Buzz!
Inside the The Severing Abyss, the spiritual pressure of the fake Kyoraku and Captain-Commander Yamamoto began dropping rapidly at the sa ti.
Although the projection had been summoned by Rosse, what sustained it was still Rosse's own spiritual pressure.
So his pressure was also decreasing along with the activation of The Severing Abyss.
The difference was that Yamamoto stood at the peak of S level spiritual pressure, forcefully pushed into SS through the amplification of Bankai.
Rosse's base spiritual pressure was already SS level. After Bankai, it rose easily to SS .
And his SS was only labeled that way because the world's upper limit was SS . In truth, it was a cut above an ordinary SS .
Draining a single Yamamoto's spiritual pressure would cost him sothing, but it would never truly wound him.
He even had enough to spare to project this brutal battle of attrition onto the sky outside in a way that was both artistic and cruel.
"It's truly… spectacular enough to make one despair."
Ukitake Jushiro looked up at the strange and dazzling sky and let out a bitter sigh.
It was no longer just black pine or daylight.
The black pine needles that had covered the sky were now burning.
Not ordinary flas, but the blaze that symbolized Yamamoto's spiritual pressure. Tongues of fire licked and spread across the black needles, trying to burn them away.
Yet the black pine leaves were like stubborn stone. No matter how fiercely the flas raged, they continued to grow and entwine, strangling and devouring the fire bit by bit.
It was like a massive living oil painting hanging above Seireitei.
Flas and black pine tore at each other. Every flicker ant enormous spiritual power colliding and annihilating.
But anyone capable of sensing spiritual pressure could see in despair that the flas representing the Captain-Commander were dimming at a visible rate.
The black pine representing the fake Kyoraku was also fading, but its foundation remained as steady as a mountain.
This was a battle of attrition destined for defeat.
"Old man…"
Kyoraku Shunsui watched the motionless Yamamoto in silence. Occasionally he glanced at Rosse, who was still pretending to fight the fake Ukitake, his right hand lightly resting on his Zanpakuto.
No one knew what he was thinking.
At the center of the battlefield, the abyssal pressure grew heavier.
"Old man, if we keep this up, your spiritual pressure is about to hit rock bottom."
The fake Kyoraku's face, always wearing that carefree grin, flickered in the darkness.
"Admit it. The tis have changed. You're old. Your spiritual pressure is drying up. It's normal you can't outlast ."
The outco seed decided.
With Rosse's ocean-like spiritual pressure behind him, the scales had long since tipped.
Yet in the eye of the storm, Yamamoto's aged eyes were as calm as still water.
'Old? Inferior in spiritual pressure?'
'Heh! I have heard such words countless tis over a thousand years.'
Every enemy he faced had been a genius, each with overwhelming spiritual pressure.
But in the end, he alone remained, leaning on this charred blade, standing atop their corpses.
Shinigami. Quincy. Under his blade, there were only two kinds: Those who have turned Ash and those who will soon turn to Ash.
Without warning, veins bulged along Yamamoto's withered arm. The charred blade in his hand let out a soul-tearing hum.
The blade fell.
"Zanka no Tachi, Kita: Tenchi Kaijin!"
("Blade of Ember, North: The World Reduced To Ashes!")
Just one swing, in that instant, it was as if the world had been flipped.
The endless abyss of The Severing Abyss shattered like a star exploding from within.
There was no sound. Sound could not keep up with this destruction.
An unbearably bright, pure wave of extre heat beca a crimson slash that split heaven and earth, vaporizing the darkness in the abyss.
For that mont, the entire Soul Society saw only this blade.
Buzz!
Shinigami in Seireitei, and even souls in the outer districts of Rukongai, looked toward the center of Soul Society in terror.
A new sun had risen.
The only sun.
Not warmth.
Divine punishnt.
"FALL BACK!"
On the outskirts, the captains who had been attacking the fake Ukitake went pale.
Instinct overrode everything. They grabbed their vice-captains and fled in every direction with Shunpo.
Run. A single second too slow, a single brush with the aftershock, ant death without even ashes remaining.
BOOM!
A blinding fireball rose from the center, forming a mushroom cloud that pierced the sky.
The black pine that had covered the heavens vanished like snow under a blazing sun.
"Old man's final strike… still so domineering."
At the far edge of the battlefield, Kyoraku did not retreat.
He lowered his hat slightly and watched the center of destruction.
If that strike had been aid at Soul Society's foundation, it might truly have split it in two.
The searing storm rushed outward, enough to lt steel.
