Yo!
I'm back with the next chapter of Transcendent Flame.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Without further ado, let's get started.
Enjoy the chapter.
Transcendent Flame
Chapter 12
True Kenpachi
Muken, Sereitei
With Zaraki & Retsu
The air in Muken grew dense, oppressive, a suffocating weight that pressed down as an unnatural mist began to coil from the edges of Retsu's blade. The steel, once pristine and gleaming with refined lethality, now pulsed with a sinister crimson glow, alive with a malevolent reiatsu. The space around it rippled unnaturally, distorting like a mirage under desert heat, the atmosphere twisting with an ominous forewarning of what was to come.
Then came the scent—sickly-sweet and cloying, a stench that clawed at the senses. It wasn't blood or the metallic tang of steel meeting flesh. No, it was something older, something alien—a wrongness that didn't belong in the realm of the living. The mist unfurled deliberately, heavy and alive, creeping across the battlefield like a predator stalking prey. Silent but inescapable, it coiled around Zaraki's exposed skin. The moment it touched him, a sharp sizzling sound shattered the stillness.
Tsssssssshhh…
Zaraki grinned wide, unhinged, as his flesh boiled beneath the mist's corrosive embrace. The acidic vapors bit into him like invisible blades, peeling away layers of skin with excruciating precision. Blood sizzled as it met the mist's hunger; patches of flesh sloughed off under its relentless assault.
Yet beneath the agony lay exhilaration—a pain so pure it was intoxicating. "Now that's more like it!" Zaraki bellowed, his voice raw and manic, trembling with unrestrained glee. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his zanpakutō, even as bloodied skin peeled from his hands.
Retsu said nothing. She moved—fluid and precise—her form cutting through the crimson fog like death given shape. Her blade lashed out with lethal elegance, slicing toward Zaraki in a strike meant to end lives. He met her attack head-on, their blades colliding in an explosion of force that sent shockwaves tearing through Muken. But while their weapons clashed violently, the mist worked silently and insidiously. It seeped into Zaraki's wounds like serpents slithering into flesh, burrowing deeper with each passing moment. It filled his lungs with its suffocating presence, choking out everything but the primal instincts of survival and battle.
This was Minazuki—not just a weapon but an extension of Retsu's will. It didn't merely kill; it dismantled its victims piece by piece, dragging them to death's edge with surgical precision. And then Retsu intervened—not to grant mercy but to assert control. Her mastery over Kaidō brought Zaraki back from the brink every time he faltered, restoring him not just to life but to perfect health. It was no act of kindness—it was domination incarnate. A cruel cycle of devastation and rejuvenation that bound Zaraki to her whims for as long as she desired.
Zaraki roared against her onslaught, his laughter raw and guttural as he met her strikes head-on despite his body screaming in protest. Retsu moved like a phantom—graceful yet merciless—as her blade cleaved clean through his shoulder in one fluid motion. Bone shattered; muscle tore; flesh split as though it were paper before her precision. His arm should have fallen—but it didn't. The moment life began slipping from him entirely, Retsu's Kaidō surged through him like an unstoppable tide. Tendons rewove themselves; bones snapped back into place; flesh knit together seamlessly before he could even register what had happened.
And then she struck again—and again—and again.
Retsu's blade moved with a deadly rhythm, each strike imbued with the precision of a master who knew her craft intimately. She was no longer merely fighting Zaraki—she was unshackling him. Every slash, every thrust, was calculated not to kill but to dismantle. Her target was no longer his flesh alone; she aimed for the very essence of his being, the chains that bound him, the restraints he had unknowingly placed on himself for centuries.
Her blade struck his shoulder joint, slicing cleanly through muscle and bone, but the sound that followed wasn't just physical. Something deeper snapped, a metaphysical shackle buried within Zaraki's soul. His eyes widened as a surge of raw, untamed energy erupted from within him, like a dam beginning to crack under unbearable pressure. The force rippled outward, momentarily pushing back the crimson mist before it coiled around them again, hungrier than ever.
Retsu pressed forward without hesitation. Her sword found his ribs next, carving through with surgical precision. Another chain shattered. Another surge of unrestrained power burst forth, radiating from Zaraki in waves that distorted the air around them. He staggered—not from pain, but from the overwhelming sensation of his own power awakening. His body continued its endless cycle of death and revival under Minazuki's influence, but now something had changed. The agony was eclipsed by exhilaration.
"Tch… this…" Zaraki's grin stretched wider, blood dripping from his lips as he struggled to catch his breath. His voice was ragged yet brimming with excitement. "This feels… damn good!"
Retsu's eyes narrowed in satisfaction. Good. She struck low, her blade slashing savagely through his knees, severing tendons like threads. Zaraki's body buckled under the blow—but before he could fall, his reiatsu surged again. His body repaired itself faster than before, the healing force accelerating as if spurred on by the breaking of yet another restraint.
The cracks in his shackles were becoming fissures now.
