Born in Seireitei

In the open training field stood an unusual structure. Just yesterday, the area had been nothing but a flat expanse covered in white sand. Today, dozens of thin poles were driven into the ground, forming a chaotic forest of obstacles.

Each pole was set at varying heights and distances, creating a grueling trial course for anyone attempting to dash through and back again.

And this was merely the prelude to my training.

Yes, I had done it—I'd asked for the most painful, ambitious thing I could imagine. I requested that Grandfather personally teach me the fundamentals of the four main paths of a Shinigami.

Was I determined at the time? Absolutely. But now, standing before my grandfather, towering over me with a face as stern as if carved from stone? I had to admit to myself—I was nervous.

"Stand still," Grandfather's harsh voice seemed to freeze the warm morning air. "Keep your hands steady."

I froze in place, stretching my hands forward, palms facing downward. The old man gave a curt nod and placed a small bowl on the back of each hand—one red, one blue. Thick-walled ceramic, they weighed down my arms noticeably.

Grandfather bent down and picked up a black-spouted kettle from the ground. After a few moments, he carefully filled each bowl to the brim with clear water.

To be honest, even just standing there without trembling and spilling a drop was already a challenge.

"Well, at least this is more interesting than boring old running," I murmured quietly, resigning myself to what lay ahead.

"Oh, really?" One gray eyebrow arched skeptically.

Grandfather nodded to someone behind me, and a servant entered the training ground. A plain man with a dour expression, the head servant of the estate, silently handed Grandfather a white bundle containing something long. As the servant left, I caught a sympathetic look on his face. Great, this probably wasn't going to be fun...

Grandfather didn't make me wait long to satisfy my curiosity. Slowly, he unwrapped the white cloth, revealing five long rods that looked almost identical. Flexible and slender, they resembled fresh willow branches but were black. These tools of punishment looked more like real weapons than simple switches.

Grandfather picked up one rod and gave it a sharp swing. The resulting whistle cut through the air so sharply it was as if the very air felt pain. I didn't want to experience even one strike of that.

"There are only five left. There used to be seventeen in the set," Grandfather remarked casually, inspecting the rod in his hand. "But when your young father began building his empire…"

His stoic expression shifted. A single wrinkle deepened between his brows, but it transformed his face, sharpening his features and hinting at a suppressed fury. I instinctively took a step back. His reiatsu flared briefly, promising pain.

"I didn't like how readily he embraced any methods—moral or not," Grandfather said, his voice cold and steady. "It came to the point where I had to express my disapproval... by carving my dissatisfaction into his skin with scars. That's how he gained a permanent reminder of the limits one must not cross, and why there are fewer rods now. It was the only time I struck a descendant in such anger. Remember this, Sujin: a man, no matter how ruthless he may be to his enemies, should never use a foe's family against them. There are certain exceptions... but the lives of children and loved ones should never be exploited for something as petty as business or gold."

"Yes," I replied quietly but seriously, meeting his expectant and firm gaze. "I will remember."

Grandfather fell silent for a moment, and I didn't dare interrupt his contemplation of the past. Another piece of family history etched itself into my memory, finding its place in the corner of my mind reserved for things better left unspoken.

Grandfather's gaze shifted as he pulled himself out of his memories; the furrow between his brows smoothed. Thank goodness. That version of him was terrifying. If what I'd just seen was merely a shadow of his anger, I couldn't imagine what my father must have endured—or rather, I didn't want to.

"You'll walk along the poles to the end and back, holding the bowls," the old Shinigami ordered firmly. "Each time you return, I'll check how much water is left in the bowls. If there's less than half in one, you'll get one strike on your back. If it's both, two strikes."

Grandfather swung the rod again, sharper this time, eliciting a whip-like snap through the air. But he wasn't done explaining.

"If you drop the red bowl, you won't get any food today. If you drop the blue one, no water. And of course…" 

The rod sliced through the air with another fierce whistle. 

"Five strikes for dropping a bowl. If you think this is excessive…" 

His icy gaze shifted from the rod to me, piercing through me with a chill that gripped my heart. There wasn't a trace of sympathy or warmth in his eyes—just cold determination. 

"Know this, Sujin: I'm still going easy on you. This is training from the Shihoin Clan. It's how they prepare novices before actual Hoho training. As Sasakibe requested, I'm not pushing you harder just because you have talent." 

