In the Seireitei, there are three paths to becoming a Captain of the Gotei 13.
The first—pass the Captain's proficiency examination, witnessed by at least three Captains, including the Head-Captain.
The second—receive the recommendation of at least six Captains and the approval of at least three more.
The third—defeat the current Captain in battle, witnessed by two hundred members.
So bankai is not, strictly speaking, a mandatory qualification.
Of course, in practice, anyone with power at the Captain level will almost naturally have mastered bankai—with rare exceptions.
Like Eleventh Division's Zaraki Kenpachi.
The fact that Ichimaru Gin had achieved bankai was known only to a very limited handful in the Gotei 13. Ordinary members had no idea.
And as for the matter of the Third Division's captaincy—there had never been any public announcement.
Yamamoto had been waiting for Gin to fully master bankai before formally addressing it.
Since the Third Division's seat had been empty for so long, Gin's future appointment as its Captain was essentially a given.
As Gin rose and stepped onto the arena platform, Captains and Vice-Captains alike drew themselves to full attention.
Among the current vice-captains and high-ranking seated officers, Gin—second only to Sasakibe Chōjirō—was generally acknowledged as the strongest. The gap between having bankai and not having it was a gulf too great to measure.
The Captains understood this even more clearly.
And what of Tachikawa Nobu?
He had already displayed the ability to casually defeat vice-captains. Could it be that he had already reached that threshold as well?
When Nobu saw Gin approaching, he tilted his head slightly.
"I thought you planned to be the last one to go up."
Gin's smile was as narrow-eyed as ever.
"That was the plan, but Aizen-taichō said someone might not be able to wait. That someone is you, Nobu-kun?"
Nobu gave a short laugh. "From the way you say it, Ichimaru-fukutaichō, it sounds like you think I'm eager for a match with you—treating you as my target."
Gin's eyes shifted faintly. "Or perhaps… I'm imagining things?"
"Ichimaru-fukutaichō—let me tell you something."
Nobu spoke as he drew his asauchi, holding it across his body.
"Since the day I first held a sword, I have never once been defeated. At the Academy, my file probably says I 'excel at kendō.' But how high must one's skill, how great one's strength, be to qualify as 'excelling'? I think no one here can draw a clear line. Those two words aren't even an extreme form of praise—they're just a way of describing something still within one's own frame of reference. The irony is—the instructors at the Academy actually believed my sword was within theirs."
Gin's brow twitched at the sheer arrogance of those words.
In his understanding, Nobu was not that kind of person.
"You mean," Gin said slowly, "that your swordsmanship had already surpassed the Academy instructors long ago?"
Nobu's mouth curved upward. He didn't answer. To truly say what he meant aloud would make him seem more than just arrogant.
"Ichimaru-fukutaichō—I've heard you graduated from the Academy in only one year, celebrated throughout the Soul Society as a genius. But I'm curious about one thing."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"Have you ever lost?"
"…"
Gin was silent for a moment. Then the narrow-eyed smile returned.
"If you win this match, then whether I've lost before or not won't matter, will it?"
...
Matsumoto Rangiku watched the two of them with a faint, tight unease.
What most didn't know was that she had known Gin since they were children. Childhood friends.
Then one day, out of the blue, Gin told her he was going to become a Shinigami—and disappeared.
When she became a Shinigami herself and saw him again, she found him… changed.
He was no longer close to her as he had been back then. In those early years, she had gone looking for him more than once in private, but all she received in return was his distant manner and words that kept her at arm's length.
She had never understood why.
She had even planned to face him herself in this exchange, just to see how he would react. If he showed even the slightest unwillingness… or reluctance… she would have been glad.
As for this match—
She knew Gin had bankai. She didn't believe Nobu could win.
As for Nobu, he held no particular dislike toward Gin.
For someone to endure in patience for a hundred years—that wasn't something an ordinary person could do.
It was simply that right now, Gin happened to stand in the way of what he wanted to do.
Neither man offered the other a bow. Both seemed to have no intention of doing so. Gin slowly drew his Zanpakutō.
It was short and slender, about the length of Nobu's white-bladed Shiran, resembling a wakizashi.
They stood less than ten meters apart. After a brief stillness, a brilliant white streak shot from Gin's position—piercing directly through where Nobu had stood. The speed was like a laser.
Gin's Zanpakutō—Shinsō.
It could extend and retract freely, but length was not its true danger. Its real killing edge was in the extension speed—so fast that one could not react.
The instant Gin moved, Nobu had already shunpōed away. Shinsō struck only the fading afterimage.
Gin was mildly surprised. That had been Shinsō's fastest speed in shikai.
Even if Nobu had read the file, this should have been his first time seeing it.
The thought was gone as quickly as it came. His body moved on near-instinct, stepping back just as a blade swept in from the side.
Fast.
Nobu's shunpō speed was already matching his own.
Gin's thoughts flashed like lightning—he shunpōed several meters away, Shinsō lashing out toward Nobu.
Clang—!
The strike met Nobu's blade head-on, sparks hissing from the friction between the extending spear-blade and the asauchi.
