"Hah… hah…"
Fujimiya Makoto gasped for air, eyes bloodshot, hands clutching the black fabric in front of him, drenched in sweat.
His spiritual pressure fluctuated wildly, as though he'd suffered severe internal injuries.
The pain—clear, visceral, as if he'd been torn apart from the inside—left him with the disorienting sensation of having actually died once.
What the hell was that?
He had entered sword meditation assuming his zanpakutō couldn't truly harm him.
But the agony seared into his psyche made one thing clear:
If he wasn't careful, he might really die.
His head throbbed.
Amid the pain, Yamamoto's words echoed in his mind:
"Two identical beings—who dominates the battle, and who becomes the subordinate?"
"What separates them?"
Once, Fujimiya Makoto had treated this as little more than an amusing philosophical question.
Now, he understood the life-or-death struggle between king and steed.
"...Instinct."
He muttered to himself.
If he couldn't master his zanpakutō, it would master him.
That was the nature of survival.
That was why zanpakutō powers were called—"release."
Freedom from the cage of a Shinigami's instincts.
Release.
Fujimiya Makoto took a deep breath.
Huh?
It smells nice.
"HEY!!"
Saitō Furafushi's voice, thick with barely restrained fury, snapped him back to reality.
She knelt above him, her single eye twitching, staring down at the man who'd been face-first in her lap, inhaling deeply the moment he woke up.
Her small, deceptively delicate fist—hard as stone—thumped against his skull.
"You bastard! How long are you gonna keep sniffing there?!"
"Are you done yet?! My legs are numb!!"
She snatched his zanpakutō and tossed it aside, then hauled him up by the collar, snarling:
"And I never agreed to this in the first place!"
"If you're awake, get up!"
"And show me your Shikai!"
"Or you're dead today!"
Despite her "old me" affectation, her tantrum was downright childish.
Her slightly chubby cheeks were still tinged pink.
Cute!
Fujimiya Makoto rubbed his head, then sighed. "Saitō, this was my first time meditating."
"You can't expect Shikai right away."
"Also, I'll need your help with future sessions!"
He clasped his hands together, utterly shameless.
"HA—?!"
Her eye bulged.
"Why the hell should I?!"
Fujimiya Makoto smiled. "Because my zanpakutō likes you."
"And it's crazy strong."
Saitō Furafushi faltered.
The word "strong" always gave her pause.
Seizing the moment, Fujimiya Makoto pressed on: "Know how I 'died' in there?"
"Don't drag it out—spit it out!"
"One glance." He held up a finger. "I said one wrong thing, and pop—I exploded."
"And that was probably just one of its abilities."
"Who knows how many more there are?"
Saitō Furafushi's violet eye gleamed with bloodlust, her lips curling into a frenzied grin.
So that's why his spiritual pressure dropped so sharply…
His own zanpakutō wrecked him?!
Fujimiya Makoto might've been an idiot with questionable tastes, but he wasn't a liar.
If he said it was strong, it had to be.
The thought sent a thrill through her.
But…
Help him meditate again?
She glanced at him, conflicted.
So annoying…
Just then, a calm voice cut through the air:
"There you are, Makoto."
"If you're done playing, we have business to attend to."
"Genryūsai has called a meeting."
Unohana stood at the edge of the training ground, her usual detached expression in place.
Probably fresh from "studying medicine."
"Understood."
Fujimiya Makoto moved to stand—
Only for a pair of slender legs to suddenly hook around his neck, yanking him back down, his face smushed against Saitō's stomach.
"Hey hey hey!"
"Unohana-sensei~!"
Saitō Furafushi grinned, pinning Fujimiya Makoto's head to her lap as he flailed uselessly, muffled protests escaping.
She looked up at Unohana, her smile dripping with挑衅.
"Our game isn't over yet!"
"This guy loooves me."
"He's been glued here the whole time!"
She tilted her chin up, sneering. "If you're busy, feel free to wait!"
Pure, unadulterated taunting.
"Is that so?"
Unohana glanced between them—then nodded.
"A fitting game."
A vein pulsed in Saitō's forehead.
"OI—!"
"Don't look down on me, damn it!"
Unohana ignored her, turning away.
"Makoto."
"Don't forget."
Saitō Furafushi shot to her feet, teeth gritted, glaring at the retreating figure.
But she didn't give chase.
"That woman…"
She fumed, though it wasn't clear what exactly she was angry about.
Fujimiya Makoto rubbed his neck—nearly crushed by her thighs.
After his time at the Genji School, he'd pieced together why Saitō kept provoking Unohana.
Simple.
Six fights. Six losses.
And each time, Unohana had spared her at the last moment—to prove she could.
For a prideful madwoman like Saitō, the humiliation was unbearable.
But Unohana had long since grown bored.
Watching Saitō seethe, Fujimiya Makoto sighed. "You can't beat her. Why keep picking fights?"
Saitō planted her hands on her hips, eyes blazing.
"I know I can't win!"
"But I refuse to accept it!"
"Got a problem with that?!"
"..."
"Damn it!"
Her fury only grew as she stared after Unohana.
Finally, as if struck by inspiration, she whirled on Fujimiya Makoto.
"HEY!"
"Makoto, get over here!"
Saitō Furafushi was pissed.
---
Sure enough.
By the time Fujimiya Makoto entered the dojo, Unohana took one look at her battered, bruised student—freshly beaten black and blue—and smiled faintly.
How well they get along.