When Amamiya Miyako returned to his inner world, his mind was already set—he had to master Shikai, and fast.
"Tch... if even Shikai takes this long, then how the heck am I supposed to manage Bankai later?" he muttered to himself with a click of his tongue.
In Soul Society, most Shinigami trained for decades—sometimes centuries—to master their Zanpakutō. But Miyako didn't have that luxury. Not now. Not with everything happening around him.
"Yare yare... You're as impatient as ever, Miyako-san," the Black-haired, White-robed Boy said, resting his chin in his hand with a sigh. "Don't you think it would be smarter to take a step back and figure out a proper strategy before barging in here again?"
He wasn't wrong. Miyako was getting stronger at a visible pace, but his control and harmony with his own powers were still lagging behind. He was chasing power without truly understanding it.
"…Don't need you to tell me that," Miyako replied curtly. "Let's just begin."
But before they could start, something caught his eye.
"…Wait a sec," he said, frowning. "Your robes… What happened to them?"
The boy's white robe—once pristine and shining—was now tinged with ominous black creeping up from the hems. It wasn't just a small stain. The dark color had spread significantly since their last encounter.
"Ah... so you noticed," the boy replied, scratching the back of his head. "Can't really hide it anymore, huh? Last time, it was barely noticeable... but now, it's practically screaming at you."
"…What is it?" Miyako asked warily.
The boy gave a vague, unreadable smile. "If you wanna know... you'll have to defeat me first."
With that, he summoned his spiritual weapon—a shimmering reishi bow—without offering any further explanation.
Miyako clicked his tongue again. "Tch… fine."
Suppressing his questions, Miyako formed his own spirit bow—but this time, there was a clear difference.
Thanks to his recent training with Ishida Ryūken, Miyako had learned to compress his reishi more efficiently. The bow he formed now was compact, shaped more like a crossbow than a longbow—smaller, faster, and easier to handle in close combat.
He didn't even need both hands anymore. Channeling reishi with one hand, he formed three luminous arrows and loosed them without hesitation.
"Still not enough," the White-robed Boy muttered. With a single shot, he fired a glowing reishi arrow that shattered one of Miyako's mid-air projectiles. The other two, however, kept flying toward him at high speed.
With a twist of his body and a graceful tilt of his head, he evaded the arrows with ease.
"I told you, it's useless—"
"Behind you."
The boy's eyes widened.
At this moment, thanks to Amamiya Miyako's rapid improvement in Shunpo and his increasing familiarity with Hirenkyaku, his sudden burst of speed caught the black-haired, white-robed boy completely off guard. The boy retreated swiftly, but not before Miyako's blade cut into his shoulder.
"…This truly surprises me," the boy muttered with an amused tone as he skidded back, clutching his injured shoulder. But strangely, there was no blood—only a strange black substance, somewhere between gas and liquid, seeping from the wound.
"…Tch. Looks like he is getting excited," the boy said cryptically.
Right after those words, the black edge of his long white robe began to writhe, like ink bleeding into water. The motion was unnatural—unnerving even.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Miyako frowned, warily narrowing his eyes. Again with these riddles… The way this guy spoke always rubbed him the wrong way.
"Don't worry about it. Come on, let's continue," the boy grinned, wiping his hand across the black ooze. As if on command, the strange phenomenon vanished like it had never existed.
Still holding his Reishi bow in his left hand and his Asauchi in his right, Miyako didn't lower his guard. Until now, he'd always assumed that his Zanpakutō was a manifestation of his Quincy powers. So, logically, he'd tried to counter Quincies using their own techniques.
But that assumption… had been flawed from the start.
He'd forgotten something crucial. He wasn't just a Quincy. He was a special existence—one that bore both Shinigami and Quincy powers in his soul.
If this opponent had never drawn a Zanpakutō or used Zanjutsu, why should Miyako restrict himself to only Quincy techniques?
With this realization, his attacks had gained a new edge.
"Today, you'll tell me your name," Miyako said firmly, lifting his sword and aiming it at the boy. His Asauchi pulsed in his grip, as if responding to his resolve.
"…Heh. Then show me you're worthy of it," the black-haired boy replied, his voice calm, almost smug. He looked as if he already knew how this battle would end.
....
The next moment, a Heilig Pfeil—a Quincy spirit arrow—shot toward Miyako at a dangerous angle. It was precise and lethal. But he didn't flinch.
The black-haired boy was pinned against the wall, unable to move freely thanks to Bakudō #30: Shitotsu Sansen—the spell's golden triangles still flickering in the air. Despite being immobilized, he'd fired off that arrow as a last-ditch counterattack.
'I can't dodge,' Miyako realized. 'If I move now, he'll break free. I can't let that happen.'
He gritted his teeth and leaned just enough to shift the arrow's trajectory. It still struck him, embedding itself in his left shoulder and bursting through with a spray of blood.
"Guh!" he hissed. Pain ripped through him, but he didn't let go. The spiritual bow dissolved from his trembling hand, but the sword in his right still had strength.
"It's over!" he roared, bringing down his blade with everything he had.
The slash hit true. His sword collided with the boy's chest, a flash of light blooming out in a flare of spiritual pressure—like a shockwave.
As the energy dispersed, black reishi oozed from the boy's body in thick clouds, surrounding him like smoke.
Panting hard, Miyako leapt backward, landing lightly midair on a platform of gathered spirit particles. He didn't let his guard down for even a second. He began chanting:
"Ye Lord! Mask of blood and flesh—"
He was preparing Hadō #31: Shakkahō, ready to fire it point-blank at his weakened opponent.
"…No need," the boy interrupted, his tone surprisingly calm. "This battle is your victory."
Miyako halted mid-incantation. He let out a short breath as the tension began to ease. Then, his control over the reishi beneath his feet faltered, and he dropped from the air.
He landed on the tiled roof of a nearby house, kneeling from the weight of exhaustion and pain. Across from him, the boy remained stuck against the tall building, black energy still writhing around him like a living thing.
"…You've come farther than I expected. In that case, I'll grant you my power," the boy said.
His white robe began to dissolve, piece by piece, scattering into spirit particles. They didn't vanish but instead flowed toward Miyako like drifting feathers of light. But strangely, his body didn't disappear with it. Underneath, something darker was revealed.
Where white faded, black replaced it—almost like a Shinigami'sShihakushō, but more sinister. His form pulsed with a dark spiritual pressure, like something ancient and untamed.
"…Don't think this is the end," he warned.
His voice grew deeper, and his body began to darken even further—until his entire figure was consumed in black. His hair, once black and wild, now began to shift… a few strands turning pale white as though bleached by reiryoku.
"…Listen carefully, Miyako," he said, voice low and clear. "My name is…"
Miyako's eyes widened as the name echoed in his ears.
But before he could respond, his vision swam. His body tilted. Blood loss, fatigue, spiritual depletion—all of it crashed down on him at once.
As his consciousness began to fade, the last image burned into his mind was of that boy standing alone in mid-air—his robes now completely black, his hair gradually turning snow-white…
And then, darkness.