Sword of Blazing Fire

Temperature.

The first thing they felt was the temperature.

Not the dry heat of flames scorching flesh, but an inescapable blaze seeping out from the depths of their marrow.

It was as if someone had dragged the sun down from the sky and placed it in the very center of the Seireitei.

The temperature was rapidly rising in every corner of the Seireitei.

The stone-paved roads began to heat up, the air began to warp, and metal scabbards became too hot to hold.

Even in District Eighty at the very edge of Rukongai, the wandering souls too weak to sense Reiatsu felt that heat.

It was not bodily heat, but the heat of the soul, as though something were burning their Reishi from within, leaving them nowhere to escape.

Then came the Reiatsu.

That Reiatsu covered the Seireitei, covered Rukongai, covered everywhere Soul Society could reach.

It was not oppression, but envelopment, as though the heavens had collapsed and the earth had turned over.

Whether Soul Reapers, Quincy, or wandering souls, all felt the same thing before that Reiatsu.

Smallness.

East District One. Pernida Parnkgjas's golden eyes flickered.

The white threads around him froze for a moment, as if they had been scorched by something.

He showed no expression, but his body shrank back slightly.

West District One. A thin layer of spiritual light emerged over Jugram Haschwalth's shield.

He raised his head toward the center of the Seireitei, distant firelight reflected in his pale eyes.

His expression remained cold.

"Your Majesty..."

His voice was soft.

Lille Barro lowered his gun atop the watchtower.

He looked toward the center of the Seireitei.

His brow furrowed. It was the first time he had frowned since appearing on this battlefield.

"Your Majesty..."

His voice was equally soft.

North District One.

Paula and Otto, who had been retreating, stopped at the same time.

The two exchanged a glance without speaking, then accelerated their Hirenkyaku.

The forces that had been locked in fierce battle—

Soul Reapers, nobles, Quincy, and the rest—were suddenly all engulfed by an enormous, heart-palpitating Reiatsu.

That incomparably powerful force pressed down on everyone like a towering mountain, making it hard for them to breathe. They had no choice but to halt their movements and turn their eyes toward the very center of the Seireitei, wanting to see who could possibly release such terrifying spiritual power.

Only then, after the battle had temporarily ceased because of this sudden development, did people realize that their surroundings had become unbearably hot.

It felt as though they stood at the edge of a volcano about to erupt, scorching heat rushing at their faces until it was nearly impossible to endure.

"Captain-Commander..." Someone in the crowd murmured softly at some point, but the words quickly spread like wildfire.

"Captain-Commander!"

"Captain-Commander!"

More and more voices intertwined, forming a noisy, tumultuous wave of sound.

Some shouted in unrestrained excitement; others spoke the legendary figure's name in low, reverent voices.

Even those normally lofty and self-important nobles could not help showing astonishment as they muttered:

"So it is the Captain-Commander... He actually used Bankai?"

"My heavens, is this the Captain-Commander's true strength?"

As second after second passed, their emotions gradually settled, replaced by overwhelming confidence and resolve.

After all, before the full power of Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto's Bankai, a peerless powerhouse whose name shook the world, what enemy would not feel fear?

"Captain-Commander, you finally..." Shiba Chuanlu stood before the Quincy, weaponless, while three giant birds circled overhead and Reishi continued gathering in his hand.

"Yamamoto, it is rare to see you going all out." The Kuchiki Clan head's breath was ragged, but he stared fixedly at the Quincy before him.

"Power..." Tsunayashiro Shiki raised his head toward the sky, toward Yamamoto's direction.

Soul King Palace.

Ichibē Hyōsube, who had been resting with his eyes closed, abruptly opened them and began drawing some kind of special spell.

The center of the Seireitei.

The walls had been charred black by blood and flames.

The ground was piled with corpses. It was impossible to tell what this place had once looked like—Quincy corpses, Holy Soldiers, Holy Soldier squad leaders, lieutenant-class fighters, even several ordinary Sternritter members.

Some had been cut in two, some burned into charcoal, and some no longer had any recognizable shape, leaving behind only patches of ash-black marks.

There were so many corpses that it was as though a carpet had been laid with Quincy flesh and blood.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto stood in the middle of the corpse pile.

A layer of flowing crimson Reishi flames covered his entire body, leaving only his head exposed.

Solar Dawn Garb.

The blade in his hand was no longer merely burning with raging flames. The air around it was completely warped.

Dawn Blade.

Bankai.

Yamamoto had not used it in a very long time.

So long that the young Soul Reapers of Soul Society did not even know he possessed this Bankai.

So long that most of those who did know were already dead.

So long that even he had nearly forgotten what this sword's true form looked like.

Opposite Yamamoto.

