5th Division, Kidō Recovery Chamber.
The polished floor gleamed like glass, reflecting the young man sitting cross-legged at its center.
Soma held a sheet of calligraphy in both hands, staring at the brushstrokes as if they were a painting before closing his eyes.
He had written it himself.
Before each session in the Recovery Chamber, he followed the same ritual: no hesitation, no second thoughts—just write the first word that came to him. Then, pour everything into imagining that word made real.
The resolve had to be absolute.
Ganju Shiba had once told him: imagination is the key to Kidō.
From that, Soma had drawn his conclusion.
Kidō is the act of using one's will to command Reishi and Soul, manifesting phenomena so strange they seem like ghost stories come alive.
So where should his training focus? The answer was obvious.
His training embraced everything:
Writing instinctively, then staring at the words to awaken something deeper, to resonate with it.
Imagining the written thing until it became clear, training his mind as well as his will.
Holding that image for as long as possible, sharpening focus but, more importantly, mastering himself. The better he knew himself, the easier it became to command his own Soul.
Even the strain of it, the mental fatigue, was a test of pure will.
The only missing piece was direct manipulation of Reishi.
And yet, the Recovery Chamber filled even that gap. The air here seeped into the body like an invisible current, easing the toll on mind and spirit, restoring strength so training could last for hours. It was like the precursor to casting Kidō itself—the Reiatsu at his surface stirred, eager to obey, itching to give form to his imagination.
All it lacked was an incantation and a catalyst.
He could already see it: once his body adapted to this rhythm, once he remembered the feel of it, his Kidō would flow effortlessly. Like he'd been doing it all his life.
Aizen hadn't exaggerated. This really could turn anyone into something greater.
The Recovery Chamber's methods were even distilled into a simplified version in the academy's sixth-year texts, treasured by Nanao Ise as a timeless principle of Kidō. Of course, without this room, the practice was self-destructive. Even most 5th Division members relied on a safer, stripped-down version.
…
The sky above was white and heavy, the color of churned concrete. Soma blinked, lowering his gaze to the cracked earth below.
Fungi.
Mushrooms, to be precise—sprouting everywhere, from umbrella-sized caps to forests of stalks. Not grass, not trees. Only mushrooms as far as the eye could see.
The sight was wrong. Like a painting that shouldn't exist, blank sky and endless mushrooms, monotony with a faint thread of horror running through it.
And silent. Utterly, suffocatingly silent. No wind. No insects. As if every drop of life had been drained by the fungi—and yet they, too, felt lifeless.
Then Soma remembered.
He was training. And somehow, he had slipped into this place.
His inner world.
"You don't look very happy… Can't blame you. The scenery isn't exactly welcoming."
The voice was clear, bright, and sharp—hard to tell if it belonged to a man or woman. It reminded him of an eagle's cry cutting across the sky.
And it came from above.
Soma tilted his head back. Through the thick white haze, a figure drifted downward.
Long hair streamed behind them, a white patterned cloak billowed around their body. A colossal mushroom cap crowned their head—was it a hat, or something that had grown there?
Blue light pulsed inside the cap and beneath the cloak. Black hair streaked with cobalt fell over shoulders, a sapphire-like gem glowed at the chest.
Her eyes were an unnatural, radiant blue.
She had the features of a woman, beautiful in an eerie way, legs wrapped in black boots against pale skin. Across her calves, faint blue markings flickered to life.
The strange, impossible woman hovered in the air with a proud smile, looking down on him as though this world was hers to command.
No—more than that. She carried herself like a god.
"I never said I liked it, but I don't hate it either," Soma said evenly. "Doesn't matter what my inner world looks like. Given my situation, weird feels about right."
Her smile sharpened. "But I hate it. Being stuck here, in a world like this. Wanting to leave, but never able to."
"You want out that badly?"
"Of course. Who wouldn't?"
"I've heard some Zanpakutō spirits see their wielder as a cage. Are you one of those?"
"What do you think?"
"You're not."
"…I'm not?"
"No."
Soma's firm answer lit her up. She twirled gracefully in the air before drifting down like falling petals, stopping less than a meter away.
Their eyes locked. The mushrooms, the cracked ground, even the sky—all of it faded into irrelevance.
"A Zanpakutō is its wielder's power," she said softly. "Only fools let themselves be devoured by desire. No true wielder is ever abandoned by their blade. I used to waver on that point. But you've given me the answer."
Soma scowled. "You make it sound like I was one of those fools."
"Weren't you?"
"No."
She laughed, bright and mocking. "True enough. Desire doesn't suit you. What you carry isn't so small. You stand in a place higher than gods, with the calm to match."
"And what's wrong with calm?"
"Nothing. And if there was, with me here, it won't matter."
She leaned in until their foreheads touched, her cap casting him in its shadow, her presence pressing close enough that their edges blurred.
"Because to use me, you'll need that calm. When you call for me, keep it quiet. Whisper to yourself like you're speaking to another you. Then I'll become you, and you'll become me. And together, we'll wipe away every last thing that dares to trouble you. Not one will remain."
The world blurred.
And Soma was back.
The Recovery Chamber looked exactly as it had. But her bright, ruthless voice still echoed in his mind.
"…."
His eyes dropped to the Asauchi at his hip.
It wasn't the same as before. The hilt was blue now, the guard shaped like a mushroom cap, echoing hers.
Slowly, he drew it. The blade flashed silver, sharp and new. His lips parted, an urge building in his throat, a release begging to be spoken.
But he held it back.
Here, in this room, a release command might not just destroy the chamber but everything around it. He knew that much instinctively.
"Soma-kun, finished with training? Dinner's ready."
He turned. A girl in a clean white uniform stood at the door, a lieutenant's badge on her shoulder.
Momo Hinamori.
Because of how often he and Ichigo had been using the Recovery Chamber—sometimes even directly under Aizen's guidance—it was inevitable that they'd cross paths with her. And over time, she'd grown warmer toward them. Her smiles no longer felt polite but genuine, and she'd even started dropping by at mealtimes just to fetch them.
"Don't push yourself too hard," she said, cheerful as always. "Captain Aizen's methods can really wear you down. But with your grit, Soma-kun, give it a few years and you'll definitely catch up to me."
It was hard to tell if she meant to encourage him or brag a little. Either way, it came across as earnest, the kind of playful pride only a girl her age could get away with.
Soma gave a small shrug, lifting his Zanpakutō. "Hard work's nothing new. Guess Sensei was right, though. Calligraphy really does sharpen Kidō and even Tōzen. Didn't think I'd see results this fast."
Momo blinked, startled. Her memory was sharp, and she remembered clearly—his Zanpakutō hadn't looked like that before.
Her eyes widened. "Soma-kun… you've already achieved Shikai?"
"Yeah. Sooner than I expected. Thought I'd need a few more months."
"…."
Even that would've been absurdly fast. How many first-years in the history of the academy had managed Shikai?
At this pace—considering his Spirit Class—there was no question. He'd reach the ultimate technique of Zanpakutō combat before graduation.
Bankai.
"I get it now," Momo thought, a pang twisting in her chest as she watched him. "That's why Captain Aizen takes such an interest in him… a genius like this can't be left alone."
She smiled, but beneath it lay something complicated—envy, awe, and just a touch of despair.