He met her by chance.
Kenpachi had been returning from a mission that ended, as they usually did, in a field full of corpses and the stench of burnt ozone. He was walking through the outskirts of Kirigakure proper, katana slung over his back, still radiating heat from barely-contained chakra.
That's when he saw her.
A young woman in ceremonial white-blue robes, her long raven-black hair pinned up, her steps poised and regal. She moved through the mist like a ghost, calm and beautiful—untouchable. The streets cleared when she passed. Everyone bowed their heads.
Yachiru Yuki. Heiress of the Yuki Clan. Ice Release bloodline. Noble. Untouchable.
Kenpachi couldn't care less.
But then he felt it.
𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦.
Beneath the elegant façade, beneath the smiles and the grace—he sensed it. A pressure. A killing intent so sharp it made his fingers twitch.
And in that moment, he knew:
She was like him.
No—𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦.
𓂃𓂃
He followed her.
Not stealthily. Not carefully.
He just walked behind her.
Yachiru noticed immediately, of course. She turned slowly in a quiet garden courtyard on her clan's private grounds. "You're following me," she said softly.
"You're hiding," Kenpachi replied bluntly, grinning.
She tilted her head. "Excuse me?"
"You wear that face for them," he said, waving at the empty air. "But your soul's screaming for violence."
Her smile didn't waver.
But her chakra 𝘥𝘪𝘥.
It flared—cold, sharp, ancient. A weight settled in the air so heavy it crushed the surrounding plants. Mist clung to her like a living cloak. The temperature dropped. Her eyes gleamed not with shock—but recognition.
"…You see me," she whispered.
Kenpachi unslung his katana, blade humming faintly with unstable chakra.
"I want to fight you."
She was silent for a moment.
Then she stepped forward, undoing the pin in her hair. The ribbons fell. Her composure melted like frost under sunlight—and something older, darker, purer replaced it.
"…Alright," she said, voice dropping into that cold, authoritative tone from another lifetime. "But don't you dare die too quickly."
𓂃𓂃
It lasted eight minutes.
Kenpachi never lasted eight minutes before.
She didn't just overpower him. She dissected him—every movement surgical, every blow calculated. Her chakra formed razors of ice and curved blades like fangs of a forgotten deity.
He landed exactly two hits.
One cut across her shoulder.
One kick that forced her to stumble.
But every drop of blood she spilled only made him laugh harder. Every wound he suffered made him more alive.
By the end, he was on his knees, coughing up blood, sword broken, but smiling wider than he had in years.
"You're amazing," he choked out. "You're perfect."
She raised a blade of ice to his throat.
And hesitated.
"What… do you want from me?"
He looked up, blood in his teeth, and said it with all the chaotic sincerity in the world:
"I love you."
Yachiru froze.
Not in fear.
But in 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.
"W-what…?"
Kenpachi grinned. "Not like that. I love your strength. I love the way you move. You made me bleed. You broke me. You saw me."
She stared at him—wide-eyed. Then, suddenly, she turned away, chakra vanishing.
"I have duties," she said sharply, voice cracking ever so slightly.
She vanished into the mist.
But she was smiling.
And for the first time in his life, so was Kenpachi… with his heart pounding for something more than just battle.