The garden shimmered as the two women extended their hands.
Seishiro tightened his grip on his Zanpakutō, feeling the ring pulse like a heartbeat along the hilt. His pulse raced, anticipation and fear intertwining. This is Shinuchi. This is real.
The black-haired woman's gaze sharpened. "Show me your strength, little king."
The silver-haired woman's lips curved faintly. "And your will."
Before Seishiro could react, the two moved as if in perfect sync — fluid, almost inhuman.
In a blink, they were upon him.
Seishiro swung his blade, trying to parry the first strike, but their attacks weren't ordinary—they came from angles he couldn't predict, strikes that bypassed reflexes and instinct. Every slash cut through the air like lightning, precise yet deadly.
He tried to counter, but the first blow slammed into his torso, sending him skidding across the bridge. Pain flared in his side. The second strike followed, and before he could even raise his guard, he felt it—a cold, sharp slash across his midsection.
The world blurred.
"No…!"
Seishiro staggered, but his Zanpakutō pulsed, responding instinctively. From its blade, the ground beneath him erupted in a sudden bloom: black-stemmed flowers with deep red petals. They spread rapidly, covering the wooden bridge and spilling over into the pond.
He stumbled back as the flowers writhed like living things. Every root, every vine, pulsed with his own spiritual energy, draining him slightly even as it expanded.
From the flowers, tiny red butterflies emerged, swirling around him. They hovered near the two women, small but dangerous — their touch corroding the air, leaving a faint, sickly sweetness of decay.
The silver-haired woman's voice whispered, echoing in the garden:
"You fight well… for a boy. But your heart is reckless. Let us teach you control."
Another attack came, faster than he could react. He swung his Zanpakutō, trying to block, but the black-haired woman's strike bisected him cleanly. Pain exploded across his body. He stumbled, falling to his knees as darkness swirled around him.
Shinuchi's voice surged in his mind:
"Do not die, little king. Let me show you."
Blood-red liquid erupted from his blade, arcing across the garden like a ribbon. The liquid touched the flowers, the roots, the pond—and everything it met decayed, melting stone, wood, and soil alike. Wherever it fell, a poisonous haze lingered, corrosive and deadly.
Seishiro could feel it in his veins — the energy draining, seeping into the flowers, back into the Zanpakutō. The roots twisted violently around the women, striking with razor-sharp ends, trying to slash, bind, and leech their spiritual energy.
The silver-haired woman stepped back lightly, her yukata fluttering, unscathed. Yet Seishiro could see her hand twitch, dodging and countering every attack. The black-haired woman moved as if anticipating each vine and butterfly, her movements effortless and predatory.
Then Shinuchi took it further. From the flower bed rose grotesque figures — zombies covered in black and red petals, their eyes hollow and glowing faintly. They spread in all directions, petals flaking into the air. Some swarmed the women, exploding in bursts of poisonous red mist upon contact. Others crawled silently toward Seishiro's back, draining lingering spiritual energy from the garden, surveying the area as if alive.
Seishiro struggled to his feet, heart hammering. He tried to coordinate the flowers, the butterflies, the roots — everything he could manifest. But the two women were everywhere at once. They moved like shadows, strikes coming from impossible angles, bending time in small increments, bisecting his defenses.
He felt his energy drain rapidly, his vision blurring. His Zanpakutō hummed faintly, warning him, yet he could barely control the chaos it unleashed. Roots wrapped around him, protective but entangling, binding him even as they tried to slash outward.
"Stronger… must become… stronger…" he gasped, the words barely audible over the pounding of his own pulse.
Another strike — and he fell, bisected across the midsection once more, slamming into the garden floor. His breath caught painfully, vision swimming.
The black-haired woman crouched slightly, her sword tip resting against his chest.
"Reckless," she said softly, almost fondly. "But you are ours now. And ours you will remain… until you understand the weight of power."
The silver-haired woman reached out, fingers brushing his Zanpakutō.
"Your blade is alive. It hungers, but it is your choice whether it devours you or feeds you. Do not forget — we are only the beginning."
The garden faded.
Seishiro's vision went black. Pain, exhaustion, and the lingering echoes of Shinuchi's power pulled him down into the darkness. Yet even as he fell, he felt a faint pull in his chest — a heartbeat that wasn't his own, alive, persistent, waiting.
"Next time, little king… next time, you will stand."
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