After lessons, we were met by that same taciturn officer from the First Division, with an expression on his face as if he’d been preparing a deathbed speech every minute of his existence.
But for whom?
Himself?
Us?
Without further ado, he led us toward his division’s compound.
You know, being a student of Captain-Commander Genryusai actually has its perks.
We had been officially granted permission to use Shunpo within Seireitei, but only in areas adjacent to the First Division.
The officer gave us a brief rundown of the rules.
Standard stuff, like “watch where you’re going” and “don’t get in the way of your superiors.” He made a particular point of telling us not to overtake him, given that he was currently responsible for our conduct.
It gave the impression that he’d been saddled with this assignment as a punishment.
He didn’t lead us to the main hall, the place where the offer one couldn’t refuse had first been made.
No.
We walked on until we found ourselves standing before an old building.
It looked far more ancient and, naturally, was many times smaller than the Shino Academy.
It had a massive roof, scorched by the sun over long centuries, and the structure itself was made of dark wood polished to a sheen.
And above the entrance, carved into a stone slab, were two words:
「Genji School」
“Is this the place?” Ukitake whispered, gazing at the building with a sense of reverence.
“Yes,” Kyoraku replied with unusual seriousness.
“Yamamoto-sensei taught here before the Shino Academy was founded.
Warriors were trained here…
back before ‘Shinigami’ was even a profession.”
But then, true to form, he added a playful quip.
“If the rumors are true, half of the current captains got a serious thrashing from the old man here at least once.” I noticed the officer accompanying us shoot him a sidelong glance, though he said nothing.
Well, I suppose nobles are allowed to speak their minds freely.
Our guide threw open the doors, bowed to the Commander standing within, and vanished instantly.
We were met by a spacious, unadorned hall.
A gleaming polished floor, dark columns, and soaring ceilings.
An intimidating sense of cleanliness and order reigned inside.
Everything is set up exactly as at a military parade, the mats are laid out in a line, and the weapons are arranged in racks.
The air was taut, like a drawn bowstring.
Standing at the very center of the hall, as if fused with the shadows, was Yamamoto Genryusai Shigekuni.
He wore no captain’s haori, only a simple training uniform.
He did not utter a word until we had stopped before him and bowed.
“You have come,” he said.
His voice was calm, yet it held the power of a tempered blade.
“Yes, Captain-Commander Yamamoto,” we replied in unison.
Some a little louder, others more softly.
“Step closer.”
We obeyed.
He kept staring straight ahead, as if looking right through us, past the distant walls of Seireitei and beyond the reaches of Rukongai.
It was as though he were trying to take in the entire Soul Society with a single glance.
Yet, for some reason, I felt that we were being watched after all…
or perhaps it was me specifically?
It didn’t feel like Yamamoto, and yet there was no one else in the room.
Or maybe my detection skills had simply failed against a true master of stealth.
Then again, if the General hasn’t yet incinerated anyone for the audacity of intruding upon his sacred sanctum…
then the observer has permission to remain.
Perhaps someone from the Second Division?
But to what end?
“Today, you have made a choice that defines your destiny.
In the future, you will become the ones upon whose shoulders the Soul Society rests.
Forget idealism.
There are no heroes, only us, Shinigami.
The Gotei 13 stands guard over the Balance, and we are the sword in its hand.”
His eyes were like smoldering embers, ready to flare up at any moment.
They held no leniency toward us, only boundless experience and high expectations.
In truth, Yamamoto genuinely cared about the Soul Society and Seireitei.
Perhaps not in the ideal way, but sincerely.
It was comforting to know that such a man stood guard over ordinary souls and humans.
After all, to the Zero Division, we were merely a first line of defense.
Not the final bulwark, nor something worth protecting.
They care only for the Soul King.
And if we cannot protect him, we hold no value.
All our struggles…
are like nothing more than squabbles between ant colonies.
It is a pity that your loyalty and caution tied your own hands that day, Yamamoto-dono.
You did not unleash the full might of Zanka no Tachi against Yhwach…
and met an ignoble end.
Yet I know you will raise a worthy successor.
Kyoraku will shoulder the responsibility for everything you held dear.
And Ukitake…
will fall by that same hand in a desperate bid to save the world, to replace the Soul King.
