Kurotsuki didn't know how long he'd been meditating when a rough shake on his shoulder dragged him back. His eyes snapped open in annoyance—then widened.
The training grounds looked like a battlefield. Stone walls split down the middle, debris littered the floor, and people huddled in corners whispering as if a monster had just passed through.
Standing before him, Rukia let out a long, exasperated sigh.
"—Finally. You're awake."
Kurotsuki blinked, still half-asleep, then pointed at himself like the picture of innocence.
"…Wait. Did I do this?"
Rukia nearly fell over. The brat looked so damn sincere she couldn't tell if he was mocking her or just genuinely clueless.
Tch. This kid… he acts so carefree it's infuriating. But that power… how could a boy this young unleash such reiatsu? Could he actually rival that prodigy Hitsugaya Tōshirō?
Grinding her teeth, Rukia snapped, "Kurotsuki! Take this seriously! If you lost control like this outside Seireitei, people would be dead. Do you understand?"
The boy gave her an awkward smile, scratching his head.
"Okay, Rukia-san. I'll be more careful."
She wasn't convinced—but before she could press him further, a warm voice broke through.
"Ooooh… amazing!"
Rukia spun around and immediately stiffened.
"C-Captain!"
But Ukitake only chuckled, waving her formality away.
"Ahahaha, no need for that, Rukia. I just couldn't ignore the pulse of reiatsu I felt from here." His calm eyes settled on the boy. "And as I thought—it came from you."
Kurotsuki puffed up proudly.
"Aha! That's why I started training. I want to keep my reiatsu under control so I don't bother anyone."
"You only woke up yesterday, and you're already working this hard?" Jūshirō smiled, clearly amused.
Kurotsuki smirked.
"Captain, I can't stay a kid forever. How about you help me train?"
For a moment, Ukitake studied him in silence. Then he nodded.
"You're still very young… but the sooner you learn control, the better. Listen closely. When you meditate again, don't just sense your reiatsu. Once you reach that state of freedom—seize it. Bind it. Reiatsu belongs to you, so command it. If you let it leak out aimlessly like before, someone will get hurt. Understand?"
Kurotsuki's eyes lit up.
"Ohhh! I get it now! Hahaha!"
Before Rukia or Jūshirō could stop him, the boy shut his eyes and dropped back into meditation.
"Wait—he can't have grasped that already, right?" Rukia whispered.
But then it came.
A storm of crimson reiatsu erupted from Kurotsuki's body, thick and suffocating. Goosebumps rippled across their skin, the air itself trembling. Yet unlike before, the storm didn't spiral outward. It folded inward, compressed, condensing until it wrapped around him like a living shroud—contained within just five meters.
"Incredible…" Ukitake murmured. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed shock. "I gave him only a few hints, and he understood instantly. To condense his pressure from tens of meters to five… astonishing."
Rukia trembled, pale as her knuckles whitened.
This feels like a captain releasing their full reiatsu… but he's seven years old. His potential is terrifying. And yet… his reiatsu feels wrong. Like death itself pressing a blade to my throat. If he hadn't learned control just now, people nearby could have lost their minds. What kind of Zanpakutō will he manifest?
Five grueling minutes passed. Sweat rolled down Kurotsuki's back as he forced his power into submission. His breaths came ragged, as if pushing two magnets of the same polarity together.
Then—
BAM!
The ground cracked beneath him as he collapsed, crushed by the weight of his own reiatsu before it faded away.
Ukitake rushed forward, relief softening his face when he saw no harm done.
Kurotsuki lay panting, but managed a weak grin.
"I think… it worked… phew…"
Ukitake smiled warmly.
"More than enough. Rest now."
Weeks turned to months. Outwardly, nothing changed—Kurotsuki was still confined to the 13th Division barracks by Ukitake's orders. The reason was simple: until he mastered his reiatsu, he couldn't leave. And Kurotsuki? He didn't complain. This was exactly what he wanted.
He became a machine—his life carved into a cycle as precise as clockwork.
5 a.m. — Rise. Stretch for an hour. Run laps until his lungs burned.
7 a.m. — Breakfast, short rest.
9 a.m. — Zanjutsu.
At first, the squad members balked. Sparring with a child barely big enough to hold a blade? Absurd. But Kurotsuki cornered Ukitake with logic. Better to train under supervision than experiment recklessly.
"As a former assassin, Kurotsuki knew—nothing teaches faster than a real fight. Except, maybe, surviving one."
The captain sighed, gave in, and the surprises began.
For two hours a day, Kurotsuki sparred. What no one knew—what no one could know—was that in another life, he had been a killer. His hands remembered. Every slash, every parry, every step carried precision far beyond his age. Blades that should have felt heavy moved like extensions of his body. Squad members whispered, unsettled, yet impressed.
11 a.m. — Shower. Lunch.
12 p.m. to 5 p.m. — Reiatsu control.
This was hell. Meditation, breathing, forcing that wild crimson storm to stay coiled instead of spilling out. Some days he succeeded, his aura wrapping tight like chains. Other days, the grounds trembled as his power surged free.
5 p.m. to 7 p.m. — Mischief.
Kurotsuki pranked squad members—sandals switched, doors rigged, sudden appearances with a devilish grin. Sometimes he hounded Rukia for Soul Society stories until she cracked, eventually wearing her down enough to teach him Kido basics.
7 p.m. to 10 p.m. — Lessons with Ukitake.
History, tactics, philosophy—no subject was safe from the boy's endless questions. Night after night, the captain found himself smiling at that insatiable hunger for knowledge.
"Kurotsuki poured every drop of himself into learning and growing fast—that was the true instinct of an assassin."
10 p.m. to midnight — The library.
Candles burned low as he devoured books on laws, clans, battles, mysteries. Only when exhaustion dragged him down did he finally allow himself five hours of sleep… before the cycle repeated.
Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.
To outsiders, the 13th Division barracks seemed quiet. But inside, a storm was gathering—sharpening itself, molding itself.
A child carving the path of a legend.