"Whoosh."
With a soft sound, Yamamoto's figure appeared at the main gate of the Genji School.
He seemed to have just emerged from a fierce battle. Though no blood stained his clothes, a faint, lingering scent of blood hung around him. His expression was fierce, and the two cross-shaped scars on his forehead appeared even darker.
"Genryūsai-sama."
"You...?"
Almost the instant Yamamoto appeared, Chōjirō materialized beside him, his expression slightly tense.
Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni remained as stoic as ever, his mood clearly not at its best.
"It's nothing."
"While hunting down the noble clans testing blades in the 40th District, I was ambushed by the heads of the Tsunayashiro and Kuchiki clans, leading several hundred men."
"An ambush?!"
Chōjirō's expression tightened. His eyes flickered behind Yamamoto, searching for the figure of Shigekuni Genshirō, who had set out with him. Not seeing him, his voice lowered.
"Does that mean... Genshirō is..."
Before he could finish, Yamamoto sighed softly.
"I was just a few short of killing them all."
"I underestimated them."
"..."
"Eh?"
The grief on Chōjirō's face froze.
Only then did Yamamoto notice Chōjirō's solemn expression and waved a hand dismissively. "I left Genshirō behind to handle the bodies with the others."
"The Kuchiki clan head is dead. The Tsunayashiro brat is critically wounded—he won't last long. Just selecting a new clan head will take them a while. They won't be able to mount any meaningful counterattack anytime soon."
"I was worried about things here, so I came back early."
"But as for the Genji School..."
Yamamoto, who had just casually cut down two of the Five Great Noble Clan heads without even a speck of blood on him, frowned as he surveyed the scattered fires and smoke rising from various locations within the school grounds. His voice deepened.
"So, there really was a traitor?"
Hearing this, Chōjirō immediately composed himself, dropping to one knee in apology. "Genryūsai-sama, I failed in my duties. Please punish me!"
Yamamoto paid no mind, striding forward into the school as he spoke.
"Tell me what happened."
"Yes."
Chōjirō quickly summarized the events.
After listening, Yamamoto raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised. "Urozakuro? You mean that little girl actually started taking initiative?"
"Indeed!"
At this, Chōjirō's expression turned somewhat awkward. "Because... the intruders blew up her library."
"No wonder."
Yamamoto immediately understood.
That girl was obsessed with books.
Those fools had just poked her biggest nerve.
Chōjirō chuckled along. "Thanks to Miss Katori and Makoto's efforts, the intruders were eliminated before they could cause much damage."
Hearing this, Yamamoto recalled Makoto's training and asked, "Speaking of which, Makoto's training has been going on for almost a month now, hasn't it?"
"Twenty-five days."
Chōjirō bowed slightly in apology. "However... I must admit my teaching has been lacking."
"All these days, Makoto's progress..."
"Has been relatively slow."
That was putting it mildly.
"Relatively slow"?
More like nonexistent.
But Chōjirō knew his teacher's temperament—some things had to be phrased carefully.
As the self-proclaimed top disciple of the Genryū style, Chōjirō cared deeply for nearly all the students of the Genji School and didn't wish for Makoto to face undue criticism. Often, compared to Yamamoto, who taught once and then left them to their own devices, Chōjirō was the one who provided patient, meticulous guidance.
Yamamoto glanced at him, unfazed.
"For you to say that..."
"Means there's been no progress at all, right?"
"..."
Chōjirō remained bowed in silence.
"Ha."
Yamamoto suddenly let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he pointed a rough finger at Chōjirō.
"Chōjirō, you still don't understand."
"Genryūsai-sama?"
Chōjirō looked up, puzzled.
Yamamoto clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze distant as if recalling a long-forgotten past.
"Chōjirō."
"Do you think a child like Makoto, with spiritual pressure not even at the 'instructor' level, could shatter that Sekkiseki stone?"
In the current Genji School, members of the Genryū style were broadly divided into "instructors" and "masters," roughly equivalent to the later ranks of lieutenant and captain.
