Within the depths of Amamiya Miyako's inner world, the clash between him and his Zanpakutō raged on.
The air echoed with the sound of blades colliding—twin swords in Miyako's hands against the single, relentless blade of his opponent. The white-haired youth who stood before him seemed to grow sharper and stronger with every strike, his black robes fluttering like shadows in the void.
"Oi, Miyako… Didn't you say you were a Quincy?" the youth sneered, his voice cutting as sharply as his sword. "So why aren't you using that power? Without your Quincy techniques, you can't even defend yourself against me. To think you want to claim my power… baka janai ka? Utterly delusional."
The mocking words bit deep, but there was something strange in them too—like a provocation, urging Miyako to call upon his Quincy abilities.
Yet Miyako couldn't. No matter how desperate the situation became, instinct screamed at him not to use his Quincy heritage here, not in this battle. He couldn't explain why… he just knew.
"Quincy power? Heh, I don't need it," Miyako said stubbornly, even as his chest heaved with exhaustion. "I'll make you hand over your strength without it, Zanpakutō!"
"Tch… is that so?" The white-haired youth vanished in an instant, shunpō fast, and his blade came down in a deadly arc.
Miyako barely parried. Sparks scattered, and another line of blood bloomed across his arm. His body was already riddled with wounds, each one searing with pain. Even if this was his spiritual inner world, the agony was real enough to blur his vision.
'Am I… going to fail again?' he thought bitterly. Up until now, he had never once bested this white-haired spirit.
Blood trickled down his face, his breaths shallow. But even on the brink of collapse, Miyako glared at his opponent with unyielding eyes.
"What's wrong? Is this all you've got?" the spirit spat, his words cutting like poison. "Foolish fellow."
Miyako's gaze sharpened. Something about that word—foolish fellow—stuck in his mind. Ever since their first meeting, the Zanpakutō spirit had called him nothing but insults. It was cruel, yes, but… not meaningless.
"Oi," Miyako growled through gritted teeth, raising his blades again. "I have a name. Why do you keep calling me that, huh? Baka this, foolish fellow that—why don't you say my name, dammit?"
For the first time, the white-haired youth paused. Then… laughter. Cruel, mocking laughter.
"Name?" The spirit pressed his hand to his forehead, shaking with disdain. "Heh… are you talking about Amamiya Miyako? Is that what you mean? That false name you cling to?" His narrow eyes glinted with contempt. "That's not your name."
Miyako froze. His Zanpakutō's words struck deeper than any blade.
Yes… Amamiya Miyako was not the name he was born with. It was the name he had chosen… the name of someone else, taken on to bury his past.
And suddenly, everything clicked. The endless hostility. The refusal to lend him strength. It wasn't rejection for rejection's sake—it was because he had been denying himself.
"…I see." Miyako lowered his gaze, whispering as understanding dawned. "I've been too afraid. Afraid of my past… afraid of the emotions tied to the real Amamiya Miyako, who died. That fear made me cling to his shadow, borrowing his strength instead of facing myself."
Lifting his head, Miyako's eyes burned with newfound clarity as he looked at the youth before him.
"Zetsun reminded me not to forget the fear of death… and you…" His lips curved faintly. "You've been reminding me not to lose myself in that fear. Arigatō, Zanpakutō. I get it now."
Straightening, he spoke clearly, voice firm as steel.
"I am Amamiya Miyako. That's the name I carry now—but it is mine, not borrowed. Quincy power… that's not my true essence. It's something I inherited, yes, but it isn't what defines me. And you… you're not 'Amamiya's Zanpakutō.' You're my Zanpakutō."
At those words, the white-haired youth trembled, lowering his head. His sword hand shook violently. Whether it was anger or some deeper emotion, Miyako couldn't tell.
"…So what!" the spirit roared suddenly, leaping forward. His blade pierced straight through Miyako's chest.
The pain was overwhelming, sharp enough to steal the breath from his lungs. Blood spilled freely, but instead of fighting back, Miyako dropped his twin swords and grabbed hold of the spirit's blade with his bare hands.
"…I may not be Amamiya," he said through gritted teeth, crimson dripping from his lips. "But I am still Miyako. This name… this path… is mine. I won't forget that."
His grip tightened around the blade that impaled him, determination blazing in his eyes.
"So lend me your strength—not for Amamiya, but for me. For the man who stands here now, Amamiya Miyako!"
The white-haired youth trembled, his grip on the hilt faltering. His head was lowered, expression hidden, though his hand shook as if caught in an unspoken conflict.
Then, little by little, his blackened body began to dissolve. It broke apart into countless motes of light, drifting like fireflies into the twin blades Miyako still held.
When the last fragment vanished, Miyako drew out the swords from his own body. His wounds closed instantly, leaving not a single trace of injury.
The oppressive dark clouds above slowly scattered, and silver moonlight spilled down, bathing Miyako in its glow. He lifted the newly reforged twin blades into the night, the reflected light gleaming across their edges.
"…Arigatō. And… gomen for making you wait so long." His lips curled into a faint, warm smile.
This was only the first step—Miyako knew it well—but it was also the most important one. With that thought, his consciousness drifted away from this world…
....
Within the spiritual world, once Miyako's presence faded, the dark street transformed. The clouds were gone, the moon shone high, and countless stars twinkled brightly in the clear sky.
The white-haired youth reappeared, though now a pale-white essence surged from his black robes. It separated swiftly, forming another figure before him.
It was the black-haired, white-robed Zetsun. He folded his arms and chuckled. "Mm, that was quicker than I thought. Honestly, I expected him to keep clinging to my power for much longer."
The white-haired youth remained silent, his gaze fixed on the night sky.
"Hah? What are you staring at? …Ah, that thing," Zetsun muttered, following his line of sight. "It's stirring again. If anyone noticed, that'd be a real pain."
The white-haired youth finally spoke, his voice low but firm. "It's not agitation… it's simply reacting to Miyako. And as long as I'm here, those fluctuations won't escape."
Zetsun smirked, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Heh, so you finally called him by his real name." A teasing lilt colored his tone. "But you're really stubborn, you know? On one hand, you refuse to acknowledge him. On the other, you help him suppress these dangerous fluctuations. In the end… whether it's Amamiya or Miyako, the one walking now is Amamiya Miyako. You're too damn strict, you know?"
This time, Zetsun didn't merge back into the white-haired youth. The two figures stood side by side in silence, their eyes fixed on the strange, blue-black gem twinkling ominously in the heavens above.
...
Meanwhile, below Sōkyoku Hill, Abarai Renji was about to charge forward when a calm but firm voice called out.
"Matte, Renji. I'll go with you."
Renji spun around, eyes widening at the sight of Miyako, now fully awake and standing strong with his new blades in hand.
"After all," Miyako continued, his tone even but resolute, "you're a fugitive now. Charging ahead alone… Kuchiki Byakuya won't ever allow you to reach the execution grounds." His sharp gaze fixed on Renji as he spoke.
"Miyako! You're finally awake!" Relief and surprise washed over Renji's face. "What the hell were you doing? You already achieved Shikai, so why did it take you so long to commune with your Zanpakutō?"
Miyako gave a small chuckle, his expression softer than before. "…No big deal. I just… understood myself a little better, that's all."
Renji blinked, noticing the shift in his aura. "Tch… I don't know, but something about you feels different."
"Yare yare…" Miyako shook his head lightly, then stepped past him. His twin blades gleamed under the moonlight as he walked toward the exit. "Come on, Renji. Let's head to Sōkyoku Hill!"
Renji smirked, gripping his own Zanpakutō tightly, and followed after him without hesitation.