Retsu could see it clearly—her hypothesis confirmed with every strike she landed. For years, Zaraki had been drowning in his own power, suppressing himself instinctively to find meaning in battle, to make fights last longer against weaker opponents. But now—now she would strip away every last barrier he had built around himself.
Her blade lashed out again, this time skimming along his spine with unerring precision. The impact sent a violent shockwave through Zaraki's body and into the surrounding void of Muken. His back arched as spiritual energy exploded outward in a blinding wave of light and pressure. Another chain broke.
Zaraki gasped sharply, his eyes wild with exhilaration as raw power coursed through him like an unending flood. His blood sang with release—the sensation of freedom unlike anything he had ever known before.
The air around them grew heavier still as the space itself began to distort under the sheer magnitude of his awakening reiatsu. Muken trembled as if protesting against the monstrous presence rising within it.
And then came Retsu's final move.
She dashed forward with inhuman speed, her form cloaked in Minazuki's mist as though she were death incarnate. Her blade descended in a single decisive arc—a strike honed by centuries of battle experience and unrelenting purpose. It cleaved through Zaraki's skull with devastating force.
And at that moment—the last shackle snapped.
For a heartbeat, there was silence—a stillness so profound it felt as though time itself had stopped.
Then came the explosion.
A cataclysmic wave of spiritual pressure erupted outward from Zaraki's body, obliterating everything in its path. The mist of Minazuki was torn apart as if it were nothing more than smoke caught in a hurricane. The very fabric of Muken screamed under the weight of his unleashed reiatsu, the abyssal void trembling violently as it struggled to contain the unleashed monstrosity.
Kenpachi Zaraki—unbound and unrestrained—had finally awakened.
Retsu stumbled back slightly—not out of fear but triumph etched across her face like an artist admiring their masterpiece. She had done it; she had stripped him bare and forced him to confront his true self—a beast unshackled from its cage.
Zaraki rose slowly from the depths of pain and rebirth, his body still torn and bloodied yet radiating an aura so overwhelming it seemed to devour the battlefield itself. His chest heaved with each breath; his hands trembled—not from exhaustion but from the sheer magnitude of power coursing through every fiber of his being.
And then he threw his head back—and laughed.
"AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
It was a sound that shook Muken to its core: raw, primal, triumphant. The battlefield quaked beneath him as if bowing to this reborn force of nature—a warrior who had transcended even death itself to become something far greater.
Retsu stood silently amidst the destruction she had wrought, her blade lowered but her gaze sharp and unwavering as she watched him bask in his newfound strength. This was no longer just a fight—it was an awakening born from agony and forged in blood—a moment that neither combatant would ever forget.
And for both warrior and healer alike—the battle was far from over.
The battlefield that was Muken quaked violently, trembling under the sheer weight of Zaraki's unleashed reiatsu. The oppressive black void of the prison seemed to groan in protest, straining against the chaotic storm of raw, unbridled power. Yet amidst this destruction, amidst the chaos he had wrought, Zaraki felt something unfamiliar—something alien to him.
Clarity.
It was as though a fog that had shrouded his existence for centuries had finally lifted. He could see it now—the haze of self-imposed restraints that had dulled his senses, the invisible chains that had shackled his power. His entire life had been a struggle against himself, drowning in quicksand of his own making, fighting just to breathe. But now? Now he had emerged from that suffocating abyss.
His golden eyes sharpened as the world around him came into focus with startling clarity. Every breath he took felt heavier, richer, as though he were inhaling life itself for the first time. Each movement of his body was no longer instinctual but deliberate, every fiber of his being humming with awareness. Something fundamental within him had shifted. The power surging through his veins was no longer wild or chaotic—it was absolute. It did not claw at him or threaten to break free. It was his. It was him.
And yet—something felt wrong.
The battlefield—where was it? The suffocating pressure of Minazuki's mist, the lethal grace of Retsu's blade—they were gone. He could still feel the violent storm of his reiatsu tearing through the void of Muken, but the world around him had changed. His instincts screamed at him to remain alert, but there was no enemy in sight.
"Zaraki?"
The voice came softly at first, barely audible over the roaring tempest of his power.
"Kenpachi Zaraki."
His brow furrowed as he turned toward the sound—but what greeted him was not Muken. He stood now in a vast forest unlike anything he had ever seen before. Towering trees stretched endlessly into the heavens, their roots sprawling across the ground like ancient veins pulsing with life. The air here was thick and primal, alive with an energy that buzzed against his skin.
And he wasn't alone.
All around him loomed beasts—massive creatures of every kind imaginable. Some were scaled and reptilian, others furred and savage, their bodies adorned with bone-like armor or jagged claws that gleamed like polished steel. Some bore multiple heads; others had eyes that burned like molten fire. They clashed violently against one another—fangs against claws, wings beating against the air with enough force to shake the earth itself. Blood splattered across the ground as roars echoed through the forest—a cacophony of endless war.
A battlefield.
But as soon as Zaraki appeared, everything stopped.
