The day had ended, but sleep refused to come.
Seishiro sat cross-legged on the edge of his futon, the warm glow of the setting sun bleeding through the paper screens of the dormitory. Outside, laughter and the distant clang of blades from the training grounds drifted up, a reminder that life in the Academy continued as usual.
He flexed his fingers, unconsciously brushing the ring on his left hand. Shinuchi.
It pulsed faintly, warm against his skin. A whisper slipped into his mind, delicate, almost seductive:
"It's time, Seishiro. Time to know me fully."
He exhaled, feeling a chill despite the summer air. The day had been exhausting — Renji's wild attacks, the instructor's sharp critiques, the sting of bruises across his arms and shoulder. Yet beneath it all simmered a strange exhilaration, a thrill he could not name.
Slowly, he drew his Zanpakutō from its sheath. It felt heavier in his hand than usual, like it had suddenly remembered its true weight. The ring on his finger seemed to hum in response. A subtle warmth ran along the hilt and through his wrist. Then, almost imperceptibly, the steel seemed to sigh.
A pull tugged at his consciousness — soft, yet unyielding. The dorm around him began to dissolve, the walls, the sunlight, the creaking floor all fading into a silent void.
He opened his eyes.
A garden stretched out before him, bathed in twilight. Cherry blossoms drifted lazily on a mirror-still pond, their petals glowing faintly in the dim light. A wooden bridge arched gracefully over the water, the planks worn smooth by centuries. The scent of incense and damp earth filled the air.
And standing on that bridge were two women.
Both wore silk yukata, flowing softly around their ankles. One had hair like midnight, falling in a straight, glossy cascade. The other's hair was silver-white, shining like moonlight, almost ethereal. They stood with calm, piercing gazes, their posture regal yet unthreatening. Both smiled — though differently. The black-haired woman's smile was knowing, deliberate, commanding. The silver-haired one's was soft, teasing, almost mischievous.
Seishiro's hand gripped his Zanpakutō instinctively. It felt… changed. Merged. The ring had fused seamlessly with the hilt. He felt her power ripple through the steel, faint but undeniable.
"Do not fear us," a voice cooed in his mind — familiar, yet multiplied. "We are part of her… part of me. And now, part of you."
The women bowed slightly, synchronized, their eyes never leaving him.
"One will guide your strength," the black-haired woman whispered, her tone firm, commanding respect. "The other will temper your spirit. But neither will tolerate weakness."
Seishiro's pulse quickened. He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The garden, the pond, the blossoms, the two women — it all felt too real, too immediate. He realized then that Shinuchi wasn't merely a Zanpakutō; she was alive, sentient, and had chosen him to wield her.
"You bleed well, little king," the silver-haired woman murmured, her smile widening. "Such recklessness suits you… but you fight as though you wish to be broken. Tell me, Seishiro… do you seek death, or power?"
Seishiro swallowed hard. The blade in his hand hummed softly, vibrating like a heartbeat, in sync with the faint pulse of the ring.
"Choose wisely," the black-haired woman said. "The path you embrace tonight will determine what kind of soul you become. Strength without restraint will consume you. Control without desire will leave you hollow."
He felt the weight of the words settle on him like a physical pressure. His eyes flicked to the reflection in the pond, expecting to see himself — but instead, two faint silhouettes shimmered behind him, shadowed and impossible to make out fully. They mirrored the two women. One whispered encouragement; the other, a challenge.
A breeze lifted the petals, swaying them in patterns that seemed deliberate. The garden shifted subtly, as if responding to his heartbeat, the tension in his body, the questions in his mind.
He gripped the Zanpakutō tighter. This… is Shinuchi. Not just a weapon, not just a spirit, but a guide, a test, a mirror. A hunger.
"Step forward, little king," both voices said, now blending into one. "Prove that you can wield me — prove that you are not merely a pawn."
Seishiro stepped onto the bridge, the wooden planks groaning faintly under his weight. The two women parted gracefully, leaving space between them. Every nerve in his body screamed caution, yet some deeper instinct — a hunger for something he could not name — compelled him forward.
"I am ready," he whispered, voice steady, though his pulse raced.
The silver-haired woman's smile deepened. "Good."
The black-haired woman inclined her head. "Very good. But know this — the path we show you is not gentle. And the closer you get to the throne… the closer you come to yourself."
The pond shimmered once more, and the petals around him began to swirl like a soft storm. The two women extended their hands toward him.
"Come, little king. See what lies within your blade… and within your heart."
Seishiro stepped forward, the ring pulsing on his finger. The garden, the pond, the two women, and the bridge all faded in a swirl of light and shadow. He felt himself pulled deeper — into the very core of his Inner World, where Shinuchi's presence waited fully awake, patient, and hungry.
And as he moved, a single thought struck him: This is only the begining.
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