Bleach: The Fifth Division Captain

"White fighting techniques are numerous, but the Yamamoto-style—the Genryū—follows a path distinct from the Four Great Noble Houses, especially the Shihōin Clan's methods."

Following closely behind Yamamoto, Seiya Arima imitated his mentor by scrubbing his body with a dry cloth. Every stroke of friction brought a grimace of pain to Seiya's face.

"Eh? Is that so?"

Without turning back, Yamamoto gave a simple grunt of affirmation and spoke in a deep, steady tone.

"Don't slow down. Do it like I do. Speed up. Let the heat of friction spread across your entire body! Dry cloth scrubbing is a test of willpower. It must not be half-hearted."

Yikes. This is practically torture.

Seiya gritted his teeth. Yamamoto's body, covered in scars, handled the rough treatment like a stone enduring the wind. Every scrape sounded like dead skin being peeled off, and Seiya couldn't help but wince at the idea of how raw his own skin was becoming.

"Mountain Lord," Seiya muttered under his breath, "if I keep doing this, my skin is going to break…"

"Add honorifics when addressing me! Don't start imitating Shunsui's insolence!" Yamamoto snapped.

Under the dim morning light in the courtyard of the First Division, Seiya continued enduring his unique training routine under Yamamoto's supervision.

Not far away, Chojiro Sasakibe observed the scene with a faint smile. A steaming cup of tea rested in his hand.

"Seiya-kun, you seem especially spirited today," Chojiro remarked.

Seiya forced a smile.

"Well… it's starting to grow on me, I guess."

As they continued their regimen, Seiya suddenly recalled Yamamoto's earlier statement about the difference between his techniques and the Shihōin Clan's.

"Genryūsai-sama, you mentioned that your style of white fighting is different from the Four Great Noble Houses' techniques… Could you elaborate?"

Yamamoto paused for a moment, his broad frame towering over the courtyard. His stern expression softened slightly as he reminisced.

"Indeed. The Shihōin's martial techniques were born from necessity. They're primarily assassination arts passed down through the generations. Their style revolves around efficiency—quick, silent kills. The core of their craft lies in subtlety."

Yamamoto squared his shoulders, his long white beard flowing gently in the breeze as he began his training kata anew, punching forward with precise, deliberate movements.

"By contrast, the Genryū focuses more on cultivating the self. It is a method of refining one's spirit and body in tandem. I have long since abandoned flashy displays of technique. Instead, I rely on the simplest of moves—executed with absolute perfection."

Seiya couldn't help but snort softly.

"Cultivating the self?"

Sure, it sounded noble, but the sheer destructive power behind Yamamoto's punches was anything but subtle. The "One Bone" and "Two Bones" techniques could shatter boulders and reduce enemies to dust.

"Genryūsai-sama," Seiya said tentatively, "how do I achieve that kind of mastery? How do I reach your level?"

Yamamoto chuckled—a rare, deep sound that seemed to rumble from the very ground beneath them.

"Simple."

Seiya's eyes lit up with anticipation.

"Crush countless bodies beneath your fists."

"...Huh?"

"Once you've shattered enough bones, torn through enough flesh, and seen the inside of every organ imaginable, it will all become second nature to you."

He delivered his words as though they were the most natural truth in the world.

Yamamoto raised a calloused fist, his knuckles cracking like thunder as he slowly demonstrated a punch.

"Every punch, every strike—should carry with it the knowledge of how flesh yields to force. Once your body knows it as instinct, your punches will land as if guided by fate."

Seiya felt his scalp tingle.

It wasn't training that had brought Yamamoto to this level—it was centuries of war. The man's strength wasn't polished in a dojo but forged on countless battlefields.

"So, it really just comes down to experience…"

Seiya returned to his exercises, but his mind lingered on his own struggles.

His training progress had plateaued.

Ever since his various physical attributes had reached 60, they had stagnated. No amount of sparring or practice seemed to push them higher.

Initially, Seiya hadn't thought much of it.

But now?

It was starting to annoy him.

Even after weeks of Yamamoto's grueling regimen, his White Fighting (拳) attribute refused to budge beyond 60.

There's got to be something I'm missing.

With a sudden burst of resolve, Seiya decided to address the issue head-on.

"Genryūsai-sama, may I ask something unrelated to the training regimen?"

Without breaking his form, Yamamoto nodded.

"Speak."

"I feel like I've hit a wall," Seiya admitted. "No matter how hard I train, it's like I've reached a limit. I can't seem to improve anymore."

Yamamoto stilled his movements, turning to face Seiya with a piercing gaze.

For a moment, the old man simply studied the boy, his expression inscrutable.

Then, slowly, Yamamoto's lips curled into a faint smile.

"Ah… so you've reached the end of your current path."

"...What?"

"You've walked the road as far as you can," Yamamoto said softly, his voice carrying a note of finality. "Now, it is time for you to carve a new one."

Seiya blinked in confusion.

"I don't understand…"

Yamamoto stepped closer, his silhouette framed by the rising sun. His myriad battle scars caught the morning light, casting shadows across his weathered frame.

"Listen well, Seiya Arima."

"Yes, sir?"

"You have reached the pinnacle of learning."

The statement left Seiya stunned.

"You've mastered all that can be taught to you," Yamamoto continued. "You must now stop walking in the footsteps of others."

"What you require is no longer instruction."

Yamamoto's gaze bore into Seiya's very soul.

"You need to do what I—and every great warrior before me—have done."

"Forge your own style. Create your own path."

Seiya felt a chill run down his spine.

"Forge… my own?"

"Yes."

Yamamoto turned back toward the horizon, his voice growing softer.

"Learn from the past, but do not be bound by it. Take what you've gained and evolve it. Only then will you truly surpass your limits."

Seiya stood rooted in place, his mind racing.

Create his own fighting style?

Was that the key to breaking the 60-point barrier?

In that moment, Seiya's path forward became clear.

He didn't need to follow someone else's teachings anymore.

It was time to create his own legend.

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Powerstones?

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