The bombardment lasted only three to five seconds before it ceased.
It wasn't that Ichigo's power ran out—an immense surge of spiritual pressure burst through the sea of explosions, split the rain of arrows, and rolled across the sky like a volcanic eruption—majestic, catastrophic, and overwhelming to the senses.
"After taking that much punishment, he can still explode with this kind of power?"
Landing lightly, Ichigo found it hard to believe.
"This isn't surprising."
Shinomiya appeared at his flank.
His voice came through the helm with a faint metallic timbre; even when speaking normally, it rang with a steely weight.
"A Shinigami's vitality scales with reiatsu. As long as the heart beats, reiatsu is generated. Even if the mind can't keep up, the body will reflexively gather it to blunt the blow—it helps a little… though only a little.
"The Captain-Commander's shikai is terrifying, but it can't be stronger than our bankai.
"One-on-one, he can hold us for a while. But one-on-two? Surviving a few exchanges would already be remarkable—especially when he still doesn't know what our bankai actually do."
Ichigo nodded despite himself, staring into the blaze.
"Our power spiked so hard after bankai that I couldn't trust myself to pull my punches. So I let that guy go first—probe the old man's upper limit. Once it was my turn to sync with you, I'd know how to pace it. Looks like… I still underestimated him."
"That's our line."
Yamamoto Genryusai vaulted out of the torn crater, instantly drawing both of their eyes.
"It's I who underestimated you."
He was battered from head to toe—one eye sealed shut by blood, half his face red, the iron chord of his torso slashed and burned, breath ragged and heavy with spent strength. And yet, even like this, he stood like an old pine, a peerless stubbornness radiating off him. Until his last breath, he would not show weakness to the enemy for anything less than a mortal wound.
"You hold something that looks like a 'bow,' yet you drove straight in…"
His uncovered eye moved from Ichigo to Shinomiya.
"And you—empty-handed—covered him from afar.
"When I began to adapt to that rhythm, you swapped roles again to catch me flat-footed.
"That, however, is secondary.
"Without a spine of true power, 'tactics' are just clever noise."
His gaze shifted back to Ichigo.
"Kurosaki Ichigo, your bankai pushes a soul's basic combat grammar to its limit—divide the output in two. Wrap one half over your body—lighter, thinner, your mobility surges. The other half becomes a reishi 'bow.' Reishi has no fixed form, so you inherit your shikai's at-will range-to-melee transitions and carry them to their extreme.
"Add an aggressive state of mind that deliberately scrambles tempo… To be blunt, the chance your opponent doesn't get forced into giving you an opening approaches zero."
"And you, Shinomiya…"
After taking that many hits, if he still knew nothing about his foe's strength, Yamamoto would have truly been ready to retire. But he had only seen through Ichigo. As for Shinomiya's bankai… he still had only suspicions.
"How is my bankai?"
Feeling the Commander's stare, Shinomiya spoke, a shade of challenge in his tone.
"I'm guessing you'll say this armor's 'defense' is outrageous, its reiatsu density absurd. If Ichigo is range-and-melee in one, then I'm offense-and-defense in one."
Yamamoto couldn't deny it. From what he'd shown, that was true. And yet… it wasn't that simple.
He had walked through Hadō 88—Hiryū Gekizoku Shinten Raihō—as if it weren't there.
Yes. Ignored it.
That wasn't conventional sturdiness. It was as if the spell never touched a hem of the cloak. Armor density might be real, but the "defense" itself… was something else.
"Out of words? Then let's get back to it—or the Soul Society won't hold together much longer."
Shinomiya adjusted his stance—an old-school combative guard, refined to a blade-clean economy. His right foot slid forward almost lightly—and a hundred meters of ground shattered with the step.
So the "reiatsu density" was real after all.
Reiatsu density: compress the reishi, increase its "mass," so it won't disperse under force. In practice, it's like tensing muscle when you punch or get hit. To a soul, reiatsu is muscle. Everyone in a real fight refines and tightens it—attack or defense, you can't skip this step. With enough density, skin becomes blade-proof. Kenpachi could give a lecture on that. Yamamoto himself was still standing thanks to it.
