In the world of the Shinigami, Reiatsu—also called spiritual pressure—could be understood, in the simplest terms, as the density of one's soul.
The denser the soul, the greater the Reiryoku one could wield. Control, however, depended entirely on the individual.
For Shinigami and Hollows alike, the rule applied almost universally. Take Kurosaki Ichigo, for instance—his Reiatsu was immense, far beyond ordinary limits. Yet his control over it had always lagged behind. In the beginning, he couldn't even regulate the spiritual pressure leaking from his own body. His Reiryoku condensed uncontrollably, forming unstable pathways whenever he traversed the Garganta into Hueco Mundo.
Quincies, however, were a special case. They didn't necessarily possess overwhelming Reiatsu, but the way they manipulated Reishi—the spirit particles within the atmosphere—gave them access to vast reserves of spiritual energy regardless.If the Shinigami fought with the power condensed within themselves, the Quincies drew directly from nature's flow.
To Arata, it was clear: Reiatsu wasn't simply equivalent to "mana" as he once understood from games. Nor did it correspond neatly to something like mental attributes or willpower. It was a composite measure, reflecting the totality of one's spiritual existence.
For instance, his physical body—if one could even call it that—was extremely powerful. If he were truly a soul within the world of the Shinigami, then his very essence must possess remarkable density. That alone would ensure a formidable Reiatsu.
Of course, given how heavily Shinigami combat relied on the external release of Reiatsu—spiritual pressure erupting like waves—the strength of one's mind surely played a critical role in determining the total measure.
"Unbelievable…"
Professor Fujimoto, the instructor overseeing the test, stared wide-eyed at the display. Around him, murmurs of disbelief rippled through the hall.
A flicker of violet-black light pulsed across the testing screen. The measurement bar climbed rapidly, jumping through each bracket as though unrestrained. The moment Arata laid his hand upon it, the indicator surged past ten levels in an instant.
"Twentieth-class Reiatsu!"Someone gasped aloud.
Yet not everyone seemed shocked. Since the founding of the Shin'ō Spiritual Arts Academy, prodigies had appeared more than once. There had even been monsters who entered with seventh-class spiritual pressure recorded at enrollment.
But as the numbers continued to shift upward, more and more faces turned grim.
Twentieth-class… Nineteenth… Eighteenth… Seventeenth-class Reiatsu!
"Is that enough?"Arata glanced toward the now-stabilized reading and turned to Fujimoto with a calm expression.
Unlike his awestruck peers, Arata didn't seem particularly impressed. He knew that, in the original history of this world, true geniuses entered the Academy with single-digit levels of Reiatsu.
Two hundred years from now, figures like Shiba Kaien—and later, Gin Ichimaru and Hitsugaya Tōshirō—would completely outclass his current score.
Still, disappointment never crossed his mind. He wasn't of this world, after all—not a true Reishi-formed soul. His strength lay instead in his potential for growth, his instinct, and his battle sense honed through countless struggles.
"No wonder Captain Unohana personally brought you here," Fujimoto finally said, masking his earlier surprise. "An exceptional recruit indeed. Let's move on to the next test."
He set aside the testing tablet and retrieved two bamboo swords from the rack.
Arata's seventeen-class Reiatsu might not have ranked among the top ten in this year's applicants, but for someone who had once been a mere drifter from the Rukongai slums, it was extraordinary. Fujimoto's astonishment wasn't at the raw number itself—it was at the origin behind it.
The noble heirs who entered with single-digit Reiatsu weren't necessarily more talented. Most had simply been nurtured since birth—aristocrats of Seireitei or descendants of great clans, raised amid spiritual abundance and formal training. They'd been refining Reishi since childhood, long before ever setting foot in the Academy.
Arata, by contrast, had received no such privilege. He hadn't even known the proper methods of Reishi condensation. His seventeen-class measurement was entirely innate—pure, untrained potential.Given six years of proper cultivation, Fujimoto estimated Arata could easily rise to eighth or even sixth-class Reiatsu—on par with seated officers of a Gotei 13 division.
In Fujimoto's eyes, the boy was an uncut gem. Only one question remained—how sharp was his edge?
"Let's find out," Fujimoto said at last, tossing one of the bamboo swords toward Arata. "Attack me."
Arata caught the weapon lightly, testing its balance. So that was it—the so-called "second test" wasn't part of the formal entrance exam at all. Fujimoto simply wanted to gauge his swordsmanship.
After all, he'd already said passing the first test made Arata an official student. This was merely the Kendo instructor's personal assessment—a trial by combat, nothing more.
Seeing Arata standing motionless, Fujimoto assumed hesitation."Don't worry," he said with a reassuring smile. "I'll suppress my Reiatsu to your level, and I'll hold back. Just come at me with everything you've got."
At that, the corner of Arata's mouth twitched upward. "Are you sure about that, sensei?"
Fujimoto frowned. Something in the young man's tone—half amusement, half challenge—made it sound like mockery.
"You don't need to overthink it," he said, voice firm. "Just attack. Come at me with the intent to kill. Show me your true level. That way I can plan your training properly—make sure you can keep up with your classmates."
Before teaching at Shin'ō, Fujimoto had been a seated officer himself. He took pride in his swordsmanship—years of disciplined mastery forged in the Gotei 13. In his eyes, Arata was talented but arrogant, probably used to street brawls in the chaos of Rukongai. The boy had likely never lost a fight, which explained his confidence.
Today, Fujimoto decided, he'd teach him humility.He would show this reckless youth that the crude violence of the slums could never compare to true swordsmanship.
"With the intent to kill, huh…"Arata murmured softly, lowering his stance, bamboo blade angling across his body.
In that instant, Fujimoto's breath caught. The youth before him—who moments ago had stood relaxed and unguarded—suddenly transformed.
It wasn't his posture, nor his weapon, but something deeper: his presence.A shift as palpable as a tiger crouching before the leap.Like a master blade sliding soundlessly into its sheath, building pressure before the strike.
Beneath his lowered lashes, a glint of fervor flashed—a heat barely contained. It was the gleam of a volcano moments before eruption. The madness of a warrior. The thrill of a berserker.
Then—The wooden floor cracked beneath Arata's feet. He launched forward like a cannonball, yet moved with a strange, impossible grace.
Ten meters vanished in an instant. The bamboo sword carved through the air in a clean, elegant arc—like ink sweeping across paper, like a calligrapher's stroke that bled light.It was only bamboo—but for an instant, it seemed to gleam like steel drenched in blood.
Bang—!
At the very last moment, Fujimoto managed to block, the two swords clashing with explosive force. The shockwave rippled outward, whipping both men's hair.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met.In Arata's gaze burned hunger—and elation.
"Damn it!" Fujimoto cursed inwardly. His first parry had been a fraction too slow.This boy wasn't just gifted—he knew how to fight. Each motion was precise, natural, instinctive. He fought not like a student but like a veteran swordsman, or perhaps someone born with battle engraved in his bones.
As Fujimoto began his counterstroke, Arata was already there—his next strike darting forward like a viper, slipping through the gap in Fujimoto's defense and driving straight toward his throat.