Four months wasn't a long time in the grand scheme of the afterlife, but Kenji made every day count.
The training shifted from building foundations to refining technique. Where before Ethan had learned to run, now he learned to move efficiently, conserving energy with each step. Where before he'd practiced throwing spiritual pressure around recklessly, now he calculated the minimum force needed to achieve maximum effect.
"Power without precision is just noise," Kenji said during one morning session, watching Ethan execute Hado #4 repeatedly at a practice target. "A Shinigami who exhausts themselves in the first five minutes of battle is just a corpse waiting to happen."
Ethan's Byakurai struck the center of the target, scorching the wood. His breathing was steady, his reiatsu drain minimal. Twenty consecutive casts, and he still felt strong.
Three months ago, three casts would have left him gasping.
"Better," Kenji acknowledged. "Now do it fifty more times."
The old man was relentless. Every technique Ethan had learned was stripped down to its essential components and rebuilt with surgical precision. Wasted movements were eliminated. Energy leaks were identified and sealed. What had been crude tools became refined instruments.
Zanjutsu training evolved from basic kata to practical application. Kenji produced two real swords—nothing fancy, just standard-issue blades he'd kept from his Shinigami days. The weight difference from the bokken was immediately apparent.
"Steel has its own language," Kenji explained, demonstrating a horizontal slash. The blade sang through the air, its edge catching the morning light. "Wood is forgiving. Steel is honest. It will tell you immediately when your form is wrong, your grip is weak, or your intent is unclear."
Ethan's first attempts with real steel were humbling. The blade felt alive in his hands, responsive to every micro-adjustment of his grip and stance. When he got it right, the sword moved like an extension of his arm. When he got it wrong, it felt like fighting against the weapon itself.
"Your body remembers the bokken," Kenji observed, circling Ethan as he practiced. "You're compensating for weight that isn't there anymore. Stop thinking about the sword as separate from yourself. You and the blade are one entity."
It took weeks for the adjustment to feel natural. Weeks of drilling the same cuts, the same blocks, the same footwork until muscle memory overrode conscious thought. Eventually, Ethan stopped noticing the sword in his hand. It simply became part of his attack, as natural as throwing a punch.
Hakuda training took an unexpected turn in the second month.
"You fight like a street brawler," Kenji said bluntly after a particularly sloppy sparring session. "Which makes sense—you learned to fight in the streets. But Hakuda isn't about brawling. It's about turning your entire body into a weapon through precise application of spiritual pressure."
He demonstrated, moving with surprising speed for his age. His palm strike stopped an inch from Ethan's chest, but the force still sent the younger man sliding backward. No wasted motion. No excess energy. Just perfect, devastating efficiency.
"Every strike should accomplish two things simultaneously," Kenji continued. "Physical impact and spiritual disruption. Watch."
He tapped Ethan's shoulder lightly. It barely registered as contact—until Ethan tried to raise that arm and found it momentarily numb, the reiatsu flow disrupted.
"That's what true Hakuda looks like. Not just hitting hard, but hitting smart. Targeting your opponent's spiritual network, not just their body." Kenji's eyes gleamed. "Now let's teach you to do it."
The training was exhaustive. Ethan learned pressure points in the spiritual body that had no physical equivalent. He practiced channeling reiatsu into strikes so precisely that he could disrupt specific pathways without causing visible damage. He sparred with Kenji daily, each session ending with new bruises and new understanding.
"Pain is the best teacher," Kenji said after one particularly brutal session left Ethan gasping on the ground. "Your body remembers what hurts. It learns to avoid those mistakes."
By the third month, Ethan could strike with the kind of precision that would have seemed impossible four months ago. His punches didn't just hurt—they disrupted, destabilized, and controlled.
Kido training became almost academic. Kenji pushed Ethan beyond the basics, introducing techniques in the teens and low twenties. The higher-numbered spells required not just more reiatsu, but more complex visualization and perfect pronunciation of their incantations.
"Hado #31: Shakkaho," Ethan recited, his hands moving through the proper gestures. "Ye lord! Mask of blood and flesh, all creation, flutter of wings, ye who bears the name of Man! Inferno and pandemonium, the sea barrier surges, march on to the south!"
A sphere of red spiritual energy materialized in his palm, crackling with barely-contained power. He released it at the target, and the explosion obliterated not just the wooden post but a good chunk of the ground around it.