“Apprenticeship under me is far from a privilege.
It is a burden.
You will prove your strength not with words, but with actions.” The cross-shaped scar on his forehead seemed to gleam in the daylight, a mark serving as irrefutable proof of his words.
He took a step closer to us, bridging the gap we had hesitated to cross.
His heavy footsteps on the wooden floor echoed through the silence of the dojo.
“Shunsui Kyoraku.
Jushiro Ukitake.
Kaoru.
From this moment on, you are officially accepted into the Genji School.
You are required to carry out any orders I give.
Classes will follow the schedule.
Discipline is mandatory.”
“Yes, sir,” we replied almost in unison.
That is how it happened.
Quite quickly, without any ceremony.
“But before I acknowledge you as my apprentices” he emphasized the word my “you must prove that you are worthy.
Put aside your Zanpakuto and take up your bokken.”
Well, of course.
Now we’re going to have to prove ourselves over and over again, aren’t we?
We had no choice but to comply.
I found myself holding a simple wooden sword.
Sturdy, heavy, and devoid of any spiritual power.
“Fight each other.
No Shunpo, Kidō, or other tricks.
I want to see who you are and how you breathe in the heat of battle.
Not in reports or conversations, but right here.”
I smirked inwardly.
So many restrictions, and all just to give these two at least a fighting chance against me.
But that’s actually better.
We’re about to find out what we’re truly capable of when pitted against one another.
I’ve seen them in action.
In terms of skill, they’re barely a step behind me.
The first match was between Kyoraku and me.
We stood facing each other.
He held a bokken lazily in one hand, as if it were nothing more than a fan.
His eyes were narrowed, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Yet I knew that beneath this relaxed demeanor lay a watchful gaze and precise calculation.
No matter how much of a slacker he tried to appear, he had been thoroughly trained back home.
“Don’t take offense if I accidentally hit you on the head,” he muttered, leaning slightly forward.
“If you manage to land a hit, I won’t mind,” I replied.
He attacked first.
Sharp, yet devoid of aggression.
He was simply testing me.
I parried the blow, sidestepped, and launched a counterattack, but he evaded it effortlessly, as if he had known the trajectory beforehand.
Kyōraku moved fluidly, almost languidly, yet it was a ruse.
Every step and movement had a purpose.
In a split second, he had shifted to my flank.
His bokken came sweeping toward my side.
I blocked it, only to take a blow to the shoulder from his other hand.
Using Hakuda techniques?
He was good.
He distracted me with a lunge and immediately struck my thigh.
Ignoring the sharp sting of pain, I slid forward and closed the distance.
The new level of Spiritual Shroud, C-rank that I earned by blowing myself up on Menos was taking its toll.
Now I went on the offensive.
A few quick strikes.
He parried two, but the third landed squarely on his ribs.
It was painful, judging by the grimace on his face.
He sprang back, tensing up in earnest for the first time in the bout.
I could feel it, that I had earned his respect.
He wouldn’t even think about toying with me again.
When the round ended, we were both breathing heavily.
Sweat dripped from our chins onto the floor.
We hadn’t gone all out, saving our energy for the second bout, but we had done enough to get a taste of real combat. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Victory,” I breathed, catching my breath.
“You held your own well,” he nodded, acknowledging defeat.
“It’s hard to believe you don’t come from a noble family.”
“I hope I’ve proven one thing to you,” I smirked.
“I’m not to be underestimated.”
Genryusai-sensei said nothing.
He simply called up the next pair.
Ukitake was next after Kyoraku.
Let the white-haired one show me everything he knew and was capable of.
Jushiro and I bowed to one another.
He was calm, his movements measured.
His palms trembled slightly, yet his eyes held a look of determination.
He did not appear dangerous, and therein lay his hidden advantage.
Ukitake began by testing the waters.
A couple of quick strikes to gauge my reactions.
I parried the first and blocked the second.
My counterattack missed, he had stepped back just enough to stay out of reach of my blade.
“Strike harder,” I said, parrying yet another simple attack.
“Are you actually going easy on me?”
“No,” he replied quietly.
“I just don’t want to cause you serious harm.”
“That’s a mistake, my friend,” I said, unintentionally using a turn of phrase typical of Shunsui.
