The Courses, Part Two

The next day, Shin'ō Academy began its second round of captain-led courses.

After surviving the first day, the students thought they had figured out each captain's style.

Yan Yuan was a strict teacher, Nobutsuna was a rogue, Shihōin was the Grim Reaper, Shijima was a Buddha, Kumenoi was a gang boss, and Katori was a gentle older sister.

They thought there was nothing left to fear on the second day.

They were wrong.

Shiba Ichisegawa's Reiatsu class.

He stood there with a calm expression, speaking at a measured pace and covering solid material. He began with the nature of Reiatsu, then moved on to sensing it, releasing it, concealing it, and compressing it. Step by step, his logic was clear and his examples apt.

He was neither harsh, roguish, cold, nor smiling. He was not frightening, nor was he so gentle that it became distracting. He simply taught a normal class.

Afterward, the students remembered one thing: "Reiatsu is the foundation of a Soul Reaper."

Some thought Captain Shiba taught wonderfully, much easier to understand than Captain Yan Yuan, the one who kept pushing up his glasses yesterday. Others thought there was nothing special about it. It was just a normal class.

Danjiro Obana's Kidō class had a completely different teaching style from Yan Yuan's.

Yan Yuan "looked down from above and told you the right answer," while Obana "squatted down beside you and examined how the answer came about."

He would stop and ask, "Is there anything here you don't understand?" He would take the initiative to walk among the students and check their notes. Whenever someone stumbled over a chant, he would say, "It's fine. Try again."

His attitude was mild, his explanations detailed, and he even cracked the occasional joke. The students thought Captain Obana was truly kind, and Kidō did not seem so frightening anymore.

The Reiatsu class was normal, the Kidō class was friendly. No one was beaten flat during class, no one was frightened stiff, and no one needed to lean against a wall just to leave the classroom. They thought that was all the day would be.

But those attending Furoufushi Saito's Shunpo class were unlucky.

There was something deeply unpleasant in her eyes.

Contempt.

The kind of contempt that said, "This is all you'll ever amount to."

"Shunpo."

Saito's voice was neither loud nor soft, but her tone made their teeth itch. "If you can't even take two steps, then I'll teach you today. If you don't learn it, you'll keep practicing until you do."

Sixty students stood on the blue-brick ground, lined up in yesterday's formation. Some were nervous, some unconvinced, and some expressionless. Saito gave them little time to prepare.

"I'll be your sparring partner." Saito drew a wooden sword from her waist, its blade flashing in the sunlight.

"I'll use Shunpo suppressed to one-tenth of my strength to chase you. Your task is simple: use Shunpo to evade my attacks."

The students froze. One-tenth? Evade her?

"Begin."

Saito vanished from where she stood.

The next instant, she was already before one student. The back of her wooden sword swept sideways and struck his shoulder. The force was not great, but it was enough to make him stagger back several steps and nearly fall.

"Too slow."

Saito did not stop.

Her figure flashed continuously across the training ground. Every time she appeared, she was before a student; every time she swung her sword, its back struck some part of a body with precision—the shoulder, arm, thigh, or side.

She controlled the force perfectly. It would not injure them, but it hurt. It made them unsteady. It made them feel the overwhelming urge to dodge.

"You. Your legs are too stiff."

"You. Where are you looking?"

"You. Send your Reiatsu to the soles of your feet, not your toes."

"You. You dodged once and then stopped moving? Did you think I'd only swing once?"

"You call that Shunpo? That's an old lady crossing the street."

Out of the sixty students, not one escaped being called out by her.

Not one person's Shunpo could evade her attacks. Even Shunpo suppressed to one-tenth of her strength far exceeded their current reaction speed.

Every strike from the back of her sword came with a taunt, and every taunt was like a needle piercing the students' pride.

Some clenched their teeth. Some had reddened eyes. Some clenched their fists, then let them go. Some began practicing Shunpo desperately—not to learn it, but to make that detestable Sixth Division captain shut up.

Today was Kendo class. It was very different.

Because of the previous batch of students' complaints, this group had braced themselves to face Nobutsuna Shigyo's roguish face as they entered the Kendo hall.

