Even though Unohana had long concealed her edge, the captains of the Gotei 13 still regarded her with the kind of reverence one reserves for unfathomable forces.
She had been captain for so long that her existence itself carried the weight of myth. No one doubted that if she ever drew her blade again, even the heavens would tremble.
The same was true for all three captains overseeing the captain's assessment today.
Each of them was among the elite — those who had already transcended the limits of mortal shinigami.
Only the truly strong were allowed to measure another's qualification for command.
Strength was not a privilege; it was a responsibility.
If someone like Hitsugaya Toshiro, still young and unrefined in his own Bankai, were to oversee such an assessment, it would be meaningless.
His power, while impressive, was incomplete — not yet tempered by centuries of mastery.
A captain who must rely on Bankai from the start to prove their own level could hardly be the one to test others.
The purpose of a captain's assessment was to judge composure, balance, and instinct — the qualities that defined command, not just strength.
Shigure stood in silence, the weight of three powerful reiatsu fields pressing gently around him.
He waited quietly, feeling the subtle rhythm of the room — the breath of power held back, the tension before the inevitable clash.
Then, from among the three, one stepped forward.
The figure who approached him moved with unhurried grace. Her expression was calm, soft even, but with each step she took, the warmth drained from the air.
By the time she stood before Shigure, that gentleness had been replaced by something sharp — absolute and deliberate.
"Captain Unohana?" Shigure's voice was surprised despite himself.
He had known that Unohana was once the First Generation Kenpachi.
But knowing it and standing before that presence were two entirely different things.
He had expected Yamamoto or Kirio to step forward — not her.
He guessed wrong.
Unohana's gaze was tranquil yet penetrating. "Do you understand the meaning of Kenpachi?"
Shigure's brow lifted slightly, but he answered without hesitation. "Kenpachi is the title given by the Soul Society to the strongest Shinigami."
"That is correct," Unohana replied evenly, "but not entirely complete."
Her voice deepened, carrying a certain weight of time and truth.
"The true meaning of Kenpachi (Sword-Eight) is a swordsman who has mastered every style — one who has experienced all schools of swordsmanship known to the world. The so-called 'eight thousand styles' represents infinity itself."
She spoke the word with quiet reverence, yet there was an unspoken echo within it — the name she once bore, Yachiru, the "Eight Thousand Styles".
The number eight thousand was not literal. It symbolized endlessness, encompassing every possible form, every possible strike.
"I see." Shigure replied.
Of course, he already knew the history behind the name, but he understood the need to play his role. He smiled lightly, nodding with the respectful air of a student before a teacher.
Unohana continued, "I have lived long enough to call myself a Grandmaster in the way of the sword. At the head-captain's request, I will be the one to test you."
Her words were calm, but there was a faint tension beneath them — a rare flicker of emotion.
When Yamamoto had approached her to serve as an assessor, she had hesitated.
She was no longer the Kenpachi of blood and madness — she had laid that name to rest long ago.
Now, she was Unohana Retsu, healer of the Fourth Division.
But Yamamoto's reasoning had struck her heart.
Kenpachi Azashiro had fallen into disgrace.
The name of Kenpachi — that sacred mantle of strength — had been stained by sin.
The next bearer had to be more than strong; they had to be worthy.
"If one without resolve inherits the name of Kenpachi," Yamamoto had told her, "the name itself will lose meaning. You, Unohana, must be the one to judge the next."
Those words had stirred her.
She had once surrendered her title after being defeated — believing herself unworthy of the name she had carved in blood.
Since then, seven generations had risen in her shadow, each claiming the name of Kenpachi.
None had surpassed her in mastery, but each had honored the spirit of the title in strength and courage.
And now, perhaps, a new one would rise.
Unohana looked at Gosuke Shigure — the man who had defeated Azashiro Soya.
'If Kyoraku's words are true,' she thought, 'then he might indeed carry the spirit of that name.'
Outwardly, she spoke softly. "Then, let us begin."
Shigure inclined his head slightly. "As you wish, Captain Unohana."
Unohana drew her Zanpakutō in a smooth motion. The air trembled faintly as her blade left its sheath.
Her movements were as silent as falling petals — yet each one carried the lethality of a storm.
There was no release phrase, no need for Shikai or Bankai.
This was not a duel of liberation, but of swordsmanship.
Her blade flickered — slash! — cutting through the air toward Shigure.
Despite her calm, her attack was razor-sharp, perfect in angle and timing.
Shigure tilted his body just slightly, and his figure blurred — Shunpo carrying him aside in a single, graceful motion.
The blade missed by inches.
When Unohana's second strike came, faster than the first, Shigure drew his own Zanpakutō, meeting her with a clean counter.
Steel clashed against steel — clang! — and a surge of energy burst outward, distorting the air around them.
Even without Shikai, their blades screamed with overwhelming Reiatsu.
The ground cracked beneath their feet as both exerted a fraction more of their power.
Yamamoto and Kirio had already withdrawn to the edge of the training ground, observing in silence.
"What formidable precision." Kirio murmured, her gaze narrowing. "Her strikes… every one of them cuts through the air itself."
Yamamoto said nothing. His ancient eyes remained fixed on the exchange, his expression unreadable.
Unohana's movements became fluid, almost ethereal.
In mere moments, she transitioned through multiple sword styles — her footwork shifting from graceful arcs to abrupt linear thrusts, her attacks alternating between deceptive feints and brutal overhead cuts.
Each strike embodied a different school of kendo.
Some were defensive, some offensive, some built to maim, others to kill — yet each one flowed into the next like water changing shape.
The nickname "Eight Thousand Styles" was no exaggeration.
Her swordsmanship encompassed all possibilities.
Any ordinary shinigami facing her would have been crushed long before the second exchange.
Yet Shigure met every attack — blade for blade, step for step.
He did not release his Zanpakutō, nor call upon Kidō.
He relied purely on skill, speed, and control — his own Shunpo keeping pace with her footwork, his strikes deflecting hers with fluid precision.
Unohana's eyes glimmered, faint admiration hiding behind their calm.
She could feel the rhythm of his movements — no wasted motion, no panic, no arrogance.
It was the poise of one who had already seen death countless times.
Their blades met once more — boom! — a shockwave tearing through the training field, scattering dust into the air.
*****
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✓ Killed For 100 Years in Hueco Mundo, Aizen Invited Me To Soul Society!
✓ Naruto: Senmei Asahi
✓ Naruto: Uchiha's Intelligence Dealer
✓ Naruto: The Fifth Hokage Is Naruto's Uncle
✓ Naruto: Who Made Him a Ninja?
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✓ To Love-Ru: Spoiler Route [R-18]
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✓ The Academy's Saint Is Too Popular, But He's Not the Protagonist [R-18]