Rumors

Shuichi's days in the Seireitei passed one by one.

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

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

"Reiatsu isn't a flood. It's a stream."

Yamamoto said it many times, always in the same unhurried tone, as though reciting scripture. Only later did Shuichi understand that the words were a form of training in themselves. Yamamoto wasn't telling him how to do it. He was letting Shuichi discover what a "stream" meant for himself.

The candle's flame grew from the size of a bean to the height of a knuckle, from wavering on the verge of going out to steady as still water. Shuichi could sit before it for an hour, feeding Reiatsu into the flame at a constant rate—no more, no less.

"That's enough," Yamamoto said.

It was the morning of the seventh day.

Shuichi thought he would learn something more powerful next, perhaps how to strengthen a strike with Reiatsu or sense an enemy's position with it.

But Yamamoto merely put away the mostly burned candle and replaced it with a fresh one.

"Continue."

Shuichi didn't ask why. He sat down before the stone pedestal and held his hand over the candle.

Only later did he learn that Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto taught nothing like the Genji School. The school taught you what something was; Yamamoto only told you what to do. He never explained the principles behind the flow of Reiatsu, drew diagrams of Reishi distribution, or recited theories copied from textbooks.

He did just one thing.

He made you do it.

He made your Reiatsu as steady as a stream, as natural as breathing, as effortless as a heartbeat.

Shuichi didn't know how long it would take. He only knew that every morning at dawn, he went to the First Division Barracks and sat before a candle on a stone pedestal.

Sometimes Yamamoto was beside him, sometimes he wasn't. Either way, the candle was there, and so was Shuichi.

By the fourteenth day, Shuichi could feed it Reiatsu steadily 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."

He tossed Shuichi a stone. It looked much like the practice stone at the Genji School, but was far smaller, no bigger than a fist.

"Pour Reiatsu into it. Fill it, but don't let it crack."

Shuichi caught the stone and paused.

"Fill it? A stone can be filled?"

Yamamoto didn't answer. He had already turned and walked away.

Shuichi looked down at the stone in his hand. Gray, rough, utterly ordinary.

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

The stone lit up.

This time, though, he felt no boundary of "fullness." His Reiatsu flowed in as if into a bottomless pit. Nothing happened. The stone simply glowed, with no sign that it was nearing its limit.

He poured Reiatsu in for an hour. The stone kept glowing. He poured it in for two. The stone kept glowing.

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

I'll continue tomorrow.

Sasakibe occasionally came to teach him other things.

Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki: four fundamentals, learned one at a time.

Sasakibe's teaching style was nothing like Yamamoto's. He explained everything: why to hold a sword a certain way, why to move your feet a certain way, why Reiatsu had to erupt at the instant a punch landed rather than before it.

Shuichi liked that approach. Yamamoto taught through feel: do it, and understanding would follow. Sasakibe taught through understanding: grasp it first, then put it into practice.

Together, the two approaches fit perfectly.

"The foundation of Zanjutsu is that every strike must have a purpose."

As Sasakibe said this, Shuichi was performing his hundredth Straight Cut.

The wooden sword fell from overhead, cutting down along his centerline. His footwork, the turn of his waist, his wrist, the angle of the blade—he followed Chōjirō's instructions in every detail.

"Your waist turns too early." Chōjirō came over and gripped his shoulder. "Wait until the blade reaches this point, then turn. Again."

Shuichi raised the wooden sword once more.

Straight cuts, side cuts, reverse diagonal cuts, thrusts.

He had to repeat every movement hundreds of times. Sasakibe wouldn't let him touch his Zanpakutō. Until he learned to apply force correctly, a real blade would only teach him bad habits.

"The foundation of Shunpo is a burst of Reiatsu beneath your feet." Sasakibe stood in the middle of the courtyard and demonstrated.

He didn't vanish in an instant as he had on the first day. Instead, he slowed the movement tenfold. Shuichi could clearly see a faint glow appear beneath his feet before his body sprang forward and landed about five paces away.

"Your turn."

Shuichi stood where Chōjirō had been. He gathered Reiatsu beneath his feet. He had practiced that much for fourteen days, moving from candle to stone, from steady output to precise control. Now he tried to release the Reiatsu in a burst.

He shot forward.

He didn't walk or run—he sprang, as though a spring beneath his feet had suddenly come loose. His body hurtled forward out of control, and then—

"Whoa!"

He slammed into the ground face-first.

Sasakibe came over and looked down at him.

"You released too much Reiatsu. You only need this much."

He crouched and held his fingers close together in front of Shuichi.

"Not this much."