The creatures froze mid-strike, their attention snapping toward him in unison as though compelled by an unseen force. Their ferocity gave way to silence as they stared at him—not in fear but in recognition, as if their true king had arrived to claim his throne.
And then she emerged.
A figure stepped forward from the chaos with a grace so delicate it seemed almost unnatural in this savage world. She was breathtaking—a vision of ethereal beauty amidst carnage. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back like a river of sunlight, her pale skin flawless and untouched by battle. She wore a light kimono that seemed impossibly fragile for this violent place, yet she carried herself with an authority that defied her appearance.
Her amber eyes locked onto Zaraki's with an intensity that sent a jolt through him—not from fear but from something deeper he couldn't place. Her lips quivered slightly as tears welled in her eyes, her expression one of unspeakable joy—as though she had waited lifetimes for this moment.
But Zaraki didn't know her.
His expression hardened as confusion flickered across his face. Who was this woman? Why did she look at him with such familiarity? Why did her gaze feel like it pierced through every layer of his being?
And then she spoke.
"It's been so long… Kenny."
His eyes widened slightly at the name—a name only one person had ever called him before.
"Kenny?" he muttered under his breath, disbelief creeping into his voice.
The woman stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, as though afraid he might vanish if she moved too quickly. Her lips parted again, trembling slightly as she spoke once more. "It's me, Kenny... No—"
But before she could finish, everything shattered.
The forest dissolved into fragments around him—the beasts, the trees, even her radiant form—all exploding into shards of nothingness as reality came crashing back down upon him.
He was back.
Back in Muken.
Back in battle.
The suffocating void rushed into focus in an instant—and standing before him was Retsu herself. Her blade was inches from his heart, poised to deliver a killing blow with surgical precision.
But this time—he could see it.
For the first time in his life, Zaraki truly saw. He saw the motion of her blade before it struck; he saw the intent behind her attack; he saw every calculated movement she made with absolute clarity. And none of it mattered anymore—not because it wasn't lethal—but because something within him had changed irrevocably.
His body moved without thought—instincts transcending instinct itself—as his sword rose to meet hers in perfect harmony. His reiatsu erupted outward once more—not wild or chaotic but deep and violent and golden—a primal force so absolute it seemed to split reality itself.
Retsu's eyes widened slightly—not in fear but in acknowledgment—as she felt the shift within him: Zaraki Kenpachi was no longer restrained by anything—not by chains, not by himself, not even by death.
In the vast Muken, surrounded by destruction and rebirth—the beast within Zaraki Kenpachi had fully awakened at last.
With Yachiru
From her vantage point atop the jagged outcropping of stone and bone, Yachiru stood beside Viktor, her small frame trembling with barely contained energy. Her wide pink eyes drank in the scene below, the of Muken transformed into a war zone of clashing titanic reiatsu. The raw, primal force of it all sent shivers through her, but not from fear—never fear. She clutched at Viktor's sleeve tightly, her fingers curling into the fabric as though grounding herself against the sheer magnitude of what she was witnessing.
She had always known Kenny was strong. She had always known he was a force of nature. But this? This was something else entirely. This wasn't just strength—it was him. His true self, unshackled and roaring to life at last. Her heart thundered with joy so fierce it almost hurt, her entire being vibrating with the thrill of feeling him reach deeper into himself than ever before.
And then it hit her.
Jealousy.
The realization struck like a blade to the chest, sharp and unexpected. Her grip on Viktor's sleeve tightened imperceptibly as her gaze flickered with something raw and unfamiliar. For the first time, Kenny had reached that hidden place within himself—the place she had always known existed but could never quite touch—and he had done it without her.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to suppress the strange twist in her chest. It wasn't fair to feel this way. She knew that. She had waited so long for this moment, had fought beside him, whispered to him, wanting to guide him toward this awakening. And now he was there—he was finally there.
But not because of her.
He found it.
His inner world.
Without me.
The thought stung more than she wanted to admit. She forced herself to breathe deeply, pushing down the bitterness that threatened to bubble up. It didn't matter—not really. What mattered was that he was on the path now, that he was finally breaking free of the chains that bound him. And soon… soon he would learn his sword's name.
He would learn her name.
But not her true name—not yet.
That thought soothed her somewhat, the tension in her grip loosening slightly. He still didn't know who she truly was, not entirely. That part of him—the part that would bring them together again—was still locked away behind the final remnants of her self-imposed restraints. And if she had waited this long… well, what were a few more years? A few more decades?
Her lips curled into a small smirk as she hyped herself up again, confidence slowly returning. Time meant nothing to her—not when it came to Kenny. He was on the right path now, and when the time came—when he finally awakened his Bankai—she would be whole again. Then she wouldn't just be a name or a presence lingering at his side.
She would be his.
And if something—or someone—tried to stand in the way of that?
Her gaze flicked up briefly toward Viktor, standing silent and stoic beside her. She knew exactly what kind of power he wielded, what kind of influence he could exert if necessary.
Yeah… he'd take care of it if it came to that. She'd make him.
