Kenpachi

Several months passed.

Shuichi had already lost track of how long he had sat facing that candle.

At first, he could not even light the flame. Now, he could steadily pour Reiatsu into it for an entire morning. One candle burned out after another, yet his palm remained suspended above the wick, perfectly still.

He had finally "filled" that fist-sized stone as well.

Yamamoto had stood beside him that day, glanced at the stone, and said only one word.

"Mm."

And that was that. The next day, he gave Shuichi a bigger stone.

Shuichi felt that Yamamoto probably intended to make him fill every stone in the Seireitei.

But that was not what he was thinking about today.

When he arrived at the First Division Barracks this morning, Yamamoto was absent. The courtyard was empty, with only the morning wind passing through the corridors and setting the wind chimes beneath the eaves jingling.

Shuichi stood before the stone platform and waited for a while.

"Genryusai Yamamoto has business today." Sasakibe's voice came from behind him.

Shuichi turned around. Chōjirō stood beneath the corridor, looking more serious than usual.

"So Genryusai Yamamoto arranged for someone else to teach you today."

Sasakibe paused. "The subject is Zanjutsu."

Shuichi froze for a moment.

Zanjutsu? Chōjirō had been teaching him Zanjutsu all along, from Straight Cut to reverse kesagiri, from thrusts to combinations. Though he was still using a wooden sword, he felt he had already mastered quite a few basics.

"Who will teach me?"

Sasakibe did not answer. He stepped aside and gave a slight bow toward the courtyard entrance.

Footsteps.

They were so light, like a cat walking over snow. If the courtyard had not been so quiet, Shuichi would never have noticed them.

Someone entered the courtyard.

A woman.

She wore a black kosode beneath a white haori—the haori of the Eleventh Division.

Her hair was black and very long, untied and draped behind her shoulders all the way to her waist.

A sword hung at her waist. Its sheath was dark red, and the wrapping cord had been worn pale.

As Shuichi watched her approach, an odd feeling suddenly rose within him. It was as though something enormous was drawing near, but that thing was too quiet—so quiet that even his breathing felt like noise.

The woman stopped ten paces away from him.

She did not look at him. Instead, she glanced at the candle on the stone platform, then at the Zanpakutō at his waist, before finally resting her gaze on his face.

"You're Shuichi?"

Her voice was soft and gentle, like water.

"Yes." Shuichi straightened up.

The woman nodded, then drew her blade.

No release command.

No warning.

No polite words like, "Let's spar."

The sound of the blade sliding from its sheath was brief, like a sigh. Its edge carved an arc through the morning light and came straight for Shuichi's neck.

Shuichi's pupils contracted sharply.

Months of training saved his life in that instant. His body moved before his mind did. Reiatsu burst beneath his feet as he launched Shunpo at full force, sending himself flying backward.

The blade grazed his collar and cut away a small strip of cloth.

His footing was unsteady when he landed. He staggered and nearly fell, but he caught himself. His right hand had already gripped the hilt of his Zanpakutō. He crouched low, lowering his center of gravity, his eyes locked tightly on the woman before him.

The woman did not pursue.

She stood where she was, her sword held horizontally before her. Shuichi's still-shaken face reflected off the blade. Her expression did not change. There was no killing intent, no hostility, not even seriousness.

"You dodged it," she said.

Then she moved again.

This time, Shuichi saw a little more clearly. Her footwork was not Shunpo, nor was it Hakuda. It was merely ordinary walking, but every step landed at the strangest angle, making her body seem to float through the air, weightless and without inertia.

A flash of steel came from the left.

Shuichi drew his sword.

This was the first time he had used his Zanpakutō in actual combat in months.

Clang—

The sound of metal striking metal exploded through the courtyard.

Shuichi blocked it, but the impact numbed his arm, and the force drove him half a step backward.

Before he could adjust his breathing, the second strike had already arrived.

It did not come from the same direction. The blade light flowed like water. The previous slash had still been on his left when the next one fell from above.

Shuichi could only block on instinct.

High, low, left, right—each strike was faster than the last, each one heavier than the last.

His arms were so numb that he could no longer feel them. The web between his thumb and forefinger throbbed from the impacts, and his Zanpakutō nearly flew from his grasp.

