Yo!
I'm back with the next chapter of Transcendent Flame.
With this chapter, we hit 100k for this story! Thank you all for your love and support!
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Without further ado, let's get started.
Enjoy the chapter.
Transcendent Flame
Chapter 13
The Force
"NOME: NOZARASHI!"
The roar that had erupted from Zaraki was still echoing through Muken, his charge unstoppable, his blade thirsting for its destined conclusion. Nozarashi had been unleashed in full, the final clash between two true Kenpachi was upon them, the moment of succession was set.
And then—
Fire.
A searing wave of divine heat erupted, swallowing everything in its path. The very air ignited, space itself trembled, and reality bent beneath the sheer power that had been unleashed. It was not the raw, chaotic destruction of ordinary flames—it was something higher, something that denied even the concept of burning.
"BANKAI—ZANKA NO TACHI: TENGOKU – AMA NO KAGUTSUCHI!"
(Longsword of the Remnant Flame -Heaven - Heavenly Flame of God Kagutsuchi)
The voice that spoke was not mortal. It was judgment itself.
Retsu's vision blurred, the very world around her becoming nothing but blinding white-gold light. Her instincts screamed, her battle-hardened senses demanded movement—but there was nothing to move against. The flames descended, not as an attack, but as a decree.
She barely registered the words escaping her lips. "No… not like this!"
The fire surrounded her. She expected pain. She expected death. She welcomed obliteration. But instead— warmth.
Her body tensed, prepared for the agonizing touch of Yamamoto's legendary flames, but instead, her breath hitched. There was no burning, no searing, no destruction. Only rejuvenation.
Every wound she had ever suffered, every scar that had once been a mark of her legacy, every ache that had settled deep into her body from centuries of battle—all of it was vanishing.
Her muscles, once stiffened by age, were now supple. The dull ache in her joints, the marks left by ancient wounds, the burden of time itself—erased.
Her hands shook. This was not supposed to happen!
Her death was supposed to be her gift to him. She had chosen her end. She had decided that she would fall to the one worthy of the title of Kenpachi. But now… she was denied. Her jaw clenched. A sharp, strangled breath escaped her lips. Her grip on Minazuki trembled—not from exhaustion, but boiling rage.
She had been robbed of her death.
Across from her, Zaraki stood rigid, his breathing ragged. His blade—the monstrous cleaver of destruction—remained raised, but the moment, the crescendo of their battle, had been stolen.
The flames that had consumed him were supposed to end him. They should have been the worst agony he had ever known, the greatest test of his body's endurance.
Instead, he felt nothing but freedom.
The sensation was alien. Wrong. Infuriating.
For the first time in his life, his body felt whole. He hadn't even known that he had been limited, that there had been invisible chains shackling his strength. But as the fire passed through him, as the weight he had always carried simply vanished, he realized—he had never been fighting at full power.
A slow, shuddering exhale left him. He clenched his fingers around Nozarashi's hilt, rolling his shoulders, feeling the surge of strength now fully unchained.
And yet— his head tilted down, his eyes shadowed beneath his wild bangs. His teeth bared in an unhinged grin.
His voice came as a low growl, reverberating through the scorched battlefield.
"The hell was that, old man?"
It was not a question. It was a demand.
His eyes snapped up, locking onto Yamamoto with a look that burned hotter than the flames around them. The battle had been his. His kill had been taken. His victory had been stolen.
Viktor stood calm and unmoving, his blade still wreathed in celestial fire. His deep eyes swept across them, measuring, calculating. His voice carried no urgency, only finality.
"It is over."
Silence fell.
Retsu's breath stilled in her throat. Over?
Her fingers curled into trembling fists. The flames had healed her, but they had also erased her purpose. Her battle—her final battle—had been severed before it could reach its rightful conclusion.
She had lived long enough. Too long.
She had carried the burden of the title for centuries, waiting—aching—for the one who could take it from her. And now, in the moment that should have been her last…
She still lived.
Her fingers loosened. Slowly, she lifted her head, her sharp eyes locking onto Yamamoto's.
"Why?" Her voice was quiet but edged like a blade.
Her question was not for her survival, nor for the flames that had restored her. It was for the moment that had been stolen.
Zaraki, however, did not question. He acted.
A low, rumbling laugh rolled from his throat, starting as a chuckle before breaking into full-blown cackling. His reiatsu spiked, wild and volatile, crashing against the walls of Muken.
