Treatment Type?

The rain gradually stopped.

Several cracks split the lead-gray clouds, and daylight leaked through them. It was not bright, but it was enough for everyone to see the full extent of this scorched wasteland: shattered walls, standing water reflecting the broken sky, and wounded people sprawled everywhere, leaning against ruins and gasping for breath.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto slowly turned around. His gaze swept across every face, passing over the survivors who stood, sat, or lay there.

Some faces that had once been so familiar had vanished from sight forever. Others, just as familiar, still stood resolutely in the torrential rain. Soaked through, their clothes stained with blood and grime, they looked exhausted and haggard, yet remained standing firm like mountains that could not be moved.

Yamamoto quietly regarded these warriors, battered and scarred by hardship. He gave a slight nod of approval and said softly, "The brave souls who fell are to be buried properly according to custom. As for the fallen captains, place their bodies in the First Division Barracks for now, and hold a grand funeral when the time is right. Send the severely wounded captains to the Shin'ō Medical Institute for treatment as soon as possible. Chōjirō, I leave all follow-up matters to you."

Upon hearing Yamamoto's orders, Chōjirō immediately bowed respectfully and answered solemnly, "Understood!"

Then Yamamoto announced in a deep yet commanding voice, "All personnel, dismissed!"

Though Yamamoto had not spoken loudly, in the unnaturally quiet center of the Seireitei after the downpour, every word rang out as clearly as a great bell and reached the ears of everyone present.

No one answered. No one formed ranks. Those crouching slowly stood, those sitting were helped up by people nearby, and stretchers were lifted once more. The order had been given; no further response was needed. The surviving Soul Reapers began to move, dispersing from the center of the Seireitei in every direction, leaving the scorched earth to Yamamoto, who stood in silence beneath the pale daylight filtering through the gray-white sky.

"Hey, old man!" Saito's voice was not loud, but it carried an impossible-to-ignore force that made everyone present turn their heads.

"Your student... he released Bankai just now! And it was the same type of Bankai as Yachiru's!"

The Soul Reapers who had been preparing to leave froze as though struck by a binding spell. The vice-captain of the Eleventh Division whipped around, disbelief written all over his face. The seated officers of the Ninth Division quickly turned sideways, apparently trying to see what was happening. The Fourth Division stretcher bearers even stood straight up beside their stretchers, eyes wide and mouths agape like startled rabbits. Even the Second Division members, who had remained silent while concentrating on moving bodies, slowed their movements in unison and pricked up their ears, afraid of missing a single detail.

The entire scene fell deathly quiet. Only the patter of rain continued to strike the ground. Saito leaned quietly against a crumbling wall, letting the cold rain soak her clothes. Most of her distinctive purple twin-tails had already come undone, damp strands hanging messily over her shoulders and contrasting sharply with her pale complexion. Yet despite her bedraggled appearance, the light in Saito's eyes shone brilliantly—like the brightest star in the night sky, unforgettable at a glance.

What did Yachiru Unohana's Bankai, Minazuki, represent? The captains and veteran Soul Reapers present understood better than anyone. A blood pool spreading out, flesh dissolving—it was Soul Society's supreme ability, combining top-tier area healing and killing power. And now someone was saying that this First Division member, whose name barely anyone even remembered, had released the same type of Bankai?

Every gaze converged on Shuichi like spotlights.

Shuichi stood at the center of those burning stares, as though he had become the focus of everyone's attention. He was drenched from head to toe, as though he had just walked out of a torrential downpour. Drops of water slid down his body and struck the ground with clear little splashes.

Under so many eyes, Shuichi felt an unprecedented awkwardness. His heartbeat involuntarily quickened, and fine beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. He tried to shift half a step to the side, hoping to ease the embarrassment. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the feeling of being watched from behind.

As Shuichi stood there, Saito's words seemed to linger in the air. The phrase "the same type as Yachiru" exploded in his mind like a thunderclap.

He knew Saito was not lying, because he had personally experienced the warm power brought by his own Bankai. That miraculous sensation of healing and peace flowing from within had left an unforgettable impression on him.

But—

Those three words, "the same type," were simply too heavy for Shuichi to bear.

After all, he had only just mastered Bankai. He had not even fully figured out what role he had played in this fierce battle. He did not believe his Bankai could be mentioned in the same breath as Yachiru's, much less deserved such high praise as being called the same type.