But Shinomiya wasn't like them. If you had to compare, it was closest to an Arrancar's hierro: a naturally densified structure that hardens the body without conscious effort. His armor was the same—pure high-density reiatsu, yet weightless; light and hard not like armor, but like a sword.
That step felt like a sword-pressure cleaving down.
"Yes… three minutes to finish this. Any longer, and it becomes troublesome.
"Bankai—Zanka no Tachi."
Yamamoto leveled his blade.
The sea of fire vanished.
It took less than a second. Across the entire field—sky and ground—every flame guttered out. Not a single ember remained. Only heat haze and steam. The sun above glared whiter; the air wavered; moisture flashed to vapor. In his hands, the blade looked burnt—fresh from a forge, or rotting to rust—no obvious sharpness, even brittle at a glance.
Shinomiya and Ichigo both stopped breathing for a beat. Instinct screamed.
"That's…"
Ichigo's pupils quaked.
"All flames are sealed within the blade," Yamamoto said—unexpectedly giving the summary himself. "No outward fire, no burning. Only annihilating heat that erases whatever it touches. That is my bankai."
A strange generosity—until they understood the reason.
"If I lose today, stewing in prison over how I lost would be a waste. Better to think on how to win. For that, my opponent must see my strength clearly."
Ichigo's grip tightened. Shinomiya simply moved.
He blurred in with a shunpo as fast as a drawn sword—mirroring the Hollow's earlier entry, and no slower. Reiatsu "hardness" didn't just mean raw output; it meant exploding force at will.
He lunged into range, leapt high, and—without fear of the blade—kicked straight for the head.
Yamamoto stayed cold—though the surface of his mind rippled with memory: a fighter who cut and shot, who broke through by sheer violence; two who had once stood opposite, now moving side by side; a clean, opening jump-cut from the start; now a living weapon in human shape, head-taking in a single stroke—
"Waxing nostalgic at a time like this… I really am old."
He growled.
"But not so old I'll lose to youth."
He twisted, letting the kick graze by, and drew the scorched edge down Shinomiya's thigh toward his chest—he would plane the armor off, then drive a finishing blow into the exposed heart.
But the edge bounced.
A blade that erased everything… skittered off.
"What?"
His face flickered. This wasn't reiatsu hardness. It felt like resistance to the act of attack itself—shutting attack out as "unwelcome."
What was that armor?
He pushed further—unleashing West: Zanjitsu Gokui, a mantle of fifteen million degrees. The sun draped across his back. Even Ichigo's massive bolts melted before they drew near. That was normal.
What wasn't normal was Shinomiya.
He ignored the heat, poured everything into hands and feet, and hammered Yamamoto's cloak of flame until it wavered like a shaken banner. Fire splashed and liquefied everything it touched; the ground sank and sank as if turning to magma.
"Don't get cocky, brat!"
Yamamoto caught Shinomiya's fist, wrenched him forward, and smashed the pommel into his helm.
Boom.
The blow buried him in stone—but he emerged without a mark; even the struck helm showed no scar. Yamamoto's eyes narrowed. He flicked away from a fan of "draw-punch" light-slashes that ripped the air behind him.
"He ignores injury—perhaps even pure reishi attacks—but he can't ignore physics. He still has to move."
"Why back off?" Shinomiya's voice rang—a bright, cold metal from nowhere and everywhere. "A bankai that 'erases all' won't erase anything at this range. Didn't you say you'd let us know exactly what we lost to today? Funny—I don't feel like I'm losing."
"I know your confusion. Since you showed me yours, I'll show you mine. Because in my view, letting you understand will raise our odds—and fill your heart with fear, and make you bleed openings.
"Incidentally, I don't feel fear."
Even Ichigo turned at that, eyes narrowing as if at a monster.
Yamamoto's brow knotted.
"No fear… You're saying as long as you do not feel fear—toward the enemy or anything at all—then in this state, you can ignore all damage?"
"Correct. That is Bida Yasha・Shenda Yami," Shinomiya said, the cape of night at his back rippling. "It fuses the two faces of Shinigami power—blade and shihakushō. The armor's hardness is a given; a zanpakutō is tough, and a uniform can be fed reiatsu for defense. But those are secondary.
"The true power lies here."
He touched the sapphire core in his breast.
"So long as there is no fear in my heart, the armor cannot be broken. And my body cannot be harmed.