The battle was not over.
His hands flexed around Nozarashi, his stance shifting. His blood was still boiling, his instincts screaming for a fight. He wasn't done.
His eyes gleamed with challenge, his grin stretching wide. "Nah, old man. It ain't over."
His foot slid forward. The battlefield, once halted by divine decree, was once again on the precipice of war.
Retsu remained still, watching Zaraki, feeling the storm of his energy surge through the space between them.
She knew this feeling. The hunger. The fury. And in her chest, where there should have been acceptance, there was need.
The fire had burned away her wounds, but it had also revived the warrior within her.
Meanwhile Zaraki's entire being rebelled.
His muscles coiled, his grip tightening around Nozarashi's hilt until his knuckles turned white. Every fiber of his being screamed in defiance, demanding he break free, demanding he finish what had been started. The power surging within him was untamed, limitless—his body was no longer bound, no longer restrained.
And yet—he could not move.
The flames had not simply burned his freedom away. They had bound him. No—he had been caged.
A guttural snarl ripped from his throat, deep and raw, filled with rage, hunger, frustration. His eyes gleamed, wide with fury, golden and wild beneath his unruly bangs. His instincts roared at him to fight, to struggle, to tear through whatever invisible force held him back. But no matter how much he strained, no matter how much his muscles flexed, the chains of flame did not break.
Across from him, Retsu's body trembled—but not with struggle. She could feel it too. Not just the weight of the flames, but the control within them. This was not a reckless surge of power. This was deliberate, absolute. The flames of Zanka no Tachi were not burning unchecked—they were obeying their master.
And that was what shook her.
Her bloodlust still simmered, still whispered through her veins like a lover's call, still begged for completion. But even she, the first Kenpachi, the woman who had embraced slaughter as her existence, had to acknowledge what stood before her.
This was not the old man.
This was not Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto.
This was something beyond him.
Her breath came slow, measured, as she forced herself to listen to the silence that followed. It was deafening, pressing in on them like a second force of nature—one created not by the absence of sound, but by the absence of possibility.
They could not move.
Because he willed it.
And then—he spoke.
"Enough."
One word. But it was not merely a command. It was an edict. It carried weight greater than any strike, any clash of blades, any wave of spiritual pressure. It was a force of will so unshakable that it rendered even the mightiest beasts motionless.
The flames tightened—not cruelly, not as punishment. They did not crush. They did not sear.
They held. A reminder. A truth.
This battlefield does not belong to you.
Retsu exhaled slowly, her blade lowering, her fingers relaxing their hold. The hunger still coiled inside her, still burned just beneath the surface—but her mind, honed by centuries of war, had already calculated the outcome.
Fighting against this was futile.
Zaraki, however—did not accept it.
His breathing was ragged, his lips curled back in a snarl of pure, raw fury. His arms shook, veins bulging beneath his skin as he resisted, as he pushed against the force pressing down on him. His mind was screaming, his instincts were howling—this wasn't how it was supposed to end.
His body had never felt stronger. His strength had never been more free. He had just broken free of his shackles, just realized the truth of his power—and now, this man dared to stop him?
Dared to tell him it was over? His teeth ground together, his growl deep and animalistic.
"You think you can just STOP this?"
His voice was rough, jagged with unspent violence.
The flames around him flared in response, pressing tighter, heat licking at his skin, but he barely felt it. He only felt the rage, the denial.
His eyes locked onto Viktor, burning with fury, with challenge.
"WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!"
The words boomed through Muken, raw and unrestrained, the sound of a beast that refused to be chained again.
And yet, Viktor's eyes did not waver. He did not respond with anger. He did not respond with force. He simply stepped forward. And the weight grew. The flames coiled tighter. The pressure doubled—no, tripled.
Zaraki's breath hitched. Just for a second. Not from fear. But from the realization that no amount of raw strength would move him from this spot.
And then Viktor spoke.
"I am the one who gave you this battle."
The words cut through the air like a sword.
Zaraki's jaw clenched. His heart pounded.
Viktor took another step forward.
"And I am the one who ends it."
The finality in his tone rang through Muken like the sound of a closing door.
Zaraki's breath left him in a harsh exhale. His shoulders heaved. His grip on Nozarashi—so tight, so desperate to swing again—loosened.
