Rukongai.
North 80th District.
"Brother, we should go."
"If we don't leave now, we'll miss the enrollment window for the Shin'ō Academy."
"And that means waiting another year."
In a modest, dust-laced shack near the edge of Inuzuri—the most notorious of the North Rukongai districts—a man with soft brown hair and calm eyes pushed up his brown-rimmed glasses. Aizen Sōsuke turned to address the dark-haired young man seated calmly across the room, who bore an uncanny resemblance to him.
[Because you signed up for Shin'ō Academy, Reiatsu trained desperately to avoid falling behind. He even managed to break through the six-car threshold and reach seven.]
The voice echoed in Akira's mind—an alert from the system that came with him upon reincarnation.
Seven-car Reiatsu already, huh?
For an incoming applicant to the Shin'ō Academy, that was more than enough.
After all, even among seated officers, six-car Reiatsu hovered around lieutenant class. And Aizen—the man sitting beside him—was no average candidate. His spiritual pressure already matched some of the top students in the Academy's history.
Yes.
Akira wasn't a native of this world. He was a transmigrant.
And like many transmigrants, he came equipped—with a system.
The Shinigami System.
It was his personal cheat. Any ability he comprehended would begin cultivating automatically, operating like a passive training mode—no extra effort needed. He simply needed to awaken the skill once, and the system would handle the rest.
Take Reiatsu, for instance.
It was the first ability he had gained upon waking up in the Soul Society. Once the Shinigami System activated, his Reiatsu exploded exponentially. Day after day, it spiraled upward at a monstrous pace. Within just half a month, he had already caught up to Aizen, whose spiritual pressure rivaled lieutenant-level Shinigami at full potential.
And now?
He had already surpassed him.
Notably, this monster—this self-made prodigy—was also Akira's younger brother.
They had arrived in Rukongai's 80th district together just two months ago. No Shin'ō Academy training, no Zanjutsu, no Kidō—just raw spiritual pressure developed through the system's passive cultivation. And in that short time, their Reiatsu had already reached the level of low-tier captains.
Measured in the Gotei 13's rough estimation method of "Reiatsu cars," Akira had hit seven.
Aizen remained at six.
"Let's go," Akira said at last, picking up his own black-rimmed glasses from the table.
The two brothers stepped outside.
"Lord Akira."
"Lord Aizen."
Hundreds of figures knelt in unison.
They were all hardened souls of District 80—Inuzuri—where murder, theft, and spirit particle starvation were daily events. These weren't the average lost souls one might find in Junrin'an or Kusajishi. Many of them radiated spiritual pressure equivalent to one or two cars—enough that, with formal training, they could easily become unseated Shinigami.
Yet they bent the knee to Akira and Aizen.
Criminals, warlords, fighters—now turned followers.
"Let's move," Akira said without pause.
"Understood!"
The crowd dispersed with trained obedience.
Aizen glanced at them, tone mild, eyes cold.
"Brother, why bother with these insects? All they do is consume spirit particles. I see no purpose in preserving them."
He wore a smile like spring wind, but the chill behind it was unmistakable.
Akira replied calmly, "Even a piece of torn cloth or a broken sandal has a use. Let alone a spirit body with potential."
He continued walking.
"You've noticed it too, haven't you? Once our Reiatsu crossed that initial barrier, growth slowed. Our rate of improvement dropped."
"It's like… a species approaching the peak of its evolution. Each step becomes harder."
He turned to Aizen, his gaze steady.
"That's why even a Shinigami must rely on collective strength to break through. There are limits—even for us."
Aizen's fingers released the handle of the wakizashi at his side, understanding dawning beneath his calm expression.
Of course.
When the time came, these District 80 elites—so rich in raw power—would be experimental subjects.
"That makes sense," Aizen replied, voice serene.
Akira noticed the gesture, the hesitation.
But he didn't mind.
Two months in the Soul Society's most violent district had hardened his thinking. And as a transmigrant with a cheat-like system, Akira had no intention of following someone else's path. This world was a battlefield of power, and only kings ruled unchallenged.
Their journey to the Seireitei began.
On the way, they encountered several looters fighting over a water well. None dared draw closer once they felt the oppressive spiritual pressure bleeding out from Aizen's body.
Shin'ō Academy.
It was enrollment day.
The exam plaza brimmed with thousands of hopefuls. Though vast in size, the atmosphere was dense—swarming with Reiatsu, ambition, and tension.
"Shihōin Yoruichi."
"Reiatsu: Lieutenant class."
"Rating: S-Rank."
The examiner's voice rang out, drawing gasps.
"What?! Why's Lady Yoruichi here?"
"She's the Shihōin clan head! Why bother enrolling?"
In the crowd, a slouching blond man chuckled.
Urahara Kisuke strolled over.
"Giving old man Yamamoto some face?" he teased.
Yoruichi shrugged. "Of course. Look around—little Byakuya's here too."
Urahara followed her gaze.
Indeed.
Byakuya Kuchiki, young heir of the Kuchiki family, stood in line. Regal posture, icy eyes, perfectly pressed robes.
Even at this age, nobility clung to him like a second skin.
So that's it, Urahara mused. The four great clans are all playing nice with Genryūsai.
Letting their scions enroll added political weight to the Academy—even if it already had plenty of prestige. And in return, Yamamoto would ease their transition into the Gotei 13 ranks in the years to come.
"Master Byakuya, please place your hand on the Reiatsu orb."
The youth complied.
Colors bloomed from the crystal sphere: purple… blue… green… yellow…
Finally, orange.
"Byakuya Kuchiki."
"Reiatsu: Lieutenant class."
"Rating: SS-Rank."
The crowd whispered praises. No jealousy, just awe.
First Yoruichi. Then Byakuya.
The four noble houses truly bred monsters.
Byakuya gave no reaction, though his sharp gaze flicked toward Yoruichi for a brief second, as if challenging her.
But before anyone could speak, another voice—louder, more shocked—rang out.
"Aizen Sōsuke."
"Reiatsu: Captain class."
"Rating: SSS-Rank."
Dead silence.
Thousands of candidates froze.
Even Yoruichi and Urahara turned sharply.
And deep within the plaza, Akira adjusted his black glasses, hiding a faint smirk.
The real game was just beginning.