- Alone—I drown in echoes.
With others—I vanish in noise.
Nowhere feels mine. -
--
There was a young man whose emotions burned brighter than most. Joy, anger, sorrow—each came to him like storms, overwhelming and impossible to hide. He carried his heart close to his mother's, bound by a rare closeness that others often found unusual. People whispered about it, wondering how a boy could grow so attached and yet cause her no trouble, how he could be so gentle when the world expected rebellion. To them, his bond with her seemed strange. To him, it was the most natural thing in existence.
Yet when he turned outward, toward the rest of the world, he became a different figure. Around strangers and even acquaintances, he remained distant—soft-spoken, reserved, careful not to reveal too much too soon. His silences were long, his words chosen sparingly, like fragile glass that could shatter if placed carelessly.
Inside, however, he was anything but calm. His mind was a battlefield of insecurities, tormented by the weight of what others thought of him. A deep, suffocating fear of failure haunted him—failure as a friend, failure as a son, failure as a human being. To protect himself, he built a mask: stoic, mature, strong. With it, he kept the world at arm's length. He refused to surrender fully to friendships or love, convinced that if he leaned too heavily, if he stumbled even once, everything he cherished would collapse.
But beneath that mask, envy festered. He envied how easily others laughed together, how effortlessly they seemed to belong. He envied their openness, their natural rhythm with one another, while he remained on the edges, watching, aching. Outwardly, he wore the title of the "good son," the one who never disappointed, the one who made his mother proud. It was supposed to be enough. It should have been enough. He told himself that when his final day came, he would walk into the next world smiling, satisfied with the life he had lived.
But when that day finally arrived, he discovered a hollow truth: his last thought was not of pride, but regret. Regret that he had never allowed himself to be selfish, even just a little.
And so his voice lingered in memory, repeating the quiet confession of a cycle he never escaped:
"I have trouble trusting... but I don't like being alone. So sometimes I reach out to someone... and something goes wrong. Or maybe I make it go wrong. And then I end up alone again... repeating the cycle over and over."
--
The word left his lips like the toll of a great bell — silent, deliberate, yet carrying the weight of inevitability.
"Bankai..."
In the beat of a heart, almost like a musical rhythm, a soundless shockwave burst outward — an invisible, crushing density crashing down upon the Valley like a collapsing star. Ganryū's smile faltered as the world between them ignited — not in ordinary flames, but in a blinding flare of silver-white fire that roared to life all at once. The heat struck him immediately, not searing but heavy, like the suffocating air of a midsummer noon. His vision blurred under the sudden brilliance, his opponent's form swallowed completely by the blaze.
"—Tch!" Ganryū's eyes narrowed against the light. He tried to track movement, to read the reiatsu through the distortion, but all he could sense was the deep, resonant hum of power rising higher and higher. Even the shadows on the ground seemed to recoil from the expanding wave.
Around them, the Valley of Screams began to… empty.
The massive twisted roots that jutted from the earth — once blackened and brittle — started dissolving at the tips, breaking apart into drifting flecks of gold and white. The Blanks Ganryū had been absorbing froze mid-motion, their formless bodies trembling as if seized by some unseen force — and then, in an instant, they too disintegrated into glowing trails of ash, vanishing before they could reach him.
"What—?" His eyes darted back and forth — there was nothing left to absorb, no energy to feed on. The entire environment seemed to shrink, not in size, but in presence.
Beyond the flames, the hum of power deepened into something almost melodic, a vibration that resonated more through the bones than the ears.
**
Rukia froze, the air leaving her lungs in a short gasp. There was no moment of confusion. She knew even before the Reiatsu touched her skin, before the ground began to tremble. Her soul tightened in perfect resonance with his.
"This… can't be…" she whispered, her hand pressing against the fabric of her own chest, as if she could keep that sensation from rooting itself in her heart. The Reiatsu seeping into her very bones wasn't just overwhelming — it felt alive, ravenous.
Byakuya's eyes narrowed slightly. Unlike Rukia, his stance did not falter for even an instant, yet there was a visible tension along his jawline, almost imperceptible against the light radiating from that Reiatsu.
Rukia swallowed hard. The knot in her chest drew tighter, not only from the crushing density of the spiritual energy, but from what it conveyed. A raw, brutal aggression, like blades raking across her skin. And worse still, hidden beneath it all, was something that unsettled her even more: a complete emotional detachment.
It was Yato — she knew. Even at a distance, there could be no mistake. And yet, at the same time, that power didn't belong to the man she knew — the one always ironic, easygoing, masking his fears and feelings behind lazy composure and a strange sense of humor. Now, what she felt was like facing a living paradox of warmth and isolation, companionship and solitude.
**
Further ahead, Ichigo had just pulled Senna free from the tangle of roots when he suddenly stopped in his tracks, Senna still leaning against his shoulder. His head turned instinctively toward the source, his brows furrowing. "What the hell…?"
