"Tornado Crush—Parking Lot Destroyer!!"
The instant Akira's roar reverberated through the training hall, he transformed Yamamoto's scorching wind into his own weapon. Using the momentum from his spin, a massive whirlwind erupted from the floor, twisting violently toward the bald captain.
Akira became the eye of the storm, controlling the tornado's direction as it barreled straight at Yamamoto.
The captain glanced upward slightly, the corners of his small eyes lifting as a faint spark of surprise flickered within them.
Unexpected indeed—not because of the absurd, ungraceful name of the technique, but because of the boy's performance itself. He had assumed Akira would meet him head-on, charging with equal force. Instead, the boy had cleverly used the wind itself to propel his attack. Unprepared, Yamamoto had unleashed his full strength, only to have it turned into a signal for a counteroffensive.
Too unpredictable.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Yamamoto's lips. His right foot stepped forward, scorching the floor like molten iron, leaving a trail of blackened, melting wood.
Boom!
The dojo trembled under the impact.
As before, he drew back his right arm, muscles swelling and twitching as if they had come to life. The pinnacle of Genryu combat flowed perfectly through his every move.
When Yamamoto's fist shot forward, the scorching wind erupted once again, like molten lava bursting from the earth's crust. The dojo was suffused with searing heat. The wind screamed deafeningly, smashing against Akira's assault like a hammer, restraining the rapidly swelling tornado.
Akira's spin halted in an instant. Yet his pupils reflected not confusion, but clarity. Training under waterfalls had already conditioned him against dizziness and disorientation. This minor rotational force? It could not diminish his combat capability.
Besides—who said spinning couldn't store power?
The moment the wind paused, Akira recalculated his position. Between the lingering gusts, he launched a final punch at the stationary Yamamoto.
Full Force—Straight Punch!
Yamamoto's eyes widened as the fist grew larger and larger. Today, Akira had given him so many surprises. Though the technique remained slightly raw, this inventive approach revealed not only potential, but a new path forward.
Genryu was far from reaching its limit.
But… to think this alone could defeat an old master was naive.
A thin wisp of vapor escaped Yamamoto's teeth as he grinned, his scarred, exposed skin flushed red, muscles bulging like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
In an instant, his right hand shot forward. Fingers clenched, he caught the oncoming fist midair. The accumulated force exploded within, yet created no movement at all—like a stone sinking into the ocean.
Akira froze, staring in disbelief at the elder.
"That will do, Akira," Yamamoto said, grounding himself, his palm neutralizing the punch's impact. "Today's performance was decent. Much better than before."
Seeing Akira still stunned, he frowned slightly. With a single motion, his right arm extended, gripping the boy as effortlessly as picking up a kitten, and then tossed him back onto the still-intact floor.
"Sit."
Acknowledging the gap in strength, Akira obediently crossed his legs.
"Your strengths and weaknesses are clear."
Yamamoto walked closer, sitting opposite the boy. As he twisted his neck, a chilling crackling sound echoed, making Akira's scalp tingle.
"Your body is resilient—your spiritual form ten times stronger than others of the same reiatsu level. But don't dwell on this. Soul Society has existed for centuries; exceptional cases are inevitable. The elite families guarding Seireimon, for instance, were naturally born with strong spiritual bodies. And as your reiatsu grows, this gap will shrink."
Akira nodded thoughtfully. Blue Dye had mentioned similar data before, but he hadn't paid it much attention. At his current level—ninth-grade reiatsu—any peer of equal power striking him full-force would be lucky not to reduce him to a bloody pulp.
"As for your weaknesses," Yamamoto continued, his expression hardening, "your talent is remarkable, but that's exactly why you advance too quickly, leaving your fundamentals shaky. In battles with a clear disparity in power, this might not matter. But in an evenly matched struggle, it could become your fatal flaw. Focus on strengthening your basics first. I'll highlight the critical issues—you watch carefully and learn."
With that, the old master rose, betraying none of his age or fatigue.
Across from him, Akira stood, wincing from prior injuries, his expression fierce, almost demonic. This time, there would be no further sparring.
Yamamoto waved his hand, beginning a demonstration of the most fundamental Hand-to-Hand techniques—those taught in the Spiritual Arts Academy.
Every movement was textbook-perfect, down to the minutest breath, replicated as if copied verbatim from the source. Many of the Academy's textbooks had been authored by Genryusai himself.
Soon, Akira was fully absorbed, eyes glowing with focus, unwavering, utterly serious. Yamamoto nodded with satisfaction. If all Genryu disciples were this attentive, Soul Society would have been revitalized centuries ago.
After covering the basics, time had grown late. Yamamoto prepared to dismiss Akira when the boy suddenly spoke:
"Captain, I still have a question."
"Speak."
"Master Kaede told me the Academy can no longer nurture a genius like me. Staying here is a waste of time. Do you have any advice?" Akira asked, his expression unchanging.
