"I knew it. Among all the current captains of the Gotei 13… there is no one who uses that kind of swordsmanship."
"Aizen?"
"I think I've heard that name before."
When Unohana Retsu heard Hirako Shinji clarify that the one who injured him wasn't another seated officer or captain, but someone from the Spiritual Arts Academy, she didn't display the slightest surprise. Her face remained calm, even thoughtful. For a woman who had stood at the top of Soul Society's combat hierarchy for over a thousand years, there was little that surprised her anymore.
Though she wasn't omniscient, Unohana had a near-complete grasp of the combat capabilities of all Gotei 13 captains—past and present—as well as the hidden elites and prodigies kept under wraps by the Central 46. If there was someone in Seireitei who wielded that kind of swordsmanship, she would have known.
But there wasn't.
"No… I remember now," Unohana murmured. "The top of this year's Spiritual Arts Academy class… Akira."
She recalled his name with clinical precision. A prodigy from Rukongai's 80th district, one who ascended the academy rankings with an almost unnatural rate of growth. No noble background, no famous mentor. And yet, he possessed a form of swordsmanship she had never once encountered in all her centuries of killing.
"Sister Hua… you're not surprised at all?"
Hirako Shinji's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "A freshman. From the Academy. Actually managed to injure me. I'm the captain of the Fifth Division, for heaven's sake."
Unohana didn't glance up from her healing work. "For one with that level of swordsmanship… freshman or not, it's only natural that he was able to cut you."
She paused. "In fact, he probably held back."
"What?"
"If the blade had moved just a few inches lower, angled slightly toward the heart instead of the shoulder…" Her serene tone didn't waver. "You likely wouldn't have lived long enough to seek me out."
Hirako Shinji stiffened. He wasn't used to being underestimated—but it wasn't condescension in Unohana's voice. It was clinical. Matter-of-fact. For her, strength wasn't determined by rank, age, or prestige—it was determined by blood spilled and blows traded.
"Sister Hua…" He watched her closely. "You seem… very interested in this Akira."
Unohana didn't respond immediately, but her subtle change in aura was telling.
That glint in her eye—he recognized it.
It wasn't curiosity.
It was hunger.
A thirst for battle. A craving for a worthy opponent.
In Soul Society, only a handful understood the extent of Unohana's true self. To most, she was the saintly healer of the Fourth Division. But the few who truly knew… knew she was the First Kenpachi—the woman who bathed the Rukongai in blood long before the Gotei 13 became an institution of law and order.
Hirako swallowed.
He had come here to get his wound treated. Now, he had accidentally offered up Akira as a tribute to one of Soul Society's most dangerous swordsmen.
Still… if Akira wanted to protect Aizen and hide in the shadows, that might now be impossible. Once Unohana Retsu marked someone, it wasn't so easy to shake her off.
Unohana silently cast advanced Kaidō on Hirako's wound. Her hands moved in smooth, confident motions, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.
Akira… You are mine.
That night, there was a quiet synchronicity between the two brothers.
After returning to their dormitory, Akira and Biwang both began their nightly cultivation.
Biwang was practicing Shunpo, refining his use of Kidō and Zanjutsu through formal drills learned in Gan Dao Zen's afternoon classes. A disciplined effort grounded in tradition.
Akira, on the other hand, lay motionless on his bed—his consciousness immersed in the inner world of his Zanpakutō.
To the outside world, it might seem like he was sleeping.
But within, his Zanpakutō, Kidō techniques, swordsmanship, and Shunpo were each training themselves in self-conscious loops—pushing beyond conventional limitations.
[Your Kidō is sick from overwork and vomits, but swears it'll master Bakudō 90 without incantation before dawn.]
[Your swordsmanship chuckles coldly, declaring it'll practice until 5 a.m. to invent a new kenjutsu style.]
[Your Shunpo smugly announces it has fully mastered "Kūchō," the third form of the Four Maple Steps, and challenges your Zanpakutō to a footrace.]
Watching his techniques compete and push each other like independent souls, Akira was quietly pleased.
With this kind of progress… who needed Quincy heritage? Who needed Hollowfication? Even without the Hōgyoku or noble bloodlines, he was confident he could one day surpass the Soul King.
Hard work, when fused with true genius, will always be terrifying.
Just then, a strange feeling passed through him—an eerie emptiness, as though space around him had briefly been hollowed out.
"…Someone's searching for me."
He sat up immediately, sharp-eyed. As he reached for his Zanpakutō, a gentle voice floated into his mind like a summer breeze.
"Akira Sōsuke. Good evening. I am Unohana Retsu. Please forgive the late visit."
Akira's gaze sharpened. The Flower of Healing herself.
As he'd suspected, the sword wound on Hirako Shinji had not gone unnoticed.
Another voice entered from next door.
"I caught that Reiatsu with Bakudō No. 58. It's impressive."
Aizen emerged from his own room, casual and smiling.
"That's not the same spiritual pressure as Captain Hirako. It's deeper. Denser. Even more controlled than Shiba Isshin's was back when he was hailed as a prodigy."
Akira nodded, recognizing the name. "Unohana Retsu. Captain of the Fourth Division."
"A medical specialist having Reiatsu that surpasses the Fifth Division Captain…" Aizen smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Is the Soul Society corrupt? Or is the old Head-Captain Yamamoto simply blind? Why is someone like her wasted in the Fourth?"
He spoke with an air of incredulity. After all, he was only on his fourth day as a student. He had no access to the true history buried in Seireitei's records. What he knew of Gotei 13 came mostly from whispered gossip among nobles like Shihouin Yoruichi and Urahara Kisuke, and whatever fragments he could find in the Academy's restricted libraries.
Akira exhaled slowly.
"She didn't challenge me here because she's bored," he said quietly. "This is the First Kenpachi. A warrior forged in blood. My sword cut Shinji, and she smelled it."
"She's here to fight."
And just like that, the dormitory door in front of him creaked open.
Akira stepped out.
So did Aizen.
In the moonlight, they stood side-by-side—two future monsters, facing a woman from the past who had once ruled the battlefield.
Unohana waited just beyond the courtyard, her spiritual pressure subdued but unmistakably vast. Her eyes, calm as still water, hid a storm.
"Akira," she said, her voice serene. "Would you grant me the privilege… of seeing your swordsmanship?"
Akira didn't answer right away.
He looked into her eyes and saw not malice, not bloodlust—but something more sincere.
A longing. A hunger for the purity of combat. A connection that went beyond hate or politics. She wanted to fight, not for victory… but to remember.
To remember who she truly was.
Akira smiled.
"Alright," he said softly. "But I won't hold back."