

He let out a miserable scream, and the others had no idea what was happening.

Some screams were filled with despair, some with collapse, and some were too terrible to describe with words.

Then came the second.

The third.

The fourth.

Overhealing.

Only then did they realize that they had merely become skeletons—they were not dead.