Born in Seireitei

That day, I skipped dinner. Anxiety had stolen my appetite. Instead, I drank some water and, well ahead of the appointed hour, made my way to the underground training grounds.

I'd only been there once before when Grandfather had shown me the way. Entrances to such secretive locations are typically concealed with Kido spells.

In the Seireitei, the Way of Binding—Bakudo—is widely used for these purposes. Bakudo is one of the three branches of Demon Magic employed by Shinigami. It encompasses all sorts of barriers and seals, from the simplest ones—like a wall of spiritual energy for defense—to intricate and extraordinary techniques capable of sealing entities for centuries in a timeless void.

In the anime, Kido was often showcased in its combat applications, and ordinary Shinigami from the Kido Corps were portrayed as weaklings. But here, in reality? Let me tell you, Kido Masters rake in unimaginable fortunes!

The Kido Corps is one of the few divisions of the Gotei 13 that doesn't burn through its resources but actually generates revenue.

Need a building constructed swiftly out of reishi using magic? Call the Kido Corps. Need to conceal an entire area in any of the realms for anything from setting up a camp to conducting a battle? The Kido Corps has your back. Have a tough enemy you can't kill but need sealed? Kido Corps again! And that's just their duties within the Gotei 13.

In daily life within the Seireitei, even noble families line up for the services of Kido Masters. Enchanting barriers to protect estates, concealing critical locations, safeguarding valuables, or setting up surveillance spells—magic here isn't just for battles. It's woven into the fabric of everyday Soul Society life.

This isn't just a fancy toy for powerful Shinigami. Kido is a monumental aspect of the culture, spiritual science, traditions, and daily existence of the Soul Society. Those who can wield Demon Magic, even at an intermediate level, are highly respected.

Within the community of magic practitioners, the creators of Kido aren't just respected—they are revered. The first Captains of the Gotei 13 and the heads of the Five Noble Clans are universally honored for creating and popularizing Demon Magic.

Above all, there's the Commander-General of the Gotei 13—a living icon of that era. But for those who know a bit more, there's another half-mythical figure deserving of reverence. Known as the "Bronze Brush," he occasionally appears in Soul Society folklore as a wise but fleeting character.

I know, though, that this is no mere story. The Bronze Brush is a real, living Shinigami. He is the one who gave names to all things and phenomena in the Soul Society. He coined terms like Shikai and Bankai, Zanpakuto, and countless others—practically everything.

Thanks to his profound knowledge, the true essence of concepts could be reached with words and reiatsu. This is the foundation that made Demon Magic possible.

The one who gave the first spark to Kido is a living member of the Zero Division, the Royal Guard: Ichibei Hyosube!

He's practically as old as the Soul King himself, having been born long before the establishment of the Gotei 13 and the Seireitei. A living legend.

I've even come across documents asserting that Ichibei is the one who names all Zanpakuto. There's even this odd theory that the reason no Shinigami hears their Zanpakuto's name on the first try is that Ichibei hasn't granted it yet! And that he does so retroactively... Definitely sounds like a fairy tale.

But nowadays, even the great Ichibei has faded from public consciousness. Even in the Central 46 Council, he's treated like a distant, immovable cloud—his existence barely acknowledged. In my opinion, the guy deserves a monument right in the center of the Seireitei.

Why not? If achieving Bankai is worth a statue, surely a member of the Zero Division is too? Their discoveries changed the world! Especially Ichibei.

"I wish I could meet them someday," I murmured to myself as I walked through the empty corridors of the estate. "Do they come down here sometimes?"

With each passing year, I become more acutely aware of the world I inhabit—a realm of true legends and towering figures. There are beings still alive and well who have existed for thousands of years, spending most of that time contemplating the nature of existence, perfecting themselves, and growing ever more powerful and awe-inspiring.

To meet all of them, to exchange at least a few words... or even learn from them properly. And someday, when I'm strong, maybe even fight them? What would that feel like? What storm of emotions would I experience?!

