Bleach: Watch Closely, This Is How You Use a Zanpakutō novel Chapter 472

Chapter 472: Chapter 472: Truly Hungry

Half a month later, on a clear, sunny day with a gentle breeze brushing across his face...

At the 1st Division barracks, Masatsuki Aozaki looked up from a pile of corpses and scarlet bloodstains, gazing out at the beautiful scene before him.

The morning mist was lighter than usual. Through the dojo gates, he could clearly see the world outside.

Grass and cherry blossoms swayed gently in the wind, as if joyfully dancing. In the distance, rows of elegant houses stood freshly renovated—clean, orderly, waiting for new hands to care for them again.

Petals drifted through the air like pink snowflakes. Through their scattered gaps, Masatsuki caught sight of his Lieutenant weaving busily through the blossoms, occasionally stopping to greet the squad members with cheerful enthusiasm.

His white haori stood out strikingly in the sea of color.

At the entrance, Senna and Nozomi Kujō stood quietly on either side, like ceremonial guards, patiently awaiting something.

Masatsuki stretched lazily, let out a long yawn, and began putting on his Shihakushō and Captain-Commander uniform.

As he adjusted his attire, a devilish grin spread across his face.

He waved at the "corpses" sprawled around him and called out loudly,

"Hey hey, enough playing dead, you old ghosts! Get up! So—have you had enough, or not? If not, I’m happy to keep going!"

At his words, the mangled "bodies" scattered across the dojo floor abruptly returned to their original states.

The pools of blood vanished without a trace, as if the entire scene had never happened.

It was eerie—deeply so. But Masatsuki, clearly used to it, just kept grinning like a demon.

This was the heart of the 1st Division—the dojo attached to the Captain-Commander’s office.

It had been two weeks since the Central 46 Compound issued its directive, but these monsters—former First Generation captains—hadn’t taken it seriously at all.

They were the same old devils the old man once subdued with steel and fire, and they had no reverence for vague titles or hollow authority.

So Masatsuki decided to follow the old man’s example.

If they wouldn’t listen?

Then he’d beat them into submission.

"I give! I give! Son-in-law, I’m really convinced this time! For Yoruichi’s sake, spare this old ancestor, will you?!"

Chika Shihōin scrambled up from the floor, waving his hands desperately in surrender.

At this point, he’d lost count of how many times Masatsuki had blown his body to pieces.

Each time, it was restored—revived by some bizarre power Masatsuki wielded, leaving him whole again, as if nothing had happened.

It wasn’t resurrection—not in the traditional sense. It felt more like... the very concept of their deaths had been rewritten.

None of them could understand that kind of power. And frankly, none of them wanted to try.

Sure, they all loved a good fight.

But they weren’t masochists.

Being helplessly crushed, without even the chance to counterattack—this wasn’t a battle. It was a one-sided massacre.

There was nothing satisfying about it.

Honestly, brawling with that madman Kenpachi Zaraki from the 11th Division sounded way more entertaining.

Masatsuki narrowed his eyes at the old man in front of him, his gaze sharp and cold.

Yeah... definitely Yoruichi’s bloodline. He’d blown this guy apart over a dozen times, and the man still had the guts to crack jokes.

Still, after spending time around him, Masatsuki had come to understand the guy’s personality.

This was just who he was.

Even if they were all ruthless demons who once painted battlefields red, it didn’t mean they were devoid of emotion.

Masatsuki glanced around.

Everyone else was either nodding with a faint smile or standing quietly on the sidelines.

No one spoke up.

In a setting like this, silence spoke volumes—it was as good as agreement.

"Very good. From this moment on, you are officially part of the Special Guard Unit."

Masatsuki Aozaki nodded with satisfaction, a flicker of authority flashing in his eyes.

Was Yamamoto’s little disciple... seriously that desperate?

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