In the gray-white world stripped of all color, all that remained for Seiya was thought.
As though time itself had been disassembled into its most minute parts, Seiya found brief intervals—tiny fragments—where he could still "breathe."
The whisper of Isane hadn't disappeared. His senses, merged with all existence, clearly captured her plea.
Some part of him… felt happy?
In such a moment, raw emotion like that could only be Isane's most sincere thought.
She didn't hate him—not entirely. That was enough to soothe his heart and body.
He wanted to hold her…
But in his current state, that was no longer possible.
His body had been split in half. Literally.
And unlike before, he couldn't reconstruct himself.
Because the moment he suffered the blow of All Becomes Ash, the starlit universe in his mind—the very fabric of parallel timelines—dimmed and died.
Everything went dark.
There was no longer a single viable timeline where Seiya Arima survived.
Yamamoto's flame, forged and tempered over a millennium, didn't just burn his body—it scorched through the web of fate itself.
Past, present, future—gone.
Not a single version of Seiya could deflect, evade, or retaliate.
Zanka no Tachi, North – All Becomes Ash.
As its name implied—
In the instant of realization, Seiya could only accept annihilation.
It was, without doubt, his defeat.
Silently, the two halves of Seiya's body began to break apart—
Like embers, burned to their final cinders.
But in that moment, two figures moved.
Tōsen Kaname and Ichimaru Gin—using shunpo, they dashed into the air, arms outstretched, trying to catch Seiya's falling form.
They didn't cry out—they acted.
But… it was hopeless.
The moment Seiya's remains touched their hands, his body crumbled into nothing. A handful of ash, fading into the wind.
"It's pointless,"
Yamamoto said coldly, gently lowering his blade.
"Anyone struck by Zanka no Tachi stands no chance of survival."
And especially not its final form.
All Becomes Ash erases even the soul—no reishi, no return to the world.
No reincarnation. No rebirth.
The flames coiling around Yamamoto's blade flickered like a living creature.
Where once the sword had been refined and restrained, now its dark crimson glow resembled blood scabs—dry, cracked, raw.
Proof that even for Yamamoto, this was full force.
He glanced sideways at the weapon.
A pity, that such talent walked a divergent path.
And such regret, that even Yamamoto had to use his final technique to bring him down.
Not even the progenitor of the Quincy had required this much firepower, a thousand years ago.
By power alone, Seiya Arima had stood at the peak of the Three Realms.
A glimmer of sorrow shimmered in Yamamoto's old eyes. His body trembled faintly.
He had killed yet another one.
Yet this time, it had been his best disciple in another sense.
He'd seen too much. Felt too much. Wisdom hardens the soul—but leaves it brittle.
And when the wound is internal… it leaves a scar that never fades.
Hsss…
The flames returned to the hilt, vanishing.
The bleached world dissolved with them.
As the powers retreated, the battlefield—ruined, scorched—was revealed once more.
Dark clouds gathered.
The moisture Yamamoto's flames had burned out of the air condensed in the heavens.
And now, with his powers receding—
Rain began to fall.
A steady drizzle struck their heads.
Thunder echoed above like a wrathful god—or perhaps a weeping sky.
The sorrow was silent.
Gin's face was blank.
He stared at the space where Seiya had been, now vanishing under the downpour.
He didn't know how to feel.
Was this a cold, cruel reality—or just another one of Seiya's intricate schemes?
That guy was always like this.
Never told the whole truth.
Gin knew he wasn't cruel. He never hurt people maliciously. Always planned carefully.
But this—this hurt.
Was it a trick? Then say something. Jump up. Tell us this was part of your plan. Let us laugh at how clever you are.
If it was real…
Then you should have warned us.
This wasn't a place for grief. The battlefield had no room for tears.
And yet—
You left no time for mourning.
Yamamoto strode forward in the rain.
His body stooped—aged not just in flesh, but in spirit.
Even so, no one could take their eyes off him.
He passed by Tōsen.
"A stray dog…"
He passed by Gin.
"A venomous snake…"
One step at a time, water soaking his long beard.
Yet—
"If you lay down your swords now," he said, "and reclaim your hearts… I, as Captain-Commander, will vouch for you."
"No death sentence."
"But punishment will still be served.
Return to Soul Society—begin again."
To some, this made no sense.
But to those like Shunsui Kyoraku, it was shocking.
"Wait—he's serious?!"
Nanao blinked. "Captain, what does that mean?"
Shunsui didn't smile.
"It means a hell of a lot, Nanao… Even someone like Yamamoto doesn't rule alone. Forgiveness comes at a cost."
If he meant to pardon them…
Yamamoto would likely have to step down as Captain-Commander.
That would shake Soul Society to its core.
Voices murmured, each interpreting the words differently.
But Yamamoto didn't care.
He was tired.
He hadn't clung to power. His leadership had been a burden—to clean up after others, to hold up the sky for those not yet strong enough.
It should never have come to this.
Why was he still killing?
Why the blood of a student?
There was only one answer.
Yamamoto finally stopped walking.
He raised his head.
Old, frail—but his soul still roared like fire.
BOOM!
In that instant, all could see—
The rain stopped.
Yamamoto's reiryoku had grown so fierce, it evaporated the sky itself.
Steam hissed around them.
Every drop of water on their skin vanished.
No more hiding.
His fury could no longer be contained.
His glare turned to the true enemy.
He uttered the name—
"Aizen Sōsuke."
Seiya was dead.
No more pawns to hide behind.
Aizen's arrogance—his games, his manipulations—
Yamamoto hated it more than anything.
So now—
"Prepare to die."
And Aizen…
Smiled.
No grief. No anger.
He didn't even flinch.
As if Seiya were just a pebble on the road.
"You don't even want to catch your breath?"
He smirked.
"Coming after me right away… is this your way of hiding from your feelings?"
"You trying to reset your focus?"
But Yamamoto was unmoved.
He said nothing.
He simply glared.
He knew Aizen's Kyōka Suigetsu was dangerous.
It twisted perception. Turned allies against each other.
That's why so many feared him.
But now—
That didn't matter.
He raised his zanpakutō once more, staring at Aizen's smug face.
"You talk big—but your life ends here, Aizen."
"I've made my decision."
"Even if I must sacrifice the entire Gotei 13—today, I will cut you down."
Unlike the original tale—
Because of Seiya, Yamamoto had truly seen the threat.
He wouldn't let Aizen seduce any more talents, lead more prodigies astray.
He had warned them all.
Someone might die today.
It might even be him.
But now, the Shinigami standing here represented the will of the Gotei 13.
BOOM!
The flames returned.
Yamamoto's true power reignited.
Before, against Seiya, he had held back out of respect.
Now, he was pure instinct and rage.
The battlefield boiled again.
Aizen narrowed his eyes…
And then—he laughed.
"Ah… Yamamoto."
He whispered.
"How beautiful fire can be, when seen up close."
He wasn't mocking.
He meant it.
But he kept smiling.
And said—
"Did you really think…
Seiya's power ended there?"
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Powerstones?
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