I chuckled and shook my head, pushing such lofty dreams aside. It was far too arrogant to even entertain such thoughts right now. I needed to be clear-eyed about who I was and what I could do.

In the eyes of beings who've spent centuries judging everything by its strength, I was a nobody. Worse than an ant. Weaker than even the lowest-class Hollow in Hueco Mundo, the Realm of Hollows. Hell, even those little Hollow-creatures that make up the fauna of that endless desert could kill me right now!

Though they seem harmless, they inherently possess awakened-level strength—otherwise, they wouldn't be able to feed on ambient spiritual particles. Clearly, they're stronger than I am now. What a disgrace.

I think I'm beginning to understand the arrogance Shinigami have toward ordinary souls, even their tendency to ignore them as though they're background noise—just statistics, living somewhere out there, beyond the borders of the Seireitei.

If I lived in Rukongai, I'd be no different from the scenery. What's the difference between me and a tree? My reiatsu is just as insignificant!

"Damn it," I growled and kicked a section of the corridor wall.

I heard a click.

A mechanical button had been triggered, causing part of the wall to slide open. Behind it lay a clearly visible blue barrier, tuned to the soul signature of the main family—or as the ignorant might say, to the bloodline. What nonsense. The truth is, relatives can sometimes bypass such barriers due to similar reiatsu signatures. It's an almost irreparable flaw in low-level barriers.

Not that I was thinking too deeply about it right now, but whenever I see Kido, I can't help trying to understand how it all works.

I stepped through the barrier, feeling only its warmth and hearing a hum like that of a transformer. The barrier was brimming with power, capable of annihilating anyone. Sensing its strength, I could only sigh inwardly.

Grandfather had set up this barrier with a mere wave of his hand, back when my father was still in diapers. Even now, it could crush someone like me in an instant.

"Enough of this," I muttered, slapping my cheeks and descending the stairs.

All day, my mind had been fixated on other people's power and abilities. I understand that everyone starts from nothing, but experiencing that from the bottom yourself is a different matter. Occasionally, spiritual pressure drifts over from the territories of the Gotei divisions—leftover traces of training or battles between Shinigami. It sends chills down everyone's spine, even those who've lived here for years and are used to it.

Honestly, it's infuriating! Almost every day, as someone hypersensitive to external reiatsu, I'm sharply reminded of my inadequacy and the vast difference in strength. This is the curse and bane of all ordinary souls living in the Seireitei.

At first, I didn't think about it much, having grown used to it from early childhood. But as I grew older, the desire to start training grew stronger.

Becoming aware of my own weakness made me gloomier. But at the same time, it made me more determined. And that determination has now brought me to this situation, where I could easily die in pursuit of strength.

But I don't care. I'm sick of feeling this pathetic. Whatever Grandfather has in store for me, I'll face it—or die trying! It's still better than living like such a weakling. Even those Hollow mice—tiny creatures with holes and masks—could kill me. Creatures so insignificant that the weakest, lowest-class Hollows snack on them!

When I stepped into the brightly lit training grounds, I felt like I was on fire with anticipation, eager to begin.

To my surprise, I wasn't the only one who had arrived early.

A familiar figure stood there—Grandfather, clad in Shinigami robes, his hair slicked back with a single black strand streaking through his silver locks. He turned at the sound of my footsteps, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, well, already here?" his familiar voice echoed through the spacious chamber. "Good. It's just as well. Your opponent is already here too."

This surprised me. Opponent? What opponent? I looked around the training grounds but saw no one else besides Grandfather. The area was nothing but a rectangular box of thick walls and barriers, shielding it from detection even by the most gifted sensors. That's why it was called the Sealed Arena.

Before I could ask, Grandfather raised his hand and clawed at the air as if gripping something invisible. But it wasn't empty space—he was dispelling a concealment barrier. With a tug of his hand, the hidden became visible.

At his feet lay a bound man. Thick cords of binding Kido wrapped around every inch of his massive, muscular frame. His bare torso was crisscrossed with white scars. Thankfully, he wore clean black pants below the waist, though his head was unkempt and wild.

