"You're… not Zetsun?" Amamiya Miyako asked, brows furrowing in surprise. But the moment his gaze took in the pale skin and snow-white hair of the youth before him—features that stood in complete opposition to Zetsun's—he understood.
This was not the same presence.
"Pathetic, Miyako-san," the white-haired youth mocked, his voice dripping with disdain. "Did you abandon your identity entirely while you were off training with those Quincy?"
Miyako didn't answer the provocation. His attention instead sharpened, studying this boy's expression, his spiritual pressure, his very existence. Only two beings could appear in the inner world: the Zanpakutō spirit… and its wielder. That meant this white-haired youth could only be his Zanpakutō—yet he claimed he wasn't Zetsun.
The pieces began to click together.
If two distinct entities resided in one inner world, then there had to be two powers, two souls. And Miyako's own Zanpakutō was a nitoryū—a twin-blade type. His mind flicked through what he knew: Ukitake-taichō's Sōgyo no Kotowari, Kyōraku-taichō's Katen Kyōkotsu, and, in the future, Kurosaki Ichigo's dual form…
"I see," Miyako said at last, conviction in his tone. "You… are my Zanpakutō."
"Hmph. Not completely hopeless after all." The youth's eyes narrowed in amusement. "But knowing who I am… what difference will it make?"
"Where is Zetsun?" Miyako pressed. "Why are you here in his place?"
At the name, the boy's teeth clenched audibly. "That guy… only awakened earlier than me. Nothing more. Now that I'm stronger, he has no right to appear."
The declaration was blunt, but it left Miyako unsettled.
Awakened earlier…?
His mind flashed back to that battle—to the moment he had struck Zetsun down. The black sludge that had erupted from the wound. Zetsun's voice, low and manic: 'He' is getting excited…
It all made sense now.
"You're my Zanpakutō… my true Zanpakutō," Miyako said quietly, "the one that embodies my Shinigami power."
"Not too stupid," the youth smirked faintly. But the smile vanished as quickly as it came. "Still… as a Shinigami, you soil yourself by constantly leaning on Quincy techniques. It disgusts me."
Miyako didn't flinch. He had always believed his Quincy power had fused with his Shinigami soul, explaining why his Shikai manifested as a bow. But now… maybe it wasn't so simple.
After all, an Asauchi was forged from the fusion of countless souls—it wasn't something that could be wholly overwritten by Quincy influence in an instant.
"Then tell me your name," Miyako said firmly. "If you truly are my Shinigami power… let me hear it."
The boy gave a cold laugh. "You, who lean on the enemy's abilities, dare to demand my name? Pathetic."
His gaze sharpened. "I will not give you my power willingly."
"…So we fight, then," Miyako muttered. Twin blades flashed into his hands as he lunged forward.
"Weak," came the voice at his back before his strike could land.
So fast!
Miyako pushed off with Shunpo, blurring forward to create distance.
"You haven't even grasped proper Shinigami combat, yet you think you can claim my strength? Don't make me laugh." The boy's hands moved to his waist—two Zanpakutō materialized there, their polished steel catching the light.
"You want my power? Fine. Experience it for yourself."
He vanished.
A storm of slashes erupted in front of Miyako. He crossed his own twin blades in defense, sparks flying. The boy's dual-blade assault was relentless—like a hurricane of steel—leaving Miyako no chance to counter.
"Your Zanjutsu is pitiful," the boy scoffed between strikes. "What have you been doing all this time?"
Damn it… How can he wield twin blades this flawlessly?
With a grimace, Miyako kicked back, using Shunpo to widen the gap. The hilts of his swords locked together—his Zanpakutō shifting form.
"Shinya Zetsunen!"
The blades reshaped, becoming a sleek longbow in his grip. Spiritual arrows formed instantly, loosed in a rapid-fire barrage toward the youth.
"Sorry," Miyako smirked, "I'm both Shinigami and Quincy."
The boy stopped moving. He didn't even raise a blade at first—only when the arrows were a breath away did he lift one Zanpakutō and make a single, casual slash.
Kacha!
Steel met reishi, and in the same instant, the arrows shattered into glittering particles, scattering into the air like broken stardust.