He had felt Yato's power before, as difficult as it was — but always restrained, tempered by the quiet composure of someone who fought only because he had to. Now, each surge of reiatsu struck his senses like the clash of drawn blades, radiating a fierce, personal intent that made his skin prickle.
Senna's breath faltered, her body shifting uneasily as she cast him a glance."Ichigo… this is—" She stopped, the words choking in her throat, because even she could now feel the sharpness of that force.
**
On the other side of the battlefield, the distant group felt it a heartbeat later. It was as if the very air had thickened, every breath becoming a deliberate effort, and soon all eyes turned toward the white light that had erupted in the distance, moving like a vast surge of flames.
"Whose reiatsu is that…?" Renji muttered to himself, his eyes widening.
Captain Hitsugaya narrowed his gaze, instincts sharpened. A short breath stiffened his shoulders, his eyes narrowing further as the pressure enveloped him like the sudden blast of a scorching wind. "...That level of spiritual pressure… it's definitely a Bankai. But whose?"
A few steps to the right, Captain Zaraki's reaction was the complete opposite. His lone eye widened, gleaming with hungry excitement. A grin split across his face even before the wave of reiatsu had fully reached them. "Hah—now that's what I'm talking about!" he said eagerly, as though the mere taste of such power demanded a fight. Zaraki's grin only widened, the shift in tone feeding the feral light in his eye. He tilted his head back slightly, letting the pressure crash over him like the impact of a sword strike. "This is gonna be fun."
Ahead of them, Captain Soi Fon made no attempt to hide her irritation. The instant the first wave of reiatsu brushed her skin, her brow furrowed and her lips tightened into a thin line. "It's suffocating… and yet—" Her gaze cut across the horizon, sharp and calculating. "—it's controlled. Whoever it is, they're not just throwing power away." She clicked her tongue softly, as though being impressed annoyed her, though deep inside she already suspected whose reiatsu it was. She had heard before that Yato Yasakani had awakened his Bankai, though he had never shown it. And the fact that someone as infuriating as him was now displaying such overwhelming power was, in itself, maddening.
For Lieutenant Hisagi, the sensation was far more unsettling. His eyes widened as a bead of sweat slid down his temple. "This feeling…" he muttered hoarsely, almost in a whisper.
Izuru noticed Hisagi's sudden paralysis. He too could feel the weight of that spiritual energy, though he lacked the context to recognize it. "Hisagi-san?"
Ikkaku Madarame and Yumichika Ayasegawa also felt the reiatsu.
Ikkaku's face was a mix of discomfort and exhilaration. "Tch. What the hell…?" His grin, nearly unhinged, broke across his face a moment later. "Damn, I've got chills… That guy's strong."
Yumichika, in contrast, furrowed his brow, a rare look of distaste crossing his features as he gazed toward the glowing reiatsu in the distance. "It has a certain beauty to it… but it feels so utterly inelegant."
Nearby, Hinamori stood close to Matsumoto when the wave tore across the skies. The lieutenant pressed a trembling hand to her chest, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.
Matsumoto's gaze snapped toward the horizon, toward the rising reiatsu. "But whose reiatsu is that…?"
Hisagi finally spoke again, his voice low but certain. "Without a doubt… it's him…"
Nemu Kurotsuchi's eyes fixed on the distant epicenter, her pupils dilating as they locked onto the reiatsu flaring far away. Her lips parted slightly in recognition, the cold mask she always wore faltering for the briefest instant. "…Yasakani-sama."
**
The white flames spreading outward began to change. The wild brilliance, once scattered like an expanding sea, condensed into a vortex around Yato. The air seemed to be drawn toward him, as though every particle of light, was being pulled into an inevitable center.
The silver-white fire intertwined, shaping lines, forms, and contours. First, Yato's hair lengthened, flowing as if made of liquid flame, each strand shedding sparkling embers. From the sides of his head, tufts of white unfurled like phoenix wings, arching backward like ethereal crowns.
His face softened until it became almost androgynous — symmetrical, delicate features that carried a disarming beauty, yet distant, like a sacred mask. His skin became living porcelain, glowing with an inner light that highlighted every detail of his transformed body.
The flames wove themselves into garments around him. A sleeveless white kimono, priestlike in form, draped over his torso, flowing down into four long panels that resembled open wings. Below, white tattsuke-hakama completed his silhouette, bound by subtle ties, while his legs were wrapped in white kyahan inscribed with golden flame patterns, secured with pale golden juzu beads.
Upon his arms, white tekkō formed like war bracers, engraved with burning sigils that rose like living embers. More prayer beads jingled faintly at his wrists with each movement.
His feet were bare, resting lightly upon the air, as though the sky itself had become solid beneath them.
And finally, his hands. Though delicate at first glance, they revealed white claws — long, sharpened nails that glinted with the radiance around him.
No blade accompanied his transformation. Yato did not wield a sword.
The energy surrounding him reached its zenith, and the sound emanating from his body became a deep, entrancing hymn — like a chant sung in two voices, one male and one female, bound together.
Ganryū, proud as he was, narrowed his eyes at the figure before him — a being entirely white, eerily calm, yet radiating an almost surreal ferocity. Still, something subtler drew his attention.