That was the only thing he could be thankful for right now.

"Still holding on." The woman's voice came through the gaps between the flashes of steel.

Shuichi gritted his teeth and said nothing. All his attention was devoted to blocking; he had no strength left to speak.

The fifteenth strike.

Shuichi's knees slammed into the ground.

When he fell to his knees, the woman did not continue attacking. She sheathed her sword and stepped back, once again standing ten paces away. Her blade was already back in its sheath, as if it had never been drawn.

Shuichi knelt on the ground, gasping for breath. Both hands trembled. His Zanpakutō was embedded in a crack between the flagstones before him, supporting him and keeping him from collapsing.

He raised his head.

The woman watched him.

Those eyes were still as calm as a deep pool, revealing no emotion.

"Is that all?" she asked.

Shuichi did not know what she meant. Was that all the strength he had? Or did he intend to remain kneeling there?

He gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright with his sword. His legs trembled, his arms trembled, his whole body trembled—but he stood.

The woman watched him for a while.

Then she turned and walked out of the courtyard.

Shuichi opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but his throat was dry as sandpaper.

She left.

Her footsteps were as light as when she had arrived, light as a cat walking across snow. From beginning to end, she had not spoken a single unnecessary word. She had not introduced herself, explained why she had come, or told him where he had gone wrong or what needed improvement.

She had merely drawn her sword, swung it, sheathed it, and left.

Shuichi stood in the middle of the courtyard, his Zanpakutō still raised in midair.

Slowly, he lowered it.

"Who was she?"

Sasakibe stepped out from beneath the corridor. He looked in the direction the woman had disappeared and was silent for a moment.

"Yachiru Unohana, captain of the Eleventh Division."

Shuichi froze.

He had heard that name before—in the Genji School, in the idle chatter of Soul Reapers, and in scattered rumors of all kinds.

Yachiru Unohana, captain of the Eleventh Division, the strongest swordswoman in the Gotei 13, and the Blade Demon of Soul Society.

Some said her swordsmanship had transcended the realm of "skill" and entered the realm of "the Way." Some said she had never fought seriously, because no one was worth her full effort. Others said—

She had killed more people than Captain-Commander Yamamoto.

"What did she come here for?" Shuichi asked.

Sasakibe glanced at him. "Genryusai Yamamoto invited her to teach you Zanjutsu."

Shuichi looked down at his trembling hands, then at the notch in his blade.

"Teach?"

He had not felt anything like "teaching" just now. All he had felt was flashing steel, pressure, and an overwhelming gap that left him unable to breathe.

"How many strikes did you take from her?" Sasakibe asked.

"Fifteen... I think."

"About fifteen." Sasakibe nodded, looking thoughtful. "Being able to take fifteen of her strikes without abandoning your sword is not considered bad in the Seireitei."

Shuichi looked up.

"She was... testing me?"

Sasakibe did not answer directly.

"Captain Unohana teaches differently from Genryusai Yamamoto."

He said, "Genryusai Yamamoto's way is 'keep at it until you can do it.' Hers is 'survive first, then we'll talk.' If you cannot endure even her first wave of attacks, then you are not worth teaching."

He suddenly understood what the woman had said before leaving—"Is that all?"

That had not been mockery. It had been disappointment.

She had been disappointed because she believed that someone personally taught by Captain-Commander Yamamoto, someone personally instructed in Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki by Vice-Captain Chōjirō, should not be merely "that much."

Shuichi sheathed his Zanpakutō, his fingers remaining clenched around the hilt for a long time.

"Will she come again?" he asked.

Sasakibe considered it. "If you are still standing in this courtyard tomorrow, she will."

The next day, Shuichi arrived at the courtyard at dawn.

Yamamoto was absent. The candle and stone were still in the same place.

Other than that, one more person stood in the center of the courtyard.

Long black hair draped over her shoulders, a dark red sheath, and the white haori of the Eleventh Division.

Yachiru Unohana.

Hearing his footsteps, she turned around.

Her gaze fell on Shuichi's face, then on the Zanpakutō at his waist, before returning to him.

"Still here?"

