Sword Meditation

Two years later...

Shuichi had lost count of how many candles he had burned down and how many stones he had filled.

Those stones had grown from fist-sized to head-sized, then from head-sized to millstone-sized. Finally, Yamamoto somehow found a massive boulder half a man tall and set it in the corner of the courtyard.

"Fill it," Yamamoto said.

It took Shuichi three months.

For those three months, he came to the courtyard every day at dawn, pressed his palm against the boulder, and let his Reiatsu flow into it like a stream.

One day, two days, one month, two months.

The stone went from icy cold to warm, from warm to scorching hot. Then, one morning, it suddenly flashed before dimming again and returning to its original gray color.

After that, Yamamoto never gave him another stone.

"You no longer need to practice Reiatsu control," Yamamoto said. His tone was exactly the same as when he had said "Continue" two years ago—so calm it was as if he were discussing the weather.

Shuichi stood in the middle of the courtyard, still holding the warm stone in his hand, somewhat dazed.

I don't need to practice it anymore?

For two years, he had faced stones and candles every morning without missing a day.

It had become part of his life, as natural as breathing and eating. Now that he was suddenly told he no longer needed to do it, he did not know what to do instead.

"Then what will I learn next?" he asked.

Yamamoto glanced at him.

"Sword Meditation."

Sword Meditation.

The first time Shuichi heard that term was in Yamamoto's study.

The study was not large, but it was deep. Bookshelves lined three walls, stretching from floor to ceiling and crammed with scrolls and bamboo slips. The air carried the scent of ink and old paper, along with a heavy stillness, as if time flowed more slowly here.

Yamamoto sat behind his desk with an ancient bamboo scroll spread out before him.

"Sword Meditation is the method by which a Soul Reaper converses with his Zanpakutō."

He said, "You have synchronized with this Asauchi for two years, but you have yet to truly establish a connection."

Shuichi lowered his head to look at the Zanpakutō at his waist. Over the past two years, it had changed from a rust-covered Asauchi into a bright-bladed Zanpakutō. Yet it had never spoken to him. He had never heard the sword's voice in his mind or seen its form, as other Soul Reapers described.

"Your Reiatsu is stable enough."

Yamamoto continued, "Your Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki has also reached an acceptable level. Now, you need to learn how to listen."

He pushed the bamboo scroll toward Shuichi.

Only four words were written on it.

"Enter stillness through Sword Meditation."

"The first step of Sword Meditation is entering stillness."

Yamamoto said, "This is not ordinary meditation. You must sink your consciousness into the deepest part of your Reiatsu and find your Zanpakutō. It is waiting for you there, but you must find it yourself."

Shuichi stared at those four words in silence for a while.

"How long will it take?"

Yamamoto did not answer. He merely picked up his teacup and took a sip.

Shuichi understood. There was no answer to that question.

From that day onward, Shuichi's lessons changed.

There were no more stones or candles in the morning. Instead, he went to Yamamoto's study at dawn every day, sat cross-legged before the desk with his Zanpakutō across his knees, and closed his eyes.

Entering stillness.

On the first day, he sat for two hours.

His mind was filled with stray thoughts: the Flash Step Chōjirō had taught him, Unohana's blade flashes, and that filled stone. He tried to focus on his sword, but whenever he had just begun to sense the feel of its hilt, his thoughts drifted away.

The second day was the same.

The third day, the fourth day, the fifth day.

The first week passed, and he felt nothing. The sword was still a sword—quiet, silent, without a voice or response.

The second week.

He began learning to control his breathing. When Chōjirō taught him Zanjutsu, he had said, "Breathing is the rhythm of a slash." Only now did Shuichi realize that breathing was also the rhythm of entering stillness.

Inhale, sink it into the lower abdomen.

Exhale, and carry away the stray thoughts. Between each breath, his consciousness slowly sank, like a stone falling to the bottom of water.

But when he reached the bottom, he did not find the sword.

There was only darkness—still, boundless darkness.

The third week.

He asked Yamamoto.

"I sank down, but there was nothing."

Yamamoto was reviewing official documents without even raising his head.

"Continue."

The fourth week.

The fifth week.

The sixth week.

Every day at dawn, Shuichi went to the study, sat cross-legged with the sword across his knees, closed his eyes, and remained there the entire morning. Sometimes Yamamoto was there, sometimes he was not, but whether he was present or not, Shuichi sat there like a clay statue.

Two months passed.

Shuichi sat in the study with his Zanpakutō across his knees, his breathing steady as his consciousness sank into darkness.

He had remained in that darkness for so long that he had almost forgotten what light looked like, yet he still found nothing.

He began to wonder whether there was no "voice" in his sword at all. Whether he had never truly synchronized with this Asauchi. Whether he simply was not suited to become a Soul Reaper.

"Stray thoughts."

Yamamoto's voice came from afar, like a stone smashing into water.

Shuichi abruptly opened his eyes, his heart pounding and his breath in disarray.

"I..."

"Sword Meditation is not Reiatsu control. Reiatsu control makes your Reiatsu stable; Sword Meditation makes your consciousness clean."

Yamamoto rose and walked to the window. "Your Reiatsu is already very clean, but your consciousness is not. You have spent two months searching in the darkness because you have always been 'searching.'"

Shuichi froze.

"I've been searching... Is that wrong?"

"It is."

Yamamoto turned around and looked at him. "A sword is not found. It is waited for."

Shuichi did not understand.

Yamamoto offered no further explanation. He merely returned to his seat behind the desk and picked up his teacup.

"Continue."

The third month.

Shuichi stopped "searching."

He sat in the darkness without looking around or expecting anything.

He simply sat, breathed, and waited.

The darkness remained darkness. There was no sound, no light, nothing at all.

But he was no longer anxious.

