Higashino Shuuichi was troubled.
Who could've thought that after more than ten years of peace—no real tasks from Aizen, just quietly following Unohana Retsu to learn zanjutsu—the moment a mission arrived, it would be something this big?
Force the Kasumiooji into rebellion?
Wasn't that supposed to happen *after* Aizen betrayed Soul Society in the original timeline? Back then, the Kasumiooji had centuries of research, real battle testing, and their Bakkōtō were refined to near-perfection, backed by an entire corps of users. Only then, under Shūsuke Amagai, did rebellion ignite.
But now?
Just thinking about it gave Shuuichi a headache.
The Kasumiooji's test subjects weren't conjured from thin air. With survival rates barely scratching ten percent, and Kumoi Gyoukaku squandering the few survivors by shipping them off to Rukongai's far districts, they had less than thirty functioning Bakkōtō wielders. Not a single one at captain level.
With that, what noble in their right mind—Kasumiooji Masasuke or Kumoi himself—would believe they could challenge Soul Society?
Yet Aizen had given the order.
"Is it because I've been outside his control too long? Or because I haven't done proper work for him in years?"
Shuuichi suspected Aizen simply wanted a pretext to discard him.
He had Tōsen now, after all. In under twenty years, Tōsen's reiatsu had soared to solid captain level.
Last year, when Shuuichi sparred with him in Hueco Mundo, he was crushed—pure reiatsu pressure.
Neither could go all-out, both knew each other's abilities too well. In such duels, raw reiatsu decided everything. And Shuuichi's zanpakutō was ill-suited for single combat—his Bankai useless, half his Shikai effects situational at best.
He sighed, thoughts drifting to another of Aizen's "generals": Ichimaru Gin, the ultimate infiltrator. Gin's talent eclipsed even Tōsen's.
It had been just twenty-two years since Tōsen's recruitment, and already Aizen was moving this way. Once Gin joined, what then? What use would Aizen have left for him? Would he be relegated to some errand boy, or worse, Yamamoto's designated punching bag?
No talent. No overwhelming power. In Aizen's world of survival of the fittest, he was expendable.
Maybe this mission was just a test—a reevaluation of his worth.
After all, only two qualities of his still mattered: his ruthlessness, sparing neither noble nor peasant, and his tactical genius beyond most Shinigami.
"Ha… at least I understand my limits now, or else—"
He flicked the message. It burned to ash.
Troubled.
Twenty years ago, he had spoken passionately to Unohana about *effort rewarding the diligent*. He had believed it then.
From commoner to Shinigami, from academy to seated officer, from officer to vice-captain—slow but steady. He thought with Aizen's shelter and Soul Society's long years, if he worked hard enough, he would reach further.
But twenty years had proved him wrong.
Unohana's words that day—*what if you never cross that line*—were no idle musing. They were a truth carved in stone.
His spiritual pressure was capped. No matter the resources, training, or mentorship, an invisible hand pressed him down. Ordinary captain-class. No higher.
He had reached captain-level five years earlier than he admitted. And for nearly twenty-five years since, his reiatsu hadn't budged. That was his ceiling.
Aizen knew. That's why he never relied on Shuuichi's battle power, why he recruited Tōsen.
Unohana knew. That's why she only taught him pure zanjutsu—to enjoy some fleeting taste of battle until that boy from Zaraki appeared.
But Shuuichi refused to accept it. If it were only Aizen he had to face, ordinary captain might be enough. He could betray him at the right time, pull an Ichimaru Gin, and wash himself clean. Aizen wouldn't even care.
But after Aizen came Yhwach. The Quincy madmen who butchered Shinigami without thought. The great war that annihilated nearly eighty percent of Soul Society.
For that, captain-level wasn't enough.
He knew now: he couldn't just bide his time under Aizen, hoping to be gifted power from the Hōgyoku.
"With my reiatsu locked… what else can I grasp?"
Hand to chin, he planned his future.
Then, a black butterfly landed on his shoulder.
"Shuuichi, today's training begins."
A Hell Butterfly. Rare. Too rare for him to have. It was Unohana's.
At once, his thoughts cleared. Whatever long-term plans he had could wait. If his mind wandered in Unohana's lessons, the pain was unforgettable.
Five minutes later, in her private training chamber, Shuuichi bowed, offering the zanjutsu salute.
Blades flashed. Dust rose.
Now, at least, he could cross swords with her for a few true exchanges.
(End of Chapter)
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