Not from defeat. Not from submission. But from the truth. The battlefield was never his. It was never theirs. It had always belonged to him.
His snarl twisted, warping into something between frustration and begrudging understanding. His fingers flexed around his blade one last time, his spiritual pressure flickering wildly, before—he let go.
The golden glow of his reiatsu settled, retreating inward, still burning, still hungry—but contained.
Retsu watched, silent and still. She understood before Zaraki did. This was not a loss. This was a reminder.
Viktor turned away, his eyes still burning, the last flickers of divine fire dissipating into the air. The weight of his presence remained, hanging over them like an unshakable force, even as the flames themselves vanished.
And without looking back, he simply said:
"Return to your duties."
The battle had ended.
Their world had changed.
Then a sudden blur of pink and white streaked through the smoldering battlefield.
Viktor barely shifted as a tiny foot slammed into his side.
A dull thud rang through the air, though he did not so much as sway. His body, hardened by centuries of battle, was like iron—unyielding, immovable.
Yachiru winced instantly, her small face scrunching up as pain shot up her leg. She hopped back, grabbing her foot with both hands, letting out a loud "Owwwww!"
Her pink eyebrows furrowed, and she stuck her tongue out in frustration, rubbing the sore spot on her heel. "Jeez, old man! What are you made of, iron?! That hurt way more than I thought it would!"
Viktor said nothing.
He simply watched as she spun on her heel and rushed to Zaraki's side.
Her playful pout vanished the moment she saw his face.
His wild eyes, always so full of challenge, of thrill, of hunger, was dulled. Not with defeat, not with acceptance, but something in between—something unsettled. His grip on Nozarashi was loose, his massive shoulders still heaving with deep, controlled breaths, as though he was still trying to convince himself the battle had truly ended.
Yachiru's tiny hands curled into fists. She hated this. She had never seen Kenny look like this. Not when he had been knocked down. Not when he had been cut open. Not even when he had been at death's door. And now—now—this man, this old man had stopped their fight and left Kenny looking like this?
A flicker of rage flared in her chest, burning hotter than the white-gold flames that had swallowed the battlefield. But she held it in. Not because she didn't want to fight. But because she didn't want to hurt Kenny even more. She forced her fingers to unclench. Forced her voice to remain light, even as her heart screamed at her to do something. She tilted her head up, her pink eyes locking onto Viktor's deep ones.
"Ne, old man," she said, her voice carrying the last remnants of her usual cheer, though there was something deeper beneath it. "If we can't have our final fight, can we at least have one-on-one matches for practice?"
Zaraki's eye snapped to her, flickering with the barest hint of hope.
Viktor regarded her for a long moment. His expression remained unreadable, his gaze unwavering. Then, he spoke. "I will think about it."
Zaraki let out a deep breath through his nose, but the tension in his body did not ease.
"For now, he needs to train. He has taken a monumental step forward, but with that power comes instability. His control must match his strength, or it will consume him."
Yachiru's lips pressed into a thin line, but she listened.
"When the time comes, I will tell you both. But no killing. For all it concerns—" Viktor's eyes flickered with something final. "—this was your final match. Zaraki is Kenpachi. The rightful successor to Yachiru Unohana."
Zaraki's eye widened just slightly.
For a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—the frustration in his gaze softened.
Yachiru turned back to him, her lips tugging into a grin—not the teasing, mischievous kind, but something smaller. Something real. She bowed her head. "Thanks, old man," she said, her voice unusually sincere. And without another word, she hopped onto Zaraki's broad back, her tiny hands gripping his torn haori, and in the next instant— she carried him away. Her small frame barely seemed capable of supporting his massive body, yet she moved effortlessly. A single shunpo, and they were gone, vanishing into the distance, toward wherever she had deemed their quarters for the night.
The battlefield fell into silence.
The smoldering embers of white-gold flames flickered across the ruined ground, their glow casting long shadows against the endless dark.
Viktor did not turn. He did not need to. He could feel her gaze.
Retsu stood where she had before, unmoving, her hands now folded neatly over Minazuki's hilt. The bloodlust that had once coursed through her veins, the unrelenting hunger that had reawakened during their battle, had been replaced by quite contemplation.
But it was not gone. It was waiting.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
The flickering embers of Zanka no Tachi still glowed faintly in the darkness, the battlefield scarred with the remnants of their battle. And yet, the greatest wounds were not on the ground, nor on their bodies.
