Under Aizen and Jūshirō's astonished gazes, Satoru wrote with single-minded focus, each stroke steady and deliberate.
Soon, dozens of characters filled the entire page.
Only after completing the sheet did Satoru slowly set down his brush.
Examining his work, he showed slight dissatisfaction.
"Haven't practiced in too long, a bit rusty."
Aizen ignored Satoru's boastful remark.
At this moment, he was utterly stunned.
Satoru's entire calligraphy piece was composed solely of Chinese characters, without a single kana.
He didn't fully grasp the deeper meaning of the text.
But he knew this piece by Satoru surpassed all the calligraphy masters he'd ever seen!
Had he not witnessed it himself, he would never have believed such exquisite calligraphy could come from Satoru's hand.
"Satoru, is this Chinese calligraphy?" Aizen couldn't help asking curiously.
Mikami gave him a strange look. "Aren't you supposed to be a calligraphy enthusiast? This is a beginner's work in Yan style - the Duobao Pagoda Stele. You've never seen it?"
Aizen instinctively looked toward Jūshirō beside him, only to find the latter equally bewildered.
Seeing their reactions, Satoru suddenly realized—the Bleach world, while similar to Earth before his transmigration, operated under completely different historical premises.
The historical evolution here might bear no resemblance to the history he knew.
This realization gave Satoru mixed feelings.
Before crossing over, he'd been forced to study calligraphy since childhood by his elders.
Ouyang Xun, Liu Gongquan, Yan Zhenqing, Zhao Mengfu... the endless copybooks and examinations had been the nightmare of his youth.
Now, suddenly realizing that the world he was in might no longer have these things, he felt a pang of sadness.
Just then, Satoru felt a hand gently rest on his shoulder.
Looking up, he saw Jūshirō gazing at him with concern.
"Satoru, are you alright?"
Satoru blinked.
Taking in his expression, Aizen pondered for a moment before speaking. "In calligraphy, you far surpass me."
Though he wasn't sure why Satoru seemed suddenly downcast, based on his understanding of the man, a bit of flattery usually did the trick.
Sure enough, upon hearing Aizen's words, Satoru smirked.
"Of course. There's a lot about me you don't know yet."
In the past, Aizen might have dismissed this as mere boasting.
But lately, Satoru had been delivering one "surprise" after another.
Perhaps this guy really was hiding extraordinary skills, just too low-key to show them off?
At that thought, Aizen's eye twitched.
No. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't associate Satoru with the word "low-key."
Once confirming Satoru was fine, Jūshirō decisively snatched away his calligraphy piece.
Satoru didn't mind at all.
This piece was just something he'd scribbled casually—nowhere near the level of seriousness he'd put into his submission for the awards in his previous life.
Noticing Aizen's silence, Satoru grinned.
"What's wrong, Sōsuke? Too stunned by my greatness to speak?"
He expected Aizen to fire back immediately.
Instead, Aizen wore a complicated expression and, after a few seconds of silence, actually nodded.
"Indeed. I am stunned."
Before this, Satoru had repeatedly shattered his expectations in terms of spiritual pressure, talent, learning ability…
But none of those compared to the impact of today.
Under Satoru's surprised gaze, Aizen seemed to resolve himself.
He set down his brush and bowed deeply to Satoru.
"Satoru, in our spare time from training… please teach me calligraphy!"
Satoru blinked, suddenly feeling like he'd been played.
All the times he'd flexed his skills in front of Aizen, the reactions had been lukewarm at best.
Yet today, a casual display had elicited such a dramatic response.
He'd won, but it somehow felt like a loss…
In the days that followed, Satoru witnessed something extraordinary.
Kinoshita barged into his dorm, face alight with excitement.
The usually stern instructor, throwing all dignity aside, grabbed Satoru's hand and begged for a calligraphy piece.
Seinosuke set aside his medical studies to ask for one too.
The next afternoon, Shunsui Kyōraku sneaked into the academy, requesting Satoru's writing.
Even Unohana Retsu invited him to a private tea party with the Fourth Division, asking him to leave behind a piece.
Walking through the streets of Seireitei, Satoru fell into deep thought.
These Shinigami, instead of honing their swordsmanship, were obsessed with such refined pursuits.
No wonder they got wrecked by the Quincy in the Thousand-Year Blood War.
Degenerate. Utterly degenerate!
Fortunately, unlike these shallow individuals, Captain-Commander Yamamoto had vision.
Even as Satoru's calligraphy gained minor fame in Seireitei, Yamamoto never once mentioned it.
...
...
"Apologies, Captain-Commander! I'm late!"
Satoru slid open the doors of the First Division training hall to find Yamamoto standing in the center, his back turned.
"Apologies, Captain-Commander, I was practicing swordsmanship late into the night."
In truth, he hadn't touched a sword yesterday evening.
Last night, Aizen had sneaked out again under cover of darkness.
Satoru, curious about his whereabouts, had stayed awake most of the night tracking him with spiritual arts.
From Aizen's recent movements, he'd roughly pinpointed the location of his hideout in Rukongai.
West Rukongai, District 74.
Districts 70 through 80 were practically barren wastelands, littered with corpses of the starved.
Shinigami from Seireitei rarely ventured there unless Hollows invaded.
That Aizen chose this place for his base came as no surprise.
After spying all night, Satoru had barely slept two hours when Yamamoto summoned him for training.
Between one thing and another, he'd ended up a few minutes late.
"Hmm."
Yamamoto nodded without pressing the matter.
Satoru's attention was drawn to a table the old man had set up in the dojo.
The sight filled him with foreboding.
Sure enough, to his utter dismay, Yamamoto turned to him.
"Ahem. I've heard you're quite accomplished in calligraphy."
"Before we begin training, let me assess your skills."
"I've prepared paper and ink."
Satoru: "..."
Retracting previous statements—Seireitei was beyond saving.
Under Yamamoto's watchful gaze, Satoru picked up the brush without ceremony.
"Human interactions last but a fleeting moment..."
He wrote an excerpt from the Preface to the Orchid Pavilion Collection, renowned as the greatest running script masterpiece.
Omitting the narrative opening, he selected only a reflective passage.
Even if Yamamoto could read Chinese, this wouldn't raise suspicions.
Having written it countless times, his hand moved automatically through muscle memory, swiftly completing the work.
The sooner finished, the sooner training could begin.
Yamamoto's eyes first widened in surprise, then crinkled with pleasure.
Who knew this bargain student of his possessed such calligraphic talent?
The mere sight of these characters stirred excitement within him.
Amid Seireitei's recent troubles, it had been years since he'd felt this delighted.
Noticing Yamamoto's expression, Satoru paused.
His initially careless strokes gradually gained purpose.
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