Seireitei, Noble District, Shin'ō Medical Institute.
East Wing, where Gotei personnel requiring long-term recuperation were housed.
In a private ward at the end of the third floor, Huashen Jing was reclining against the headboard.
There came two knocks at the door.
Huashen Jing raised his head, and the usual carefree smile on his face faded slightly. "Come in."
The door was pushed open. The figure who entered stood half a head taller than him, with the captain's haori of the Third Division draped over his right shoulder. Beneath the right sleeve was an artificial prosthetic limb, its color slightly different from his skin.
"Captain Oda."
Huashen Jing tried to sit up straighter, but Oda raised a hand and lightly pressed the air.
"Lie down. Don't move."
Oda sat in the chair beside the bed. The fingertips of his prosthetic hand rested on the armrest, making an almost imperceptible tapping sound. He lowered his head and glanced at his right forearm, then said, "Little Jing, your Bankai really is something."
Huashen Jing froze for a moment, then the corners of his lips curved upward. "You flatter me, Captain. As for being impressive, didn't my lousy hand end up getting thrown back at me like a brick?"
"That's not what I meant."
Oda shook his head. He raised his right hand and slowly clenched it, an intensely serious chill belonging to an old soldier in his eyes.
"That final Grand Slam was truly impressive. If that Quincy hadn't had no idea how to use it, he'd probably be lying in bed like you. That just shows how powerful it must be when you use it yourself."
Huashen Jing did not answer immediately. He shook his head. "It's no use. The Reiatsu consumption is too great. I know my own limits. My Reiatsu