The duel ended as expected—Renji Hisagi claimed victory, his blade pressing Kira Shunsuke to the ground.
Kira's uniform was torn, his scalp numb from the blow, a thin trail of blood tracing his temple. Watching from the stands, Captain Komamura's chest tightened; no matter how disciplined, a father's heart still winced at the sight of his son bleeding.
Yet he understood. Renji would never take it too far. Within every strike, he had measured restraint—enough to prove dominance, not cruelty. Hurting a comrade beyond reason would only shame the Gotei.
Kira's injuries were light—cuts, bruises, surface wounds. In Soul Society, such damage was routine. A week of rest and his Reiatsu would stabilize; three days with Kidō treatment, and he'd be sparring again without a trace of harm.
Komamura exhaled, bowed slightly toward Renji and his mentor, and led his son away.
Watching them, Captain Urahara tilted his hat with quiet approval. "Rare to see that kind of discipline these days," he murmured. "A man who knows when to stop his blade."
His tone carried satisfaction—true refinement was not only about power, but control.
Renji's victory sealed the round with flawless precision. His Reiatsu flared and faded like a contained inferno—efficient, proud, absolute.
Yet Urahara's mind was already elsewhere. Another of his students had reached the final trial—the young substitute Soul Reaper, Ichigo Kurosaki.
Unfortunately, Ichigo's next opponent was none other than a prodigy of the noble houses: Byakuya Kuchiki's nephew, the boy genius of the Sixth Division—Kaidō Neji.
Though Kaidō Neji belonged to a cadet branch of the Kuchiki family, he was hailed as the purest manifestation of their discipline and elegance. Bound by the hierarchy of nobility, his genius had turned inward—sharp, restrained, quietly defiant.
A boy shaped by both brilliance and bitterness, he embodied rebellion wrapped in grace.
Urahara's expression hardened slightly as he watched Ichigo face him across the arena. The boy's orange hair caught the sunlight, his stance uncertain but determined.
"Remember what I've taught you," Urahara whispered, fan half-raised. "Don't just swing your sword—think. Blend Kidō, speed, instinct. Everything I've drilled into you—use it all."
He believed in his apprentice, though a trace of unease flickered behind his smile. Kaidō Neji's talent was immense—his Reiatsu layered, silent, deadly precise. If unleashed fully, even Renji might have struggled to endure his blows.
But Neji never flaunted his strength. He fought only when necessary, hiding the depth of his power beneath calm indifference. Against weaker opponents, he never needed to show more than a fraction of what he was capable of.
That mystery alone made him dangerous—his stillness was the sign of true mastery.
As Urahara watched the two youths square off, he felt a strange mix of pride and regret.
Part of him wanted Ichigo to triumph. Another part, quieter and more honest, wondered whether defeat under Neji's blade might teach the boy something only loss could reveal.
The tension was palpable—the boy genius against the reckless disciple.
And in that moment, even Urahara Kisuke could not tell which outcome he desired more.
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