BLEACH: UNOHANA RETSU IS MY WIFE

The barracks of the Gotei 1st Division—the swordplay dojo...

It was the most luxurious dojo in all of the Gotei 13. Whether it was the polished wood of the floor or the ornate displays lining the walls, everything was leagues beyond the more rugged dojo of the 11th Division.

Yet, despite its size and grandeur, there were few shinigamis who actually came here to train. At this moment, only one person stood alone on the vast wooden floor, tirelessly swinging a wooden sword like a machine—sweat pouring down in streams.

That person was none other than Yamamoto Genryusai Shigekuni, the Captain-Commander of the Gotei 13.

Ever since Araki warned him of the potential threat posed by the Quincies months ago, Yamamoto hadn't left this dojo. He had been training relentlessly, sharpening his body and mind—preparing himself to become a weapon once more.

Suddenly, a chill of spiritual pressure rode in with the breeze through the ventilated window of the dojo.

Yamamoto's wooden sword stopped mid-swing.

"…This spiritual pressure… Chojiro and Araki?"

He set the wooden sword aside, grabbed the towel draped around his neck, and wiped the sweat from his weathered brow. Slowly, he walked to the edge of the dojo and peered through the window.

"…Did Chojiro release his Bankai? Still, it's likely he'll lose to that brat Araki."

He gazed toward the dark clouds that now gathered over the 11th Division's barracks, a sure sign of Chojiro's Bankai. Yamamoto's expression remained unreadable, but his voice carried a quiet hope.

"…I just hope Chojiro can take something away from this."

Though he rarely showed emotion, Yamamoto had always held great hopes for Chojiro Sasakibe. He wished the boy would one day find his own path to true strength.

Meanwhile, at the 11th Division's barracks—

The dark clouds roiling over the open field outside the dojo began to dissipate—fading with the loss of the spiritual pressure that summoned them.

Chojiro Sasakibe lay on the ground, defeated.

Araki stood nearby, holding Sasakibe's Zanpakutō.

"…Do you want to continue?" Araki asked calmly.

"No, no more…" Sasakibe shook his head quickly.

Of course not. His Zanpakutō had already been taken. Without his Bankai, how could he possibly fight back?

"You can't be serious, Sasakibe…" Araki sighed. "After all these years, you're still the same."

With a flick of his wrist, Araki tossed the Zanpakutō back toward its owner.

Thud!

The blade spun in a graceful arc and stabbed into the ground—just five centimeters away from Sasakibe's most vital little "brother."

"Araki!! Be careful! My little brother almost died!!" Sasakibe's face went pale as he looked at the blade lodged terrifyingly close to a place that needed no wounds.

"Does it matter?" Araki shrugged. "You don't use it anyway. Might as well cut it off—give you something else to focus on."

"It'd be good for you. You might finally start growing."

Turning around, Araki walked back toward the 11th Division's barracks.

"Oi! You guys! You've seen enough. Get back to training~"

The crowd of 11th Division shinigamis, who had been watching silently the entire time, immediately scrambled to their feet.

"Yes, Captain Araki! Take care!!"

They bowed—each of them forming perfect 90-degree angles with their backs.

Araki gave them a slight nod of acknowledgment and continued walking off toward the resting quarters where he usually took his naps.

"Araki…"

"Our training isn't over yet, right?!"

Chojiro called after him, desperation in his voice.

Araki paused.

"…Sasakibe, you're too weak. Even if I train you, you won't grow much."

"And besides, my fighting style doesn't suit you. You try to copy me on the battlefield, you'll die even faster."

He turned halfway, glancing over his shoulder at the mud-covered Chojiro.

"…Really?" Sasakibe asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

He opened his mouth, wanting to argue. He wanted to shout that he would learn Araki's techniques—even if it took him a thousand or ten thousand tries.

But the image came back to him—when his Bankai landed a perfect strike on Araki's body, and yet the man stood there without a scratch.

That wasn't a technique. That was… something divine.

No, he couldn't learn that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Sasakibe," Araki said with rare seriousness, "you don't need to meet the enemy head-on."

"You should play to your strengths—use the speed and lightning precision of your Zanpakutō to assassinate from the shadows."

"When the enemy is truly strong, it's not the First Division's role to fight them head-on. That stage belongs to Old Man Yama. If he can handle it, you're not needed. And if he can't—then none of you can change the outcome."

"So instead…"

"Let him act as the sun—drawing all the firepower. While you, like a shadow, circle behind the enemy…"

"…and strike through their heart in a flash of thunder."

Araki analyzed based on the characteristics of Sasakibe's Zanpakutō.

"Go around behind the enemy like a shadow and attack?!"

"I understand! I finally understand!"

Upon hearing Araki's insight, Sasakibe's eyes lit up, as if he'd grasped some deep truth.

Perhaps even Araki hadn't expected that a few casual tips—based on memories from his past life—would birth the sixth-oldest "backstab king" in the Soul Society.

"It's good that you understand," Araki nodded at Sasakibe's newfound confidence.

"But don't slack on your training—Shunpō, Hakuda, Kidō, and Zanjutsu are the foundation of a Shinigami's strength. I'm sure Old Man Yama told you: your Zanpakutō isn't everything. True strength comes from mastering the Four Pillars of Combat."

Reminded of how helpless he'd looked when Araki disarmed him earlier, Sasakibe nodded seriously.

"You're right. I won't let myself be that vulnerable again. Next time, even without my Zanpakutō, I'll be ready."

He clenched his fists and looked at Araki.

"Araki, can you be my coach in the four foundational arts—Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Hohō, and Kidō? With your help, I know I can improve fast!"

"Forget about me," Araki waved him off with a smirk.

"I found you someone better than me."

"You're my bro, after all. No need to thank me~"

Sasakibe blinked in confusion at Araki's teasing, almost pitying expression. Before he could ask anything more, Araki turned and walked off.

"A better coach than Araki...?"

Sasakibe murmured, stunned. Who in the 11th Division could possibly surpass Araki's instruction?

"Ah~ Vice-Captain Sasakibe? What a coincidence to meet again."

A soft, elegant female voice called out from the right.

"Captain Unohana?!"

Sasakibe turned in surprise and bowed instinctively. But the moment he saw her faint smile, an ominous chill rose in his chest.

"Captain Unohana," he asked warily, "About this coach Araki mentioned... when will they be arriving?"

He already had a dreadful hunch—but his survival instincts compelled him to ask anyway.

"Vice-Captain Sasakibe, you jest~"

"Why, the coach is standing right in front of you."

With a serene smile, Unohana Retsu gently loosened her long hair. Her dark locks cascaded down her neck like ink across snow.

But in that instant, her gentle aura twisted into something primal and bloodthirsty—Kenpachi Unohana, the demon in healer's clothing, had awoken.

"Is it too late for me to go back...?"

Sasakibe Chojiro whispered, face twitching at the sight of the original Kenpachi's blood-drenched killing intent.

And in that moment, he deeply regretted seeking Araki's training.

On the other side, Araki returned to the 11th Division's main office. He didn't nap on the couch like usual.

Instead, he stood in silence for three seconds... in memory of his dear friend Chojiro Sasakibe.

"Thank you, Araki..."

Sasakibe, meanwhile, stared at the blood-soaked battlefield ahead and forced a bitter smile.

Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.