"My Kidō can earn your praise? I'm flattered." Kenpachi Azashiro said, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "But I'm really not interested in becoming the Grand Kidō Chief you mentioned. As for the name 'Kenpachi', I only inherited it because—among the Gotei 13—the position of Captain of the Eleventh Division was the easiest to acquire."
The way he said it was so casual, it bordered on arrogance. But Mazuru, standing across from him with narrowed eyes, could sense that he meant every word.
Most captaincies in the Gotei 13 required a rigorous process—recommendations from current captains, a formal captain's examination, or unanimous support by the Gotei leadership based on character and strength. These methods were long, bureaucratic, and meant to preserve stability.
But the Eleventh Division? That was different.
Their rule was simple: kill the current Kenpachi, and the title—and captaincy—was yours. No votes. No ceremony. Just blood and survival. A senior captain could be called in to observe the duel, but they were just there to ensure fairness, not interfere.
This brutal method might seem uncivilized, but it was a pure meritocracy. Only the strongest could survive, let alone lead.
Mazuru, however, couldn't help but feel a sense of absurdity in how lightly Kenpachi Azashiro spoke of it. Calling it "easy" was the height of Versailles-level bragging. Everything about that path was brutal and deadly.
If any other shinigami heard this, what would they think? The name "Kenpachi" wasn't just a title. It was synonymous with raw power. Ruthless combat instinct. A warrior's soul.
Even though not every Kenpachi was the strongest among all shinigami, they were always among the most terrifying. Anyone who held the name had bested another monster in battle.
And Kenpachi Azashiro? He had defeated the previous holder of the title—Kenpachi Kuruyashiki.
Kuruyashiki's Bankai had been so devastating that Central 46 had forbidden its use within Seireitei. Upon activation, a massive jaw emerged from the earth, devouring everything in a radius multiple times the size of Karakura Town. It didn't discriminate—enemy or ally, everyone was consumed, except the user himself.
Kuruyashiki had rarely even used his Shikai, let alone Bankai. And yet, even under those constraints, he had single-handedly defeated several Vasto Lorde-class Menos Grande.
He had even turned down an invitation to join the Royal Guard.
And Kenpachi Azashiro had killed him.
Casually.
Effortlessly.
Mazuru didn't know how Kuruyashiki would feel if he could hear Kenpachi Azashiro's words from beyond the grave, but he suspected the man wouldn't be pleased.
Still holding his blade, Mazuru took a slow step forward, his expression unreadable. "Your Kidō is impressive, but ultimately meaningless to me. If you still have stronger techniques, you'd better use them soon. I can't believe the one who inherited the name of Kenpachi relies only on Kidō."
Kenpachi Azashiro remained silent.
Then, without so much as a signal, he launched into another barrage—Kidō, one after another.
They came like a rainstorm: Raikōhō, Sōren Sōkatsui, and many others both high and low in level. They weaved together in a violent cascade, flowing into one another with seamless, terrifying rhythm.
The sheer force behind them dwarfed even his previous incantations.
But Mazuru didn't flinch.
He merely raised his blade.
With a single, sweeping motion, a crimson arc of sword energy tore through the air. The wave stretched outward like a cleaver of destruction. Every Kidō that came near it was instantly obliterated—erased from existence as if they had never been cast.
"I already told you." Mazuru said, his voice as flat and unshaken as stone. "Your Kidō is useless."
But still, Kenpachi Azashiro didn't stop.
He kept firing Kidō, like a scientist running experiment after experiment, not caring about the result—only needing proof.
And finally, when the last of them shattered before Mazuru's blade, he stopped. The battlefield fell silent except for the crackle of residual energy in the air.
Mazuru stepped forward.
But then, something changed.
His brow furrowed.
His grip on the sword tightened. A subtle but undeniable twist appeared on his face.
"Hmm?"
There was something inside him.
Something sharp. Something alien.
Like an invisible blade moving through his flesh—not slicing from outside, but from within.
But before it could dig in, a surge of raw reiatsu burst outward from his body, creating a concussive force that expelled the foreign intruder like a virus forced out by a fever.
Mazuru exhaled slowly.
"I see. Even that was no good."
Kenpachi Azashiro finally spoke, voice tinged with reluctant respect.
He had tried one of his more underhanded techniques—condensing microscopic air blades via Urozakuro's ability, merging them with the surrounding atmosphere, then tricking Mazuru into breathing them in. It was how he'd once brought down the previous Kenpachi—from the inside out.
But against someone with reiatsu like Mazuru's, the technique had failed.
It made sense.
Urozakuro's fusion technique could merge the user's body with the environment itself. In Seireitei, it had once let Kenpachi Azashiro turn every wall, every gust of air into a weapon. But against someone with reiatsu dense enough to crush that bond?
It simply wasn't enough.
"I may have inherited the name of Kenpachi." Kenpachi Azashiro murmured, "But I've never been fond of swordplay in close combat."
That statement might've sounded absurd coming from any other Eleventh Division captain. But not from him.
Because at that very moment, a blade materialized in his hand.
No hilt. No guard. Just a pure edge of condensed reiatsu—so dense, it appeared to shimmer and distort space around it.
The blade had not been sheathed. It hadn't been hidden. It had never existed physically until now.
He had conjured it into being with nothing but power and will.
Then, he raised the blade—and swung.
*BOOM!*
The ground exploded.
A pressure more suffocating than gravity itself surged outward. The sword slash tore a deep trench across the battlefield—so deep that the bottom was lost in darkness, as if the world itself had split open.
Mazuru now stood at the trench's edge.
His body unscathed.
But his expression no longer bored.
"That slash..." he muttered.
That reiatsu...
It dwarfed even the power of Sōkyoku, the sacred execution blade of Seireitei. That weapon had once been said to equal the force of a million Zanpakutō. Yet this... this slash felt like it had surpassed even that.
Kenpachi Azashiro, however, remained emotionless.
Compressing all his reiatsu—and the remnants left on every object he'd ever touched—into a single blade, then using that to deliver a world-splitting strike, was a technique unlike any Shikai or Bankai.
But even that had missed.
Even that had failed.
He had struck with everything, and Mazuru had stepped aside.
"I told you." Mazuru said once more, lifting his sword and leveling it toward his opponent. "Your techniques are strong... but not enough."
Kenpachi Azashiro's lips curled, ever so slightly.
"Good." he said. "Then maybe this fight will be worth remembering."
*****
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