The air between them seemed to waver, rippling like heat on a summer's day, yet the warmth he felt was nowhere near enough to explain the phenomenon. 'His zanpakutō manipulates body temperature to create flames with varied abilities, and a Bankai always reflects the essence of the Shikai.' Ganryū allowed himself a faint smile, thinking he had uncovered the trick. "So, this is your Bankai," he remarked.
Slowly, Yato's eyes opened. His pupils burned in the shape of white flames, while his irises gleamed in a gold-tinged white, radiating an intensity that pierced both flesh and spirit.
"That's right…" Yato replied in a calm voice, wearing an oddly gentle smile. "This is my Bankai…"
<< Kamigakari Mugen Hōōka >> • 神懸かり無間鳳凰火, Divine Possession of the Avīci Phoenix Fire •
Ganryū's smirk widened, mocking, as though he refused to acknowledge the creeping unease building inside him. "Heh… very well then. Let's see what tricks you intend to—"
But he never finished.
There was no warning. No flare of reiatsu, no audible crack of shunpō, no ripple of displaced air. Yato simply was. One heartbeat he stood across the battlefield; the next, he was at Ganryū's side.
And then came the strike.
Yato's right fist slammed into his face with bone-cracking force, the impact so sudden and clean it seemed to bypass sound itself. Ganryū's head snapped sideways, his body launching through the air like a ragdoll hurled by a giant.
"—Ghrrk!"
He spiraled backward across the void, crashing through currents of pale light. But the pain blossoming across his face was different—far more than blunt trauma. Ganryū's eyes widened as a sharp, searing agony carved across his cheek. Reaching up, he felt the sting of flesh curling, blistering.
A burn.
The skin where Yato's knuckles had landed was charred, scorched black as if branded by fire.
'Impossible!' his mind roared. 'A simple punch—how can it burn me like this?!'
He had no time to dwell.
Before he could even stabilize his fall, before the thought of retaliation could form, Yato was there again. The man who should have been dozens of yards away was now directly in front of him.
Another fist.
Yato's fist drove mercilessly into Ganryū's chest, the sound like thunder exploding at point-blank range. The impact reverberated through the valley, bones groaning under the force as a violent shockwave ripped outward, scattering debris and tearing through the warped roots that hung across the battlefield. Ganryū's lungs convulsed, his breath torn away in a ragged gasp as his body was flung downward like a comet.
He hit the ground with devastating force, the valley trembling beneath him. Fractures spiderwebbed across the twisted landscape, a chorus of cracking stone echoing through the collapsing world.
For a moment, Ganryū lay stunned in the crater his body had carved into the earth. Slowly, with effort, he forced his gaze down to his chest—and his eyes widened. His armor bore a hole, a melted cavity etched in the perfect imprint of Yato's fist. The metal around it still glowed faintly, edges dripping like wax under invisible heat. The sensation beneath his skin was worse: not merely pain, but something gnawing, corrosive, as if Yato's strike had branded him from within.
'This brat…' Ganryū's teeth clenched. Rage and disbelief flickered behind his eyes as he launched himself back into the air, unwilling to remain grounded before such an opponent. Rising into the sky, he found Yato waiting for him.
The boy hovered calmly, suspended above the shattered valley with an eerie stillness. His expression hadn't changed—a quiet, unnerving serenity, as if none of this destruction carried weight for him. Ganryū's gaze sharpened, scanning him, searching for an explanation.
'So this is it…?' he thought. 'His Bankai doesn't just create flames—it condenses them into his body, into every movement, every strike, to turn himself into a living weapon of fire…'
He faltered mid-thought. His eyes narrowed.
The glow was no longer confined to Yato's fists. Across his arms and legs, faint ripples moved like waves of liquid fire beneath his skin. They undulated and shimmered, as if veins of white-hot flame coursed through his very muscles. For a fleeting second, Ganryū felt as though he was no longer looking at a man, but a vessel burning from the inside out.
With a growl, Ganryū stretched out his hand. A dozen spirit blades materialized around him, their edges gleaming with condensed reiryoku. With a sharp motion, he hurled them forward, a storm of weapons screaming through the air toward Yato.
Yato didn't flinch.
His right arm moved—not swiftly, not frantically, but with the simple, deliberate precision of a man who knew exactly what he intended. He drew his fist back as though preparing for another strike, then thrust forward.
From his knuckles erupted a blinding torrent of white light.
It roared outward like a concentrated pillar of flame, incinerating the blades instantly. They didn't shatter—they evaporated, consumed to nothingness before they even touched the boy. The torrent didn't stop, surging further into the valley like a lance of fire.
Ganryū's instincts screamed. He vanished with a burst of Shunpō, reappearing just out of the attack's path. Even so, the radiant heat seared across his skin, a warning of how close death had come.
He turned, his eyes locking onto where the beam had struck.