They were within her.
Retsu-Yachiru Unohana stood rigid, her fingers tightening over Minazuki's hilt, her knuckles paling under the force of her grip. Her eyes, once pools of serene, unreadable calm, now burned with something raw, something broken.
She took a step forward, and when she spoke, her voice was not soft, nor controlled.
"Why?" A single word, laced with fury, confusion, and grief.
Viktor said nothing.
Her breath hitched, frustration crackling through her reiatsu, rising like a building storm. "Why did you stop me?!"
Her voice rose, echoing through the vast abyss of Muken.
"You knew—! You knew this was what I wanted!"
Her body trembled, not with weakness, but with pent-up rage, with frustration so thick it suffocated her. "I have waited for centuries—CENTURIES—for this moment!" Her eyes flashed, her reiatsu spiking as the veneer of the ever-composed Retsu cracked before him. "To die at the hands of the one that defeated me! To finally, FINALLY pass on as I should have centuries ago!"
She took another step forward, her hands shaking, her breath uneven.
"But you stole it from me!" Her voice broke, her anger pouring out in waves, the calm and dignified façade shattering into dust.
Her fingers pressed against her chest, where her fatal wound had once been, the wound that should have ended her, the one she should have carried to her grave.
Her hands curled into fists over it.
"You even erased my wound." Her voice dropped to something almost broken, something disbelieving. "The wound that marked my defeat. The wound that proved I had found my successor."
She looked up, her dark eyes ablaze with emotions she could no longer contain.
"WHY?! Why did you have to intervene?! Why did you stop our battle—OUR SACRED DUEL—at the final moment?!"
Her breaths came in sharp gasps, her reiatsu raging like a storm that could not be calmed. "What is your purpose, Yamamoto?!" She spat the name, no longer addressing him as Sōtaichō, no longer looking at him as the commander of the Gotei 13. "What are you playing at? Why did you set all of this up?!" Her voice climbed higher, angrier, more raw, with every word. "Training Zaraki. Bringing me here. Setting up this elaborate fight. Going through all these changes!" Her fingers twitched against Minazuki's hilt, her breath shuddering. "I thought I understood you—I thought I knew you!"
Her glare bored into him, searching—desperate for answers. "But the old Yamamoto—he would have NEVER stopped this fight. He would have NEVER denied a warrior's end! NEVER interfered in the most sacred moment of a battle!"
Her breath trembled as she finally voiced the question that had been clawing at her chest.
"So tell me the truth!" For the first time in centuries, the unshakable Unohana was unhinged. She was not Retsu. She was not the quiet, patient captain of the 4th Division. She was Yachiru Unohana, the first Kenpachi—a warrior who had been left with a blade and no enemy to kill. A warrior denied her destined death.
And Viktor, through it all, remained silent.
The embers of his flames still crackled, their light reflecting in his eyes—cold, unwavering, absolute.
He let the silence linger, let the weight of her words settle between them, let her rage burn against the walls of Muken. Then, after what felt like an eternity—he spoke. His voice was deep, steady, filled with something beyond mere authority.
"Because the time for you to die has long passed."
The words were not cruel.
They were truth.
Retsu froze, her breath catching in her throat.
Viktor's gaze met hers, and for the first time, he looked at her not as a soldier, not as a captain, not as an opponent—but as a companion.
"Two years from now, our old enemies will return."
His voice was quiet, but it held the weight of inevitability.
"And the war they will bring will leave the Soul Society broken, burned, and drowning in its own blood."
His words were not a warning. They were a certainty.
Retsu's lips parted slightly, her fury momentarily overtaken by—realization.
Viktor did not stop.
"There will be casualties unlike anything this world has ever seen. Isane is not ready to oversee such a war."
Retsu stilled, her mind turning to her vice-captain—the woman she had entrusted with the legacy of the 4th Division.
She knew he was right.
And more than that—
"You were not meant to be a healer."
Retsu's eyes widened.
Viktor's voice was quiet, but the impact was deafening.
"I am tired of seeing you waste yourself behind the walls of the 4th Division."
Her breath hitched.
"You are Yachiru Unohana. The first Kenpachi. The most skilled warrior Soul Society has ever known."
Viktor took a step forward, his golden gaze piercing into hers.
"I brought you here because I will not allow that legacy to rot behind hospital walls any longer."
