Wind Rising

Shuichi's days in the Seireitei passed one after another like this.

Every day at dawn, he went to the courtyard of the First Division Barracks, where Captain-Commander Yamamoto was already waiting.

A candle, a stone pedestal, a young man from Rukongai, and the strongest Soul Reaper in Soul Society.

"Reiatsu is not a flood. It is a stream."

Yamamoto had said those words many times. His tone was always the same—unhurried and unhurried, as though reciting a passage of scripture. Shuichi only understood later that the words themselves were a form of training. They did not teach him how to do it; they made him experience for himself what a "stream" meant.

The candle flame grew from the size of a bean to the height of a finger joint, from trembling on the verge of dying out to burning as steadily as still water. Shuichi could sit before it for an hour, feeding Reiatsu into the flame at a constant pace—neither too much nor too little, neither increasing nor decreasing.

"That will do," Yamamoto said.

It was the morning of the seventh day.

Shuichi had thought he would learn something more impressive next—perhaps how to reinforce a slash with Reiatsu, or how to use Reiatsu to sense an enemy's location.

But Yamamoto merely put away the half-burned candle and replaced it with a new one.

"Continue."

Shuichi did not ask why. He simply sat down before the stone pedestal and held his hand above the candle.

Only later did he learn that Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto's way of teaching was entirely different from the Genji School's. The Genji School taught you what something was. Yamamoto only told you what to do. He would not explain the principles behind the flow of Reiatsu, draw diagrams of Reishi distribution, or lecture on theories copied from textbooks.

He did only one thing.

He made you do it.

Make your Reiatsu as steady as a stream. Make it as natural as breathing. Make it as unconscious as a heartbeat.

Shuichi did not know how long that would take. He only knew that every dawn, he went to the First Division Barracks, sat before the stone pedestal, and faced a candle.

Sometimes Yamamoto was there, and sometimes he was not. But whether he was present or not, the candle was always there, and Shuichi was always there.

By the fourteenth day, Shuichi could steadily feed Reiatsu into the flame for an entire morning. When he opened his eyes, the candle had burned down to its base, leaving only a short stub of wax. Its flame still burned quietly.

Yamamoto stood behind him.

"Starting tomorrow, use this instead."

He tossed over a stone. It resembled the practice stone from the Genji School, but it was much smaller, only the size of a fist.

"Pour Reiatsu into it. Fill it, but do not let it crack."

Shuichi caught the stone and froze for a moment.

"Fill it? A stone can be filled?"

Yamamoto did not answer. He had already turned and left.

Shuichi looked down at the stone in his hand. It was gray and rough, utterly ordinary in appearance.

He pressed his palm against it and began pouring in Reiatsu.

The stone lit up.

But this time, he could not feel any boundary of "fullness." The Reiatsu flowed in as if entering a bottomless pit. Nothing happened. The stone simply glowed, showing no sign of becoming full.

He kept at it for an hour, and the stone still glowed. He kept at it for two hours, and the stone still glowed.

By evening, Shuichi gave up. He tucked the stone into his robes and returned to his little house in West District One.

He would continue tomorrow.

Sasakibe occasionally came to teach him other things.

Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki—the four fundamentals—one by one.

Sasakibe's teaching style was completely different from Yamamoto's. He was the sort who explained everything clearly: why to grip the sword this way, why to move one's feet that way, why Reiatsu had to burst forth at the instant a punch landed rather than beforehand.

Shuichi liked that method. Yamamoto taught through "feeling"—make you do it, and then you understood. Sasakibe taught through "understanding"—understand first, then do it.

The two methods complemented each other perfectly.

"The foundation of Zanjutsu is that every stroke has its purpose."

When Sasakibe said that, Shuichi was performing his hundredth Straight Cut.

The wooden sword came down from above his head, splitting along the centerline. His footwork, waist rotation, wrist, and blade angle—every detail followed what Chōjirō had taught him.

"You're turning your waist too early." Chōjirō walked over and pressed down on his shoulder. "Wait until the blade reaches this position before turning. Again."

Shuichi raised the wooden sword again.

Straight Cut, side slash, reverse diagonal slash, thrust.

