Teenage shonen faves still have something to say to us
I recently went back to Bleach.
It wasn’t intentional at first. When the new season aired last year, I barely had the time or attention to engage with it properly. I watched it distractedly, without giving it what it probably deserved, and then moved on. But something pulled me back. Recently, I found myself reaching for it again.
Bleach was one of the shonen I grew up with, alongside Naruto. And like with Naruto, I was honestly a little afraid to revisit it, afraid I’d outgrown it, afraid I’d become frustrated with the genre’s blind spots, its shortcuts, all the things I now notice too easily.
That didn’t really happen with Bleach.
Instead, I found myself unexpectedly drawn in again. And I discovered a new favorite character, one I barely paid attention to before: Izuru Kira.
Back then, I remember thinking of Kira as “that gloomy, emo guy,” someone who didn’t do much for me. This time, I went back and traced him through earlier volumes, revisiting scenes I’d forgotten, noticing details and nuances that had completely escaped me before. What I found wasn’t a flat character at all, but a deeply complex one.
Kira’s symbolism alone is striking: Wabisuke, a blade that doubles weight, the 3rd Division’s marigold, a flower of mourning; his explicit belief that battle should not be heroic or exhilarating, but frightening and sorrowful, something people should want to avoid.
What moves me most about Kira, though, is the contrast at his core.
Here is a man who is deeply sensitive, introspective, and emotionally aware. A man with a rich inner life. He writes haiku. He authors a serialized novel titled I Want to Apologize to You. He gives poetry lectures at the Shin’o Academy. This is someone profoundly in touch with emotion and meaning.
At the same time, he is someone who quietly and consistently does his job, without romanticizing it. He understands that the work is gruesome and accepts that as part of the role. His Zanpakuto's abilities reflects this directly. Its Shikai command, “Raise your head,” is not meant to encourage. Once activated, the blade increases the weight of whatever it strikes, forcing opponents to their knees and leaving them unable to move. Only then does its purpose become clear: Wabisuke is designed to finish fights through execution, not combat, severing the head of an opponent who has already been rendered helpless and humiliated.
Kira does not fight to inspire others or to demonstrate strength. He fights to end violence as efficiently and decisively as possible. His approach treats battle as something meant to deter, not glorify, a necessary and disturbing task rather than a moment of triumph.
After defeating an opponent, he says, “I would appreciate it if you would not forgive me.” There is no desire for glory, only the acknowledgment of duty fulfilled, and the weight that comes with it.
Kira internalizes disappointment and grief and carries them with him through the story, chapter after chapter, growing heavier. We meet him at his parents’ grave before he enters the academy and watch him form friendships there. We then see him change, from a confident, relatively light-hearted young man, someone who even spent time in the medical division, into the lieutenant of one of the most morally ambiguous figures in the entire story.
He chooses to protect that captain even when it costs him a friend, even though the regret is immediate and devastating. Later, he is betrayed by Gin himself. And in hindsight, we learn that Gin, too, was betrayed by the system he tried to subvert.
Through all of this, Izuru keeps going.
He continues to do his job, maintaining a structure that has lost its center, holding together a division without a clear leader, even though he himself was never meant to lead. There’s something quietly tragic in that endurance without ambition or martyrdom. He becomes the kind of person who sustains things simply because someone has to.
He’s no longer dramatic to me in the way I once thought he was. Now he feels restrained, someone who speaks rarely of his feelings, and when he does, it comes out raw and slightly poetic, because it surfaces from a place he keeps carefully hidden.
Some might overlook his character because he doesn’t receive a clean conclusion. Even after the Thousand-Year Blood War, after being called a “dead man” and having a literal hole in his torso “repaired” by Mayuri, we still see him in the Echoing Jaws of Hell arc. Still in uniform. Still moving forward.
And that, to me, is the resolution.
It speaks to the burdens we carry, the parts of ourselves we lose, and the way life doesn’t pause to let us recover neatly. The next day still comes. And sometimes, choosing to keep going, choosing to remain yourself and take one more step, is all there is.
I’m really glad I went back. There’s something strangely comforting in realizing that stories don’t always stay where we left them, that they can grow alongside us. Who knows what other pieces of childhood media still have something left to give us, once we return with different eyes, carrying different weights.