"How about it?"
"Am I qualified to be your White Hits instructor?"
"This is Secret Footwork · One of the Four Maple Styles · Mirage. If you want to learn it, call me teacher—I'll teach you!"
An unusual sight played out before Akira's eyes.
All four versions of Shihōin Yoruichi turned to him in perfect synchronization and spoke those words in unison.
This wasn't a Kidō illusion or a simple afterimage. The technique was a form of Utsusemi (Empty Cicada) pushed to the extreme—a stealth movement that created corporeal mirages. By manipulating subtle shifts in step pressure and speed beyond the threshold of perceptual delay, she had split herself into four indistinguishable phantoms.
No wonder even the prideful Kuchiki Byakuya had secretly learned Utsusemi. Despite his aristocratic disdain, he'd used it to escape fatal blows multiple times—particularly during his fight with Ichigo in the Soul Society arc.
Akira stood still, his arms folded as he watched the four "Yoruichis" dart in every direction. He chuckled softly.
"You're showing off, huh?" he murmured. "But what if I can hit all four at once?"
Instead of chasing, he lightly raised his right foot—balanced like a spinning gyroscope—then whipped it outward.
Shfff—!
With a sharp whistle, a slash of compressed air ripped through the space in front of him. The arc-shaped pressure wave resembled a Getsuga Tenshō, but lacked any of Ichigo's spiritual pressure.
A clean, silent vacuum slash.
Yoruichi's eyes widened. She twisted her torso in mid-air, bending backward with one foot on the ground like a taut bowstring. With a sharp exhale, she flipped just in time—letting the invisible blade graze her golden skin.
At the same instant, she exploded upward in a burst of speed using Shunpō, launching herself high into the air to create distance.
But then—
A hand appeared behind her.
Smooth. Silent. Inevitable.
Like a steel claw, five fingers gripped the back of her neck and lifted her into the air like a kitten.
"Wha—when?!" she gasped, limbs instinctively lashing out in all directions.
But her arms and legs swung uselessly.
She was completely immobilized.
Strangled—not in pain—but subdued. Restrained without even the dignity of resistance.
"Hmph!"
Annoyed and flustered, Yoruichi stopped squirming and turned her head to glare at her captor.
Her violet eyes widened in disbelief.
Akira stood behind her with one hand around her neck, stepping lightly on thin air—without any visible Reiatsu, as if walking on an invisible staircase. It was not Shunpō. Not Hirenkyaku. Not even Air Walk as Quincy used.
"You…you can stay suspended in the air without Reiatsu?"
"What kind of footwork is this?"
"And that slash just now… your movement speed… that weird twisting dodge you used before—none of them had Reiatsu! What the hell are you doing?!"
The Goddess of Flash—renowned for her mastery of stealth and speed—was stunned speechless.
In Soul Society, it was well-known that Shinigami can't fly. They can only use spiritual pressure to momentarily support themselves mid-air. And yet, Akira moved freely in all directions as if bound by no such law.
"No tricks," Akira said calmly. "This is a new system of White Hits."
"It's called… Shinigami Six Styles."
"Want to learn? Call me teacher, and I'll teach you."
Yoruichi's eyes twitched. Even someone as carefree and confident as her couldn't hide the flicker of embarrassment. She had just teased him, pretending to offer him tutelage. Now, the tables had turned completely.
She gritted her teeth. Her tailbone bristled like a cat with its fur ruffled.
And yet…
Her heart beat faster.
As the Shihōin heiress, she'd trained in the most advanced Hakuda (hand-to-hand combat) and Shunpō techniques from birth. Yet what Akira just demonstrated… was a paradigm shift. It wasn't just footwork or force—it was an entire martial system built on physics, pressure, muscle control, and applied force vectors.
More importantly—he made it up from scratch.
A young man from Rukongai, reading a few textbooks at the Shin'ō Academy… and then surpassing thousands of years of tradition.
Akira smiled inwardly as he released his grip and gently set her down.
"Let me explain."
"Finger Pistol, Shaved, Moonwalk, Paper Arts, Tempest Kick, and Iron Body."
"Six techniques. Together, they form what I call the Shinigami Six Styles."
Yoruichi didn't say a word. But her ears twitched. Her posture relaxed. She listened—intently.
He broke it down:
Shaved (Soru): a footwork technique that surpasses standard Shunpō in short-burst velocity.
Moonwalk (Geppō): using air resistance and leg force to "walk" mid-air without spiritual support.
Finger Pistol (Shigan): a concentrated jab that can pierce like a blade.
Iron Body (Tekkai): locking muscles to become as hard as steel.
Tempest Kick (Rankyaku): creating a compressed air blade with leg movement.
Paper Arts (Kami-e): softening one's body to slip through attacks without spiritual evasion.
The techniques were alien to Soul Society's established system, yet they flowed perfectly from Hakuda fundamentals.
Yoruichi remained silent throughout.
She'd come today with the intention of teasing Akira, pretending to be the generous senior imparting knowledge. And now, without even asking, she'd been given something far more valuable.
It felt… unfair.
Akira caught the shift in her expression. The vibrant glint in her golden eyes had dulled.
He smiled softly.
"I know what you're thinking."
"But you're wrong."
"Your White Hits is still amazing. The Shihōin Secret Footwork… Utsusemi, Mirage, Senka—they're not obsolete. Just… different paths."
She scoffed. "You're just being polite."
"No," he said firmly. "What you've mastered is a legacy. What I've created is a system. Both have value. If you want… we can exchange."
Her ears perked up.
"You mean… a fair trade?"
She brightened up almost instantly.
The playful gleam returned to her eyes as she flipped backward, landed in a crouch, and said:
"Fine! In that case, let me show you all the Shihōin footwork—Mirage, Empty Cicada, Shadow Walk, and even Silent Step! This way, it's not teaching—just sharing."
Before Akira could respond, Yoruichi launched into a series of movements.
Each step vanished into silence. Each illusion left behind a plausible afterimage. Her body moved like a ribbon in the wind—sometimes vanishing, sometimes splitting into duplicates, sometimes appearing in impossible angles.
Even knowing the mechanics, Akira found it beautiful.
Like art.
She didn't hold back.
Everything she'd been taught. Everything passed down by Yoruichi Shihōin, the Goddess of Flash—she offered it openly, without reservation.
Because to her… it wasn't just about keeping up anymore.
It was about staying connected.
Akira had ascended too fast. And if she didn't take this chance… she feared she'd be left behind entirely.
In that moment, the air between them changed.
No longer mentor and student.
But peers—dancing across the battlefield of tradition and invention.
Together.
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