The corridors of Shin'ō Academy stretched long and polished, wooden floors gleaming faintly in the afternoon light. Scrolls lined the walls with intricate kanji — mottos, commandments, and reminders of discipline. Akio's bare feet, still dusty from Rukongai, felt out of place against the immaculate surface.
In his arms, folded neatly, was a fresh academy uniform. White-trimmed black robes, sleeves crisp, scent of clean linen still clinging to them. It was the first proper clothing he'd had in this world. For two years he'd scavenged from corpses, markets, and back-alley piles. Now, for the first time, he carried something that belonged entirely to him.
The clerk who had handed it over earlier had been curt, his voice like flint: "Dormitory C, room 12. Share with other recruits. Keep it clean."
Akio exhaled slowly, tightening his grip on the bundle. "Room 12…"
He followed the long hallway until he found the numbered door. His heartbeat thudded once, sharply. This was the next step — no more alleys, no more broken shrines. This was the life of a Shinigami in training.
Sliding the door open, he stepped inside.
Two figures were already there.
The first was bald — perfectly bald — his scalp gleaming in the lamplight. He was seated cross-legged on the tatami, grinning as if the world itself were a good fight waiting to happen. His posture radiated restlessness, like he was itching to hit something.
The second stood before a mirror propped against the wall, adjusting his academy robe. His hair was immaculate — long, flowing, and groomed to perfection. Every movement he made was deliberate, precise, as if he were arranging himself for an audience.
Akio froze for only a moment before recognition flickered in his mind. 'Ikkaku Madarame. Yumichika Ayasegawa.'He'd seen their faces before — in the story that was yet to come.
The bald one turned first. His grin widened. "Oh, a new brat. You're our third?"
But then he made a face as if he was remembering something, "Aren't you that runt from earlier?"
Akio stepped inside, sliding the door shut behind him. "Kurozume Akio," he introduced himself simply, bowing just enough to pass as polite.
Ikkaku snorted. "Hah. Polite one. I'm Ikkaku. Don't bother with formalities — unless you're challenging me." His grin sharpened like a blade. "In that case, bow all you want after I beat you down."
Akio blinked, keeping his expression carefully neutral. "...I'll remember that."
The other boy finally turned from the mirror. His violet eyes flicked over Akio once, twice, and he sighed as though personally offended.
"Rough hair. Dust on your sleeves. A little too thin around the shoulders." He tapped his chin dramatically. "Unacceptable. If we're going to share a room, you'll need to work on… appearances."
"Yumichika," Ikkaku said with mock exasperation. "Give him a break. He just walked in."
Yumichika ignored him, stepping forward, robe flowing neatly as he extended a hand with calculated elegance. "Ayasegawa Yumichika. Unlike him—" he gestured dismissively at Ikkaku—"I prefer refinement. Try to keep up, won't you?"
Akio took the hand, bowing slightly again. "Kurozume Akio. I'll do my best."
Inside, however, his thoughts ran differently. 'Perfect. Got the brash fighter and the proud peacock as roommates. Both are powerful at the start of the story. If I play this right, I'll have two powerful allies by the time we graduate.'
The dormitory bell rang early the next morning, a deep, resonant chime that echoed across the academy grounds.
Akio stirred awake immediately, habits of survival honed from years in Rukongai. He sat up, straightening his bedding.
Ikkaku was already awake, stretching his arms with audible cracks. "Finally! Today we start. Hope they let us fight already."
Yumichika groaned softly, still tangled in his blanket. "If you mean sweating and swinging sticks, count me out. I expect something with… elegance."
Akio smiled faintly, rising to dress. His new robes felt strange, but comfortable. The three of them left the dorm together, following the crowd of recruits toward the central lecture hall.
The hall was enormous, pillars rising to hold a high ceiling painted with ancient murals. Dozens of recruits filled the rows, their chatter dying instantly as the instructors entered.
The lead instructor was an elderly man with narrow eyes and a beard streaked white. His robes were simple, but the insignia on his chest marked him as a veteran Shinigami.
He raised a hand, and silence fell.
"First-years," he intoned, voice echoing. "Welcome to the Shin'ō Academy. For the next six years, you will be shaped into Shinigami. Some of you will fail. Some of you will die. Those who endure will stand among the Gotei 13."
A ripple of unease passed through the hall. Akio kept his face calm, but his pulse quickened.
"For your first year," the instructor continued, "there will be no swords in your hands. No battles, no heroics. You will study. You will learn history, law, and discipline. You will master your breathing, your posture, and the first control of your Reiryoku. Only then will you begin true combat."
