Ashido scanned the young man quickly.
He shook his head lightly and murmured, "Captain, his spiritual presence may be enough to suppress the locals, but among Shinigami, he's nothing special."
This was the so-called "Demon"?
Ashido felt a stab of disappointment.
But Kuryashiki Kenpachi's reaction was completely different.
The Eleventh Division's ever-boisterous captain had lost every trace of his usual grin.
His right hand slowly lowered onto the hilt of his Zanpakutō.
He leaned forward slightly — a natural motion, instinctive, the kind one makes when encountering a worthy opponent.
His eyes locked onto the young man by the well, a fire smoldering in their depths.
"No, Ashido."
"You're wrong."
Kuryashiki's mouth curled into a grin — not the cheerful kind, but a slow, feral stretch.
"This guy…"
"He's absurdly strong."
The young man stood.
His movements weren't fast — in fact, they seemed sluggish, like rusted gears grinding to life.
But the moment he straightened, a presence began to leak from him. Not a spike of Reiatsu, but something deeper — a smell of rust and blood clinging to existence itself.
His right hand gripped the jagged longsword leaning against the tree root, and he lifted his gaze — directly at Kuryashiki.
No — at Kuryashiki's haori.
Those once-empty eyes were suddenly blazing, light flickering and fire dancing within.
His lips pulled back — not quite a smile, more like the expression of a predator baring its fangs at prey.
He stared at the haori with intense focus, as if carving every stitch of the fabric into his memory.
And deep in his rusting mind — a faint shadow stirred.
A silhouette from long, long ago, perhaps from a time when he still retained more of his "memories." It surfaced in his thoughts.
That shadow had worn something similar — something grand and imposing.
He was comparing them.
The clothes this man wore, against the image in his head.
Kuryashiki was also smiling.
But this time it wasn't his usual wide-open grin — it was a low, growling smile rising from his throat, laced with burning battlelust.
Because the moment their eyes had locked, a jolt of electricity had shot down his spine.
That feeling was unmistakable.
After countless brushes with death, countless battles with monsters and warriors, his body had forged a warning system far sharper than any logic.
And it was screaming now: This man is dangerous. He could kill you. He is worth your full strength.
His stance had already shifted before he realized it — center of gravity lowered, muscles tightened, Reiatsu coiled like a volcano just before eruption.
His fingers gripped his blade, every cell in his body singing with anticipation.
How long had it been? A hundred years? Two?
It had been far too long since just standing in front of someone made him tremble with excitement, aching to draw his sword.
But he was a captain.
The Eleventh revered combat, yes — but the pride of a captain held him in place. He would wait. Hand on blade. Until the other moved first.
In the center of the clearing, the two men stared at each other.
Wind stirred dust between them, but couldn't lift even the hem of their clothes.
Ashido, standing just behind Kuryashiki, frowned even deeper at the words "absurdly strong."
He focused again, this time with full attention.
The young man's Reiatsu output really wasn't high — in fact, it was almost underwhelming.
Spiritual Pressure Class? At best, mid-level Tier Ten. Rough. Unrefined.
At that level, Ashido felt confident he could take him down himself. Two strikes? Maybe even one.
So what was the problem? Captain Kuryashiki didn't misjudge opponents. Especially not strength.
What had he missed?
Ashido pressed his lips into a thin line. A thought flickered, and several soft red "threads" extended from his body, drifting silently toward the young man — a direct attempt to probe and interpret the fluctuations in his spiritual power.
The sensory threads brushed the space around the youth, grazing the naturally diffusing Reishi.
What came back was… unremarkable. Disordered. Lacking structure. Limited in strength. Nothing beyond what he'd seen with the naked eye or felt through surface sensing.
Could the captain really be wrong?
Ashido couldn't help glancing sideways at him again.
Kuryashiki was taut, his eyes blazing — unmistakably the way he looked when facing a true equal… or something even more dangerous.
Ashido's head was full of questions.
Then the young man spoke.
His voice was hoarse, like someone who hadn't used it properly in ages, rough and jagged.
"Hey." His eyes were locked on Kuryashiki's haori. "That coat. Where did you get it?"
Kuryashiki blinked. Then let out a booming laugh.
"Hahaha! You mean this?" He slapped the front of the haori. "It's from Seireitei! What, you like it?"
"Seireitei?" the young man echoed the name, clearly confused.
He tilted his head, searching his memory. But nothing came.
Not surprising — if he'd lived his whole life here in Zaraki, the chaotic outer districts, it was only natural he didn't know the Soul Society's central seat of power.
Here, "Shinigami" was little more than a whispered legend — feared, not understood. Where they came from, what they represented — no one cared.
Only those from the inner districts might have seen a Shinigami in the flesh.
Kuryashiki saw the confusion on the youth's face and beamed even brighter.
"You want it? That's easy."
He pointed to himself with his thumb. "Kill me, and it's yours. That's how it's always worked in the Eleventh."
"Captain!" Ashido burst out.
Sure, their squad had a tradition of challenging those above to climb the ranks, but issuing a death match to some unknown man from the slums? That was—
Kuryashiki casually waved him off, never taking his eyes off the youth.
Ashido swallowed hard and bit back the rest.
He knew his captain. Once Kuryashiki got into this state, words were useless.
The confusion slowly faded from the young man's face.
He processed Kuryashiki's offer, and the fire in his eyes blazed even hotter.
"Is that so?" he said, low and rough — a question, a mutter, a self-affirmation.
Then his lips curled wider, into a jagged sneer.
"Then I'll take it!"
He moved.
The jagged sword tore through the air, coming down at Kuryashiki with full force.
Even before the blade reached him, the murderous pressure riding on it smashed forward like a wave.
Here it comes!
Every cell in Kuryashiki's body screamed in exhilaration.
He shook with anticipation, a fevered ecstasy — the thrill of death given and taken.
A pure, unfiltered strike, born solely for slaughter!
The joy of standing at death's edge and dragging someone else there too!
He hadn't felt this alive in over a century!
"Hahahahaha! YES!"
Kuryashiki roared with laughter. He didn't dodge. He didn't flinch. His right hand clenched the hilt — and drew.
A flash of silver light — upward, reverse and clean.
The blades met.
Squelch.
It wasn't the clash of metal on metal.
It wasn't the eruption of colliding Reiatsu.
It was the sound of a blade sinking into flesh — dull and wet.
The brilliant slash passed through the young man's ferocious strike as if it weren't there, then buried itself in his chest.
Blood burst from the wound like it had just remembered what to do.
Hot and metallic, it sprayed across Kuryashiki's face and hair.
The momentum of the charge came to a full stop.
The jagged sword clattered to the ground with a heavy clang.
The youth looked down, dazed, at the gaping wound in his chest. Then up at Kuryashiki, now stained with his blood.
The fire in his eyes snuffed out.
He tried to speak — lips moved — but only a breathless "huhhh…" escaped.
His eyes rolled back.
And then he dropped like a tree, crashing backward into gravel and dust.
Only the wind remained, whispering through the clearing.
And the faint tremor of the blade still settling on the dirt.
Kuryashiki stood there.
Frozen.
The wild grin on his face twisted — broken by shock, confusion, and the hollow drop of unmet expectations.
Blood ran down his face.
He just stared.
Stared at the body of the opponent he'd anticipated with every fiber of his being — now lying flat, spurting blood, eyes rolled up, motionless.
His hand still held the follow-through of his swing.
From the tip of the blade, a single drop of blood slid down and fell.
He opened his mouth…
But no words came out.