Sixth Division Courtyard
"Huff… huff… huff…"
In the training yard of the Sixth Division, a shirtless young man trained relentlessly, sweat slicking his bare torso as he gasped for breath.
His name was Akira Kurokage. Nearly a century had passed since he'd arrived in Soul Society from the Rukongai.
"The workout's done for today…" he muttered, lowering his wooden practice sword and slumping onto the ground. He glanced up at the sky, frustration tightening his jaw. "But my progress is still pitiful."
In the unforgiving hierarchy of the Gotei 13, strength was everything—and right now, he had none to speak of. Though he'd graduated from the Shin'ō Academy and earned a place in the prestigious Sixth Division, he remained an unseated shinigami, scraping by at the very bottom.
"Akira! Done already?"
A familiar voice cut through his thoughts. He turned to see Rukia Kuchiki approaching—her posture crisp, her expression softening as she neared.
"Rukia?" Akira wiped his brow. "Aren't you stationed in the Thirteenth Division? What brings you to the Sixth?"
"I have a mission in the World of the Living tomorrow," she said, crossing her arms. "Thought I'd check in before I left."
Akira's breath caught. That mission—the one that would change everything. The one where she'd meet Kurosaki Ichigo and, against all protocol, transfer her powers to a human. If he wanted to keep his advantage—his foreknowledge—he should stay quiet and let fate run its course. But watching Rukia walk blindly into suffering? That he couldn't do.
"Be careful out there," he said quietly. "Don't let your guard down."
Rukia snorted. "It's just a standard Hollow investigation. You worry too much."
She paused, then narrowed her eyes. "Besides, you're the one with the seat exam tomorrow. If you place dead last again—"
She didn't need to finish. Every division held annual evaluations to determine internal rank. Unseated shinigami were ranked by combat, kidō, and tactical aptitude. Consistently poor performance didn't just mean humiliation—it could mean reassignment… or discharge.
"This time won't be much better," Akira admitted with a rueful smile. "Still can't manifest my Shikai."
"That's not everything," Rukia said gently. "Your zanjutsu is solid, your hakuda's improving, and your kidō's passable. If worst comes to worst, I could—"
"No," he cut in firmly. "I won't ask Byakuya for favors. Not like this."
Rukia opened her mouth to argue—but a sharp voice interrupted them from the courtyard gate.
"Lady Rukia. Associating with gutter-born recruits does little to uphold the Kuchiki name."
Two shinigami stepped forward—both wearing the Sixth Division's haori, their sleeves embroidered with the Kuchiki crest. Kuchiki Takuto and Kuchiki Saburō: distant branches of the noble house, eager to prove their worth through others' humiliation.
Rukia's eyes turned glacial. "My brother doesn't send you to police my friendships. Go tend to your own duties."
"We only speak for the family's dignity," Takuto sneered, eyes flicking to Akira. "Would the head of the Kuchiki clan truly approve of you consorting with… common filth?"
Akira didn't rise. Instead, he laughed—low and calm.
"Save your breath, Takuto. Not all of us were handed a silver haori at birth. Some of us actually have to earn our place in the Gotei 13."
Saburō bristled, hand drifting toward his zanpakutō—but Rukia stepped forward, her reiatsu pressing down like winter frost.
"If you have a problem with Akira," she said coldly, "you can take it up with me."
Takuto hesitated, then forced a smile. "Fine. But let's see how bold he is tomorrow—during the exam."
Akira met his gaze without flinching. "Looking forward to it."
Hearing this, the two noble-born Shinigami exchanged glances, snorted coldly, and strode away without another word.
"Today is your last day of peace!" one of them called over his shoulder, voice sharp with disdain. "Tomorrow, I'll teach you your place!"
His silhouette vanished into the gloom of Seireitei's winding alleys.
Once they were out of sight, Rukia Kuchiki let out a quiet sigh and turned to Akira, her expression tinged with apology. "I'm sorry. Too many in the Kuchiki clan—and the Sixth Division—mistake birthright for worth."
Akira gave a small, wry smile. "Don't worry about it. I've dealt with their kind before. Noble blood or not, arrogance blinds just the same."
They lingered in the courtyard, speaking in low voices beneath the waning moon—of duty, of change, of the uneasy peace that hung over Soul Society like mist. Only when the temple bell tolled midnight did Akira escort Rukia to the edge of the estate.
Alone again, he turned toward his dormitory, fatigue tugging at his limbs. But just as he stepped beneath the shadow of the gate, the air shimmered.
A translucent panel, edged in faint golden light, materialized before his eyes.
[Congratulations, Host. You have endured 100 years in the Soul Society without succumbing to death, corruption, or despair. The Survival System is now active.]
Akira froze. His breath hitched. One hundred years? He'd arrived here as a nameless soul, lost among the Reikai's infinite corridors. Time had blurred—days bleeding into decades. But yes… somehow, it had been a century.
[Host: Akira]
[Zanpakutō: Sealed (Latent)]
[Proficiencies: Basic Kendo, Basic Hakuda, Basic Shunpo, Basic Kidō (Low-Level Barriers Only)]
"System," he murmured, voice low but steady, "what do you mean—survived a hundred years?"
[This system awakens only after a century of continuous existence within this plane, under conditions of spiritual autonomy and mortal-equivalent vulnerability. Survival here is not merely persistence—it is endurance against entropy, stagnation, and oblivion.]
[Reward Protocol: Daily Survival Grants One Randomized Lottery Draw. The 100-Year Milestone Grants One Guaranteed High-Tier Draw.]
Akira exhaled slowly. "So… only one spin for a century's worth of struggle?"
[Quality over quantity, Host. The weight of your survival has been measured. The draw reflects that.]
A slow grin spread across his face. "Then let's see what a hundred years of patience has earned me."
[Initiating 100-Year Survival Lottery…]
The panel dissolved into a radiant wheel—its segments flickering with symbols too ancient to name. It spun, blurred, then stilled.
[Congratulations, Host! You have obtained: "Noble Phantasm – Excalibur, Sword of Promised Victory."]
A pulse of golden light erupted from the void. In Akira's hands materialized a blade of impossible radiance—its hilt gleaming, its edge humming with latent power. The very air trembled, as if even the Reishi of Soul Society recoiled in awe.
For the first time in a century, Akira laughed—soft, disbelieving, then full-throated.
"Now… things get interesting."