Shuichi stood straight, his right hand resting on his hilt.

"Please instruct me."

Unohana watched him for a moment.

Then she drew her sword.

This time, Shuichi could not see it at all.

That was the signal.

He had only just drawn his sword when Unohana's blade came down.

Reiatsu erupted beneath his feet. He twisted aside at the limit, narrowly evading her Shunpo slash.

He drew his blade.

The sound of steel springing from the sheath was crisp and brief. He poured all his strength, all his Reiatsu, and all his training into this strike, slashing straight at Unohana.

This was what Sasakibe had taught him: when facing an opponent you could not defeat, do not retreat. Retreating would only make you die faster.

Clang—

Metal collided.

Unohana caught it. Her blade lay across her body, blocking his full-force strike without moving in the slightest.

Then her sword moved.

It was not a block, nor a counterattack. It carried his blade along, as though guiding something, leading his edge to the right and away from her body.

Shuichi was dragged two steps forward by the motion. His balance shifted, leaving his back completely exposed to her.

He did not panic.

The moment he lost his balance, Reiatsu exploded beneath his feet. He rolled forward once, and by the time he landed, he had already turned around with his sword held horizontally before him.

Unohana remained where she was and did not pursue.

She looked at him. "Interesting."

Then she moved.

This time, it was not a test. Shuichi could feel that the blade light had changed.

It was no longer that overwhelming pressure that left him unable to breathe. Instead... it was sharper.

As though she had finally drawn her blade from its sheath, rather than merely fighting with the sheath.

Shuichi did not give up.

He took one strike, then two, then three.

On the fourth strike, his sword flew from his hand.

The Zanpakutō spun through the air several times before embedding itself in a crack between the flagstones with a clack, its blade humming as it trembled.

Shuichi stood there empty-handed.

Unohana glanced at him.

"Pick it up."

Shuichi walked over and pulled out his sword. He turned around and faced her.

Unohana looked at his hands.

"Have you used a sword before?" she suddenly asked.

Shuichi froze for a moment.

"No... Before I came to Seireitei, I had never even touched an Asauchi."

She said, "The way you hold a sword does not look like that of a beginner. It looks like someone taught you before, but you do not remember."

Shuichi fell silent.

He did not remember anything from before his death. He remembered nothing at all. Yet when he held a sword, he truly felt something strange, as if this hand were doing something it had done countless times before.

"I do not remember," he said.

Unohana did not ask again.

She sheathed her sword.

"Continue tomorrow."

With that, she turned and left. Just like yesterday, she moved as lightly as a cat walking across snow.

Shuichi stood in the courtyard, watching her back disappear at the end of the corridor.

He felt that he might actually be somewhat interesting. At the very least, interesting enough for her to be willing to say a few more words to him.

He sheathed his sword, turned toward the stone platform, and relit the candle that had gone out.

They would continue tomorrow.

Yachiru Unohana began appearing in the First Division Barracks courtyard every morning.

There were no greetings and no opening words. She came like a gust of wind and left like a gust of wind. Between those moments, there was only flashing steel, clashing metal, and Shuichi's increasingly ragged breathing.

On the first day, he blocked fifteen strikes before his sword flew from his hand.

On the second day, he blocked twenty-one strikes before his sword flew away again.

On the third day, he held on until thirty strikes. In the end, the flat of her blade struck his shoulder and knocked him flat onto the ground.

On the fourth day, he stopped counting, because from that day onward, Unohana's sword changed.

It was not faster. It was stranger.

Her first strike was still a normal Straight Cut. Shuichi blocked it, his wrist going numb. The second suddenly became an upward slash from below, its angle so viciously tricky that it seemed meant to cut something apart. He barely dodged it. By the third strike, the direction had changed again, slashing diagonally down from his left front with a strange curve, as if the blade had turned a corner in midair.

"What is this?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Unohana did not answer. Her sword was already poised before his throat.

The fifth day.

Today, Unohana used a sword style Shuichi had never seen before. Her steps were rapid and small, as though she were drawing some pattern on the ground. Her blade was not long, yet every thrust came from the most unimaginable angles—from beneath her arm, from behind her knee, from above her shoulder. Shuichi felt as though he was not fighting a swordswoman, but a spider. Her blade was like spider silk, winding toward him from every direction and leaving him nowhere to flee.