Yamamoto pondered. "At your current strength, remaining at the Academy is indeed somewhat wasteful. But… Soul Society is unstable. Graduating early may carry risks."
"Unstable? You mean…"
"The former 11th Division captain was imprisoned in the Unending Hell for illegally modifying souls," he replied sharply. "The current 11th Division captain is temporarily deputized by Vice-Captain Itsuke."
"And during his imprisonment, assassination attempts erupted across all noble territories…"
Akira tentatively trusted Aizen's words. Since he had applied for early graduation, leaving the Academy together made sense. Once they joined the Thirteen Court Guard Squads, they could watch each other's backs.
By coincidence, in Akira's future plans, Aizen was the perfect candidate to promote the Reverse-Bone Shrine's faith. Beyond that unmatched charisma—the kind that could convince nearly anyone—the timing worked perfectly.
In the days leading up to graduation, Akira maintained a steady routine: Maō Cafeteria, Spiritual Arts Dojo. The Academy had reserved a dojo for him to refine his skills, given his impending graduation. This quiet routine continued until the Soul Escort internship day.
At the Academy, in the dedicated dojo, dozens of students stood rigidly in line, eyes fixed on the lead instructor. Among the sixth-year students, Akira and Aizen—first-years—stood out. Yet none dared show even a flicker of disdain.
Akira had already earned fame by defeating elite sixth-year students like Matsushita Takeo. Even in an academy almost two millennia old, prodigies like him were rare. Bare-handedly overpowering elite students, defeating multiple instructors, and flawlessly executing tasks reserved only for official Soul Reapers—his first six months alone far surpassed other sixth-years.
As everyone silently reflected, the lead instructor cleared his throat, drawing attention. After a brief explanation, teams were assigned. Akira and Aizen were not placed in the same group. Thanks to Kaede's arrangements, Akira's teammates were the first- and second-ranking sixth-years: Matsushita Takeo and Takeshita Saori.
"Long time no see, big guy!" Akira greeted with his usual casual charm.
"Y-yes, long time no see, Akira-san," Matsushita replied, far more timid than his bulky stature suggested. Takeshita mirrored his awkward, fawning demeanor.
"Boring," Akira muttered, unimpressed by their overly polite behavior.
"Unlock!"
The lead instructor drew his zanpakutō, tapping the giant gate in front with the hilt. Crack! A brilliant white light followed as the ancient gate slowly swung open.
"Take your Hell Butterflies and move out!"
One by one, the students passed through the gateway to the human world.
A crescent moon hung in the sky. In the darkness unreachable by ordinary humans, the group escorted wandering souls to the Soul Society.
Matsushita immediately notified Akira when he found a soul, letting him handle the first escort. Akira sighed. Perhaps this was humanity's tragic barrier. Only someone like Aizen could remain indifferent to rank and strength.
"Thanks, Matsushita-san," Akira said, drawing his zanpakutō, placing the hilt against the soul's forehead.
The "Death Seal" appeared, the soul shattered into countless points of light, finally condensing into a black Hell Butterfly, flying toward the Soul Society.
"Rest in peace, wandering soul. This world is not your home. May you find a new life in the Soul Society."
The light faded—escort complete.
Regrettably, nothing unexpected occurred during the Soul Escort internship. No Hollow invasions, no noble assassination plots. The entire process took under two hours.
"Normally, it would take an entire night," Aizen observed by the gateway. "But Kaede likely arranged for a dense concentration of souls this time."
Akira smiled. He hadn't expected Kaede to be so considerate.
Aizen's deadpan remark added: "Or… he just doesn't want to see you anymore."
The next morning, under the sun, the Academy's largest dojo was packed with students and observing Soul Reapers.
Director Sōya Genjirō stood on the podium, serious but satisfied. The graduation assessment had to be conducted flawlessly; once these students graduated, he could step down and return to the First Division.
Once everyone was seated, Sōya's reiatsu gathered in his throat, projecting his voice throughout the dojo.
"Graduation assessment begins!"
The sixth-years' eyes glimmered with excitement at the prospect of joining the Thirteen Court Guard Squads.
Akira sat among them, noticing something unusual. The figures on the podium weren't only Sōya and the instructors—there were multiple familiar and unfamiliar faces.
Most striking was the shining bald head.
Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto.
He sat upright, hands on his cane, his white captain's haori draped over his shoulders, radiating immense authority. Flanking him were Unohana Retsu and a pale young man who occasionally coughed.
"Something's off!" Akira muttered, arms crossed, glancing at Aizen. "Even Yamamoto's gone mad—over a mere graduation exam?"
Aizen glanced at him, saying nothing. Some people's stubbornness could not be bent, no matter whose fault it was.
Having experienced the previous Soul Escort assessment, Aizen thought Akira's "storm luck" had improved. This graduation exam would proceed smoothly.
Yet he underestimated how much more extreme things could become.
Aizen squinted, recalling when Sōya last proctored a graduation exam—apparently, it had been during Kyoraku Shunsui and Ukitake Jūshirō's time.