"You telegraphed the feint in your shoulders," Sasakibe said, his voice devoid of criticism, merely stating a fact. "Your intention was correct, but your execution was inefficient. Control is not just in the strike you land, but in every muscle you move before it. Again."
The tap on his wrist was as light as a falling leaf, yet it carried the weight of a profound lesson. Akio reset his stance, the phantom sensation of Sasakibe's touch a brand of his failure. There was no anger, only a laser-focused analysis on Sasakibe's words.
"Again," Sasakibe's voice was flat, an echo in the silent training ground.
Akio moved. This time, he visualized his energy flowing like water, with no ripples to betray its course. The feint was smaller, the transfer of weight imperceptible. The palm thrust that followed was faster, cleaner.
Sasakibe didn't tap his wrist. He simply wasn't there when the strike arrived. He had shifted an inch to the left, his own hand coming up to rest two fingers against Akio's temple.
"Your eyes narrowed by half a degree, your stance shifted, your facial structure changed before you struck. You revealed your target. Control your expressions. They are a weapon for misdirection or a window for your enemy. Again."
And so it went. For hours. Attack, correction, analysis. Reset. Attack, correction, analysis. Sasakibe was a relentless mirror, reflecting every minute flaw in Akio's form, his intent, his very presence. He wasn't teaching new techniques; he was dissecting the ones Akio already had and rebuilding them with brutal, flawless efficiency.
This became Akio's new routine. His days were split into three acts.
The first act was his duty to Squad 10. He performed his patrols, filed his reports, and trained with his comrades. He laughed at Captain Isshin's boisterous jokes and deftly parried Lieutenant Matsumoto's flirtatious advances. To them, he was just Kurozume, the promising but quiet new recruit. He wore the role like a cloak, all the while honing the observations Sasakibe drilled into him. He noticed the subtle tells in a fellow officer's stance before a spar, the minute fluctuations in Reiatsu from a recovering soldier, the way a senior officer's eyes would flick towards a report they deemed important. He was learning to read the battlefield of everyday life.
The second act was his secret. In the dead of night, within the grey eternity of the Hakoniwa no Kagami, he unleashed everything he held back. Here, he practiced the relentless Sōryū flurries, the crushing Gekiryū grasps, and the devastating Void-Cut and his Shikai release. Here he could be the weapon Ryūgo had forged, pushing his limits without fear of discovery or collateral damage. It was a necessary release, the storm to balance the immense control of the day.
The third act was his tutelage under Sasakibe. Every other day, he would present himself at the First Division's secluded training ground. The lessons were never the same twice.
Some days were pure Hakuda. Sasakibe would have him break a specific number of tiles with a single strike—no more, no less. He forced Akio to punch through a waterfall, not to stop the water, but to pierce a single, specific droplet in the center of the flow.
"Power is meaningless without accuracy," Sasakibe stated as Akio's fist slammed through the water for the hundredth time, missing the target droplet by a millimeter. "A full-force strike that misses is a wasted effort. A pinpoint strike with half the power is a victory."
Other days were dedicated to Hohō. But not speed for speed's sake. Sasakibe taught him economy of movement.
"You are not racing," he instructed as Akio flashed across the grounds. "You are repositioning. Each step must have purpose. Each shift in balance must serve a tactical advantage. Do not run to your enemy; arrive at the point of engagement with perfect stability and readiness."
He drilled Akio in angles of approach, in using the environment to mask his movement, in the art of closing distance without appearing to move at all. It was a revelation. Byakuya had taught him speed and perception. Sasakibe was teaching him how to weaponize space itself.
Week after week, the lessons hammered away at Akio's instinctual, aggressive style, forging it into something disciplined and precise. He learned to measure his strength, to use exactly the amount of force required and not a joule more. He learned that the most powerful move was sometimes not to move at all, but to hold a perfect, unbreachable guard that forced an opponent to overextend.
He was learning to be a scalpel.
One afternoon, after a particularly exhausting session where Sasakibe had him deflecting a hundred randomly thrown pebbles without being hit once, the lieutenant finally nodded, a gesture so slight it was almost imaginary.