“You’ll do far less damage to me than Genryusai-sensei will if we don’t show exactly what we’re capable of.”
With that, I launched an attack.
Our eyes met, and he realized that, one way or another, I had no intention of holding back.
It took only an instant for him to shift gears and cast aside the doubts that had been holding him back.
Our movements merged into a single rhythm, more like a dance than a fight.
He parried almost everything but didn’t strike back until I literally forced him to.
And then he struck.
Like a surgeon wielding a scalpel to excise a tumor.
His technique was flawless, not the fastest or the most powerful, but exceptionally precise.
He kept striking, seeking out openings in my defense.
His body might have been weakening, but his will was harder than steel.
The fight continued for a while longer, but soon came to an end.
We stopped simultaneously.
The tips of our bokken froze at each other’s throats.
How did it come to this?
Had fatigue taken its toll on me?
Perhaps.
But to be honest, I hadn’t expected much from him, and I paid the price for it.
I underestimated him, just as Kyoraku had underestimated me, and it cost me the victory.
Perhaps he was right.
He and I…
we aren’t all that different.
“A draw,” I said, even though I knew that was far from the truth.
The weight of the defeat, of my mistake, began to press down on me.
That foolish remark I had haughtily tossed out after my battle with Shunsui began to eat away at me from the inside.
But you cannot correct a mistake unless you first admit you made it.
If only to yourself.
“I’m sorry, Jushiro.
I shouldn’t have underestimated you,” I said, bowing my head.
Not as low as I would before the Captain-Commander, but sincerely.
“It’s nothing all that serious, Kaoru-kun,” he said, waving his hands in embarrassment.
But I saw him nod.
And, it seemed, for the first time since that ill-fated training session began, he smiled genuinely, without the influence of alcohol or our earnest attempts to make him laugh.
The third bout.
Kyoraku versus Ukitake.
As for me, I’d take a moment to catch my breath.
I was dying to check my progress stats.
I could feel in my gut that they’d gone up.
But no, I couldn’t.
The thousand-year-old geezer might not see right through me instantly, but he’d be bound to get suspicious.
The mysterious observer, too.
The numbers could wait, they weren’t going anywhere.
“Please don’t hit me in the face, Jushiro-kun,” Kyoraku requested theatrically, twirling his bokken.
“Both my parents and Mother Nature herself went to great lengths to make me this handsome.”
“I’ll try,” Ukitake replied gently, though his eyes remained alert, almost serious.
“But I can’t promise anything, Shunsui-kun.”
Their relationship was a far cry from the unbreakable friendship and trust depicted in the original universe.
Then again, only a single semester at the Academy had passed.
Forging such a bond so quickly is no easy feat.
Still, that battle in the Human World had brought the two of them closer together, and me with them too.
The connection between us might be superficial for now, but a solid foundation had been laid.
Kyōraku made the first move.
He moved fluidly, without any abrupt jerks, as if he already knew exactly how the fight would unfold.
Unlike in the previous bout, he found his rhythm immediately.
Ukitake was in no rush, he declined the invitation to trade blows, preferring instead to keep his distance and counter Shunsui’s attempts to probe his defenses.
His strikes were simple and direct, yet they carried real weight.
“You aren’t as simple as you pretend to be,” Jūshirō remarked, parrying another of Shunsui’s cunning attacks.
“Neither are you,” Kyōraku grinned.
“Always so polite and calm, but put a sword in your hand, and you become a genuine threat.”
Kyōraku was the first to escalate the situation.
He shifted sharply to the side, feinted, and immediately followed up with an upward slashing strike.
Ukitake blocked it but was forced to take a step back, losing his balance.
Kyōraku seized the opening, ducking low to deliver a horizontal strike to his opponent’s torso.
The response was instantaneous.
Jūshirō seized the moment, dodged, and launched a counterattack.
A sharp, precise thrust aimed at the wrist that forced Kyōraku to leap back and adjust his grip on his sword.
The pace quickened by the second.
The duel grew more intense, stripped of unnecessary theatrics.
It was a contest of pure technique, battlefield awareness, and calculated moves.
Several times, it seemed one of them was about to take a hit, yet both managed to slip away at the last possible moment.
Teetering on the edge, but always reacting just in time.
The final attack began simultaneously.
