Yomi pushed open the heavy wooden door to her room in the Fourth Division's quarters; Captain Unohana had given her a space so austere it bordered on grim.
A table, a chair, a cot, and in the corner a basin of clear water—nothing more. The faint scent of medicinal herbs lingered in the air, the same fragrance that permeated the entire Fourth Division.
Exhaustion rolled over her like a tide. Trading wound for wound, blade for blade with Captain Unohana had drained her utterly; even the regenerative power granted by sesshōseki could not banish the weariness that seeped into her bones.
Yet her mind blazed with exhilaration.
Her fingertips still thrummed with the memory of clashing against the blade of the first kenpachi; Unohana Retsu's ancient, abyssal, blood-soaked reiatsu had branded itself into the depths of her perception.
She could recall with perfect clarity the battle-lust burning in the other woman's eyes—a pure hunger for combat at its utmost.
Seated on the hard cot, Yomi did not rest.
She drew a long breath and pulled from her robe a peculiar communicator—not Soul Society's craft but a device born of Hiroki's system.
Her fingers moved deftly; the screen lit with a cool blue glow.
A short dial tone… then a familiar, lazily amused male voice.
"Yo."
It was Hiroki.
No pleasantries. Yomi went straight to the point, voice low and blunt: "Does revealing my Hollowfication in front of Captain Unohana cause problems?" The question had circled her mind since the fight ended.
Silence answered for a moment before Hiroki returned with a teasing counter: "What, you're planning a rematch?"
Her reply came instantly, without hesitation. "Yes."
The single word dropped like a stone into deep water, drawing an even longer silence from the other end.
Hiroki wasn't ignoring her; his thoughts were racing, sifting every scrap of intel on Unohana Retsu.
He recalled every legend of Unohana Yachiru, the first kenpachi, and everything that came after when she became Captain of the Fourth Division.
A clear conclusion surfaced: Unohana Retsu's potential had already reached its ceiling.
Not a limit of talent, but the dead end of her own chosen path.
Her swordsmanship, her killing arts—over a millennium they had been refined to perfection, to the utmost peak she herself could reach.
This wasn't speculation; the proof lay in the "original" timeline Hiroki knew: Unohana Retsu had ultimately surrendered her life solely to restore Zaraki Kenpachi's full power.
Why sacrifice herself? Because she had despaired.
Hiroki was certain that, at some point across the centuries, Unohana had recognized with terrible clarity: she could never defeat the complete Zaraki Kenpachi, could never stand as his true equal.
It wasn't a matter of reiatsu totals but a fundamental mismatch of essence and fighting style.
Hiroki quickly built a mental model.
In game terms, both Unohana Retsu and Zaraki Kenpachi belonged to the same "faction"—the ultimate representatives of raw physical offense.
Their battles were pure flesh on flesh, edge on edge, wild instinct pitted against honed technique.
Unohana was the "Sword God" who had perfected every nuance; Zaraki was the "beast" whose power and instinct were one and the same.
Yamamoto-Genryūsai Shigekuni belonged to a different faction—the apex of "mixed physical–magic" destruction.
Ryujin Jakka embodied rule-level ruin: area, energy, annihilation.
Hiroki guessed that, in Unohana's own assessment, even against Yamamoto and his Ryujin Jakka, her millennium-honed sword and footwork could still eke out perhaps a thirty-percent chance by finding the single fleeting opening.
Different systems allowed for tactical possibility.
Against Zaraki Kenpachi, that slim chance vanished.
That was the core of her despair.
She had spent a thousand years perfecting the art of killing, only to discover that every exquisite technique was powerless before Zaraki's primal, savage, instinct-driven swings.
His swordplay was "barely existent"—he simply struck from the marrow of his being.
And the pinnacle she had poured her life into could not overcome something so crude.
It was utter negation of the path she had walked.
Hiroki could imagine the countless ways Unohana must have tried to break that wall—new sword forms, greater reiatsu, battle-use of Kaidō…
A thousand years had proven them all futile.
Her ceiling stood before her like an invisible, unbreakable wall of sighs.
Zaraki Kenpachi was the more "perfect" killing machine.
Not stronger than Yamamoto Genryūsai, but her entire system was hard-countered by his mindless "instinct."
After every avenue failed, despair swallowed her.
She chose to give her life and all her power to "awaken" the one opponent who could let her burn everything in a final fight—perhaps the only "path" left to the pinnacle she sought.
"Hey, you still there?" Yomi's voice cut through Hiroki's long reverie.
To her the silence had stretched like taut wire.
Hiroki answered, certainty firming after thought: "Still here. Just thinking."
"Mm." She waited.
"Alright," he said, casual poise returning. "Exposing yourself to Unohana? Shouldn't be a problem.
"She pursues combat itself; as long as the power's strong and interesting, it likely won't trip her Shinigami sensibilities.
"Besides, she's had deep ties to 'evil' before; her tolerance for unconventional power is miles above your average stickler captain."
He paused. "But if it does cause trouble…"
Confidence edged his tone, "Getting you out won't be hard—though after that you'll have to leave Soul Society for good."
Yomi didn't hesitate; a warrior's resolve rang in her voice: "Understood. No problem."
To fight an opponent like Unohana Retsu, the risk was worth it.
Battle's flame had already ignited in her soul.
"Good." Hiroki ended the call.
He didn't rise.
The analysis of Unohana's despair had been a key, and it had just unlocked a door laced with forbidden temptation: "What if I let Big Sis Hollowfy?"
Yomi tucked the communicator away and leaned back against the wall.
The cold stone cooled her racing blood.
With Hiroki's assurance, her last worry faded. The risk was acceptable, the escape route set.
All that remained was to wait—wait for Unohana Retsu to honor her promise.
She closed her eyes and turned inward.
Within her soul the sesshōseki pulsed, vast and demonic.
The earlier clash had been only a warm-up, a probe.
Next time would be true, all-out slaughter.
She would replay every detail of Unohana's possible sword-line, every angle, planning how to wield her Hollow form for strikes more cunning, more savage, more ruinous than ever before.
The room sank back into silence, broken only by her slow, steady breaths and the monstrous power stirring within, poised for the moment it could finally be unleashed.
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