Her smirk widened as confidence surged back through her veins like fire. Everything was going exactly as it should have been—exactly as she had always known it would.
And then she felt it.
The shift in Kenny's reiatsu—the moment of revelation shattering as Retsu's blade descended toward his heart with lethal intent.
Yachiru's eyes snapped wide open, her entire body jerking forward instinctively as a cry tore from her throat: "KENNY!"
For one agonizing moment, she almost moved—almost leapt from the outcropping to intervene, to stop what was about to happen. But before she could act, before she could even process what she was feeling—it happened.
He moved.
Ripped from his inner world at the last possible second, Kenny's body reacted before his mind could catch up. His sword rose to meet Retsu's descending blade with unerring precision, golden reiatsu exploding outward in a wave so powerful it tore through Muken like a primal roar made manifest.
It wasn't wild or chaotic anymore—it wasn't restrained or hesitant either. It was absolute. Complete.
The moment their blades met, Yachiru froze where she stood, breathless as the shockwave rippled through Muken and up toward them. Her hands trembled faintly at her sides as realization dawned on her—a slow grin spreading across her face like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
She felt it.
She saw it.
For the first time in forever… Kenny wasn't holding back anymore.
Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst from her chest as excitement bubbled up inside her like an unstoppable tide. Tears welled in her eyes unbidden—hot and stinging—but she didn't care enough to stop them. She wiped at them quickly with one hand while bouncing on her heels like an overjoyed child unable to contain herself any longer.
"He did it!" she whispered breathlessly, voice trembling with exhilaration and disbelief all at once. "He finally did it!"
Beside her, Viktor remained silent—his expression unreadable. But Yachiru didn't need words from him—not now—not ever when it came to Kenny. She knew. She always knew.
With Viktor
Viktor exhaled slowly, his eyes still locked onto the violent ballet unfolding before him. The clash between Yachiru and Zaraki was everything he had anticipated—raw power meeting refined mastery. Each strike sent ripples of spiritual energy through the thick, oppressive air of Muken, the suffocating pressure weighing down like an old, familiar burden.
But he hadn't come here just to watch. Resolving the battle between the two Kenpachis was important—but it was not his primary goal. His true purpose here was to unlock his Bankai. And he would not achieve it by standing idle, watching like a perfect statue.
The two raging forces before him created a maelstrom of violent spiritual pressure unlike anything else in existence.
He inhaled deeply, his stance shifting as he planted himself firmly in place. Now was the time. He closed his eyes and did something that went against every instinct honed through centuries of battle—he let his spiritual defenses drop.
The weight of Muken slammed into him instantly. A crushing, infinite void. A pressure designed to break souls, to render even the strongest into nothingness. His muscles tensed as the suffocating force threatened to grind him into dust, but Viktor welcomed it. Embraced it.
And then, with slow, measured control, he spread his reiatsu. Not like an explosion, not like a declaration of dominance—but as a whisper. A single, razor-thin thread of flame, slipping into the Muken like a tendril of smoke.
He was searching. Reiatsu stretched deeper, farther, descending into the boundless darkness. Muken was endless. A place where the most dangerous beings in history had been cast away, forgotten, their very existences erased from the records of Soul Society.
Here, reiatsu didn't simply linger—it was devoured, swallowed by the very void itself. Viktor felt the abyss pulling at him. It clawed at his presence, seeking to consume the thin thread of his spirit, as if Muken itself were alive, hungry.
He pushed forward, his reiatsu slithering like fire through the emptiness, reaching beyond the light, beyond the battle of the Kenpachis.
There.
After some moments after his thread of reiatsu stretched deeper into the abyss, he found it.
Not just some formless entity or an echo of lost souls wandering Muken's void, but something solid, real. A presence distinct from the overwhelming emptiness around it. It did not shift like residual reiatsu, nor did it scatter like the remnants of the dead. It existed.
And then—he felt it.
A faint hum of reiatsu. Barely perceptible, but unmistakable. It was familiar.
A slow exhale left Viktor's lips as his sharpened senses locked onto that single pulse. This was no random fragment. This was what he had been searching for. The reiatsu was weak—contained, almost dormant—but the signature… he knew it.
His reiatsu thread wrapped around the presence carefully, testing the connection. No resistance. No hostility. Only the quiet, rhythmic hum of a power.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
Power Level: 63% to 64%
Viktor's focus wavered ever so slightly disregarding the alert as his attention drifted deeper to the forgotten whispers in the suffocating darkness.
Long time, old friend.
The words were spoken without sound, carried on the intangible thread of spiritual energy that pulsed faintly through the prison's deep corridors. Viktor's lips twitched into a faint smirk, his mind reaching out across the oppressive void to the presence that lingered within the inky depths.
A voice, weak but laced with a quiet, unyielding sharpness, responded. It has been long... how are you doing, my new friend, Viktor?
Viktor's smirk remained steady as he processed the voice calling out to him. There was no surprise, no hesitation—only confirmation.