"If this isn't pushing," I said with a wry smile, glancing at the thin rod in his hand, "then what do they go through?" 

"For Shihoin heirs, instead of pathetic bowls, they balance marble spheres twice the size of their fists. Perfectly smooth, round stones. And they're struck not with wooden rods for scolding children, but with real steel rods." 

Grandfather said this without an ounce of pity, even nodding approvingly a couple of times. Meanwhile, I shuddered at the thought of trying to balance smooth stones instead of bowls. Marble spheres... seriously? 

Damn, that's harsh—even for real Shinigami. And they call this basic training? 

"They say that within a week, the young ones develop the agility of a cat and perfect balance, enough to run along taut steel wires for hours. This foundation in Hoho allows Shihoin Shinigami to later surpass others in Shunpo, much like a hare outruns a snail. If you can run the poles perfectly without spilling a drop even once in a week, I'll already be proud of you." 

Grandfather tapped the rod against his open palm a couple of times. 

"And now, knowing what a kind old man I am, we'll begin. Reach the last pole and return. For the first ten rounds, I'll allow you to walk." 

Though I hadn't known what awaited me when I came to the training field… I had no intention of complaining. 

Scary? Sure. But I'd expected something harsh when I asked for training from a veteran of the First Quincy War. And a veteran of a couple of civil wars among the Shinigami. And a hero of several noble uprisings' suppression campaigns. And countless other, smaller battles—if you can call fights with monsters "small." 

My grandfather had survived so many wars, battles, and uprisings that I was entirely willing to trust his experience. Compared to the horrors of real combat, this training was just child's play. Really innocent, gentle child's play, with not a drop of enemy blood on the petals. 

"I just hope I'll get to drink something today," I joked optimistically, referencing the stakes. 

"Hope all you want," Grandfather snorted. 

I stepped onto the first low pole and immediately lost a little water. Swallowing hard, I struggled to balance. The second step made me wobble. Don't flail your arms, damn it! Stupid body! I needed to move gently, smoothly. It was incredibly difficult to suppress the reflexive muscle tension while trying to maintain perfect balance. 

"Looks like you've already earned yourself a strike," came Grandfather's voice, dripping with ominous promise. "Keep it up, and you won't be sleeping on your back tonight." 

"You won't scare me that easily, Grandfather," I exhaled softly with a smile, stepping onto the fifth pole and holding my balance. 

"We'll see what you say when you drop a bowl," he replied, almost serenely, but with an undertone of menace. 

I had just reached the seventh pole when suddenly, Grandfather's spiritual pressure came crashing down on my shoulders like the weight of the sky. It was as abrupt as it was overwhelming. My breath hitched, and the crushing force felt like it might snap my spine under the weight of a mountain. 

Of course, I fell. Face-first into the sand, barely avoiding breaking my ribs on the pole. The bowls toppled, and the water soaked into the training field's sand. The pressure lifted as quickly as it had appeared. 

"Well, well," Grandfather said, not sounding surprised at all. "Maximum punishment on the first try. Come here; I've already warmed up my wrist." 

I exhaled, gritted my teeth, and got up. Hiding the small seed of fear that had sprouted inside me, I approached, shrugging off the top of my kimono and letting the light fabric hang from my elbows. Turning my back to Grandfather, I clenched my teeth tighter, bracing myself.

Grandfather carried out the punishment without a word or a hint of hesitation, as though it was no more significant than a casual tap on the head. The whistle of the rod, the anticipation—it was worse than the strike itself. I endured the sharp, fiery blows across my back in silence. They scorched like fire, the pain searing from my shoulders to my lower back. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes, stinging fiercely.

My back burned as though it had been smeared with hot pepper. It felt like Grandfather had managed to cover every inch of skin, leaving no spot where the nerves weren't screaming in agony. Pain, humiliation, shame—all of it swirled together, stoking a bitter resentment. Most of all, at myself. Despite the anger bubbling in my chest, I kept my tone calm as I asked:

"Couldn't you have just said something like, 'A Shinigami must always be ready for the unexpected' before dropping your reiatsu on me like that?"

"And would you have been as prepared or tense during your next attempt after a few simple words?"

I thought about it honestly and shook my head. No, I wouldn't have. Grandfather nodded.