His face was unremarkable—a man like any other. Pale. But what unsettled me was the utter lack of emotion on his face. Like a mask.

"And why were you hiding him? A surprise?" I joked awkwardly.

"No," Grandfather replied indifferently. "I just didn't want to listen to his rambling."

It was then I noticed the prisoner was muttering incessantly, his voice never pausing for even a second.

"Flo... Florin? Florin, a name, Florin, kill..."

Indeed, nonsense.

"He's insane," Grandfather explained calmly. "He'll attack anyone he sees. All he remembers is his name and his desire to kill. Nothing else."

I looked from Grandfather to the bound madman on the ground, then noticed two unsheathed blades stabbed into the sandy ground of the arena. I already understood the situation, but nervousness compelled me to ask anyway.

"You're going to sic a deranged psycho on your grandson?" I forced a crooked smile.

Contrary to my expectations, Grandfather didn't rush straight into things. He explained his reasoning just as calmly as before.

"No matter how much I want to make you stronger, you need a truly life-threatening situation. You might not believe I'd actually kill you if I struck... and you'd be right. I love you too much to truly try to kill you. It would be no test—just torment for both of us. A farce."

Grandfather smiled—a sinister expression. He nudged the captive, making him momentarily stop his muttering.

"For such cases, people usually use trash like bandits. Having friends in the Onmitsukidō who can provide a few of those scoundrels without any noise helps. Your father, as a Counselor, has direct authority over them, so it's no problem at all."

Grandfather narrowed his eyes, pinning me with a sharp look.

"And believe me…" he said quietly, "this piece of trash has already killed hundreds before he was captured. He wouldn't hesitate for a second to gut you."

"I knew what I was getting into when I asked for your help," I said firmly, stepping closer to him. "I never thought awakening quickly would be easy."

I approached the swords and found them to be ordinary blades, the type you'd find in the early districts of Rukongai—not even close to a Shinigami's Asauchi. But even these could easily kill.

Gripping the hilt, I pulled one blade from the ground with ease, giving it a test swing and listening to the whistle of steel cutting through air. The weight of a real sword was heavy, dragging at my wrist and arm.

This was no training weapon. This was a true instrument of death.

"So, when do we start?"

Grandfather's expression turned proud. Without a word, he placed a firm hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"He's already awakened, and you're not," Grandfather said with a grave tone. "His lack of reason is his greatest weakness. I won't help you. I'll deliberately stand far enough away that you can't count on me. I went through the same thing myself in battle. That's how everyone awakened in my day—how your father awakened. Every Shinigami has gone through this. Win or die."

Grandfather sniffled oddly. He turned away, but I caught a glimpse of his glistening eyes. Sentimental old man...

"There's no other way, Sujin. Let's begin."

With a snap of his fingers, he vanished in a blur of shunpo, reappearing in a corner. I saw him form intricate hand seals, whispering incantations under his breath until the entire corner was enveloped by a barrier. He had sealed himself inside. I knew it would take him at least a second or two to break free—not enough time to save me if I ended up on the verge of death.

Finally, he nodded grimly in my direction and snapped his fingers. The bindings on the captive disappeared in a cascade of harmless crimson sparks.

"Fl… Florin… kill, Florin!"

The madman uttered his name, and like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, he rose awkwardly to his feet. Grabbing a blade, he lunged at me without hesitation. His movements betrayed a familiarity with combat—he remembered how to fight.

I raised my sword in a block, just as I'd been taught, bracing my legs to absorb the impact. But I wasn't prepared for his strength.

The clash of steel rang in my ears, the force of the blow reverberating painfully through my arms. Even with both hands gripping the hilt, his strike nearly wrenched the weapon from my grasp. How strong was this guy?!

"Kill… kill! Kill! Florin!"

He swung again, this time a downward slash that I barely managed to deflect. By the third strike, my knee hit the ground, and by the fourth, I was rolling desperately to the side. Any more and I wouldn't have been able to hold my stance. He almost cleaved me in two!

