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Kisaragi Akira's eyes widened as he stared at Senjumaru, trying to read something from the pale, composed expression on her face.
"Didn't you hear me clearly?" Senjumaru's voice was calm, with not the slightest trace of embarrassment. "Very well, I'll repeat myself. Take off all your clothes—completely. Nothing at all."
Akira slowly formed a question mark in the air, unconsciously.
He suspected that this woman was… after him. And he had proof.
Sure, he hadn't read much, but he'd seen enough to know this wasn't normal. He had never heard of anyone needing to disrobe entirely during a tailoring session.
"Creating a Shihakushō is extremely meticulous work."
Golden skeletal arms floated before Senjumaru, fingers delicately manipulating a long, razor-sharp sewing needle that seemed to radiate lethal intent. Just looking at it sent a sting through the eyes.
"Even the slightest mistake can have severe consequences."
She said this with a perfectly serious expression, unblushing.
Akira felt conflicted.
He didn't understand—did every Soul Reaper have to disrobe for their Shihakushō? Wasn't she worried about getting a needle-eye injury from handling so many people's clothes?
Lost in thought, he didn't notice the two shadows slinking along the floor, moving like dark, venomous snakes, closing in silently.
The instant they were about to strike, Akira's expression stiffened. His instincts screamed danger.
Without warning, the shadows shot from the ground straight toward the center of the room.
At the critical moment, Akira bent his body, contorting at impossible angles, narrowly avoiding the attack.
Only then did he clearly see what had come at him.
Two lengths of silk—red and green, dotted with tiny floral patterns—hurtled toward him like living weapons.
Senjumaru's eyes flickered with surprise. Apparently, she hadn't anticipated this turn. But then, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, as if she'd discovered something amusing. She poured her immense spiritual pressure into the nearby silks, giving them life.
The next instant—
Time seemed to freeze.
The entire room became a torrent of silk, a flood that surged without warning, swallowing the space in an overwhelming tide.
The suddenness of the attack left Akira under unparalleled pressure. This was worse than facing Shinichi Shiraki!
Without hesitation, he drew his blade. Spiritual energy surged, activating his Kido patterns as he unleashed everything at his disposal.
Death Blade Style: Piercing Clouds!
His sword arcs clashed against the flowing silk, scattering fragments like a torrential rain.
The enormous tide of fabric seemed limitless, constantly draining his spiritual energy.
The disparity was staggering.
Even at full power, he had no chance of victory. The Zero Division didn't produce weaklings, that much was clear.
Senjumaru stood in the midst of the silk flood, as if she were a god controlling this domain, a faint, enigmatic smile on her lips. Her black eyes studied the struggling boy, savoring the drama.
Purple flames laced with streaks of white lightning erupted from Akira's attacks, shredding the hanging silk. His display was nothing short of devastating—any ordinary cloth couldn't withstand the cold gleam of his blade. But there were just too many strands.
For every thread he cut, ten more, a hundred more, sprang forth to take its place.
Even the thin needles wove between the silks, magically mending shredded fragments as if no damage had occurred. Faster than he could destroy them.
Full power couldn't last forever.
Despite his extraordinary strength, Akira was still just a Lieutenant in rank. Yet to hold out this long against someone on the verge of joining the Zero Division was absurd.
Finally, when his spiritual pressure drained and his body teetered on exhaustion, he could barely lift his sword. The endless sea of silk engulfed him completely.
An inevitable, crushing defeat.
Soon, the boy, wrapped in vibrant ribbons, was lifted off the ground.
"Woman, I warn you—don't push your luck!"
Even as a captive, Akira's spirit remained unbowed. "I'm the captain's own disciple, heir to the Genryu style, future captain of the 11th Division, ninth Kenpachi—"
Before he could finish, every piece of clothing on him was stripped away.
Perfect lines, taut muscles brimming with power. Years of training under waterfalls had sculpted his body into a masterpiece, a living work of art.
Senjumaru's eyes gleamed, lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile.
Golden skeletal arms glided over his skin, tracing the sharp contours of his form.
Akira sighed heavily. No doubt—this woman was after him.
"Well done, young man," Senjumaru said. Extra golden arms extended, grasping measuring tapes to record his dimensions. "No wonder the captain took you as a disciple."
Soon after, the measurements were complete, and Akira was released.
As he dressed, a side door in the room's corner swung open, revealing a dim warehouse stacked with Shihakushō of all sizes.
Senjumaru's lazy voice drifted from the shadows:
"Here, pick one."
