The second-year morning bell rang heavier than any before.
Akio rose immediately. His body felt the rhythm of discipline now; no more drifting in alleys or waking to hunger pains in Rukongai. Here, every day began with structure, and today carried a particular weight.
The courtyard was packed with students, rows of students standing in rigid silence. Their nervous murmurs died when a line of instructors stepped forward. In the center stood the Zanjutsu instructor—a grizzled veteran named Hiroshi Tanaka with a scar bisecting his left eye—stood flanked by Kidō specialists in flowing robes.
Behind them, rows of training dummies and glowing crystal orbs waited, silent sentinels for the trials ahead.
When he spoke, his voice cut sharper than a blade.
"From this year onward, you are no longer children playing at breathing exercises. You will touch the heart of what it means to be a Shinigami. For this year you will learn two of the four fighting styles — Zanjutsu and Kidō. Fail either, and you are expelled."
The weight of the words pressed heavier than Reiatsu. Akio felt shoulders stiffen all around him. Expelled — cast back to Rukongai, powerless, prey. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into skin. 'That will never be me.'
The instructor gestured, and aides stepped forward with large lacquered boxes. One by one, they opened them, revealing neat rows of identical blades — Asauchi.
"Step forward when called. You will be given an Asauchi — a nameless sword. Your task is to pour your soul into it, to make it yours. In time, it will answer you with its name. Until then, you treat it with reverence and try to build a connection with it. Mishandle it, and you have no future."
Names were called. Students stepped forward, received their blade with bowed heads, and stepped back. When Akio's turn came, he kept his expression neutral. But the moment his hand closed on the hilt, a faint hum prickled against his palm — familiar, as if the steel itself already recognized him.
He masked the flicker of surprise and bowed, returning to line.
"Listen up!" Tanaka barked, his voice cutting through the chatter like a sword stroke. "You've been handed your Asauchi—those blank blades forged in the heart of Seireitei. They're not just weapons; they're extensions of your soul. Zanjutsu, the art of the sword, is the foundation of every Shinigami's combat prowess. It's one of the four Zankensoki fighting styles: Zanjutsu for swordsmanship, Hakuda for hand-to-hand, Hohō for speed and movement, and Kidō for spiritual arts. Master Zanjutsu, and your Zanpakutō will awaken to its true form—Shikai, Bankai, the releases that define legends."
He drew his own Zanpakutō, a simple katana that hummed with restrained Reiatsu. "Zanjutsu isn't mindless swinging. It's precision, flow, and harmony between body, blade, and Reiryoku. We start with the basics: forms and techniques to channel your spiritual energy through the sword."
Tanaka demonstrated the first fundamental technique: Ha (刃, Edge). "Ha aligns your Reiatsu along the cutting edge. Focus your energy here—" He traced the blade's sharp side with his finger. "—and it amplifies the cut. Done right, you can slice through steel like paper. But waste energy, and you'll dull your blade or exhaust yourself."
His swing was a blur. The air parted with a faint whistle, and a training dummy's arm fell cleanly severed, the cut so precise it smoked faintly from the concentrated Reiatsu. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Next came Mune (棟, Ridge). "The back of the blade," Tanaka explained, flipping his sword. "Channel Reiryoku along the spine for propulsion. This isn't for cutting—it's for speed and force. Your swings become faster, your body lighter, allowing endless combos without fatigue."
Another demonstration: Tanaka's blade whipped forward in a series of rapid thrusts, each one cracking the air like thunder. The dummy shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface from the sheer momentum. "Master Ha for offense, Mune for sustain. Combine them in forms—sequences of strikes passed down from the original Gotei 13."
These moves I just performed are called the Zanjutsu forms. There are many of these in the library. These forms teach posture, grip, footwork, and flow — without Reiatsu. Study them. Drill them. They will keep your body aligned when your spirit falters. You are expected to master 'Ha' and 'Mune' for passing in this term. But those who want to can study the forms too.
Then the Kidō instructors took over. A stern woman named Miko Sato stepped forward, her robes embroidered with arcane symbols. "Kidō, the Demon Way, is the manipulation of Reiryoku into spells. It's not brute force—it's will, incantation, and control. Channel your spiritual energy through formulas, and reality bends. But miscast, and it backfires on you."
She outlined the basics: Kidō spells are numbered from 1 to 99, with higher numbers demanding more Reiryoku and skill. "There are three categories," Sato continued. "Hadō: Way of Destruction—offensive spells for raw damage. Bakudō: Way of Binding—defensive and restraining arts. Kaidō: Way of Returning—healing spells to mend wounds and restore energy."
For Hadō, she demonstrated #1: Shō (Thrust). "A simple push of force." Her palm extended, and an invisible wave shoved a dummy back several feet. "Build Reiryoku in your core, recite the incantation if needed—'Ye lord! Mask of blood and flesh, all creation, flutter of wings, ye who bears the name of Man! Inferno and pandemonium, the sea barrier surges, march on to the south!'—then release.
Bakudō followed: #1 Sai (Restrain). "Binds the target's arms." Sato's fingers pointed, and ethereal ropes snapped around a volunteer's limbs. "Higher Bakudō like #61 Rikujōkōrō create light rods to immobilize, or #81 Dankū form barriers against Hadō up to 89."