The valley wall bore the scar. A colossal rock formation, now gaped with a smoking hole burned straight through its center. Its edges dripped and ran like molten glass, glowing orange against the cold shadows. The air itself hissed and warped around the wound, waves of heat radiating outward.
Ganryū's heart hammered once, a rare tremor of dread running through him.
Yato lowered his fist, exhaling softly, his golden-white eyes fixed on him with that same unsettling calm—as if what had just transpired was nothing more than a casual gesture.
The air split apart with a sharp crack as Yato advanced again.
One moment he was standing still, the next his body blurred into motion, leaving behind only the faint ripple of heat haze distorting the valley around him. Ganryū's instincts flared—he raised an arm in defense—yet Yato's fist was already there.
The blow sank into his side, ribs creaking under the impact. A second later, searing pain flared outward; skin and armor blistered and burned as if molten fire had been poured directly into his flesh. Ganryū was thrown back, but before momentum could even carry him away, Yato was there again—his knee driving into Ganryū's stomach with brutal precision.
Blood burst from Ganryū's lips as his body bent inward, but the strike gave him no reprieve. A kick followed immediately after, slamming into his shoulder and sending him spinning through the air. Every impact left a mark—burns that ate into his flesh, the smell of charred armor lingering thick in the collapsing valley.
'Impossible…' Ganryū thought, struggling to regain control midair. 'He's faster than before… no, it's not just speed. My eyes—my senses—they can't keep up…'
A blur—another fist. This one grazed across his jaw, searing heat biting into his face as though the air itself had turned into fire. Ganryū reeled, his vision splitting between the distortion of Yato's movements and the haze shimmering around him.
'The heat… it's twisting my perception, isn't it? Those waves… I can't tell where he's going to strike until he's already there!'
Snarling, Ganryū spread his arms wide. Dozens of spiritual blades materialized at once, their edges glimmering with lethal intent. He unleashed them in a storm, a wall of piercing steel meant to cage Yato in from every direction.
The young warrior only tilted his head, eyes still glowing with that eerie golden-white flame.
With a single step, he vanished.
The blades stabbed only empty air, shattering into sparks as Yato reappeared behind them. Ganryū barely managed to twist away, but a burning fist caught him across the back, sending a fresh surge of agony through his body.
"I'm here~" Yato murmured, almost softly, his voice carried by the distorted air.
Ganryū snarled, thrusting out his hand.
<< Hadō #63! Raikōhō! >> • 雷吼炮, Thunder Roar Sear •
A massive surge of crackling yellow lightning erupted, exploding outward in a blinding wave that tore through the valley with raw destructive force. The ground shattered, roots split apart, and the blast engulfed Yato's form.
For an instant, Ganryū allowed himself a breath.
But then—
A shadow burst through the storm of lightning. Yato appeared unharmed, his body shimmering faintly with the undulating haze. He raised his hand and slapped the remainder of the Kidō aside, dispersing it like nothing more than mist in the wind. His movements never faltered, his advance never slowed.
Ganryū's eyes widened. 'He—he brushed it away? Like it was nothing?'
Another strike. This time a kick arced upward, catching Ganryū beneath the chin. His body shot skyward, tumbling end over end until another fist hammered him back down. He slammed into the earth again, the valley cracking beneath his weight, flames hissing where his body struck.
Every punch, every kick seared like living fire, branding him with a torment that crawled under his skin. His armor was battered, scorched, and broken; his flesh bore the blackened mark of Yato's attacks.
Ganryū staggered to his feet, blood running from the corner of his mouth, his body trembling. His chest heaved, every breath sharp and ragged, while Yato hovered calmly above, descending step by step through the warped haze of heat, eyes burning with that quiet, almost divine intensity.
'This Bankai… it isn't just power condensed into his body. Every strike carries fire so absolute it ignores defense, every movement wrapped in heat that distorts perception. No matter how I block, no matter how I counter… I can't keep up.'
Ganryū clenched his teeth, fury rising against the creeping edge of fear.
But Yato's calm smile never wavered as he landed softly on the broken ground, dust curling around his feet.
"Still standing? Then let's keep going."
Ganryū staggered back, blood dripping from his split lip, his burned body trembling but still refusing to collapse. His voice cracked with fury, echoing through the fractured Valley of Screams.
"Mask of blood and flesh… all creation, flutter of wings, ye who bears the name of Man! On the wall of blue flame, inscribe a twin lotus. In the abyss of conflagration, wait at the far heavens!"
As the words poured from his throat, the distorted air shuddered. Spiritual energy ignited around him, coiling into two enormous spheres of blinding blue fire, their heat scorching the already collapsing landscape. The spheres pulsed with devastating power, vibrating like thunder trapped in light, and even the air seemed to scream beneath their weight.
<< Hadō #73!! Sōren Sōkatsui!! >> • 双蓮蒼火墜, Twin Lotus Blue Fire, Crash Down •
Yato, standing calmly, tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His golden-white eyes locked onto Ganryū, utterly unshaken.
"You're really going for it, huh?" His tone was almost amused, as if he were indulging a child's tantrum. "Fine. I'll wait."
