BLEACH: DRINKING MAKES ME STRONGER

Shiba Kuroba touched his nose helplessly. All this trouble had started with a careless slip of the tongue.

No—

To be more precise, even telling the truth could get you into trouble.

It seemed that, as a blunt man, sometimes one had to master the art of a harmless lie.

But in Kuroba's opinion, after experiencing the power granted by the system for himself, mastering the four foundational disciplines—Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Hohō, and Kidō—within a year was not out of reach.

In fact, based on his current growth rate, even six months might be enough.

"Shiba Kuroba, why have you gone silent? Where's all that confidence you had a moment ago?" Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni's deep voice echoed through the hall, his gaze sharp as a blade.

A wave of oppressive Reiatsu swept across the room, causing the nerves of the assembled first-year candidates to instantly tighten.

They were all wondering the same thing—

Would this unpredictable, irreverent drunkard fold in the face of the Head Captain's overwhelming pressure?

"Kid," Shunsui Kyoraku muttered beside Kuroba, lowering his voice with a sigh, "just apologize and calm old man Yama down. A little humility can go a long way."

"Being honest will make people like me more?" Kuroba raised an eyebrow. That wasn't quite his reason for considering a white lie. "I'm worried Captain-Commander will punish me instead."

"Nonsense. If you lie, he'll punish you. If you tell the truth, he'll still punish you," Shunsui grumbled, his tone resigned. "But I'll cover for you. Just be honest this once."

"...Alright," Kuroba replied with a reluctant nod.

The tension in the room seemed to ease slightly as this arrogant youth finally softened his tone. Among the observing candidates, some exchanged smirks, barely hiding their amusement.

Even Aizen Sōsuke and Ichimaru Gin chuckled quietly, though their reasons were more layered.

After all, this wild card had already disrupted Aizen's recruitment plans once.

Now, seeing him suffer a blow from Yamamoto might make things more... manageable.

Still, Aizen couldn't help but think—

If properly guided, this one might be worth drawing into the Fifth Division.

"Captain-Commander Yamamoto," Kuroba finally said, rubbing the back of his head, "truthfully, I believe I can graduate in six months. I wasn't trying to boast earlier—it's just that Captain Kyoraku here told me to be honest."

Silence.

A stunned, incredulous silence.

Had he really just halved the already "impossible" timeframe?

It was madness.

Everyone—from the melon-eating onlookers to Aizen and Gin—froze. Their expressions twisted into a mixture of horror and disbelief.

No apology. No retreat. Instead, a direct challenge to Yamamoto's standards.

Boom!

A tidal wave of spiritual pressure exploded from Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni.

His haori fluttered without wind, his very presence distorting the air.

The ground beneath him cracked, spiderweb fractures crawling outward like a living threat.

Every candidate in the hall was slammed by the oppressive aura.

Those with weaker spiritual foundations turned pale. Some staggered. Others fell outright, unconscious.

Even without releasing his Ryūjin Jakka, the Captain-Commander's Reiatsu was overwhelming—monumental.

To stand beneath it was like being caught in a hurricane with nothing but a straw hat for cover.

"Kid! Get down!" Kyoraku's expression shifted from exasperated to urgent. Without hesitation, he moved forward to shield Kuroba from the full brunt of the Reiatsu.

But he was too late.

BOOM!

The shockwave of spiritual pressure crashed into Kuroba.

But instead of crumbling, Kuroba's Reiatsu flared back—an instinctive, defiant reaction.

The two forces collided, and a blast of spiritual energy surged upward, tearing through the air above like a bolt of lightning.

CRACK!

The reinforced ceiling of the exam hall splintered. Shockwaves raced across the room.

More candidates collapsed, overwhelmed.

The floor beneath Kuroba fractured, forming deep, jagged lines that radiated outward.

Shunsui stared, slack-jawed.

"This… this is spiritual pressure reacting in defense? The boy's Reiatsu is resisting Yamamoto's—and he's not even using Shikai?"

All around, the stunned silence deepened.

Even Yamamoto Genryūsai narrowed his eyes.

For the first time, a flicker of surprise appeared on the old man's face.

This wasn't just confidence. This was power.

The only explanation for being able to withstand his spiritual pressure directly... was a spiritual strength of similar caliber.

Kuroba's claim of possessing "ten bamboo spiritual pressure"—once scoffed at—no longer sounded like nonsense.

  "Ahem... Captain-Commander, the time to report to the Royal Guard has arrived," Sasakibe Chōjirō said quietly, coughing into his fist. "If we delay any longer, we risk violating protocol that has stood unbroken for over a thousand years."

  As Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni's long-time lieutenant and most trusted adjutant, Chōjirō was perhaps the only one who could speak in such a moment without drawing immediate ire.

  "The time has come, has it..." Yamamoto murmured, his hands still resting atop the hilt of Ryūjin Jakka, which he used as a staff.

  The burning sharpness in his half-lidded eyes slowly dimmed. His posture did not change, but the overwhelming pressure he had been exuding—an oppressive tide of spiritual energy—began to recede as naturally as a tide pulling back into the sea. The crackling tension between opposing spiritual pressures collapsed in an instant.

  "Hey, kid... now would be a good time to withdraw your reiatsu," said Kyōraku Shunsui in a low voice, fanning himself casually but with narrowed eyes.

  To him, Chōjirō's reminder had given Yamamoto a dignified excuse to stand down. All that remained was for Kuroba to step down just as gracefully.

  "Ahem," Kuroba coughed, his face flushed from either nerves or embarrassment—or both. "I... might've accidentally tapped into my spiritual pressure while drinking. That's how I figured out how to control it better."

  He hadn't meant to reveal that.

  In truth, the sudden jump in his spiritual pressure—the leap that had shocked the examiners—had occurred when he drank too much in the underground holding cells. When he sobered up, the effects remained. Somehow, alcohol had loosened a latent potential within him.

  The moment his voice trailed off, a weighted silence fell over the examination hall. The walls almost seemed to echo with the absurdity of what he'd just confessed.

  Kyōraku's brow twitched. He looked like he was seriously reconsidering all of his life choices.

  Even Chōjirō, ever composed and loyal, closed his eyes in silent regret. He should've let the Captain-Commander cleave this madman in half after all.