"Hadō #31: Shakkahō!"
Gin's other hand rose, casting a chantless fireball forward.
The flames had barely surged when a violent burst of reishi struck head-on, smashing the fire apart.
Bakudō #8: Seki!
Blocking his Shakkahō with an eighth-level bakudō?!
Gin registered the technique but had no time to think—he felt a chill at his back, spiritual pressure flooding his body as he shunpōed away from the slash behind him.
Only after widening the distance to safety did he pause.
His opponent's speed was blinding—equal to his own.
He understood it clearly now. Outsiders only knew he had bankai. They had no idea of his true level.
But one thing was certain: Tachikawa Nobu's power was dangerously close to his own.
No more holding back.
Aizen had said nothing specific to him beforehand, but Gin knew—this was to measure Nobu's real strength.
In the Human World, the plan had failed because of the limiter on Tōsen.
Here in Soul Society, he had no such excuse.
Gin's eyes narrowed as he burst forward.
"Shoot to kill—[Shinsō]!"
The white spear lanced out. Nobu caught it on his blade, but the moment of contact was only a feint—Gin was suddenly right in front of him.
So he wanted close combat? Nobu's mouth curled in a cold smile. His asauchi blurred, weaving a storm of blade-light before him.
The assault was so dense that Gin was driven back again and again. Nobu caught an opening, shunpōing behind him, sword cutting for the neck—
Hss!
From beneath Gin's arm, a flash of white stabbed backward. He had used his own body to mask the strike.
At such close range, Nobu could not evade—the blow landed in his side, hurling him back several meters before he landed on his feet.
He stood steady, expression unchanged. He had misjudged—Gin's Zanpakutō was not limited to mid- or long-range killing.
At close range, it was even harder to guard against.
A few meters away, he could still see Gin's attack clearly. Up close—even seeing it wasn't enough to react.
Gin's gaze glinted. He stroked the blade lightly.
"That strike should have hit you."
His voice was unhurried. "Why is there no wound? Not even a tear in your clothes?"
Nobu's reply was calm. "Ichimaru-fukutaichō… surely you know my Zanpakutō is Kaidō-type?"
Gin smiled. "You've seen mine—why not tell me what yours can do?"
"It's simple," Nobu said. "I can't be injured in battle."
Can't… be injured?
Not just Gin—everyone listening felt a jolt of disbelief.
No Zanpakutō could possibly have such an absurd ability.
It had to be a rapid-healing ability, exaggerated by the way he said it.
Still… did it heal clothing too?
"You really can't be injured? I don't quite believe it," Gin said with a smile.
"You can try."
Gin lowered Shinsō, eyes narrowing—then his wrist twisted, the white blade shooting for Nobu's face.
Nobu didn't flinch. The moment the blade extended, he tilted his head aside. It passed so close he could feel the cold air it split.
Gin's gaze darkened slightly.
At this distance, Nobu could already react.
Only at point-blank could he land a sure hit. Unless… bankai.
But should he release it here?
While he considered, Nobu suddenly sheathed his sword—one hand on the hilt.
That stance—
Gin's eyes narrowed. He had seen this once before, in a combat recording.
Shing—!
"Yaksha Shankū!"
The blade flashed from the scabbard, carving a half-moon arc—
and a two-meter wave of sword-pressure took form in the air, flying straight at Gin.
It carried little spiritual-pressure fluctuation, almost unimpressive at first glance—less than a low-level Kidō.
But Gin's instincts screamed danger.
He remembered—this was the same attack that had felled a Menos in one stroke, that had wounded Tōsen.
He didn't dare take it head-on. Withdrawing Shinsō, he shunpōed aside.
The wave missed him, but it didn't stop—
And when it struck one of the arena's killing-stone pillars—
A shallow fissure split the unbreakable surface.
It was barely visible, but a few had sharp enough eyes. Among the Captains, expressions shifted faintly.
Killing-stone naturally suppresses reishi—any attack formed of reishi, no matter how strong, would be absorbed entirely.
Even Yamamoto's full-force high-level Kidō could not harm it.
So how could Nobu's sword-wave leave a mark?
Yamamoto and Unohana both had surprise in their eyes.
There was an old saying—that a swordsman who reached the highest peaks could cut steel and cleave the air with sword-qi—not through spiritual power, but purely by the blade.
For mortals without supernatural strength, it was the ultimate refinement of the sword—those few could be called kenkaku or kensei.
Shinigami fought with reiatsu. Their kendō was a killing art honed in countless battles—another road entirely.
Gin had not noticed the pillar.
He was still shaken by the danger he had felt from that slash—
And in that instant of distraction, Nobu's cold figure was suddenly upon him.
Not good!
Gin's eyes flew open. He had no time to dodge. No time to block.
If that strike landed, he would be crippled—his reishi joints pierced like Ōmaeda's and Saitō's—unable to fight again today.
Boom!
A surge of spiritual pressure exploded from Gin, the flow of reishi around his body whipping into a storm.
It poured outward with such force that Nobu's blade slowed—just for a fraction of a second.