Just then, Yamamoto spoke.

His deep, sharp eyes peered through layers of wrinkles as he silently regarded Shuichi. They were like two ancient wells—calm and steady, without the slightest ripple. When his gaze passed over Shuichi's wounds, it paused briefly before moving away as if nothing had happened.

"I understand."

Yamamoto spoke softly, his tone as placid as water, betraying no emotion.

Just three words. No further questions.

On the scorched ground at the center of the Seireitei, seeing that Yamamoto offered no further reaction, the Soul Reaper ranks began moving again. Survivors from each division hoisted stretchers, supported the wounded, picked up scattered Zanpakutō, and headed toward their respective barracks and treatment stations.

No one looked back at Shuichi again. It was not that they were uninterested; the Captain-Commander had already spoken. They had no time to stop and discuss a new recruit's Bankai. The battlefield had yet to be cleared, their comrades' bodies had yet to be recovered, and the wounded had yet to be settled.

Shuichi stood where he was for a while.

He did not know what he was waiting for.

Was he waiting for Captain-Commander Yamamoto to say something more?

Was he waiting for Vice-Captain Sasakibe to come question him?

Was he waiting for someone to tell him what he should do next?

The Soul Reapers around him receded like the tide. Even Saito was carried away by members of the Sixth Division, her loose purple hair swaying over the edge of the stretcher before vanishing into the rainy mist. There was no follow-up.

After saying, "I understand," Captain-Commander Yamamoto had turned away and never looked at him again. Vice-Captain Sasakibe followed behind the Captain-Commander without even turning back. No one came to ask about his Bankai. No one came to verify whether Saito's words were true. No one came to inspect his injuries. No one told him where to go. It was as though those words had never been spoken at all.

The area was cleared out quickly.

Only a few ordinary First Division guards remained on the scorched ground at the center of the Seireitei, cleaning up the battlefield.

They had probably been hiding somewhere earlier.

First Division clerks, logistics staff, and communications personnel—fighting was not their duty, and Captain-Commander Yamamoto had not ordered them into battle.

Now they emerged from their hiding places and silently turned over bodies on the scorched earth, dragging Soul Reaper corpses one by one out from the piles of Quincy bodies and laying them neatly to one side. No one spoke. There was only the scraping rustle of bodies dragged over the ground and the occasional heavy breath.

Shuichi stood there and watched them work for a while. No one came to chase him away, and no one came to speak to him. Those guards had probably recognized him as a First Division member.

They had seen that face in the First Division before, but no one came over to exchange pleasantries or ask questions at a time like this. The battlefield had not yet been cleared. They had neither the time nor the mood for it.

Shuichi turned and left the center of the Seireitei. Behind him, those First Division guards continued silently turning over bodies on the scorched ground. No one saw him off, and no one called out to stop him. The Seireitei after the rain was quiet beyond belief. Puddles and ruins covered the streets, while the air was thick with a mingled smell of char and dampness. Shuichi walked alone down the empty stone road, stepping over broken tiles and snapped timber as he headed toward his residence.

On the way back, Shuichi finally had time to look around.

He had run here on the way over. At that time, the Seireitei had still been burning, and Reiatsu had churned chaotically like a pot of boiling porridge.

Now there was nothing left. The Seireitei after the rain was as quiet as a vast graveyard. Only he remained, walking alone along the empty streets, stepping through rubble and puddles as he slowly made his way home.

He began to notice the things he had not had time to see on the way here.

A broken wall. It had not been blasted down; it had been cut cleanly in half. The cut was smooth as a mirror, with rainwater streaming down its surface.

Behind the wall stood the burnt-out frame of a residence. The beams still gave off faint wisps of smoke, tiles lay shattered all over the ground, and a ceramic teacup had somehow remained intact, overturned on the threshold with a small pool of rainwater gathered in its base.

Farther ahead, a whole street was covered in the corpses of Holy Soldiers. Their white Reishi armor had been soaked in blood and turned a filthy grayish red. The bodies were arranged with eerie neatness, not because anyone had placed them there, but because they had all been cut down by the same slash while charging. Their fallen poses and directions were astonishingly uniform. Shuichi walked past them, his footsteps splashing through the standing water.

After turning a corner, he heard a voice.

"Is anyone there... Is anyone there..."