His words struck her harder than any blade ever had.
The walls she had built around herself—the careful, patient, pacifist mask she had perfected—cracked.
"I do not need Retsu, the captain of the 4th Division." His voice was final. "I need the old Yachiru."
A breath left her—sharp, pained.
Her fingers twitched.
For so long, she had been telling herself that she had changed. That she had chosen this path of healing, that she had willingly given up the name of Kenpachi, that she had let go of the past.
But Yamomoto's words—
They had cut straight through the lie. She had never let go. She had buried it. Buried it beneath centuries of patience. Beneath a false identity. Beneath the name Retsu. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Because for the first time in centuries—she did not know what to say.
And Viktor, standing before her, watched with unwavering certainty.
He had torn away the veil.
Now, it was up to her to decide what to do next.
With Retsu
She stood frozen, her body rigid, her mind unraveling in a storm of questions, contradictions, and revelations.
The echoes of Yamamoto's words had sunk into her, but they did not settle. They churned. They festered. They burrowed into places she had long since sealed away.
'The time for you to die has long passed.'
Her hands clenched. Had it?
For centuries, she had waited. She had yearned for this ending, convinced that her purpose was to pass the title to the one who had finally surpassed her, the way it had always been meant to happen. The way fate had dictated. But fate had been denied.
By him.
She felt the weight of the absence at her chest—the wound that should have remained, the wound that should have been her legacy, the wound that should have been the mark of her final battle. But instead, it was gone.
She should have been furious. Should have raged, screamed, fought.
Yet, something stopped her.
The weight of his words lingered, refusing to be ignored.
"Two years from now, our old enemies will return."
Her breath stilled. Quincies. Her mind snapped back to memories she had buried so deeply they had almost been erased.
A conversation long ago—Ichibei Hyosube, the Head of the Royal Guard, whispering about an old prophecy.
The Quincy King.
She had dismissed it at the time. Just another fragment of history. Another story meant to instill caution. Another whisper about things that had long since been erased.
Or so she had believed.
But if Yamamoto had said it so certainly, if he had set all of this in motion, if he had spoken of it as a certainty rather than a fear—
Then it was not a story.
It was not a whisper.
It was the future.
Her breath left her in a slow exhale, her mind burning, piecing it together.
"There will be casualties unlike anything this world has ever seen."
Her thoughts flashed to the possible future, to the battlefield that had yet to come.
The war she had prepared for her entire life—but not as a healer.
As a killer.
Viktor's voice rang in her head.
"Isane is not ready."
It was true.
She would be a skilled captain, a disciplined healer, but she was not ready for the weight of such a war. Isane would fight, she would serve, but she would be crushed beneath the sheer scale of what was to come. She could never be Retsu. She could never handle what must be done.
The pieces of his reasoning clicked further into place.
She saw it now.
He was reshaping the entire structure of Soul Society.
Everything was changing.
"I do not need Retsu, the captain of the 4th Division. I need the old Yachiru."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Was that what he wanted?
Did he intend for her to abandon everything? To throw away the name of Retsu, to leave behind the 4th Division, to become once again the bloodstained Kenpachi of the past?
No.
Her mind sifted through his exact words.
That was not what he was saying. He was not rejecting what she had become.
He was challenging it.
She had been trying to separate herself from her past—to divide herself into the healer and the warrior. But that was never how it worked. That was never how he saw it.
She had mastered Kaidō. She had mastered Kidō. She was not just a fighter. She was not just a healer. She was both.
And if Yamamoto was making changes—if the Soul Society was being reformed, expanded, rebuilt—
Then perhaps she was meant to be more.
She could see it unfolding before her.
The Fourth Division was being reshaped. No longer just a place of passive healers, but a division capable of supporting a true army. If the divisions were expanding, then its purpose had to evolve.
And she was the only one capable of making that happen. It was strong reasoning. But it was not enough. Her fingers curled tightly over Minazuki's hilt, her expression darkening. She was not convinced. Not fully. Not yet.
She felt a sudden ripple in the air—a presence, moving fast.
Her sharp gaze flickered to the side.
Falshsteps. Ragged breathing. The faint tremble of unstable reiatsu.
And then—
A figure appeared from the darkness behind her, gasping for air, his body hunched over, his hands on his knees as he tried to steady himself.
