Alright, guys! We're just 10 power stones away from reaching 100, and that means an early release of a bonus chapter! But wait... there's more! If we can hit 500 power stones by the end of the week, you'll be rewarded with 5 bonus chapters!
So, what are you waiting for? Drop those power stones now, or else… I can't guarantee what might happen to you! (Elenea slowly tightens her grip around the reader's necks who refuse to drop their power stones.jpg 😈🔥)
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From that day forward, the students of the Genji School noticed a new figure haunting their training halls, a lanky youth shackled in chains, looking frail enough to drop dead a second time at any moment.
Their assessment wasn't far off.
Makoto genuinely felt like he was teetering on the edge of death.
To be precise, it was as if he'd just donated a liter of blood at the hospital, powered through twenty sets of Saitama-style training on the spot, then stayed awake for three days and nights straight, hunched over a screen grinding out materials like some veteran gaming addict.
Not only was sleep forbidden, but he had to keep pushing, lifting weights, running laps, and enduring hellish drills, all in that state.
Every minute, every second, Makoto viscerally grasped the weight of willpower, pondering deeply whether collapsing and dying right there might be the sweeter release.
Thwack!
"Ow!"
A feeble fist, mustering all its might, struck the towering, wall-like slab of stone, only to produce a faint, airy thud.
The yelp that followed rang out far louder.
Makoto's palm felt like it had slammed into a pillar of solid flame. The instant it met the Sekkiseki, searing pain forced him to yank it back.
That ripping agony made him wonder, if he lingered even a heartbeat longer, would his hand melt away as it seemed to threaten?
As for the Sekkiseki's surface? Forget shattering it, there wasn't even a hairline crack.
With his own flimsy resolve, he doubted he'd have lasted a single day before throwing in the towel.
But…
"Ninety-five!"
"Makoto-kun, five more punches!"
"Stop now, and I'll start the count over."
Chōjirō Sasakibe stood behind him, munching on a slender bamboo stick, his face an unyielding mask as he supervised with icy precision.
A closer look revealed faint golden currents crackling along the stick's surface, snapping with intermittent pops.
Slack off for a moment, and that electrified rod would descend without mercy.
One pause, one strike.
His teaching method was ruthlessly meticulous.
"Guh…"
Under such relentless oversight, Makoto hadn't the strength to protest. Only incoherent whimpers escaped him as he clung to instinct, dragging his body upright, rallying what scraps of reiatsu remained to pound the Sekkiseki again and again.
At long last, when Chōjirō's voice rang out with a heavenly "Done," Makoto collapsed like a dead fish slapped onto a cutting board.
He stared at the sky, gulping air in ragged heaves.
Seeing him survive the day's ordeal, Chōjirō quietly exhaled in relief.
Stepping forward, he unshackled the Sekkiseki cuffs from Makoto's wrists and ankles.
In an instant, Makoto felt as if he'd ascended from hell to paradise.
The reishi that had been scattering like embers in a blaze finally steadied.
But in its wake came a bone-deep exhaustion cloaking his entire frame.
He flopped onto the ground, rolling over to lie flat with extreme fatigue.
Lying there, trembling with exhaustion-induced delirium, Makoto began to suspect that old crook might be tormenting him on purpose.
"Sasakibe-kun."
He ventured, "Did you go through training like this too?"
"Yes."
Chōjirō's tone remained as cool as ever. "Though when I undertook it, my base reiatsu had already reached a level fit for Bankai training."
"As for you…"
He paused mid-sentence, hesitating. "I suppose Genryūsai-sama has his reasons."
"Someone as gifted as you, Makoto-kun, is a far cry from useless mediocrities like us."
Makoto blinked, surprised. "You call yourself mediocre, Sasakibe-kun?"
"I've heard what they say around the school."
"You mastered your Bankai in just a month, didn't you? A renowned genius by any measure," Makoto remarked.
Chōjirō Sasakibe shook his head calmly. "Whether it took a month, two months, or a year, it's merely achieving Bankai."
"In the long life of a Shinigami, such a span…"
"…means little."
"If I had the choice, I'd rather spend decades honing my Bankai, striving to reach the heights of Genryūsai-sama."
"But alas…"
A wistful shadow crossed his features.
Makoto blinked, surprised. "That old m-er, Yamamoto-sensei's level, can't it be reached through training?"
"I don't know."
Chōjirō shook his head again.
He settled beside Makoto, extending a finger.
At its tip, a chaotic orb of reishi shimmered into being, faint glimmers swirling within.
"If most Shinigami's reishi is like this sphere, bloated and disordered…"
His words trailed off as the sprawling mass at his fingertip contracted sharply into a pinpoint the size of a fingernail. The reishi aligned with meticulous precision, gaps vanishing, radiating a fierce, brilliant light.
"…then the instructors' reishi is like this."
"Dense, structured, brimming with power."
"It's akin to water vapor under immense pressure, condensing into liquid, even solid."
"If those instructors wished, they could swell their Asauchi to the height of a building, a result of letting reishi run wild."
"This disparity in reiatsu density is what we call spiritual might, Reiryoku."
With a flick, he dispersed the reishi. "To reach my middling level, a Tier-3 Reiatsu suffices."
"For the instructors, it's at least Tier-2."
"And Genryūsai-sama…"
Chōjirō's voice dipped unconsciously into reverence and yearning. "He's Tier-1 because reiatsu can only be compressed to that degree."
"That's the gap of limits."
"From what I've seen, barring those freakish prodigies, willpower and the unity of self dictate the ceiling of one's reiatsu."
"Only by casting aside everything you possess, every talent you pride yourself on, and manifesting something from 'nothing' can you claim what's truly yours."
He clapped Makoto's shoulder, firm yet earnest. "That, I suspect, is why Genryūsai-sama has you start this training now."
"He must see great potential in you, Makoto-kun."
Makoto froze at his words.
"Willpower."
The word echoed in his mind.
It felt absurd.
Sure, Zaraki District had forged him through relentless trials, but with the flimsy resolve of his past life, struggling just to roll out of bed for work, could he really compete with Shinigami who'd clawed their way to the top through countless life-or-death battles?
Makoto deemed it improbable.
Was his system not brazen enough?
Chōjirō, however, said no more.
After overseeing the day's training, he left without another word.
Makoto lay sprawled on the ground for a while, resting until he felt recovered enough to leave.
But as he eyed the towering Sekkiseki before him.
He halted mid-step.
Whether it was the memory of Zaraki, where his system's crude taunts boxed him in, or the instant Yamamoto's killing intent had triggered his reflexive slash,
Chōjirō's words resurfaced.
Only by casting aside everything you possess, every talent you pride yourself on, and manifesting something from 'nothing' can you claim what's truly yours.
He stood rooted, lingering.
At last, with a wry, toothy grimace, he retrieved the Sekkiseki cuffs from the ground and clamped them onto his wrists and ankles.
"…What a masochist."
"Just a bit more, until I can't take it."
…
[Bond Event: Beneath the Sekkiseki]
[Your bond level with Chōjirō Sasakibe has increased ↑]
[Reward: Reiatsu Rank +1]
[Acquired Bond Trait: Wall of Sighs]
[Reiatsu: Tier-6 Lower → Tier-6 Mid]
[Bond Trait · Wall of Sighs: Your willpower will remain fixed at its strongest moment, unyielding until death.]
[Note: The one who forges your strongest self will always be the you who persists to the next breath.]
***
Bonus Chapter:
100 Power Stones = 1 BC
300 Power Stones = 2 BC
500 Power Stones = 3 BC
700 Power Stones = 4 BC
1000 Power Stones = 5 BC