Chapter 42: A Lesson for Ichigo
Narrator POV
Location: Urahara's Shop
"So this is the base of the guy with the hat…? I expected something more… impressive."
Akira crossed his arms, observing the exterior of the shop with a mix of disappointment and curiosity.
At first glance, it looked like an ordinary place. Just a random shop tucked among the quiet streets of Karakura, with dusty signs and a forgettable façade. But Akira knew appearances were deceiving—especially in this world.
Without hesitating further, he walked up to the door and pushed it open. He stepped inside calmly, immediately noticing the strange stillness that filled the room. The lights were off, and there was no sign of anyone. Only shelves full of odd items and a faint smell of incense lingering in the air.
His gaze shifted toward the back, where a wooden trapdoor lay open, revealing stairs descending into the depths. Without a second thought, he began to walk down.
The tunnel was narrow and dusty, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls. At the end, a faint light seeped through, and as he crossed the threshold, he was greeted by an unexpected sight: a vast underground chamber designed to look like a battlefield under a perpetually cloudy sky.
The walls, ceiling, and ground were painted in brown and grayish tones, simulating a rugged, almost desert-like terrain, dotted with withered trees that looked like sad sculptures.
"What an… artificial place." he muttered as he walked forward calmly, examining his surroundings.
He knew it no longer made sense to stay on the sidelines. If he wanted to influence the events to come, he had to get involved—though that didn't mean he trusted Urahara or his methods. Not yet.
—"Excuse me, young man, but how did yo—"
The deep voice was instantly cut off. The large figure approaching froze upon recognizing Akira. A spark of surprise flashed across his face before he adopted a more cordial expression.
It was Tessai Tsukabishi: an imposing, tall, muscular man with dark skin, braided hair pulled back, and a striking handlebar mustache connected to long sideburns. His stern presence softened slightly as he recalled his boss's instructions.
Urahara had been clear: if that boy ever showed up, they were to treat him well. They would need him.
Akira turned toward Tessai, examining him with a sharp gaze. He didn't say anything right away. He simply watched, waiting for the next move.
"This is…" Tessai murmured as he glanced around for his boss. When he spotted Urahara chasing Ichigo with a sword, clearly attempting to slice him in half, he raised his voice with authority: "Boss! We have a visitor!"
"Hm?" Urahara stopped instantly at the sound, turning his head. When he saw Akira at the end of the passageway, his eyebrows rose in surprise. Then he smiled—that peculiar mix of eccentricity and mystery only he could pull off. "Oh! We meet again!" he greeted, waving his hand as if they were old friends. "What brings you to this humble antique dealer's shop?"
"I just wanted to make sure carrot-head is still in one piece." Akira replied with an indifferent tone as he walked calmly forward, hands in his pockets. "I have no idea who you are, so I didn't fully trust you. And even less with that ridiculous hat."
"Tsk, no sense of fashion at all." Urahara said cheerfully, not offended in the slightest. He even touched the brim of his hat with exaggerated elegance. "Anyway, I'm training Ichigo. I assume Yoruichi mentioned it… right, Akira?"
Though he kept his usual smile, there was a faint seriousness in his eyes when he mentioned the black cat.
"If you mean the Peruvian-colored cat, yeah. She told me what I needed to know." Akira's gaze drifted toward Ichigo, who was leaning on his zanpakutō, struggling to catch his breath. "What kind of training leaves him half-dead?"
"I'm glad you decided to join us." Urahara said as he turned around, renewed enthusiasm in his voice, completely ignoring Akira's question.
"I never said I—" Akira began to protest, but Urahara cut him off, continuing as if nothing happened.
"Good news, Ichigo!" he announced with a mischievous smile, patting him on the back. "Today you won't be training only with Ururu… you'll have a new partner."
Ichigo lifted his gaze, meeting Akira's eyes. He wasn't completely surprised. After what he'd seen… and what Urahara had told him, it made sense that Akira would show up here. Still, it was strange to see him in this place.
"So go on—fight!" Urahara declared with his usual enthusiasm before turning around and swiftly walking away. "And don't hold back, Akira. Maybe Ichigo will learn something from you."
"Crazy old man…" Ichigo muttered as he pushed himself back up, brushing off the dust. "So you're planning to go to the Soul Society too?"
His voice was serious. As he spoke, he grabbed his zanpakutō—still without a guard—that crude, oversized blade that looked more like a chunk of iron than a proper sword.
"That's right." Akira replied with a faint smile, drawing his daggers. "I'm sure you heard I promised Rukia I'd save her."
He accepted the fight without hesitation. It would help him measure Ichigo's true level—that impulsive carrot-head who showed so much potential.
Ichigo tightened his grip on Zangetsu. He had lost to Byakuya. And Akira… Akira had managed to keep up with him. Ichigo had seen it with his own eyes. He couldn't underestimate him—not if he intended to grow.
There was something about Akira's presence… it felt like when Urahara pushed him to the brink with thinly veiled threats of death.
It was time to get serious.
Ichigo could feel it. Akira wasn't just strong… he was different.
With a fast, straightforward motion, Ichigo launched himself at him. He swung his massive Zangetsu in a frontal slash, putting all the strength of his youthful drive into it. But Akira, unfazed, lifted one of his daggers and blocked the colossal sword as if it were a toy.
( I don't use any formal fighting style… but Ichigo is even worse than I am. )
Each of Ichigo's attacks was fierce, powerful… but clumsy. Akira moved with efficiency, deflecting each strike with minimal movement, observing, analyzing, understanding.
Ichigo fought with strength, yes… but without structure. His technique was a torrent of emotion, brute force, and will—without strategy or refinement. Akira, though self-taught, could read weaknesses. And Ichigo had far too many openings.
