"A live-blade spar refers to a duel conducted with real swords."
"In the distant past, this was how people pursued fair and just contests. After all, only between life and death can there be true equality."
"Though the custom has declined with time, it has evolved into another form."
"That is—by using real blades, both parties are forced into a heightened state of seriousness, allowing them to focus far more intensely than during ordinary training."
Even now, he was teaching.
As a teacher, Aizen could not be faulted in the slightest.
But this was hardly the time for a lecture!
As Shizuya listened to Aizen's calm explanation, cold sweat streamed down his back.
No, no, no…
There was no way he could defeat Aizen.
With wooden swords, perhaps he could steady himself. But this—
These were real blades.
If he claimed he wasn't nervous, he'd be lying.
His heartbeat accelerated. His palms grew slick.
Nothing escaped Aizen's gaze.
Still smiling, he lowered the tip of his blade and advanced in slow, measured steps.
"Shizuya-kun. Are you nervous?"
Isn't that obvious?!
"Yes. You should be nervous. No… rather, that is the normal response."
Aizen stopped pacing and began walking directly toward him.
"Facing a true blade for the first time—this reaction is only natural."
His tabi brushed softly against the polished wooden floor of the dōjō, boards soaked with years of sweat yet maintained to a glossy sheen.
"To recoil instinctively at the sight of sharp steel. To fear injury. To fear blood. All of this is normal."
"Very few are born warriors."
"Most require selection and training before they can adapt to such things."
Closer.
Closer still.
His voice was no longer merely sound. It felt like a breeze wrapping around Shizuya's body.
"Did you know, Shizuya-kun? Each year, nearly one-sixth of the new students are eliminated by the end of the month."
"Not for poor academic performance—but because they cannot accept the blade."
"They hesitate. They waver. Even the lightest sword becomes unbearably heavy in their hands… until they can no longer lift it at all."
His voice flowed like quiet water.
And before Shizuya realized it, Aizen was already standing before him.
The blade rose.
The edge turned.
It hovered beside Shizuya's throat.
Tension—
No.
Oppression.
Breathing became difficult, as though invisible fingers had wrapped around his neck. His expression twisted. His body trembled uncontrollably.
Like a mouse before a wildcat.
He couldn't see Aizen's eyes.
The lenses of his glasses reflected the harsh white lights above, cold and utterly devoid of emotion.
What is this…?
Something unseen coiled around his body, tightening, driving him toward madness.
"Look. This is the weapon we both share."
The blade crept closer to his neck.
It hadn't yet touched skin—yet sharp, piercing pain had already seemed to stab through flesh.
"This is an instrument of karma. Bloodthirsty. Brutal. Without emotion."
"When holding it, mercy is forbidden. Hesitation is forbidden."
"Shi—no. Arima Shizuya. This is a battle for survival. The best opportunity to prove your worth."
His words were spoken evenly.
Yet the pressure grew heavier.
Even the air felt warped.
Sweat slid down from his brow, trickling into his eyes.
It burned—but he couldn't move.
He couldn't retreat.
Instinct screamed at him:
Do not yield.
The moment you show fear—show weakness—
The blade poised above your life will fall without hesitation.
"Why no reaction? Have you already accepted defeat?"
"To yield before fighting is the conduct of the weak. Arima Shizuya—are you such a powerless being?"
"If so, your life will one day be stolen just as mercilessly. If that is your fate, then rather than let some faceless enemy ravage you…"
"It would be kinder for me to end you here."
"Arima Shizuya. Engrave this into your soul—"
"This is mercy."
The moment the words fell—
The suppressed killing intent exploded.
Like a dam breaking.
Emotion flooded his chest.
Fight.
Struggle.
Or you will die.
You will be stripped of everything.
He had to resist—but how—
His teeth ground together hard enough to crack.
In that razor-thin instant, every pore on his body seemed to open.
His right hand dropped.
And in that abyss of despair and confusion—
It gripped the hilt of his Asauchi.
Draw.
Clang—
A sharp metallic cry.
Followed by a thunderous detonation.
BOOM!!!
…
Fukai Tatami—tasked with managing entry and exit records for the sword hall—lay reclined in a self-made rocking chair, basking in the afternoon sun, sipping freshly brewed tea.
Another peaceful da—
The thought never finished.
A deafening blast erupted behind him.
The shockwave tore through wooden boards and equipment, lifting even grown men off their feet.
Fukai shrieked midair, twisting desperately—only to crash miserably over ten meters away.
Huh? Huh?! HUH?!
What just happened?!
Hollow invasion?! Someone brought explosives into the dōjō?!
Either way—it was catastrophic!
In a split second, he had already drafted over a hundred excuses to absolve himself of responsibility.
Shielding his face with one arm, he shouted to the gathering students:
"Don't just stand there! Get help! Something's happened in the sword hall!"
Using runners was primitive—but no one present could even cast Tenteikūra.
Before panic could spread further, Fukai peered through the dispersing dust.
He saw two figures standing within.
That's—
He focused with everything he had.
And finally saw clearly.
A slender man in black training attire stood upright. Short brown hair, slightly wavy.
Then Fukai sucked in a sharp breath.
A wound.
A horrifying wound.
It began at the lower abdomen, cut across his torso, and reached his shoulder.
As though struck head-on by a savage diagonal slash.
The standard Shinigami uniform was torn clean through. The depth of the wound was impossible to gauge—but blood seeped freely.
Sōsuke Aizen.
His glasses were gone.
Blood speckled his neck. His face.
And yet—
He was smiling.
Both hands hung at his sides. No sign of resistance.
As though something delighted him.
What… was he smiling about?
Terrifying.
Then Fukai's gaze shifted.
The other figure—
Kneeling.
Black hair tied back.
One knee pressed to the floor.
Left hand bracing.
Right hand gripping an Asauchi.
His body rose and fell rapidly.
Like someone gasping for air.
Like someone barely surviving.
Arima Shizuya.
Sweat plastered his hair to his face.
His eyes were sunken.
His mouth hung half open, trembling, dragging in desperate breaths.
He looked on the verge of collapse.
Yet—
Aizen crouched down, smiling gently, extending his right hand.
A wet sound.
The motion tore at the wound. Blood poured out, soaking his uniform, dripping from the hem.
Plip.
"Shizuya-kun. Congratulations."
"You have earned the right to survive."
"Remember this."
"Remember the feeling of this strike."
"For this is the power of resistance."
Shizuya tried to respond—
But his vision rolled back.
He collapsed.
Fukai witnessed it all.
His mouth hung open, but no words came.
He was a seated officer—not incompetent, but hardly exceptional.
And now he understood.
That hadn't been an explosion.
It had been spiritual power released violently into the air.
Reiatsu.
Unleashed in full, in that single moment.
◇ I'll be dropping one bonus chapters for every 10 reviews. comment
◇ One bonus chapter will be released for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ You can read the ahead chapter on P@treon if you're interested:
patreon.com/c/NightTL