So, Viktor murmured, his voice carrying across the abyss with the weight of certainty, what I thought was true. His words were calm, edged with amusement as his spiritual presence anchored itself against the oppressive gravity of Muken. You, Sōya Azashiro, are the true definition of intrusive.
A quiet chuckle reverberated through the void, thin and weary, yet still carrying that unnerving air of detachment. Intrusive? Perhaps. But can you fault a man for listening when the world around him never stops whispering?
Viktor didn't respond immediately. Instead, he let himself drift deeper, allowing the tendrils of his consciousness to fully breach the invisible barriers between them. The battlefield of the two Kenpachis, the roaring clash of steel and the rush of boiling blood—it all faded into insignificance. He had more important matters to attend to.
With the ease of slipping into a dream, Viktor stepped forward—no movement, no shift in space, but rather an effortless transition into another realm. The boundless Muken dissolved, giving way to something entirely different. Azashiro's Inner World
The world Viktor now stood in was wrong.
It was Seireitei, but not as he knew it.
The grand white walls that once stood tall and unyielding were now crumbling, their foundations weakened by an unseen rot. The once-pristine streets were cracked and filled with creeping vines, the very soul of the city decaying as if abandoned for centuries. The sky above was locked in an eerie twilight, painted in deep hues of violet and crimson, a lifeless glow that neither brightened nor faded.
In the heart of this corpse of a city, where the heart of its law once ruled supreme, sat Central 46 Chambers—or what remained of them.
The once imposing, sacred halls of justice were now reduced to a hollow ruin, the grand domed roof shattered, allowing the dark sky to loom over it like a watchful predator. The chambers, which had once echoed with the decrees of Soul Society's lawmakers, were silent—a courtroom that no longer passed judgment, a throne room with no king. The broken pillars and collapsed walls painted a grim image of a justice system that had failed, now left to rot in forgotten memory.
And there, at the very center of this decayed, abandoned remnant of Soul Society's governance, sat Sōya Azashiro.
He lounged upon the very seat where the head of Central 46 once passed their decrees. The elaborate chair, once a symbol of absolute authority, now seemed mockingly out of place, swallowed by the slow death of the world around it. Soya himself, despite his regal posture, looked like a ghost of the past—his frame thinner than before, his black hair hanging in uneven strands. His once peerless, cold eyes still carried their sharp intellect, but beneath them lurked a deep, unspoken exhaustion. A man forgotten by time, sitting atop the ruin of a system that had once cast him away.
Perched upon the armrest of his crumbling throne was Urozakuro—his Bankai spirit.
She was a thing of haunting beauty, yet utterly detached. Her ethereal form was wrapped in thin, flowing layers that resembled petals of mist, shifting and coalescing as if she existed on the boundary between form and formlessness. Her long, silken hair cascaded down like a waterfall of liquid darkness, framing a face that was delicate, yet utterly unreadable. And her eyes—cold, endless, brimming with knowledge beyond present—held nothing but quiet indifference.
The moment Viktor appeared, something reacted.
Behind him, the air ignited.
A towering inferno erupted from the void, forming into a burning pillar of shifting flames. It never stood still—crackling, exploding, consuming itself in an endless cycle of destruction and rebirth. The suffocating heat warped reality, causing the already ruined structures to bend, twist, and crumble further.
Ryūjin Jakka had arrived.
Azashiro's gaze lifted lazily from his throne, his sharp eyes lingering on the roaring inferno behind Viktor. He studied it for a moment before shifting his attention to the flame-cloaked figure standing before him.
"How interesting," he murmured softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper against the silence of his decayed world. "Even after all this time, your flames rage as if the war never ended."
Urozakuro stirred beside him, her mist-like form rippling faintly as her gaze met Ryūjin Jakka's unyielding presence. There was no hostility between them—only silent understanding passing between two ancient spirits.
Viktor tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes unwavering as he replied with calm precision. "Flames do not rage," he said evenly. "They consume. They refine. They erase." A faint flicker of amusement danced behind his words as he added, "Much like you once did."
Azashiro exhaled slowly through his nose—a sound somewhere between a sigh and a ghost of laughter. "And yet," he said quietly, leaning back into his crumbling throne with deliberate ease, "here we both stand—one bound by chains of steel, the other bound by chains of duty." His voice turned contemplative as he asked, "Tell me, Viktor… have you come to burn away the past or to forge something new?"
Viktor let the question hang in the air for a moment. Behind him, Ryūjin Jakka's inferno swelled briefly before settling again—a silent testament to its master's presence.
Azashiro watched him carefully from his seat atop ruin and decay. His fingers lazily traced patterns along the armrest of his throne as though he were bored—but Viktor knew better than to mistake that for disinterest. There was something flickering in Azashiro's cold eyes now: curiosity tempered by calculation.
Finally breaking the silence himself as if he found what he was looking for, Azashiro spoke again with that same infuriating calmness that had unsettled even Soul Society's strongest captains in years past. "I see," he said softly. "So you came to meet an old friend?" A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he added dryly, "Strange—I don't recall us ever being close enough for such pleasantries."
