The training hall echoed with the sound of clashing blades and muffled frustration. Dust hung in the light that filtered through the old paper windows, catching every motion of the students like suspended ghosts.
At the front stood an aging instructor from the Eleventh Division — a man who had survived too many battles and lost count of the scars that came with them. His arms were crossed, expression grim as he watched yet another pair of students swing with all the grace of drunken peasants.
Their Zanpakutō collided once, twice, before one of them dropped his blade and stumbled backward, whining from the pain of his wrist. The old man sighed audibly, lowering his head.
"Hopeless," he muttered, dragging the flat of his blade across the floor. "You're not holding a broomstick, boy. It's a sword — treat it like one."
The students standing in line stiffened. The air grew heavier with his disappointment.
"You think wearing a Shihakushō makes you a Shinigami?!" the instructor barked, his voice raw from years of shouting over battlefields. "You're nothing but children playing at war. Soul Reapers don't play. We kill or die. There's no third option."
The next two stepped forward nervously. The instructor signaled with two fingers.
They hesitated, exchanged a glance, then rushed each other. The exchange lasted no more than five seconds. Both were on the floor by the end of it — one clutching his ribs, the other crying out over his sprained wrist.
The instructor rubbed his temple. "I'm getting too old for this…"
His gaze swept over the rows of students again — and stopped at two figures near the back.
Renji Abarai and Seishiro Kuchiki were whispering.
Renji's hands moved animatedly as he spoke, his red ponytail bobbing. Seishiro stood beside him with his arms folded, offering quiet replies and the occasional smirk.
"...You two seem very comfortable for people who haven't proven a damn thing yet," the instructor said, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade.
Renji froze mid-sentence.
Seishiro blinked, raising his head politely. "Apologies, sensei. We were simply—"
"—Chatting," the instructor finished. "Good. Then you must be full of energy. Step into the ring."
Renji groaned. "Wait, seriously?"
"Now," the instructor said, pointing his sword toward the open space. "Since you have time to talk, show me something worth hearing."
The students backed away, forming a rough circle around the polished wood floor. The murmurs returned — Kuchiki versus Abarai was a pairing people whispered about even before they started.
Renji drew his Zanpakutō, holding it confidently in both hands. "Guess we're doing this, huh?"
Seishiro gave a faint smile, sliding his blade free from its sheath. The steel caught the light — faintly darker than most Asauchi, as if it had been forged in shadow.
"I suppose we are," he said calmly, his eyes unreadable.
The instructor raised his hand. "No Kido. No tricks. Just blades and instinct. Begin."
Renji moved first — fast, aggressive, full of raw energy. His sword came down in a wide arc that would have broken a lesser student's guard.
Seishiro didn't block. He stepped into the strike — his movement tight, controlled — and deflected the blow with the flat of his blade. The momentum twisted around him; in the same motion, he pivoted and struck at Renji's ribs.
Renji parried, sparks scattering as the two blades clashed again.
"Not bad," he said with a grin. "But you're a bit too close for comfort, Kuchiki."
"Maybe," Seishiro replied. "Or maybe you're too far."
He twisted his wrist and let Renji's blade slide past him, using the recoil to deliver a reverse swing that nearly grazed Renji's cheek.
Renji leapt back, startled — a thin cut forming on his skin. The watching students gasped.
The instructor's eyes narrowed. "He's reckless," he muttered. "But his reflexes… they're dangerous."
Renji grit his teeth, steadying his breathing. "You fight weird, you know that? Like you're trying to get hit."
Seishiro gave a faint, almost amused smile. "Maybe I am."
The words hung in the air, strange and heavy.
Renji lunged again, their blades clashing in a furious rhythm. The sound of metal filled the hall — clang, clang, clang — the tempo growing faster, more violent.
Seishiro's fighting style was erratic — half art, half self-destruction. He didn't dodge; he redirected. He took hits on his shoulder, let the pain guide his counterattacks. Every movement looked like the last breath before collapse — yet it worked.
He drove Renji back, forcing him to defend.
"You're insane," Renji said through gritted teeth, blocking another strike.
"Perhaps," Seishiro said softly. "But sometimes, only madness can keep you alive."
The Instructor's Judgment
After another exchange, Renji's sword cracked against Seishiro's, both sliding apart in exhaustion. Sweat dripped onto the floor, their breathing ragged.
"Enough!" the instructor's voice thundered.
Both froze, blades lowered.
He walked forward slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, in one swift motion, he slammed his Zanpakutō into the floor.
"The rest of you, watch closely," he said to the class. "That—" he pointed at the two young men "—is what I want to see. Not perfection. Not elegance. Spirit."
Renji straightened, still panting. "So… we passed?"
The instructor smirked. "Barely. You're wild, Abarai. You swing like a beast, but you've got strength. Learn to temper it."
Then his gaze turned to Seishiro.
"You…" he said slowly, walking closer. "Your form is wrong. Your stance is a mess. You fight like a man who doesn't care if he dies."
Seishiro said nothing, eyes fixed on the ground.
"But," the instructor continued, "you read your opponent better than anyone else I've seen today. That instinct can't be taught. Don't waste it trying to die faster than your enemy."
A murmur rippled through the students. Even Renji's usual grin faltered.
"Yes, Instructor," Seishiro said quietly.
"Good." The old man sheathed his blade. "You two will stay after class. I'll be damned if I let potential like that rot in mediocrity."
As the class dispersed, Seishiro wiped his blade clean and slid it back into its sheath. His pulse still raced, the echoes of the clash vibrating through his arm.
Then — a whisper. Soft, delicate, brushing against the edge of his mind.
"You bleed well, little king."
His breath caught. His eyes flicked to the ring on his finger.
"Such recklessness suits you… but you fight as though you wish to be broken. Tell me, Seishiro—do you seek death, or power?"
He froze, staring at the faint shimmer of light reflecting off the ring.
Renji's voice snapped him out of it. "Hey—Kuchiki, you spacing out again?"
"…No. Just thinking," Seishiro replied quickly, forcing a faint smile.
Renji laughed, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "Man, you're weird. But that was one hell of a fight. We'll have to do that again sometime."
"Perhaps," Seishiro said softly.
But as they walked out, his gaze drifted once more to his hand. The ring pulsed faintly — a heartbeat not his own.
And deep inside him, something ancient stirred — amused, hungry, waiting.
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