Transcendent Flame

Meanwhile,

Muken, Squad 1 Barracks

The dim, oppressive stillness of the underground cells beneath Squad 1 barracks was broken only by the rhythmic sounds of motion. In the vast expanse of the Muken, Yamamoto—without his Captain's haori—stood in silence, moving through a series of deliberate exercises. His body, though ancient, exuded raw power with every motion. Scarred hands tightened and released as he stretched, each gesture purposeful, like a predator sharpening its claws.

Viktor, within Yamamoto's body, suppressed a grimace as he felt the creak of muscles unused to such vigorous activity. The memories of this body guided him, but that didn't mean it felt natural. 'Two thousand years, and this guy still thinks warming up is necessary,' Viktor thought, pushing through the discomfort.

The System, as ever, couldn't resist chiming in. "Careful, Viktor. You're in no position to complain. You're at 15% of Yamamoto's power, and even that is a miracle. You should be grateful for this chance to stretch."

'Grateful,' Viktor mused dryly, moving into a low stance. 'Sure. Grateful for the world's deadliest Pilates class.'

The exercises carried on, the silence amplifying every breath and movement. Minutes passed before the sound of deliberate footsteps echoed through the Muken. Viktor straightened, his sharp senses recognizing the wild, untamed spiritual pressure long before the figure stepped into view.

A lone figure emerged from the shadows—a towering man with an aura of ferocity that could scarcely be contained. Zaraki, the Captain of Squad 11, strolled forward, his ragged haori trailing behind him and his massive sword resting casually on his shoulder. His jagged grin widened as he took in the sight before him.

"Old man," Zaraki said, his voice as rough as the blade he carried. "Didn't think I'd find you down here. Heard you wanted to see me, though."

Yamamoto's gaze remained steady, his hands clasped behind his back in a stance of calm authority. Viktor felt the weight of Zaraki's presence—raw, untamed power, the kind of force that demanded attention even without the refinement of technique.

"I told you to come alone," Yamamoto said, his voice a deep rumble that carried through the vast chamber.

Zaraki chuckled, his grin growing wider. "I'm here, aren't I? Left Yachiru to play with the others. Figured you wanted a word about all this boring rebuilding stuff."

He gestured vaguely upward, toward the Seireitei. "The way things are going—training the ryoka, letting the Quincy kid hang around—it's almost like you're trying to turn the Soul Society into some kind of playground."

Yamamoto didn't respond immediately. Instead, he rolled his shoulders, a deliberate motion that sent a ripple of anticipation through the air. His silence only seemed to amuse Zaraki further.

"Well?" Zaraki prompted, his tone mocking. "Got something to say, old man? Or are we just gonna stand here staring at each other?"

Yamamoto's hands fell to his sides as he took a step forward, his spiritual pressure barely flickering but enough to fill the space with a suffocating weight. "You have always fought with strength alone, Zaraki," he said finally, his tone sharp and commanding. "That ends now."

Zaraki's grin faltered for half a second before returning, wider than before. "Oh? And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Yamamoto said, his voice like the crackle of distant flames, "that your strength has been wasted without discipline. I will teach you Zanjutsu—from the basics."

For a moment, Zaraki stared at him, and then he laughed—a loud, wild sound that echoed through the Muken. "You? Teach me? I don't need your lessons, old man. I've been fighting and winning long before anyone cared about 'basics.'"

Yamamoto's gaze didn't waver. "You rely on instinct alone. You will never reach your true potential until you understand the art of the sword."

Zaraki's grin grew impossibly wider. "Fine," he said, raising his blade. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it my way. Let's see if you can back up that talk!"

Without waiting for a reply, Zaraki charged forward, his blade slicing through the air in a wild arc. The force behind the swing was immense, a testament to his raw power, but the lack of precision was glaringly obvious to Yamamoto's trained eye.

Viktor felt the thrill of the moment as Yamamoto's body moved almost on its own, stepping aside with practiced ease to avoid the strike. He didn't even draw his blade, choosing instead to raise a hand, catching Zaraki's sword mid-swing with an open palm. The clash sent a shockwave rippling through the Muken.

"Sloppy," Yamamoto said, his voice a sharp reprimand.

Zaraki's eyes lit up with excitement, and he swung again, his movements wild but relentless. Yamamoto deflected each blow with minimal effort, his calm, controlled movements a stark contrast to Zaraki's chaotic ferocity. Viktor felt the strain of maintaining such precise control, but the exhilaration of the challenge was undeniable.

The System's voice cut through his focus, sharp and reprimanding. "Viktor, you're going overboard. This is training, not a battlefield. If you break Zaraki now, you'll lose your chance to mold him."

'He's the one going overboard,' Viktor shot back, narrowly avoiding a particularly aggressive swing. 'I'm just keeping up.'

The System's tone turned pointed. "You are not Yamamoto in his prime. You are at 15%, and even that is stretching the limits of what's safe. If you want to keep both yourself and this plan intact, dial it back."

The first day was a clash of extremes—raw, unrefined power against centuries of disciplined mastery. Zaraki thrived in the chaos, his wild grin never faltering as his blade struck with ferocity. Viktor, wielding Yamamoto's immense skill, moved with precision, every parry and strike honed to deflect and redirect Zaraki's brute force.