Viktor let out a short breath—something almost like a chuckle—as he replied smoothly. "That depends." His gaze sharpened slightly as he continued, "If you mean Yamamoto… then no, we weren't." He paused briefly before adding with quiet intensity: "But if you mean me—Viktor Spark—then I'd argue that you and I are more alike than most would care to admit."
Azashiro didn't react immediately; instead, there was only a subtle shift in his posture—a faint straightening of his shoulders—as those piercing eyes studied Viktor with unnerving depth.
"And why is it," Azashiro asked after a beat of silence, "that you're not surprised I know your true name?"
Viktor tilted his head slightly in thought before answering simply: "Because I expected nothing less."
Azashiro's gaze darkened slightly—not with anger but with something sharper: suspicion laced with intrigue. "Is it because you're so certain I won't tell anyone?" His voice remained calm but carried an edge now as he added pointedly: "Or is it because you came here to eliminate me on behalf of your precious System?"
That caught Viktor's full attention.
For just a fraction of a second—so brief it might have gone unnoticed—his sharp eyes narrowed ever so slightly before returning to their usual unreadable intensity.
"No," Viktor said finally after letting Azashiro's words settle between them like ash from a dying fire. His tone was steady but carried weight nonetheless: "The System hasn't given me any mission to kill you."
Viktor's expression remained calm, but the subtle narrowing of his eyes betrayed the weight of his words. "Seeing the state you're in, it would be pointless," he said, gesturing faintly toward Azashiro's thin frame. His tone was measured, deliberate. "But more than that… knowing your Bankai, I suspected you'd be one of the most intimate witnesses to what happened that day."
Azashiro finally moved, his posture shifting slightly as his fingers tapped lightly against the crumbling armrest of his ruined throne. His gaze, sharp and calculating, lingered on Viktor with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. There was something unreadable in his expression now—something Viktor recognized all too well. It was the look of a man who had been forced to watch. A man trapped within the depths of his own power, unable to intervene. A witness to events no one else could comprehend.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Viktor took a step forward, the fire behind him flaring briefly before settling once more. The heat cast long shadows across the decayed chamber, but neither man wavered under its oppressive presence.
Azashiro's voice broke the stillness, calm but edged with quiet skepticism. "What is it you truly hope to achieve by having Retsu and Kenpachi Zaraki battle?" His gaze narrowed slightly, his tone growing colder as he leaned forward just enough to make his presence feel heavier. "One of them will die—or perhaps she'll push him to the brink until he learns his zanpakutō's name. Either way, it seems reckless. Do you not understand what he is?"
He paused for a moment, letting the question linger before continuing with a sharper edge to his voice. "He's a savage," Azashiro said plainly, as if stating an undeniable fact. "A blade without a sheath. A wildfire without control. Do you truly believe he can be anything more than that?"
Viktor didn't flinch under Azashiro's piercing analysis; instead, he allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corner of his lips. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it clear that he was unfazed by the judgment being passed on Zaraki—or on him.
"You assume too much," Viktor said finally, his voice low but carrying an undeniable weight. He took another slow step forward, the flames behind him casting flickering light across his face as he spoke. "There are things at play far beyond what anyone in Soul Society is willing to admit. Things that require monsters."
Azashiro's expression didn't change at first—his face remained composed and unreadable—but Viktor caught it: a slight twitch of his fingers against the armrest, so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. It was enough.
Viktor's smirk widened slightly as he continued, his tone steady and confident. "But you already knew that, didn't you?" His sharp gaze bore into Azashiro as if peeling back layers of thought and calculation. "If I've understood your abilities well enough—and I think I have—you of all people should have some idea of what I'm preparing for."
For a long moment, Azashiro said nothing. His gaze drifted past Viktor for the first time since their conversation began, as though staring into something far beyond the confines of this decayed world. The silence stretched until it felt almost unbearable—then he exhaled softly and spoke.
"The Quincies," Azashiro murmured at last, his voice quieter but no less heavy with meaning. His fingers stopped their idle tapping and curled slightly against the armrest as he leaned back into the throne once more. His gaze returned to Viktor, sharper now—more focused than before. "The revival of Yhwach."
Viktor gave a single nod in acknowledgment, but before either man could say another word, reality itself trembled.
The air around them seemed to warp and crack under an immense pressure—a sudden surge of spiritual energy so overwhelming it felt like it might tear through Muken itself. Even within this decayed mental world shaped by Azashiro's Bankai, the force was unmistakable: raw dominance made manifest.
And then came the word.
"NOME:!"
It wasn't merely a sound—it was a command, a declaration that reverberated through every level of Muken like thunder rolling across an endless abyss. The sheer weight of it shook the very foundations of the underground prison, sending ripples through its suffocating void.
Even within this fragmented inner world, Azashiro's lips curled into a faint smirk—a gesture so small it might have been missed if not for its deliberate timing. He tilted his head slightly toward Viktor, an amused glint flickering in his otherwise cold eyes.
