NOTAKING
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Ble@ch: Chapter 65
🕑 Added 2025-05-09 22:00:04 +0000 UTCAfter Yoruichi finished explaining the basics of Bankai—what it meant, and how it would push him far beyond the power of a typical Soul Reaper—she led Ichigo deeper into the underground chamber.
The air shifted. It was denser here. Alive. Waiting.
In the center of the stone floor stood a large ceremonial doll wrapped in white bindings—the Tenshintai, a forbidden training artifact used to forcibly manifest a zanpakutō’s spirit.
Yoruichi stepped back. “You’ve got three days. Try not to die.”
Ichigo cracked his neck, then walked up to the Tenshintai. The moment he touched it, a surge of spiritual pressure exploded outward—pulling him into his inner world.
Wind roared around him. Skyscrapers rose in all directions, stretching into an upside-down sky. Water rushed beneath his feet, though he stood on nothing at all. This was familiar.
And then, standing there as always, was the man in black robes and glasses—what Ichigo once believed to be Zangetsu.
But this time, Ichigo narrowed his eyes.
“I know you're not Zangetsu, you know,” he said bluntly.
The spirit gave him a knowing smile. “Oh? And what makes you say that?”
Ichigo crossed his arms. “You’re not a part of my Soul Reaper power. You’ve been holding me back, guiding me—but not as my true zanpakutō.”
The man tilted his head. “Then tell me… what is my name?”
Ichigo frowned. He opened his mouth—but the word refused to come out. A pressure wrapped around his throat, sealing it.
“It's…” He paused, frustrated. “...I know it. But I can’t say it. Something's stopping me.”
The spirit's smile didn’t fade. “Well, for now, that does not matter.”
Suddenly, the skyscrapers and tilted sky of Ichigo’s inner world cracked like glass—and reality snapped.
He was back in the underground training ground, but it wasn’t the same.
The air grew thick with spiritual pressure, warping space itself. A massive boom rang out like thunderclap, and a pulse of dense reiatsu rippled through the ground, shaking the walls.
In an instant, thousands of swords erupted around Ichigo—stabbing up from the earth, dangling from above, or hovering in the air as if suspended by invisible threads. Each one was unique—different lengths, curves, hilts, and blades—ranging from polished katanas to massive broadswords, delicate daggers, and even jagged, rusted cleavers. Some glowed faintly, others pulsed with menace.
Only one was real.
The one that could cut down the spirit standing before him.
“Only one of these blades can harm me,” the spirit said, his voice echoing with layered resonance that made the air hum. “Find it. Claim it. And defeat me.”
Ichigo looked down at his hand—empty. His zanpakutō was gone.
He glanced up, scanning the impossible field of weapons, then cracked his knuckles and grinned.
“This won’t take more than an hour,” he said, a confident glint in his eyes.
Meanwhile...
Yoruichi stood on the outer edge of the training ground, arms crossed, keeping her eyes fixed on Ichigo’s still form. His body sat kneeling, surrounded by a soft aura of spiritual energy.
But she wasn’t just watching.
Her mind kept drifting—back to earlier. To the moment Ichigo had dared to wrap his arm around her waist, and that cocky smirk he gave her like he already knew the effect he had.
Her cheeks warmed before she could stop it.
‘Tch… I won’t let him fluster me again,’ she thought, shaking her head slightly. ‘He’s younger than me. Too bold for his own good.’
And yet, there was something about this Ichigo that felt… different. Like he wasn’t just gaining power—he was becoming someone else. Someone who walked with purpose, spoke with clarity, and flirted like he meant it.
Her eyes narrowed. “You better focus on your training, playboy,” she muttered under her breath. “Because once you’re done in there, I’ll be testing more than your swordplay.”
She smirked, then turned her gaze back to the center of the room, where Ichigo’s soul was locked in combat with destiny.
.....
While Ichigo remained locked in his trial to master Bankai, chaos brewed across the Soul Society.
Outside the underground training chamber, in the shadowed corridors of Seireitei, blood had already been spilled.
Elsewhere…
Uryuu Ishida stood over the shattered remains of Mayuri Kurotsuchi’s lab. Smoke hissed from fractured machinery, and the twisted screeches of failed experiments echoed in the distance. Uryuu’s breath was ragged, his uniform torn and scorched from battle.
But Mayuri lay defeated, slumped against the wall, blood trailing from his mouth.
“I told you... never underestimate a Quincy,” Uryuu muttered, barely standing as his bow dissolved into faint particles of light.
He had won—but at a cost.
His spiritual pressure was fading. His Quincy powers had burned out from overuse and strain. Uryuu gritted his teeth and collapsed to one knee, eyes still locked on the still form of his enemy.
Meanwhile...
Chad and Ganju had not been as fortunate. Their bodies had been found unconscious near the edge of Squad 8’s barracks—easily overpowered by Captain Shunsui Kyoraku.
They now sat in a dim holding cell, bruised, chained with spiritual-restriction cuffs. Ganju muttered curses under his breath, while Chad remained quiet, his fists clenched in frustration.
“We weren’t strong enough,” Chad thought grimly. “We’re only holding Ichigo back.”
Within the 4th Division...
Captain Retsu Unohana stood in her private morgue, examining the lifeless body of Captain Sōsuke Aizen—or what remained of him.
Everything about the corpse was biologically sound. Pulse gone. Reiryoku extinguished. No irregularities in his spiritual network.
And yet…
Unohana narrowed her eyes. Something felt wrong. Her instincts—sharpened by centuries of bloodshed—told her the truth wasn't resting on that table.
“Aizen... you’re too clever to die so easily,” she whispered.
But there was no evidence to support her doubt.
Only Ichigo knew the truth.
Back in the training ground.
The storm of blades had thinned. Ichigo stood tall, sweat sliding down his temple. Cuts lined his arms, remnants of failed attempts.
But in his hand now was a sword that hummed with familiarity—a smooth obsidian blade with a red-wrapped hilt, slightly curved like a fang.
The moment he grasped it, the air shifted.
The false swords around him shattered into ash.
The spirit across from him grinned wider. “So… you’ve found it.”
Ichigo raised the blade and pointed it forward. “No. I claimed it.”
His reiatsu flared—hot, sharp, and fast. The entire world trembled under the weight of his will.
“Let’s finish this.”
TO BE CONTINUED 
