At the First Division barracks, in the training hall, Akira left Kaede behind and approached Yamamoto.
He had a few questions, of course—but more importantly, he wanted to take another beating.
When Akira explained his request, the bald veteran didn't hesitate. He removed his captain's haori, hung it on a nearby rack, and, one-handed, hauled Akira into the training hall.
The old master and the young prodigy wasted no words, swinging fists at each other with violent ferocity.
After several brutal rounds, Akira began to think strategically: how could he force Yamamoto—the master of all four Zanpakutō combat techniques—to suffer, even when their levels were unmatched?
Most of his waterfall meditation sessions had been spent contemplating this very question.
Thanks to his Divine Heart talent, he could analyze each frame of combat, extracting any useful knowledge for himself.
Yamamoto was skilled, but not one-dimensional.
After a beating, he would patiently point out flaws in Akira's technique while explaining the core essence of his own movements.
Though his training had only just begun, Akira's progress was explosive.
His Hand-to-Hand (Bajutsu) level skyrocketed ten points, jumping from 40 to 50!
Compared to his Zanpakutō development, which advanced almost unnaturally, Hand-to-Hand was far harder to master.
Even so, Akira was thrilled—after only a few days, he was already making tremendous strides.
At this rate, defeating Tenkō wouldn't be a dream.
In the hall, Yamamoto's massive muscles bulged like a volcanic eruption. Every step brought a tidal wave of pressure, spanning several meters in an instant, closing in on Akira's face.
The sinews of his arms rippled with force, the endless power inside forming visible currents, accompanied by the sound of cracking strings.
Yamamoto's fist, tightened like collapsing mountains, barreled down with explosive wind—there was even a faint sonic boom.
The Genryu technique: Crushing Pressure!
Akira didn't meet the blow head-on. Instead, he retreated, his body taut like a drawn bowstring. The tension in his muscles emitted a faint, strained creaking sound.
A flicker of surprise crossed Yamamoto's experienced eyes. He recognized Akira's strategy instantly.
This was clever. He was storing energy in his body, coiling like a spring, preparing to unleash a devastating counterattack several times stronger than any before.
"Well done… the kid has insight," Yamamoto murmured, nodding. But his brow furrowed slightly, a faintly feral glint appearing.
Yet when the gap between opponents is too vast, pure collision can shatter the weaker combatant in an instant.
Yamamoto held his ground, waiting.
He drew back his right arm, the rippling muscles flowing like water, clenched his fist again, and unleashed a chilling ki blast from his palm.
As his fist descended, a scorching wind howled, threatening to engulf Akira like a stalk of grass in a storm.
But Akira did not crumble. In the fleeting gap before the wind hit, he planted his right foot, smashing the floor, and using the momentum to spin his body.
The next instant, the furious gale, charged with unstoppable momentum, hurled itself straight at Yamamoto's bald head.
"Take this—!"
The boy's roar echoed through the hall:
"Tornado Crush—Parking Lot Destroyer!!"