"Well then," Azashiro murmured softly over the tremors shaking their surroundings, "I suppose the moment of truth has arrived."
Behind Viktor, Ryūjin Jakka flared violently in response to the seismic shift in reiatsu—a towering inferno roaring higher as if feeding off the sheer magnitude of what had just transpired.
Viktor's smirk didn't fade; if anything, it deepened as realization settled over him like an old friend returning home.
He already knew what had happened.
The final shackle had shattered.
Zaraki Kenpachi had finally heard the name of his sword.
Time itself seemed to slow, as if reality had been caught in the momentous weight of what had just transpired. The sheer magnitude of Zaraki Kenpachi's awakening had sent ripples through the very prison, and Viktor could feel it as clearly as the heat of his own flames.
Then, the familiar chime of the System Notification echoed in his mind.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
Power Level: 64% → 65%
Congratulations! You have reached 65% of your original power.
A slow grin spread across Viktor's lips, but his eyes burned with something far greater than satisfaction—anticipation.
"Finally."
His connection to Ryūjin Jakka roared in agreement, the spirit's presence within him flaring in exhilaration, as if it had been waiting for this moment just as eagerly as he had. His very soul burned brighter, hotter, stronger than ever before, the sheer force of his reiatsu intensifying to an extent that even the depths of Muken struggled to contain.
Another chime rang through his mind, and this time, a new window appeared before his vision, distinct in its golden glow.
QUEST COMPLETE!
Quest: Path to Power
Status: Completed
Objective:
Regain Strength - Achieve Bankai - Unlocked
Reached 65% of Original Power Level
Rewards:
Hidden Reward: Skill - LIMIT BREAK
(Limit Break allows the user to break through natural constraints, pushing beyond what should be possible.)
Immunity from Aizen's Kyōka Suigetsu -
Claim your reward by extracting Sōya Azashiro's immunity.
Viktor's grin widened. This is it.
And then, something shifted—the heat around him flared violently as Ryūjin Jakka began to glow, its entire form consumed in an ominous, searing crimson light. The energy pouring from his zanpakutō was wild, uncontained, ready for the process. The blade was no longer just a weapon—it was a force of nature given form.
Even in this frozen moment, he could feel it—the threshold had been crossed.
He had unlocked his Bankai.
But before he could fully revel in the moment, a sudden crack tore through the suspended time—an anomaly, a disruption.
"What—"
Something shattered.
A new presence forced itself through the stillness—a formless shadow slicing through the frozen moment like a blade through water.
And then—a voice.
"Sōya, beware!"
The warning rang through the void with urgency, filled with an intensity that did not belong to Viktor or Azashiro.
It is Urozakuro.
The spirit of Azashiro's Bankai had broken through the time-freeze, its ephemeral form materializing within the decayed ruins of the Central 46.
Her piercing, glowing eyes locked onto Azashiro, her voice dripping with foreboding.
"The System has spoken."
Azashiro's head tilted, his ever-calm demeanor only marginally disturbed by the warning. He had already begun piecing things together, his mind working faster than most could comprehend.
Viktor's smirk did not fade. His crimson eyes burned with unspoken knowledge as he met Azashiro's gaze.
For the first time in a long while, Viktor found himself caught in the quiet web of contemplation. It wasn't doubt. He had discarded that emotion long ago. It wasn't morality either. That concept had been nothing more than an illusion—a fading ghost of his past life, a set of rules meant for men who never had to make true choices.
No, this was something else.
A sense of... eerily perfect synchronicity.
The System had, once again, handed him an opportunity. Not just any opportunity—the opportunity. The perfect scenario, the exact resource he needed, the precise person in the right place at the right time. Almost too perfect.
The gears had been turning since the moment he took over Yamamoto's body, and at every turn, every challenge, the System had been there, leading him forward. Its guidance was subtle but firm, always pulling him toward the most optimal outcomes. And now, here he stood, staring down the very man whose mere existence was the answer to one of his biggest obstacles.
Viktor knew—knew with certainty—that if Azashiro had never been here, never existed, the System would have found another way. It always did. He had no doubt about that.
Yet here they were.
This was the way.
The cold efficiency of it sent a shiver of amusement down his spine.
Was this destiny?
Or was it design?
He exhaled, his eyes flickering with the glow of the flames surrounding him.
For all his experience, all his control, he had to admit: this was impressive.
The coordination, the execution, the sheer perfection of how events had lined up—it almost felt engineered.
It was the kind of absurd, flawless precision that he would expect from a perfectly directed scene in a Hollywood thriller. Every piece falling into place with unnerving smoothness.
And now, standing before him, was the final puzzle piece. Sōya Azashiro.
A Kenpachi. A monster in his own right. A relic of another age, left to rot in the shadows of history. And yet, he was exactly what Viktor needed at this very moment.
'What an absurdly well-written story this is turning out to be,' Viktor mused internally.
Was this his doing?