Yet it wasn't easy. Even at 15% of Yamamoto's power, Viktor felt the strain. Zaraki's relentless assaults pushed him to the edge of his stamina, each blow forcing him to tap further into the body's reserves. Every swing Zaraki unleashed was a test of endurance, each clash a contest between survival and teaching.

Despite the exhaustion, Viktor refused to falter. The drills began with the fundamentals—controlled strikes, precise parries, deliberate footwork—but Zaraki had no interest in such structure. His movements were chaotic, instinctive, a hurricane refusing to be tamed. Every attempt to correct him was met with defiance, his blade battering through rhythm and form alike.

By the end of the first day, Viktor's body was battered, his breathing labored as he staggered out of the Muken. Zaraki, by contrast, was invigorated, his spiritual pressure as wild and untamed as when they'd started.

"You're holding back, old man!" Zaraki called after him, laughter booming through the chamber. "Don't tell me this is all you've got!"

Viktor didn't respond, his focus narrowing to the steps that led him back to his quarters. His muscles screamed for relief, his mind weighing the risks of pushing harder tomorrow. Rest was the only option.

.

.

.

The second day began much the same.

Zaraki returned with even greater vigor, his spiritual pressure surging in chaotic waves that filled the cavernous expanse of the Muken. Viktor resumed the drills, leading with measured strikes and calculated parries, his movements a masterclass in controlled efficiency. But Zaraki, as expected, tore through the exercises with relentless aggression, forcing Viktor to adapt or break.

Hours passed, and the strain began to mount. Viktor's body, still recovering from the day before, struggled to maintain the precision needed to counter Zaraki's wild swings. Yet, somewhere in the chaos of their exchanges, something shifted. Zaraki's ferocity began to take on a sharper edge, his attacks showing the faintest hints of understanding. Though his movements remained erratic, there was now a glimmer of instinct refined—unintentional, but progress nonetheless.

It was nearing the end of the second day when Zaraki launched a particularly brutal strike, his blade coming down with enough force to crack the stone beneath Viktor's feet. Viktor countered instinctively, pushing harder than he ever had since waking in this body. His spiritual pressure surged, breaking past the 15% threshold he'd maintained so far.

The force of his counter shattered the rhythm of their spar. Zaraki, caught off guard, was flung backward, his massive frame hurtling across the Muken. He hit the far wall with a resounding crash, dust and debris exploding around him. The chamber trembled from the impact, and for a moment, silence reigned.

Viktor stood in the center of the arena, his chest heaving as he adjusted to the sudden increase in power. The thrill of the moment was undeniable—raw, electric, the feeling of control over immense strength coursing through him.

Across the chamber, Zaraki rose slowly, his laughter echoing through the space like thunder. "Now that's more like it!" he roared, blood running down the side of his face as his grin stretched impossibly wide. "That's what I've been waiting for, old man!"

Viktor said nothing, his expression stoic, but his pulse raced. For the first time, he'd seen a glimpse of what truly drove Zaraki—the joy of a fight that pushed him to his limits. Yet even as that realization dawned, Viktor felt the toll of his exertion. His muscles burned, his breathing grew heavier, and a faint tremor began to creep through his limbs.

Turning his back on Zaraki, Viktor began the slow walk out of the Muken. Behind him, Zaraki's laughter continued to echo, filling the vast emptiness like a chaotic symphony. Viktor's steps were steady, deliberate, though each one felt heavier than the last.

As he reached his quarters and slid the door shut behind him, the warning came.

WARNING!

Excessive Exertion Detected.

Current Power Output: 18%.

Vitality Reserve: DEPLETED (6 Months).

Stamina Reserve Depleting Rapidly! STOP IMMEDIATELY!

The sharp red text flared before Viktor's eyes, momentarily blinding him. He collapsed onto the tatami mat, his blade clattering beside him as he let out a ragged exhale. His muscles ached, his spirit felt stretched thin, and the System's incessant warnings only drove the point further.

And Cut!

That's it for this chapter folks.

AN:

Things are changing and fast. 4 Captains are busy in talking to people, Unohana doing her own thing to make sure Orihime is ready and then there is Yamamoto and Zaraki swinging their swords in Muken. I hope you enjoyed the 'spar'between the 2 beasts. Poor Viktor got more than he could chew. Next chapter is going to be legendary with everything coming together and it's quite complicated one to bring together. I'll go write that.

But before I go, I have a question for yall, who do you think will be a good pairing for this Yamamoto/Viktor? Do you think Viktor doesn't need romance? I can assure you one thing, the pairing won't affect the flow of the story and won't be the main focus. It's just a cherry on top. I have few ideas in mind, but I want to hear your suggestions. Also whoever the pairing will be, she won't be a damsel in distress. She will be relatively strong to keep herself safe. I will be eagerly waiting to hear back from you!

For those who think the MC taking Yamamoto's body limits the writing and won't allow to change much, that is true, if the MC sticks to the same principles Yamamoto stuck to, and if he did, then that is useless to write as there won't be any originality in it. If you still doubt it, all I'll say is wait till the next chapter and tell me if you still think same.

As always, let me know in your reviews and do share your feedback and suggestions!

I'm very delighted to share that you can now read next 65k words of the story on my patron. My user name is same BlackInfinity1289 on patron website. 

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Thank you for reading.

Good Day!

Black Infinity 1289,

Ja Ne.