Kyoraku shifted diagonally while winding up for a downward strike.
Ukitake circled around and struck from below.
Their movements crossed, and the next instant, they found themselves facing one another.
Their bokken were once again at their opponents’ throats, this time, with the blunt edge.
The fight was over.
They stepped back from each other.
“I think if you’d started fighting back a little sooner, I’d be the one lying on the ground,” Shunsui said, adjusting his hakama.
“I think you just like to talk too much,” Ukitake replied, struggling to catch his breath.
Both were drenched in sweat, yet neither looked disappointed.
It was hard to say who had won, given that neither had actually tried to win.
Not once did I sense any intent to harm or defeat the other.
I wouldn’t even call it a draw.
It was simply a brilliant display of skill, not a battle.
“That is enough,” Yamamoto’s voice rang out.
He watched in silence as Kyoraku and Ukitake returned to their places.
Genryusai-sensei wasn’t merely evaluating our technique; clearly, someone like him saw far deeper.
We were far from being his first worthy students, not even the first few dozen.
“You are not ready,” he said, speaking more to himself than to us.
“None of you is ready for war.
But you are worthy of learning.”
Ouch.
That dealt a painful blow to our pride, yet it also inspired us to improve.
“By the standards of the Genji School—satisfactory,” he said, sweetening the bitter pill.
“But this is just the beginning.
Your first real lesson.
A strike that leaves no second chance.”
Yamamoto turned to the weapon rack and picked up a long wooden sword, one slightly heavier than a standard bokken.
This sword, in all likelihood, belonged to him personally; the others were mere replicas.
He set up a simple wooden dummy in front of us.
— The first technique of the Genji School: Hitotsume: Nadegiri.
A clean cut.
A single strike.
No doubt, no emotion.
This move embodies purity of form and purity of will.
Translated…
The First Strike: Mow Down.
Sensei raised his sword above his head, slowly, almost ceremoniously.
The next instant, the blade sliced through the air.
We didn’t even notice exactly when it happened or how it ended.
A faint, singing whistle rang out, and the wooden dummy before us fell apart in two.
The cut was perfect.
— Split the target with a single line, without any wasted movement.
If you take more than one step, you’ve failed.
There is only one chance, and it must be flawless.
I gazed at the wreckage, feeling a memory latch onto something familiar.
I had seen this somewhere before.
In the past, I might have turned to the Information Note for answers, but the Swordsman within me had already found the solution.
It was the very same strike used to cut down Ayon, that Chimera formed from the body parts of the Third Espada’s Fracción.
One unerring swing capable of splitting a huge enemy with a Hierro in two.
Swift.
Clean.
The enemy wouldn’t even notice the strike until it had already landed.
Yamamoto returned his sword to the rack.
His face showed no expectation.
“Begin.
Repeat the movement until I say it is enough.”
We exchanged glances.
Ukitake, being the most diligent, went first.
He took up his sword, assumed the stance, took aim…
and cut through the air.
Careful, yet too slow.
Kyoraku followed.
He attacked with a strong swing but took an unnecessary step forward.
The movement lacked complete cohesion.
I went third.
I raised my sword, visualized the target, and struck.
The line was straight, but not clean enough.
“Not enough,” the General declared.
And we started over.
Again.
And again.
One attempt was too rough.
Another one, too slow.
We struck as best we could, yet his silence remained unbroken.
“Before you learn to fight your enemies, you must learn to fight yourselves,” he said when we finally paused, utterly exhausted.
“Otherwise, you will perish…
or, worse yet, betray those who have placed their trust in you.”
The hall was sweltering.
Sweat dripped from our faces, but we didn’t stop.
We couldn’t—not under his gaze.
This wasn’t the start of the journey, I understood our situation perfectly.
This was still just a test to see if you were worthy of setting foot on that path at all.
That is how the rest of the day passed.
Striking at the air.
Adjusting stance and breathing.
Seeking the essence of the strike.
Honing the perfect movement.
We received no praise or encouragement when we got it right, only corrections when we erred.
It was irritating and mentally draining, yet that was precisely the point.
Only when our muscles cramped from the repetition, when our shoulders refused to lift the sword and a dull throbbing pulsed in our wrists, did he finally speak.
“Don’t stand there like weaklings.
Again.”