Or was he simply a character being moved across a cosmic chessboard?
It didn't matter.
Because he was the one making the final decision.
The silence stretched between them, the weight of realization and expectation settling in the air.
Then, Azashiro's voice cut through the quiet.
A whisper, but sharp.
A simple question, yet one that held the weight of fate itself.
"Well?" Azashiro asked, his voice carrying no emotion, only curiosity. His piercing, restrained gaze studied Viktor like a puzzle waiting to be solved.
"What have you decided?"
Viktor turned his gaze fully to the imprisoned Kenpachi, his eyes unblinking, unwavering.
Azashiro tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he continued, "Will you be a hypocrite? Will you go against your own word and do what you swore never to do?"
His tone was calm, almost amused, but there was a glint of something dangerous beneath the surface.
Or…"Will you find another way?"
The challenge was clear. The choice laid before him.
And Viktor…smirked.
Back with Zaraki
The roar that erupted from Zaraki was not merely a sound—it was a declaration.
A war cry that shook the very foundations of Muken.
His blood-stained lips curled into a manic grin, the thrill of unbridled combat radiating through his every fiber. His ragged blade gleamed with an unearthly golden glow, as if the steel itself had been forged in war, bathed in the blood of countless battles.
And then—the name.
"NOME: NOZARASHI!"
The moment the words left his lips, a cataclysmic force surged through Muken.
The jagged blade in his hands shifted, twisted, expanded—warped into its truest form. A great, monstrous cleaver, far larger than a normal sword, a weapon befitting the most bloodthirsty warrior in history.
The ground beneath Zaraki cracked violently, unable to withstand the sheer force of his spiritual pressure.
His eyes, filled with raw exhilaration, locked onto Retsu. His sword swung upward, his stance shifting, his body poised for absolute destruction.
And then—he charged.
Faster than before. Stronger than before.
A golden blur of pure killing intent, Nozarashi screaming through the air, aimed directly at Retsu's heart.
Time slowed.
Retsu, the first Kenpachi, stood her ground. Her calm gaze met Zaraki's, and in them, there was no fear.
Only acceptance.
Her lips curled into a peaceful smile, her grip on Minazuki unwavering.
'So this is it,' she mused internally, her mind clearer than it had been in centuries.
'The moment he surpasses me.'
She exhaled slowly, feeling the sharp kiss of death approach her chest.
"I am grateful... for this chance."
Her voice barely above a whisper, yet carried through the crushing atmosphere of Muken.
"You are the true Kenpachi. My successor."
And then—
Fire.
A wave of violent, searing heat burst forth, consuming everything.
Retsu's eyes widened.
The battle between two monsters of combat was suddenly overshadowed by something even greater.
The presence—the absolute, undeniable dominance of another force.
The king had entered the battlefield.
Yachiru, perched nearby, her tiny frame tense with excitement and joy, turned instantly, feeling the explosion of spiritual pressure beside her.
She whirled around, her heart racing, ready to yell at the mean old man for ruining Kenny's moment.
"Stop distracting him, old man! You're always—"
She froze.
Her words died on her lips as she saw him.
The air around him shimmered, warped by the sheer intensity of the heat radiating from his body. His youthful form stood tall, his expression calm, but his eyes burned with something ancient, something terrifying.
The fire that consumed his blade was not merely flames.
It was an inferno of absolute destruction.
A power that could erase existence itself.
And then—
The voice that echoed through Muken was unmistakable.
Deep. Commanding. Final.
"BANKAI—"
The flames surged, the very air trembling.
"ZANKA NO TACHI: TENGOKU…"
The words rang across the abyss, drowning out even the sound of Zaraki's roaring charge.
The battlefield, once a chaotic storm of golden and crimson reiatsu, was now swallowed in a sea of all-consuming heavenly fire.
And Cut!
That's it for this chapter folks.
AN:
There you go, the grand reveal. If you feel the scenes between Viktor and the battle between Retsu and Zaraki feel different, you are correct. Both are written with different intent. They are quite contradicting.
Though what do you think Viktor did to Soya? Did he kill him? Did he leave him? What's this Tengoku Business? If you don't know, Tengoku refers to Heaven. What do you think the ability of such a direction? What else do you think Viktor's Bankai would unfold?
A reminder that this is Viktor's Bankai, not completely same as Yamamoto's. Though the references of this new direction has been thematically included in the narration of the story since beginning.
So if you have guessed that I would add some new directions, Congratulations, you are correct. What could be the name of such direction though? Let me know in comments/reviews.
As always, let me know in your reviews and do share your feedback and suggestions!
I'm very delighted to share that you can now read 7 early chapters on my patron. My user name is same BlackInfinity1289 on patron website.
Note: They are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.
Also, if you want discuss about the story or the ideas, you can join my discord server. I go by Henry there, give me a ping to say hi.
link: discord. gg / SPsSwAcq4b
Hope to see you there!
Thank you for reading.
Good Day!
Black Infinity 1289,
Ja Ne.