"Your control is adequate," Sasakibe stated, the highest praise Akio had ever heard from him. "You have learned to think of your body and spirit as instruments to be tuned, not blunt forces to be unleashed. The foundation is set."
Akio, breathing heavily but standing perfectly still, bowed. "Thank you, Sasakibe-fukutaichō. Your instruction has been… invaluable."
Sasakibe adjusted his glasses. "Do not thank me. Thank the Captain-Commander for his insight. And understand, this is only the foundation. True mastery is a pursuit that never ends." He paused, his sharp eyes studying Akio. "Your power is unique. I have felt the shadows around you stir, even as you hold them in check. That is your next challenge: to apply this same level of control and precision not just to your body, but to your Zanpakutō's abilities. To make your shadows an extension of your will, with the same surgical accuracy."
He gestured to the side of the training ground where two wooden practice swords lay. "Tomorrow, we begin sparring. You will attempt to land a single, clean strike on me. You may use any means at your disposal: Hakuda, Hohō, or your Zanpakutō's power. I will defend. We will see if you can apply what you have learned."
Akio felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with dread. Sparring with Sasakibe would be like trying to strike a ghost made of iron. But it was the next step. The path continued.
As he left the First Division grounds, his body ached, but his mind was clearer than ever. The hammer of the Kenpachi and the scalpel of the First were being fused within him. He was no longer just a fighter; he was becoming a tactician, a soldier.
And he was ready for the next test.
The sand of the First Division's private training ground had drunk countless hours of Akio's sweat. The air, once heavy with the pressure of his own inadequacy, now felt like a familiar partner. In the center of the grounds, two figures moved in a silent, blistering dance.
Akio was a blur of controlled motion. No longer the raw, aggressive brawler, his movements were economical, precise, and utterly ruthless in their efficiency. He didn't waste an ounce of energy. A Toryū jab aimed to disrupt balance was followed not by a wild flurry, but by a subtle shift in footing that cut off his opponent's angle of retreat. He used Hohō not just for speed, but for micro-adjustments, appearing to barely move yet always being exactly where he needed to be to maximize the threat of his next strike.
His opponent, Chōjirō Sasakibe, was an immovable object met by an increasingly irresistible force. The Lieutenant's defense was still flawless, his parries minimal, his dodges measured in millimeters. But now, for the first time, he was being genuinely tested.
Akio feinted high with a knife-hand strike. Two years ago, Sasakibe would have pointed out the tension in his trapezius muscle. Now, there was no tell. As Sasakibe shifted to deflect the expected blow, Akio's other hand shot forward in a perfect Gekiryū grasp, not at Sasakibe's body, but at the sleeve of his shihakushō. It wasn't an attack; it was a control move, designed to momentarily bind and unbalance.
Sasakibe's eyes widened a fraction of a second. He didn't break the hold with strength; he dissolved it with technique, twisting his arm in a way that made Akio's grip slip. But in that split second of forced adjustment, Akio was already moving. He used the momentum of his failed grab to pivot into a low, devastating kick aimed at Sasakibe's supporting leg.
Sasakibe avoided it, but he had to take a full step back. A retreat.
The two men froze, chests heaving slightly. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of their breathing.
Finally, Sasakibe straightened, a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval gracing his features. "Enough."
He walked to the edge of the grounds and retrieved a towel, tossing one to Akio. "You have learned. You have integrated the lessons. Power, precision, perception—you now wield them as one instrument."
Akio caught the towel, bowing his head. "I had an exceptional teacher."
"Do not offer hollow flattery. It is beneath you," Sasakibe said, though there was no heat in his words. "I have taught you all I can about the fundamentals of control. You have learned to think three steps ahead in a fight, to read an opponent's intent in the minute fluctuations of their Reiatsu, to apply exactly the required force and no more. You have learned that the greatest strength often lies in restraint. Your foundation is now solid steel. What you build upon it… that is your path now."
It was the highest praise Akio would ever receive from him. The training was over.
[A/N]Hey everyone! 👋Thank you so much for reading and supporting this fanfic—it really means a lot to me. 💙
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