All the composure and determination I had built up before the fight drained away in that moment. My heart pounded erratically, and my mind scattered like frightened birds, leaving behind only fear and the overwhelming urge to make it stop. I held onto my fear for now, but I had already stopped thinking about striking back; all I could do was retreat.

Blow after blow rained down. Each clash of steel made my hands go numb, the vibrations traveling deep into my bones. One particularly heavy hit sent me staggering back, barely keeping my footing.

I glanced at my sword, now dented and showing signs of breaking. Another solid hit, and it would snap in half!

"Florin!" the madman growled, his voice more intense now, tinged with emotion.

For the first time, his wild eyes focused on me rather than looking through me. His gaze locked, full of bloodlust, and the whites of his eyes turned red with burst veins. The black pupils gleamed demonically, and a palpable killing intent oozed from him—a crimson aura that stretched towards me with grotesque, claw-like tendrils. It was pure predatory malice.

That was the breaking point. I was truly terrified now. He was a monster. Grandfather had overdone it—there was no way I could win!

"Don't you dare retreat!" Grandfather's sharp command cut through my panic. "Fight, you brat! This is what you wanted!"

He had never spoken to me like that before. Was he disappointed? Did he despise me now?

"I… I can't do it!" I shouted in desperation, barely dodging another strike. "I'm not a coward, but this is too much!"

Nonsense—I was scared out of my mind. My words were a last-ditch attempt to salvage my pride. My sword cracked with a loud snap under the next blow, its upper half flying into the sand.

"There's no such thing as 'too much' on the battlefield," Grandfather's icy voice echoed through the training ground. "There is only Death. Yours or the enemy's. As a future Shinigami, you must be ready for that."

"I know that, damn it!"

I leapt backward, no longer trusting the broken blade in my hand. The madman's next slash tore through my kimono, searing my chest with a sharp, blinding pain that blurred my vision. The feeling of a sword slicing through flesh was agony. Whoever claimed you didn't notice injuries in the heat of battle was spouting nonsense. It hurt so much I wanted to scream.

I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't—nowhere close. If my opponent weren't so reckless and wild in his swings, I'd already be dead!

"Then why do you run?"

Another wound on my leg, followed by a fresh gash on my shoulder. Blood sprayed from the cuts, soaking my once-light kimono until it was dark and heavy with the weight of absorbed blood. I could feel myself growing weaker.

"Stop talking!" I shouted back, my voice breaking with pain. "Your motivational speeches won't help!"

"Then just stand, Sujin," Grandfather advised with Arctic calm. "Don't search for strength. Don't try to summon courage. Don't think about techniques. Just kill your enemy."

Dodging another swing by rolling to the side, I barely escaped with my life. The madman, like a beast, immediately dove after me. At that moment, I bolted. What else could I do? Every attack I tried was parried effortlessly; he seemed to sense my every move like a wild predator. Tricks and feints were useless! His reflexes were monstrous, his mind consumed entirely by the fight!

"What do you mean, just stand?! I'll die!" I gasped, frantically trying to decipher Grandfather's words into a strategy for survival.

"It means exactly that. Stand and fight. Don't run. Face your enemy and strike back. There is no other path to victory."

Grandfather sighed heavily, the sound so weary it made me glance his way. Behind the barrier, he stood with his head lowered, gripping his elbows as though restraining himself from interfering.

"Overcome yourself, Sujin. Or die."

At that moment, I fully realized—help truly wouldn't come. No joke, no hope. I had known it in my mind, but now I understood it with my heart. A vast difference that sent a chill through me. 

There was no choice. No other paths. No room for tricks or words. It was just me and my enemy. All thoughts vanished. I cast them out of my head. 

I stopped running. I turned to face my enemy. He was no longer a madman in my eyes. He wasn't a monster or a victim of circumstance. Here and now, he was my enemy—the one I needed to kill to survive. 

The words Grandfather had tried to drill into my head gained meaning, filling up completely, becoming truth. 

