As Renji’s signature loud voice rang out and an empty flask thudded onto the counter, the last trace of heavy emotion lingering in the tavern seemed to scatter under his rough, boisterous energy.
After several rounds of strong liquor, the gloom in Renji Abarai’s eyes was replaced by something far more intense—a blazing light of battle hunger and excitement, unmistakably belonging to a warrior of the Eleventh Division.
He suddenly stood up, the legs of his chair scraping harshly across the stone floor, drawing glances from nearby tables.
Renji paid it no mind.
His crimson eyes locked onto Yanagawa, his grin wide and full of challenge.
“Hey, Yanagawa!
Just drinking’s boring!”
He slapped the hilt of his Zanpakutō, Zabimaru, at his waist, the sheath giving a faint hum.
“Let’s have a match!
Let me see what you’ve really gained in the Kido Corps these past ten years!
Don’t tell me all that Kidō of yours is only good for opening gates and patching up barriers!”
Yanagawa set down his cup and looked up at his friend.
The alcohol had caused Renji’s Reiryoku to flare more openly than usual, carrying that signature Eleventh Division intensity—a heat like smoke and blood mixed together.
Yanagawa could feel it clearly.
There was nothing impure in it, just pure fighting spirit.
For Renji, this was another way of showing concern… and the most direct way to measure how much they had both grown.
“Oh?” Yanagawa raised a brow slightly.
He wasn’t startled by the sudden challenge.
Instead, a faint glimmer of interest passed through his eyes.
He, too, was curious.
Back then, Renji had struggled with Kidō theory, often frustrated in class—but in combat, his sheer willpower and beast-like instincts had made him stand out.
Now, after years under Kenpachi Zaraki, how far had he sharpened himself?
“Here?” Yanagawa asked.
“Of course not!” Renji waved a hand dismissively.
“To our Eleventh Division training grounds!
Plenty of space, and tough enough to handle anything!”
Without waiting for a response, Renji grabbed the bill from the table, tossed it toward the owner, and dragged Yanagawa out by the arm.
“Come on!
Let me see if the top student from back then still has it!”
Yanagawa allowed himself to be pulled along, a faint, helpless smile on his face—but his steps did not resist.
It was fine.
A little exercise wouldn’t hurt.
And he was curious to personally experience the level of Soul Society’s frontline fighters.
The Eleventh Division barracks lay toward the outer edges of the Seireitei.
The architecture was rough and unrefined, far less elegant than other divisions—but it carried an unmistakable sense of raw strength.
Even before they approached, the sounds reached them—
Shouts.
Clashing metal.
Unrestrained laughter and roars.
The very Reishi in the air seemed more active, more violent than elsewhere.
The training ground itself was a vast expanse of packed sand, surrounded by battered wooden posts and stone pillars scarred with countless cuts and burn marks.
Dozens of Soul Reapers were sparring in pairs.
Or rather—
Fighting.
There was no elegance, no formal structure—only direct collisions of strength, crushing waves of spiritual pressure, and practical techniques aimed at defeating opponents as quickly as possible.
The smell of sweat and blood mingled with dust.
The atmosphere was wild.
Explosive.
When Renji strode in, dragging along Yanagawa, a clear outsider, it was like dropping a stone into boiling oil.
“Hmm?”
“Who’s that?”
“Kido Corps?”
“Renji brought him?”
Eyes turned toward them instantly—curiosity, scrutiny, disdain, excitement.
The fighters slowed.
Those resting, tending wounds, or cheering paused as well.
The chaotic training ground quieted rapidly.
Dozens of gazes settled on Yanagawa, sharp and unfiltered.
In the Eleventh Division, strength ruled above all.
And the Kido Corps?
To them, it was practically synonymous with weakness, and desk work.
“Oi, Renji!” a bald, muscular man called out roughly.
“Who’s the pretty boy?
Where’d you pick him up?
Don’t tell me the Captain-Commander sent us a healer because he felt bad for us!
Hah!”
Laughter broke out around them.
“Shut up, Ikkaku!” Renji snapped back, though there was no real anger in his voice.
“This is Yanagawa, my classmate from the Shin’ō Academy.
He’s in the Kido Corps.”
“Classmate?” Another man leaning against the wall raised a brow, scanning Yanagawa critically.
“Doesn’t look like much of a fighter.
What’d you bring him here for?
Sightseeing?”
“Cut the crap!”
Renji strode into an open area at the center of the training ground and turned around, facing Yanagawa—and everyone else.
“I’m sparring with him!
All of you, back off and watch!”
“Sparring?”
“Renji versus a Kido Corps guy?”
“This should be interesting…”
“Hey, don’t break him!
Kido Corps complaints are a pain to deal with!”
The sidelines erupted with noise, mockery, curiosity, excitement.
“Here?” Yanagawa confirmed once more, glancing at the eager audience.
“Right here!”
Renji had already taken his stance, one hand gripping Zabimaru’s hilt.
His spiritual pressure surged, radiating heat.
“Relax!
These guys are tough—they won’t get caught in it!
And don’t hold back just because it’s the Eleventh Division!
Show me what you’ve really got!”
Yanagawa said nothing more.
He stood calmly.
There was no explosive surge of spiritual pressure—yet a quiet, unfathomable presence spread from him like still water.
Effortlessly, it softened and parted Renji’s blazing aura.
He raised one hand.
“Then… let’s begin.”
“Show me what you’ve got, Renji.”
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