The voice came from beneath a pile of collapsed wooden beams. It was faint, as though the speaker's throat had been made hoarse by smoke.

Shuichi stopped and turned toward the rubble. The beams and tiles formed a triangular gap, and the voice came from inside it. Without hesitation, he walked over and crouched down, using the Zanpakutō in his hand to pry up the beam pressing down from above. It was heavy, and his left shoulder had no strength left. He could only brace the blade with his right hand and press downward using his body weight.

The beam rolled slightly, and tiles slid down with a clatter, revealing a dust-covered face in the gap. A Soul Reaper. Judging by the style of his Shihakushō, he was an ordinary member of the Ninth Division. He was young, with a few freckles still visible on his face. One leg was trapped beneath another beam, leaving him unable to move, but he was conscious, his eyes fixed directly on Shuichi.

Shuichi said nothing. He returned his Zanpakutō to his waist, wrapped both arms around the beam pinning the man's leg, clenched his teeth, and lifted. The beam rose several inches. The member pulled his leg free, then collapsed onto the rubble, gulping down breath after breath. His leg was not broken, but it had been pinned too long and was already numb.

Shuichi bent down, dragged him out of the rubble, and helped him lean against a wall by the roadside that had not yet collapsed. The member tilted his head back against the wall. After a long while, he finally turned to look at Shuichi, his lips moving as though he wanted to say thank you, but Shuichi had already turned and left.

Not far ahead was another ruin—the remains of a noble estate. Its gates had been blown away, most of the courtyard wall had collapsed, and the courtyard was strewn with the bodies of Holy Soldiers and several warriors wearing noble armor.

A woman dressed in robes bearing a lower noble house's crest knelt atop a pile of rubble, frantically digging through tiles with her bare hands. Her fingernails had broken off, and her fingers were covered in blood. She kept calling someone's name, but it was impossible to make out who. Shuichi walked over, crouched down, and helped her dig. The tiles and stones were sharp, and his fingers were soon cut open as well. Blood and mud mixed together. After the two dug for a while, a pale hand emerged from beneath the rubble. The woman screamed and dug even faster.

Shuichi did not look at her, nor did he look at that hand. He continued digging until the person's entire body was uncovered.

A young man, wearing robes with the same family crest as the woman. A hole had been smashed into his forehead, and the blood had already congealed into a dark blackish-red stain. His eyes were shut, and his chest did not rise. The woman threw herself over him, and her sobs carried far through the silence after the rain.

Shuichi stood up and backed away two steps. He glanced at the woman. She did not look at him; her entire body was draped over the corpse, her shoulders shaking violently. Shuichi turned and continued walking home. The blood dripping from his fingers diluted into a faint pink in the puddles, disappearing almost immediately.

After walking a little farther, he saw a familiar face at the mouth of an alley: Shimura, a First Division clerk. Shimura leaned against a fallen gatepost, his clothes soaked through with blood. A deep wound ran across his calf, and blood still seeped from it. When he saw Shuichi, he froze for a moment, then gave a bitter smile. "You finally came back."

Shuichi walked over and crouched down, lowering his eyes to inspect the wound on Shimura's calf. He reached out and draped Shimura's arm over his shoulder. Shimura did not stand on ceremony, using Shuichi for support as he rose. He kept his injured leg off the ground, not daring to put weight on it. Shuichi supported him as they moved forward step by step. Shimura chattered in his ear about how the records office had been bombed, Okabe had been injured, and Sakaki had run off somewhere. Shuichi did not respond, merely supporting him in silence as they walked.

Shimura lived not far from the First Division Barracks. Shuichi brought him to his door and handed him over to his neighbor, a young woman who was also a First Division clerk. Her eyes were red as she took Shimura from him and thanked Shuichi repeatedly. Shuichi nodded, then turned and left.

At last, he reached the door of his own residence.

The house was still there.

The residences of members on the outskirts of the Seireitei had not been heavily affected by the battle. There were only a few new cracks in the courtyard wall, and several roof tiles had been shaken loose. Shuichi paused the instant he pushed open the door. The room was pitch-black, exactly as it had been when he left. The tatami still bore the indentation where he had sat during Sword Meditation, and the Zanpakutō's sheath rested beside it, exactly as it had when he departed—and yet completely different.

He stepped inside and closed the door.