Every movement had to be repeated hundreds of times. Sasakibe would not let him touch his Zanpakutō. Before he learned how to exert force properly, using a real blade would only cultivate bad habits.

"The foundation of Shunpo is the burst of Reiatsu beneath your feet." Sasakibe stood in the center of the courtyard and demonstrated for him.

He did not vanish instantly as he had on the first day. Instead, he slowed his movements tenfold. Shuichi could clearly see a faint glow beneath his feet before his body sprang forward, landing roughly five steps away.

"You try."

Shuichi stood where Chōjirō had just been. He gathered Reiatsu beneath his feet. He had practiced this movement for fourteen days already, from candles to stones, from steady output to precise control. He tried to make the Reiatsu burst beneath his feet.

He sprang forward.

He did not walk. He did not run. He sprang, as though a spring beneath his feet had suddenly released. His body shot forward beyond his control, and then—

"Whoa—!"

He crashed heavily to the ground, face first.

Sasakibe walked over and looked down at him.

"Your Reiatsu burst was too strong. You only need this much."

He crouched down and indicated a very small amount with his fingers in front of Shuichi.

"Not this much."

He indicated a very large amount.

Shuichi lay facedown on the ground, his cheek pressed against the stone slabs. "Got it," he muttered.

He climbed up, brushed the dust from himself, and stood straight again.

This time, he tried releasing only a "drop" of Reiatsu beneath his feet.

He stepped out, crossing the distance of three normal steps in one stride. But he did not fall. When his foot touched down, the Reiatsu beneath his other foot naturally followed, sending him another step forward.

After three steps, he stopped and turned back toward Sasakibe.

Sasakibe nodded.

"Keep practicing. Remember that feeling."

Shuichi turned around and continued practicing Shunpo in the courtyard. From three steps to five, from five to ten. He fell many times, scraping the skin from his knees and palms, but he did not stop.

Because he discovered something.

The feeling of Shunpo was the same as the feeling of controlling Reiatsu.

It was not an explosion, nor was it a charge. It was "flow"—like a stream flowing from high ground to low, natural and effortless.

So when Yamamoto said, "Reiatsu is not a flood. It is a stream," it was not useful only when sitting before a candle.

He was also learning Hakuda and Kidō.

The foundation of Hakuda was "using Reiatsu to strengthen the body." Chōjirō had him stand before a wooden post and strike it with his fists.

"Do not rely on brute force. Concentrate your Reiatsu in your fist, then release it at the instant of contact."

Shuichi clenched his fist and tried to concentrate Reiatsu over his knuckles. He tried many times. Either the Reiatsu released too early, and his fist had not even struck the post before it dispersed, or it released too late, and his fist had already hit the post while the Reiatsu remained trapped in his palm.

Smack.

On his tenth attempt or so, he heard a crisp sound. At the instant his fist struck the wooden post, the Reiatsu released. A shallow dent appeared in the post. His fist hurt a little, but it was nothing serious.

Sasakibe watched from the side without speaking.

Shuichi continued punching.

He learned Kidō the slowest, not because he lacked Reiatsu, but because he did not know how to "transform" Reiatsu into a spell.

Hado #1: Sho.

He extended his hand, recited the incantation, and tried to push his Reiatsu outward.

Nothing happened.

"Your Reiatsu has not been 'transformed,'" Chōjirō said. "You merely released it. You did not give it a 'shape.' A Kidō incantation is not decoration. It defines the form and direction of Reiatsu."

Shuichi tried again several times.

On the seventh attempt, a faint ball of light finally appeared in his palm. It wavered like a lantern about to go out, traveling less than three steps before dispersing.

But at least he had released it.

Chōjirō watched him, and the corner of his mouth moved slightly. That probably counted as a smile.

"Keep practicing."

And so the days passed.

Every dawn, he went to the First Division Barracks and practiced controlling Reiatsu with either a candle or a stone. At noon, he went to the Genji School and studied Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki under Chōjirō. In the evening, he returned to his little house in West District One and practiced on his own for a while longer.

One afternoon, Shuichi left the Genji School and followed his usual route back to West District One.

