The Strongest in...

Author: I'm back! And with news, besides this story, there will be one about Fate from the Nasuverse, yes I like Fate and I really like the verse, although some things are confusing and kind of don't make sense at some point here and there, that's it, enjoy the chapter!

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The abandoned dojo was a setting that overflowed with stories of past training sessions. The wooden floor bore the marks of countless footsteps, some deeper than others, revealing the intensity of the efforts once made there. In the center of the wide space, Jin stood, the upper part of his uniform discarded, his bare torso glistening with the abundant sweat streaming down his skin.

He panted heavily, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Ahh... Ahh..." His breathing echoed in the silent environment, breaking the almost spiritual atmosphere of the place.

Jin's legs trembled, as if they could give way at any moment under the colossal effort he had poured into his training. His muscles, rigid with tension, revealed the extent of the hard work he had endured so far. Sweat formed small puddles on the floor around him, and his hair, now stuck to his forehead, gave him an almost feral appearance.

Jin slowly raised his head, his gaze fixed on one of the training dummies ahead. His eyes did not reflect exhaustion but an unwavering determination. He clenched his fists, the muscles in his arms tightening as he took a deep breath.

Even as his body cried out for rest, his mind was already planning the next moves.

Jin worked tirelessly on perfecting his footwork, each movement meticulously calculated to achieve the smallest margin of error. He focused on executing steps in the tightest space possible, shaping a style that prioritized maximum efficiency for the Flash Step. His feet barely touched the ground, each step light and precise, as if he were dancing on a fine line between absolute control and chaos.

This new pattern was a revolution in his approach. Jin had noticed something fundamental in his observations: most Shinigami followed the same basic footwork pattern. Some favored longer, broader movements, while others preferred short, direct steps, but the underlying concept remained the same. Jin, however, decided to break away from this norm and create something entirely new.

He based his new style on the Wind God's Step Technique, an art that emphasized extremely fast, short, and efficient movements. The key was to minimize ground contact to the absolute bare minimum, allowing for an almost supernatural burst of speed. Each step was a reflection of the wind: swift, fluid, and impossible to fully grasp.

But it was far from easy.

Sweat trickled down Jin's face as he struggled to master the technique. The difficulty lay in the precise control of the spiritual energy he needed to channel in order to sustain the movement, while maintaining the balanced posture and exact trajectory. His muscles burned with each failed attempt, but he did not retreat.

"One more time," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the space ahead as if visualizing the next move.

Time seemed meaningless within the abandoned dojo. The hours stretched in an endless cadence of quick steps and calculated strategies. Jin moved through the space like a blur, going in all possible and impossible directions, each movement a study, an experiment, a refinement. The direction he took? It didn't matter. What mattered was the development of his step game, a detailed and obsessive plan to achieve perfection.

He wasn't just practicing; he was creating. His set of steps now had an impressive 150,258 variations, each meticulously recorded and adjusted by Nano. Jin had already completed 11,000 of these variations, an achievement that would be inconceivable for most. But for him, this was just the beginning.

Time lost its meaning in the flow of his training. The sun rose and set multiple times, but Jin did not stop. Throughout the long days spent in the dojo, he tested his theories, pushed his limits, and adapted his body and mind to new techniques.

What was incredible was his ability to maintain this frantic pace with minimal loss. He regularly attended physical practices, always using the opportunities to test elements of his training in the dojo, but he neglected the theoretical classes. For Jin, theory became meaningless because Nano used the books and notes of Aizen made during the lessons, and then everything was transferred to Jin's mind.

The dojo environment was immersed in deep silence, broken only by Jin's heavy breathing and the occasional sound of his legs trembling as he tried to relax. He leaned against the cold wall, letting the fatigue take over completely. His legs, overloaded by the exhausting Flash Steps training and step combinations, seemed to no longer respond.

Nano, ever vigilant, had already begun the self-healing process. The robotic voice sounded in his mind with calculated precision.

[The muscle regeneration process will be completed in a few minutes. I recommend complete rest.]

"Damn... Still a long way to go..." Jin murmured to himself, looking at the worn-out floor of the dojo. Despite his progress, he knew he was still far from achieving the absolute mastery he desired.

To pass the time while the healing took place, he closed his eyes and sank into meditation, trying once again to reach the depths of his soul and connect with the spirit of his Zanpakutou. However, as in the previous attempts, he found himself surrounded by a dense and silent darkness, a feeling of emptiness that seemed to resist any effort to connect.

"Why is it always like this?" he murmured as he broke from meditation. His frustration was evident, but he did not let it overwhelm him. Running a hand through his still damp hair, he shifted his gaze to the dojo's ceiling. His silver irises glowed faintly under the dim light before he closed his eyes again.

"I'll rest for a while," he said to himself with a resigned sigh. Fatigue finally overtook him, and he allowed his body to relax against the wall.

...

The darkness seemed like an eternal cloak, where not even time dared to move forward. Jin floated gently in this absolute void, his mind calm and his body relaxed, as if he had found a secret and untouchable refuge. There was no sound, movement, or any sign of life other than him. This serenity seemed inviolable, an unchanging state that only the darkness could offer.

However, this calmness was interrupted by a slight disturbance, almost imperceptible, that reverberated through the vastness of the void.

Suddenly, a pair of red, glowing, and menacing eyes pierced the darkness like two malevolent beacons. They emerged from a distant point, moving slowly but with an overwhelming presence. Jin sensed the disturbance and carefully turned his head, watching as something began to emerge from the shadows.