Shin'etsu's breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with exertion as he forced himself to stand upright. His eyes, sharp with urgency, locked onto Viktor, his reiatsu flickering in uneven waves from his mad sprint through Muken.
"Sōtaichō—!" he forced out, straightening his back with effort. "Shinji Hirako has arrived at the First Division barracks—he brought Kisuke Urahara and his entire group with him." His hands curled into fists, steadying himself as he continued. "They insist on meeting with you immediately. It's urgent."
Viktor remained motionless, his eyes assessing the young officer carefully. Shin'etsu had never rushed to deliver news before. For him to arrive in this state, panting and drained, meant the situation was more than just a simple visit.
But Shin'etsu wasn't finished. He swallowed thickly, inhaled another deep breath, and straightened his posture fully before pressing on.
"And—" his voice came firmer now, more measured, but still laced with tension. "Lieutenant Sasakibe and Captain Kyoraku have arrived. Both with their respective contingents."
At that, Retsu's brows lifted slightly.
Viktor's gaze did not waver, but Shin'etsu felt the weight of it settle over him, measuring every detail, every word. The weight of the unspoken meaning behind the message hung thick in the air.
Retsu's sharp gaze flicked to Viktor, taking in his reaction—or lack thereof.
She had spent centuries alongside the Head Captain. She had seen him in battle, seen him command, seen him react to war, to crisis, to rebellion.
But what stood before her now was not the old man she once knew.
And yet, there was something about him that unsettled her more than the Yamamoto she once followed.
There was no surprise.
No tension.
No flicker of uncertainty in those eyes.
He had already expected this.
'He had been waiting for it.'
Viktor held Shin'etsu's gaze for a moment longer before he gave a single nod. "Well done."
Shin'etsu visibly relaxed at the words, his shoulders losing some of their tension as he gave a deep, respectful bow.
Viktor turned, moving through the scorched battlefield of Muken, his white haori shifting in the low winds that stirred in the aftermath of divine fire, giving time to Retsu to think about his words.
As he stepped forward, the exit from Muken came into sight. He ascended the long, winding stone pathway leading out of the abyss, his steps measured, his mind already assessing the significance of the developments before him.
As he emerged from the prison's underground depths, the blinding light of the outside sky greeted him.
The sun had begun to descend. The sky was painted in hues of gold, amber, and deep crimson, the last remnants of daylight stretching across the vast horizon of Soul Society.
Viktor walked with Shin'etsu through the corridors of the First Division barracks, the echoes of their footsteps mingling with the growing energy of the evening. As they approached the grand courtyard, the air carried the scent of incense and polished wood, a stark contrast to the raw energy that loomed beyond the barracks walls.
Shin'etsu kept pace beside him, though his breaths were still uneven from his mad dash to Muken. The younger officer stole glances at Viktor, as if measuring his leader's state after what he felt had transpired in the underground prison. But Viktor remained composed, his golden eyes fixed ahead, the controlled weight of his reiatsu pressing subtly against the world around him.
As they reached the open courtyard, the sight of the returning captains and their contingents came into view. Shunsui, ever the embodiment of calculated nonchalance, walked at a leisurely pace beside Chōjirō, his ever-loyal vice-captain. Behind them, the shinigami who had been deployed for the month-long Rukongai Draft campaign marched in precise formations, their discipline evident despite the dust and fatigue clinging to their forms.
Shunsui adjusted his hat, his keen eyes sweeping over Viktor with the ease of a man who noticed far more than he let on. "Yama-jii," he greeted with that familiar, drawling warmth, though the undertone in his voice carried the sharpness of someone who had seen too much in too little time. "Looks like we're just in time for the evening festivities."
Chōjirō, standing at rigid attention, gave a formal bow. "Sōtaichō, we have returned as ordered. The Rukongai Draft concluded with minimal resistance, and all selected candidates have been gathered. They will arrive in Seireitei by tomorrow morning."
Viktor inclined his head, his sharp gaze scanning the returning shinigami. They had done well. He expected nothing less, but seeing the tangible results of his orders reinforced the steady progression of his plans.
Before he could respond, a shift in reiatsu from the distance signaled another presence nearing the Seireitei walls. Viktor glanced toward the far edge of the sky, sensing the steady, measured approach of two more commandars.
Shin'etsu spoke before he could. "Sōtaichō, Captain Komamura and Lieutenant Kotetsu are nearly at the Seireitei gates."