"Experience on your own skin, through effort and pain—that's the best teacher. Your subconscious and your body must absorb it and turn constant vigilance into reflex. Be ready for surprise attacks or sudden spiritual pressure from an enemy. I've seen too many deaths from something as basic as freezing in place during an ambush or being overwhelmed by bloodlust or spiritual pressure."

"That was… unpleasant," I admitted quietly. "And shocking. I can see how someone could die from that."

Grandfather nodded, casually adjusting his slightly askew clothing. Just as easily, as though he hadn't been lashing me moments ago, he shared his wisdom:

"Fear, pain, self-directed anger, the desire to avoid feeling that way again, and to push past your limits—these are powerful drivers for a budding warrior. Even if you're clever as the devil and absurdly gifted, training like this accelerates progress. These methods work equally well for geniuses and fools. Save the endless bokken-swinging in a cozy dojo for pampered weaklings and future corpses. True warriors are forged through pain and sweat. Better still—directly in battle."

He refilled the bowls in my hands, set the kettle down in the sand, and offered a piece of advice with surprising tenderness:

"You can hate me if you want. This is just the beginning, and it will get worse. I'll even forgive you a few curses and ignore your tears. But since you've entrusted yourself to me and asked for this, I'll make you a model Shinigami. One who won't die to the claws of the first Hollow they meet."

"Yeah, a one-way road and all that," I replied flippantly. "Don't bother justifying yourself, Grandfather. I knew this wouldn't be easy from the start. I won't blame you."

"I don't justify myself, brat," he said, his voice weighted with reiatsu. "I explain."

"Got it. Just so you know—I still love you, Granddad. Break a hundred rods on me; I'll endure it all."

"Pft," he scoffed, his tone sharp and dismissive. "As if I care about something like that…"

With his signature stone-faced expression, I might have believed him. But his ears gave him away again. With that hairstyle, they were always in plain view. It was amusing that no one in all these years had told Grandfather that his ears turned red when he was flustered. I wouldn't tell him either. It'd be too awkward. Besides, I doubt anyone but me or my father could get under his skin with mere words. Family was the only thing he held that close to his heart.

And how could I hold anything against such a soft-hearted old man at his core? Even if he struck me a thousand times, by the next day, I'd forget any anger as though it had never existed.

I climbed back onto the poles, carefully balancing and moving my hands smoothly. This time, I was ready for sudden disruptions—not just taking steps, but planting my feet firmly and holding a steady posture. Not a single drop of water in the bowls rippled.

Grandfather's reiatsu descended again, pressing the air from my lungs and causing ripples in the water. Some spilled, dampening my kimono sleeves. But this time, I didn't fall.

After the tenth round, Grandfather ordered me to pick up the pace. More water spilled.

"Don't freeze every time you spill water!" Grandfather barked. "You'll develop bad habits. Keep moving!"

The attempts and falls continued. I lost track of time somewhere between my labored breathing and the sweat stinging my eyes. The whistle of the thin rod before each strike started to evoke superstitious dread. Over time, I feared it more than the pain itself. Not wanting to experience it again, I pushed myself harder, giving everything I had to maintain perfect balance.

By midday, Grandfather finally heard his first unflattering words about himself. That was when he announced there would be no lunch or break. In those moments, I hated him with all my heart. It's hard to love someone who, by the feel of it, turns your back into bloody pulp. Not a single drop of blood had been shed yet, but my back screamed as if the blows had already ground the flesh down to the bones.

Yet, despite everything, I pressed on, holding firmly to the thought that there are people out there who endure being beaten, for God's sake, with iron rods—and they keep going. And instead of bowls in their hands, they carry stone spheres, which are not only heavier but a complete nightmare to balance with.

Grandfather heard my hissing, quiet curses, and maybe even a few sobs, but not a single complaint. When the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink, I finally managed to run back and forth without spilling a single drop of water from the bowls.

"That's enough for today," Grandfather declared, tossing the rod to the ground with a casual flick of his wrist. "Good job."

On the white cloth spread on the ground lay blackened fragments and one cracked tool of punishment. Out of five rods, only two remained completely intact. I couldn't feel my back at all.

The thought that my father had broken twelve such rods against him filled me with superstitious dread.

