Even in the noble houses, blessed with vast power, a "Bankai" wielder appears only once in several generations. Make captaincy contingent on it, and legend hardens into law. In people's minds it becomes an emblem of glory, a great and rare attainment—something that belongs in the chronicles.
Two new names were etched on the shining list at once. Yamamoto witnessed history—again—and watched without blinking.
The pillars fell. Air flooded back. Reiatsu thunder swept the dust from the field.
Two godlike figures stood revealed.
Ichigo looked slimmer. That was an illusion. A white high-collared inner layer sat under a black, coat-like shihakushō edged in blue-white, which curled over his right shoulder and arm in elegant tracery. The hem split into ribbon-like tails. There was a touch of old European courtly grace. He cut a striking figure. In his right hand was not so much a bow as a crescent of black-blue radiance shaped like one.
Shinomiya shattered expectations further: black cloth under dark-silver armor—even his head was helmed. A blue core—like a gem or crystal—glowed at his chest, not unlike Mushroom Girl's. A black cloak moved like a tangible shadow behind him. He held no weapon—but the fitted armor had the steel heft and edged lines of a blade. The helm hid his face; two narrow blue slits burned where eyes should be—more machine than man, devoid of human emotion.
A living weapon—an ideal of struggle hammered into flesh.
"—Tensa Zangetsu."
"—Vaidarāja: Chanda Yami."
Names unveiled.
They had stepped where most Shinigami could never hope to go. Their power now brushed the absolute. Even those who knew them best would find strangers standing there—the pressure of their Bankai too much to bear.
And not just their presence—the shapes of their Bankai were strange. In the Head Captain's long memory, nothing like them had appeared. One zanpakutō turned into light. The other… lost the blade entirely.
Most Bankai grew huge, grandiose—vast things to be commanded. These were small. Too slender. A blind man might call them show with no substance—costumes swapped out and nothing more. But then how to explain the surge in their reiatsu? The pressure you could feel like a hand on your throat? The prickle of danger creeping over his skin?
Ichigo vanished without warning.
Yamamoto's eyes opened wider. Fast—orders faster than before. And familiar—light, razor-keen. Stranger still, the boy with the light-bow charged head-on—and jumped to slash. If it were a real bow, ugly. But the "bow" was only a shaped flare—perfect for maximizing a cut. After all, Getsuga Tenshō is light too.
It wasn't a bow smacking a man—it was a crescent moon cleaving down.
Yamamoto started to counter—and found his arm wouldn't move.
"?!"
Something lanced up from the ground—steel-tough cords yanking at his wrists and ankles, breaking his swing. Who else but Shinomiya would do this? He didn't even carry a proper weapon—he should've been the one to rush in, yet he stood back, fists clenched, hauling hard.
His fingers had learned to flick kidō threads faster than iai; he could steer them like whips. They burrowed into the earth, burst up under the Head Captain's feet, and locked him down.
Pinned, Yamamoto took a falling black-blue Getsuga from the front.
"Hmph. Parlor tricks."
He bent back and slammed his forehead into the crescent—stopping it dead. Harder than head-butting a speeding freight train. But while he wrestled the first, Hollow-White had already slipped behind him.
"How about this?"
This time he truly hacked with the "bow." The crescent swelled, power spiking, the strike from behind pairing with the one in front to scissor him. His speed left no time for anything but raw defense.
An explosion like a plasma burst—then a hotter fire boiled over the white-blue glare.
"Stubborn old bones…"
White clicked his tongue and leapt clear—just as a figure in flames streaked out—scarred, smoking, blade blazing, falling on him like a meteor.
White lifted his hand to "fire"—and Yamamoto abandoned his line instantly, veering aside like a man flinching from a gunshot. The right call. A tenth of a second later, a white beam knifed through smoke and flame like a high-energy laser. Had he held course, it would have punched a hole through his back.
He had no time to wonder at the beam. Before he even found his footing, White was on him. A flicker—and a line opened on Yamamoto's chest. First real blood in the fight. Dust and torn cloth meant nothing; this did.
White's grin showed teeth—then vanished. The drops evaporated into flame before they hit the ground. Yamamoto's back foot hit, the earth split, and his body steadied. He growled deep and swept Ryūjin Jakka in a crosscut.
"Good!"
White met him head-on—the "bow" surging into a massive crescent blade that smashed against the fire-edge, blowing the field apart. For hundreds of meters the ground collapsed like rotten tofu. The world drained to red and black-blue as the two forces slammed.
An armored figure flashed in at Yamamoto's back.
"As expected of Seireitei's model students—understanding that a foe who must be felled should be hit from behind. But I was waiting."
Even while he fenced White, Yamamoto jabbed two fingers back.
"Hadō #88—Hiryūgekizoku Shinten Raikō!"
Fire in one hand, lightning in the other—intending to crush them both at once. The thunder pillar roared—
—and Shinomiya walked straight through it.
He ignored its force. It didn't even slow his steps. To call it 'air' would be unfair—to air.
For a heartbeat, Yamamoto stared—then his stance wobbled as White withdrew, letting his momentum drag him out of line.
The blue slits in Shinomiya's helm burned hotter. Fire reddened the dark-silver plates. His cloak snapped behind him, forever a half-step late to keep up.
"Sole Flash."
He punched.
That explained the white beam from before. The right gauntlet clenched—and the spirit-packed blow became a blade, scabbarded in air. Punching was drawing.
It wasn't simply zanjutsu, but a hybrid of kidō. Normally, you can't willy-nilly swap your chosen medium. But in Bankai—in this armored form—reiatsu flooded him. He was his own best medium. Forget "air as scabbard." He could throw lances of light with his fists—or become the blade himself.
The fist was the point.
Boom.
At that speed—at that opening—there was no reaction. The punch crashed into Yamamoto's face—reiatsu detonated—their world became glare. He shot out of the light at a speed the eye couldn't catch, skipped across rooftops like a stone, and ploughed through ruin after ruin before he stopped.
"Hah…"
Blood ran from his nose. The corner of his eye and mouth split. His left eye refused to open. His chest heaved—his breath ragged.
A shadow fell over him.
Ichigo.
Facing the strongest Shinigami alive, he didn't hesitate. With White receded, he did what he always did—he fired.
Gigantic cross-shaped bolts, ten meters long, slammed down in a saturating bombardment on the Head Captain's position.
....
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