Kenji nodded approvingly. "Adequate. Now do it without the incantation."
That was the real challenge. Casting Kido without incantations required perfect internal visualization and an intimate understanding of how spiritual energy flowed. Most Shinigami never mastered incantation-less casting. Those who did became truly formidable.
Ethan tried. The red sphere formed, but it was unstable, fluctuating wildly. When he released it, the Shakkaho veered off-course and detonated harmlessly against a hillside.
"Again," Kenji commanded. "And this time, don't just visualize the spell. Feel it. Understand why each word of the incantation shapes the energy in a specific way, then replicate that shaping through pure will."
It was like trying to paint a perfect picture blindfolded. Ethan failed dozens of times, each attempt yielding either a failed cast or a wildly unstable spell. But slowly, painfully, understanding began to dawn. The incantations weren't just poetry—they were precise instructions for manipulating spiritual energy. Learning to cast without them meant internalizing those instructions so completely they became instinct.
By the end of the third month, Ethan could cast Hado #31 without incantation about half the time. It was progress, even if it felt frustratingly slow.
"Patience," Kenji advised. "You're trying to master in months what takes most Shinigami years. The fact that you can do it at all puts you ahead of ninety percent of Academy graduates."
Hoho—the art of high-speed movement—received special attention in the final month.
"Speed can mean the difference between life and death," Kenji explained, demonstrating the basic Shunpo technique. One moment he stood beside Ethan, the next he was thirty feet away. No blur, no transition. Just instantaneous displacement. "Shunpo isn't about running fast. It's about moving so quickly that you effectively teleport short distances."
The technique required channeling reiatsu into your legs and releasing it in a controlled burst while moving with absolute intent toward your destination. Get it wrong, and you'd simply waste energy running quickly. Get it right, and space itself seemed to compress.
Ethan's first attempts were disasters. He'd channel too much energy and stumble. Too little, and he'd just run normally. Finding the precise balance required hundreds of attempts and numerous bruises from slamming into trees, walls, and on one memorable occasion, the ground face-first.
"You're overthinking it," Kenji said after Ethan's fiftieth failed attempt. "Shunpo is about instinct, not calculation. You need to want to be somewhere so intensely that your spirit drags your body there. Intent is everything."
Ethan tried a different approach. Instead of calculating energy and trajectory, he simply looked at a point twenty feet away and thought: There. Now.
The world blurred.
Suddenly he was standing at the target point, his heart racing with exhilaration. He'd done it. Not perfectly—his arrival was stumbling and uncontrolled—but he'd executed a genuine Shunpo.
"Finally!" Kenji exclaimed, genuine delight in his voice. "Now do it a thousand more times until it's as natural as breathing."
The next month was spent refining that breakthrough. Ethan learned to Shunpo smoothly, to chain multiple steps together, to arrive at his destination in a combat-ready stance. By the time the month ended, he could cross District 78 in a series of rapid Shunpo steps without exhausting himself.
"You're ready," Kenji announced one evening as they sat watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and red.
Ethan looked at his teacher in surprise. "For the Academy?"
"More than ready." Kenji sipped his tea contemplatively. "In four months, you've progressed further than most students do in two years of Academy training. Your Kido is solid up to the low thirties. Your Zanjutsu fundamentals are excellent. Your Hakuda has real precision now. And your Hoho..." He chuckled. "Your Hoho is better than mine was at twice your age."
"Then why do I still feel unprepared?"
"Because you're smart." Kenji set down his cup. "The moment you think you've mastered everything is the moment you stop growing. Humility and hunger for improvement—those are the marks of a true student."
He stood and retrieved something from inside his house. When he returned, he held a bundle wrapped in oiled cloth. He placed it reverently in Ethan's hands.
"Open it."
Ethan carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal a katana in its sheath. The sword was old but immaculately maintained. The guard was simple brass, the grip wrapped in worn black cloth. He drew the blade partially—the steel gleamed like moonlight, not a spot of rust or imperfection visible.
"This was my blade during my time in the 4th Division," Kenji said quietly. "Not a Zanpakuto—those can't be given or inherited. But a good steel blade that served me faithfully for forty years." He met Ethan's eyes. "I want you to have it. To carry it to the Academy and beyond, until the day you manifest your own Zanpakuto."
