Bleach: The Shinigami’s Zanpakutō That Unleashed Bankai On Its Own

Silverfish Maru—a Zanpakutō that fuses Kidō and direct physical attacks. Its poisonous mist supports, while precision slashes deal the main damage. Combined, they exceed simple arithmetic. The blade, shaped like a silverfish's jaw, gleamed with deadly intent.

Yashichiwa Iemura unleashed his strongest strike, aiming to finish the fight instantly.

"The third seat has total control!"

"No suspense here. Moyu's finished."

"Early graduate or not, he's still too raw!"

"Lost the initiative. Classic rookie mistake."

Around the training ground, voices echoed with certainty—more than ninety-nine percent sure Yashichiwa would win. After all, miracles don't happen.

But then Moyu raised his head.

"A Zanpakutō... isn't used like that."

As the blade neared, his calm voice cut through the air.

"You hear it? Silverfish Maru is calling in the wind."

Yashichiwa's eyes widened in shock. Moyu calmly lifted his white right index finger.

"Hadō No. 4: Byakurai."

A brilliant white flash sparked at his fingertip—lightning before spring dawn, roaring across the training field, drowning all sound.

Yashichiwa instinctively raised his blade, trying to guard—but his Shikai, though respectable, was no match.

Boom—!

The searing white bolt exploded, blasting Yashichiwa backwards. His body plowed a trench through the ground, dragging a pale scar across the field until he hit the edge.

A shockwave erupted, sending wind howling across the arena.

Silence fell. Then disbelief.

"What the...?"

"He used just Hadō #4?"

"And overpowered a Shikai head-on?!"

Everyone stared at the deep gash in the ground.

The outcome had reversed in a single heartbeat.

"Cough—!"

From the smoke, Yashichiwa rose, blood on his lips, but defiance in his eyes.

"As expected... of an early graduate."

"But I won't fall that easily!"

Though rattled, his Reiatsu still pulsed strong. He could continue.

Moyu's violet eyes narrowed with interest.

"Kaidō mid-battle?"

"Didn't expect the Third Seat to be that refined."

Yashichiwa pressed a glowing green palm to his chest, Reiatsu knitting his wounds.

"Don't underestimate anyone, boy."

"Especially not the Fourth Division."

His voice grew deeper, fiercer. For years, others had mocked their division—medics, janitors, the forgotten ones. But Iemura Yashichiwa never accepted that.

Today, he'd prove it.

"Scattered beast bones—tower—red crystal—steel wheel—"

"Wind—strike! Sky—still! The clash of spears resounds in Hueco Mundo!"

"Witness my final strike—Moyu!"

"Hadō No. 63: Raikōhō!"

Golden lightning surged in Yashichiwa's hands, forming a storm-like orb. Thunder danced outward, electrifying the field. His entire Reiatsu poured into it, expanding it to full force.

"That's... excessive."

Moyu exhaled softly, watching the growing thunderball.

"If you insist…"

He raised his arm again.

"Then I'll match you."

"Hadō No. 63: Raikōhō!"

Two chants. Two thunderbolts. One final clash.