The classroom was alive with the furious energy of the Shinigami teacher on the podium, spittle flying as he lectured about the history of the Soul Realm.
From the glory of the royal family to the rise of the Five Great Noble Houses, to the founding of the Thirteen Court Guard Squads, he even delved into the centuries-old wars between Shinigami and the Quincy. Even now, remnants of the Quincy still wandered the living world.
Below the podium, however, an odd scene unfolded.
Most of the students—over ninety percent—sat in neat rows, listening attentively.
But at the back of the classroom, several rows had been left empty. Two slightly lean figures shared a desk.
One of them paid attention, taking notes like everyone else.
The other had buried his head in his arms, as if he'd entered a hibernation state.
The teacher noticed, and for a moment, seemed at a loss for words. He ultimately vented his frustration through the lecture itself, raising his voice several notches.
But to Akira Kisaragi, it was like a lullaby.
The louder and more forceful the words rang in his ears… the deeper he sank into sleep.
I shot a sideways glance at my idiotic companion, a faint trace of helplessness in my eyes. Perhaps this was truly the meaning of "interest is the best teacher."
Since the day Akira had cleaved Jun Kaede in swordsmanship class, his quality of life had skyrocketed.
Countless elite students had witnessed his true power, filling them with awe and respect.
Strength commands respect everywhere. The Spiritual Arts Academy was no exception.
Word of his feat spread like wildfire. Soon, the entire academy knew: Class 1 had produced a real prodigy.
Only a few months into his training, and he was already at a level capable of outperforming instructors—and his spiritual pressure exceeded that of most Shinigami squad members.
A true genius: Akira Kisaragi.
Yet he never followed the rules. While he seriously attended combat classes and swordsmanship training, the moment a cultural class began, he would nod off completely, showing none of the pride or gravitas one might expect of a genius.
He laughed foolishly all day, and his thoughts occasionally drifted into absurd schemes.
Night raids on the cafeteria. Falsifying disciplinary notices. Performing blessings and exorcisms for female students.
And the worst part? He always dragged me along.
According to him, "Good brothers share both fortune and misfortune."
No one knew where he had picked up such twisted ideology, but he followed it with unwavering devotion.
"Let's stop here for today."
The history teacher's face remained stern.
At the back of the classroom, Akira stirred sleepily, still half-dazed.
"Is class over?" he mumbled.
"One month until our final exams. Combat is the most important course for Shinigami, but cultural classes must not be neglected," the teacher replied.
"Any student failing this exam will receive a severe disciplinary warning, including possible probation!"
At the word "disciplinary," Akira snapped awake and turned to me with a pitiful expression.
"Akira… we're good brothers, right?"
I remained silent.
"You wouldn't just watch me fail an exam, would you? You see… during the test—"
Before I could intervene, Akira had sidled up next to me, draping an arm over my shoulder as he schemed his next harebrained plan.
"The next class is Sword Zen," I said calmly, rising from my seat. "You should focus on mastering the basics first."
"If I remember correctly, as of last night, you still haven't completed the first step of Sword Zen."
"If you fail cultural classes, it's one thing. But if you can't wield your own Zanpakutō, even graduation won't be enough to join the Thirteen Court Guard Squads."
"Maybe your only option is the Kido Path…"
Akira froze. My words, meant as a warning, felt like a betrayal. But there was no turning back.
For some reason, his Zanpakutō had never been compatible with him. From the initial shallow training to now, even mastering the basics of Sword Zen, he couldn't feel the weapon's power.
Even the lowest-ranked student could sense their Zanpakutō's energy—but not him.
Zanpakutō were forged from the Shinigami's own soul. So why was his soul incompatible with its own blade? Was he simply… stubborn beyond reason?
With anxiety and doubt, Akira and I entered the Sword Zen dojo.
The room was vast, suffused with the serene atmosphere of meditation. A faint, delicate fragrance lingered in the air, lulling students into a tranquil, almost ethereal state.
This spiritual incense was designed to help new Zanpakutō wielders enter Sword Zen and attune to their blades.
Of course, it had little effect on those with iron wills—like Akira… and me.
We sat cross-legged on our meditation mats, assuming the correct posture to begin Sword Zen.
Like most students, I quickly entered the meditative state.
Akira, on the other hand, fidgeted incessantly, scratching and adjusting as if ants had taken up residence on his body.
No matter how he followed the teacher's instructions—or how I tried to help—he couldn't complete even the most basic Sword Zen exercises.
He stared blankly at the Zanpakutō resting across his knees.
The Zanpakutō's shape, abilities, and status were all forged from the Shinigami's soul. By understanding the weapon's name and communicating with it spiritually, one could unlock its power.
Strictly speaking, the blade before him wasn't truly a Zanpakutō yet—it was a shallow blade.
A Shinigami needed to live with the shallow blade, training endlessly to engrave the essence of their soul into it, eventually creating a Zanpakutō of their own.
Akira understood the theory perfectly.
The problem was… how to engrave one's soul into the blade.
It was like standing before a locked door that led to the cafeteria or the girls' dormitory—happiness lay beyond, but how do you open it?
The conventional Sword Zen methods were utterly useless for him.
He crossed his arms, brow furrowed, staring at his shallow blade as countless thoughts raced through his mind.
"Damn it… even Mimihaki wasn't this hard to communicate with…"
He muttered fiercely, when suddenly—a flash of inspiration struck his eyes like lightning.
"Wait a second!"
"What if I try to communicate with my Zanpakutō like I would a god?!"
At that thought, his gaze on the blade burned with an intense, fiery determination.