Ethan's throat tightened with emotion. The gift's significance wasn't lost on him—this sword represented Kenji's entire career, his legacy as a Shinigami. To receive it was an honor beyond measure.
"Sensei, I—"
"Don't." Kenji held up a hand. "Don't thank me. Just promise me something. Promise that you'll use it well. That you'll protect those who can't protect themselves. That you'll become the kind of Shinigami the Soul Society needs, not just the kind it deserves."
Ethan stood and bowed deeply, holding the sword with both hands. "I promise. I won't let you down."
"I know you won't." Kenji's voice was rough with emotion he didn't bother hiding. "You've already made an old man proud, boy. Everything from here is just watching you soar."
They spent the rest of the evening in comfortable silence, watching the stars emerge one by one over District 78. Tomorrow, Ethan would leave for the Seireitei and the entrance exams. Tonight, he simply sat with his teacher and reflected on how far he'd come.
From a lost orphan with mysterious power to a skilled fighter with purpose and direction. From barely surviving each day to dreaming of protecting entire worlds. The transformation felt both gradual and sudden, like waking up one morning to discover you'd become someone new.
"Sensei?" Ethan asked as the night grew late. "Why did you really come to District 78? You could have lived comfortably in the inner districts. Why choose this place?"
Kenji was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of old regrets.
"Because I failed someone once. Someone I was supposed to protect. A young Shinigami under my command died because I made the wrong call, prioritized the wrong thing." He stared at the distant Seireitei lights. "I couldn't face the place that reminded me of that failure every day. So I came here, to a place where failure and loss are just part of existence. Where I could fade away quietly."
"But then I found you." He looked at Ethan with a sad smile. "And I realized the Soul Society gave me a second chance. A chance to train someone who might actually make a difference. Who might save lives I couldn't."
Ethan understood then. He wasn't just Kenji's student. He was the old man's redemption.
"I won't waste this opportunity," Ethan said firmly. "Everything you've taught me, everything you've given me—I'll use it to save everyone I can."
"I believe you will." Kenji stood and stretched, his joints popping. "Now get some sleep. You have a long journey tomorrow, and the exams won't be easy. You'll need every advantage."
Ethan rose and bowed once more. "Thank you, Sensei. For everything."
"Thank you, Ethan Hunt." Kenji's eyes gleamed in the starlight. "For reminding an old man why he became a Shinigami in the first place."
Dawn arrived with cold clarity.
Ethan packed his meager belongings—a change of clothes, the wooden bokken (for sentimental value), Kenji's sword, and the letter of recommendation. Everything he owned fit in a small pack. Everything that mattered, anyway.
The Tanaka children came to say goodbye, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and sadness. To them, Ethan had transformed from a fellow orphan into something like a hero. Someone who'd fought monsters and won. Someone who was leaving for a better world.
"Will you come back?" the youngest asked, her voice small.
"When I can," Ethan promised, kneeling to her level. "And when I do, I'll be a real Shinigami. Strong enough to protect everyone here."
"Will you remember us?" the middle child asked.
"Always." Ethan ruffled his hair affectionately. "You three were my family when I had nothing. I won't forget that."
The eldest, a girl of maybe twelve, handed him something—a small charm woven from red thread. "For luck. Our mother used to make them before she... before."
Ethan accepted it with reverence, tying it to his sword's sheath. "I'll treasure it. Thank you."
Kenji stood waiting at the edge of the district, his expression neutral but his eyes warm. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
"Good answer. The truly ready are the truly arrogant." Kenji gestured toward the path leading to the inner districts. "The journey to the Seireitei will take most of the day. The exams begin tomorrow at dawn. Don't be late."
"You're not coming with me?"
"This is your journey, not mine." Kenji placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "Besides, I'm not welcome in the Seireitei anymore. Old grudges, older politics. But you—you have a chance to write a new story. Don't waste it trying to live out mine."
Ethan nodded, understanding. This was goodbye, at least for now.
"I'll make you proud," he said.
"You already have." Kenji squeezed his shoulder once, then released it. "Now go. Your destiny awaits, and she's an impatient mistress."
Ethan started walking. He made it about twenty steps before turning back for one last look. Kenji stood where he'd left him, a weathered old man in a gray kimono, watching his student leave with an expression that might have been pride or regret or both.
Ethan waved. Kenji raised a hand in acknowledgment.