But the person at the front of the hall was not Nobutsuna.

A man with a shaved pate and a handlebar mustache sat cross-legged on the floor, his sword at his side and his eyes closed in meditation.

"I am Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto. I will be teaching today's Kendo class." He did not open his eyes, yet he had still sensed the students approaching.

None of the sixty students knew what that name meant. They exchanged looks; some shrugged, while others shook their heads. Shin'ō Academy had only been open for eight days. No one had told them what the Commander-General of the Gotei 13 looked like. They only knew that the man before them was one of the captains, wearing a white haori just like that roguish Captain Nobutsuna from yesterday.

That was all.

Yamamoto said nothing more.

He began teaching Kendo, the most basic of basics.

How to grip a sword, draw it, sheath it, perform a Straight Cut, and deliver a diagonal cut.

There were no flashy movements, no shocking demonstration of "severing a sword with one slash," and no unnecessary words. He simply taught each movement one by one and corrected each movement one by one. If a student's grip angle was wrong, he walked over and adjusted the hand. If the drawing path deviated, he stood behind the student, held their hand, and drew the sword again. If their shoulder lifted during a Straight Cut, he pressed it down with his palm—and kept it there for an entire class.

The students found it boring.

It was not that they disrespected him. They truly found it boring.

They had heard that Captain Nobutsuna had begun by facing seven opponents alone and severing six swords with one slash. That overwhelming pressure and dramatic display had made every student remember the name Nobutsuna Shigyo.

But this man today—Yamamoto something-something-kuni, his name was too long to remember—simply stood there teaching them how to grip a sword, draw it, and perform a Straight Cut. It was no different from what the basic-course instructors taught, perhaps even more boring. At least those instructors told a few jokes to liven the atmosphere. This old man had not smiled once from beginning to end, had not made a single joke, and had not even changed his tone.

"Grip the sword."

"Draw the sword."

"Cut."

"Sheathe it."

"Again."

"Again."

"Again."

Some students thought, This captain is really boring.

Some students thought, Captain Nobutsuna is much stronger than him.

Some students thought, Could he just be an ordinary captain?

No one knew that this "ordinary captain" was the Commander-General of the Gotei 13.

No one knew that this "boring" old man was the strongest Soul Reaper the Soul Society had seen in a thousand years. No one knew that this "dull" white-bearded old man could set the entire Seireitei ablaze the moment he released his Reiatsu.

They only found it boring—so boring that some secretly began yawning, so boring that some counted how many times Yamamoto said "again." By the final repetition, they had reached forty-seven before giving up.

Yamamoto naturally knew what they were thinking. He did not expose them, did not release his Reiatsu to prove himself, and did not smash the floor with one palm to intimidate these children who knew neither heaven nor earth. He merely continued teaching: grip the sword, draw it, perform a Straight Cut, again and again. He would teach until they graduated, until they understood why those forty-seven repetitions of "again" mattered more than any flashy demonstration.

Arts class.

When the students entered the arts classroom, they had already prepared themselves to see Bakuzan Katori's gentle smile.

But the person standing at the front was not Katori. It was Yachiru Unohana. She wore a white captain's haori, her hair hanging loose behind her, and her face was black.

Not figuratively.

It was truly dark—gloomy, heavy with low pressure, as though storm clouds were bearing down on a city about to collapse. The corners of her lips were tightly turned down, the space between her brows much narrower than usual, and there was no light in her eyes.

The students did not know why Captain Unohana's expression was so terrible. They only knew that today's arts teacher had changed, replaced by a woman who looked to be in an extremely bad mood. What they did not know was that Unohana had only one thought in her mind right now.

Yamamoto had sent her here to teach an arts class.

"You need to calm down," Yamamoto had told her yesterday.

Calm down.

Yachiru Unohana, the most vicious murderer in Soul Society history, captain of the Eleventh Division, the woman who had ended eighty thousand schools of Kendo—Yamamoto had sent her to teach flower arrangement, to calm down. She stood behind the podium with today's flower material in hand: a white camellia. Sunlight streamed through the window and fell across her face, making it even darker.

