Ichigo's pulse quickened as the desire for more power surged within him. He could feel the energy within, ripe and ready to be shaped.
'Now, it's time. Getsuga Tenshō... Let's see if I can do it,' he thought, a surge of anticipation rushing through him.
His fingers curled into a fist, and he concentrated, focusing his Reiatsu into his palm. His body hummed with power, each heartbeat driving him forward. He could almost picture the technique—he had seen it enough times to understand the fundamentals.
'Just need to channel it. I've got this.'
He took a deep breath, drawing the energy into his chest, then exhaled slowly as he began to form the attack. His palm began to glow, faint sparks of blue light flickering around it. The air thickened, the pressure around him increasing as the Reiatsu swirled into his hand.
Whoosh.
The Reiatsu flared, but it didn't form into the distinct shape he expected. Instead of the concentrated, cutting wave of energy, the energy spread out in jagged bursts—wild and uncontrolled.
'No, focus!' he thought desperately, trying to reign in the force, but the energy continued to crackle and pulse in an erratic frenzy.
He gritted his teeth, forcing his will onto the Reiatsu, trying to shape it like the training he had seen in Bleach. But it wasn't cooperating. The energy expanded uncontrollably, tearing at the air like a loose whirlwind.
"Damn it!" he muttered under his breath. He stepped back, his frustration growing. The energy sputtered and flickered before fizzling out with a sharp snap.
A brief, disorienting silence followed the failed attempt. His palm burned from the effort, but he barely noticed the sting. His eyes narrowed as he clenched his fists.
'This isn't right... I was so close,' he thought.
He felt the lingering buzz of Reiatsu, still present and responsive under his skin, but he couldn't quite grasp it. It was like trying to hold water in his hands—every time he tried to mold it, it slipped through his fingers.
The faintest traces of his frustration lingered in the air, a crackle of energy still vibrating as his Reiatsu continued to hum beneath his skin.
'Next time... I'll get it. Oh I almost forgot. Getsuga Tenshō is Zangetsu's ability. Man now I look like an idiot ' he thought slapping his forehead.
With a deep breath, he exhaled, letting the disappointment slide away for now. There was no way he was stopping here.
Ichigo sat down on the bench that was half intact, the wood creaking beneath him as he shifted his weight. His eyes were drawn to his hands, clenched into fists. He could feel the tightness in his chest, the lingering pulse of his Reiatsu, but it was his mind that wouldn't quiet. Thoughts raced in circles, each one more reckless than the last.
He stared at his palms, feeling the sweat bead on his skin despite the cool evening air. His fingers twitched, almost as if they were itching for something—an action, a release.
'I wanna fight another Hollow. I know this is dumb, I might actually die now. What if fight someone like Grand Fisher? Fuck no, I shouldn't. At least let me hunt one instead of luring one here. Fuck, this is a bad idea. I don't even have a sword.'
His thoughts tangled and spiraled, a mess of uncertainty. The weight of his decision pressed on him like a physical force. He could practically hear the Hollow's eerie laughter in the back of his mind, the feeling of danger lacing each thought.
'I'm really thinking of doing this. What the hell am I even doing?' he thought, his breath quickening.
The air around him felt heavier now, thick with the weight of his decision. The distant hum of city life seemed muted, and the cool breeze that swept through the playground now felt distant and unimportant. His own heartbeats thudded in his ears, louder than the world around him. He let out a frustrated sigh, wiping his damp palms against his jeans before standing up.
'Maybe I can wait until late at night. When everyone's asleep. Yeah, that's better. Let's just go home, eat, and think it over,' he decided, turning on his heel and heading back down the street.
At home, the familiar clink of dinnerware echoed in the quiet house. Ichigo ate with his family in the calm, mundane atmosphere that felt almost out of place in his current state of mind. His gaze drifted from his food to his father, Isshin, who sat across from him, casually digging into his meal with an unbothered air.
'I wonder if Dad has a sword somewhere here. Doubt it,' Ichigo thought, but the idea lingered.
Later, with dinner finished, the two of them were in charge of the dishes that night. Ichigo stood next to his father at the sink, drying plates with a towel. The water flowed steadily from the faucet, the sound of it mixing with the clinking of porcelain. The warm steam from the sink lingered in the air, the scent of soap and the faint remnants of the meal still hanging in the kitchen.
"What's on your mind, son?" Isshin asked, his voice light but his gaze sharp as he glanced over at Ichigo. He must've sensed the storm brewing inside him, the unease hanging thick in the air.
"Oh, I'm just thinking," Ichigo muttered, his voice flat as he continued to wipe the plates dry.
"Come on now. You can tell your pops anything you know," Isshin said, nudging him playfully with his elbow. His tone lightened with an almost teasing undertone. "Oh, don't tell me... there's a girl you like. Remember, use protection. I don't want to be a grandpa just yet."
Ichigo's eyes widened slightly, the blush creeping up his neck despite his best efforts to hide it. "No, it's not that," he said quickly, trying to change the subject. He needed to focus—he was asking for something important. "I know this is a dumb question, but do you have a sword?"
Isshin froze mid-scrub, a plate still in his hand, and his eyes narrowed in a split-second of confusion. "A sword?" He repeated, his voice more serious now. The jovial expression faded, replaced by a curious glance. "Why? Is there someone you want dead? I'm just kidding, but really, why do you ask?"
Ichigo hesitated, caught off guard by the question. He hadn't thought of a solid excuse. His eyes flicked to the side, searching for an answer, any answer.
"Oh, I just wanted one for school," he said quickly, the lie slipping from his lips smoothly. "I have a presentation due, you see. I want to explain how Nihon-jin swords are made and stuff." He gave a half-hearted shrug, hoping it would work.
Isshin seemed to buy the excuse, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Hmm, why didn't you say so earlier? You know I really care about your grades. I don't want people saying the doctor's son is a flunk," he teased, but there was a genuine warmth in his words.
"Sure, I've got one. Your dad used to do many dumb things back when he was young. It's up in the attic. Go take it after we're done here," he said with a smile, his tone light and joking.
Ichigo felt a wave of relief wash over him. At least it wasn't going to be an issue.
"Thanks, Dad."
He quickly finished drying the dishes, his hands moving mechanically as his mind wandered. He couldn't help but wonder how long Isshin had known. How much had he suspected? Maybe Isshin wasn't as clueless as he always seemed. The thought sent a chill down Ichigo's spine.
After the dishes were stored away, Ichigo shot a quick glance at his father, who was happily humming to himself as he wiped his hands on his apron. Ichigo turned away and quickly ascended the stairs to the attic.
'Damn, it must be hard acting for my dad. I mean, he knew all along when I turned into a Soul Reaper in the story.'
TO BE CONTINUED