By the fifteenth strike, his sleeve had been cut open. By the eighteenth, a corner of his collar had been sliced away. By the twenty-third, his Zanpakutō flew from his hand for the fourth time.

"What style is that?" he asked from where he lay on the ground.

"Spider Slash." Unohana sheathed her sword.

"A lost sword art. Its founder was an assassin from Rukongai who specialized in killing people in narrow alleys."

Shuichi raised his head.

"You even know something like that?"

Unohana glanced at him but did not answer.

The sixth day.

Today, Unohana was like a mountain.

Her steps were exceptionally slow and heavy. Every time her foot came down, the stone slabs gave a dull thud. She raised her sword over her head and gripped the hilt with both hands, her posture so cumbersome that she looked as though she were carrying a roof beam.

But when she swung down, Shuichi felt that he was not facing a sword, but an entire cliff collapsing upon him.

"—!"

He blocked with all his strength, only to be smashed down onto one knee. The stone slab beneath his knee shattered into powder.

"Ironstone Style."

Unohana's voice came from above him. "The swordsmanship used by bandit gangs in the North Eightieth District. One strike kills. There is no second blow."

Shuichi gritted his teeth and rose from the ground. His legs trembled, his arms trembled, but he stood up.

"Again."

Unohana looked at him, then sheathed her Zanpakutō.

"Tomorrow."

Shuichi remained where he was, watching her back disappear at the end of the corridor.

He wanted to say something, but only ragged breaths came from his throat.

The seventh day.

The eighth day.

The ninth day.

Every day, Unohana changed to a different sword style. Some, she told him the names of. Others, she did not.

One day, it was Water-Moon Style. Its blade paths flowed endlessly like water, with no gap between one strike and the next. Shuichi was forced back into the corner of the courtyard, only stopping when his back struck the wall.

"Water-Moon Style, the swordsmanship of a warrior family from West Sixtieth District. Their line has died out." After saying that, Unohana sheathed her sword and left.

One day, it was Mist Slash. The sword was so fast that Shuichi could not see the blade, only a blurred streak of light. Three shallow cuts appeared on his arm, all sliced open by the wind from her blade.

"Mist Style. Extinct."

One day, it was Bone-Cut—its blade paths were short and vicious, every strike aimed at joints and openings. Shuichi's sword was knocked away four times, each time struck precisely in the gap between the hilt and his hand.

"Bone-Cutting Style. Its last inheritor died one hundred and twenty years ago."

Shuichi lay on the ground and picked up his sword for the sixth time.

"You learned all of these?" he asked, gasping for breath.

Unohana stood before him, looking down at him.

"Not learned."

She said,

"Remembered."

"Every sword style is proof that someone once lived. If no one remembers them, then they truly disappear."

Shuichi froze for a moment.

He raised his head and looked at her. Her long black hair drifted slightly in the morning breeze, and the quiet eyes reflected the color of the sky.

He suddenly felt that she had come to find him for more than just Yamamoto's request.

"Then which one do you use most often?" he asked.

Unohana was silent for a while.

"None."

"None?"

"My swordsmanship has no school."

She rested a hand on her hilt. "Yachiru—countless styles. Styles flow through Yachiru, then flow away. What remains is only Yachiru."

After saying that, she turned and left.

Shuichi stood in the courtyard, watching her departing back.

All styles flowed through Yachiru.

He lowered his head and looked at the Zanpakutō in his hand.

He suddenly understood.

Yachiru was not a name.

Yachiru was a river.

All sword schools were tributaries flowing into that river. They flowed through her, then left. What remained was not a school, nor a technique. It was Yachiru Unohana herself, the embodiment of all swordsmanship.

He gripped the hilt and stood there for a long time without moving.

The tenth day.

When Shuichi arrived in the courtyard, Unohana was already there.

Today, she was not standing in the middle of the courtyard. Instead, she sat on the corridor railing with a cup of tea in hand. When she saw him arrive, she set down the cup and jumped down.

"Today, choose one."

Shuichi looked at her.