"Rest tomorrow and train on your own for the next couple of days. I think by Friday, I can set aside another day for you. Until then, focus on increasing your speed."

I didn't have the strength to reply, only managing a jerky nod. My arms and legs were trembling with small spasms, but I forced them to stop, sending waves of reiatsu into my numb limbs. I was certain that if I weren't awakened, I would've collapsed unconscious before noon.

A full day of unrelenting training from morning till night, without food, water, or even a minute's rest, accompanied by harsh punishments for every mistake—and I endured! Until then, I hadn't even imagined I was capable of such a thing.

"And don't forget to take a healing bath, or you'll be left with scars. I've already ordered Roshiro to prepare the best set of remedies. It should be ready in your quarters by now. Do you hear me?"

Raising my blurred gaze, I caught a flicker of concern in Grandfather's eyes. I forced myself to smile faintly and croaked out:

"Yes."

"Good. I won't use Kido or call for a healer for something this minor. This will teach your body to instinctively heal itself with reiatsu. And remember, no food or water today—you're still being punished. Controlled stress will spur your soul to grow. But if things get so bad tonight that the medicines and salves at the estate don't help, you're allowed to send for someone from the Fourth Division. Mention my name, and they'll send someone. Pressure is good, but not to the point of stupidity."

Licking my dry lips, I nodded again. As soon as the training ended, Grandfather softened… He loves me too much—I could see how hard it was for him to remain stern and not summon a healer right then and there. One word, a single request, and he would have bent.

But I wasn't going to cheat or fake being sick. Punishment was punishment. My body and pride had lasted until the end; was I really going to break down and whine after it was all over? Never! If I was going to feel sorry for myself, I'd do it silently, alone.

"Alright. I'll be spending the night with my division, as always," were his parting words, punctuated by the sharp sound of shunpo as he disappeared.

Left alone at the training ground, I waited for the wave of weakness to pass before hobbling toward the main house. I was certain that if I had asked, helpers would've appeared instantly to support me on my way to the much-desired haven of home.

But I gritted my teeth, silently cursing my stubbornness, and walked step by step along the smooth stone path. I hadn't realized just how immense that damned pride of mine was. But I had endured—I had made it! Above all, I had proven to myself that I was capable of more than just lofty words and dreams.

This kind of training wasn't something even a seasoned soldier could always handle, yet I—a pampered aristocrat, still just a boy—had endured. And I was ready to go further, endure more, and become even better. How could I not feel a little proud of myself?

I just hoped I wouldn't end up like one of the Kuchikis. But I did have a sense of humor, so that was at least one guarantee, right? Heh… ow, even laughing quietly hurt.

This day would stay with me for a long time—the very first day of real training from an elite officer of the First Division. It wasn't the hardest, but it was one I wouldn't forget. The sharp sounds of the rod haunted my dreams that night. I slept on my stomach.

The healing bath closed my open wounds, reduced inflammation, and soothed the worst of the spasms, but it didn't replenish my strength. Climbing out of it, I groaned like a centenarian.

The night was filled with restless dreams, pain, and muscle cramps. And cursing. Oh, how I cursed everything and everyone, writhing and sweating in the darkness, not daring to move too much!

But when the next day came and I returned to the training ground, enduring the pain in my back and muscles, I found I could effortlessly repeat the run with the bowls. My body, which had felt stiff and clumsy at this yesterday, now moved with ease, doing everything I asked of it.

All the anger and resentment melted away like smoke in the wind. My patience and trust in Grandfather's methods had paid off almost immediately. And if that was the case… I'd endure more. No matter how hard it got, it would be worth it.

I swore silently to myself to endure whatever hardships lay ahead. Standing there in the quiet, I cemented my resolve as if storing it up for the future—I could feel I'd need it. This was only the basic training before the real Hoho, the Way of the Step. What would the other challenges be like?

My stomach growled. Even though I had spilled plenty of water yesterday, surely that punishment applied only to yesterday, right? Because if it didn't, that meant going hungry for a week and not drinking for three days. Not fatal for an awakened soul, but still…

I glanced around furtively, as if Grandfather might still be lurking with his rod raised. He wouldn't be that sadistic, right?

And even if he was, he hadn't told me otherwise. This might even become a regular punishment in the future. If that was the case…

"I need to eat more," I concluded wisely, heading toward the kitchen. "To stock up."