BLEACH: DRINKING MAKES ME STRONGER

Roar!

A deafening sound—like the roar of a great beast—tore through the air.

A shockwave of reiryoku-infused wind erupted from the center of the narrow space, sending the gathered examinees stumbling backward. Several were lifted clean off their feet and slammed against the enclosing walls, knocked out cold from the sheer force.

Even captains like Kyoraku Shunsui and Aizen Sōsuke, watching from behind the barrier, narrowed their eyes, momentarily caught off guard by the surge of spiritual pressure. Though their composure returned in seconds, their surprise was evident.

But no one could afford distraction.

All eyes turned toward the source of the explosion.

A pitch-black dragon-shaped torrent of spiritual energy surged toward Shiba Kuroba, who stood at its epicenter, right hand raised calmly.

Boom!

The massive manifestation collided with Kuroba's outstretched hand. Instead of being obliterated, he remained rooted in place. The black reiryoku dissipated violently around him, engulfing the space in a choking fog of raw power.

When the haze settled, what everyone saw stunned them.

In Kuroba's hand was a Zanpakutō.

The once-unformed Asauchi had transformed. Its blade—now pristine silver—gleamed in the subdued light, its tsuba shaped like a coiled dragon. Along the flat of the blade, a subtle etched pattern resembling scales shimmered faintly.

The sword thrummed with life. Its spiritual pressure had completely overwritten the chaos of the narrow space. All around, the once-uncontrollable Asauchi that had been thrashing on the frozen lake stilled, as though silenced by the emergence of a dominant soul.

The barrier that had nearly been shattered now stood stabilized again, though faint wisps of black energy clung to the edges.

Then, Kuroba grinned.

"Burp—Did you see that? That's my Zanpakutō," he said, swaying slightly. "Anyone who says I don't have a sword anymore? I'll get real mad."

He hiccupped, clearly still intoxicated.

"Also… why do you guys only get one? I got three…"

The stunned silence broke like glass.

Even Hinamori, Kyoraku, and the ever-calm Aizen Sōsuke stared with widened eyes.

Sure enough, on Kuroba's waist were now two additional Zanpakutō—each with a distinct hilt and scabbard.

"What the—? When did those appear?"

"That's… impossible," murmured Kyoraku, frowning deeply. "No Shinigami can form more than one true Zanpakutō. Not unless…"

Even Aizen, for once, had no immediate response. He stared at Kuroba with narrowed, calculating eyes.

Some of the watching candidates, especially those who had failed to resonate with any Asauchi, began murmuring.

"Ow! What the hell, man?"

"Just making sure I'm not dreaming. That slap hurt, so this is real—Shiba Kuroba has three Zanpakutō!"

The murmurs became a cacophony of outrage, disbelief, and envy.

To form one Zanpakutō required intense spiritual synchronization and soul harmonization. To form three was unprecedented.

Some, like Aoi Da and Boa Akagao, grew visibly tense. Jealousy clouded their expressions.

Then, as if on cue, Aoi Da pointed and shouted.

"That's my Zanpakutō! He stole it from me!"

Boa Akagao stepped forward, seizing the moment.

"I recognize the other one too! Kuroba must've used some trick—there's no way anyone forms three Zanpakutō in one assessment!"

Their voices rang across the field, attempting to twist perception and reclaim their honor.

But those with clearer minds knew better.

Kuroba's spiritual pressure was unmistakably his. The swords on his body responded to him alone. And more importantly, none of them displayed the hallmarks of being forcibly taken—as would be the case if someone had stolen a forming Zanpakutō.

From within the field, the three Zanpakutō shimmered in unison, each subtly resonating with Kuroba's soul.

Most importantly, there were still dozens of candidates here. If they truly intended to snatch a Zanpakutō...

No drunkard could stop them.

Especially after the chaos in the Narikomichi—the narrow space where the Asauchi selection took place—and witnessing the bizarre, almost brutal efficiency with which Kuroba had handled things, many had already lost their composure.

Aoi Dai and Boa Akagao exchanged a subtle glance. Despite their differing styles, they came to an unspoken consensus:

If there was a chance to take down Kuroba and steal a Zanpakutō, they would seize it.

"Move! That Zanpakutō is mine!"

"Hurry! There are only two left—we won't get another chance!"

"Get out of the way! You think I'm letting you take my shot at becoming a Shinigami?"

Shouts exploded across the courtyard just outside the now-fading barrier that had contained the examination space.

One Zanpakutō had fully manifested and been accepted—floating in the air, its spirit form already fading as it bonded with its master. The remaining two, though not yet visible, gave off faint spiritual pressure signatures.

That flicker of hope was enough to drive them to madness.

"Are you all insane?! This is still part of the entrance evaluation. Any misconduct will lead to immediate expulsion!"

Kyoraku Shunsui barked, stepping forward, hat tilted back, voice unusually stern.

But the students weren't listening. The thought of failing the Academy entrance—of never even acquiring a Zanpakutō—was more terrifying than any reprimand.

Then, over the clamor came a voice, strained with urgency:

"Idiots! Run! That guy doesn't hold back—he'll cut you down like you're nothing!"

Everyone froze.

In the middle of the crowd, still swaying slightly with drunken steps, stood Shiba Kuroba, his hair tousled, sake bottle dangling from one hand. His other hand lazily rubbed his temple.

"Huh? You want me to cut them?" he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. "Well... if they insist… guess I'll do it… reluctantly."

The tone was soft—too soft—but to the crowd, it rang like a death sentence.

Kyoraku's eyes narrowed. "Tch. That idiot's pretending to misunderstand again…"

It was clear he hadn't given the order, but Kuroba's deliberate misinterpretation left the candidates with little room to doubt his intent.

Could Shiba Kuroba, clearly drunk and unsteady, truly take on a crowd of desperate academy hopefuls?

Wouldn't he be overwhelmed in a heartbeat?

"Don't hesitate! He's just one person!" Aoi Dai snapped, eyes bloodshot, his own Asauchi dull and unresponsive. "This is our last chance!"

At his signal, the tide surged.

Dozens of spiritual energy flares burst into action, the mob closing in.

But just as they reached striking distance, Kuroba suddenly dropped low, one foot grinding into the dirt for stability. His body arched in a tense coil—like a beast preparing to pounce.

In a flash, his hand gripped the hilt of his Zanpakutō—its jet-black surface whispering like smoke.

Far off in the crowd, Rukia Kuchiki, still standing among the instructors, felt her breath catch.

That stance—

The morning's sparring session replayed in her mind. The sharpness. The intent.

"Run... run now!" she screamed. "He will really cut you!"

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