"Good. Very spirited."
Yamamoto rolled his fingers and neck, producing crisp cracking sounds from his joints. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he looked at Naraku Sora, who had assumed a similar stance.
A hint of satisfaction showed in his eyes.
Unlike the non-combat-inclined Ukitake Jūshirō and the lazy Kyōraku Shunsui, this newly accepted student suited his tastes—whether in Hakuda or swordsmanship.
Especially that unyielding will to fight, and the outstanding learning talent, which reminded Yamamoto strongly of his younger self.
Every time he taught the boy, it felt like looking into a mirror.
Maybe "philosophy" was annoying to lecture about—but Naraku was clearly a born practical genius.
Things he couldn't memorize with his head, he could memorize with his body.
After being beaten a few times, that terrifying talent would show itself, perfectly reproducing the technique.
Teaching a genius and teaching an idiot were two entirely different experiences.
One was a pleasure.
The other was torture.
As the founder of Genryū, Yamamoto had endured his share of idiots back in the day—memories he'd rather not revisit.
After becoming Captain-Commander, he'd rarely felt the urge to take students.
Naraku was the exception.
At first, Yamamoto wanted to forge him into a sharp blade aimed at nobles. But with time, he realized that would be wasteful.
This kid should have a brighter future—not one spent breaking himself in noble power struggles.
Naraku watched Yamamoto fold away his captain's haori, then strip off his upper shihakushō and tie it around his waist.
A chill ran up Naraku's spine.
It felt like a volcano rising in front of him—heat boiling beneath the surface, about to erupt at any moment.
A dreadful shadow covered the dōjō, making the whole building tremble.
And yet, Naraku wasn't afraid.
If anything, he looked excited.
He didn't know exactly how much damage Black Flash would add—but with those "stat numbers" he'd stuffed in, he felt strong as hell right now.
Yamamoto? No big deal.
Watching Naraku's confidence explode off the charts, Yamamoto bared his teeth slightly, iron-hard muscles bunching.
He found himself looking forward to the fight.
He hoped the brat would surprise him.
The two stood facing each other, eyes locked, when a low rumble seemed to rise from inside their bodies.
Visible Reiatsu surged outward. The same terrifying heat radiated from old and young alike.
Heavy pressure warped the air into different colors—
One gold-red.
One blood-red.
In the First Division garden, Sasakibe Chōjirō sensed that scorching Reiatsu and immediately set down his watering can, Shunpo'ing to the dōjō entrance.
At the same time, First Division's Third Seat, Okikiba Genshirō, arrived as well.
They exchanged a look, both seeing surprise in the other's eyes.
Normally Yamamoto didn't teach with this kind of intensity. And judging by the other Reiatsu… Naraku's progress was starting to look downright absurd.
"Let's seal the dōjō with a Bakudō barrier," Sasakibe suggested.
Okikiba nodded grimly.
Massive Kidō Reiatsu poured from their palms, linking and weaving into a large barrier that covered the entire building.
Inside, Yamamoto—muscles bulging—stood barefoot, testing the new floor's hardness with a light step. Knees bent, stance set. Beneath his calm face, heat flashed in his eyes.
"I'll allow you to attack first."
Naraku braced his hands on his knees. Hot Reiatsu surged from inside his body, his shihakushō fluttering like a war banner.
He smiled warmly.
"In that case, I won't hold back."
The moment the words left his mouth, that "gentle" smile turned feral and closed in.
Black-red muscle lines surfaced. Reiatsu filled his muscle fibers. Pure, terrifying power exploded in an instant and tore through the air.
A dull impact sounded.
Naraku's eyes widened—scorching pressure crashed down like magma, crushing his "sure-hit" strike like rotten wood.
And then came the counter.
A powerful fist broke through his hastily built defense and slammed into his chest without mercy.
Under that monstrous impact, Naraku's body folded. A fist print burst out on his back, shockwaves rippling from it.
A suffocating sensation swallowed him whole.
When teacher and student deliberately kept their Reiatsu at the same level, the massive gap in technique became brutally obvious.
Naraku's pride from "running over" Takeda Satoru was pulverized into dust.
Even at equal Reiatsu, Yamamoto's refined technique could end the fight instantly.
That was the foundation of Soul Society's strongest Shinigami.
For a moment Naraku even suspected Yamamoto had been holding back all his real tricks, feeding him crumbs to fool him.
But looking closely, Yamamoto wasn't even using any "fancy" Hakuda techniques—he was simply reacting with perfect combat understanding, delivering the most correct counter every time.
"Brat," Yamamoto said while beating him, not forgetting to teach. "Relying too much on your shihakushō's defense is deadly in close combat."
"If an enemy can breach that layer, your comparatively frail body becomes a lethal—"
He didn't finish.
A left hand suddenly grabbed his right wrist.
The hunched body snapped upright, and Naraku's right hand—wrapped in blood-red mist—clenched tight and rose like thunder.
Terrifying heat flared.
He aimed straight for Yamamoto's face and brought it down.
Ikkotsu!
Outside, the onlookers gasped, instinctively worried about their Captain-Commander's "old face."
Naraku even saw the skin distort under the incoming fist's wind pressure.
But at the instant Ikkotsu was about to land, a thick, callused palm appeared and clamped down over Naraku's fist.
Their collision detonated a heart-stopping boom.
Scorching wind poured through the gaps and swept the entire dōjō.
Then—
As the hand and fist tightened together, Yamamoto's other fist—formed like a hammer—drove into Naraku's chest.
The impact erased Naraku's senses for a heartbeat. A terror like a sun exploding burst outward, spreading and swallowing everything.
