The shockwaves rippling through the training grounds from Yanagawa’s Raikōhō had yet to fully subside when a far more primal, savage torrent of spiritual pressure surged from the entrance like a physical tidal wave.
Every member of Squad 11—from Third Seat Madarame down to the lowliest recruit—saw their expression instantly shift from shock to a knee-jerk blend of awe and fanaticism.
They snapped their backs straight in unison, fixing their gazes on the doorway.
Yanagawa’s senses were the sharpest of all.
The very texture of this spiritual pressure differed from any Soul Reaper he had ever encountered.
It was steeped in the purest bloodlust and thirst for destruction—not something honed through standard discipline, but an innate instinct forged and tempered across endless slaughter.
“Yaha~ Looks like something fun’s going on!
Look, Kenny!”
A sweet, crisp, childlike voice rang out first.
Perched leisurely on the shoulder of a towering man was a tiny, doll-like girl with pink hair.
She swung her little legs, clutching half a skewer of konpeitō in her hand.
Her large amber eyes scanned the yard with keen interest, lingering especially on Yanagawa—the unfamiliar face.
The man carrying her—Captain Kenpachi Zaraki of Squad 11—strode inside without the slightest reservation.
Wild, spiky hair; a jagged scar running straight down across his eye; an open shihakushō revealing a chiseled chest.
The man radiated an overwhelming presence that screamed, *I’m the strongest bastard alive.*
His single eye barely spared a glance for his own men.
Instead, like a predator catching the scent of blood, his gaze locked straight onto Yanagawa in the center of the grounds, and Renji, who had just managed to steady himself opposite him in a rather disheveled state.
“Oh?” Kenpachi grinned, his smile dripping with the sheer thrill of discovering potential prey.
“Look at you, Renji.
Who beat you half to death?”
Renji snapped to attention.
Despite his battered state, he strove to maintain his pride before his captain.
“Reporting, Captain!
He was an academy classmate of mine, now a member of the Kidō Corps!
We were…
just sparring!”
“Sparring?
Left you in that shape?” Kenpachi’s lone eye raked over Yanagawa, sharp as a blade, as if gauging whether the kid’s bones were sturdy enough to withstand a good hacking.
“Putting you through the wringer like that…
color me interested.
Hey, you,” he barked, jerking his chin toward Yanagawa.
“What’s your name?
Come on, fight me.”
He offered the challenge as if it were the most natural thing in the world, his thirst for battle entirely undisguised.
Before Yanagawa could answer, however, Renji blurted out an instinctive caveat, his tone still tinged with the shock of having just weathered that blast: “Captain!
Yanagawa specializes in Kidō!”
“Kidō?”
The word struck like a bucket of ice water, instantly snuffing out most of the burning fire in Kenpachi’s eye.
The grin vanished from his lips, his brow knotting in irritation.
The spark of interest in his eye drained away at visible speed, replaced by blatant disgust.
“Kidō?” he repeated, his tone practically dripping with *that’s it?*, as though he had just been told the most boring thing on earth.
Still carrying Yachiru Kusajishi on his shoulder, he paced a couple of steps closer to Yanagawa, though the oppressive battle lust had largely dissipated.
“After all that, you’re just some clown playing with sparks and fire tricks?”
He clearly harbored zero interest in Kidō—something reliant on incantations, finesse, and control rather than the raw clash of steel and brute strength.
To him, combat was meant to be a visceral bloodbath where blades drew blood and fists met flesh; any manner of “trickery” was utterly tasteless.
Yachiru tilted her head atop his shoulder, glancing from Yanagawa to Kenpachi, and piped up in a small voice, “Aw, but Kenny, that ‘trick’ made a huge racket just now.
Renji’s even bleeding!”
“That just proves Renji’s too weak,” Kenpachi grunted dismissively, all desire to cross swords with Yanagawa thoroughly dead.
“Wait, Yanagawa!” Renji suddenly asked.
“Where’s your Zanpakuto?
Even if your Kidō is crazy good, a Zanpakuto is the core of a Soul Reaper, isn’t it?
Don’t tell me…
did you let your sword rust away in the Kidō Corps?”
The question hit the nail on the head.
In the Soul Society, a Zanpakuto was the symbol of a Soul Reaper’s power, identity, and very soul.
The vast majority considered training with their blade to be foundational.
Someone like Yanagawa—clearly boasting formidable strength, yet refusing to draw a blade even against a seated officer—was an outright anomaly.
All eyes once more swung onto Yanagawa.
Even Kenpachi, bored as he was, cast a faintly amused glance his way, curious to hear what excuse this “Kidō trickster” would drum up.
Faced with the scrutiny of the crowd, Yanagawa’s composure did not waver.
He answered with quiet candor, “I have a Zanpakuto, of course.
Though it’s true I haven’t used it in quite some time.”
He paused, seemingly organizing his thoughts, but his next words left everyone versed in standard Soul Reaper combat utterly stunned:
“To me, Kidō is the exploration and application of the fundamental nature of spiritual power.”
He glanced down at his empty hip.
“As for a Zanpakuto…
it’s undeniably powerful, serving as an extension of the soul and an amplifier of strength.
Yet relying too heavily on it can, in a sense, limit you to its framework.
I prefer to command spiritual power directly, wielding it in whatever manner best suits the moment.”
To Soul Reapers who revered the power of the blade—many of whom viewed Shikai and Bankai as their life’s ultimate pursuit—such a philosophy bordered on outright heresy.
Even Third Seat Madarame couldn’t help muttering, “The nerve on this guy…
He looks down on Zanpakuto?”
Having heard his fill, Kenpachi turned on his heel and strode back toward the division barracks, carrying Yachiru.
A lazy drawl drifted back over his shoulder: “A fight where I can’t slash to my heart’s content ain’t worth jack shit.
Renji, since you lost, go drag your ass to extra training.
Stop embarrassing yourself out here.”
He didn’t even bother looking back, merely tossing a dismissive wave.
Resting on Kenpachi’s shoulder, Yachiru waved her tiny hand at Yanagawa and beamed.
“Bye-bye, Sparky Big Bro~!”
With that, she vanished alongside Kenpachi into the shadows of the training grounds.
With Kenpachi’s departure, the suffocating tension in the yard eased, yet the looks directed at Yanagawa grew only more intricate.
There was wariness born of his sheer strength in trouncing Renji, mingled with a bizarre admiration that he had dared utter such blasphemous words directly to Captain Zaraki’s face.
Renji didn’t dwell on it quite so deeply.
He ambled over and clapped Yanagawa hard on the shoulder.
“You really haven’t changed, have you?
Still filling your head with high-and-mighty logic no one else can make sense of!”
Yanagawa offered a wry, helpless smile.
It wasn’t as if he had truly abandoned his Zanpakuto altogether.
He had simply channeled the lion’s share of his energy into researching the essence of spiritual power.
To him, a Zanpakuto was more like a “specimen of a specialized spiritual power phenomenon.”
Truth be told, the most crucial factor was that his Zanpakuto had quite the temper, proved rather difficult to communicate with, and unleashed catastrophic collateral damage whenever wielded.
Thus, in almost every circumstance, it was left to gather dust in a corner of his quarters.