After returning from that heaven-shattering mission on Herta Space Station, Hiroki got the full-body paralysis he'd expected.
The high from that single slash of "Taixu Divine Sword – Divine Charm" was unmatched—an instant screen-clear, battlefield-dominating blast that left him floating. The price, as the system coldly reminded him, was utter, marrow-draining exhaustion.
He didn't even have the strength to crawl back to his bedroom; he was practically carried to the bed. And there he stayed—for three whole days.
For those three days Hiroki was a puppet with its strings cut. Every bone felt like mush, every muscle screaming. Lifting a finger felt like defying the world. His spiritual pressure was bone-dry; his body was an empty pond, reflexes dull. His mind stayed clear, but the crushing heaviness and pervasive emptiness made him wish he could just pass out.
Just as his stubborn body finally began, millimetre by millimetre, to gather a pitiful scrap of strength—enough to squirm—the paper door slid open with a sharp rasp.
Backlit, a tall, lithe figure stepped inside; familiar violet tips fluttered in the draught—Shihōin Yoruichi.
"Yo?" Yoruichi's voice carried playful surprise. "Haven't seen you in days, and you've… played yourself crippled?" Her gaze raked over Hiroki spread-eagled on the futon, a delighted smirk curving her lips. "That look takes me right back to rookies who collapsed on the training field and couldn't get up."
Hiroki's face burned. He managed a feeble head-shake, trying not to look utterly hopeless. Clearing his sand-dry throat, he lied with forced calm: "Ahem! I'm… testing a new extreme training method, got it? Squeeze every drop of spiritual pressure, then let the body enter total hibernation. After total depletion, the pressure rebounds with explosive growth—way more efficient than normal training! Hmph!"
He sneaked a peek at her reaction. Arms folded, Yoruichi narrowed golden eyes glinting with mischief, studying him like a rare talking idiot.
"Pfft—hahaha!" She finally burst out, shoulders shaking. "A new method? Train till you're a puddle that can't move? My, Hiroki, your imagination's getting wilder. What is this—your 'win-by-lying-still' technique?"
Hiroki deflated like a pricked balloon, face black. He rolled his eyes with heroic effort. "Tch—believe what you want. Rotten wood can't be carved. What do you know about a genius's self-forging?" He turned his face away, cursing inwardly: damn woman, why come back now?
Fortunately Yoruichi was only passing through. With a final hum and a look that said "enjoy your nirvana," she vanished as quietly as a cat.
Three—whole—days. At last a proper spark of life returned. His back still ached, calves still cramped, but he could sit up unaided.
"Sigh…" Hiroki rubbed his throbbing temples. The backlash was brutal; he now understood the post-cast emptiness of that crimson-demon explosion-mage from another world—"feels great when you cast, feels like death after!"
Yet the crazy gamble had paid off—handsomely.
First, and biggest: five-hundred-thousand points in hand—ticket to the System Shop! Second, he'd secured the friendship of Herta Space Station's loaded director, Asta herself—the "little rich girl" who controlled vast Interastral Peace Company resources. Worth every ounce of pain.
He opened the long-dreamed-of shop with a thought. Golden light, endless list—then the price tags hit him like ice water.
Third-Class Spiritual Pressure – 100 000 pts
Second Class – 1 000 000 pts
First Class – 10 000 000 pts
Heh… Zanpakutō Ryujin Jakka – 10 000 000 pts
Zanpakutō Kyōka Suigetsu – 10 000 000 pts
Zanpakutō Hyōrinmaru – 10,000,000 points
Sure, Captain Commander Yamamoto's Ryujin Jakka is the strongest fire-type, so that price makes sense—but Tōshirō, Tōshirō Hitsugaya! Your Hyōrinmaru costs the same?!
Oh, right—his blade's also called the strongest ice-type…
This shop is daylight robbery!
There are bargains, though: Zanpakutō Hōzukimaru (wielded by Ikkaku) – 100 000 pts
"Baldy, you're a disgrace! How's your Bankai so weak?"
With only these points, all he could afford was Third-Class pressure plus a bottom-tier Bankai blade.
But what good is that combo? A third-class pressure with the cheapest Bankai—against Aizen he'd just be the guy who gets one-shot.
To stand a chance face-to-face with that bespectacled, gentle-smiling schemer, he'd need at least Second-Class pressure, minimum.
As for awakening his own Zanpakutō—he glanced over. Tamaki Chizuru and Uchiha Izumi were carefully polishing his asauchi until it gleamed.
"Forget it… let's keep shopping."
The sky-splitting Taixu Divine Sword? Mission tooltip was clear: mission-use only!
Not allowed against Aizen!
Of course, the system's merchant soul showed—pay up and rules bend: 100 000 pts for a "Lift Mission-Skill Restriction" scroll.
Greedy dog system! And the fine print: even with the scroll, world laws would cap power at First-Class level—roughly a full strike from Captain Commander Yamamoto.
Hmm… one shot—would Aizen survive? A nice fantasy, but 100k for a single use meant it could only be a nuclear deterrent. Fire it and he'd be flat on his back another three days.
Stop dreaming.
"Let's buy a Captain-level Third-Class pressure to calm down."
He made up his mind—points were useless sitting there; raising pressure was the solid foundation.
"System," he muttered, "exchange for Third-Class Spiritual Pressure."
"Affirmative." The cold mechanical voice sounded in his head.
Then… nothing. No golden halo, no pain or bliss, no soul-shaking surge.
"Huh? That's it? No special effect? No ceremony? I just spent 100 000 points here!"
Hiroki was stunned.
He checked inwardly—and jolted awake. The thin gruel that was his spiritual pressure moments ago now brimmed, thick and strong many times over. A sense of power welled up—unfamiliar yet undeniably Captain-class.
Promotion complete—silent and instant.