Although Akira didn't know it yet, a group of powerful figures were already watching him closely.
Then again—he probably had a pretty good guess.
After all… this was exactly what he'd set out to achieve.
Sure enough, by the end of the day, the system confirmed his suspicions.
[Congratulations, Host! You have successfully survived one full day in Soul Society. A Daily Lottery Reward has been unlocked.]
Akira grinned. He had full confidence in what this lottery could offer.
Others might not understand—but he knew better than anyone: his spiritual pressure was impressive, yes, but it served only one true purpose—wielding the Sword of Victory. Beyond that? He was little more than a paper tiger.
Now that every major faction in Soul Society—friend and foe alike—had their eyes on him, survival had just become significantly harder.
"Start the lottery!" he declared.
With a tap, the familiar wheel spun. Light flared, and the system chimed:
[Congratulations, Host! You have obtained: 'Elite Hakuda'!]
The reward caught him off guard—but in the best way.
"System," he asked, eyes narrowed in curiosity, "what exactly does 'Elite' mean here?"
He remembered his stats clearly: his Hakuda had been listed as merely average.
["Elite" represents a significant upgrade from "Mediocre." In Soul Society's terms, your hand-to-hand combat prowess now places you within the top 100 Shinigami across all divisions.]
"Top 100… in all of Soul Society!?" Akira's breath hitched.
Soul Society housed countless souls—many trained for centuries in combat. And with a single spin, he'd vaulted into the elite tier?
A surge of knowledge flooded his mind—advanced strikes, pressure-point targeting, kinetic redirection, fluid footwork. Yet instead of overwhelming him, it settled into his body like muscle memory he'd always possessed.
"Perfect," he murmured, flexing his fingers. "One weakness down. With consistent training, I can close the rest of the gaps."
After all, Shinigami combat rested on four pillars:
- Zanjutsu (swordsmanship),
- Hakuda (hand-to-hand combat),
- Hohō (speed and movement, like Shunpo),
- Kidō (spiritual incantation magic).
He already excelled in Zanjutsu—at least, in wielding his unique blade. Now, Hakuda was no longer a liability.
Hohō and Kidō would follow. He was sure of it.
"I can't wait for tomorrow's draw," he said with a smirk.
But luck, it seemed, had other plans.
[Congratulations, Host! You have obtained: 'Golden Smile'!]
"…Wait. Cooking?"
Before him sat a steamed bun—golden, slightly shimmering, and oddly reminiscent of that one infamous dish Master Xie once made using a steel rod as a rolling pin.
After a beat of hesitation, Akira took a bite.
"Huh. No glow, but… wow. Actually delicious." His eyes lit up.
Let's be honest—after a century of bland, traditional Soul Society fare, even divine-level takoyaki would feel like a revelation.
"Well," he chuckled, dusting crumbs off his shihakushō, "if I can't always get combat boosts, gourmet rewards aren't the worst fallback."
For now, no one had approached him directly. That meant he could keep flying under the radar—collecting daily rewards, building strength, and waiting for the right moment to act.
But on the third day, before he could even tap the lottery wheel…
A knock.
"Akira-sama, pardon my intrusion!"
A young woman stood at his door—tea-colored hair tied neatly back, round glasses perched on her nose. Gin Miyu. Ninth Seat of the Sixth Division.
Akira recognized her vaguely—daughter of a former vice-captain, if memory served.
He raised an eyebrow. "Is something the matter?"
Gin Miyu adjusted her glasses nervously.
"Yes! I've come to inform you that you're required to attend the celebration banquet following the seating test. Please make sure to be there!"
Akira stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Huh. I thought they'd cancel it this year. I guess they just postponed it by a day…"
Normally, these banquets were held the evening after the seating test—lavish affairs meant to celebrate promotions and reinforce bonds within the division. Even in past years marred by scandal or tragedy, the tradition had rarely been broken. But this time, a noble-born Shinigami had died during the trials—something nearly unheard of—and Akira had assumed Captain Kuchiki would call it off out of respect.
"I understand," he said at last. "Thank you."
He gave Gin Miyu a polite nod, and she quickly excused herself.
That night, in one of Seireitei's grand banquet halls, the Sixth Division hosted its annual celebration.
As one of the Gotei 13's most prestigious noble-led divisions, the Sixth spared no expense. The hall gleamed with silken banners and polished oak tables laden with delicacies—sake aged for decades, grilled river fish from the Sōkyoku Hill streams, and sweets shaped like sakura blossoms. For most, it was a rare luxury. For Akira, it was a quiet reminder of a life he'd once left behind.
He sat alone at the edge of the gathering, his portion modest but untouched by others' eyes. The rest of the division kept their distance—some out of fear, others out of loyalty to the Kuchiki name. Akira didn't mind. He'd expected it.
After all, he was the one who'd struck down a scion of the Kuchiki clan—a lesser branch, yes, but noble blood nonetheless—during the seating test. The incident had sent ripples through Seireitei's political undercurrents. And though Captain Kuchiki himself had personally endorsed Akira's promotion to Third Seat, that didn't mean the rank carried weight in the eyes of his peers. In noble politics, blood spoke louder than blade.
Amid the clinking of cups and boisterous laughter, the conversation inevitably turned toward hierarchy.
"The vice-captain, Abarai, held his seat again this year!" someone declared, raising a toast. Cheers followed—Renji Abarai was, after all, a legend among Rukongai-born Shinigami. Few dared challenge Captain Kuchiki directly, so Renji remained the division's de facto champion of strength and spirit.
"Hah! That's nothing!" Renji laughed, cheeks flushed with drink. "You haven't even seen my Bankai yet!"
But not everyone was so careful with their words. A tipsy Shinigami from the lower ranks leaned forward, voice low but audible.
"Hey… between Vice-Captain Abarai and the new Third Seat—Akira—who's actually stronger? They didn't fight in the trials, did they?"
The air stilled.
"W-What kind of question is that?" another stammered. "Of course Vice-Captain Abarai's stronger!"
"A Third Seat can't possibly compare," someone else added quickly.
But the drunkard pressed on, gesturing vaguely toward Akira's table. "But… isn't the Third Seat supposed to be just below the vice-captain? And you saw that move earlier—no ordinary Shikai should've blocked that technique…"
Renji's grin faded. His fingers tightened around his cup.
It wasn't just about rank. Over the past year, his relationship with Rukia had grown strained—less sibling-like, more distant. Meanwhile, Akira—once a quiet attendant in the Kuchiki manor—had become someone Rukia trusted with matters even Renji wasn't consulted on. The shift wasn't overt, but it was unmistakable. And tonight, with alcohol stripping away restraint, that quiet resentment surfaced.
Renji turned his head slowly, eyes locking onto Akira, who was calmly sipping tea and picking at a piece of grilled eel as if none of this concerned him.
"Speaking of which…" Renji's voice cut through the murmurs like steel. "As the newly appointed Third Seat, shouldn't you offer your vice-captain a toast?"