Then Ethan turned toward the Seireitei's distant spires and began walking in earnest, leaving District 78 behind. Each step took him closer to his future, farther from his past. The sword at his hip felt solid and reassuring. The charm on its sheath caught the morning light.
By midday, he'd passed into District 50. The change was immediately apparent—cleaner streets, better maintained buildings, people who looked at him with curiosity rather than suspicion. By late afternoon, he'd reached District 20, where actual commerce happened and legitimate businesses operated.
The closer he got to the Seireitei, the more his anticipation grew. He could feel the spiritual pressure emanating from the central court, a constant reminder of the power concentrated there. Hundreds of Shinigami, many of Captain-class strength. It was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
As sunset painted the sky crimson, Ethan finally stood before the great white walls of the Seireitei. The gates were massive, easily a hundred feet tall, radiating spiritual pressure that made his skin prickle. Guards stood at attention, their black shihakusho (Shinigami uniform) immaculate, their zanpakuto radiating quiet menace.
"State your business," one guard commanded.
Ethan straightened his spine and tried to project confidence he didn't entirely feel. "I'm here for the Academy entrance exams. I have a letter of recommendation from Kenji Fujimoto, former 4th Seat of the 4th Division."
The guards exchanged glances. One took the letter, examined the seal, and nodded. "This is legitimate. The exams begin at dawn tomorrow at the Academy grounds. The dormitories for candidates are in the western quarter. Don't be late."
The gates opened, just wide enough for Ethan to pass through.
He stepped into the Seireitei for the first time, and his breath caught.
It was beautiful. Impossibly, impossibly beautiful. White buildings with elegant architecture lined wide streets. Gardens flourished in organized perfection. In the distance, he could see the distinctive towers marking each Division's headquarters. And at the very center, rising higher than everything else, the First Division compound where the Captain-Commander himself resided.
This was the heart of Soul Society. The place where legends were born and history was written. And somehow, impossibly, Ethan was here.
He made his way to the western quarter, following signs and occasionally asking directions. The dormitories were simple but clean—a stark upgrade from the abandoned building he'd called home. A clerk assigned him a room and provided basic information about meal times and exam procedures.
"Get a good night's sleep," the clerk advised. "Tomorrow will test you in ways you can't imagine. Many fail. Some don't even finish. Only the strong, the skilled, and the dedicated make it through."
Ethan thanked him and found his assigned room. It was small—just a futon, a small desk, and a window overlooking a garden. But it was his. A place to rest before the most important day of his life.
He sat on the futon and drew Kenji's sword, studying the blade in the fading light. Four months ago, he could barely hold a weapon without hurting himself. Now, he wielded steel like it was part of his body.
Four months ago, casting even the simplest Kido left him exhausted. Now, he could chain multiple spells together without breaking a sweat.
Four months ago, the idea of becoming a Shinigami seemed like an impossible dream. Now, he stood on the threshold of making it reality.
Tomorrow, he thought, resheathing the sword. Tomorrow I prove I belong here.
He lay down and closed his eyes, but sleep was elusive. Excitement, nervousness, and anticipation warred in his chest. Somewhere in the Seireitei, other candidates were feeling the same way. Some from noble families with decades of preparation. Others from the Rukongai with nothing but raw talent and determination.
Tomorrow, they would all compete for the limited spots in the Academy. Tomorrow, many would fail. Tomorrow, Ethan would discover if four months of brutal training had been enough.
As the moon rose over the Seireitei, casting everything in silver light, Ethan made a silent promise to himself—and to Kenji, and to the Tanaka children, and to everyone in District 78 who'd never had a champion.
He would pass these exams. He would become a Shinigami. He would become strong enough to protect everyone who needed protecting.
No matter what it took. No matter what it cost. He would succeed.
Outside his window, somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of swords clashing—Shinigami training even at this late hour. The sound was beautiful, purposeful, filled with meaning.
Soon, he would join them. Soon, he would walk among heroes and legends as an equal. Soon, he would begin the next chapter of his journey.
But tonight, he was just Ethan Hunt, an orphan from District 78, lying in a borrowed room and dreaming of light.
Tomorrow would be for proving himself. Tonight was for rest, and hope, and the quiet anticipation of destiny about to unfold.
He finally drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face, Kenji's sword resting beside him like a promise of everything to come.
END OF CHAPTER 4
Next Chapter: The Entrance Exams