Staring at the bare-chested old man in front of him, Kisaragi Akira couldn't help feeling a cold thump in his chest.
Other people might not know Yamamoto's true nature—but he absolutely did.
Never mind the old man's modest height—barely one-seventy with shoes on. Beneath that wrinkled, weathered skin was nothing but knotted muscle, the kind forged in a millennium where no Shinigami had ever surpassed him. He was the immovable pillar of the Soul Society. Blade, fist, kidō—there was nothing he wasn't a master of.
And now Akira was supposed to spar with him.
Truthfully, at Akira's current level, the match would probably end nine-to-one… with Yamamoto landing the nine, and Akira lying flat on the ground before he even got the chance to scream.
One punch from Yamamoto and Akira would be smiling in the afterlife.
"Genryū Ryū, the most fatal mistake is hesitation," Yamamoto growled as he rolled his thick shoulders. His terrifying muscles rippled beneath his skin, and an overwhelming aura—hot, dense, suffocating—washed over the air.
He wasn't even releasing spiritual pressure. Yet it still felt like staring straight into the jaws of Hell.
"Are you afraid?" Yamamoto asked, voice heavy as a war drum. "When you truly face death, fear will not serve you!"
And without waiting for permission, the old man's massive hand shot out like a falling boulder, aiming directly at Akira's head.
The air cracked with a violent boom. A wave of scorching wind slammed into him.
Akira's pupils shrank to pinpoints. Danger exploded in his instincts. That hand grew larger and larger in his vision, filling up his entire world.
If he couldn't block it, he'd die.
No time to think. In the instant of crisis, Akira surrendered everything to sheer survival instinct. The white-combat technique he'd secretly learned from the Shihōin clan surged out of him.
His fingers flicked once—then clenched sharply into a fist. Stepping lightly off the ground, he drove his relatively small fist straight into the massive palm descending upon him.
A piercing blast tore through the air.
Boom!
Fist and palm collided, and a screaming whirlwind erupted, the explosion ringing in Akira's skull hard enough to hurt his eardrums.
The last time he'd fought hand-to-hand was against Shihōin Yoruichi.
He'd lost, but it hadn't been hopeless.
Now, though, his strength was more than ten times what it was back then. If he sparred with Yoruichi again, he could probably pin her to the ground at least once.
But this time his opponent was Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni.
Compared to that, Akira's improvements might as well have been pocket change.
It was like mastering the beginner's lessons of Go, clearing the tutorial, finally feeling confident enough to challenge a real opponent…
…only to look up and realize the opponent was AlphaGo.
The disparity was so overwhelming it was almost comical.
Sheer strength, explosive speed, mastery of force—Yamamoto fused it all perfectly, unleashing it as naturally as breathing. His bones shifted, his muscles surged, grinding like iron plates. Heat burst from him like a smothered volcano finally erupting.
Unlike the Shihōin clan's fluid, ever-changing white-combat style, Yamamoto's movements were direct, unadorned, and brutally honest—yet every ounce of technique was hidden within the simplest of motions.
When his five fingers opened, they unleashing volcano-like power.
In an instant, another explosive roar erupted.
A violent shockwave tore outward, crushing the air itself.
Akira stopped breathing. His thoughts froze. A presence stronger than anything he'd ever faced reared up in front of him like a roaring beast.
The shockwave struck the wooden dojo floor and blasted it apart. Jagged cracks tore across the ground, opening a huge crater that looked like a black maw ready to swallow anything whole.
Akira dodged at the last second, turning his head as raw battle instinct flared in his veins.
Getting beaten up wasn't his style.
Even if the gap between them was ridiculous—absurd—borderline insulting—he still wanted to tear a piece of flesh off this monster of an old man before he fell.
His heart pounded like a drum. His face burned red. Power surged through his spirit body.
When Yamamoto came in again, Akira didn't retreat. He grinned—wild, instinctive—and poured every ounce of spirit power he had into a straight forward punch.
The moment their attacks collided, a tidal wave of force crashed into Akira.
In that instant, he finally understood the meaning of true disparity.
The moment Yamamoto's power slammed into his body, the burning, tyrannical force rushed through every limb, every inch of flesh, every bone—merciless, unstoppable.
Akira's pupils shrank sharply.
Images flickered rapidly through his mind: the survival struggles in the Rebellion District; Ise Shizune's gentle smile; the solemn rituals he'd performed as a shrine priest; and the warm, refined expression of the brown-haired boy in front of the Spiritual Arts Academy...
A hallucination?
Akira drifted.
There was no pain—none at all. He couldn't even feel his body. It was like he'd slipped into a third-person view, watching everything from outside himself.
In that eternal yet fleeting instant, he saw something flying farther and farther away.
It was a shiny bald head.
Ah.
That was him.
The next second, silence fell.
Akira's feet left the shattered dojo floor. His body traced a graceful arc through the air.
Dozens of meters vanished beneath him. Then he crashed like a meteor at the entrance of the dojo, his body flopping and bouncing across the ground like a fish tossed out of water.
Only after several moments did he snap out of his daze—just in time for the pain to hit him.
It felt like he'd been laid under a millstone and rolled over fifty times.
He couldn't breathe. Everything hurt. His soul hurt.
Seeing his goal achieved, Yamamoto calmly withdrew his aura. He redressed himself—first the shihakushō, then the captain's haori—then strolled over, scooped Akira up like a misbehaving kitten, and carried him back into the dojo.
The entire sequence looked practiced. Routine. Natural.
As if he'd done it thousands of times.
"Do not resist," Yamamoto said calmly. "My healing isn't on the same level as Captain Unohana's, but it's more than enough for your injuries."
His scarred hand pressed directly against Akira's chest, activating the most aggressive healing method Akira had ever experienced.
Right then, Akira's face turned pale—not because he was injured, but because his mind had simply exploded.
One technique.
Just one technique of Yamamoto's white-combat style had completely redefined Akira's understanding of skill.
It was exactly like the first time he'd faced Unohana Retsu's deadly kenjutsu—helpless, hopeless, utterly crushed.
Moments ago, he'd been proudly thinking about the Shihōin clan techniques he'd secretly learned.
Now, there was only one thought left in his mind.
When he'd finally regained enough breath to speak, he looked up at Yamamoto's severe, ancient face—tears glimmering in the corners of his eyes.
"Sensei…""I want to learn Genryū Ryū!"
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