But just as it reached their area, the violent spiritual waves dissolved like snow hitting an invisible barrier.
Kurosaki Masaki did not even move a step. Not a strand of hair stirred.
The strongest ultimate move ant nothing before her absolute control of spirit particles.
"They're all… such cheats," Kyoraku murmured bitterly.
He saw no hope.
But even now, he refused to do nothing.
There were things he had to do.
Several seconds felt like a century.
At last, the blinding radiance faded.
The sky cleared, though the air still burned dry.
Everyone held their breath and stared at the massive crater.
Sokyoku Hill was gone. The land had been turned to glass.
At the center, the fake Kyoraku was gone.
No trace of spiritual residue.
Only an aged figure stood alone.
Yamamoto panted, chest rising heavily.
His blade had returned to its Shikai form, Ryujin Jakka, planted into the ground to support his trembling body.
Had they won?
Many captains wondered.
Only Kyoraku and a few others remained grave.
Rosse was still alive. This was no victory.
Yamamoto swayed, clearly drained.
And at that exact mont—
Slash!
Without warning, a black blade thrust upward from the elongated shadow on the ground, piercing the old man's chest from behind.
At the sa ti, the fake Kyoraku rose from Yamamoto's shadow like a ghost, smiling.
"It's over, old man."
"No… it's you who's finished, traitor!"
In that instant, feeling the familiar spiritual pressure, Yamamoto's cloudy eyes flared with life.
This was the mont he had waited for.
He used his last life force as bait.
Smack!
His skeletal hand gripped the blade protruding from his chest, blood pouring through his fingers.
Using the last shred of spiritual power in his body, he roared:
"Hado #96, Itto Kaso!"
Buzz!!
A massive blade-shaped pillar of red fire shot upward.
Not ordinary flas.
It was destruction fueled by the final spiritual power and flesh of a peak Shinigami.
The sudden reversal stunned everyone.
Who would have thought the fake Kyoraku could survive Tenchi Kaijin by hiding in a shadow?
Who would have thought the dying Captain-Commander had such a final move?
Only Kyoraku himself remained tense.
He had been waiting too.
Waiting for that single critical mont.
When the flas faded, the fake Kyoraku's robes were burned and torn. His skin was charred. Half his body smoked.
But he did not fall.
On the other side, Yamamoto's blackened body finally gave out, kneeling. Itto Kaso had consud all his life.
"Damn… even that wasn't enough?"
Komamura clenched his fists, nails drawing blood.
He did not know the fake was fake. Most captains simply thought Yamamoto had miscalculated.
"Old man, what a sha."
The fake Kyoraku smiled and sheathed his blades.
He extended his right hand. Pale spirit threads ford at his fingers and silently wrapped around Yamamoto's neck.
This was the final act of his Bankai.
"It's over."
"NOOOO!"
The captains scread and rushed forward.
"Final Act. Thread-Cutting Scissors, Blood-Dyed—"
Slash!
Before he could finish, a familiar blade stabbed through his heart from behind.
The angle was identical to how he had pierced Yamamoto.
"Even if you're fake, I can't just watch you use my face to kill my teacher," The real Kyoraku sighed.
The figure that had been watching from afar lted into shadow. His true body erged from the fake Kyoraku's shadow.
This was his desperate strike.
Using Kageoni, striking at the only opening.
Even if it exposed him to Rosse.
Even if it changed nothing.
He could not watch his teacher die by his own face.
But, at the instant his blade pierced the heart—
"Hmm? Is that so?"
The fake Kyoraku did not react.
Instead, the kneeling Yamamoto slowly lifted his head.
On that aged, charred face was Rosse's chilling smile.
"If you knew it was fake, why did you still stab?"
Boom!
Kyoraku's mind shattered.
"Impossible…"
The world shifted.
The battlefield was the sa.
But the man pierced by Katen Kyokotsu—was not the fake.
It was Yamamoto Genryusai Shigekuni.
His blade had plunged into his teacher's heart.
"Tra… itor…"
Yamamoto did not turn. His cloudy eyes held no anger. Only regret.
With that faint whisper, the mountain-like body finally fell backward.
Thud!
He collapsed into Kyoraku's arms.
Scalding blood poured over his pink haori.
"no... No.... NO... NOOOOOO!"
A broken scream echoed across the silent battlefield.
Kyoraku held the cooling body, his carefree mask shattered.
He had wagered his life and dignity on that final strike.
And from the start, it had been written by Rosse.
He had wanted to save his teacher.
Instead, he had personally executed him.
"ROSSSEEE!"
His blood-soaked roar echoed over Seireitei.
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