Chapter 2: The Weight of Reflection
The week following the incident in the dojo passed with a veneer of normalcy that felt as fragile as glass. Kuroto attended his classes, performed his drills, and submitted his essays. He smiled when required, nodded at the right moments, and felt the weight of a specific, observant gaze on the back of his neck like a physical touch. Aizen did not approach him again. He simply observed, his smile as constant and benign as the academy's sakura trees. This, Kuroto knew, was more unnerving than any direct confrontation. Aizen was cataloguing, analyzing, adding a new and unexpected variable to his incomprehensible calculations.
The terror of that discovery was a potent fuel. It burned away the last vestiges of his passivity. Foreknowledge was no longer a shield; it was a liability if he remained weak. He had glimpsed the infinite potential within the Mirror Gallery, but the cost of wielding even a single reflection—the crushing drain, the physical collapse—was a brutal lesson. He needed a vessel capable of bearing the weight of stolen destinies.
His training began that night, in secret.
Part 1: The Vessel of Possibility
The Soul Society's spiritual enhancement was a holistic, soul-deep process, but Kuroto's otherworldly mindset sought structure, systems, and breaking points. He started with the physical, the foundation.
He forwent sleep, substituting it with mediated Jinzen, not to communicate with Kagami no Sho, but to force his spiritual body into a state of perpetual, low-grade exhaustion and recovery. During the darkest hours, he would slip into the academy's most advanced physical training grounds—a sealed chamber with adjustable gravity Kidō. Using a pilfered control seal (a simple security bypass he'd learned from observing a distracted Kido Corps intern), he subjected himself to crushing forces.
At first, it was two times gravity. His muscles screamed, his bones groaned, and every basic Hohō step felt like wading through mud. He practiced Zanjutsu forms until his arms were leaden, executed Hakuda strikes until his knuckles bled and healed, over and over in the oppressive air. He pushed it to three times, then four. The goal was not just strength, but density. To make every fiber of his soul-reinforced body a more efficient capacitor for reiryoku.
Next was consumption. He diverted his academy stipend, funneling coins to black-market vendors in the less savory districts of the Seireitei. He purchased dense, reishi-infused concentrates—bitter pastes and glowing, gelatinous orbs that were meant for injured officers. They were expensive and harsh on the system, but they provided raw materials. His body, under constant duress, learned to absorb and integrate them ravenously.
His "steady, competent" facade in class became a masterclass in controlled degradation. He allowed his performance in early morning drills to dip slightly, earning a few sharp reprimands from instructors. He would yawn, appear fatigued. "Pushing too hard in private study," he'd mumble. It was a believable cover for the profound transformation happening beneath the surface. By day, he was a slightly struggling sixth-year. By night, he was forging himself in a crucible of his own making.
Part 2: The Search for a Lesser Key
While his body trained, his mind ventured into the Gallery. The infinite hall of mirrors was less cacophonous now. The initial storm of whispers had settled into a vast, humming network of potential. He could now sense gradients, not just differences. Some mirrors blazed with terrifying, soul-scorching intensity—the echoes of world-ending blades, of reality-warping powers. These were the "Supreme" class reflections, like the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown. Their cost was catastrophic.
But others glimmered with a softer, steadier light. These were the reflections of simpler destinies: reliable swords, focused elemental tools, sturdy shields. He needed one of these. A "training wheel" reflection—a Zanpakutō with a modest cost, a straightforward ability he could practice with, learn the intricacies of the Prism's power without collapsing after a single use.
He wandered the Gallery, his consciousness pausing before various mirrors. He saw a reflection of himself holding a blade wreathed in unremarkable blue energy—a simple water-cutter. Another held a sword that could extend and contract like a whip. Useful, but not what he sought. He needed something with utility, something that could aid his foundational training.
Then he found it.
The mirror was not bright, but its light was constant and warm, like a well-tended forge. The reflection within showed him clad in simple, practical robes, holding a straight, unadorned katana. But the sword's presence felt solid, heavy in a way that spoke of immense density and control. The whisper from this mirror was not a shout of power, but a low, resonant chant about weight, earth, and unyielding focus. The essence was Gravity. Not the cosmic, crushing force of a black hole, but the fundamental, ever-present pull of the earth itself. A power of pure, enhancing pressure.
This one, he thought. Its power is internal, self-augmenting. It doesn't project a massive external effect that would drain me. It makes the wielder heavier, stronger, more grounded. It's perfect.
He spent days in fragmented meditation, studying this reflection, communing with its essence. He learned its name, as the Prism provided it: Jishin no Tsuchi - The Earth of Steadfast Weight. Its Shikai command would be "Settle."
