The summons came before dawn.
A servant's knock—soft but insistent—pulled Asahi from shallow sleep. He'd been dreaming of his old life again, fragments of conventions and anime episodes bleeding into memories of Soul Society training. The dissonance left him disoriented until cold reality reasserted itself.
Three years old physically. Thirty in Soul Reaper years. Today marked the beginning of formal training.
He dressed in the provided training clothes—simple black hakama and gi, sturdy enough for combat practice but lacking any clan insignia. Deliberate, he realized. In the training grounds, lineage meant nothing. Only capability mattered.
The servant led him through pre-dawn darkness, their footsteps muffled on stone pathways still slick with night's condensation. The estate slept around them, but Asahi could feel the wakeful presence of guards stationed at intervals. Onmitsukidō members, their spiritual pressure suppressed to near-invisibility. Always watching. Always ready.
They descended into the underground facility—deeper than the chamber where he'd first witnessed Yoruichi training. The air grew colder with each step, carrying the scent of earth and stone and something metallic that might have been old blood. Torches flickered in wall sconces, casting shadows that danced with predatory suggestion.
The training hall opened before him like a mouth.
It was larger than the previous chamber, with a ceiling high enough to accommodate aerial combat practice. The floor was packed earth rather than stone—better for absorbing impact, he realized with clinical detachment. Training equipment lined the walls: wooden practice swords, weights of various sizes, meditation platforms. Everything worn smooth by generations of use.
Ten children waited in formation, arranged by height. Ages five through eight, their spiritual pressure signatures marking them as promising talents drawn from lesser noble families and Onmitsukidō bloodlines. They stood at attention, backs straight, eyes forward. Discipline already ingrained.
At the chamber's far end stood their instructor.
The man was ancient—perhaps fifteen hundred years old, his face a topographical map of violence survived. Scars traced his jaw, his neck, disappearing beneath his training gi. His left arm ended at the elbow, the stump wrapped in clean bandages. But his spiritual pressure was immense, compressed and controlled with the precision of someone who'd spent centuries mastering it.
"You're late." His voice was gravel scraped across stone. "Take your position. Smallest to the right."
Asahi moved quickly, finding his place at the formation's end. The girl beside him—perhaps seven years old, with black hair tied in a severe bun—glanced at him briefly. Her eyes were dark and intense, burning with something that looked like desperation dressed as determination.
The instructor surveyed them with the expression of someone evaluating livestock. "I am Akiyama. Onmitsukidō, Third Seat, retired. You will address me as Akiyama-sensei. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not question orders. You will train until your body breaks, then train through the breaking." His single eye fixed on each student in turn. "Half of you will wash out within a month. Most of the rest won't survive to graduation. Those few who remain will become weapons worthy of the Shihōin name."
Silence. None of the children moved. Fear radiated from several, but discipline held them in place.
"We begin with basics." Akiyama raised his remaining hand, spiritual energy coalescing above his palm. "Reiryoku circulation while maintaining physical exertion. You will hold this position"—he dropped into a deep squat, thighs parallel to the ground—"while circulating your spiritual power continuously. When you fail, you run perimeter laps until I say otherwise."
He demonstrated the circulation—energy flowing in visible patterns through his body's pathways, purple-tinged power that hummed with controlled force. Then he straightened, returning to his observational stance.
"Begin."
The children dropped into the required position. Asahi felt the immediate burn in his thighs, the protest of muscles too young for this level of exertion. Around him, others shook with effort. The girl beside him maintained form perfectly, though sweat already beaded on her forehead.
Now for the hard part. Asahi reached inward, finding his reiryoku core and pulling power through his developing pathways. The energy moved sluggishly at first—his spiritual channels were still narrow, still forming—but consistent practice with Yoruichi had widened them significantly.
The power flowed. He pushed it through his body in the pattern Akiyama had demonstrated, feeling it reinforce his muscles, carry away fatigue's accumulated toxins. The burn in his thighs lessened fractionally.
Minutes stretched. His bare feet went numb against the cold earth, then began to ache as circulation struggled against the sustained position. Sweat dripped into his eyes despite the chamber's chill. His infant body screamed at the abuse, every nerve demanding he stand, rest, stop.
This is nothing, he told himself with the cold calculation that came easier each day. You've endured worse. The body is just meat. The mind controls everything.
