This kid… did he damage his brain just now?
Yamamoto stared at Kisaragi Akira with a deeply puzzled expression. He had no idea what kind of nonsense the boy was spouting. After a moment of silent contemplation, the old man still chose to abide by his sense of responsibility and answered patiently:
"Do not worry. Since you've become a disciple of the Genryū school, I will teach you everything without reservation. And with your talent, it may not take long before you graduate."
Akira sat cross-legged on the wooden floor—then suddenly leaned forward and vomited an entire pool of thick, green-tinged blood.
Yamamoto's eyes widened.
Before the old man could speak, Akira's hands lit up with the soft glow of healing kidō. He began treating himself with practiced ease.
The movements were so smooth—this had to be the result of hundreds of repetitions.
What confused Yamamoto even more was that Akira's healing technique, though a little raw, was astonishingly precise—each gesture perfectly replicating the textbook standard.
At this level, it wasn't just better than most instructors at the Spiritual Arts Academy. Compared to the squad leaders at Fourth Division's General Treatment Center… Akira's form might actually be superior.
Even more absurd was his efficiency. In just a few breaths, his previously pale face regained a bit of color. His aura, a moment ago flickering, now surged back to life as if nothing had happened.
Yamamoto stared blankly, unsure whether he should praise Akira's monstrous kidō aptitude or marvel at his superhuman physical constitution.
In truth, both were correct.
Although Akira had only learned Unohana Retsu's Deathblade Style, and only possessed the basic formal healing techniques taught by the Academy, his raw talent had corrected all his early flaws. Every detail—every angle—every gesture—had become flawless.
And with the buffs from [Miracle Hands] and [Kidō Specialization], Akira's single-target healing output now surpassed even any seated officer—possibly even the lieutenant—of Fourth Division.
More outrageous still, his abnormal spirit body wasn't just durable—it recovered with frightening speed.
Under the overlap of three major buffs, Kisaragi Akira had effectively become an unkillable cockroach. Light injuries simply couldn't harm him.
"Head Captain, there's no time to waste. Why don't we begin training right now!"
After finishing his self-healing, Akira rolled his shoulders and stretched his sore limbs, doing his best to return his spirit body to peak condition.
Seeing this, Yamamoto froze again, a brief haze flickering across his ancient eyes.
Originally, he had treasured Akira because of the boy's extraordinary talent—far beyond his peers in the Academy—and had warned Shinya Genzaburō to teach him according to his potential.
Later, after reviewing multiple reports and observations, Yamamoto sensed a familiar shadow within the boy.
The shadow of his most reliable disciple—now the Captain of Eighth Division—Kyouraku Shunsui.
…Though, only reliable now.
When he first instructed Shunsui, the boy had been a menace—lazy, mischievous, and stubborn. His talent was superb, but he lacked discipline. If not for certain events that changed him, Shunsui might not have amounted to much.
But when it came to Kisaragi Akira…
He originally thought the boy had a similar personality. Yet once he actually interacted with him, he realized they couldn't be more different.
At most, they shared a few superficial traits.
Watching Akira sit cross-legged again, Yamamoto suddenly felt uncertain.
Can I truly guide this boy onto the right path…?
"Head Captain? What are you thinking about?"
Akira leaned forward and waved his hand in front of the old man's face, trying to pull his soul back into his body.
"Ahem. Let me make this clear first."
Yamamoto pushed Akira's hand aside and straightened, resuming his usual stern, authoritative posture.
"Training in the Genryū school is exceedingly harsh. Once you begin, there is absolutely no quitting—no matter how life-threatening the obstacles may be."
The boy sat upright in front of him, peering at the old man's weathered face. Then he grinned boldly and replied without hesitation:
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
"You can rest assured—"
Hearing this, Yamamoto finally relaxed and began explaining the mindset he held when founding the Genryū school, along with the philosophy that allowed it to stand tall in the Soul Society.
To him, technique was external. Only with the proper principle could one become a true powerhouse with an unshakable heart.
If Akira could comprehend that principle, he would inevitably understand himself—awaken to his Zanpakutō's true name—and achieve Shikai without difficulty…
"From its creation until now, the philosophy of the Genryū school has changed several times. From slaughter to protection, it has undergone many twists—"
Three minutes later…
Akira's upper and lower eyelids began waging an all-out war, clashing fiercely as his head drooped back in slow, sleepy arcs.
Until—
"You brat!"
Yamamoto roared.
"The Genryū principles are the very foundation of our school! And you dare doze off? You clearly need to be taught a lesson about respecting your master!"
The moment he finished speaking—
Yamamoto stripped off his upper garments again.
Akira's eyes shone instantly.
Yes. Yes, this was exactly what he wanted.
Lectures? Compared to a proper beating, that was mental torture. And mental torture was far worse than physical pain.
Very quickly, the two clashed once more.
The collision of their power turned the already ruined dojo into something even more deplorable.
Yamamoto held back significantly—intending to teach Akira a painful lesson without actually harming him. Just enough to instill respect.
But soon, he realized something was wrong.
The more he beat Akira...the more excited and feral the boy's expression became.
Does he… have some kind of unspeakable fetish?
Yamamoto began doubting his own judgment.
Meanwhile, Akira grinned savagely, his straight silver teeth clenched as his fists hammered forward mercilessly.
Respect for one's teacher?
That concept had been launched straight into outer space.
Unfortunately, the gap between them was simply too vast. Even when Akira used his hidden trump card—the kidō crest augmentation—he was still pinned down and pummeled into the ground with almost no room to fight back.
Worse still, Yamamoto's attacks were so overwhelmingly fast that Akira barely learned anything from watching them.
The Heart of the Divine, his perception talent, could only analyze techniques within its own realm of understanding. Yamamoto's level was simply too far above him. Akira could only grasp the most superficial glimpses.
More importantly—
After over a thousand years of refinement, Yamamoto's Genryū had returned to pure simplicity. Every punch and kick fused seamlessly into his flesh and bone. Even without releasing any spiritual pressure, he could unleash terrifying destructive force.
Finally—
With the last strike of Genryū — Falling Palm—
Akira shot into the air like a meteor, blasted straight through the dojo ceiling, and crashed violently into some distant squad barracks…