The Kirigakure Academy wasn't like Konoha's. There were no lectures on teamwork. No talk of Will of Fire. Just cold water, sharp blades, and silence. The instructors didn't teach—they observed. You either figured it out… or you died.
From the moment Kenpachi entered the Academy, he didn't fit in.
No clan. No chakra control. No ninjutsu.
He didn't speak unless spoken to. And even then, his answers were short and meaningless.
But the other students learned quickly: he didn't need words. His fists spoke for him.
On his first day, a boy from the Kaguya Clan—a feral type with bone protrusions and a prideful smirk—called him a "nameless mongrel." Said he didn't belong.
Kenpachi broke his jaw with a single punch and stomped his face until he stopped twitching.
The instructors said nothing. They simply noted it down.
Over the next few months, the students around Kenpachi stopped treating him like a peer. He was something else—something primal. Not driven by ambition or honor or even survival.
He was driven by battle.
He would grin when facing stronger opponents. He never used training weapons. He asked not for chakra lessons. He only wanted to spar. To fight. To bleed.
To feel alive.
At night, the other students whispered stories: That Kenpachi didn't sleep. That he liked pain. That he once kept fighting after a kunai pierced his shoulder—just to see how far he could go.
But he wasn't dumb. Far from it.
Kenpachi absorbed everything in silence—watching taijutsu forms, memorizing how chakra was molded. But he didn't chase finesse. He chased raw, savage efficiency.
He never cared for stealth or genjutsu. If the Academy taught killing, he would learn it his way.
And then came the final trial.
The Bloody Mist graduation test.
Two students. One kunai.
One lives.
One dies.
Kenpachi's opponent was a girl with an ice release bloodline limit. Cold. Ruthless. Deadly. Everyone thought she'd win—she had talent. Legacy. A clan behind her.
But Kenpachi didn't hesitate.
Before the proctor even finished counting down, he charged. Not for the kunai—but straight at her throat. She tried to freeze him, but she wasn't fast enough.
Kenpachi drove his head into her nose, shattered it. Then he broke her elbow, stomped on her ankle, grabbed the kunai mid-fall, and drove it straight into her chest.
His face was calm. Serene.
He stood in the pool of blood, kunai still in hand, and looked at the watching instructors like they were next.
There was no ceremony. No applause.
But Gengetsu was watching again.
And for the first time, the Mizukage spoke Kenpachi's name in front of the elite.
"This one isn't just a killer," Gengetsu said. "He's a force. He'll either bring us power… or burn us down trying."
From that day, Kenpachi wore the hitai-ate of Kirigakure. Not on his forehead—but on his waist, like a trophy. A reminder that he didn't earn it by birthright or talent. He earned it with blood.
But deep down, he didn't care for the symbol.
He only cared about the next fight.