Groans erupted from some students. Ikkaku scowled openly.
"No fighting?!" he muttered, fists tightening. "What's the point then?"
Yumichika smirked, flipping his hair. "Good. We'll weed out the crude ones before they get far."
Akio only listened silently. 'Six years. The foundation matters. If I rush, I'll trip. Better to move at their pace… until I can surpass it.'
The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm.
Mornings began with theory lectures. They studied the history of Seireitei, the founding of the Gotei 13, and the story of the Soul King. The instructors spoke of noble families, the balance of souls, and the duties of Shinigami: purify Hollows, guide Pluses, protect the balance.
"The law of Soul Society is absolute," one instructor declared. "Our commandments bind us. To break them is to bring chaos."
Akio took careful notes, though his eyes often strayed to the instructors themselves. He watched their discipline, their posture, their measured release of Reiryoku. Every detail mattered.
Afternoons were for practice. Rows of recruits sat cross-legged, breathing in unison.
"Inhale four counts. Hold two. Exhale eight. Focus. Contain your energy," the instructors guided.
At first, Akio's Reiryoku surged uncontrolled, faint ripples brushing against his neighbors. He felt their eyes flick toward him, uneasy. He forced it down, remembering his shrine meditations.
Steam needs a lid.
Bit by bit, he mastered it. Each session, his control grew steadier. Where others struggled to find the hum of their Reiryoku, Akio learned to mask his entirely. But he showed like he was strugling too.
Evenings ended with physical training — light runs across the courtyard, stretches, posture drills. Nothing like the brutal survival exercises of Rukongai. But Akio welcomed them. His body, hardened by years of hardship, adapted quickly.
Living with Ikkaku and Yumichika was… eventful.
Ikkaku challenged him to spar at least once a week, despite there being no weapons allowed. Their "sparring" usually devolved into wrestling until an instructor caught them.
"You're quick, brat," Ikkaku admitted once, wiping blood from his lip. "Scrawny, but quick. You might actually be fun when they finally give us swords."
Yumichika, on the other hand, spent his evenings critiquing Akio's grooming. He often dragged him to the washroom, scolding him for leaving his hair uncombed.
"Strength is important," Yumichika lectured, "but appearance is strength too. Remember that."
Akio played along with a faint smile, nodding where needed. Inside, though, he thought: 'Well have to sacrifice things if I need strong allies. These two will be my biggest supporters after my rise after all.'
Still… something softened in him. Their banter, their constant presence — it was noisy, yes, but no longer lonely. For the first time since awakening, Akio felt like he belonged somewhere.
Seasons turned. Lessons deepened.
They studied Soul Society's geography — the four great noble houses, the districts of Rukongai, the functions of Central 46. They memorized the Shinigami commandments: do not attack without cause, obey the chain of command, protect the balance.
They listened to stories of past captains, battles against Quincy, the duty of sacrifice.
Breathing sessions grew longer, until entire afternoons passed in meditation. More and more students struggled — some fainted, some quit.
Akio endured. Each time his body trembled, he remembered the crushing weight of the Gillian's Reiryoku. Compared to that, these drills were nothing.
On the final day of the year, the instructors gathered them in the courtyard.
"You have endured the first year," the head instructor declared. "From here, your path will steepen. Second-year begins the true trials — Asauchi selection, Zanjutsu practice, kido casting, combat training. Survive, and you may one day call yourselves Shinigami."
Cheers erupted among the students. Ikkaku pumped his fist high, grinning ear to ear. Yumichika sighed in relief, muttering something about finally seeing elegance in swordplay.
Akio stood among them, silent. His eyes lifted toward the sky, the gleam of Seireitei's towers in the distance.
'Step by step. Survival. Strength. Power. This is only the beginning.'
That night, back in their dorm, Ikkaku snored loudly while Yumichika polished his nails by lamplight.
Akio sat cross-legged on his bedding, eyes half-closed. His Reiryoku pulsed faintly, steady as breath. He drew it in, folded it, hid it.
Then — for just an instant — his control slipped. A ripple of energy shimmered across the room. Ikkaku stirred in his sleep. Yumichika's eyes flicked toward him, narrowing.
Akio stilled, forcing the energy down again.
Neither said anything. But Akio knew.
'They've noticed.'
His lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile.
"Second year…" he whispered under his breath. "Now the real game begins."
[A/N: Special thanks to [BanditReyes] for the Power Stones! Your support means a lot and motivates me to keep writing 🙏.]