Holding a chipped, thin sword, Zaraki Kenpachi rushed out of the west gate of the Seireitei with a crazed smile that made the scar running across his face look worse than usual.
Perched on his back was a small girl with wide, shining eyes. Her innocent look clashed violently with the chilling words that followed her smile.
"Who are you gonna kill this time?"
That petite girl was the vice-captain of the 11th Division: Yachiru Kusajishi.
"Like me, he was born in Zaraki."
"The team had a meeting about him not long ago."
"I'm curious how powerful he really is."
As he spoke, Kenpachi picked a direction and charged forward.
Yachiru quickly pulled on his collar. "Nah, not that way. This way's right."
Kenpachi jabbed his thumb in the opposite direction. "Pretty sure it's that way."
Yachiru smiled. "Just run in both directions."
"...Makes sense," Kenpachi nodded.
…
"Up ahead is the Seireitei."
As the giant wall stretched across the horizon came into view, Kyoraku Shunsui broke the silence.
"But to go inside, you'll have to keep your spiritual pressure in check."
"People at our level can break something without meaning to."
"A light touch and that wall cracks. Step too hard and the ground caves in."
"That's why you've got to learn how to hold back."
"If you don't know how, I can show you…"
Yuta shook his head. "I already know how."
His power, left unchecked, tore through anything around him. His spiritual pressure could tear down buildings the way gravity eats away at stars. Once inside Seireitei, he couldn't afford to keep that pressure active-not unless he wanted everything he touched reduced to spirit particles.
Even sleeping would be a problem. There'd be no bed that could take it. He'd have to rely on Shunpo and hover in the air until morning.
Yuta wasn't interested in that kind of hassle.
He learned control instead.
[You try to control your own spiritual pressure and successfully control it freely.]
In that moment, Yuta looked no stronger than your average foot soldier with level twenty spirititual pressure.
Kyoraku Shunsui stopped mid-sentence and stared silently.
Genius? This guy made the rest of them look like background decoration. Kyoraku wasn't sure anymore what made someone a prodigy-and for the first time, he doubted his own sense of how far genius could go.
…
"This is the Seireitei's West Gate: Hakudōmon," Kyoraku said, gesturing. "The man guarding it is Gaitanbō a hero from Rukongai."
He called out casually, "Gaitanbō, open the door."
Gaitanbō stared at them for a second longer than he should have.
Today was bizarre enough already. First all these captains passing through so close together, now this new civilian-looking kid being escorted personally?
What kind of person gets this kind of treatment?
He had questions-but not the rank to ask them. So he kept his mouth shut and opened the door as instructed, stepping aside without another word.
Kyoraku glanced back toward Yuta as they stepped through. "Don't stress too much. Captain Yamamoto has a good side when talking with people from Rukongai. If you've got requests, say 'em."
Yuta gave no reply and walked alongside Hitsugaya Tōshirō through the giant gate.
Gaitanbō, resting his arms again on the heavy doors, found himself frozen with thought.
Some random Rukongai kid had walked straight into Seireitei… and now he was about to meet Captain Yamamoto?
And with full freedom to make demands?
That hadn't happened once-not in hundreds of years guarding these doors. Even Gin Ichimaru hadn't met Yamamoto first thing upon arrival. And Gin had been considered exceptional from day one.
Yamamoto was the strongest Shinigami walking the Soul Society floor-the supreme commander of all squads under heaven.
What made this kid different?
…
Seireitei stretched out in pristine contrast to Rukongai's uneven dirt paths and rocky alleys.
Here, every street was paved in flat-cut stone tiles that reflected light cleanly off their smooth surfaces. They formed geometric patterns across the ground in perfect alignment.
There wasn't a trace of dust on any one tile.
Neat streets. Clean air. An entire world separated from where they'd come from minutes ago.
"That direction leads south to Shino Academy," Kyoraku pointed out mid-walk.
Yuta glanced down the street and saw it: large buildings rising above everything around them-the unmistakable form of an academy towering in white stone and dark tiles among smaller structures nearby.
"So where are we heading now?"
Kyoraku nodded ahead. "First Division barracks."
Their walk brought them quickly to their destination.
Faint traces of chrysanthemum drifted through the air near the building entrance. Fresh and white with scent-it felt like standing beside something elderly but proud of its age and strength.
They moved past the open doors into a common area where meetings were usually held-but not today.
Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni wasn't there.
Kyoraku scratched his jaw and sighed. "Ah… looks like he's in his office upstairs."
They took the stairs up one flight and stopped as they reached an oversized doorway easily twice the height of any normal threshold.
Kyoraku pushed it open-and space widened sharply before them.
Outside stood what resembled an observation hall, where sight carried across mountains of stone below and rooftops far beyond. The entire Seireitei lay visible from there-all bathed under waning sunlight turning golden by the second.
And at one desk in front of them sat Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni.
Behind him hung the crest of Squad One-a white banner against bare walls filled with nothing else but space and silence.
One desk. One brush. One man sitting alone beside ink and paper-that was all there was inside that space built for command itself.
Too simple for its purpose-but too heavy in spirit to feel lacking anything at all.
That kind of weight needed no ornaments to make itself known.
Kyoraku raised his hand casually as they approached. "Old man, we brought him."
The old captain slowly lifted his head toward them without standing up or speaking immediately.
He didn't move much but Yuta felt it anyway.
The pressure rolling off him scorched the room hotter than flame. There was no mistaking it, not for a second longer: Yamamoto wasn't some old man who wrote reports all day behind paper seals.
He was burning power disguised as flesh and uniform.
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