It took him two months to understand that he had been anxious all along.

He had been anxious to find the sword, anxious to hear a voice, anxious to complete Sword Meditation. Yet that anxiety itself was a wall separating him from the sword.

Now, the wall had fallen.

Nothing had changed. Darkness was still darkness, silence was still silence. But as he sat there, he was no longer someone groping through the dark. He was someone resting in it.

One day in the fourth month—

Shuichi did not remember which day it was. He only remembered that the morning sunlight was beautiful, shining through the paper windows of the study and dyeing the whole room pale gold.

He sat cross-legged, placed the sword across his knees, and closed his eyes.

Breathe.

Sink down.

Darkness.

Stillness.

Just like every other day.

At some point, Yamamoto appeared in the doorway.

"You have made a beginning in Sword Meditation."

Shuichi raised his head.

"A beginning?"

Yamamoto did not answer.

He walked in and sat before the desk.

"Sword Meditation has no end," he said.

He paused.

"What comes next is something you must discover yourself."

Shuichi sheathed his sword and laid it across his knees.

"Then what am I now? Have I graduated?"

Yamamoto glanced at him.

"You no longer need instruction in Reiatsu control. Chōjirō says your Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki has reached graduation level. As for Sword Meditation, you have made a beginning."

He picked up his teacup and took a sip.

"Other than a few secret techniques, this old man has nothing left to teach you."

Shuichi froze.

Nothing left to teach him?

Two years.

From a vagrant in Rukongai to hearing those words from Captain-Commander Yamamoto, he had thought he would be happy. He had thought he would feel relieved, that he would feel he had finally "arrived."

But he did not.

He only felt calm, as though he had finished one stretch of road and was now standing at a crossroads, unsure where to go next.

"Then what am I now?" he asked. "An official Soul Reaper?"

"A provisional member," Yamamoto said, setting down his teacup.

"But you may apply to take the Soul Reaper qualification examination. Once you pass, you will be assigned to a division and become an official Soul Reaper."

Shuichi was silent for a moment.

"Can I stay in the First Division?"

Yamamoto looked at him, his gaze calm.

"You want to stay in the First Division?"

"I..."

Shuichi lowered his head and looked at the Zanpakutō on his knees. "I've been here for two years. I went from understanding nothing to learning Reiatsu control, Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki, and Sword Meditation. Captain-Commander, Vice-Captain Chōjirō, and Captain Unohana... all of you taught me so much. I..."

He did not finish. He did not know how to express that feeling—the feeling that this was his place.

Yamamoto remained silent for a long time.

"The First Division does not accept provisional members," he said.

"But after you pass the qualification examination, you may apply. This old man will not oppose it."

Shuichi raised his head and looked at the old man's face.

That stern face still carried the same calm authority, but Shuichi felt that something in those eyes had softened, if only slightly.

"Thank you, Captain-Commander."

Yamamoto did not answer. He stood, walked to the window, and turned his back to Shuichi.

That afternoon, Shuichi went to Genji School to find Chōjirō.

Chōjirō was guiding several new trainees in Zanjutsu in the courtyard. When he saw Shuichi arrive, he told the trainees to practice on their own and walked over.

"I heard your lessons have ended?" he asked.

"Yeah. The Captain-Commander said that aside from a few secret techniques, he has nothing left to teach me."

Chōjirō nodded, his expression calm, but Shuichi noticed the corner of his mouth lift slightly.

"Then let me see your Zan-Sō-Haku-Ki."

Shuichi drew his sword.

Two years ago, he could not even perform a proper Straight Cut. Now, his blade sprang from its sheath with a crisp, sharp sound like a bird's cry.

He performed a Straight Cut. The blade fell from above his head, cleaving down along the centerline. His footwork, hip rotation, wrist, and blade angle—every detail was precise, as though measured with a ruler.

Then came horizontal cuts, reverse robe cuts, thrusts, and combinations. Blade light carved arc after arc through the courtyard, every strike clean and decisive, without a single wasted movement.

Chōjirō watched him in silence for a long time.

"That will do," he said.

Shuichi sheathed his sword.

"Flash Step."

Reiatsu erupted beneath Shuichi's feet, and his entire body vanished from where he stood. An instant later, he appeared at the other end of the courtyard. Another instant later, he was back before Chōjirō, with only the span of a breath between the two movements.

"Hakuda."

He walked to a wooden post, clenched his fist, and focused Reiatsu onto his knuckles. He released it at the instant of impact. With a crisp crack, a deep fist mark was left in the post.

Then came elbow strikes, knee strikes, and kicks, every movement clean and decisive, his Reiatsu released with pinpoint precision.

"Kidō."

He extended his hand.

"Ruler! Mask of flesh and blood, all creation, flutter of wings, bearer of the name of man! Scorching heat and strife, the sea divides and rolls southward—advance! Hadō #31: Shakkahō!"

For the first time in two years, he recited the full chant before Chōjirō Sasakibe. The words flowed from his mouth, not memorized, but growing naturally from his Reiatsu. Every syllable resonated with it as the air gathered, compressed, and spun in his palm.

A crimson fireball shot from his hand, streaked across the courtyard, and struck the distant target with precision.

Boom—!

The target exploded—not shattered, but exploded. Fragments scattered more than ten paces away, and the air filled with the smell of scorching.

Chōjirō Sasakibe stared at the pile of fragments in silence for a long time.

Then he turned to look at Shuichi.

"You've graduated."

His voice was calm, but Shuichi noticed that his eyes were slightly bright.

He reached out and patted Shuichi on the shoulder.

"You did very well."

Shuichi lowered his head.

"Thank you, Vice-Captain Chōjirō."

Chōjirō Sasakibe shook his head.

"You don't need to thank me. You did this yourself."