What, after all, is a Zanpakutō?
This was a question Arima Shinya had pondered countless times, trying to find a conclusive answer.
But in all those attempts, the answer had never changed.
It is like a mirror — a reflection that reveals the deepest will of the shinigami, capturing the hidden essence and truth of their soul, and manifesting it in the outside world.
"Find the other side of yourself."
"Reach out. Converse."
"Then… accept this 'you' that may not be so pleasant."
The procedure isn't complicated — after all, this is the true meaning of Shikai.
Reflect. Understand. Until finally reconciling with your own heart… Although, for many shinigami, this is a difficult and almost impossible task to complete.
Still, every vice-captain or seated officer, in one way or another, had already mastered this stage of power.
As for Arima Shinya, his spiritual pressure had already reached the level of the seventh degree of spiritual power.
This meant the young man had already fulfilled all basic requirements — possessing sufficient reserves and a body ready to receive even greater strength.
But this was exactly where the problem lay.
In that nebulous crossroads of his mind, Arima Shinya had wandered countless moments… without ever finding the "reflection of his soul."
Was he still not good enough?
Or was that inner presence trying to tell him something — that Arima Shinya still lacked something essential, and therefore refused to reveal itself?
Or, worse — was his subconscious simply cruel and ironic enough to make him suffer on purpose?
These thoughts spiraled inside his mind, leaving him anxious for a long time.
And then, in that suspended moment of time…
Arima Shinya finally caught a spark of inspiration, understanding the true meaning of it all.
That crossroads was not a labyrinth created to trap him.
It was a vessel. An illusory projection of Arima Shinya — and, at the same time, his truest form.
In other words, he had never been rejected. From the beginning, he had already been upon the answer, only without realizing it.
Repeating the cycle. Wandering, in an endless circle.
Recreating, again and again, this seemingly meaningless journey…
Just like the dreams he had been having in recent days.
Yes.
This is its name…
"Devour your own tail, Yumii."
He recited the blade's name in his heart, with serenity.
And, at that very instant, the hidden energy within Arima Shinya began to flow backward, vibrating intensely inside his chest.
However, the process of releasing the Zanpakutō occurred in an unexpectedly calm manner…
So calm that it could only be described as "silent."
As if a simple stone had been thrown into the depths of an ancient, dark lake — the sound of ripples echoed for a moment, before being swallowed again by eternal silence.
Something had changed.
But, at the same time, it seemed as if nothing had changed.
Kiganjo Kenpachi seemed to sense something; his eyebrows furrowed slightly, but he did not react concretely.
It didn't matter — it was only an insignificant force, weak as the flap of a mosquito's wings.
Nothing capable of threatening him.
Kiganjo had always trusted his instincts — after all, it was thanks to them that he had earned the rank of captain.
And indeed, his impressions were correct.
His Zanpakutō sliced through the air in a fierce motion.
The spiritual pressure roared like an abyss, tearing the wind and aiming directly at Arima Shinya's face — or, at least, that's how it should have been.
But the opponent reacted with strangely precise timing, almost anticipating the strike.
Arima Shinya raised his Zanpakutō horizontally, intercepting the attack at the exact moment.
CLANG!
The sharp, metallic sound reverberated, slicing through the air — a noise no one could ever get used to hearing.
Not even Kiganjo Kenpachi.
He clicked his tongue, frustrated with the result.
He had intended to split the boy in half, like a watermelon — but had failed.
And the most irritating part was the strange sensation in his hands.
He felt that his strike had not hit with the usual force and precision.
No…
In fact, it seemed the boy had intercepted the attack exactly at the weak point of the applied force.
A coincidence?
Perhaps — after all, that effeminate brat had managed to block the blow, but his expression clearly showed pain and exhaustion.
It was no illusion, nor any trick.
The strike had been real — only its effect was weaker than expected.
But that didn't change anything.
If one decides to crush an insect, it matters little whether it takes two or three strikes — the end result is the same.
Aware of this, Kiganjo did not hesitate.
The instant he raised his blade, he twisted his body and delivered a devastating kick with his left leg, aiming at Arima Shinya's waist.
No room to retreat, no chance to escape.
At the critical moment, Arima Shinya simply pressed his lips together and assumed a perfect defensive posture.
His leg swept through the air with a crash — the impact struck the side of his body squarely, throwing him like a ragdoll against the ceiling.
His body collided with the wooden beams, and, unable to cushion the impact, ended up pinned between the planks.
Arima Shinya's face twisted in pain — a sharp pang pierced his waist, and he was certain some ribs had fractured.
The attack had taken effect, but Kiganjo seemed increasingly impatient.
Used to killing, to fighting in the streets, he could feel when a strike hit a vital point.
And this time, something was wrong — it felt like he had kicked a pillow. Empty resistance, weightless.
A failed strike once could be coincidence.
But twice?
Impossible.
So what had that boy done…?
"Damn brat."
The data at hand wasn't enough to understand, and Kiganjo wasn't exactly given to reflection.
After a brief moment of hesitation, he acted in the way most natural to him:
No matter what — killing him first was always the right choice.
The next strike.
There would be no error, no deviation.
With an explosion of spiritual pressure, he would crush the insolent insect once and for all.
Meanwhile, on Arima Shinya's side, his mind expanded — thoughts branching out, as if he had entered a mystical state of concentration.
The physical pain became distant noise.
The situation changed. My wounded ribs will limit my movements.
I need to adjust…
His eyes shone with a mysterious light.
At that moment, his world lost all colors — leaving only black and white.
A simple, pure, absolute contrast, eliminating distractions and focusing his perception where it truly mattered.
And it was then that Arima Shinya saw.
Four streaks of bluish light flowing from himself, dispersing rapidly in all directions.
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