The cheers seemed to pierce the clouds and shake the heavens, sending ripples through the entire world.
The passion and joy of the people erupted like a volcano—wild and unstoppable.
The skies of Soul Society appeared illuminated by those shouts, glowing brilliantly.
Light reached every corner, lit up every face.
Where once there had been only darkness, now there was hope—vibrant and alive.
Sunlight spilled through the thinning clouds, casting golden patches across the ground.
Those glimmers of light fell upon the survivors, upon the broken remnants of buildings.
Shattered swords glinted in the sun, as if whispering stories of the fierce battle from the night before.
The living gazed around in a daze, taking in their surroundings—only now realizing just how long and harrowing that night's battle had been.
...
The sun rose as always.
Its warm rays poured over Soul Society, as if nothing had happened, as if peace had never been disturbed.
This was a realm long accustomed to war's baptism.
What once were crises no longer felt like crises. Even the thousand-man clash tucked into the corner of Seireitei would, in time, be nothing more than a faint ripple in the endless river of the Three Worlds' history.
Sunlight spread rapidly, crossing over shattered streets and finally landing upon the towering outer walls of the Shin'ō District.
An old man, weathered and scarred, leaned on the battlements. The pain from his wounds throbbed dully, but it didn't show on his face.
His eyes were deep, fixed toward the north.
They had truly held the line.
Even though there were still gaping breaches in the wall from the enemy's assault, the ancient city still stood firm.
Shinigami in tattered Shihakushō moved tirelessly among the debris.
Despite a night of brutal combat and the enemy's relentless onslaught, this old city had survived.
Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto stood dazed, perhaps still muddled from the grievous wounds he had taken the night before.
"It seems trusting in junior brother Masatsuki was the right call. By all logic, that level of assault should've been impossible to withstand."
"And yet... even the Gate of Hell was shut. I've no idea how he managed it."
The voice came from behind, tinged with both awe and relief, as Chōjirō Sasakibe strode toward him down the ruined street.
His Shihakushō and Haori were in tatters, streaked with dried and fresh blood—clear signs of the fierce battle he had barely walked away from.
A deep, jagged crimson wound stretched across his chest.
Though his body had been bound in layers of bandages, blood still seeped through, staining the once-white cloth a vivid red.
His Shihakushō was too damaged to fully conceal the injury, and through the ragged fabric, the angry wound stood out starkly—hard to ignore.
Chōjirō frowned slightly, instinctively tugging at his sleeve to try and cover it.
The 4th Division had already treated him.
But the casualties last night had been overwhelming, and the medics were stretched thin. This was the best they could manage—for now, at least, his life was no longer in danger.
Just then, a familiar voice called out from behind.
It was his beloved junior brother.
"The reason's simple. The Gate of Hell opens because of a Reiatsu imbalance."
"As long as we raise the Reiatsu of the Three Worlds to a level strong enough to suppress the Gate—it won't open."
Chōjirō Sasakibe spun around in shock, staring at his junior in disbelief.
"Raise Reiatsu? That's impossible!"
After all, Reiatsu isn't like Reiryoku—you can't just boost it at will.
At its core, Reiatsu is the strength of the soul—its density and essence.
Outwardly, it determines how much and how powerful one's Reiryoku can be.
You can't raise Reiatsu like gaining weight by eating or drinking.
To increase it, you need to refine the soul itself—life's very essence.
Generally speaking, outside of special cases like Zanpakutō liberation, increasing one's Reiatsu requires years of steady, disciplined training.
To reach that kind of leap in such a short time... it just shouldn't be possible.
Masatsuki Aozaki had achieved Zanpakutō release over a hundred years ago, so this clearly wasn't one of those "special exceptions."
Facing Sasakibe's skepticism, Masatsuki just grinned smugly and explained,
"It's actually simple—because I'm incredibly gifted!"
Then, with a casual wave, he led his three Lieutenants over.
All three had survived, though they looked worse for wear—no better off than Sasakibe himself.
Sasakibe frowned, still unconvinced.
"You're definitely talented, but even so, there's no way you could've advanced that fast in so little time."
Masatsuki shrugged and replied with a smile,
"Alright, I'll level with you. The Soul King gave me a backdoor."
"Tch... If you don't want to tell me, just say so. If it really was the Soul King, why go through you? Couldn't he just go to Genryūsai-sama instead?"
"Ah, that's the thing—only I could do it."
Masatsuki wasn't joking.
The Soul King and the Will of Hell were beings on a cosmic scale.
Their conflict involved the very balance and laws of the world.
Hell's invasion of the Three Worlds was, in fact, part of that world order—entirely within the rules of existence.
Even the Soul King, all-powerful as he is, was bound by that truth.
...
Captain Yamamoto, already aware of Masatsuki's unusual connection with the Soul King, found himself nearly convinced. He asked in a quiet voice,
"Any activity from Hell?"
"None. Since the gate closed last night, even the small Hellmouths have vanished completely," Masatsuki replied.
Yamamoto's injuries were so severe that even the slightest movement caused him pain.
Perhaps to spare his Master the indignity of grimacing in front of the squad, Masatsuki stepped forward.
"Relax, old man. Those from Hell may be strong, but they're also heavily restricted."
"The Reiatsu of the Three Worlds is enough to suppress the Gates of Hell—and we detained a lot of souls last night."
"The Will of Hell won't be able to open the gate again on its own."
Yamamoto nodded faintly.
But the mention of souls reminded him of the tragedy at the Central Great Underground Prison.
So many had died that it had likely tipped the balance between Hell and the Three Worlds.
After all, those prisoners were exceptionally powerful.
Even without souls, their bodies couldn't decompose naturally—they had to be sent to Hell.
The thought ignited Yamamoto's anger. He cursed silently:
"Damn Quincy."
Noticing Yamamoto grow angry for seemingly no reason, a few people froze.
Had the old Master finally gone senile?
Yamamoto said nothing. A soft southern breeze stirred his long white beard.
His face turned solemn as he raised his head to look at the young man before him.
No one could say for certain what thoughts were passing through the old man's mind.
Was it hatred for his enemies? Relief for his disciple? Or was his gaze already fixed beyond last night—toward a future no one else could yet see?
"You've done well, Masatsuki."
His voice was gentle but firm, and slowly, he extended his hand.
Masatsuki hesitated for a moment, then quietly lowered his head and bent forward, letting that weathered hand rest atop his head.
The morning sun fell over the two of them, casting a quiet warmth that lingered in the air.
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
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