Ganryū roared, unleashing the twin infernos. The colossal beams of blue fire roared forth, ripping apart the earth and sky, their brilliance painting the entire valley in a blinding azure glow. The sheer force was enough to obliterate anything in its path.
But Yato didn't move.
Instead, as the torrent crashed down upon him, he casually extended his left hand. His fingers spread wide, and the moment the flames touched him—something impossible happened.
Instead, as the torrent crashed down upon him, he casually extended his left hand. His fingers spread wide, and the moment the flames touched him—something impossible happened.
The raging blue inferno did not consume him. It collapsed.
The spiraling conflagration folded inward as if the fire itself had been drained dry, sucked into Yato's palm like water into a void. The earth stopped trembling. The sky cleared of blue light. And in the silence that followed, Yato stood untouched, his smirk widening as tiny wisps of blue flame danced harmlessly across his fingers before vanishing into nothing.
Ganryū's eyes bulged in horror. "What… what did you just—?!"
Yato flexed his fingers, his voice playful yet edged with lethal calm. "You're desperate enough to try a fire-based Hadō… against me?" He chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. "That's almost insulting."
Without another word, still wearing that unnervingly calm smile, Yato drew back his right arm, his fist coiling with lethal intent as if preparing to unleash yet another devastating blow. The movement was fluid, deliberate—almost lazy in execution—yet it carried the weight of inevitability.
Ganryū narrowed his eyes. The distance between them was too great; surely this was the same attack as before, the incandescent beam of compressed fire he had witnessed earlier. He reacted instantly, flashing away with shunpo, his body flickering to the left in a blur of speed. Dust scattered in his wake as he prepared to counter, already bracing for the searing blast that would follow.
But nothing came.
No explosion. No beam. Not even a flicker of flame from Yato's fist.
Confusion sliced through Ganryū's mind like a blade. 'Did he feint? Did he misfire?'
The answer came a heartbeat later.
From behind him.
A colossal pillar of white fire erupted in silence. It surged upward, engulfing Ganryū before he could even turn his head. The flames crashed into his left side, his arm consumed instantly. Flesh, bone, and armor blackened in an instant, reduced to charred ruin. The agony lagged behind, delayed by the sheer shock of the event, and for a brief moment he could only stare dumbly at the ruin of his limb—his mind refusing to register what had just transpired.
Only when his nerves finally caught up to the destruction did the pain arrive—jagged, merciless, and consuming. Ganryū's jaw clenched hard, teeth grinding together until they threatened to crack. But it wasn't the agony that made his eyes blaze with fury.
It was the humiliation.
He clutched the charred remains of his arm, snarling under his breath. Not from the wound itself, but from frustration. 'If I could just absorb more Blanks, this would be nothing… all of it could be healed…'
Yet since the moment Yato had released his Bankai, that path had been severed. The Blanks no longer responded to him.
Ganryū's breath came ragged, his thoughts chaotic. His body trembled not from weakness, but from the dawning realization that something far more terrifying was at play.
'What… what did he do?'
"You're probably wondering why you can't absorb the Blanks anymore, aren't you?" Yato's voice carried across the broken valley, light and playful, his tone almost mocking. He tilted his head as though speaking to a child struggling with an obvious puzzle. "Go ahead—take a look around. I promise I won't attack you while you do."
Ganryū's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding audibly. Every instinct screamed at him not to lower his guard, not to fall for what could easily be a trick. His body trembled with the urge to remain locked on Yato, ready for the next sudden blow. But before he could make his choice, Yato's smile widened into something even more insufferable.
"Relax. Take your time," Yato continued with that casual cruelty, lifting both hands and covering his eyes in a dramatic gesture. "Here, look—I'll even close my eyes for you. That's fair, isn't it?"
The sheer audacity of the boy's behavior made Ganryū's blood boil. The confidence wasn't feigned, it was absolute, and that was what made it unbearable. Yet in spite of himself, and against his better judgment, Ganryū turned his gaze outward.
And what he saw froze him in place.
Surrounding them—stretching across the fractured landscape, through the smoke and shattered stone—were Blanks. Tens of thousands of them, a sea of formless, lost souls pressing inward from every direction. Their pale bodies surged forward like a tide, all of them desperate, all of them straining to reach Ganryū.
But they never made it.
Each time one of the Blanks reached a certain distance, its form disintegrated instantly, unraveling into a shower of golden motes. They flickered like dying embers before fading into nothingness. One after another, the Blanks collapsed into dust, unable to pass an invisible barrier that seemed to hum faintly in the air around Yato.
Ganryū's eyes widened. 'What is this…?'
Yato lowered his hands again, his eyes half-lidded, as if he had expected the exact expression of disbelief written across Ganryū's face. "Unlike my Shikai, my Bankai is… well, let's say it's simple enough that even if you figure it out, it won't make a difference." He smiled, calm and unshaken, his tone carrying a quiet authority that weighed on the air. "I'll summarize it for you, since I doubt you'll have much time to enjoy the explanation."