Finally, Kaidō: "Healing arts require precise control. No numbers here—it's about channeling Reiryoku to knit flesh and spirit. Basic technique: Place hands over the wound, visualize the flow mending cells." She healed a shallow cut on her arm, green light pulsing softly.
"Practice low-level spells," Sato commanded. "By year's end, master at least five Hadō, five Bakudō, and basic Kaidō. The expulsion test will pit you against simulated threats—fail to integrate Zanjutsu and Kidō, and you're gone."
Then murmur started..
Sato barked once again, silencing them.
"The library is open to you. There you will find scrolls of Kidō of both higher and lower numbers. "
Silence followed, thick as smoke. Then, with a final barked order, the instructors dismissed them to begin their first drills.
The students broke into groups across the training yard. Wooden dummies lined the perimeter, their surfaces scarred from generations of practice. Akio gripped his Asauchi, studying the plain steel blade. It looked like nothing — unremarkable, disposable. Yet in his palm, it pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
'For the first six months I will focus on Zanjutsu techniques and the forms and then I will go towards Kido. Let's start.'
He inhaled. Exhaled. Tried to push a trickle of Reiatsu into the edge. The steel shimmered faintly — then guttered out. The blade felt… heavy, as though swallowing his energy instead of carrying it.
He frowned. 'Again.'
Another push, more deliberate. A thin ripple of darkness shimmered along the blade for a split second before fading. No glow, no spark. Just… absence.
He masked his reaction and tried again, this time focusing on Mune. He shifted his flow along the spine of the blade. For an instant, the sword felt lighter, faster, the swing slicing air with surprising speed. But again, the shimmer that should have looked like flowing light instead looked like a distortion — as if the air bent strangely around the blade.
Beside him, Ikkaku cursed loudly, his blade sparking too bright, his control sloppy. "Tch! Damn thing keeps flaring out."
Yumichika sighed dramatically, his edge glowing faint but precise. "You're trying to brute force it. Honestly, some of us have refinement, Ikkaku. It's called elegance."
"Shut up, peacock!"
Their bickering drew laughter from nearby recruits. Akio ignored it, focusing inward. 'Precision. Control.'
Akio inhaled slowly, steadying his grip again. The blade still felt wrong in his hands. Every time he tried to force his Reiryoku through the edge, it either sputtered out or flared unevenly. Too much, and the blade hummed violently; too little, and it was nothing more than cold steel.
Tanaka stalked past, correcting another student with a sharp bark. His eyes slid briefly over Akio's blade, then moved on. Akio let out a thin breath. 'No. Not yet. I won't show weakness. Keep going.'
He tried again. Sweat dampened his robes. His arm shook from the repetition. The dummy in front of him bore shallow scratches — but no clean cut. Each swing ended with the same result: wasted energy, empty air.
By sundown, students staggered back to the dorms, groaning from exhaustion. Ikkaku was still boasting, waving his sword like a club. Yumichika complained about blisters ruining his "elegant" hands.
Akio walked silently with them, but when night fell and his roommates' breathing steadied into sleep, he rose.
Bare feet padded across the tatami mat, silent as a shadow. He slid the Asauchi across his waist and stepped out into the moonlit courtyard.
The academy grounds were quiet, empty. Training dummies loomed like silent sentinels. Akio squared his stance, blade raised.
"Ha…" he whispered.
Reiryoku trickled down his arm, uneven. He adjusted. The blade quivered, the energy slipping off. Again. Again. Dozens of attempts. His palms burned with raw friction. His arms screamed. Still he drilled the same motion.
"More focus. Less force." He reminded himself aloud, voice hoarse. He remembered the instructor's words — Reiatsu was manifestation, but the flow began within. 'Reiryoku first. Guide it. Don't choke it.'
Just like that,
Weeks passed...
Mornings: yard drills with the rest. Afternoons: Half hearted Zanjutsu practice but so everyone thinks he is average . Nights: alone under moonlight, repeating 'Ha' and 'Mune' again and again with full dedication.
Each failure was logged in his mind. Each stumble became a correction. His body grew leaner, stronger. Calluses hardened his hands. His focus sharpened to a blade's edge.
He was pretty much struggling with the techniques but on the other hand.
Ikkaku's swings became wilder yet more effective. His control was still rough, still reckless, but each week his attacks carried a weight And his control on 'Ha' and 'Mune' became stronger.
Yumichika moved like water, his edge cutting precisely where he willed it with minimal effort. Even when resting or watching others train, he seemed to refine technique invisibly, almost as if the air itself shaped his form.
And Akio was training dedicating entire night for practice.
One night, his swing finally rang clear. The blade slid down the dummy, leaving a neat line — clean, sharp, no wasted energy. His chest tightened with exhilaration. Ha. Finally.
But as soon as pride swelled, doubt bit back. Not good enough. If I can do it once, I can do it a hundred times. A thousand. Until it's instinct.
And so he continued. Until blisters split. Until his arms felt hollow. Until his lungs burned like fire. Still he practiced.
[A/N: Special thanks to [Rabiest_M] for the Power Stone! Your support means a lot and motivates me to keep writing 🙏.]