Miyamoto Musashi vs. Zaraki Kenpachi
For an unknown swordsman, there is no greater glory than slaying a legend.
Miyamoto Musashi had yet to carve his name into the annals of Soul Society. In the outer districts of Rukongai, he honed his blade in obscurity, waiting for the right opponent—the right moment—to strike, and rise in renown.
And what greater opponent than the captain of the Eleventh Division?
Even in the farthest corners of Rukongai, Musashi had heard of Zaraki Kenpachi. The "strongest Shinigami," undefeated and unyielding. To kill him would make Musashi's legend echo through all of Soul Society, just as slaying Sasaki Kojirō in the world of the living had immortalized his name in one night.
"Musashi. Control your reiatsu."
Nobunaga's sharp warning cut through his swelling excitement.
"Forgive me." Musashi exhaled, forcing down the surge of bloodlust. He glanced around, suddenly realizing someone was missing. "Where's Shiraishi?"
Shiraishi had vanished.
For a moment, Nobunaga's suspicion flickered—had he been betrayed again? But no. If Shiraishi had truly plotted against him, he wouldn't have waited until now. Another possibility surfaced, chilling him.
"Our position is exposed," Nobunaga growled. "Musashi, you draw Kenpachi away. I'll head to Liuyue City!"
"Exposed?" Musashi frowned, glancing at the city miles away. His brief slip of reiatsu couldn't possibly have reached so far. Still, his instinct forged in life bound him to obedience. Without protest, he leapt from the mountaintop toward the forest below.
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Far away, in Liuyue City.
The wind stirred, and bells tied to the tips of spiked hair chimed faintly.
A beast opened its eye, lips curling into a feral grin. His very breath reeked of bloodlust.
"Found it…" Zaraki Kenpachi rasped. "Out of the four of you, which one's the strongest?"
The bells sang again. Not that one. Not that one.
You.
The word rang in Musashi's mind like a death knell. His body tensed. He landed lightly on the forest floor, hands tightening on his swords. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy, scattering across the moss, as silence pressed heavy around him.
Then—
BOOM!
A massive tree shattered, splinters spraying, as a towering figure burst forth. White haori over black shihakushō, spiked hair crowned with jingling bells, and a jagged eyepatch across his right eye.
Kenpachi Zaraki. Captain of the Eleventh Division.
The pressure of his arrival whipped fallen leaves into a storm, battering Musashi's body as though the forest itself recoiled from the beast's presence.
Musashi's sharp gaze locked on the man. The devilish aura, the eyepatch, the grinning scarred face—everything about him screamed violence incarnate.
"Yachiru. Off."
Kenpachi's eye gleamed as his hand gripped the bandaged hilt of his sword.
"Okay!" Yachiru Kusajishi chirped. With a playful leap, she bounded from his shoulder, landing on a distant ridge to watch, her tiny frame perched eagerly for the show.
Musashi narrowed his eyes. "Before we fight… how did you find me?"
Kenpachi smirked and tapped a jingling bell. "The Tech Bureau made these for me. They give away my position… but they let me find enemies too."
Musashi's lips tightened. "So even Soul Society has its inventions. I underestimated it."
"Done asking questions? Good." Kenpachi's grin widened, bloodlust radiating like a storm. "Let's fight."
The captain had been restless for days. He craved Shiraishi's blade but had been denied that thrill. The others he fought couldn't scratch him. His blood boiled for battle, and the news of Nobunaga's plot was all the excuse he needed.
Never did he expect to stumble upon a true opponent here.
"I'm delighted," Kenpachi rumbled.
"I agree," Musashi replied coldly. "When I kill you, Miyamoto Musashi's name will resound across the world."
His stance dropped low, both hands gripping his twin blades, body coiled like a bow at full draw.
"Hahaha!" Kenpachi laughed, drawing his sword in one careless motion. The weapon looked like a jagged saw, its battered edge a testament to endless slaughter.
Musashi frowned. "A master swordsman who doesn't care for his blade? Pitiful."
Kenpachi sneered. "A Zanpakutō's just for killing. As long as it cuts, that's enough!"
With no flourish, Kenpachi swung. The strike was raw, riddled with openings, yet heavy enough to split stone.
So this is the strongest Shinigami?
Musashi lunged. His twin swords flashed free, crossing in a single fluid movement.
Niten Ichi-ryū. Attack and defense in one. Theory made reality only through centuries of battle.
His right blade cracked into Kenpachi's hilt, disrupting his full force. His left blade angled, precise, toward the exposed throat.
It happened in a heartbeat.
Steel whispered, blood spattered.
Kenpachi staggered back two steps, a crimson line across his neck. His fingers brushed it, sticky with blood.
"I dodged… on instinct. Like a beast."
Musashi flicked his blade clean, calm and measured. "Even the fiercest beast meets the same fate against a hunter—death."
Kenpachi looked at the blood on his hand and grinned. "Tch. Almost got me."
"Afraid?" Musashi asked coldly.
Kenpachi barked a laugh. "Idiot. I'm not afraid. I'm bored when a fight ends too soon."
He hated swordsmen like this—methodical, efficient, aiming for quick kills. That wasn't battle. That wasn't fun.
"Guess I'll have to let loose," Kenpachi said, his grin stretching wide.
With one hand, he reached up and tore off his eyepatch.
For the first time in a long while, his right eye saw the world.
The weight of his true spiritual pressure exploded outward.
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