What↗ do↘ you→ mean↘ by→ calm↗ down~?! she screamed inwardly, while her expression remained utterly still.

But the class still had to be taught.

Unohana took a deep breath, picked up the flower shears, and began demonstrating.

Her hands were steady. Naturally, the hands that killed were steady. Her branch-cutting movements were precise to the millimeter, every cut as level as though measured with a ruler. Her explanations were concise and efficient, without nonsense, smiles, or any trace of "gentle consideration."

She was not skilled at flower arrangement, but neither was she completely incapable.

Every word seemed squeezed out through her teeth. "The main branch should be one and a half times the height of the vase."

"The secondary branch should angle thirty degrees to the left."

"This branch is too long."

The students trembled as they followed along. No one dared ask questions, whisper to another student, or make any unnecessary sound. The entire classroom was silent as a grave. Occasionally, flower shears fell to the ground, and the student who picked them up had trembling hands—not because the shears were heavy, but because they were afraid.

Unohana watched the trembling students clumsily arrange their flower branches. The irritation in her heart surged up like wave after wave of a rising tide. She remembered Yamamoto saying, "You need to calm down," and tightened her grip on the flower shears.

Calm down.

Calm down.

Calm down.

Meanwhile, Shuichi went to teach the Hakuda he had rarely used.

"Hakuda is a technique for fighting with the body. You don't need a sword, Kidō, or any tools. Your hands and feet are your weapons."

Shuichi was basically repeating the lesson materials the instructors used. Well, Shuichi had gotten those lesson materials from them too.

He began teaching.

Straight punch.

Hook.

Uppercut.

Front kick.

Side kick.

Sweep kick.

He demonstrated each movement one by one, then had the students follow along one by one.

His teaching was formulaic, standardized, and systematic, like an opened Hakuda textbook.

People on the field discussed today's classes.

"Captain Saito's Shunpo class made me so mad I was grinding my teeth!"

"Don't mention it. My legs are still shaking."

"Did you see Captain Unohana in arts class? Her face was completely black."

"I thought Captain Katori would come, but they switched teachers. It scared me to death."

"Who was that old man in Kendo class? Yamamoto something-something-kuni? So boring."

"No idea. He was pretty dull, anyway."

"Captain Shuichi's Hakuda class was fairly normal."

"Yeah. Normal is nice."

Besides those, there was another special course.

It was taught by Senjumaru Shutara.

The first half might as well have been a heavenly book.

Reishi principles.

Reishi composition.

Sixty students, sixty bewildered faces.

No one raised a hand to ask questions. It was not that they did not want to ask; they simply did not know where to begin. They could not even formulate a question. Someone tried to jot down a few symbols in a notebook, only to find they could not recognize what they had written afterward.

Some gave up taking notes and tried to use sheer willpower to understand the relationship between those curves and symbols.

Some secretly glanced at the students beside them, saw that their notebooks were equally blank, and felt a little more balanced. Shutara did not stop to explain. She continued speaking at an unhurried pace, her tone entirely flat, as though reading technical documentation she had long since memorized backwards: Reishi fluctuation frequency, conversion rate between Reiatsu and Reishi, stability thresholds of spiritual construction materials. Every term made sense on its own, yet together they became another language.

The second half changed to another subject, but the difficulty did not decrease.

Reishi material composition.

As the students listened, some began nodding. Not because they understood, but because it seemed to make a little sense. When building a house, the foundation had to be stable, the pillars had to be straight, and the adhesive had to be applied promptly. Although these were Reishi materials, the principles carried over.

Someone tried to write down, "Reishi adhesive must be applied immediately after the material is cut." He paused after writing the word "immediately," because he had no idea what Reishi adhesive was. Still, he felt that sentence sounded important. A student sitting in the corner raised his hand.

Shutara glanced at him.

"Teacher, why are we learning how to build houses?"

Shutara looked at him without expression.

"Our captains come once a month."

Shutara said. All sixty students looked up. "In my classes, those who understand may listen. Those who don't understand needn't force themselves."