Under the openly curious gaze of Hitsugaya Tōshirō and the cheerful, energetic introductions of Hinamori Momo, the three quietly made their way toward the Shin'ō Academy nestled within the heart of Seireitei, the place where the future of Soul Society was carefully molded in silence and steel.
As they walked, the group passed several Shinigami clad in standard-issue black kosode uniforms, each with a sealed Zanpakutō strapped across their back in ritual familiarity; yet Lu Yu, without needing to sense spiritual pressure, quickly assessed their lack of presence—the absence of ambition in their eyes, the flat weight of their footsteps, and the way they seemed swallowed by their own uniforms all betrayed the same truth: none of them could be considered strong.
Real Captains, after all, were rarely seen lingering near training halls or walking among green recruits; they stood at the summit of Soul Society's might, shoulders bowed under the weight of endless wars and decisions carved in blood.
"This is the Spiritual Arts Academy. Isn't it spectacular?" Hinamori said with pride gleaming in her voice as she posed before the entrance, hands planted on her hips, her eyes glittering like starlight as they reflected the towering white-walled structure ahead.
The academy sprawled across an enormous stretch of land, comprised of two smaller support buildings that flanked a central structure so vast it seemed to press against the horizon; its simple one-story height was misleading, for what it lacked in vertical scale it made up for with depth, age, and the quiet sense of heavy tradition.
Though only two months had passed since the last enrollment wave, this current batch—Hinamori among them—still carried the faint pride of fresh uniforms and untested dreams, their nerves hidden beneath enthusiasm, their steps laced with ambition.
Etched into the right-hand side of the front gate were five sharp, solemn kanji—Shin'ō Reijutsuin—standing boldly as a mark of order, tradition, and the centuries of cultivation within.
Beneath that solemn inscription hung the Academy's yearly recruitment slogan, said to have been written by none other than Fifth Division Captain Aizen Sōsuke, whose refined handwriting had already become something of an aesthetic among scholars and nobles alike.
Lu Yu's eyes drifted across the plaque without much emotion, and though the words carried poetic formality, to him it felt no different than government signage back in the human world—functional, present, uninspired.
He mused to himself that such mediocre calligraphy was par for the course for someone like Aizen, a water-type user too in love with appearances, whose thousand-year lifespan had clearly not translated into true artistic mastery.
Still, Lu Yu reminded himself he was just a no-name civilian from Rukongai; his opinions weren't worth the ink used to scrawl that slogan.
Despite the dull formalities of the entrance, he remained quietly curious about what lay inside—especially the central structure, which he suspected must be woven with spiritual arrays, protective barriers, and possibly even spatial enchantments set by the Twelfth Division's engineers.
Led by Hinamori, who had eagerly appointed herself as their guide, the three made their way deeper into the Academy compound, passing students who seemed to light up upon seeing her; she greeted each one with a warm smile, never failing to respond with the gentle polish of someone genuinely well-liked.
Lu Yu noticed the way their gazes slowly shifted toward Hitsugaya, who made no attempt to suppress his presence; his spiritual pressure rolled off him like a cold front sweeping through summer heat, and every head turned in his direction as instinct met reverence.
No one paid Lu Yu the slightest attention, not because they dismissed him—but because there was simply nothing to sense.
He didn't mind.
Soon, they reached the testing chamber where new applicants were typically evaluated for eligibility—spiritual aptitude, reiryoku control, and basic capacity for Shinigami training.
"Teacher, I brought Tōshirō. He's really strong—way stronger than I am!" Momo declared with excited confidence as they entered, clearly proud to be introducing someone she considered a future powerhouse.
Hitsugaya clicked his tongue in frustration and looked away with barely concealed irritation, clearly disliking the way Momo had hyped him up like a novelty prize on display.
Lu Yu nearly laughed but held it back, his amusement flickering just beneath the surface.
