Bleach: In Soul Society, I just want to retire

Both Yamamoto and Shihōin Chihiro stood silent, their faces betraying a rare hint of shock. Yamabuki Ditang's display of raw talent had stunned even these seasoned warriors. In one attempt, Yamabuki had successfully performed Hado No. 88, a high-level ghost technique, without chanting and with impressive precision.

Shihōin Chihiro furrowed his brow, a tinge of disbelief flickering across his face. Even I can't release something at that level so effortlessly, he thought. Of course, he was primarily skilled in Hakuda, rarely utilizing Kidō or even his Zanpakutō, but Yamabuki's talent still left an impression.

As for Quebo Chōjirō, he was practically frozen in place. His wide-eyed stare reflected equal parts awe and fear. Was this the power of the Gotei 13? Was this what it meant to be a Shinigami? For the first time, the boy felt the immense gap between himself and these giants.

"Well, it's not bad," Yamamoto muttered, his tone carefully neutral. His expression, however, betrayed his true feelings. He was deeply impressed. This kid is improving too fast… I can't let him get too full of himself.

"Barely acceptable," Yamamoto added, waving his hand dismissively. "It's far from what I could do when I started out. You'll need to practice a lot more if you want to amount to anything."

Yamabuki let out a quiet sigh. His intent had been to inspire Quebo Chōjirō, but the old man had started the demonstration at such a ridiculously high level that the boy likely didn't even know where to begin. Well, guess it's time to shift gears.

"Captain Shihōin," Yamabuki said, turning to Chihiro with a grin. "Could you help me find a Zanpakutō for this kid? I want to start teaching him the basics of swordsmanship."

"That's easy enough," Chihiro replied with a smile.

In the early days of Soul Society, Zanpakutō were almost exclusively in the hands of nobles. Spiritual pressure was inherently stronger among the noble families, giving their descendants a natural advantage over commoners. Rare exceptions like Zaraki Kenpachi or Hitsugaya Tōshirō—geniuses who rose to prominence despite their humble origins—only came along once every thousand years.

Thanks to Shihōin Chihiro's connections, acquiring a Zanpakutō for Quebo Chōjirō was a simple matter. When the boy was handed the blade, his hands trembled as he gripped it tightly. His face lit up with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. This was the first time he had ever held a real sword.

"Alright, kid, listen up," Yamabuki said, gesturing for Chōjirō to follow him. "First things first, let me explain some basics about Zanpakutō. Every Shinigami's Zanpakutō is unique, and its power comes from the connection between you and your sword spirit. Eventually, you'll learn to unlock its Shikai, and if you're talented—or just really lucky—you might even achieve Bankai."

Chōjirō nodded, absorbing every word.

"Now," Yamabuki continued, "a Shinigami's combat style is built around three main techniques: swordsmanship, Kidō, and Shunpo. Most Shinigami master one or two of these areas and build their skills around them. There are only a handful of people in history who have mastered all three. Someone like Aizen…"

Yamabuki paused, shaking his head. "Never mind. That's not important right now."

After explaining the fundamentals, Yamabuki demonstrated the most basic sword swing. "This," he said, raising his Zanpakutō, "is where it all begins. I want you to practice this motion until it's second nature."

He handed the boy the practice sword. "Start with a thousand swings. No shortcuts. And if you slack off, you're skipping lunch!"

Chōjirō's face fell, but he obediently began swinging the sword as Yamabuki instructed. Meanwhile, Yamabuki strolled off to find some books on Kidō.

From a distance, Yamamoto observed Chōjirō's training. The boy's swings were awkward, his movements sloppy. Yamamoto's brow furrowed. This kid doesn't have much natural talent, he thought. Far inferior to Yamabuki. But…

When lunchtime came and went, Chōjirō was still swinging his sword. By now, he was drenched in sweat, his arms trembling under the strain. He could barely lift the blade, but he refused to stop.

Yamamoto's gaze softened. "Hmm… his perseverance is commendable," he muttered to himself. "Perhaps he isn't completely hopeless after all."

With a blur of motion, Yamamoto appeared beside Chōjirō. The boy nearly dropped his sword in surprise.

"C-Captain-General!" Chōjirō stammered, his voice trembling.

"Your technique is all wrong," Yamamoto said sternly, ignoring the boy's panic. "You're just swinging a piece of iron around. It's meaningless."

He placed a hand on Chōjirō's shoulder and gestured toward an empty spot on the training ground. "Look ahead. What do you see?"

Chōjirō blinked. "Nothing…?"

"There's a Hollow there," Yamamoto growled, his tone sharp and commanding. "It's the one that took your sister. Do you want to stand by helplessly again? Do you want to watch the people you love suffer because you're too weak to protect them?"

The boy's eyes widened. Yamamoto's words struck a nerve, stirring something deep within him.

"Focus your mind," Yamamoto barked. "Imagine that Hollow in front of you. Now, use everything you have—every ounce of strength, every drop of spiritual pressure—and cut it down!"

Chōjirō tightened his grip on the Zanpakutō. His fear and hesitation melted away, replaced by raw determination. With a shout, he swung the blade with all his might, pouring every bit of his energy into the motion.

Though there was no Hollow, the act of facing his imagined enemy caused a faint surge of spiritual pressure to erupt from within him. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Yamamoto to nod in approval.

"Good," Yamamoto said gruffly. "You've taken your first step."

Chōjirō stared at the blade in his hands, his chest heaving. A small smile formed on his face.

"Go eat," Yamamoto added, turning to leave. "After lunch, you'll do another thousand swings. And if you don't finish, no dinner."

"Yes, Captain-General!" Chōjirō replied, his voice brimming with newfound confidence.

From his perch on a nearby beam, Yamabuki had been watching the entire scene unfold. A grin spread across his face as he watched Yamamoto walk away.

"Not bad, old man," Yamabuki said to himself. "You're better at teaching than I thought. Maybe you should open a proper academy someday. Train a whole new generation of Shinigami."

Yamamoto paused, turning slightly to glance at Yamabuki. "An academy, huh?" he muttered. "It's not a bad idea… but we don't have the resources for something like that right now."

"Leave that to me," Yamabuki said, hopping down from the beam. "I've got a plan to solve our money problems."

Yamamoto raised an eyebrow. "You? Solve a money problem? You're always lazing around. What kind of nonsense are you planning?"

Yamabuki smirked. "Captain, I swear it's foolproof. Trust me—if there's one thing I know how to do, it's how to 'convince' nobles to part with their money."

Yamamoto crossed his arms, skeptical but intrigued. "Alright, kid. Let's hear it. What's your plan?"

Yamabuki leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Captain, it's simple. We're going to use a little routine…"

"Routine?" Yamamoto repeated, frowning.

"Just listen," Yamabuki said with a grin, motioning for the old man to come closer. "Here's how we'll do it…"

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