Early in the morning, Kazuma took the Asauchi Batsu'unsai had given him and headed to Captain-Commander Yamamoto's quarters.
'Training starts today. I'm looking forward to it. I wonder how he'll teach me,' Kazuma thought.
"You're early. Batsu'unsai should have explained the definitions of Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Hohō, and Kidō to you last night. Today, we begin with Zanjutsu."
"Kazuma, what do you think Zanjutsu is?" Yamamoto asked, his gaze piercing.
"A technique? Like a set of forms or a pattern of slashes?"
"Hmph! Naive brat. Zanjutsu requires no fancy forms. True Zanjutsu is simply cutting what must be cut. That is all. Rigid patterns only dull the speed of your blade. What a useless hindrance."
"Huh?! I thought swordplay was all about forms!"
"We start with the fundamentals: swinging the sword. Watch."
Yamamoto stared straight ahead and drew his Zanpakutō. Kazuma saw a flash of steel. Before he could blink, the blade struck his chest.
'No way, is the Captain-Commander going to kill me because I'm an idiot?' Kazuma clamped his eyes shut.
'Huh, why doesn't it hurt? I must be dead already. I can't feel a thing.'
"Open your eyes, brat!" Yamamoto's roar shattered the silence.
Kazuma jolted.
He opened his eyes and found himself unharmed.
Staring at the Zanpakutō resting flush against his skin, his heart hammered.
'What a terrifying strike. I couldn't react. The blade is pressed against my chest, yet it didn't draw a drop of blood. What monstrous control and speed.'
"Are you an idiot?" Yamamoto snapped, his face flushed with anger.
'Oh no. He's furious.' Kazuma panicked. "Captain-Commander, let me explain! I thought you were going to execute me, and I was prepared to die a heroic death. I closed my eyes to accept it with dignity!"
Noting Kazuma's shameless expression, Yamamoto paused. "Brat, I must admit, you have thick skin. I wonder if my blade can cut through it."
"Please don't! I can't survive a slash from you!"
"Enough. What did you glean from that strike?" Yamamoto sheathed his sword, his gaze stern.
"Absolute control over speed and power," Kazuma answered without hesitation.
When it was time to be serious, he didn't mess around.
"Not bad. You act like a fool, but your mind is sharp. A strike is about dictating momentum and force. Only by aligning speed and power can you achieve the ultimate cut. Now, mimic my posture and swing."
Kazuma took a deep breath, drew his Asauchi, and imitated the old man's stance.
However, his form was stiff. The blade wavered, lacking Yamamoto's deadly precision.
"Too slow. No power. Again!" Yamamoto barked.
Kazuma swung again. The result barely improved.
"Focus. Feel the weight and balance of the steel. The sword must become an extension of your arm." Yamamoto stepped forward, adjusting Kazuma's grip and footing. "Today's goal: one thousand swings in this exact form."
"Noooooooooo, Captain-Commander! That'll kill me!" Kazuma wailed.
"Silence! Begin. Count them aloud. For every swing you fall short, you run ten laps around the First Division barracks. If you fail to finish, I will 'educate' you."
One swing. Two swings. Three swings...
As the count rose, Kazuma slipped into a state of deep focus.
He wasn't like a shōnen protagonist screaming for power, instead, he sank into a tranquil trance.
In this headspace, only he and the sword existed.
Every slash carried a sharper edge, a heavier intent.
Kazuma forgot his surroundings.
His mind held nothing but the blade and the arc of its swing. With each repetition, a strange connection blossomed between his flesh and the steel—a resonance that sparked a thrill in his chest.
He knew this was the sensation Yamamoto wanted him to grasp. The key to unlocking his power.
Kazuma passed a hundred swings without realizing it. Each cut fell faster, fiercer, and heavier than the last.
Sweat soaked his clothes, but he remained unaware, anchored in that profound rhythm.
"Hah!" As Kazuma swung again, his mind brushed against something intangible.
An indescribable sensation, like a thin paper screen he could pierce with a single thrust.
But when he reached for it, the sensation vanished. An illusion dissolving in mist.
'What was that?' Kazuma frowned.
He didn't know what he had touched, nor how to reclaim it.
Yet, he refused to let frustration set in. This was a bottleneck in his Zanjutsu. If he shattered it, his swordsmanship would evolve.
Kazuma resumed his swings, chasing the phantom feeling. Yet, no matter how hard he pushed, the connection eluded him.
Disappointment crept in. 'Was it just my imagination?'
An old anime trope popped into Kazuma's head. To become a true master, a swordsman had to achieve kenzen ichinyo—the unity of man and blade.
The weapon must cease to be a tool and become an extension of the soul, moving as freely as a limb.
His mind cleared.
That fleeting sensation wasn't an illusion. He had brushed against the threshold of blade unity.
A fraction of a second, but enough to prove the realm existed. He was close.
Watching from the sidelines, Yamamoto's eyes widened.
'This kid not only possesses exceptional Spiritual Pressure, but he houses a terrifying talent for Zanjutsu. To graze the true essence of the blade so quickly... Batsu'unsai found an incredible gem.'
Snapping out of his trance, a wave of exhaustion crushed Kazuma.
His muscles screamed. His strength vanished. His arms gave out, and he collapsed into the dirt.
'Hmm? He stopped. Is his stamina that pitiful? I will have to forge this brat's physique alongside his Zanjutsu,' Yamamoto noted.
A cruel realization crossed the Captain-Commander's mind.
"Brat. You fell short of one thousand swings. I said for every missed swing, you run ten laps around the barracks. On your feet. Start running."
A bizarre spectacle soon unfolded outside the First Division.
Confused Shinigami watched as an unknown recruit sprinted around the compound like a headless chicken, an Asauchi clutched in his hands.
"So scary! So scary!" Kazuma screamed.
Hot on his heels, bearing a terrifying scowl, was the Captain-Commander Yamamoto chasing him with a drawn blade!