"You made it, Hinamori. So this is Hitsugaya Tōshirō, eh? Not bad," said the man standing at the center of the room, his voice calm, though his keen eyes betrayed a deeper scrutiny.
Daigo Nahara Yan Wulang, chief instructor of the Academy's Special Class, had earned widespread respect for his uncanny ability to assess potential with a glance, and though he initially assumed Momo's recommendation to be mere sentimentality, that assumption vanished the moment his senses met Tōshirō's spiritual field—refined, contained, lethal in its density.
Daigo's sharp gaze gleamed with recognition, quietly categorizing the boy before him as one of those rare prodigies—like Vice-Captain Ichimaru Gin, another silver-haired phenomenon who had emerged from obscurity like a blade unsheathed in the dark.
Perhaps it was no coincidence that both had loyal childhood friends following them like protective shadows.
Genius always seemed to come with strange patterns.
The two Twelfth Division technicians flanking Daigo shared a similar shift in posture; they leaned forward in sudden interest, their instruments already recalibrating as they studied Hitsugaya's every motion.
None of them so much as glanced at Lu Yu.
A boy without spiritual pressure simply didn't matter.
Hitsugaya ignored the scrutiny with practiced indifference, but he knew this was no longer a game; having come this far, he now had no choice but to follow the proper path, no matter how many strangers stared at him like an artifact.
Under the guidance of the researchers, Tōshirō calmly approached the testing device and released his spiritual pressure as instructed, channeling it through the specially enchanted equipment developed by the Twelfth Division's R&D Bureau.
A cold wave of icy energy pulsed into the array, and within moments the readings on the spirit gauge began to spike—rising erratically, then stabilizing with a sharp snap as the final number flickered into view.
"Third-class spiritual pressure," Daigo announced, and even he could not completely mask his surprise. "That's the threshold for a seated officer."
The two researchers muttered to each other in disbelief, confirming what they saw—this was no fluke.
"His spiritual signature is already fully formed."
"And that wasn't even his full output. He barely tapped the stream."
They had only arranged this test out of caution, prompted by reports of strange spiritual anomalies in West Rukongai's First District; they had expected nothing, and certainly not a gift-wrapped prodigy.
District One rarely offered anything more than quiet obscurity.
This changed everything.
While the room remained abuzz with excitement over Hitsugaya's results, Lu Yu slowly stepped forward, his tone relaxed as he addressed the group.
"This opportunity is rare," he said with a self-deprecating shrug, "so maybe I'll give it a shot. I've always dreamed of becoming a glorious Shinigami… too bad my strength doesn't want to cooperate."
The exaggerated regret in his voice was subtle but deliberate, and for a moment it even seemed sincere.
The two technicians glanced at him, shared a faint smile, and politely nodded—though their expressions clearly betrayed disbelief.
They had already struck gold once; a second miracle from the same district, and on the same day? Utterly implausible.
Lu Yu was a ghost in the system, a spiritual non-entity.
Even Hinamori seemed puzzled as she looked at him; he was clever, certainly, and thoughtful in many ways—but spiritual pressure had never been among his attributes.
This test had been authorized only because someone higher up took note of the name "Lu Yu" in recent Rukongai patrol reports.
"Uncle Lu Yu… you want to become a Shinigami too?" Hitsugaya asked, his tone not scornful but hesitant, his frown reflecting concern rather than doubt.
They had shared meals, stories, and quiet evenings under the same sky; for Tōshirō, Lu Yu's failure would feel personal, a door closing not just on a dream, but on a shared past.
The truth was, no one—not even the best instruments in Soul Society—could fully predict spiritual potential.
Even Hisagi Shūhei, future Vice-Captain of the Ninth Division, had failed the Academy entrance exam twice despite having spiritual pressure strong enough to leave a number carved into his face.
Machines could fail. Observations could deceive.
But spiritual pressure never lied.
And in the eyes of everyone present, Lu Yu had none.
Not that anyone believed a dream without power was worth anything.
Not yet.