Thunderous, drum-like impacts of flesh striking flesh and shrill metallic shrieks fell as thick and fast as rain.
Each time the two fighters stepped, struck, or absorbed a blow, the unbreakable bluestone slabs at the center of the arena were silently spider-webbed by cracks, as though hammered by an invisible titan.
Some spots simply shattered, releasing puffs of fine stone dust.
The fight never strayed more than a few yards from the spot where they stood.
That narrow space felt like a pocket hell of endless gales and annihilation; any life unworthy of entry would be shredded in an instant by stray blades of force.
Such primal combat, in its peril, the speed of its explosions, and the razor-edge of its technique, surpassed every expectation.
From the captain's dais Kyōraku Shunsui pushed down the brim of his trademark sedge hat, hiding the deep, raw shock in his eyes, and murmured half in awe, half in dread:
"My, my… this is downright terrifying…" He paused, voice dropping. "To think… she's trading blows with that old monster."
The weight of those words could have crushed stone.
The "old monster" he spoke of was a living memory of an era whose very mention made Soul Society tremble.
"Astounding," Soi Fon said, voice like frost. Her gaze, sharp as a needle, tracked the blur on the field, trying to pierce through and see the core of Yomi's power.
Her every instinct was a weapon forged for battle.
Worse, beneath Captain Unohana's apparent defense lurked a counter-strike as deep as the abyss.
Aizen Sōsuke adjusted his glasses, mild smile still in place, but a gleam of steel flashed in his eyes.
Remarkable combat intuition and growth speed.
That potential… it mirrors certain members of Captain Shihōin's Special Forces. Coincidence, or a connection I've yet to see?
"Hah, swordplay?" Kenpachi Kiganjō alone felt as if he stood inside a furnace.
His jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitched; his huge frame shook from the effort of caging the molten urge to fight.
His fingers crushed the armrests of his chair, the hard wood groaning as it deformed and cracked in his grip.
"Damn it… I want in!"
His mind howled; the raw, bare-knuckled dance on the brink of death was the finest wine, driving the beast called instinct into a frenzy.
The last thread of reason pinned him to his seat like a volcano ready to blow, panting, eyes locked on the fighters, a wolf's growl rumbling in his throat.
What he hungered for wasn't victory—it was the peak sensation of life-and-death combat.
The fight went on; both women were now utterly lost in it.
Yomi's strikes grew fiercer with every beat, an endless storm of death.
The ruthlessness and grit born in the slums of Rukongai blazed in this beyond-limit clash.
She seemed to know no defense, pouring every ounce into pure offense.
Her movements took on an eerie rhythm, resonating with the vast, slightly sinister reiatsu inside her.
Attacks became unpredictable—now a viper's sudden strike, now waves that never ceased, even trailing black wisps that hissed as they tore the air.
Unohana Retsu remained a rock.
She turned aside the tempest, and in her gentle eyes the earlier amusement had shifted to open admiration—and, deeper still, a thrill she barely let show.
Like a master sculptor who had at last found stone worthy of her blade.
Her parries and redirects neared perfection, already coaxing Yomi's own force to obey her, steering the lethal dance toward an even grander, more perilous cadence.
The arm that met each blow moved with growing ease, white light pulsing along its veins as though alive.
Time in this stripped-down, primal sword-match twisted; it felt like hours, yet only heartbeats. Dust and sweat clung to their brows.
Then—
BOOM!
CRASH!
The two figures broke apart from a collision greater than any before, landing three yards apart.
No one in the seats could stay calm.
Isayama Yomi's hair-tie had long since shredded; black strands spilled loose.
The sleeve of her shihakushō was slashed open, baring pale skin laced with brutal veins.
A deep, bone-baring gash on her right shoulder blade bled freely—the mark where Unohana's elbow, guided by a razor of reiatsu, had grazed her.
A thin line of scarlet ran from the corner of her mouth.
Unohana Retsu, the "healer who never kills," still looked immaculate, yet the cloth over her left elbow had been blown apart, revealing a deep purple bruise in the perfect shape of a knuckle—Yomi's knuckle—where a spear-hand thrust had slipped past the flawless defense.
A lock of Unohana's own hair had been sliced away and drifted on the wind.
Both breathed faster, eyes blazing brighter than stars, the wounds badges that only stoked their hunger for more.
More dangerous. More reckless.
This was the moment.
As if some invisible switch had flipped—or their spirits had reached a boiling point—two vast, utterly different reiatsu erupted like ancient dragons waking inside them.
ROAR—!
THRUM—!
"That's enough!"