I didn't need to look for strength within myself. Courage wouldn't just appear. All I could do, all I needed to do, was raise my sword and strike back. Fight. 

No books, theories, or teacher's words can help you understand battle better than being in one. Sometimes all those theories and words are just noise. They don't help. Actions matter. 

I lifted the broken half of my sword, calmly watching as Florin prepared his favored overhead slash. This time, I didn't dodge or retreat. I simply turned my torso to the side and thrust straight for his heart, stepping closer to meet his attack. 

In this setup, there was only one chance. Either I'd awaken and double my speed, or I wouldn't reach him in time with my broken blade, and my head would be split open. I'd die. Simple as that. Like a coin toss—fifty-fifty. 

I swear, in that moment, I could feel the nothingness of death, its coldness, and its vast indifference. The void reached out to me, its darkness threatening to engulf my mind forever. 

The imaginary coin fell in my favor. A spark of power within me awakened. The enemy's sword slowed, while I seemed to exist in a world moving twice as fast. 

I dodged easily. Instead of aiming for his heart, I swung upward and severed his arm. The dismembered limb flew off, spraying blood. A simple leg sweep and a strike with the hilt to his forehead sent his crimson eyes rolling back. My enemy fell. 

I saw no point in killing him. All I needed was victory, and I had won, achieving my goal. 

It was so... easy? The difference between souls that produce reiatsu and those that don't really was as immense as they said. Like the gap between the earth and the sky—a fitting comparison. 

Now it felt like I could defeat a dozen such madmen without breaking a sweat, even though moments ago, I'd been trembling like a rabbit before a snake. Now I understood that it was simply his spiritual pressure, heavy with murderous intent. He was almost like a Hollow, not a virtuous soul. 

Against the spiritual pressure of such a soul, trembling and lying down was natural. The fact that I didn't crumble into a sobbing, helpless mess but ran and fought was reason enough for pride. I did well to endure it. 

With one breath, the spark inside me flared like a fire fed with fresh wood. It sank deep into my soul, as if diving into the depths of what Shinigami call the Soul's Sleep—a specific point in spiritual anatomy. 

A wave of reiatsu coursed through every cell of my body, filling it with warm heat and searing strength. It burst beyond my body, pressing the sand down within a step's radius. 

I exhaled, and everything settled. The reiatsu awakening ceremony was complete. No need for applause, but I'd give myself a pat on the back. Damn, real combat is truly something else. 

"Grandfather," I turned to see the joy shining in his dark eyes and smiled. "I've awakened." 

"Hoh-hoh," he smoothed his hair. "I see. You've done well, Sujin." 

He dismantled the barrier and approached. Together, we looked at the bloodied madman lying on the ground. Grandfather unsheathed his zanpakutō and held it out to me. 

"Cleanse this soul. Send it to rebirth. He has earned it." 

I knew what this meant. To die by a zanpakutō was not just to perish. One could simply kill, but when a Shinigami bore no ill will, the strike of a zanpakutō became something more—a ritual. Purification of sins. That's what death by a Shinigami's blade was. 

His sword responded with a pleasant coolness as I gripped it. It accepted me, just for this moment, fitting in my hand with an almost uncanny ease. Honestly, it felt strange to hold what was practically a living entity—a weapon with a soul. 

"You said he was a madman and a killer?" 

"Yes, but it's not his fault," the old Shinigami replied with a touch of sadness. "He is an ancient soul, and once, he wasn't mad. He was a Shinigami, just like us." 

"What?!" 

"Yes," Grandfather nodded. "A Quincy arrow did this to him during the war. The weapons of the Holy Archers destroy souls—irreversibly, without purification, complete annihilation. But when a Quincy's opponent is their equal or slightly stronger, the injury turns into this—a horrific wound to the core of the soul, impossible to heal." 

"That's terrible," I shuddered. 

"It is. He lost himself over time. The last thing he clung to was his name, which he muttered in hopes of not forgetting it. But in the end, even that faded. Only the reflex remained—to murmur his name and kill." 