From the depths of the blackness, a monstrous shape took form. A colossal serpent, with black scales that shone like polished obsidian, slithered out of the void. The scales appeared as an impenetrable armor, each one reflecting the dim light of the crimson eyes. Its body was thick and muscular, coiling into a threatening spiral just below Jin.

The creature's head, angular and full of imposing presence, was directly facing him. Its eyes seemed to penetrate not only his body but also his soul. The silence that had once been peaceful was now suffocating, laden with palpable tension.

[Insert Image here]

Jin stood still, his gaze fixed on the serpent's eyes. He felt that this encounter was not casual but rather a deep and meaningful manifestation. This was not just any being; it was something much older and more powerful, an entity connected to the darkness he was trying to unravel within himself.

The serpent did not speak, but its presence was almost deafening, as if its mere existence whispered ancient and dangerous secrets that only Jin could hear.

The voice echoed like an ancient whisper, but in that absolute void, its resonance seemed to fill every corner of the darkness. It was deep, almost melodic, and at the same time heavy with immeasurable weight, as if each word carried eras of wisdom and mystery.

"You are not ready yet..."

The words seemed to dance around Jin, penetrating his mind and heart. His body froze at that instant, and his eyes widened in shock. This was not an ordinary sound. It was something beyond the physical, something that vibrated in the very essence of his soul.

"Zanpakutou!" Jin murmured, almost in disbelief.

His silver eyes reflected the intense red glow of the serpent's eyes. It continued to stare at him, motionless, as if waiting for something. Each second felt like an eternity, and the weight of its presence pressed down on him like an invisible mountain.

...

The classroom was enveloped in a reverent silence, except for the whisper of papers being turned and the faint sound of Gengorō Ōunabara's footsteps as he moved toward his desk. He was a tall, bald man, with harsh features carved by years of discipline and experience. His piercing gaze intimidated even the most confident, and Tsuki and Akihiro felt it when they dared to call him.

"Ah, sensei," Tsuki murmured, hesitation evident in his voice. He took a step back, almost as if he wished to disappear under Gengorō's unwavering gaze.

"Yes, Tsuki and Akihiro?" Gengorō responded, his voice low but filled with authority. He raised an eyebrow as he stared at the two, his unyielding expression making them swallow hard.

Gathering his courage, Tsuki asked, "Why can Cheon Jin miss so many theoretical classes?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Gengorō narrowed his eyes, then shifted his gaze to his desk, where a black notebook lay, worn at the edges from constant use. He carefully picked it up, as if it were a precious artifact, and opened it with deliberate movements.

"Cheon Jin..." he began, his voice taking on a reflective tone. "At first, I thought he would just be another boy looking for an easy life. Someone who wanted to leave Rukongai, become a Shinigami, and live comfortably in Seireitei. But I was wrong."

Gengorō ran his fingers through the pages of the notebook, turning them one by one. Each sheet was filled with meticulous notes, detailed diagrams, and precise illustrations. The lines of text were dense, as if every word had been carefully chosen. Tsuki and Akihiro tried to peek, but the pages turned too quickly, and any glimpse they managed to catch vanished from their memories like sand slipping through their fingers.

"This 400-page notebook," Gengorō continued, holding the object firmly, "is a complete summary of every basic skill of a Shinigami. Everything from my lessons and the books from the library that he only skimmed once. He not only memorized everything but also reviewed and corrected the mistakes, both in the books and in what I personally taught."

He paused for a moment, his expression softening slightly as he admired the notebook. "What I thought was just a boy seeking happiness in comfort turned out to be someone with a much greater goal. Someone who desires to be the strongest."

Tsuki and Akihiro were stunned. They knew Cheon Jin was skilled, but they never imagined the extent of his dedication.

"Someone capable of doing such a thing," Gengorō concluded, closing the notebook with a sharp sound that echoed through the room. He looked directly at the two of them, his voice filled with genuine respect. "Can only be called one thing..."

He paused, the weight of his words filling the air.

"A genius."

A genius. In the Seireitei, this word carried an immeasurable weight, something that transcended simple admiration. A genius was not just more precious than a prodigy; it was a rare anomaly, almost mythical. Prodigies were common, scattered among the districts and divisions, recognized for their natural ability in specific fields. But geniuses? They were unique, as rare as shooting stars in the night sky.

And because of this rarity, they were also feared. The history of the Seireitei was marked by geniuses who, at some point, rebelled against the system, challenging its rigid structure. Some of these geniuses met their end, falling before the blades of their former allies, victims of their own singularity and unchecked ambition. Others, however, chose to remain hidden, lurking in the shadows, avoiding the spotlight to preserve their lives and freedom.

This dark perspective explained much about the Cheon Jin phenomenon. From a seemingly ordinary young man, someone who showed no talent or exceptional effort, he had transformed almost overnight. His skill in Zanjutsu, Hoho, Kido, and Hakuda had not just improved — it had blossomed in an impressive way. Every technique he touched seemed to mold itself to him, as if it had been made for his hands, his mind, his spirit.

This sudden leap was not something that could be achieved with mere effort. No, this was the work of something greater, something innate. A genius was not just someone who learned quickly; it was someone who saw the world differently, who understood what others took years to even begin to grasp.

And Jin was revealing himself. From an unremarkable student, he had shown that he possessed a talent that not only rivaled but surpassed that of many of the so-called prodigies. His rise was not the result of conventional hard work, but of an extraordinary fusion of intellect and natural ability.

In the end, a genius was someone who had more talent than anyone else. And Jin, with his meticulous notebook, flawless memory, and lightning-fast progress, was becoming what the Seireitei both valued and feared. A rare gem, but one that could cut as deeply as it shone.