The first child collapsed at the five-minute mark. A boy perhaps six years old, his legs giving out as he tumbled forward. Akiyama's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Perimeter. Twenty laps."
The boy scrambled up, limping toward the chamber's edge. Others followed within minutes—their reiryoku circulation faltering, their legs trembling beyond control. By the ten-minute mark, seven children were running laps, their labored breathing echoing off stone walls.
Only three remained in position.
Asahi maintained his squat, feeling his spiritual energy flow with increasing smoothness. The pathways were warming now, the circulation becoming almost automatic. Beside him, the black-haired girl held firm, her small face set in rigid determination. Across the formation, an older boy—eight years old, broad-shouldered, already showing the muscle development of serious training—matched their endurance.
Fifteen minutes. The older boy's form began to waver, his reiryoku circulation sputtering. At seventeen minutes, he collapsed with a frustrated growl.
"Perimeter. Thirty laps."
Twenty minutes. Just Asahi and the girl now. He could feel her spiritual pressure beside him—smaller than his, less refined, but driven by something almost fanatical. She wasn't succeeding through talent. She was succeeding through sheer, desperate willpower.
Who is she?
Twenty-five minutes. Asahi's legs were columns of fire. His reiryoku circulation was smooth, but his body had limits. Much longer and he'd cause actual damage to developing muscles and tendons.
Should I fail? Falling now would be believable. Expected, even.
But the girl beside him showed no signs of stopping. Her face was pale, sweat soaking through her gi, but her spiritual energy continued to flow. She would stay in this position until her body literally gave out.
Can't be shown up by a seven-year-old.
Thirty minutes. Akiyama finally spoke.
"Enough. Stand."
Asahi straightened on shaking legs. Beside him, the girl rose with visible effort, her movements stiff but controlled. They faced forward, maintaining attention stance as the other children finished their laps and rejoined formation.
Akiyama approached them, his scarred face revealing nothing. He examined Asahi first, then the girl, his single eye analytical.
"Names."
"Asahi Shihōin," he said clearly.
"Shaolin Fēng." Her voice was soft but steady.
"Fēng." Akiyama's eye narrowed slightly. "Ninth generation of the lesser noble house. Youngest of six siblings. You have something to prove."
"Yes, Akiyama-sensei." No elaboration. Just acknowledgment.
The instructor grunted—a sound that might have been approval. He looked at Asahi. "Young master. Your circulation technique is more refined than expected. Who taught you?"
Careful. "My sister. Yoruichi-nee showed me basics."
"Flash Goddess herself took interest in a three-year-old's training." Akiyama's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his tone. "You'll need to exceed basics quickly. Talent means higher expectations."
"Yes, Akiyama-sensei."
He moved away, addressing the full formation. "Circulation exercise will begin every session. Your baseline is thirty minutes. Failure means laps." His eye swept across them. "Dismissed. Return tomorrow, same time. Those who don't appear won't be retrieved."
The children bowed in unison and filed toward the exit. Asahi followed the flow, his legs protesting every step. The black-haired girl—Shaolin—walked beside him, her movements careful and precise despite obvious exhaustion.
They emerged into the pre-dawn garden. The other children dispersed quickly, returning to their family compounds or assigned quarters. Shaolin hesitated, glancing at Asahi with that same intense expression.
"You're... the young master, aren't you?" She bowed deeply, suddenly formal. "I'm sorry for presuming to stand beside you during training. I should have—"
"Stop." Asahi cut her off, surprised by his own vehemence. "Don't apologize for being skilled. You earned that position."
She straightened, confusion flickering across her face. "But I'm—"
"From a lesser house. I know." He met her eyes directly. "Doesn't matter in the training hall. Akiyama said it himself—only capability counts."
Shaolin stared at him like he'd spoken in a foreign language. High nobles didn't talk to lesser nobility like this. The hierarchy was absolute, prescribed by centuries of tradition. But something in her expression shifted—that desperate ambition focusing, crystallizing into something sharper.
"Why do you train so hard?" Asahi asked, genuinely curious. She'd pushed herself beyond reasonable limits during that exercise. That kind of drive had to come from somewhere.