Yhwach stood atop a mountain of corpses.

The Quincy King.

He wore a black cloak, his Reiatsu utterly ostentatious.

Standing before the raging flames, he was neither scorched nor driven back. Instead, he raised his cloak and revealed a smile.

Yamamoto looked at Yhwach. Yhwach looked at Yamamoto.

Between them lay scorched earth and corpses strewn across the ground.

There was no one else here anymore. Everyone else was already lying on the ground.

"Yhwach," Yamamoto spoke. His voice was not loud, yet the entire Seireitei could hear it.

Yhwach did not respond.

Flames burned over Yamamoto's body as he held his blazing Zanpakutō and walked toward Yhwach step by step.

Suddenly.

A Reiatsu appeared behind Yamamoto's right side.

Yanyuan Jinle.

He stood there silently with his Zanpakutō in hand. The flames reflected in his eyes, and his face was covered in soot and bloodstains, but his eyes were bright as he stared ahead.

Then another appeared on the left.

Bakuzan Katori.

Her naginata hung low, its blade slanting toward the ground. All sharpness around her had been withdrawn as she stood in a lowered spear stance, silent, the raging flames reflected in her large round glasses.

Nobutsuna Shigyo approached from the other side of the scorched earth, Zanpakutō in hand, and quietly took his place beside Yamamoto. The blaze lit half his body brightly.

Entetsu Kumenoi had already sheathed his Zanpakutō. He used Shunpo to appear beside Nobutsuna Shigyo, the firelight illuminating half his body and reflecting in his small eyes.

Then another Reiatsu appeared on the right.

Yachiru Unohana.

Her captain's haori was completely soaked through with blood. She quietly held her Zanpakutō and looked at the flames before her and the man called Yhwach.

All their gazes were fixed on Yhwach.

He stood in the middle of the scorched earth, clad in a black cloak, his right hand lifting its edge, a smile on his face. His eyes were entirely fixed on Yamamoto, ignoring the other five captains completely.

Yamamoto did not turn around.

He knew they had come.

He did not need to turn around.

Yamamoto strolled forward.

With every step.

The Quincy corpses beneath his feet ignited beneath the intense heat of Solar Dawn Garb. Flames burst from their wounds, turning flesh and blood to ash and bones to white powder.

Yamamoto walked over the burning bodies, leaving a flaming footprint with every step.

Yhwach watched Yamamoto walk toward him.

That was not the smile a man surrounded by six captains should have worn.

It was a smile.

Of understanding, certainty, even faint pleasure.

As if saying: you finally came. I have waited for you for a long time.

Then he froze.

A blade pierced through his chest from behind.

Its tip emerged from the left side of his chest, the silver-white blade covered in blood.

Yhwach lowered his head to look at the blade tip protruding from his chest, his pupils shrinking slightly.

Behind him, a "corpse" stood up.

Chojiro Sasakibe.

His white haori was soaked in blood. His face, hair, and clothes were covered in gore.

When he rose from the heap of corpses, he looked like a resurrected zombie—drenched in blood, features blurred—yet the sword in his hand was as steady as a rock.

Gonryōmaru.

It had pierced through Yhwach's chest.

There was no expression on Chōjirō Sasakibe's face. His hand did not tremble, the blade did not deviate, and his Reiatsu did not waver. How long had he lain here? Had he been here since the battle began? Or had he slipped into this pile of corpses before Yamamoto activated his Bankai? No one knew.

But everyone knew one thing.

He had waited a long time for this strike.

Yhwach's body froze.

Not death, but paralysis.

Gonryōmaru's ability was to control lightning. The instant Chōjirō Sasakibe pierced Yhwach's chest, he sent lightning into his body, paralyzing his nerves, his Reishi flow, even his consciousness.

Only for an instant.

But for Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, an instant was enough.

Dawn Blade was raised high, then brought down in a swift swing.

The blade swept from Yamamoto's hand, and flames poured from it, forming a sea of fire that surged into the sky.

It was Ryujin Jakka's full-force strike in its Bankai state, power enough to erase an entire city from the map compressed into this small slash.

Chōjirō Sasakibe pulled Gonryōmaru free the instant the blade fell.

"Haaaaaah—!"

His voice was nearly drowned out by the roaring flames.

He retreated, used Shunpo, and left an afterimage in the air.

He did not need to run far. He only needed to escape Yamamoto's attack range.

The flames swallowed Yhwach.

They swallowed the scorched earth beneath his feet.

They swallowed the surrounding corpses.

They swallowed everything.

The firelight exploded in the center of the Seireitei.

Like a small sun born upon the earth, it expanded outward and devoured buildings, streets, and air.

A heatwave surged in every direction from Yamamoto, forcing the captains back several steps.