He lifted his hand, flexing his fingers lazily, and tiny tongues of white flame flickered across his knuckles before vanishing again.
"First: all fire becomes mine to command. Whether it's the flame that flows from my body… or any fire in our surroundings, it belongs to me to do what I want. Every last spark. That's why you haven't been able to follow my movements." His smile sharpened just slightly. "I'm not using speed techniques at all. I'm simply propelling myself with the flames already woven into the air itself. No spike of reiatsu, no spiritual signature to track. To you, it looks as though I vanish and reappear. In truth, I'm always moving on fire."
Ganryū's mind reeled. That shouldn't have been possible. He could sense no flames except the ones condensed into Yato's body—so how…?
Yato's tone shifted, almost as though he were sharing a secret. "Second: my Bankai doesn't only control one fire. It commands two. And that," he said with a soft laugh, "is exactly why I prefer to fight alone when I release it."
Ganryū's eyes darted across the battlefield, frantic now, searching. But there was nothing—no other blaze, no second flame to speak of. His confusion deepened, until Yato's next words cut into his thoughts like a blade.
"You must have noticed the distortions," Yato said softly, his white-gold eyes narrowing. "The way the world shimmers, as if the air itself is too hot to bear. That wavering heat that unsettles your vision…"
His voice lowered to a reverent murmur as he named it
<< Kagerō. >> • 陽炎, Heat Haze. •
"When I release my Bankai, an invisible flame is born," Yato continued, calm as ever. "A fire with no color, no form, no weight. Imagine it as a boundary—an arena—that encircles us both. Anyone far weaker than me is automatically expelled, erased the moment they try to cross it. That's why the Blanks can't reach you anymore."
Ganryū froze, his burnt arm trembling at his side. He glanced once more at the Blanks dissolving endlessly into golden dust, unable to breach the unseen wall. A cold realization sank in as the words pressed against his mind.
Ganryū's eyes widened in sudden realization, Yato's words echoing inside his mind like a cruel revelation. His Bankai truly was simple, almost deceptively so. A domain of fire, pure and unrelenting. If both of them existed within an arena composed of such flames, then every attack—no matter how small, no matter how sudden—could strike from any direction, at any moment.
And Yato, the quiet youth who had once seemed reserved and unassuming, was no longer hiding behind subtlety. He was flaunting his power, unapologetically, with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
Then the air itself began to shift.
Ganryū stiffened, realizing instantly that the rise in temperature wasn't from the countless flames flickering in the valley around them. It was coming from Yato himself.
The young man's body glowed faintly at first, threads of white fire slipping through the seams of his skin like veins of molten light. Then, in an instant, the pressure surged, and the flames erupted outward. His once subtle aura became a raging inferno of pale brilliance, his entire frame cloaked in white fire so intense that it distorted his form.
A figure that moments ago could have been mistaken for something angelic now resembled a devil born of pure flame—otherworldly, terrifying, a being sculpted by heat and fury.
On that burning visage, a wide smile spread.
"As much as I'd love to keep talking," Yato said, his voice ringing with mockery even as the air warped around him, "I don't really have the time. This dimension is collapsing, and I've got more important things to do than humor you."
Even while speaking, he kept his distance, his body lowering into a stance, his right fist drawing back with measured calm. The preparation was enough to make Ganryū's heart pound. He already knew what was coming—but this time, it wouldn't just be a single devastating strike.
'Where will it come from?' Ganryū thought desperately, his eyes darting in every direction, searching for the telltale shimmer of white fire. His instincts screamed at him, yet the battlefield remained unbearably still for the fraction of a second before Yato's smile widened even further.
And then he moved.
Fists blurred through the air, each strike executed at blinding speed, his arms nothing more than arcs of light. But the fists themselves weren't the only weapons. From every blow, from every sharp thrust, enormous pillars of white fire erupted into existence—not just in front of Yato, but all around Ganryū.
<< Mugenkairō! >> • 無限回廊, Infinite Corridor •
The world became a labyrinth of fire.
Columns of blinding, searing flame shot up from the ground, burst from the sky, erupted from the cracked walls of the collapsing valley, all converging on Ganryū. He was pinned at the center of the storm, unable to take a step forward or back without being consumed.
The endless barrage keeping him locked in place, hammered from all directions. The oppressive blaze clawed at his armor, seared his flesh, and tore at his spirit, leaving him nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe.
Through it all, Yato's voice carried, bright and cruel, echoing amidst the detonations
"What do you think will end you first?!" he asked, his laughter barely hidden beneath his words. "The endless barrage of my fists… or the Kagerō, when your reiatsu finally runs out?!"
He did not slow. He did not falter. The strikes came endlessly, each punch tearing another radiant scar into the battlefield, each explosion of fire building upon the last.
**
Farther back, Rukia could barely breathe. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow movements, her lungs struggling as if the searing heat alone were enough to suffocate her. Her eyes, wide and trembling, reflected the countless columns of fire rising and collapsing across the battlefield—mirrors of destruction dancing endlessly in her pupils. Each time Yato's fist cut through the air, she felt the echo reverberate inside her own body, as though her spirit were bound to his, unable to detach itself from the storm he had become.