Part 3: The First Echo
A week after his decision, he was ready. He returned to the abandoned dojo, now his unofficial proving ground. His body ached from the gravity training, but his reiryoku reserves felt deeper, more robust. He drew his Asauchi, its unassuming form a comforting lie.
He focused on the warm, heavy mirror in his Gallery. He envisioned the straight katana, felt the concept of amplified gravity, of becoming an immovable object. He poured his spirit into the Asauchi, but this time with precision, aiming for that specific frequency.
"Reflect it," he whispered. "Kagami no Sho."
Again, the silent shatter of perceptual glass. The light that fractured from his blade was not a kaleidoscope, but a single, steady beam of amber and grey. It solidified in his grasp. The Asauchi was gone. In his hand was Jishin no Tsuchi. It looked almost identical to a standard katana, but the blade had a dull, matte finish, like unpolished iron, and the tsuba was a simple, thick square of stone. It was profoundly heavy—not impossibly so, but it felt like wielding a slab of granite. The weight was comforting, real.
He channeled a trickle of reiryoku into it. "Settle."
A soft, brown light rippled from the hilt, washing over his body. Instantly, his connection to the ground beneath him deepened. He felt rooted, solid. He lifted the sword; its weight had perhaps doubled, but his own arms now felt capable of supporting mountains. He took a step. The wooden floor of the dojo groaned in protest, but his balance was perfect. He executed a slow, basic Zanjutsu form. Each movement was deliberate, powerful, leaving faint impressions in the tough wood. The drain on his spirit was present, a steady outflow like a small leak, but it was manageable. He could maintain this for an hour, perhaps more.
He trained. He used Jishin no Tsuchi's gravity field to augment his strikes, to make his stances unshakable. The constant pressure further taxed his muscles and spirit, syncing perfectly with his intense physical regimen. It was a virtuous cycle: the reflection enhanced his training, and the training expanded his capacity to wield the reflection.
After forty-five minutes, a mild sweat on his brow and his reserves down by a third, he released the Shikai. The stone-and-iron katana fragmented into dusty light and was reabsorbed. He held the Asauchi again, breathing heavily but steadily. A grin, genuine and fierce, spread across his face. This was control. This was progress.
Part 4: The Unspoken Agreement
His newfound routine—nocturnal gravity training, secret reflection practice—became his true curriculum. He grew stronger, tougher, his reiryoku pool expanding week by week. His class performance, carefully managed, began to tick upward again, his "recovery" attributed to renewed focus.
And through it all, Aizen watched.
Their interactions were brief, polite, and layered with unspoken depth. In the library, Aizen might pause by his table. "Your concentration seems improved, Sato-san. You have found a more… focused path?"
"Just heeding the instructors' advice, Aizen-san. Fundamentals are important."
"Indeed. A strong foundation supports even the most unconventional structures." Aizen's eyes would flicker to Kuroto's hands, as if looking for traces of otherworldly residue, before he would smile and move on.
It was a silent dance. Aizen knew Kuroto was hiding something monumental. Kuroto knew that Aizen knew. But neither acted. For Aizen, Kuroto was now a fascinating experiment, a seed of chaos he could observe and perhaps later cultivate or dissect. For Kuroto, Aizen was a looming deadline. A reminder that his power needed to be not just functional, but formidable, and soon.
One evening, leaving the gravity chamber utterly spent, Kuroto felt a familiar, placid spiritual pressure at the end of the corridor. He didn't need to turn. He simply leaned against the wall, catching his breath.
"A late night for contemplation, Aizen-san?" he called out, his voice echoing in the sterile hall.
"One could say the same," Aizen's smooth voice replied as he walked into view. He held a book on advanced Kidō theory. "The path to power is often walked alone, in the dark. Though, some paths are darker and more solitary than others."
Kuroto met his gaze. The pretense of the oblivious student was gone from his silver eyes, replaced by a watchful, weary calculation. "Some paths are unique. They require unique preparation."
Aizen nodded slowly, his glasses gleaming under the dim light. "Uniqueness is a precious commodity. It can be a weapon, or a vulnerability. I find the study of unique things… profoundly rewarding."
He didn't wait for a reply. He offered that same, inscrutable smile and walked away, his footsteps silent on the stone.
Kuroto pushed himself off the wall. The message was clear. His grace period, this time of observation, was not infinite. Aizen's curiosity would eventually demand more active participation.
He looked down at his hands, calloused and strong. He felt the steady hum of his deeper reiryoku, and the quiet, waiting presence of the infinite Gallery within. He had his foundation. He had his first, manageable reflection.
The next step, he knew, would have to be into the light. He needed real combat, real templates to witness, and a place to hide his growing capabilities in plain sight. The upcoming placement exams and the assignment to a division for field training were no longer just a graduation requirement. They were his next training ground, and his first real test.
The Mirror had been polished. Now, it was time to see what else it could reflect.