Unohana raised an arm to shield her face, while Yan Yuan was pushed backward by the heatwave, sliding several meters.

Then the light faded.

The scorched earth became glass.

The corpses became ash.

Nothing remained where Yhwach had stood.

West District One.

Shuichi was awakened by the heat.

It was not an illusion. It was genuinely hot.

The tatami beneath him smelled scorched as though it had been roasted by fire, and the woven straw surface of the cushion burned his hand when he touched it.

The air inside twisted. Sunlight streamed through the window, but the light itself seemed to have been heated by something, pricking his skin like needles.

Shuichi's eyes flew open.

He did not know how long he had slept.

The last thing he remembered was sitting in the residence in Sword Meditation. Then his consciousness had sunk into a sea of flowers, where the figure in white crossed robes and a red cloak had waited before a wooden hut.

And then? Had they just kept clashing blades? Kept practicing Zanpakutō techniques as the four-colored sea of flowers spun before his eyes again and again—red, blue, yellow, white; red, blue, yellow, white—like a carousel that would never stop.

His Zanpakutō had been forcing him into Sword Meditation.

He could feel it.

Whenever he tried to wake up, the sea of flowers grew denser. The stems of those red spider lilies wrapped around his ankles and dragged him deeper.

The faceless figure would not let him leave.

Until the temperature changed.

The sea of flowers began to wither.

Not from fire, but because it had been scalded to death by the irresistible searing heat that had seeped in from the outside.

The petals curled, blackened, and dried up. The stems snapped. The faceless figure stood before the wooden hut and, for the first time, raised its head to look toward something beyond the sea of flowers.

Then Shuichi woke up.

He sat on the tatami in the residence, drenched in sweat. His Shihakushō clung to him as though he had just been pulled from the water.

His wet hair hung over his forehead. Sweat dripped from his chin onto his knees with faint splashes.

The surroundings were a complete mess.

Reiatsu.

There was too much Reiatsu.

Distant, near, strong, weak—Soul Reaper, Quincy.

It all churned together like a pot of boiling porridge, rolling through his senses. He had never sensed so much Reiatsu in the Seireitei, never felt such heat in the Seireitei.

He knew nothing.

He did not know how much time had passed, what had happened outside, whose Reiatsu those were, who was still standing, or who had already fallen.

He knew only one thing: he had to go outside and see.

The moment that thought surfaced, the Zanpakutō at his waist suddenly grew heavier.

Not mentally heavy. Physically heavy.

It was as if someone had tied an iron ingot to his belt. The weight abruptly dragged downward, and his body tilted with it.

Shuichi lowered his head to look at his Zanpakutō, confusion showing on his face.

The added weight lasted only an instant.

Then it returned to normal.

Shuichi did not know what it meant.

Was his Zanpakutō warning him? Trying to keep him there? Or had it merely been an illusion? He had no time to think.

He stood and pushed open the residence door.

The Seireitei was burning.

It was not a metaphor.

Firelight filled the streets. The air had been burned into warped distortions, and distant buildings flickered in and out of view through the thick smoke.

Bodies lay on the ground—Soul Reapers, Quincy, nobles, Holy Soldiers—all mixed together, impossible to distinguish.

Shuichi headed toward the nearest location with powerful Reiatsu.

His Shunpo was not fast, but it was steady.

Along the way, he saw far too much.

Shattered division barracks, collapsed walls, stone roads soaked in blood, scattered Zanpakutō, and Reishi bows.

He did not know how much he had missed, where he should have been, or whose side he should have been at.

He only knew that the place he was heading toward now had chaotic Reiatsu.

When Shuichi reached the edge of the Sixth Division grounds in West District One, he saw those purple twin-tails.

Furoufushi Saito lay collapsed amid the ruins.

Her Zanpakutō had fallen several meters away, its blade covered in blood and dust.

She was still alive, though her Reiatsu was unstable.

Before her, a long-haired blond man was slowly approaching.

He wore a white Quincy uniform and a dark cloak. A silver-white shield rested in his left hand, while his right gripped a Reishi longsword.

His features were stern. There was no emotion in his blue eyes, like the surface of a winter lake—calm and cold.

His Reiatsu was heavy.

So heavy that Shuichi's steps paused.

Shuichi did not know him.

He only knew that this man intended to kill Saito, and that Saito could no longer get back on her feet.

Shuichi did not hesitate.

He drew his Zanpakutō.

The silver-white blade left its sheath with a clear hum in the scorching air.

Red appeared along its sharpened edge.

He swung.

A red slash of sword energy flew from the blade, skimming over ruins and rubble as it cut toward the blond man.

Where the sword energy passed, it left a deep red scar across the ground.