"Because I'm nobody." Her small fists clenched at her sides. "Ninth generation. Youngest of six. My family has served the Shihōin clan for generations, but we're... we're nothing special. Just adequate." The intensity in her eyes burned brighter. "But Lady Yoruichi is perfect. Fast, strong, brilliant. Everything a noble should be. If I can become even half as capable, if I can stand beside her and be useful..." She trailed off, suddenly aware she'd said too much.
Oh no, Asahi thought with sinking recognition. It's already starting.
This was Soifon. Had to be. The obsessive devotion to Yoruichi, the desperate need to prove herself worthy—all the hallmarks of the character he remembered from canon. But she was so young right now, her fixation still forming, not yet the all-consuming focus that would define her for decades.
Could he change this? Should he? Her relationship with Yoruichi would eventually lead to heartbreak when his sister defected, but it would also forge Soifon into one of Soul Society's most capable captains. Intervening now might help her, or it might rob her of the motivation that drove her excellence.
Too many variables. Too many unknowns.
"Lady Yoruichi is remarkable," Asahi agreed carefully. "But you don't need to compare yourself to her. Just be the best version of yourself. That's enough."
Shaolin looked at him like he'd suggested the sky was green. "Is it? Is being adequate enough in the Shihōin clan?"
She had a point. Adequacy got you killed in Soul Society's upper echelons. Excellence was the minimum standard.
"No," he admitted. "It's not. But there's a difference between striving for excellence and destroying yourself trying to match someone else's shadow."
She considered this, her young face thoughtful. Then she bowed again, more naturally this time.
"Thank you for the advice, young master. I'll... think about it." She hesitated. "Will you be at training tomorrow?"
"Every day until they tell me otherwise."
A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "Then I'll see you there."
She walked away toward the eastern wing where lesser noble families maintained quarters within the Shihōin compound. Asahi watched her go, feeling the weight of foreknowledge pressing down on his shoulders.
She's going to attach herself to Yoruichi. Nothing I say will stop it. And when Yoruichi leaves...
He pushed the thought away. That was decades in the future. Right now, he had more immediate concerns—like surviving formal training without revealing the full extent of his abilities.
The morning sun began to crest the compound walls, painting the gardens in shades of amber and gold. Asahi headed back toward his quarters, exhaustion finally catching up with his young body.
Tomorrow would bring the same brutal routine. And the day after. And every day until he was strong enough to matter in Soul Society's endless games of power and politics.
One step at a time, he reminded himself. Get strong. Stay alive. Figure out the rest later.
The Kuchiki estate made the Shihōin compound look modest by comparison.
Evening had fallen by the time Asahi's palanquin arrived at the Great Noble House's gates. His mother sat across from him, dressed in formal layers of silk that must have taken hours to arrange properly. She'd been fussing over his appearance since noon—adjusting his training clothes, correcting his posture, drilling him on proper etiquette.
"Remember," she said for perhaps the twentieth time, "you represent our clan tonight. Every word, every gesture will be observed and judged. Speak only when addressed. Show respect to your elders. And for heaven's sake, don't demonstrate any reiryoku techniques unless specifically requested."
"Yes, Mother." Asahi kept his tone patient despite the repetition. She was genuinely nervous, her hands twisting in her lap whenever she thought he wasn't looking.
The palanquin stopped. Attendants opened the screens, revealing the Kuchiki compound in all its oppressive grandeur.
Everything was white—walls, pathways, even the trees seemed bleached of color by spiritual techniques he couldn't identify. The architecture was sharp angles and precise measurements, lacking the Shihōin estate's organic flow. This place felt like a museum. Beautiful, but designed to be observed rather than lived in.
His father was already present, standing with other clan heads near the main residence. He glanced at Asahi once, nodded fractional approval at his appearance, then returned to conversation with a scarred Shinigami wearing a First Division Lieutenant's badge.
Right. Politics. My favorite.
The gathering took place in an enormous hall, its ceiling supported by pillars carved with intricate scenes of Kuchiki history. Young nobles from all four Great Clans mingled under the watchful eyes of their elders—carefully choreographed interactions designed to assess alliances and identify future threats.
Asahi was immediately dismissed by most of the children. "Spare heir," he heard whispered more than once. "The Shihōin already have Yoruichi. What's the point of a second?"
He didn't correct them. Anonymity had its uses.
A boy his age approached—perhaps four years old physically, with distinctive black hair and aristocratic features that marked him unmistakably as Kuchiki. His posture was already rigid with formality, every movement practiced.