The Seireitei streets were quiet at that hour. Most Soul Reapers were either carrying out missions or resting in their barracks. He walked alone along the stone-paved road, his Zanpakutō hanging at his waist and his steps light. Having practiced Shunpo so much, even his normal walking speed had improved considerably.

When he reached a fork in the road, he saw someone standing ahead.

The man wore a white hitatare beneath a blue haori. A ring of silver ornamentation decorated the sheath of the sword at his waist. He stood with his back to Shuichi, hands clasped behind him, as though waiting for someone.

Shuichi slowed down, intending to go around him.

"Shuichi-kun."

The man turned around.

He was a young man in his twenties—or so he appeared. Of course, a Soul Reaper's appearance had little to do with his actual age. His features were refined, his eyes long and narrow, and a faint smile rested at the corners of his lips. It was polite and proper, yet Shuichi could not shake the feeling that something was wrong with it.

"And you are?" Shuichi stopped.

"Tsunayashiro." The young man gave a slight bow, his movements as elegant as a performance on a stage.

"Tsunayashiro Shisei."

Shuichi did not recognize the name, but he had heard the three words "Tsunayashiro" at the Genji School.

One of the Four Great Noble Clans, alongside the Shihōin, Kuchiki, and Shiba—one of the oldest and most powerful families in Soul Society.

"Hello." Shuichi nodded, unsure how to handle this sort of situation.

"I have long heard of Shuichi-kun's name."

Tsunayashiro Shisei straightened, his smile deepening. "I heard that Shuichi-kun gained Spiritual Might after being at the school for less than half a month. The Captain-Commander personally instructs you, while Vice-Captain Chōjirō personally teaches you Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki. Such treatment is unprecedented in the Seireitei."

Shuichi frowned.

He did not like this way of speaking. Every sentence sounded like praise, yet every sentence made him feel as though something lurked behind it.

"I was just lucky," he said.

"Lucky?"

Tsunayashiro chuckled softly. "Shuichi-kun is too modest. The Captain-Commander's instruction is not something one can obtain through luck alone."

He took a small brocade pouch from his sleeve and offered it to Shuichi.

"This is a small token from the Tsunayashiro Clan. It is nothing precious, merely a few spirit stones that may help with Reiatsu control."

Shuichi did not take it.

"I can't accept it."

"Why not?"

Tsunayashiro tilted his head, his smile unchanged. "You are a Soul Reaper of the Seireitei, and the Tsunayashiro Clan is a noble house of the Seireitei. Why refuse a gift between colleagues?"

"The Captain-Commander never said I could accept things," Shuichi said.

That was the truth. Yamamoto had never said anything of the sort, but Shuichi felt that if Yamamoto were present, he probably would not want him to accept the pouch.

Tsunayashiro's smile stiffened for an instant—only an instant, so brief it was almost unnoticeable. Then he withdrew the brocade pouch and returned it to his sleeve.

"Shuichi-kun is truly cautious," he said, with something indescribable added to his tone.

"That is a good thing. In this place, only caution lets one live a long life."

He gave Shuichi a slight bow.

"Then I shall not disturb you. Until we meet again."

With that, he turned and left. His steps were calm, his back straight, as though he had never been there at all.

Shuichi stood where he was and watched him disappear at the end of the street.

He did not quite understand what had just happened, but his palms were sweating and his back felt cold. That was an instinct he had developed in North 79th District. Whenever danger approached, his body reacted before his mind did.

He quickened his pace toward West District One.

Three days later, another person came.

This time, the visitor did not block his path. He came directly to Shuichi's door.

When Shuichi returned that evening, he saw a middle-aged man standing before his little house. The man wore a white hitatare, blue inner robes, and a blue haori. His bearing was entirely different from Tsunayashiro Shisei's—more steady, more restrained, like a blade sheathed in its scabbard.

"Shuichi-kun?"

When the man saw him, he gave a slight bow. "The Kuchiki Clan. Kuchiki Seigen."

Shuichi's heart sank.

Kuchiki.

One of the Four Great Noble Clans.

"Hello," he said, doing his best to keep his voice calm.

"Forgive my presumptuous visit."