"I'm beginning to understand," I murmured grimly. "Why Quincy were so hated." 

"Yes," Grandfather paused for a moment, the corners of his mouth drooping as painful memories surfaced. "There was good reason." 

I granted the man his final mercy. He truly didn't deserve a life of madness. A swift strike to the heart with pure intent. Immediately, my former enemy's body dissolved into reishi, the sparkling light rising into the sky and disappearing into the ether. 

Grandfather clapped his hands a couple of times, silently praying for the successful rebirth of the unfortunate soul. When he opened his eyes, he retrieved his zanpakutō and gave me an appraising look.

"Your reiatsu will soon be depleted, and your wounds will reopen."

I didn't feel any pain yet, but I knew that wouldn't last long.

"They should be bandaged," I agreed with a nod.

"No need for that," Grandfather said with a sly smile. "I'm not particularly skilled in Kaidō... but I invited someone who is. Chōjirō! Come in!"

The barrier around the training field opened, admitting a guest who had been standing outside all this time. The current Lieutenant of the First Division, Sasakibe Chōjirō, stepped into the light.

His silver hair was neatly styled, his hawk-like yellow eyes sharp, and he sported an elegant musketeer-style mustache. Recognizing him, I couldn't help but curse:

"Goddammit, you set me up."

Remembering how I had practically squealed like a frightened little rabbit while dodging the enemy's blade, I couldn't hold back my shame. My cheeks burned, and I just wanted to disappear for a week where no one could see me.

"Now, now," came the calm baritone of the First Division's second-in-command, laced with both kindness and humor. "You didn't think your grandfather would really leave you without any protection, did you?"

"Hoh-hoh," Grandfather chuckled, the sheath of his zanpakutō clicking softly as he slid the blade home. He smiled slyly. "Will you patch up the boy, Chōjirō?"

"You didn't even have to ask," the lieutenant replied, returning to a serious tone. "Here?"

"He's not dying," Grandfather clapped me on the back, making me wince internally. "Let's head upstairs. I recall my son sent me a batch of some fine tea…"

That bastard! Who slaps an injured man like that? My wounds! Outwardly, though, I nodded indifferently and followed Grandfather, keeping silent while the two esteemed Shinigami conversed.

"When will you ever start paying attention to such things—'some tea,' really," teased Chōjirō, apparently both a superior and a friend.

"When the Soul King will fart in his palace," Grandfather retorted, surprisingly crass for a Shinigami. "I'm an expert in sake, not tea!"

"Don't take Hell's name in vain; they don't serve drinks there."

I stayed quiet, watching their banter, which was full of casual jokes and inside humor from the First Division.

Unbelievable. I should ask for an autograph. Few people realize just how amazing this silver-haired man with a mustache actually is. I still can't figure out why he didn't slice Ichigo into ribbons during their first encounter.

The Lieutenant of the First Division became a legend during the First Quincy War, holding off two Sternritter for nearly half an hour until reinforcements arrived. That act saved an entire hospital full of the Fourth Division's wounded and medics at the time.

To put it simply, he fought two Quincy at Captain level and survived. He's the real deal!

Sasakibe seemed to sense something, flinching and quickly turning around. I barely managed to avert my gaze, pretending to check the wound on my shoulder instead of staring at him with starry eyes.

What? I'm planning to collect autographs from all the most legendary Shinigami. Well, once the concept of autographs actually exists and becomes fashionable. I can't even imagine how much they'd be worth among Seireitei collectors!

And they will become a thing—I know people will start collecting items like photos of Hitsugaya, for example. The Japanese mentality thrives on collecting rare items, and this place isn't any different.

There aren't many forms of entertainment in the Gotei 13, so it wouldn't be strange. In the meantime, I'll just use this opportunity to chat with none other than the Lieutenant of the First Division. Maybe he'll teach me something cool later.

Old Shinigami know all sorts of tricks and techniques that are never taught at the Academy.