Centuries of practicing calligraphy were supposed to cultivate patience and inner calm.
Aizen never expected to lose composure like this—here, of all places.
"These… are your works?"
He quickly regained control over his expression, asking in his usual gentle tone.
Rukia lowered her head, clearly a little embarrassed.
She was well aware her calligraphy was—at best—terrible.
But beside her, Kyoraku Shimo nodded with absolute confidence, his face filled with pride.
"That's right!"
"After thorough self-evaluation, I've confirmed that no one else can write like me."
"Therefore, I've named this style: Shimo Script!"
For a brief second, Aizen's brown eyes widened with visible surprise.
He had never seen someone so utterly… shameless.
No one else can write like that?
That wasn't a compliment. The script was so horrifyingly bad, most people wouldn't even dare look at it twice—let alone imitate it.
And yet this boy had the gall to name it after himself.
Aizen struggled internally for several seconds, unsure how to even respond.
"…Keep up the good work."
That was all he could muster.
The questions he'd planned to ask… were swallowed back into his throat.
Aizen quickly stepped away from their desk—because frankly, he couldn't bear to look at their "artwork" any longer.
Once he was out of earshot, Rukia shot a glare so sharp at Shimo it could've cut steel.
She finally understood.
Everything that had gone wrong today? It all traced back to him.
"You're the most thick-skinned person I've ever met!"
"Thanks for the compliment," Shimo replied, nodding sincerely.
Rukia was speechless. Utterly defeated.
"Damn it! I can't win against this guy at anything!"
After class ended, the two parted ways—for now.
Rukia had loudly declared she never wanted to see Shimo again.
But sadly, fate doesn't take requests.
---
Shimo lost interest in the remaining courses of the day.
The lesson on Shunpo (Flash Step)? He had already mastered it back at the Kyoraku estate.
While he couldn't compare with the Second Division Shinigami who specialized in Shunpo, he was well above the average academy student.
When the day's classes ended, Shimo returned to his dorm ahead of the others.
His heart was filled with questions—many of which no one could answer.
And so, he would have to seek those answers within himself.
Shimo sat cross-legged on a cushion, laying his Asauchi across his lap.
With steady breath and focused mind, he entered the meditative state.
Fortunately, this was one area where he seemed to have a knack.
Just a few minutes later, he smoothly slipped into his Zanpakutō's inner world.
The same strange scene unfolded before him—
Everywhere, countless clocks ticked in unison, surrounding him in all directions.
The rhythmic tick-tock echoed through the space like a chant of time itself.
And yet—he saw no sign of any being that might be his Zanpakutō spirit.
Its true name remained elusive.
The bizarre, dreamlike world—its meaning unclear—combined with Shimo's confused presence, formed a picture that few could ever hope to understand.
Clad in the black robes of a Shinigami student, he stepped cautiously along a path made entirely of gears and clock faces, moving forward without end, searching for something he could not yet name.
Here, time seemed to lose all meaning.
There was no sense of motion. No sense of stillness.
Even as he tried to study the nearby clocks, he could find no difference between them and ordinary ones.
That discovery only deepened his confusion.
"How the hell am I supposed to comprehend this?"
Shimo scratched his head. His brain was starting to throb.
He was never one for abstract thinking—and now he had ended up with a Zanpakutō like this.
Logically, a Zanpakutō should reflect its wielder's soul.
But this world… none of it felt familiar to him.
At present, the only thing he could do was follow the seemingly endless Path of Time beneath his feet.
With a deep breath, Shimo clenched his jaw and pressed forward.
Step by step.
First one. Then two. Then three… then four.
At first, he tried to keep count.
But as the journey dragged on, the monotony wore down his patience. Eventually, he abandoned counting altogether.
He didn't know how long he'd been walking.
Ahead—still more clocks. Nothing changed.
Within himself, aside from some rising mental fatigue, there was no change at all.
"Is everything… just frozen?"
He finally came to a halt.
Staring at the ticking clocks around him, he muttered,
"So these things… they're all fake?"
No sooner had the words left his mouth—
The entire clockwork world began to collapse.
The shattering space radiated an inexplicable horror—everything unraveling into nothingness.
As the clock-filled dimension crumbled, Shimo felt his consciousness begin to blur.
He knew this sensation—it meant he was about to be expelled from the Zanpakutō's inner world.
Struggling to keep his eyes open, Shimo desperately scanned the collapsing realm, hoping—praying—to catch even a glimpse of his Zanpakutō spirit.
And in the far distance—just before everything dissolved—
He saw it.
A colossal throne, forged entirely from timepieces, stood silently within the void.
No one sat upon it.
And yet… its presence radiated such overwhelming majesty, it left no doubt:
That throne ruled this world.