"I choose?"

"You have received my blade for eleven days, nine schools." She placed a hand on her hilt.

"Which one do you think suits you best?"

Shuichi was silent for a moment.

The nine schools flashed through his mind: the cunning angles of Spider Slash, the fierce strength of Ironstone Style, the endless flow of Water-Moon Style, the swiftness of Mist Slash, the precision of Bone-Cut...

"None of them," he said.

Unohana raised an eyebrow. It was the first time she had shown such an expression.

"None of them?"

"Every school you use was created by someone trying to survive."

Shuichi said, "In the North 79th District, I saw people use swords too. They had no school. They did not even know how to hold a sword. But they still had to survive."

He tightened his grip around his Zanpakutō.

"What I want is not any particular school. What I want is swordsmanship for surviving."

Unohana looked at him.

For a long time.

Then she smiled.

It was the first time Shuichi had seen her smile. It was not the polite, proper smile she usually wore, but a genuine smile from the depths of her heart. It was faint, yet it made her entire face seem younger, softer, more like an ordinary person rather than a walking blade.

"Good."

She drew her sword.

This time, there was no school. No cunning angles of Spider Slash, no fierce strength of Ironstone Style, no endless flow of Water-Moon Style. There was only the sword.

A pure sword, without any embellishment.

Shuichi met her charge.

He drew his sword as well. No school, no techniques, only everything he had learned over the past few months.

The fundamentals Sasakibe had taught him, the control Yamamoto had taught him, and everything he had felt in every one of Unohana's strikes over these past eleven days.

Clang—

The two blades collided.

A crisp sound rang out.

Unohana's blade pressed against his, inch by inch forcing it down. Shuichi could feel her strength—it was not great, but it was as steady as a mountain.

He gritted his teeth and pushed back.

One inch.

Two inches.

His sword pushed hers back to its original position.

Unohana looked into his eyes.

She sheathed her sword and stepped back.

Shuichi stood where he was, gasping for breath. He did not know what had just happened, but he knew one thing.

He had not lost.

Over the next few days, she sparred with him every day and also taught Shuichi the styles she had used before.

One day, a month later.

"Starting tomorrow, I will not come anymore," she said.

Shuichi froze. "Why?"

"I have taught you all that I can."

Her voice came from the corridor. "The rest, you must learn yourself."

"Shuichi."

It was the first time she had called him by name.

"Your sword does not need any particular school."

Then she left.

Just as when she came, she was like a gust of wind, so light that she left no trace. Yet he knew she had been there.

Shuichi stood in the middle of the courtyard, gripping his Zanpakutō.

The morning breeze passed through the corridor, making the wind chimes beneath the eaves tinkle.

"Thank you," he said softly, so softly that even the wind did not hear it.

But he knew she had.

From that day onward, Shuichi never saw Yachiru Unohana in the courtyard again.

But whenever he held a sword, he would remember those nine days. He would remember the cunning angles of Spider Slash, the fierce strength of Ironstone Style, the endless flow of Water-Moon Style. He would remember her saying, "Every sword style is proof that someone once lived."

He would remember her saying, "Yachiru."

All styles flowed through Yachiru.

What remained was not technique, not a school.

It was life itself.

At dusk, Shuichi sat on the porch with his Zanpakutō resting across his knees.

The marks on the blade glimmered dark red beneath the setting sun, like river after river.

He reached out and slowly traced the deepest mark with his finger.

"Yachiru..." he murmured.

Not a name.

A river.

It was where all the sword styles that had vanished, been forgotten, and remembered by no one anymore finally flowed.

She remembered them.

That was why she was Yachiru.

Shuichi lowered his head and pressed his forehead against the sword hilt.

"My blade doesn't need a style." He repeated her words.

But he knew that her shadow had already found its way into his blade.

It had Spider Slash's cunning, Ironstone Style's ferocity, Water-Moon Style's unbroken flow, Mist Slash's swiftness, and Bone-Cut's precision.

It had Yachiru.

He sheathed his sword and rose to his feet.

The moon had risen, shining upon Seireitei's white walls. That wall still floated in midair, silent and imposing.

But Shuichi no longer felt that it was so far away.