Kuchiki Seigen's attitude was far more courteous than Tsunayashiro Shisei's, perhaps even overly formal. "I heard that Shuichi-kun has performed exceptionally at the Genji School. The Kuchiki Clan has prepared a modest gift to show our respect."

He took a wooden box from his sleeve and offered it with both hands.

Shuichi did not accept it.

"Thank you, but I cannot accept it."

Kuchiki Seigen did not persist as Tsunayashiro had. He looked at Shuichi, nodded, and put the wooden box away.

"I understand," he said.

"Shuichi-kun is the Captain-Commander's student, so naturally it would be inconvenient for you to accept gifts from outsiders. The Kuchiki Clan will not force the matter."

His tone was calm, without disappointment or displeasure, as though he had expected this outcome all along.

"However, the doors of the Kuchiki Clan will always remain open to Shuichi-kun. Should you require assistance in the future, please do not hesitate to ask." He gave Shuichi a deep bow before turning and leaving.

Shuichi stood at the doorway, watching his figure disappear around the mouth of the alley.

Another one had come.

He pushed open the door, walked inside, set his Zanpakutō beside the tatami mat, and sat down.

He was not stupid. Though he had lived in North 79th District for so long and had never read a book or attended school, he was not stupid.

What did it mean in the Seireitei for Captain-Commander Yamamoto to teach him personally?

What did it mean for Vice-Captain Chōjirō Sasakibe to personally teach him Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki?

The vice-captain of the First Division, Yamamoto's most trusted confidant, personally taught him every afternoon at the Genji School how to hold a sword, step forward, and throw a punch.

This was not "treatment."

This was a signal.

A signal sent to the entire Seireitei: this young man belonged to Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto.

And the Four Great Noble Clans had always been the best at reading signals.

The Tsunayashiro Clan had come.

The Kuchiki Clan had come.

Who would be next?

Five more days passed.

This time, the visitor was a little different.

On his way back from the Genji School, Shuichi encountered a young woman near the Seireitei's south gate. She wore a light pink hitatare beneath a pale purple haori, her hair pinned up with a silver hairpin. She looked dashing and capable.

Leaning against a gatepost, she idly spun a small knife in her hand. When she saw Shuichi approaching, she whistled. "Yo, kid from Rukongai."

Shuichi stopped.

"Who are you?"

"Shihōin."

She put away the knife and winked at him. "Shihoin Yeming."

Shuichi sighed.

So she had come after all.

"Hello," he said, already prepared to refuse a gift.

But Shihoin Yeming did not take out a gift. She merely looked him over from head to toe, then nodded.

"Mm, not bad. A little sturdier than I imagined."

"...Thanks."

"Don't thank me. I just came to take a look."

She slipped her hands into her sleeves, her tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. "That Tsunayashiro kid came looking for you, right? And that old fossil from the Kuchiki Clan too?"

Shuichi did not answer.

"You don't need to be nervous."

Yeming smiled. "The Shihōin Clan isn't like those two. We don't do that 'investment' nonsense."

"Then what do you do?"

"We make friends." She held out her hand. "How about it? Let's be friends. No money, no gifts. Just friends."

Shuichi looked at her hand but did not shake it.

"Why?"

"Because you're interesting." Yeming said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Born in Rukongai, personally taught by old man Yamamoto... someone like you doesn't appear in the Seireitei once in several hundred years. If I don't make friends with you now and wait until you become impressive, it won't be any fun."

Shuichi froze for a moment.

He had not expected that answer.

"I..." He opened his mouth, but did not know what to say.

"Alright, alright, I won't force you."

Yeming withdrew her hand and turned to leave. After taking two steps, she looked back. "Oh, right. Don't wait for the Shiba Clan. They're busy working on some new-style Kidō right now and couldn't care less about anything outside. Bunch of weirdos."

She waved at him and strode away.

Shuichi stood at the south gate, watching her retreating figure.

Shihoin Yeming.

She was different from Tsunayashiro Shisei, and different from Kuchiki Seigen.

She had not come to "invest." At least, it did not seem that way.

She had come to watch the "show."

Shuichi shook his head.