Yuhua Town, inside the unfinished building.
"Whew"
Little Ginjo Kūgo stood trembling, both hands gripping a Zanpakutō nearly as tall as himself. Sweat streamed down his forehead in heavy drops, soaking his collar as his small chest heaved violently.
"Not bad," Ito Makoto said calmly, offering no exaggerated praise. "I didn't expect that in only five days, you'd be able to last more than thirty breaths."
That assessment was sincere. When they had first begun, Ginjo had barely dared to draw his blade. Now, after less than a week of relentless pursuit training, he could endure over thirty exchanges under pressure.
At seven years old.
As expected of the future first Substitute Shinigami his talent bordered on monstrous.
"If he had been born in Soul Society," Ito Makoto thought quietly, watching the boy lean on his sword to stay upright, "he would absolutely possess Captain-level potential."
Ten minutes later, once Ginjo's breathing had steadied, Ito Makoto gave a faint chuckle.
"You've passed the first phase of special training. Next comes the second."
Without hesitation, he drew his Zanpakutō. The blade flashed coldly under the light of the hovering Shakkahō still illuminating the corridor.
Ginjo's heart skipped.
"Se… second?" he asked weakly, eyes fixed on the naked blade. He swallowed. "I don't think that's necessary, Makoto-Nii…"
Ito Makoto snorted.
"Not necessary? I hope you say that to a Hollow while it's chasing you."
Bang!
He stepped forward and struck with the back of his blade.
Even though he had deliberately held back, the force was overwhelming for a child. Ginjo was launched backward, slamming into the unfinished concrete wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. A metallic sweetness flooded his throat.
Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
Only then did Ginjo realize Makoto-Nii was not joking.
"Cough… that hurts…"
"Ahhh!"
He crouched on the ground, coughing foam tinged with red, tears spilling freely. He could not understand why the gentle brother who bought him burgers was now so merciless.
Ito Makoto watched in silence.
Years of slaughter and devouring in Hueco Mundo had long since tempered his heart into something cold and immovable. Sentiment had its place but survival came first.
He smiled faintly, not warmly.
"Get up. Pick up your sword and fight me. Next time, I won't use the back of the blade."
Before Ginjo could protest, Ito Makoto swung again this time with the edge angled low.
The blade's light flashed toward the boy's ankle.
Instinct saved him. Ginjo jerked his foot back at the last possible instant.
He did not wipe his tears. He did not scream again.
Instead, he yanked up the oversized Asauchi and blocked desperately.
Clang!
The shock ran through his arms like lightning. He was thrown backward again, rolling across the concrete floor.
Yet this time, Ito Makoto did not scold him.
A nearly imperceptible smile curved at his lips.
If he truly fought seriously even at Vice-Captain level restraint the boy would not survive a single strike. Every clash so far had been carefully calculated.
Ginjo staggered upright once more.
"Hold your sword tighter," Ito Makoto instructed sharply. "Watch carefully how I draw."
He demonstrated as he attacked, movements precise and economical. Each swing carried both instruction and pressure.
Ginjo's face was streaked with tears, but his grip did not loosen. The sword trembled in his small hands, yet he forced himself to meet each incoming strike.
Ito Makoto gradually increased the tempo.
Faster.
Heavier.
Sharper.
For a seven-year-old, this was brutal beyond reason.
But Ito Makoto had no choice.
When he eventually returned to Soul Society, Ginjo would remain here alone. Without strength, he would become prey nothing more than nourishment for the next wandering Hollow.
Clang!
Ginjo barely intercepted a measured strike.
Through tear-blurred vision, he grinned.
"Makoto-Nii… I blocked it!"
Ito Makoto's lips lifted faintly.
"Good."
The next instant, he shifted his blade horizontally and released a measured burst of sword pressure. Ginjo was blown backward yet again, skidding across the floor.
"Worthy of praise," Ito Makoto added evenly.
Only after the boy had completely exhausted himself did Ito Makoto end the session. He guided Ginjo's soul back into his body, returned to his Gigai, and dispersed the hovering Shakkahō.
Together, they left the unfinished building.
As usual, Ito Makoto took Ginjo to Okamoto's for his favorite beef burger. The boy devoured it with renewed appetite after training.
Later, they wandered through the lively evening streets.
"Hey, kid," Ito Makoto called, noticing Ginjo lagging behind yet again. "You have school first thing tomorrow morning."
No response.
He turned.
Ginjo stood frozen before a jewelry store window, staring intently at something inside the glass display.
Following his gaze, Ito Makoto saw it
An exquisite silver cross pendant resting against dark velvet.
The moment he saw it, memory stirred.
In the distant future, that cross would become the medium for Ginjo's Fullbring his Substitute Shinigami badge manifesting power through attachment and resonance.
He looked at the longing in the boy's eyes and sighed.
"I really can't handle you. Why do I feel like I'm raising a son?"
Without further comment, he walked into the store.
"Miss," he addressed the young shop assistant dressed in black work attire and stockings, "how much for the cross in the display?"
Her professional smile brightened.
"Sir, excellent taste. That piece is unique our last one. Since you truly want it, I can offer it for…"
After several minutes of bargaining far more intense than any sword clash Ito Makoto finally purchased the pendant using nearly all of his remaining advance salary.
He stepped outside and handed the cross to Ginjo.
"That's it. For the next half-month, no beef burgers for either of us."
Ginjo's eyes lit up as if he had been handed treasure.
"Thank you, Makoto-Nii!"
He accepted it with both hands, solemnly bowing before slipping the silver chain around his neck.
Watching the boy's pure delight, Ito Makoto felt his own stern composure soften.
He's still just a child, after all.
Then his expression changed.
The air shifted.
A faint but unmistakable ripple of spiritual pressure brushed against his perception.
"Something's wrong…"