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As Shiraha unleashed forty-five times gravity, the crushing pressure clamped down on Zaraki Kenpachi's body like a collapsing star. Bones creaked under the strain, wounds already torn by their earlier clash split further apart, and blood oozed from every gash like ink spilled across broken flesh. Yet instead of fear or pain, Zaraki's eyes gleamed with raw excitement. "That's it! That's the feeling! Kuchiki Shiraha—kill me with your power!" he roared, laughing wildly, the madness in his grin distorting the ferocity on his face as he hurled himself into the collision.

The shockwave of their impact detonated across the training field. Golden Reiatsu, searing and wild, clashed with Shiraha's deep violet gravity-infused spiritual pressure, both forces ramming against each other like tidal waves locked in combat. The entire ground trembled under the strain, and structures around the field buckled, their foundations groaning before exploding into spirit particles, swept away by the sheer force of two titans locked in combat. Even the sky seemed to ripple as if Soul Society itself recoiled from the clash.

When the storm of energy finally dissipated, all that remained of the training field was scorched, broken earth—flattened into a cratered wasteland. At the center of the wreckage stood Zaraki Kenpachi, somehow still upright despite the deep wound stretching from his shoulder to his thigh, a cut so savage that it exposed the rhythm of his heart beneath torn muscle and shattered bone. His haori, soaked and clinging to his form, was dyed entirely red with blood dripping from every inch of his torn body, pooling at his feet. It was a wound that should have ended him instantly—but this was no ordinary man.

This was Zaraki Kenpachi.

Grinning even as blood streamed down his face, he let out a raspy laugh. "Kuchiki Shiraha... it's been one hell of a fight," he said, voice thick with approval before his legs gave out and he collapsed, Zanpakutō still clenched tightly in his hand.

Shiraha, swaying unsteadily, stood silent. His face was pale, breath uneven, and though his body bore no open wounds, it was clear his reserves were nearly spent. The staff blade in his hand, still coated in shimmering Armament Haki, was lowered slowly and returned to its sheath with deliberate care. He had survived Kenpachi's final assault by the narrowest margin—his Armament Haki having absorbed the brunt of each attack, but at great cost. His spiritual and physical strength had been exhausted almost entirely. Had he not concealed part of his strength from the beginning and relied on the system's late-stage template boost, he might never have landed that final blow.

Yet even now, Shiraha could feel it—Zaraki hadn't used everything. "That wasn't all he had," he muttered under his breath, watching the blood-soaked captain lying unconscious. "There's more Reiatsu sealed inside him."

The eyepatch, the bells, the wild abandon—it wasn't madness, not entirely. They were his shackles. Mechanisms to suppress his overwhelming power, to prolong the thrill of battle and make the fight worth savoring. Kenpachi hadn't fought at full capacity—not even close. What Shiraha had overcome was only one layer of the monster that slumbered beneath.

A sudden flash of pink and white cut through the stillness.

Yachiru Kusajishi appeared beside her fallen captain, as if summoned by instinct. Without hesitation, she lifted Kenpachi with one small hand and slung him over her shoulder like a sack of rice. "I'll take Ah Ken home to rest. He's probably smiling in his dreams, finding an opponent like you," she said, her eyes glinting with mysterious understanding before disappearing with a casual wave, vanishing in a single flash step.

Watching her go, Shiraha allowed himself a faint smile. "Yachiru... she's not ordinary at all," he murmured.

Vice-Captain of the 11th Division or not, her reputation within Soul Society wasn't mere exaggeration. More than once, captains themselves had learned the hard way not to underestimate the deceptively childlike girl who walked in Kenpachi's shadow. Her power, like his, was cloaked behind mischief, chaos, and subtle dread.

Another shimmer of spiritual energy signaled the arrival of Ichimaru Gin and Chōjirō Sasakibe.

"Well, well," Gin drawled, his trademark sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. With his hands tucked into his sleeves and a playful lilt in his voice, he approached slowly. "Congratulations, Shiraha-kun. You really are terrifying... even Captain Zaraki couldn't keep up."

Despite his tone, there was no mistaking the glimmer of surprise—and something else—hidden behind Gin's ever-narrowed eyes. He had watched every moment of the fight. When he'd first met Shiraha, he'd assessed him as somewhere between vice-captain and third seat. But now? Shiraha had taken down Zaraki Kenpachi, and even if the captain hadn't fought at full power, the result was undeniable.

Shiraha offered a faint smile. "Captain Zaraki was holding back, that's all."

Gin chuckled but made no rebuttal.

Shiraha then turned toward Chōjirō. "Vice-Captain Sasakibe... what's the result of my assessment?"

Chōjirō stepped forward, his expression grave yet edged with a hint of awe. "Captain Zaraki is no longer able to fight. You've passed. From this day forward, you officially graduate from the Shinō Academy and join the Gotei 13. Your rank: Third Seat, Kuchiki Shiraha."

His tone carried more than just protocol—there was weight behind it. Chōjirō had genuinely believed Shiraha would lose, that Zaraki would overpower him effortlessly. But Shiraha had hidden his true power until the final clash, his control and patience revealing a precision far beyond his years. More impressively, he hadn't sustained a single wound in a battle where most wouldn't have survived the first few minutes.

"Thank you, Vice-Captain," Shiraha said, his voice quiet and steady.

Then came the familiar voice of the system in his mind:

Sign-In Task: Become a captain of any division in the Gotei 13.

Reward: Template Progress +10%.

"A captain?" Shiraha thought, his brow twitching. He had anticipated something more modest—perhaps a task involving integration into a division or the development of his abilities within a seated role. But this... was a leap across a canyon.

To become a captain wasn't just a matter of power. It required the approval of Central 46, political weight, and most critically—a vacancy. Every division already had a captain, and none looked likely to step down. Unless he issued a formal challenge and won in combat, there was no clear path forward. At 80% template progress, he could perhaps stand against someone like Kurotsuchi Mayuri or Komamura Sajin, but against the likes of Byakuya, Hitsugaya, or Ukitake? Not yet.

"Still... that's a problem for another time," he muttered inwardly.

Sasakibe hadn't noticed the faint change in Shiraha's expression. Reaching into his robes, he handed over a carved wooden tag. "This is your identification. Report to the First Division headquarters tomorrow morning—you'll be assigned your sub-squad then."

Shiraha took the tag and gave a polite nod, preparing to turn away, but Sasakibe spoke again.

"One more thing, Kuchiki Third Seat," he said, voice low. "The Head Captain... Yamamoto Genryūsai... asked that if you passed, you consider joining the First Division. He's very optimistic about your potential."

Shiraha froze briefly, surprised. "The Head Captain...?"

Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni—the oldest Shinigami, the strongest in Soul Society, and Commander of all thirteen divisions. For him to personally extend an invitation was not just a gesture of recognition; it was a monumental sign of trust.

"I'll think about it," Shiraha said after a pause, his tone even. But beneath the calm surface, his thoughts churned.

Joining the First Division meant gaining the highest prestige and oversight—but it also meant proximity to the sharpest eyes in Soul Society. For someone like Shiraha, whose system-driven path required independence, hidden growth, and eventual ascension, it could prove a liability. The First Division didn't have a vacant captain's seat, and Yamamoto was not a man to challenge lightly. Accepting the offer could delay the system's next requirement.

As the wind stirred the wreckage of the shattered field, Sasakibe nodded once, then disappeared in a burst of Shunpo.

Shiraha stood alone, gazing toward the horizon, fingers curled around the wooden ID tag in his hand.

The challenge ahead was enormous.

But he had already begun thinking—calculating—plotting his next move.

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