"Of course, ignoring damage has a price—wear. The stronger the strike, the greater the wear. But the armor also feeds—it drinks reishi and knits itself in heartbeats."
Yamamoto's face darkened. He had already noticed. Even as Shinomiya spoke, his "wear" flowed shut.
Shinomiya stamped and launched. The Commander dispersed Zanjitsu Gokui and slipped away, dodging a black conical bolt that howled past—Ichigo's shot, reshaped for penetration. The "bow" let him alter speed, form, and force—a spear to punch heat, and, now, a necessary stalling tool: buy time; let the armor mend.
But Yamamoto broke the script.
"South: Kaka Jūmanokushi Daisōjin!"
He planted the blade. Ashes of the dead he'd slain rose and knitted into a legion of charred skeletons, surging around Shinomiya and locking him down. Endlessly they crowded in. For the moment, he could not break free.
And that was what Yamamoto wanted.
"Me… you're after me?"
Watching the old man sprint straight past his trapped partner, Ichigo understood. Take Ichigo out first; without constant pressure, the armor would eventually wear past its limit.
"Like hell I'll let you!"
Crisis sharpened Ichigo's focus to a razor. He raised his hand and loosed three blue-white giants, then hosed the field with every form of arrow he had. For miles, the ground shook under the barrage.
Yamamoto carved through it in a single stroke.
"East: Kyokujitsujin!"
If a blade couldn't carve Shinomiya's armor, it could still cut everything else. If this kind of assault could stop him, he wouldn't be who he was.
"However much you resemble 'that man,' even he fell to this. Why would you be different?"
His reiatsu roared. Even dark shots meant to clip the skeletons and free Shinomiya were swatted aside—no bankai trick, just perfect sword and step.
Only then did Ichigo truly grasp the steel of Shinomiya's heart. To feel no fear—that precondition sounded simple… until a man wearing the sun walked at you. Instinct flinched; zoo glass or not, a tiger leaping for your throat makes you recoil.
Shinomiya had strangled that instinct in the cradle.
Ichigo refused to fold.
"Getsuga… Tenshō!"
The black-blue crescent screamed across the bridge; Yamamoto swatted it aside with his hand. Ichigo didn't retreat. He drove in on super-speed and traded blow for blow.
Yamamoto held back—no edge to flesh—stripping him instead of options. A body blow slipped through.
"Guh—!"
The punch hurt worse than a cut—nerves shocked numb, impact ringing through marrow, the brain blanking out for an instant.
An opening—snatched away as Hollow Ichigo flowed in without a seam, cannibalizing control and continuing the exchange. For timing and technique, the Hollow was sharper. Above all, he hunted to win.
"Kaidō, is it…"
Even if minds switched, wounds persisted. Yamamoto's eye flicked to the green glow sealing Ichigo's abdomen. He understood.
"Old man—your head is mine!"
The Hollow snapped a shot at his face. Yamamoto didn't look—he simply wasn't there when it passed.
"What!?"
"Beast's instinct will not defeat me."
Bang.
Another punch. Rikujōkōrō—Bakudō 61—lit and pinned him for the blink it took to land it clean.
A ripping sound answered.
"Hm?"
A deep cut scored Yamamoto's right forearm—like a blade had answered at the instant of impact. The Hollow fell, eyes clearing as he righted himself in the air.
"Not mere instinct," Yamamoto thought. "All the more reason to end this here."
He caught Ichigo by the throat on the way down. No matter how Ichigo pried, the grip didn't slacken; a scything blow from the "bow" met only a tilted head. Leisurely, almost. Then they fell like a meteor.
Boom.
Shinomiya smashed through the wall of dead and looked toward the plume. Ichigo's reiatsu was plummeting. He moved at once.
By the time he arrived, Ichigo lay on his back, bankai forcibly stripped, already unconscious—headfirst impact from high altitude, compounded by reiatsu shock. Yamamoto turned, voice iron:
"Your turn."
They had stalled too long; the Soul Society's water was boiling out of the air. Another reason he'd targeted Ichigo first. One down. The other was sprinting in. Perfect timing.
"—Cut!"
As Shinomiya touched down, the blade all but vanished.