"Asahi Shihōin?" The boy's voice was carefully modulated. "I am Byakuya Kuchiki. It's customary for heirs to acknowledge each other at such gatherings."
Byakuya. Of course. Future Squad Six Captain, Rukia's adoptive brother, and one of Soul Society's most powerful Shinigami. Right now, he was just a child trying very hard to meet impossible expectations.
"An honor to meet you, Byakuya-san." Asahi bowed precisely, matching the angle Byakuya had used. The formality felt ridiculous between two children, but this was Soul Society. Propriety trumped practicality.
They made stilted conversation about nothing—training schedules, weather observations, carefully neutral comments about the gathering. Byakuya was polite but distant, already building the emotional walls that would define him for centuries.
We could have been friends, Asahi thought with unexpected sadness. In different circumstances. Without the weight of our names.
The demonstration was announced an hour into the gathering.
All children of appropriate age were requested to display their current level of reiryoku control for the assembled elders. It was framed as friendly showing, but everyone understood the real purpose: assessment. Identifying which children showed promise, which families produced valuable talents, which bloodlines might be worth securing through marriage or alliance.
The demonstrations proceeded by age. Older children went first, showing increasingly sophisticated techniques. Some could manifest visible spiritual pressure. Others demonstrated enhanced strength or speed. A Tsunayashiro heir created elaborate patterns of compressed reiryoku that drew appreciative murmurs.
Then it was Asahi's age group.
Byakuya went first, standing in the demonstration circle with perfect composure. He held out his palm and manifested spiritual energy—pure white, crystalline in structure, already showing hints of the reiatsu signature he'd carry as an adult. It was impressive for his age. Remarkable, even.
The elders nodded approval. His family beamed with pride.
That's my competition, Asahi thought analytically. In terms of raw talent, he might actually surpass me. But I have knowledge. Experience. Leonardo's modifications.
He was called next. Walked to the circle center with measured steps, aware of dozens of eyes tracking his movement. His father watched with that same unreadable expression. His mother's hands were clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
"Whenever you're ready, young master," an elderly Kuchiki retainer prompted.
Asahi extended his hand. Reached inward to his reiryoku core. And carefully pulled power through his pathways, deliberately constricting the flow. He manifested spiritual energy above his palm—purple-tinged and swirling, but much smaller than what he could actually produce. Good, but not exceptional. Talented, but not threatening.
The energy held steady for ten seconds before he let it dissipate.
Polite applause. Approving nods from some elders. His father's slight grunt—satisfaction, maybe. His mother's visible relief.
Perfect. Unremarkable enough to avoid schemes, capable enough to avoid disappointment.
But as he returned to his position, he caught whispers from the assembled elders. Saw calculating expressions on faces that had spent centuries reading potential in young nobles. They'd noticed something—some detail he'd missed in his performance.
What did they see?
The answer came during the ride home. His father had joined them in the palanquin, his presence filling the enclosed space with barely suppressed spiritual pressure.
"You held back," Takeshi said without preamble. "Your circulation was too smooth. Your dispersion too controlled. These are skills that require years of practice."
Asahi kept his expression neutral. "Yoruichi-nee has been teaching me."
"I know. I approved it." His father's eyes were sharp in the dim lantern light. "But you're learning too quickly. Absorbing techniques that should take months in weeks. The elders noticed."
Damn it. He'd been too careful about the visible display and not careful enough about the fundamentals.
"Is that... bad?" Asahi asked, letting uncertainty creep into his voice. Playing the confused child.
"Depends on who's watching." Takeshi looked out the palanquin window at passing scenery. "Central 46 has representatives at such gatherings. They record promising talents, track development. Exceptional children draw exceptional attention."
"And exceptional attention is dangerous," his mother added softly. "Children who show too much promise too early... they disappear into special programs sometimes. Kido Corps. Research Division. Places where family can't protect them."
Asahi's enhanced mind raced through implications. He hadn't considered that level of political complexity. Hadn't thought about organizations beyond the Gotei 13 that might take interest in prodigies.
"What should I do?"
"Continue training," his father said. "But maintain the appearance of steady growth rather than explosive development. Yoruichi can push you harder in private. Public displays should show appropriate progress for your age."
"In other words," his mother said gently, "learn to wear a mask. Show them what they expect to see."
