From that day, the students of the Genji Academy noticed a strange figure in their dojo: a frail teenager, shackled by handcuffs, so weak he looked like he might drop dead any second.
They weren't exactly wrong.
Fujimiya Makoto genuinely felt like he was dying.
To be precise, he felt like he'd just donated a liter of blood, powered through twenty sets of Saitama-style training, then stayed awake three days and nights straight, grinding like a hardcore gamer.
Worse, in that state, he couldn't rest—he had to keep training, running, and enduring hellish drills.
Every moment, Fujimiya deeply grasped the importance of willpower, while wondering if collapsing and dying on the spot wouldn't be less painful.
"Smack—"
"Ow!"
A limp fist, thrown with all his strength, hit the massive stone wall, producing only a faint sound.
The scream of pain that followed, though, was much louder.
Fujimiya's hand felt like it had slammed into a solidified pillar of fire. The instant it touched the killing stone, he yanked it back, as if scalded.
The tearing sensation was so intense he wondered if, had he lingered, his entire hand might've melted away.
As for the killing stone's surface? Not a crack, not even a scratch.
With his feeble willpower, Fujimiya probably wouldn't have lasted a single day before giving up.
But…
"Ninety-five!"
"Makoto, five more punches!"
"Stop now, and I'll restart the count."
Chojiro Sasakibe stood behind him, holding a thin bamboo stick, face stern, coldly overseeing.
On closer inspection, faint golden sparks crackled around the stick, occasionally popping with a "zzzt."
Any hint of slacking, and the electrified stick would come down mercilessly.
One pause, one strike.
His teaching was ruthlessly strict.
"Grr…"
Under such pressure, Fujimiya didn't even have the strength to argue. Only incoherent groans escaped him. Driven by instinct, he mustered what little reiatsu he had left, hitting the killing stone, blow after blow.
When Chojiro finally uttered the heavenly "Done," Fujimiya collapsed like tofu slapped onto a cutting board.
Sprawled out, he stared at the sky, gasping heavily.
Seeing he'd survived the day's training, Chojiro quietly exhaled in relief.
He stepped forward, removing the killing stone cuffs from Fujimiya's wrists and ankles.
In an instant, Fujimiya felt like he'd gone from hell to heaven.
His spirit particles, previously scattering like they were being roasted, finally stabilized.
But with relief came overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion.
He rolled onto his back, lying flat.
Blue sky, white clouds.
Bright sun, tiny Chojiro.
In his extreme fatigue, his mind could only muster these basic images.
Lying there, half-crazed from exhaustion, Fujimiya started to suspect that old crook Yamamoto was messing with him on purpose.
"Chojiro."
He asked: "Did you ever go through training like this?"
"Yes."
Chojiro, as cool as ever, replied: "But when I did it, my base reiatsu was already high enough to start bankai training."
"As for you…"
He paused, then continued: "I assume Master Genryusai has his reasons."
"Someone as talented as you, Makoto, isn't like us useless mediocrities."
Fujimiya raised an eyebrow, surprised: "You, a mediocrity?"
"I heard at the academy you mastered your bankai in just a month. A genius, right?"
Chojiro shook his head calmly: "A month, two months, or even a year—it's just 'mastering bankai.'"
"In a shinigami's long life, that time…"
"It's meaningless."
"If I had a choice, I'd rather spend decades refining my bankai to reach even a fraction of Master Genryusai's level."
"Sadly…"
His expression carried a hint of regret.
Fujimiya, curious, pressed: "Master Genryusai's level… can't it be reached through training?"
"I don't know."
Chojiro shook his head.
He sat beside him and extended a finger.
At its tip, a chaotic sphere of spirit particles appeared, faintly glowing.
"If most shinigami's spirit particles are like this sphere… expansive and disordered."
Suddenly, the particle mass collapsed into a tiny, nail-sized point, densely packed, nearly gapless, radiating intense light.
He went on: "Then the instructors' particles are like this: dense, ordered, powerful."
"Like water vapor under immense pressure, condensing into liquid, or even solid."
"If the instructors wanted, they could inflate their asauichi to the size of a building—that's what happens when spirit particles are left free."
"This difference in reiatsu density is what we call rei-i (spiritual power) levels."
He waved his hand, dispersing the particles: "To reach my half-baked level, a third-class rei-i is enough."
"But for the instructors, you need at least second-class."
"And Master Genryusai…"
Chojiro's voice tinged with awe and aspiration: "He's first-class because spirit particles can't be compressed beyond that."
"It's the absolute limit."
"To my knowledge, aside from freakishly gifted monsters, the degree of unity between will and self determines the rei-i ceiling."
"And only something forged by abandoning everything you're proud of—talents, gifts—starting from 'nothing,' is truly yours."
Chojiro patted Fujimiya's shoulder, a bit harder, voice grave: "That's probably the real reason Master Genryusai is putting you through this training now."
"He must have high hopes for you, Makoto."
Fujimiya froze, stunned.
"Will."
He repeated the word in his mind.
It felt absurd.
Sure, he'd been toughened in Zaraki, but with his past-life willpower—barely enough to drag himself out of bed for work—could he compete with shinigami forged in countless life-or-death battles?
Fujimiya found it unrealistic.
Was his system not cheat enough?
But Chojiro said nothing more.
After overseeing his training, he left without a word.
Fujimiya lay there a while, recovering. He meant to leave.
But staring at the towering killing stone before him, he stopped.
Was it the memory of his limits in Zaraki, shackled by his system's taunts? Or the image of him instinctively drawing his sword against Yamamoto's killing intent?
Chojiro's words echoed: Only something forged by abandoning everything you're proud of—talents, gifts—starting from 'nothing,' is truly yours.
He stood still for a moment.
Then, with a pained grin, he picked up the killing stone cuffs and put them back on, wincing.
"… What a masochist."
"A bit more, then I'll head back if I can't take it."
…
[Bond Event · Under the Killing Stone]
[Bond level with Chojiro Sasakibe increased ↑]
[Reward: Rei-i level +1]
[Bond Trait Gained: Wall of Sighs]
[Rei-i: Sixth Class · Low → Sixth Class · Mid]
[Bond Trait · Wall of Sighs: Your will is forever locked at the moment you're strongest, until death.]
[Note: The one who forges the strongest you is always the you who pushes to the next time.]