Overwhelming power flooded his body, filling every limb and bone—like he'd been ground into meat under a millstone.
Pain everywhere almost drowned his reason.
Naraku flew backward in a daze, lifting smoothly off the ground and drawing a near-perfect parabola through the air.
He crossed dozens of meters before slamming into the floor with a final dull crash, leaving dense, even cracks radiating outward.
When Naraku struggled up, the lingering pain in his body still nearly suffocated him.
"Sōkotsu, brat," Yamamoto said calmly, lowering his stance.
Ignoring the iron muscles and the jagged scars, the old man's face really could pass as that of a kindly elder sitting by a doorway.
"Did you feel it?"
"This is the peak that pure technique can reach."
"Back when my Zanpakutō training wasn't fully developed, I carved Genryū's name into Soul Society with this alone."
"If not for an accident, I might have walked that road to the end."
"But in the end, the essence of a Shinigami's power is still the Zanpakutō."
"When I set aside Hakuda and focused on my blade, I saw a far broader world."
Naraku listened, thoughtful.
But that single experience wasn't enough to grasp the essence of Sōkotsu.
The force application and Reiatsu flow were entirely different—ten times more complex than Ikkotsu.
"Hakuda's greatest advantage is that it gives Shinigami a reliable way to fight when their Zanpakutō is ineffective."
"And some Shinigami have blades that aren't suited for combat—or simply weaker than fists."
"Like that girl from the Shihōin."
Yamamoto mocked faintly. "Must be bloodline tradition. Shihōin Yoruichi's Zanpakutō has virtually no development potential."
"Same as her predecessors."
He shook his head slightly.
"Enough digression."
"Today is about teaching Sōkotsu."
Yamamoto glanced at Naraku, hands still braced on his knees, and a small surprise passed under his lowered eyelids.
Even with controlled force and Reiatsu, a normal Shinigami taking that hit head-on would be half-paralyzed at best.
If their body was weaker, they might explode on the spot.
But Naraku only had bruising on the surface—and in the time Yamamoto had been talking, even that was almost gone.
And—
Yamamoto flexed his hands, puzzled.
Why did this kid's skin defense feel… strange?
"'An eye for an eye.'"
Naraku shook his head, forcing himself out of the lingering shock of Sōkotsu.
"Now it's my turn."
Hierro might not tank Yamamoto's burst strikes forever, but his high-speed regeneration could absolutely support a long endurance fight.
That brief breathing space was enough.
Time to counterattack.
Seeing Naraku bounce back so quickly—and even talk trash—Yamamoto couldn't help grinning.
It had been a long time since he'd taught a student this stubborn.
He hoped the brat would surprise him.
The fight resumed immediately. Scorching wind rippled across the dōjō.
Outside, Sasakibe and Okikiba clicked their tongues in amazement—shocked by Naraku's toughness and recovery speed.
Old men like them were always jealous of young people with endless energy.
Naraku opened again with Ikkotsu.
His mastery was already near perfect—even Yamamoto, the creator, couldn't find a flaw.
For instance: double Ikkotsu.
At the moment fists collided, booms erupted and shockwaves rolled—and then a second Ikkotsu, accompanied by thunder, crashed down immediately after.
The gap between the two was so short a normal person couldn't react.
It looked vaguely similar to Sōkotsu, but in truth the difference was worlds apart.
"If that's the move you think you've 'understood,'" Yamamoto snorted, brutally smashing those "mediocre" moves—moves that were actually extremely refined—and piled crushing pressure onto Naraku.
"Then I'll have to rate you… unqualified."
He stepped in suddenly, his iron body appearing right in front of Naraku without warning. Both fists locked together like a hammer, taking the shape of a finishing blow.
Sōkotsu!
And at that moment, Yamamoto sensed something wrong about Naraku.
Within the blood-red Reiatsu, a chilling black thread appeared, twisting and tangling into unstable, crackling arcs.
Naraku's grin turned even more feral. The longer they traded blows, the hotter the "feel" became.
Reiatsu impacts detonated—then came physical strikes like a Menos' charge.
Black Flash · Ikkotsu!
The explosion was deafening.
For an instant, the world lost its contours. Space warped under the leaping black-red arcs, and a terrifying light burst out.
It shattered the floor, tore the earth open, broke the roof, and even shook the sky itself.
The thin clouds above the barracks vanished under the shockwave.
Pure destruction surged forward like a tidal wave—like an apocalyptic disaster swallowing everything ahead!
The instant that punch came, Yamamoto's face changed. Reiatsu that had been "kept equal" exploded upward, and boiling heat became a pillar of fire that shot into the heavens—
Like a sun rising over the dōjō.
The grand hall collapsed instantly, roaring down into rubble. In the storm of dust, two forces clashed violently, erasing everything they touched.
Sasakibe and the others stared in disbelief. Shinigami all over the barracks turned toward the calamity-like scene, faces stunned as they watched the reishi storm sweeping through the ruins.
The howling wind took a long time to settle.
When the dust finally fell, everyone saw two figures in the center of the wreckage—familiar, yet somehow not.
The old man's body was charred black. His shihakushō was reduced to half, and the beard he'd always maintained so carefully was now only half there as well.
The boy sat cross-legged on the ground, staring at that furious yet helpless face, smiling silently.
"Teacher," Naraku asked with a grin, "what do you think of the new move I just figured out?"
Looking at that smile, Yamamoto's chest rose and fell. For a moment he had a powerful urge to smash the brat's skull with one punch.
He was even worse than Kyōraku Shunsui—completely lacking respect for his teacher!
~~~
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