The palanquin fell silent. Asahi processed this new variable in his calculations. It wasn't enough to simply hide his full capabilities. He needed to calibrate his public performance precisely—good enough to avoid disappointment, unremarkable enough to avoid recruitment.
Another layer of deception. Another performance to maintain.
The Liam Bright part of his consciousness—that shrinking remnant of who he used to be—rebelled at the idea. This was exactly what he'd hated about his previous life: pretending, performing, never being authentic.
But Asahi Shihōin understood necessity. In Soul Society, masks weren't optional. They were survival.
Yoruichi waited outside his quarters when they returned.
She dismissed the attendants with a gesture, falling into step beside Asahi as he walked toward his room. The estate was quiet at this hour—most servants retired, only guards maintaining their eternal vigil.
"You held back tonight," she said without preamble. "Good. Smart."
"Father told you?"
"Didn't need to. I watched the whole thing from the shadows." She grinned at his startled expression. "You think I'd miss my baby brother's first formal gathering? I've been tracking your spiritual signature since you left."
They walked in comfortable silence through the garden. Moonlight painted everything silver and shadow, transforming familiar paths into something almost mystical.
"Want to know a secret?" Yoruichi asked suddenly. "I do the same thing. Always have."
Asahi looked up at her. "What do you mean?"
"The wild, carefree heir who can't sit still through meetings? The Flash Goddess who fights on instinct and eschews strategy?" She laughed quietly. "It's an act. A mask I wear so they underestimate me. Let them think I'm all speed and no substance. Makes it easier to maneuver when they're not watching closely."
"But... you are that fast. That skilled."
"True. But I'm also calculating. Patient. I plan three moves ahead in every political engagement." Her golden eyes caught the moonlight. "Father knows, of course. He taught me to do it. But the clan elders? The other nobles? They see what I show them."
They stopped at the koi pond near his quarters. The fish were dim shadows beneath the surface, barely visible in the darkness.
"Father wants perfect weapons," Yoruichi continued, her voice softer now. "Mother wants safe children. The elders want pawns to move across their political board." She looked at him directly. "What do you want, little brother?"
Asahi considered the question. Not the surface answer—the one expected of him. But the real truth underneath.
"To choose my own path," he said finally. "Eventually. When I'm strong enough that the choice actually means something."
Yoruichi's smile was fierce and proud. "That's the most honest thing I've heard in years." She reached out, ruffling his hair in a gesture that made him feel genuinely young for the first time in this life. "I'll help you get there. When the time comes. When you're ready to step off the path they've laid out for us."
"Will you step off yours?" The question escaped before he could stop it.
Something flickered across her expression. Surprise. Then consideration. "Maybe. Someday. If I find something worth stepping off for." She turned away, gazing at the estate walls that enclosed them. "But that's future talk. Right now, we survive the present."
She started walking back toward the main residence, pausing at the edge of the garden. "Keep wearing your mask, Asahi. Get stronger in the shadows. And when you're finally ready..." She grinned over her shoulder. "We'll tear down some walls together."
Then she was gone, vanishing with that supernatural speed he both envied and hoped to one day match.
Asahi stood alone in the moonlit garden, surrounded by walls that were simultaneously protection and prison. Above him, stars scattered across the sky like possibilities waiting to be seized.
He thought about masks and performances. About the calculated distance between who he was and who he pretended to be. About Liam Bright fading into memory while Asahi Shihōin crystallized into something colder and more capable.
Is this what I wanted? he wondered. Trading one prison for another? One set of expectations for a different but equally constraining set?
But he knew the answer. He'd made his choice the moment he accepted Leonardo's offer. The moment he wished for power and placement and potential. There was no going back—only forward, into whatever future his choices would create.
The koi pond's surface reflected the moon in perfect detail. Asahi looked down at his reflection—a three-year-old child's face with eyes far too old, too knowing.
One step at a time, he reminded himself again. Get strong. Stay alive. Learn to navigate this world's rules so thoroughly that eventually, you can break them.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled to mark the hour. The sound carried across the compound, momentarily disturbing roosting birds who took flight in shadow silhouettes against the stars.
Asahi Shihōin turned from the pond and walked toward his quarters, leaving ripples in his wake that slowly settled back to stillness.
The performance would continue tomorrow. And the day after. Until the mask became indistinguishable from the face beneath.