Chōjirō frowned. "What do you mean, sir?"
Yamamoto walked ahead, his voice calm. "Chōjirō, I was young once too."
"I know all too well what goes through the minds of those young, formidable, exceptionally gifted geniuses."
"Even just from the way Makoto looks at everyone without a shred of reverence, and that unrestrained mouth of his... it's obvious."
"Often, the eyes are more honest than words."
Chōjirō's expression cleared slightly. "I see."
"So, you wanted Makoto to recognize his own limits?"
"Wrong."
Yet Yamamoto shook his head again. "Chōjirō, you're underestimating that boy."
"Rather than 'recognizing himself,' what I want is for him to reach his extremes."
"Either complete restraint or unbridled brilliance."
"He has a very... 'lively' sword. I imagine his heart is just as... extraordinary."
One had to admit, the old man had a way with words.
Chōjirō thought to himself.
Yamamoto sighed. "It took me a full ten years of stumbling in my youth to barely grasp this."
"Back then, in terms of spiritual power, I wasn't much stronger than Makoto is now."
Clasping his hands behind his back, Yamamoto stood atop the mountain, gazing into the distant bamboo forest. His eyes seemed to pierce through the night, landing on that massive, mountain-like, fortress-like pure white Sekkiseki stone standing prominently in the distance.
It was as if he could see his younger self—foolishly punching that mountain over and over again.
"But."
"From the day I achieved complete restraint and shattered my own limits..."
"For thousands of years since, I have known no equal."
He turned to Chōjirō. "In my eyes, Makoto is the second person I've ever met who could achieve this at his current level."
"That day, I didn't see that boy's limit."
Chōjirō was stunned.
He realized Yamamoto was referring to the day Fujimiyagi Makoto sparred with Instructor Saitō.
He hadn't expected the old man to place such hopes in Makoto.
Instinctively, Chōjirō asked, "Then... how long do you think it will take him?"
"Tch."
The ever-stern Yamamoto shook his head slightly—whether in mockery or anticipation, it was hard to say. His deep voice carried a rare hint of amusement.
"What's ten years of waiting?"
"I can still ensure ten years of peace."
"Ten... years?"
Chōjirō sighed softly.
For a Shinigami, it was but a fleeting span of time. Yet the coming turmoil in Soul Society was imminent.
The ambush by the Five Great Noble Clans was proof enough—they were growing restless.
"Let's go."
Yamamoto turned first, heading toward his residence.
Chōjirō followed closely.
But just as they turned—
A pure, violent surge of spiritual pressure erupted from the direction of the bamboo forest. It was as if every ounce of will and spirit had been compressed to its limit, burning through the soul to break all restraints.
A crimson pillar of spiritual energy shot straight into the heavens.
Sensing it, Yamamoto whipped around, his aged eyes widening.
Chōjirō's jaw nearly dropped.
With their power, they recognized it instantly—
It was Fujimiyagi Makoto's spiritual pressure.
Thud.
A deafening explosion followed, shaking the entire mountain where the Genji School stood.
The ten-meter-tall pure white Sekkiseki stone trembled under the force, dragged backward several meters through the earth, leaving a deep imprint visible even from afar.
The first fist.
Thud.
The earth shook again.
Amid a storm of dust, the massive white stone at the center of the bamboo forest cracked, spiderweb fissures spreading across its surface in an instant.
The second fist.
Thud.
This strike was even more concentrated, more penetrating than the last.
Countless white fragments, pulverized by unimaginable force, shot forward in a straight line, carving a pure white path through the air.
The final fist.
Along with the explosion came a furious roar, carrying months of pent-up frustration from enduring electrified lashes:
"YAMAMOTO! CHŌJIRŌ!"
"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU BOTH!!"
"..."
Yamamoto stood frozen, his eyes wide with shock, unable to close his mouth for the longest time.
Chōjirō looked like his eyeballs were about to pop out.
But as the words registered—
Yamamoto's gaze grew brighter and brighter.
The corners of his perpetually downturned lips curled upward.
"...You little brat!"