He spread them wide.

Lying with his face against the flagstones, Shuichi said in a muffled voice, "Got it."

He climbed up, dusted himself off, and took his position again.

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

He stepped forward and covered three strides' worth of distance in one. He didn't fall. As his foot touched down, Reiatsu flowed naturally into his other foot and carried him another step forward.

After three steps, he stopped and looked back at Sasakibe.

Sasakibe nodded.

"Keep practicing. Remember that feeling."

Shuichi turned and continued practicing Shunpo around the courtyard. Three steps became five, then five became ten. He fell many times, scraping his knees and palms, but he didn't stop.

Because he had realized something.

Shunpo felt the same as controlling Reiatsu.

It wasn't about bursting forward or sprinting. It was about flow, like a stream running downhill—natural, without force.

So Yamamoto's words, "Reiatsu isn't a flood. It's a stream," were useful for more than sitting in front of a candle.

He was learning Hakuda and Kidō, too.

The foundation of Hakuda was strengthening the body with Reiatsu. Chōjirō had him stand before a wooden post and punch it.

"Don't use brute force. Gather your Reiatsu over your knuckles and release it the instant you make contact."

Shuichi clenched his fist and tried to gather Reiatsu over his knuckles. Again and again, he released it too early, before his fist reached the post, or too late, after he had already struck and the Reiatsu was still trapped in his hand.

Crack.

On one attempt, he heard a crisp sound. His Reiatsu released the instant his knuckles met the post, leaving a shallow dent. His fist hurt a little, but not badly.

Sasakibe watched from the side without speaking.

Shuichi kept punching.

Kidō came to him the slowest. It wasn't that he lacked Reiatsu; he simply didn't know how to "transform" it into a spell.

"Hado #1: Sho!"

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

Nothing happened.

"Your Reiatsu hasn't 'transformed,'" Chōjirō said. "You merely released it. You haven't given it a 'shape.' A Kidō incantation isn't just for show. It defines the Reiatsu's form and direction."

Shuichi tried several more times.

On the seventh attempt, a faint ball of light finally appeared in his palm. It wobbled like a lantern about to go out, then dispersed before traveling even three paces.

But at least he had released it.

Chōjirō watched him. The corner of his mouth shifted slightly. It was probably a smile.

"Keep practicing."

And so the days passed.

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

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

The streets of the Seireitei were quiet at that hour. Most Soul Reapers were either out on assignments or resting in their barracks. He walked alone along the flagstone road, his Zanpakutō at his waist and a spring in his step. After so much Shunpo practice, even his ordinary walking had grown faster.

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

The man wore a white robe with a blue haori over it. A band of silver ornamentation encircled the scabbard at his waist. He stood with his back to Shuichi and his hands clasped behind him, as though waiting for someone.

Shuichi slowed, intending to go around him.

"Shuichi."

The man turned.

He looked to be in his twenties, though a Soul Reaper's appearance said little about his actual age. His features were regular, his eyes long and narrow, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. It was polite and proper, yet something about it struck Shuichi as wrong.

"Who are you?" Shuichi stopped.

"Tsunayashiro." The young man inclined his head slightly, with the grace of someone performing onstage.

"Tsunayashiro Shisei."

Shuichi didn't recognize the full name, but he had heard "Tsunayashiro" at the Genji School.

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

"Hello." Shuichi nodded, unsure how to handle the encounter.

"I've heard a great deal about you, Shuichi."

Tsunayashiro Shisei straightened, his smile deepening. "I hear you've been at the school barely half a month, yet your Spiritual Might has already been recognized. The Commander-in-Chief himself teaches you, while Vice-Captain Chōjirō personally instructs you in Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki. Such treatment is unprecedented in the Seireitei."

Shuichi frowned.

He didn't like the way Shisei spoke. Every sentence sounded like praise, but every sentence made him feel there was something behind it.

"I'm just lucky," he said.

"Lucky?"

Tsunayashiro gave a soft laugh. "You're too modest, Shuichi. Luck alone won't earn you instruction from the Commander-in-Chief."

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

"A small token from the Tsunayashiro Clan. Nothing valuable—just a few spirit stones. They may help with your Reiatsu control."

Shuichi didn't take it.

"I can't accept it."

"Why not?"

Tsunayashiro tilted his head, his smile unchanged. "You're a Soul Reaper of the Seireitei, and the Tsunayashiro Clan are nobles of the Seireitei. Why refuse a gift from a colleague?"

"The Commander-in-Chief never said I could accept gifts," Shuichi said.