"…Yato…" The word left her lips as a broken whisper, her voice trembling like the flame's own quiver.
Beside her, Byakuya stood utterly still, his composure unbroken, yet his narrowed eyes betrayed the weight of unease pressing against him. He was no stranger to overwhelming power—but what he saw before him carried something beyond ferocity. There was no hesitation, no restraint. It was execution in its purest form.
"That boy…" he murmured, his voice low, almost lost in the roar of the flames.
Rukia took a step forward, ignoring the sharp glance her brother cast her way. Her lips trembled, her throat burned, yet she forced her voice to rise, even knowing the barrier of fire would swallow it whole.
"YATO! STOP THIS!"
Ichigo flinched at her plea, the urgency in her voice pulling him forward. He rushed ahead, one arm extended back to hold Senna protectively behind him. His own voice rose.
"YATO! THAT'S ENOUGH! WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!"
But inside that infernal domain, their voices never reached him. Yato remained untouched, untethered. His smile stretched wider still, cruel and burning, as his fists continued their relentless rhythm. Each blow split the air apart, each strike birthing a searing pillar of white fire that made the entire valley tremble.
**
Not far from them, Hitsugaya stood firm, the waves of heat striking against him like hammers against ice. His frosted eyes narrowed, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His breath drew steady and sharp, his words heavy with the cold weight of certainty. "…He's reshaping the battlefield into a cage." The young captain exhaled slowly, his tone quiet but grim. "Ganryū has no way out. This isn't a Bankai designed to match an opponent evenly… it's a Bankai meant to erase them completely."
Soi Fon's jaw tightened as her narrowed gaze cut through the shimmering haze. Even at this distance, the oppressive heat gnawed at her skin, but she refused to show weakness. Her voice was clipped and sharp, every syllable laced with irritation.
"Tch. There's no breathing room in that Bankai. No gaps, no hesitation… suffocating, merciless—and infuriatingly effective." Her brows knitted, betraying the edge of frustration clawing at her. She hated nothing more than seeing someone she deemed careless or undisciplined wield a weapon of such devastating precision.
Zaraki, however, was a stark contrast. His booming laughter roared even louder than the rumble of collapsing stone and flame. His entire body shook, not from fear but from excitement, vibrating with the thrill of witnessing destruction so raw, so absolute.
"KEHAHAHA! Now THAT'S what I'm talkin' about!" he bellowed, his voice slicing through the roar of fire like a blade. "This power… this slaughter…" He leaned forward, shoulders tense, eye gleaming. "Yato Yasakani, huh? So he's the brat that beated Hisagi not long ago… Hah! Never thought he had somethin' like this buried in him." Zaraki's grin widened, his lips peeling back over sharp teeth as he stared into the inferno, already imagining the clash of steel and fire when their paths finally crossed.
———————————————————
World of the Living | Karakura Town
The night sky stretched wide and unbroken, its silence disturbed only by the faint hum of energy coming from the portal in the water. A circular gate hovered there, shimmering faintly in the darkness, its surface glowing with a deep green light that rippled like moonlight against black waves.
Gathered along the bridge's edge, they stood in silence. Orihime's hands were clasped tightly in front of her chest, her lips pressed together. Chad loomed nearby, steady as a stone statue, but his eyes never left the portal. Jinta leaned forward on the railing with restless impatience, his usual bravado subdued, while Ururu lingered close to Tessai, her small fingers gripping the hem of her dress nervously. Tessai himself remained still, massive arms crossed, his solemn gaze locked on the green light.
Urahara, with his striped hat shadowing his eyes, kept his folding fan half-raised as though the night air were too heavy to breathe without it. Yet for once, he did not speak. Not a joke, not a tease, not even an observation. The silence stretched on, unbroken, heavy with the weight of uncertainty.
Among them, Tatsuki stood with her fists clenched at her sides. At first, she had tried to imitate the others—quiet, patient, waiting. But then it came.
A pulse.
It reverberated through her body like a sudden jolt of electricity, so powerful that her breath caught in her throat. Her heart stumbled in its rhythm, and her eyes widened as she felt it: Reiatsu. Clear, raw, unmistakable. Yato's Reiatsu. For the first time, she felt it without doubt, not a fleeting brush or a faint whisper, but a torrent pressing against her chest.
A storm of emotions clashed inside her—relief and joy rising sharply, twisting with frustration that clawed at her. Relief, because she could finally feel him, know he was still there, still fighting, still alive. Joy, because she could finally sense his spiritual energy so vividly, as though she were standing only a step away from him. But frustration cut through both, bitter and gnawing. Because no matter how much she felt, no matter how strong her will was, she was here—helpless, useless—while Yato and Ichigo throwed themself into battle.
Her eyes lingered on the portal, glowing like an emerald wound in the sky, and without realizing it, her expression betrayed the storm inside her.
