The katana was starting to feel more natural in Kenpachi's grip—like an extension of himself. But something kept nagging at the back of his skull. A strange… pull. Like the blade wanted something from him. Or maybe he wanted something from it.
It was after a particularly violent border clash with a group of rogue Iwagakure missing-nin that Kenpachi—still bloodstained, still grinning—walked into the Mizukage's office unannounced.
Gengetsu Hōzuki blinked once, looked up from his paperwork, and said, "This better not involve someone else's arm being used as a club."
Kenpachi dropped into a crouch across from him like a bored lion. "How do you figure out what kind of chakra you got?"
Gengetsu raised an eyebrow. That was unexpected. "You… want to know your chakra affinities?"
Kenpachi shrugged. "Noticed some ninja do weird things with their weapons. Blades that burn. Crackle. Slice air. I wanna try. Might be fun."
For a second, Gengetsu just stared at him. Then… he laughed. Loudly.
"You, of all people, asking about chakra nature like a textbook genin… Alright. I'll bite."
They performed the paper test.
Kenpachi crushed the chakra paper in his hand—and chaos erupted.
▸ One edge blackened and crumbled to ash.
▸ Another edge split down the center.
▸ A third edge wrinkled and folded like waves.
▸ And the last edge sparked and cracked.
Gengetsu's mouth hung open slightly. "Fire. Wind. Water. Lightning. Four affinities… That's not normal."
Kenpachi just stared at the paper, jaw tightening in a slow grin. "All of 'em. Feels right."
He wouldn't master them with finesse.
He'd use them like he uses everything else:
𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺.
𓂃𓂃
He didn't ask for training. He never did.
Instead, he went into the woods, drew his blade, and started swinging—channeling raw chakra through his arm by instinct. No hand seals. No instruction. Just… feeling.
And then, one day, it clicked.
The edge of his blade crackled—first with a pulse of lightning, then hissed with steam as fire and water clashed inside the steel. The katana held together, glowing faintly, trembling in his grip.
He didn't understand the technique.
But the power? He felt it.
The sword could now cut deeper. It hummed when he swung it. The wind whistled louder. And when he struck rock—it shattered.
He had unknowingly performed a rudimentary version of Chakra Flow (チャクラ流し, Chakra Nagashi)—the same advanced technique that future shinobi like Sasuke, Asuma, and Kakashi used to enhance their blades. But Kenpachi did it like he did everything:
By punching reality until it bent.
The reports of "Kenpachi's sword now glowing and vibrating" reached the Kumo intelligence corps. At first, they thought it was a myth. A genjutsu trick.
But Kaoru knew better.
"He's getting stronger," she muttered to her new jōnin instructor. Her knuckles sparked with controlled lightning. "He's not learning the way we do. He's evolving."
She requested a solo mission: infiltration of a small Mist-controlled island near the Kumo border.
Unofficially? She was looking for him.
And somewhere in the Mist, Kenpachi sharpened his blade on stone, grinning.
He didn't know what she was planning.
But he hoped—he prayed—that she'd come back stronger.
Because now he had a sword.
And he wanted to see what it could really do.