"I never imagined I could draw weapons from other worlds…"
Akira's breath hitched as his fingers closed around the hilt of the radiant blade before him—the Sword of Promised Victory. The moment he touched it, a surge of arcane knowledge flooded his mind, as though the blade itself whispered its secrets into his soul:
[Sword of Promised Victory: A transcendent sword forged in legend. Though born of foreign mana, its essence has been reforged by the system to resonate with your spiritual pressure. It grants mastery over wind-born barriers and a sealed True Name—its full release capable of sundering heavens. When unneeded, it may reside within your inner world.]
Akira's pulse quickened. Even without achieving Shikai, he now wielded a blade that dwarfed most Zanpakutō in Soul Society. Forget Shikai—many Bankai wouldn't rival its might.
If rewards like this keep coming… Aizen, Yhwach—none of them will stand a chance.
But recklessness would be fatal. Charging at Aizen now would spike his "survival difficulty" beyond survivable limits. He'd be erased before drawing his next breath.
Patience. Strategy first.
He turned his focus back to the system. After careful study, he finally understood how survival difficulty was calculated: environmental danger, hostility from others, and—most critically—whether entities of immense power had marked him as a target. The greater the peril, the richer the reward… but only if he lived to claim it.
For now… the seat-ranking test.
The night passed in silence.
By dawn, the Sixth Division had gathered on the training grounds—nearly three hundred Shinigami arrayed in disciplined rows, their faces a tapestry of anxiety, ambition, and quiet disdain.
Whispers followed Akira like shadows. After yesterday's confrontation with the Kuchiki loyalists, rumors had spread like wildfire: A commoner dared shame the noble bloodline? They expected him to fall today—publicly, humiliatingly.
He didn't need to hear their words to know their game.
Then—
"Silence."
The single word, calm yet absolute, cut through the murmurs like winter frost. From the command platform above, Captain Byakuya Kuchiki stood motionless, his scarf stirring faintly in the morning breeze.
"The seat-ranking examination begins now," he declared. "Vice-Captain Abarai will outline the rules."
Renji stepped forward, Zabimaru slung across his back. His gaze swept the ranks, sharp as steel.
"This ain't the Academy," he said, voice rough but clear. "No written tests. No measured kido drills. Out here, only combat matters—sword, fist, spell, instinct. Challenge who you will. Win, and take their seat. Lose, and drop in rank. No mercy. No excuses."
He raised a hand—and brought it down like an executioner's axe.
"Begin."
The field erupted into motion.
From the observation platform, Byakuya and Renji watched the matches unfold, silently evaluating each cadet's performance.
"Not much progress this year," Renji muttered, arms crossed. "Some of them have even regressed."
He sighed. "Captain, I told you—we're recruiting too many nobles. They don't know how to fight properly."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Renji flinched inwardly—he'd just criticized the nobility in front of Byakuya Kuchiki, heir of one of the Four Great Noble Houses.
But Byakuya didn't react. "I also recruited Shinigami from common backgrounds," he said coolly. "None of them stand out either."
"Yeah…" Renji rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess you've got a point."
Just then, a loud voice cut through the air.
"I challenge Akira!"
All eyes snapped toward the challenger—Kuchiki Takuto, chest puffed out, eyes blazing with arrogance.
Renji smirked. "Well, that's convenient. We were just talking about nobles versus commoners—and now we've got one right in front of us."
He nudged Byakuya lightly. "Captain, who do you think'll win?"
Byakuya didn't even glance at the field. "There's no need to ask pointless questions. The outcome is obvious."
Renji exhaled through his nose. "True… No matter how incompetent noble-borns can be, they still inherit high spiritual pressure. That alone puts them above most commoners."
Uninterested, Byakuya closed his eyes again, already dismissing the match as a foregone conclusion.
Down on the training grounds, Akira felt the weight of every gaze settle on him.
Everyone remembered Takuto's boasts from the day before. Now, they were all waiting to see how badly the commoner would lose.
But Akira stood calm, unruffled.
"Just a word of advice," he said evenly. "Challenging me is a mistake you'll regret for the rest of your life."
Takuto scoffed. "Hah! Scared already? Too late for that! A commoner like you doesn't deserve mercy from our noble house!"
"It's really noisy," Akira murmured.
He shook his head—then decided to end it quickly.
Reaching into empty air, he grasped nothing… yet the air itself seemed to tremble.
The crowd murmured in confusion. What's he doing? Is he mocking us?
"Die!" Takuto roared, already drawing his Zanpakutō and charging forward. "Roar, Wind—!"
"Strike."
At Akira's soft command, a gale of overwhelming force erupted across the field—sharp, holy, and absolute. Dust, gravel, and even spiritual pressure were swept aside as if the very sky obeyed his word.
"Wahhh! What's happening?!"
"Why's the wind so strong all of a sudden?!"
"Is this… Akira's Shikai?!"
The surge was so intense that even Byakuya's eyes snapped open. Beside him, Renji stood frozen, jaw slightly slack.
Before them, shimmering in midair, a golden holy sword slowly materialized in Akira's grip—gleaming with divine radiance, engraved with ancient runic light, its presence distorting the air like a fallen star given form.
"That's… a Zanpakutō?!" Renji whispered, disbelief cracking his voice.
He'd never seen anything like it. Not in all of Soul Society. Its brilliance eclipsed even Sode no Shirayuki—the so-called most elegant blade in existence.
Akira raised the Sword of Oath Victory with both hands, his voice cold, final.
"This ends now."
Around him, countless golden particles of light swirled like stardust, drawn inexorably into the blade—each one humming with the weight of oaths fulfilled, kings crowned, and battles sealed by fate itself.