"Tch… uso… How?" Amamiya Miyako's eyes widened. "That shot… it should've pierced anything short of captain-class defense."
He had calculated every arrow perfectly, layering his reishi density so that even an ordinary Zanpakutō couldn't break them in a single strike. But the stranger before him wasn't "ordinary" in any sense.
"Ridiculous," the white-haired youth said flatly. "The power of a Quincy is so weak."
His tone was colder than the steel in his hands. "And that—" he tilted his head slightly "—is what I hate most about you. Even if you dress it up like a Shinigami's skill… at its core, it's still Quincy sorcery."
He stepped forward slowly, the tip of his left blade scraping faintly against the ground. "You're an outcast of this world, Miyako… How could you possibly compare to the true might of a Shinigami?"
"Yare yare… you talk too much," Miyako muttered, loosing another volley, each arrow fired from unpredictable angles, weaving into a cage of reishi around his opponent.
But each technique—every combination of Shunpo feints, shifting angles, and Zanjutsu strikes—was countered effortlessly. The white-haired youth's twin blades danced with perfect precision, intercepting every attack before it could land.
"Ignorant and foolish," he said, his voice cutting sharper than his blades. "You don't even understand the real power of your own Zanpakutō."
He raised both swords. "Let me show you… my true power."
Miyako felt the pressure shift instantly—reishi flared around the white-haired youth like a storm, his twin blades beginning to change form.
"Uso… Zanpakutō… changing form again?!" Miyako's heartbeat pounded in his ears. Without hesitation, he fired an arrow aimed straight at the shifting steel.
The arrow struck. Kiin! The transformation halted.
A small smirk tugged at Miyako's lips. "Looks like even you can't ignore that ability, eh?"
This was the first time Miyako had risked using the true secondary function of his Shikai—an interference technique designed to halt an opponent's weapon transformation by flooding it with unstable reishi.
The white-haired youth glanced at the halted blade, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he slashed the air with both swords. The lingering reishi was torn away, and the transformation resumed, faster and fiercer than before.
"Che… impossible… I disrupted it…" Miyako's eyes narrowed.
"That other one… lives inside me," the youth said coldly. "And you still think you can use his power against me?"
He stepped forward, his spiritual pressure suddenly crushing the air between them. "Your will is weak, Miyako… far too weak."
With a single flash step—faster than any Miyako had seen—he closed the distance. The brand-new twin blades gleamed with a shape both beautiful and lethal.
"Now… experience the true fangs of a Shinigami."
Steel and reishi clashed again and again, each strike driving Miyako back. No Quincy trick, no arrow, no trap could slow him.
…
When Miyako's eyes snapped open, the dim light of the 10th Division barracks greeted him. His breath was ragged, sweat clinging to his forehead.
"Tch… failed," he muttered. "Figures…"
The confrontation had ended exactly as expected—utter defeat. He had learned nothing about the nature of this new spirit's power. That man—no, that Zanpakutō—had used nothing but pure Shinigami skill. No Quincy reishi manipulation. No hybrid techniques. Only Zanjutsu and spiritual pressure so refined that Miyako couldn't even find an opening.
And those brand-new twin swords… their presence still echoed in his mind.
Is this some kind of game? Beat one boss, and a stronger one spawns? Everyone else's Zanpakutō spirit is so much easier to talk to…
He pressed a hand to his face. What a pain…
…
Deep within Miyako's inner world, the white-haired youth stood in the center of the skyless expanse. His black robe rippled, white markings crawling across the fabric before breaking free into the air.
A familiar voice chuckled. "Ara… you're really merciless. Not even letting him use my power, hm?"
From the drifting light, a black-haired figure in a white robe stepped forward—Zetsun.
The white-haired youth didn't look at him. "He's a Shinigami… yet he clings to Quincy power like a crutch. Why should he be allowed to keep using it?"
Zetsun sighed. "You and your pride… Always so roundabout. You could've just told him straight."
"Hmph."
"Fine, fine… have it your way," Zetsun said, raising his hands in surrender. "My role's done for now. The rest is yours."
His form dissolved into white light, streaming into the white-haired youth's body.
The markings vanished. The black robe returned to its dark, bottomless hue.
Alone once more, the white-haired youth stared into the void. "Miyako… you'd better be ready next time."