Viktor gave a quiet nod. 'As expected. The pieces are moving into place.'
The evening light had begun its descent, streaking the sky with hues of gold and crimson. The first month of the next phase had ended, but the real game was only just beginning.
He turned back to Chōjirō and Shunsui, his voice calm, yet carrying the weight of finality. "Report to your barracks, and ensure your men are prepared for their next orders. Tomorrow, we begin the integration process in earnest."
Shunsui studied him for a beat longer before offering a small, knowing smirk. "Guess that means no rest for the weary, huh?" He tipped his hat before turning toward his barracks, his steps light yet deliberate.
Chōjirō merely bowed again. "Understood, Sōtaichō."
As the last of the returning shinigami dispersed, Viktor exhaled slowly, watching the last rays of sunlight slip beyond the horizon.
Tomorrow would mark the true beginning.
With that he turned on his heel, his haori billowing slightly with the movement, and began walking towards his office, Shin'etsu keeping pace beside him. The tension in the air was thick—not the suffocating weight of battle, but something more subtle, more political.
"They're waiting for you, Sōtaichō," Shin'etsu murmured, his voice measured yet carrying an undertone of unease. "The Visoreds… and Urahara Kisuke's group. They're all here."
Viktor said nothing, simply nodding in acknowledgment.
As they reached the large sliding doors of his office, Shin'etsu paused, bowing his head slightly before stepping aside, allowing Viktor to be the first to enter.
He did. And silence greeted him. The room was full.
All the Visoreds—stood in one corner, their presence a stark reminder of the past that had been buried but never truly forgotten.
Across from them, the infamous trio—Kisuke, Yoruichi, and Tessai —stood together with a calm, unreadable presence.
But it wasn't just them.
Two children stood beside Kisuke's group, one young boy, one young girl.
Viktor's deep gaze lingered on them for only a moment, his mind turning over the possibilities before he continued his slow, measured approach.
Despite being briefed about the physical transformation of the Sōtaichō, the Visoreds could not fully hide their shock.
Yadōmaru adjusted her glasses slightly, but Viktor caught the subtle twitch of her fingers. Muguruma's arms were crossed tight, his usual gruff demeanor masking the underlying unease he felt. Kuna bounced impatiently on her heels, her usual energy constrained by the tension. Aikawa, Otoribashi, and Ushōda remained quiet, but their body language screamed wariness.
Sarugaki, however—
"Tch!"
She clicked her tongue loudly, her sharp eyes narrowing as she scowled. "The hell kind of freaky magic trick did ya pull, old man?! You look like ya just walked outta the damn Academy!"
"Hiyori," Shinji muttered, a sigh slipping past his lips as he tilted his head slightly, "Now's not the time."
"Like hell it ain't!" she shot back, pointing at Viktor. "Ain't no way in hell a thousand-year-old fossil just wakes up one day and decides to be young again!"
Viktor finally reached his desk, placing his hands on its surface before leaning slightly forward, his gaze sharp but calm.
He ignored the outburst, ignored the blatant shock on their faces. Instead, he asked only one question.
"Have you made your decision?" The room grew quiet once more. The weight of the question settled over them like a heavy, suffocating fog. This was it. Their choice would decide whether they remained in the shadows of exile… Or returned to the world that had once cast them out. And Viktor, with his gaze burning like an eternal fire, waited for their answer.
And Cut!
That'sit for this chapter folks.
AN:
What a mad man, huh. Who the hell will stop a 'final battle' between 2 Kenpachis? Well Viktor just did that. That too with his Bankai as well. How did you like the new direction name? I feel you will get where this is going Bankai wise from here. As Yama-ji said, where there is an East, there is also a West ;)
Do you feel I should write a full uncensored version of the full clash between Retsu and Zaraki? Also do you think the reason Viktor gave to Retsu is strong enough reason to warrant his intervention in a death match? Won't they have the lingering dissatisfaction of the interrupted battle? Well, Viktor don't give a fuck. He got an alive Zaraki with his full potential unlocked, and a healed & sharpened Retsu who can heal and kill. His purpose is achieved.
Now about Soya, what do you think happened to him? Is he Alive? Dead? You have to wait to know, though do share your thoughts on that. The system is far too quite for my taste lol, I'm sure it has some good adventure planned for Viktor, lol.
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.