We were up against the air and a wooden dummy, yet the real battle was with ourselves.
With every strike that was “close” but not “perfect,” an oppressive silence grew behind us.
Yamamoto didn’t shout or offer corrections, he simply watched.
And that gaze burned hotter than any shout.
“Hitotsume: Nadegiri,” he repeated, like an incantation.
“One glance.
One step.
One strike.”
“Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer,” Cobalt joked in my mind, bored.
For some reason, she really loved mocking old man Genryusai.
Gradually, our movements began to change.
One stopped tensing their shoulders.
Other started using their body weight rather than arm strength.
Ukitake seemed to have almost grasped the mechanics of the strike itself.
His movements were fluid, almost graceful, yet a certain softness remained.
It was still a surgeon’s scalpel, not a sword.
Too subtle, too delicate.
Kyōraku struck like a fencer, with a lazy smile and no visible strain.
His rhythm was flawless, as if he were moving to music only he could hear.
But he still couldn’t grasp the meaning of killing with one blow without unnecessary movements.
It seemed to him that there was nothing superfluous in his technique.
That all his movements served some purpose.
I meticulously reconstructed the form of the strike.
I learned it and repeated it perfectly.
But something was missing, as if the vital component were absent from within.
The meaning.
The essence.
After all this time, I finally decided to heed my Instinct.
What was I lacking?
It kept insisting on the same thing.
The intent to kill.
Could that really be the issue?
Then have it, in full measure.
Charged with a faint black aura, perceptible only to those sensitive to Killing Intent, the blade sliced through the air more cleanly than ever before.
The air itself shuddered, as if I had broken through some invisible barrier.
But for the Diary, that wasn’t enough.
Nor for Yamamoto.
Kyoraku and Ukitake flinched in unison and turned toward me.
Realizing what I had done, they nodded, acknowledging the successful execution of the strike.
And Yamamoto?
He simply looked me in the eye.
He said nothing.
He took no action and offered no corrections.
It was a silent command to keep practicing.
But I hadn’t just caught his attention…
an unseen observer was watching, too.
I don’t know why, but it filled me with a primal fear.
The worst part was being unable to pinpoint the threat or tell where that gaze was coming from.
I glanced around discreetly a few times, and the feeling of unease vanished once more.
Could I be losing my mind?
Is this paranoia, or simply manic schizophrenia?
Yet the training continued until sunset.
We were made to switch positions, execute movements from various angles, and work on both speed and precision.
It wasn’t just about swinging a blade , but cutting the correct line in the air.
In Genji’s old school, every strike was a letter written with the sword, and if you made mistakes in your writing, you were read as a fool.
None of us succeeded.
Not perfectly, nor even close.
But in Yamamoto’s eyes, it was enough to let us keep trying.
There was something that set us apart from those who were fundamentally incapable of learning.
“Come back tomorrow after lessons.
And do so every day.
Unless, of course, some emergency arises to distract us,” he said, the sun having already dipped below the horizon.
“I want to see you become the sort of people who can move, even if just a single step, closer to the true Nadegiri.
Anyone who fails to master it will simply have to keep at it until they do.”
We bowed in farewell and left.
He remained behind.
“You know,” Kyoraku began, rubbing his wrist, “I have a feeling that with each passing day, we’re going to inch closer and closer to death from sheer exhaustion.”
“Maybe, if we go crazy from the endless repetition, Genryusai-sensei will grant us a merciful death right here and now,” I chimed in.
“If I’m going to die, let it be by a clean, beautiful cut.
They might even bury us on the Genji School grounds as honorary students.
Or cremate us.”
They both stared at me as if I were insane.
Maybe I was.
I bared my teeth at the sky in a wide, ugly grin, showing my gums, and laughed happily.
By my own checklist, this was an absolute victory.
I’d spent all this time working to become the General’s student, and I’d finally made it.
Yes, this is exactly the kind of training I need to climb to the summit!
The summit of what?
It doesn’t matter what.
The world?
The tower?
What difference does it really make?
“Look, Jushiro-kun,” Kyoraku said, pointing at me while whispering into his ear.
“That’s how people start losing their minds.”
He might be right.
Right now, I indeed just want to lie down and die of exhaustion.
I will answer your questions and try to correct any errors in fic if you point them out to me.