"Ok?"
The man named Zaraki slowly opened his eyes. He rose lazily to his feet, then stuck a thick finger in his ear, twisted it a few times, and flicked the wax away with a grunt of disinterest.
Then he turned his gaze to the battered middle-aged man. "You say someone wants to challenge me?"
"Yes, Master Zaraki! You're the strongest in the entire Zaraki District!"
"But today, someone dares to stand against you!"
The man's voice rang out loudly, intentionally provocative—he was clearly hoping to incite a fight between Zaraki and Gosuke Shigure. In the resulting chaos, he might seize the chance to flee.
Such is the way of those who survive in the outermost district.
In Zaraki, you don't live unless you're cunning, cruel, or unreasonably strong.
The middle-aged man wasn't a warrior of note. But what he lacked in strength, he made up for with slyness. That slyness had kept him alive—until now.
Still, his attempt at sowing discord was clumsy and obvious.
Anyone could see through it.
At least, anyone paying attention.
As Gosuke Shigure silently criticized the poor attempt, Zaraki's eyes locked onto him. The gleam in his gaze ignited, burning with raw excitement.
"So... you're the one challenging me?"
He cracked his neck, grinning wildly.
"How interesting."
Zaraki muttered to himself as he stepped forward. Something about the way Gosuke wore his uniform—black shihakushō beneath a white haori—stirred his memory.
It reminded him of someone.
A woman.
Someone he once fought long ago—someone who had shown him the thrill of a real battle. That person had changed him forever.
Though her name—Unohana—was long gone from conversation, the memory of that fight still pulsed in his blood.
Since then, he hadn't found anyone worth remembering.
Until now.
To Gosuke, it was obvious—this was the man he'd been searching for.
The strongest soul in the Zaraki District.
If he could recruit Zaraki into the Gotei 13, specifically into the Eleventh Division, his own burdens as its captain would be drastically reduced. With Zaraki's obsession with battle, he'd accept any mission without hesitation or reward. Gosuke could simply remain in the barracks, sipping tea and dealing with paperwork.
But talking wouldn't persuade a man like this.
No, someone like Zaraki only understood strength.
Words wouldn't work.
This had to be settled through combat.
Zaraki's grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting.
"Well then. Let's not waste time."
With that, the towering man lunged forward. His rusted, chipped zanpakutō swung down in a brutal overhead slash—devoid of finesse, but monstrous in raw power.
The middle-aged man next to Gosuke froze.
Terror surged through him. Every nerve screamed to run, but his body wouldn't obey. Under Zaraki's spiritual pressure—though unrefined—it was like standing beneath a collapsing mountain.
This is it! I'm gonna die...!
Panic clawed at his chest. Then suddenly—
A hand gripped his collar.
Gosuke Shigure yanked him to the side and tossed him away, sparing his life for the moment. Despite the man's earlier schemes, he had served his purpose by guiding Gosuke to Zaraki. He didn't deserve to die just yet.
At the same time, Gosuke drew his zanpakutō with his other hand.
In an instant, blade met blade.
Gosuke's sealed zanpakutō intercepted Zaraki's strike with precise timing and minimal effort.
Zaraki's eyes sparkled with bloodlust.
"Keh... not bad."
Over the years, he had grown numb from fighting the same weaklings. No one here challenged him anymore. Most souls avoided him outright. And yet, somehow, fresh drinking water always appeared nearby—left by others too scared to fight over it.
This wasn't generosity. It was appeasement.
No one wanted to see Zaraki fighting for something so mundane as water.
They simply offered it preemptively—hoping to be spared.
But now, Gosuke Shigure was standing tall before him, blade steady, unshaken by his slash.
Zaraki couldn't remember the last time someone had blocked his strike so casually.
His grin twisted.
He raised his blade again.
This time, the pressure behind it doubled.
Though Zaraki had never attended the Shin'ō Academy, nor been trained as a Shinigami, his innate spiritual power—his Reiatsu—was monstrous. And though he lacked control, his strikes still carried overwhelming force.
Gosuke stepped back slightly.
He recognized the raw danger here.
Though Zaraki hadn't yet earned the name Kenpachi, his power already rivaled that of any captain. He hadn't been taught how to use his spiritual energy efficiently, but the sheer volume of it—wild and untamed—was frightening.
And Gosuke remembered the painful lesson from his previous life.
Back then, he'd soared to the peak of Shinigami rank—arrogant and unchallenged—only to die early, long before the "main plot" unfolded.
This time around, he wouldn't make the same mistake.
Caution was survival.
Dodging Zaraki's brutal strike, Gosuke countered.
He swung his blade low, channeling concentrated Reiatsu into the strike. A burst of crescent-shaped spiritual energy surged toward Zaraki like a scythe of light.
Zaraki responded with glee, his blade rising to block.
But something unexpected happened.
The crescent split midair—dividing into twin arcs.
He deflected the first, but the second sliced through his side.
Squelch!
Blood sprayed across the dry earth. A deep wound tore across Zaraki's torso, drenching his ragged uniform. Drops of crimson streaked his face, making his savage grin even more terrifying.
But he didn't flinch.
He laughed.
"YES! That's it! That's what I've been waiting for!"
"So fun... so fun!"
The wound seemed only to fuel his ferocity. He charged again, his blade swinging faster now—every movement driven by instinct, not training.
Pain didn't hinder him.
It exhilarated him.
Gosuke met him, their blades clashing with thunderous force, shaking the dust from the trees and sending shockwaves through the forest.
And yet, deep down, Gosuke knew—
This was just the beginning.
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