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So, Ichigo thinks at Zangetsu, staring at the sleek katana sitting innocently in his lap. He’s on the hospital bed, under the pristine white bedsheets soft to the touch, with his legs crossed from when he dived into his Inner World using Jinzen, not even half an hour ago.
He picks up the blade by its hilt, raises it slightly to inspect it more closely. It looks like a regular, sealed zanpakutō—which it is. He didn't know sealing his sword was something he could even do, until Zangetsu called him an idiot for assuming.
There's a sheath by his left hand, which Ichigo takes and slides the sword inside. It feels weird seeing his blade like that, even harder to believe that this piece of metal is Zangetsu. The usually wild reiatsu emitted from his blade is now more subdued, more tame. His shoulders feel less heavy, too, as if an invisible strain was finally lifted. He supposes that's the point of Shinigami sealing their zanpakutō in the first place.
What? You got any other questions? replies the spirit in his mind with mild interest.
God, it’s still weird hearing his voice so casually, without that twinge of bloodlust and insanity that Ichigo still half-expects from the Hollow. Not a bad thing, but it’ll take a while to get used to it, he supposes.
How do I unseal you? Ichigo asks, mentally cringing already, because he knows it'll just prove Zangetsu’s point about Ichigo being a dumbass.
What do you mean, how to unseal me? Zangetsu’s tone is disbelieving, incredulous, just as Ichigo expected him to be. You should already know how to do it. How to unseal me—I swear to god I ended up with the dumbest Shinigami ever.
“Hey! No one taught me this shit!” Ichigo splutters out loud, temporarily forgetting himself. “I need my Shikai!”
Use your inside thoughts, Zangetsu reminds him, voice amused. Ichigo bets he’s smirking, that smug asshole, can almost see his crooked grin twisting their face into something feral. For a split second, he thinks about picking a fight, but decides against it. After all, Zangetsu is the only one with the answers he needs to be a functional Shinigami.
I only released my Shikai that one time with the Old Man, he says, collecting his thoughts as he goes, hoping that it will be reason enough for Zangetsu to be helpful. And it was the old Shikai, the false one—
Yes, yes, yes, Zangetsu interrupts. The Shikai from two Shikai ago.
Yeah. That one. The oversized kitchen knife, he doesn't say.
Nothing fake about it.
Huh?
He blinks—once, twice.
The presence in his mind stirs ever so closer.
Yep, Zangetsu says, as if reading Ichigo’s silence as utter bewilderment. It’s not as strong as your current Shikai—obviously, the other guy ain’t fighting against me anymore. It was still just as real, though.
Ichigo frowns, the gears in his head turning at a hundred miles an hour. But it changed after my Fullbring— And then it got reforged by Nimaiya—
All me. Just accessing more of my power, Zangetsu confirms. ‘Cept the small trench knife that belongs to the Old Man, but I’m generous enough to let him share.
Cool. Cool, Ichigo says, feeling like an absolute idiot. It all makes too much sense. Maybe Zangetsu is right about him. So, technically, if I wanna control how much power I wanna let out…
Now you’re getting it, Zangetsu says, and Ichigo is almost sure he catches a hint of pride coming from the spirit. You can choose which form you summon. You’re the Shinigami here.
Oh, awesome. Ichigo’s mind is already racing through all the possibilities—he could switch mid-battle, to catch his opponent off guard. He could start off with the first form, then increase the power output as the battle goes on. He could switch from his dual Shikai to his first form to access a different fighting style—he never quite used the Shikai cloth to its fullest potential, like Zangetsu had shown him. He could—
And, Zangetsu interrupts with a soft chuckle, if you need something even better, I have a truly special form waiting for you.
Oh? He thought his dual Shikai would be the final form of his zanpakutō, but the way Zangetsu says it, sounds as if it’s something completely new and never seen before.
Mhm, says Zangetsu proudly, catching the direction of Ichigo’s thoughts. Only for truly dire situations, though. It’s way too powerful.
Oh, come on, Ichigo rolls his eyes. Zangetsu is buttering up that new form way too much. Now you got me curious.
Watch and learn, Zangetsu says, then yanks at his soul. The familiar feeling of falling envelops him all at once, and Ichigo resigns himself to entering his Inner World once more.
It doesn’t come up again until over a year later, when he’s standing trial in a stuffy old room full of stuffy old people.
Central 46 has grilled him about every time Zangetsu saved his life, or took over, or assisted Ichigo in the face of danger, twisting it beyond recognition. Where Zangetsu asserted his protection, they only saw Ichigo’s lack of control. Where he displayed power to defeat the enemy, they only saw the potential to be destroyed. His friends and allies were also questioned, but their attempt to vouch for them only seemed to confirm whatever the judges were looking for.
With every accusatory word of the head judge comes a sinking realization that they won’t let Ichigo go the same way he entered—they will not stand for a Hollowfied Shinigami muddying the ranks of Gotei 13. No matter what he says, no matter how he fights, they’ve already decided. They’re going to rip Zangetsu away from him. They’ll call it purification, but Ichigo knows better.
“And lastly,” the judge’s voice cuts through, cold and final, “your behavior here only confirms the inevitable. All evidence before us leaves no doubt: Kurosaki Ichigo is a danger to Soul Society. A threat that must be expertly dealt with.”
The air in the chamber thickens, the weight of the words suffocating, but Ichigo refuses to let the fear show. His mind is anything but silent—racing, calculating, bracing for what comes next.
And then it comes.
“The Council of Central 46 hereby sentences Kurosaki Ichigo to death by Sōkyoku.”
Zangetsu’s fury is a steady hum beneath the surface. You won’t let them, he says, voice full of certainty and something akin to faith, and neither will I. Then, he pushes another thought to Ichigo, It’s now or never.
Ichigo cannot help but agree.
He grips the handle of his sword, drawing out his blade. “I don’t think so.”
The head judge’s sunken eyes narrow, watching his every movement like a hawk. “You wouldn’t dare, boy.”
Ichigo keeps his voice quiet, but clear and steady. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Ichigo?”
He ignores the questioning look from Rukia and the slight crease between her eyebrows that appears when she frowns. Instead, he raises his spiritual pressure and makes a decision to skip Shikai entirely and murmur, “Bankai.”
He chooses a form best suited to quickly deal with this mess, manifesting the shape into the open—the sealed katana glows with a bright light and follows Ichigo’s will.
The shape of his zanpakutō stabilizes. Instead of a blade, a silver revolver sits tightly in his grip.
Zangetsu’s final form: Gungetsu.
“Ichigo?” Rukia repeats again, eyes fixed on the weapon in his hand. “Where’s your sword?”
He replies, “Don’t need it,” then aims it at the quivering Central judges.
He pulls the trigger. “Getsuga Gunsho.”
A beam of condensed reiatsu fires off, obliterating all 46 judges.
If there were 67 of them, maybe they could stand a chance. But alas.
Atta boy, says Zangetsu, proud of his Shinigami. Should have done that in Chapter 1.