"Hah?!"

Ikkaku narrowed his eyes, the red shadow around them flickering like dancing flames.

"Do you even know who I am?!"

With his signature feral expression, he shoved his face right up to Shimo, baring his teeth.

"I'm Madarame Ikkaku, Third Seat of the Eleventh Division!"

Having spent most of his time on the frontlines, Ikkaku was rather out of touch with recent happenings in the Seireitei.

"Start the treatment."

Shimo completely ignored Ikkaku's shouting. His eyes were already scanning the injured.

"Stabilize their conditions first."

Each wounded soul bore different injuries—some showed signs of being torn by claws, others displayed erosion by spirit particles. Many had missing limbs, the scene thoroughly gruesome.

Shimo understood perfectly what his duty was.

He held out his palm, and a soft green glow—the light of healing—blossomed forth.

That warm, life-giving glow enveloped every injured soul in the room.

"Advanced Kaidō: Mass Healing."

Isane stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief at what she was seeing.

Shimo-kun… can use Kaidō to such a level?!

Even Ikkaku's face turned serious at the sight.

He didn't understand Kidō. He understood Kaidō even less.

But the spiritual pressure radiating throughout the room was enough to tell him just how powerful this man was.

"This kid…"

His narrow eyes squinted as he stared hard at Shimo, who remained focused on casting Kaidō.

Moments later, the Sixth Relief Unit arrived, carrying advanced medical equipment.

Ikkaku's eye twitched involuntarily as he spotted the size and complexity of the instruments.

Clearly, he realized he'd just made a mistake.

Shimo ended his Kaidō and turned the patients over to Isane and the medics.

Then he calmly walked over to Ikkaku.

"Apologize."

His voice was calm, completely emotionless.

But that indifferent tone only stoked the flames in Ikkaku's chest.

"No way in hell!"

If Madarame Ikkaku were the type to back down easily, he wouldn't be Madarame Ikkaku.

Clink!

A low hum came from the Zanpakutō at Shimo's waist.

"In that case," he said, "let's settle it with strength."

"Liutenant Shimo!" Isane called out, her face full of worry.

"Madarame-san is incredibly strong! Besides… there wasn't any real conflict here."

Situations like this weren't new to Isane. She understood how the Eleventh Division operated—hot-blooded warriors with short tempers and bigger fists.

She'd usually resolve these types of incidents with a verbal warning.

But that didn't mean Shimo saw it the same way.

"Isane, sometimes…"

"Respect must be earned."

His words silenced her.

And perhaps… he was right?

Isane bit her lip as memories of how the Fourth Division was once treated came flooding back. She stepped aside, choosing not to interfere.

Ikkaku's gaze grew dangerous, but he didn't respond immediately.

He knew full well this situation was his fault—a hot-headed outburst that got out of control.

Still, the words "I'm sorry" were stuck in his throat.

Shimo stared at him with a gaze full of calm pressure, completely devoid of fear.

"Are you scared?"

Three simple words exploded in the room like a thunderclap.

"Bastard…!"

"I'll teach you a damn lesson you won't ever forget!"

Fury erupted from Ikkaku as he roared out, unable to contain himself.

The Eleventh Division prided itself on brute strength and battle-hardened honor.

Within their barracks, there was a designated dueling arena for exactly this sort of thing.

---

At the Arena

Shimo stood calmly, arms at his sides. He didn't even reach for his Zanpakutō.

His gaze toward Ikkaku was nothing short of disdainful.

That look alone was enough to pour fuel on Ikkaku's fire.

Veins bulged on his shiny bald head, twitching violently with rage.

"Don't worry—I'll leave you in one piece."

Shing!

Zanpakutō drawn, Ikkaku vanished with Shunpo, charging in like a rampaging beast.

His sword came crashing down!

Shimo sidestepped with just enough movement to dodge the strike entirely, his motion fluid and precise.

Ikkaku's instincts sharpened the moment he entered battle. His mind calmed, focused.

His wrist twisted—blade reversing direction—slashing toward Shimo's abdomen.

Clang!

At the last second, Shimo raised his still-sheathed Zanpakutō, intercepting the blow with minimal movement.

Steel clashed. Both forces locked in.

But Ikkaku's expression changed dramatically.

He realized—his strength wasn't even winning out.

The veins on his forehead bulged again. The red shadow beneath his eyes deepened with fury.

"Damn it…!"

He leapt backward, retreating to the far edge of the arena.

"He didn't even draw his blade…"

Shimo stood with one hand resting on the sheath, his expression completely unchanged.

He waited quietly, as if daring Ikkaku to give it his all.

"You're pretty damn confident, huh…"

Ikkaku's lips curled into a crooked grin.

"Then I've got no choice but to go all out!"

Shimo watched as the bald warrior crossed both arms—one gripping the sheath, the other the hilt.

He snapped them together with a shout that echoed through the arena:

"Grow—Hōzukimaru!"

---------------////

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