With a light backward leap, Akira dodged another descending strike from Zangetsu. The blade slammed into the ground, raising a cloud of dust and leaving a small crater. The sound was sharp, heavy.
As Ichigo was still finishing that movement, Akira closed the distance with a single swift step and delivered a powerful kick straight to his torso.
Ichigo barely managed to put his sword in the way. The kick struck with such force that the blade vibrated, pushing him several steps back, his feet scraping along the ground.
(He's fast… and strong. Really strong. He blocks all my attacks as if it's nothing… or he just dodges them.) —Ichigo thought while regaining his stance.—(I need to be faster… more precise.)
But Akira was already predicting Ichigo's next move.
Once again, Ichigo lunged. He leapt high, coming down like an arrow with Zangetsu raised overhead, ready to cleave Akira in half. But Akira, unmoving, simply raised his hand… and stopped the blade with a single open palm.
The impact sent a gust of wind exploding outward, throwing dust into the air, while Ichigo's eyes widened in disbelief.
"You're way too impulsive, Ichigo."
Without giving him time to react, Akira delivered a palm strike straight into his stomach. The impact was sharp, brutal. Ichigo's body was launched backward, crashing into a nearby rock formation and shattering it instantly.
Akira looked at the sword now in his hand. Zangetsu. Heavy, guardless, wrapped in white cloth like improvised bandages. More than a sword, it looked like a rough extension of its wielder's will.
"Hey, Mad Hatter." he called out to Urahara without fully turning. "What kind of weapon is this?"
"That, my young friend, is a zanpakutō. It is the soul of a shinigami forged into steel. It reflects their essence, their will, their true self. It's not just a tool—it's part of them." Urahara replied calmly from atop a nearby rock, watching the fight with interest.
Akira looked again at the end of the hilt—only wrapped in cloth—and rotated the sword slightly in his hand.
"So this is the reflection of Ichigo's soul?"
Holding it effortlessly with one hand, testing its balance, the blade seemed to respond without resistance. It didn't weigh as much as it looked… or perhaps Akira was simply too strong.
"Tsk… That hurt." Ichigo emerged from the pile of rocks he had crashed into. He brushed the dust off his clothes. "Hey, Akira! Give Zangetsu back, that's my zanpakutō!"
Akira turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Your zanpakutō?"
He gave a faint, mocking smile as he grabbed Zangetsu by the cloth strips and began spinning it rapidly. The air whistled around the rotating blade like an invisible whip.
"Then show me you deserve to have it. Time to give you a little lesson, you walking carrot."
Ichigo clenched his teeth, pride stung and spirit burning. The training had only just begun.
With a smirk, Akira hurled Zangetsu like a spinning spear straight at Ichigo's chest. Ichigo barely reacted in time, twisting his body and dodging the strike by a hair's breadth. The blade passed mere centimeters from impaling him.
From the other side, Akira gave a sharp tug on the cloth, making the massive zanpakutō return to his hand like a boomerang wrapped in spiritual power.
"I'll admit it… this is a pretty good weapon." Akira spun it once more with ease, as if it weighed no more than a regular katana. "Too bad it ended up with such a mediocre wielder."
"Hey, that's not fair!"
"In a real battle, Ichigo… there are no rules."
With that, he threw Zangetsu again like a projectile. Ichigo dodged on instinct, but Akira was already in front of him, appearing like a fleeting shadow.
Akira's fist slammed directly into his face, staggering Ichigo to the side. Before he could recover, Akira pulled Zangetsu back again, and without losing momentum, swung the blade in a downward slash.
Ichigo twisted his body just enough, but still felt the sting of a thin, bleeding cut across his cheek. A moment later, the rock behind him split cleanly in two, sliced as if it were paper.
—(H-How…? Why does Zangetsu seem stronger when he uses it?)
He stared at the blood sliding down his cheek while the smoking crater behind him made it very clear this attack wasn't a simple show of strength. It was mastery.
Akira spun the sword again, showing no signs of fatigue.
Ichigo's breathing grew heavier, not from pain, but from the overwhelming pressure Akira emitted. For the first time in a long while… he felt weak.
"You say this is your zanpakutō, right?" Akira asked with a faint smile, before driving Zangetsu into the ground right in front of Ichigo. "That's the problem, Ichigo… you see it that way—just as a weapon. But it's not." He stepped back, leaving the towering blade between them. "It's not a tool you can wield however you like. It's your reflection, your essence. Don't treat it like just any sword… because it isn't. It's a part of you."
The wind dragged some dust between them as the silence grew dense. Ichigo remained still, staring at his zanpakutō. He didn't grab it right away. Akira's words still echoed powerfully in his mind, hitting harder than any slash or punch.
"A part… of me…"
He stared at the sword, but for the first time… he didn't see just steel and edge. He felt it. As if something within him responded. High up on the rocks, Urahara watched carefully, sitting calmly as he adjusted his hat.
"Very perceptive… He understood instantly what many shinigami take years to grasp. The zanpakutō isn't just a weapon. It's a companion. One you must walk with, fight with, and grow with." He murmured to himself. He smiled faintly as he saw Ichigo lower his head for a moment, taking in that truth. "I wasn't wrong… Akira can teach him more than just how to fight. He can make him awaken."
Ichigo finally reached out and grabbed Zangetsu. But this time, his grip was different. No longer impulsive or desperate. It was firm, determined. He felt the weight of the sword… and what it represented.
"From now on… we go together," he said softly.
His spiritual energy began to flow more clearly. It was the first step toward no longer swinging a sword… but fighting alongside it.
---
End of chapter.