Urahara's voice cut gently through the silence. "...Something catch your attention, Arisawa-san?" His tone carried its usual playful lilt, but the sharpness in his eyes beneath the brim of his hat told a different story. He had noticed the shift in her expression, the way she held herself, the intensity of her gaze.
For a moment, Tatsuki thought about answering, about saying aloud that she had felt Yato's presence so clearly it nearly made her knees buckle. That for the first time, she wasn't just imagining the power everyone else talked about. That his Reiatsu had reached her, pierced through the distance, through dimensions.
But when she opened her mouth, no words came. Instead, she clenched her jaw and shook her head lightly, choosing silence. The feeling in her chest was hers alone, something too personal, too raw to share.
Still, deep inside, she acknowledged it with certainty.
Even in the Valley of Screams, no matter how far, no matter how fierce the battle, she could feel him.
———————————————————
Valley of Screams
The ground and sky convulsed violently, trembling as though the entire world were about to be torn apart. The Valley of Screams had reached its breaking point—the Kidō Cannon's destructive blast had fractured its fragile balance, and now its collapse was inevitable.
Above, the heavens split open like shattered glass. Jagged cracks spread across the void, and from them oozed a sickly, violet sludge that dripped and twisted unnaturally as it bled into the dimension. The massive roots splintered and snapped like brittle bones, groaning under the pressure of collapse. The rocky terrain quaked beneath their feet, chunks of land breaking away and tumbling into the abyss. Black lightning surged through the skies, tearing through the purple clouds in violent arcs that lit the realm in flashes of ruin.
Yato, still surrounded by a storm of blazing white fire, continued his relentless assault against Ganryū. His fists blurred, each strike accompanied by pillars of fire that consumed everything they touched. But amid his flurry of blows, his gaze flicked upward, catching sight of the fractures spreading through the sky. The sight drew a weary sigh from him, and for the first time, his attacks faltered. He let his fist fall, the burning onslaught ceasing.
When the smoke parted, where Ganryū had once stood, nothing remained but drifting particles of reishi, scattering into the crumbling air like fading embers.
"…Tch." Yato exhaled, the faintest trace of disappointment flickering across his face. His flames dimmed, retreating into his body as he straightened his posture. "Guess I got a little too carried away. Didn't even notice when he was already gone."
His body shimmered, the infernal blaze receding, leaving behind the radiant form his Bankai had taken earlier—majestic and terrible, like a divine figure cloaked in fire. He smiled faintly, though there was no joy in it. 'I'd love to power down slowly… but looks like I'm running out of time.'
From the distance, Rukia's sharp eyes caught the shift in his energy. The barrage of flames ceased, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Relief softened her shoulders as she turned to Byakuya. His expression remained unchanged, but she could sense the silent acknowledgement in his gaze. Together, they rejoined the others who were waiting at a safe distance.
Ichigo, still carrying Senna close to him, blurred across the broken terrain with Shunpo. As he landed near the group, Zangetsu's black blade shrank and reshaped, returning to its original massive form, while Ichigo's Bankai disintegrated in black spiritual energy. His body relaxed slightly, but his eyes remained on Yato's distant silhouette. "Looks like he actually heard us," Ichigo muttered, lowering Senna gently onto her feet.
"Yeah…" Rukia agreed softly, though doubt lingered in her voice. Deep down, she knew Yato hadn't stopped because of them.
Far away, Yato's Bankai collapsed in an instant. Flames vanished, his fire form unraveling until he stood in nothing more than his casual clothes. He raised his hand, a streak of green light sparking beneath his feet as his Bringer Light carried him across the broken battlefield, reuniting him with the group.
But as he drew closer, their relief faltered. His arms, his legs, even parts of his face bore burns—skin darkened and cracked, evidence of the toll his own Bankai had taken on his body. He didn't stagger, but his movements carried the stiffness of someone trying too hard not to. The smell of charred flesh lingered faintly in the air.
'You idiot. Deactivated your Bankai too fast.' Cheshire's mocking voice echoed in his mind.
'Shut up… There wasn't time to ease the heat off. I'll ask Inoue to heal me when we're out of here.' Yato answered silently, his tone curt.
"Yato…" Rukia's voice broke the silence, her eyes widening as she stepped forward. Her concern was unmasked, genuine. "Are you… alright?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted to Ichigo and Senna. Both watched him with worried expressions—Senna especially, her eyes wide, lips pressed together. He hesitated, then forced a small, lopsided smile her way. An awkward attempt at reassurance, though deep down, guilt twisted in his chest. From the moment he had entered the Valley of Screams, he had pushed her to the background.
Looking past them, Yato noticed the stares of the other Shinigami. Their eyes carried unease, curiosity, even wariness. Except for Nemu, who simply watched with a clinical calmness, waiting for him to answer.
Zaraki was grinning ear to ear, his eye burning with anticipation, as though Yato's display had only whetted his appetite for battle.
Yato finally let out a long exhale, steam hissing past his lips in the cold air. Then he scratched the back of his messy hair, his expression softening into a crooked grin."…I'm more relaxed now."