Akira blinked. "?"
Wasn't this supposed to be delicate, precise work?
Resolving to repay her in kind someday, he selected a suitable Shihakushō and changed on the spot. He had already been seen—what was a few more glances?
Senjumaru had vanished during the change, leaving the room filled only with floating silk, an eerie, almost haunting presence.
Seeing no one else around, Akira suppressed his curiosity and quickly exited.
He'd remember this grudge—and settle it later.
Amid the drifting silks, black eyes followed him, whispering faintly in the emptiness:
"Extraordinary spirit… seems familiar… further research needed."
"Hm, the ultimate garment might yield insights—truly a treasure of a boy."
"I quite like you…"
Back at the 1st Division, in the tea room, Yamamoto gazed at the respectful boy before him, brow furrowed, age-lined face deep in thought.
Strange. He had lived for millennia and never heard of anything like this. A Soul Reaper unable to enter their Zanpakutō space.
Akira had mentioned the problem before. At first, Yamamoto assumed the boy simply lacked understanding of the soul's nature. But as they trained, he taught both hand-to-hand and Zanpakutō mediation techniques.
The Genryu Zanpakutō meditation allowed one to empty the mind instantly, entering a state of pure focus, freeing the self, discarding all distractions.
This let a user fully immerse in their Zanpakutō, gain recognition, learn its true name, and eventually unlock Shikai.
But now a new problem had arisen.
Akira could enter the meditative state, but couldn't locate his Zanpakutō within the space. He could go in, but only with a small amount of external aid.
"Demonstrate it for me."
Yamamoto commanded after a pause. "I'll help pinpoint the problem."
Akira nodded and began clearing the tea table.
Yamamoto's unease rose instantly, before he could speak.
Akira pulled out the ceremonial set: incense, offerings, and a small handbell.
Yamamoto suddenly remembered the boy's earlier explanation: using ritual to communicate with Mimihagi to analyze Zanpakutō meditation.
As Yamamoto watched, incense burned, the bell swayed, offerings stood upright.
Akira's mind emptied, all distractions gone. His consciousness descended into the Zanpakutō space.
Moments later, clarity returned. He spread his hands helplessly:
"This is the process. I can enter the Zanpakutō space, but I can't find the sword itself."
Yamamoto's brows knitted tightly—never had he heard of such a thing. Strange. Too strange.
"Have you asked Mimihagi?"
Akira nodded. The boy had already consulted Mimihagi about problems even Sōsuke couldn't solve.
"It said, you must rely on yourself."
Yamamoto nodded, acknowledging the answer.
"There are two ways you can handle this," he said. Akira leaned forward, tea in hand, listening intently.
"One, continue using the ritual method. Over time, perhaps you will learn the true name and unlock Shikai."
"And two?"
Yamamoto's gaze sharpened. "Do you know Kyoura Kuchiki?"
Akira frowned. He'd heard the name countless times—heir of the Kuchiki family, a Soul Reaper killer of legendary renown, a master of battles and decisive victories.
Yamamoto continued gravely: "His Zanpakutō, Muramasa, can awaken the consciousness of other Zanpakutō and amplify their emotions. If you wish, I can summon him to help you awaken yours."
Akira shook his head resolutely.
"I'll rely on myself. Using someone else's power never feels right."
In truth, no one knew Muramasa's full capabilities better than him. Spirit attacks, memory reading, mental influence—it was the ultimate weapon and a psychological hazard. Best not to risk it.
Yamamoto nodded silently.
"Then continue your ritual meditation. Communicating with your Zanpakutō takes patience; haste will ruin it. But even without your Zanpakutō, you can become truly strong. Take the example of Grand Kido Master Ryo, who wields Kido alone to contend with captains and even overpower them."
Akira looked up seriously. "Who's stronger, him or you?"
Yamamoto hesitated. "Probably me… experience outweighs youth."
Akira sighed. Kido alone wasn't the path. Even unleashing 99 instant Kido attacks wouldn't beat Yamamoto.
"Why this sudden urgency to grow stronger?" Yamamoto asked.
Akira explained, "I've made an enemy outside, and I'm far weaker. I can't win."
Yamamoto's curiosity deepened. If Akira admitted such disparity, the opponent must be extremely strong.
"I understand. Then I'll help further."
"I remember your fight with Shinichi Shiraki—you used Striking Hands and Pressure Blast."
Akira nodded. After several hits, he had barely mastered them.
"These are Genryu basics. There are advanced techniques, the next one is…"
"One Bone!"