It was true—Yamamoto had said nothing about it. But Shuichi had a feeling that if Yamamoto were here, he wouldn't want him to take the pouch.

Tsunayashiro's smile stiffened for an instant, so briefly it was almost impossible to see. Then he withdrew the pouch and slipped it back into his sleeve.

"You are cautious, Shuichi," he said, with something indefinable in his voice.

"That's a good thing. In this place, caution is what keeps a person alive."

He inclined his head slightly to Shuichi.

"I won't keep you, then. Until we meet again."

With that, he turned and left, his stride unhurried and his back straight, as though he had never been there at all.

Shuichi stood where he was and watched him disappear down the street.

He wasn't quite sure what had just happened, but his palms were sweating and a chill ran down his back. It was an instinct he had honed in North 79th District. When danger drew near, his body reacted before his mind did.

He quickened his pace toward West District One.

Three days later, another person came.

This one didn't stop him on the road. He went straight to Shuichi's door.

When Shuichi returned that evening, he found a middle-aged man standing outside his little house. The man wore a white robe, a blue underrobe, and a blue haori. He carried himself nothing like Tsunayashiro: steadier, more reserved, like a sword resting in its sheath.

"Shuichi?"

The man inclined his head when he saw him. "Kuchiki Seigen, of the Kuchiki Clan."

Shuichi's heart sank.

Kuchiki.

Another of the Four Great Noble Clans.

"Hello," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Forgive me for calling without notice."

Kuchiki Seigen was far more courteous than Tsunayashiro Shisei, almost excessively formal. "I heard of your excellent performance at the Genji School. The Kuchiki Clan has prepared a modest gift as a mark of respect."

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

Shuichi didn't take it.

"Thank you, but I can't accept it."

Kuchiki Seigen didn't press him as Tsunayashiro had. He glanced at Shuichi, nodded, and put the box away.

"I understand," he said.

"You are the Commander-in-Chief's student. Naturally, accepting gifts from outsiders would be difficult. The Kuchiki Clan won't insist."

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

"But the Kuchiki Clan's doors will always be open to you. If you ever need help, please don't hesitate to ask." He bowed deeply to Shuichi, then turned and left.

Shuichi stood in his doorway, watching him disappear around the corner of the alley.

Another one.

Shuichi pushed open the door and went inside. He set his Zanpakutō beside the mat and sat down.

He wasn't stupid. He had lived in the North 79th District for years without reading a book or going to school, but he wasn't stupid.

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

And what did it mean for Lieutenant Sasakibe to personally teach him Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki?

The First Division's lieutenant, Yamamoto's most trusted aide, spent every afternoon at the Genji School teaching him, step by step, how to grip a sword, how to move, and how to throw a punch.

This wasn't a privilege.

It was a signal.

A signal to all of Seireitei: this young man was one of Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto's own.

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 visitor was different.

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

She leaned against a gatepost, twirling a small knife. When she saw Shuichi approaching, she whistled. "Hey, kid from Rukongai."

Shuichi stopped.

"Who are you?"

"Shihōin."

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

Shuichi sighed.

Of course they'd come.

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

But Shihoin Yeming didn't produce one. She merely looked him up and down, then nodded.

"Hmm. Not bad. A little sturdier than I expected."

"...Thanks."

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

She tucked her hands into her sleeves, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. "That Tsunayashiro boy came to see you, right? And the old stick-in-the-mud from the Kuchiki Clan?"

Shuichi didn't answer.

"No need to be nervous."

Yeming smiled. "The Shihōin Clan isn't like those two. We don't do the whole 'investment' thing."

"Then what do you do?"

"We make friends." She held out a hand. "How about it? No money, no gifts. Just friends."

Shuichi looked at her hand but didn't take it.

"Why?"

"Because you're interesting," Yeming said matter-of-factly. "Someone from Rukongai, taught personally by old man Yamamoto? Seireitei doesn't see someone like that once in centuries. If I wait until you're powerful to make friends, where's the fun in that?"

Shuichi froze for a moment.

He hadn't expected that answer.

"I..." He opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say.

"All right, all right. I won't push you."

Yeming withdrew her hand and turned to leave. After two steps, she looked back. "Oh, and don't bother waiting for the Shiba Clan. They're busy with some new kind of Kidō and don't care about anything else. Bunch of weirdos."

She waved to him and strode away.

Shuichi stood by the south gate, watching her go.

Shihoin Yeming.

She was nothing like Tsunayashiro Shisei or Kuchiki Seigen.

She hadn't come to "invest" in him. At least, it didn't seem that way.

She had come to see what all the fuss was about.

Shuichi shook his head.