Now that he understood the armor, Yamamoto no longer feared erasing "man and mail" together. He measured once, set both hands, and let East sing the purest sword he knew.
And the strike broke Shinomiya's armor.
Cracks lanced; plates fell; flesh showed. A brutal gash tore across the scapula.
"Brat, that's—"
"—the end."
The voice finishing the sentence wasn't Yamamoto's. It was Shinomiya's—who, having "lost" his bankai, should have had no answer.
Yamamoto looked down. A strange light traced his chest—a cut—with the exact same trajectory as the blow that had shattered the armor.
Shinomiya's hand settled on his hilt. Reiatsu that had guttered flashed back a hundredfold, surging through him, bound tight by will until his whole body shone—dazzling, almost holy.
This was his shikai's core state—Hizaya's first face.
The scabbard clicked.
A cut like a comet arced across Yamamoto's vision.
"You didn't finish Ichigo because you were afraid of wasting time on me—afraid I'd kept more back," Shinomiya said calmly as Yamamoto crashed through ruin, panting, eyes dulling with exhaustion. "You guessed right.
"My bankai is offense-and-defense in one. Not just density—its special power works both ways. Whoever breaks my armor receives the same mark—I drop from bankai to shikai, and my next strike cannot miss that mark—no matter what."
A groan of rubble. A silhouette stood again—scarred, sword no longer scorching bright, the world's heat slackening at last.
"…"
Shinomiya sighed, unsurprised. The Commander glared.
"Why the dull edge?"
"Because I won't kill a man who has held back for me from start to finish."
Shinomiya shook his head.
"I wanted to knock you out and be done. I didn't expect your will to be this… indomitable. Or rather—your will more than your 'life force.'"
"Just so." Yamamoto stepped down from broken stone, a matching, bone-deep wound across his chest. He looked tired—but the pressure he exuded hadn't faded. "I will die in battle. I will not collapse in a heap and watch the Soul Society burn.
"So, brat—this is over."
"It is. Kurosaki and I are spent. So…"
Shinomiya hoisted Ichigo and turned away.
"It's your turn."
"Well then—much obliged."
Yamamoto's eye widened as a man in a straw hat stepped into view with an apologetic smile. And not just him.
"Need a hand, Shinomiya-kun?"
"Save your strength," Shinomiya said without looking back. "You'll need it to hold the Captain-Commander. He looks like he's got one more bankai in him."
"No worries," Kyōraku Shunsui sang. "You two didn't show at the rendezvous, and with how hot things got, there wasn't much room to cut in. Now? He's angrier—and scarier—but leave him to us."
As he spoke, two more figures appeared, anchoring a triangle with Kyōraku and Ukitake. To Shinomiya, calling it sturdy was underselling it—because the two newcomers were both captain-class.
Yamamoto's face twisted between wrath and disbelief.
"Urahara… Kisuke.
"And you, Aizen Sōsuke?"
One—Soul Society's "great criminal." The other—a disciple he'd trusted most. If betrayal was inevitable, he had still believed this one would share his spine.
Wrong on both counts.
Worse still—two captain-class "wayward children" protecting a ryoka in lockstep.
"You four bastards!"
His reiatsu thundered; heat rose in a wave.
"Not what a man who just fought those two should look like," Urahara muttered, side-eyeing Aizen with a bitter smile. If I'd known "extra reinforcements" meant Aizen, I wouldn't have let "maybe working with two open-minded captains is fine" talk me into this…
Aizen glanced back—So Kyōraku didn't kill him, nor let him go; he called in help—on a whim, or out of caution. With just the three of them he wasn't sure. Cautious indeed.
Four captain-level pressures bloomed as Shinomiya, at a teacher's nod, slipped away with Ichigo. Yamamoto couldn't stop him.
"You are 'young' beside me," the old voice rumbled, "but time changes all. Do not expect me to show mercy."
Kyōraku and Ukitake drew steel, faces set. Urahara sighed and shrugged into a conveniently "borrowed" Twelfth Division haori.
A line of white—four captain cloaks in a row.
"Captain-Commander," Aizen smiled, blade sliding free, "you've hurt my disciple. A teacher can't ignore that."
"And I'll settle this ledger—leading the Soul Society's brightest astray!"
The field vanished beneath fresh, wrathful flame.
....
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