After the appointment of the new captains, the Gotei 13 was finally breathing steady. For a year, the gears turned without friction—smooth, cold, and efficient.
That is, until one day...
Squad 11's outer patrol team engaged a pack of hollows in the Rukongai outskirts.
As expected, they handled it with brute grace. Blood splattered. Bones cracked. The earth thundered under their battle cries. But just as the last hollow was slain, a crack opened in the sky, a Garganta ripping wide like a beast's mouth.
From it, a towering Menos Grande stepped out, its mask gleaming in the sunlight.
But no one panicked.
Because he was there.
Kuruyashiki Kenpō, captain of Squad 11—brawler, butcher, beast.
He cracked his neck and grinned.
"Bout damn time something worth cutting showed up."
With a flash step that echoed like thunder, he vanished—and in a single swing, the Menos was split down the middle like rotted fruit, its shriek dying before it could finish.
"Come on," he snarled at the sky, bloodied sword resting on his shoulder. "You cowards sending your dogs now? What, are you scared to come out yourself? I like cutting things that scream."
Suddenly, a massive black net shot out from the Garganta—webbed with glowing red veins—it wrapped around Kuruyashiki in an instant. Several other hollows inside the portal started dragging him into the void.
But the man didn't panic.
He laughed.
"So that's your game? Fine, let's see who's got the better pull!"
With veins bulging and reiatsu crackling around him like a storm, Kuruyashiki roared and began to pull back. A tug-of-war between beast and titan—but in the end, he won.
With one final heave, he ripped the hollows through the Garganta and carved them down in one sweeping arc, their cries short-lived.
After the battle, a few of his subordinates surrounded him.
"Captain!" one of them asked. "Is it true… you got an invitation from the Royal Guard?"
Kuruyashiki just scoffed, wiping blood from his cheek.
"Yeah. It's true. But sitting in some cloud palace and waiting for war? Hah! Not my style. I'll die swinging, not sipping tea."
Mohit stood beside his captain, arms folded, silent but proud. Shunsui was nearby, sitting under a shade with his bottle in hand.
"You know, my boy," Kuruyashiki chuckled, "battle makes the sake sweeter."
Suddenly, a young boy walked into the barracks—quiet, barefoot, and unarmed. No zanpakuto. No reiatsu flare. Just presence.
Behind him trailed a woman, dressed in a flawless noble kimono. Her eyes were covered in a black X-shaped blindfold. Her cleavage was bold, her aura silent—but terrifying. She whispered:
"This is the one."
The boy just replied:
"Shut up. I know."
He stepped forward. Everyone stared.
He pointed a single finger at Kuruyashiki.
"I challenge you... to a duel to the death. I want your seat."
The barracks went still. Wind howled between the walls.
Kuruyashiki smirked. "Been a while since someone had the stones. What's your name, brat?"
"Azashiro."
Before the tension broke, Shunsui stood up and raised a hand. "Hey now, kid… There are other ways to become a captain. You don't need to go swinging like it's the Warring States era."
Azashiro didn't even look at him. "I only want to lead Squad 11. And I only take what I win."
Kuruyashiki turned to Shunsui. "Will you be the supervising captain?"
Shunsui sighed, sipped from his sake, and nodded. "Fine. I'll witness it."
The two stepped into the arena.
No words. No chants. Just instinct.
Kuruyashiki raised his blade, grinning like a devil. "Come on then, boy. Let's see what kind of freak you are."
The battle ended in 3 seconds.
No slash. No impact. No sound.
Just Kuruyashiki standing there... motionless...
Then his eyes rolled white.
Blood began pouring from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—a crimson fountain that stained the arena. He fell backward, sword still in hand, dead before he hit the ground.
Shunsui clenched his fist, eyes sharp under the shadow of his hat. "I hereby declare… Azashiro… the new captain of Squad 11."
Arthur was the first to run in.
He knelt beside his captain's body, grabbing his blood-soaked robe.
"C-Captain…" he whispered, shaking.
His hands trembled. He turned his head away and cried.
"You said you'd die swinging… you bastard… why didn't you swing?!"
Mohit stood behind him, silent, but his fingers tightened into fists.
The blindfolded woman whispered, "It's done. Let's go."
But Azashiro stood in place.
Looking at Arthur. Looking at Mohit.
"…He fought," Azashiro said flatly. "But not with his blade. With his mind. That's why he lost."Then he walked away.as he walked away the wind felt heavier than steel.
Arthur sat beside his captain's corpse, eyes vacant, hands stained red. His fingers curled against the dirt like claws.
Everyone had left the training ground. The celebration had turned into a funeral without a body count.
Only Mohit stood with him—silent, still, watching.
Arthur whispered, his voice broken and raw,
"…He never even swung his sword…"
Mohit didn't speak.
"I trained under him for five years. Took every blow, every insult, every lesson. And he—he died like that… not even one damn cut."
He punched the ground. Once. Twice. A third time—until his knuckles bled.
"He said he'd die in battle… laughing.
He said, 'Don't mourn me, Arthur. Just fight harder than I ever did.'"
Arthur looked up, red eyes filled with tears and fury.
"But this wasn't battle. This was butchery!"
Mohit finally spoke, his voice cold but steady.
"He underestimated Azashiro."
Arthur growled. "Then why didn't you stop him?!"
"…Because it was his choice to fight. And mine to respect it."
Arthur stood up slowly, staggering as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.
"I'm gonna kill him."
Mohit didn't flinch. "You're not strong enough."
"Then make me." Arthur's voice cracked like glass. "You trained under him too, didn't you?! Don't you feel anything?!"
"I do," Mohit said. "That's why I won't let you die like a fool."
Arthur stared at him—eyes blazing like a dying star.
"Then train me. Harder than anyone. Make me the kind of monster that scares even him."
Mohit turned and walked away. "Be at Squad 8 barracks tomorrow. Sunrise."
Arthur's breathing steadied. He looked down at Kuruyashiki's broken sword lying near the blood-soaked sand.
He picked it up—not the blade, but the hilt—cracked, jagged, and useless.
Still, he strapped it to his back.
"I'll carry your ghost, old man… till I carve mine into this world."