The headmaster of Shin'ō Academy wasn't some towering authority in Seireitei. Future headmasters had been no more than 5th Division third seats who'd retired into teaching. The current one? A practical, hard-nosed officer who'd stepped down from the 1st Division.
There were plenty of Shinigami like him—men who worked themselves into the ground, left behind no headlines, and still gave their lives in service. In fact, this particular headmaster would one day die defending his students from Quincy troops, his name never once engraved in history's spotlight.
But that never mattered to him. He carried the spirit of the Genryū school: relentless dedication, no excuses. His only goal was to see Shin'ō Academy produce more and more outstanding graduates, warriors who'd protect Soul Society and keep the balance of the three worlds intact.
Which was why, every single year, he oversaw the entrance exams personally. Start to finish. Rain or shine.
"Ever since Captain Hitsugaya graduated, the quality of applicants just keeps slipping," he muttered. "How am I supposed to explain that to Lord Yamamoto?"
He knew perfectly well that geniuses like Shunsui Kyōraku and Jūshirō Ukitake, born with dual Zanpakutō, or pure prodigies like Kaien Shiba and Gin Ichimaru, or once-in-a-millennium talents like Tōshirō Hitsugaya… were accidents of fate, not the norm. What they had now—mediocre, average—was reality.
But he still hated it. Not the students themselves, but the way the Academy was run. To him, teaching should be like kendo—always pushing forward, always sharpening. Stopping meant you'd lost your way, or worse, hit your ceiling.
If geniuses had risen in the past, then more were waiting somewhere out there. The Academy needed to evolve, to change how it found and nurtured talent. Find the hidden gems, polish them into steel, and the Gotei 13 would only grow stronger.
The tragedy was that Shin'ō Academy sat under the thumb of Central 46. And a headmaster didn't have the authority to rewrite the rules. That helplessness gnawed at him.
"Don't get discouraged, Headmaster," said Genjirō Ōkido, one of his elite instructors walking beside him. "This year we've already got two incoming Spirit Class 7 rookies. And some highborn nobles too, like the next heir of the Shihōin clan. Stronger turnout than usual."
"You don't understand," the headmaster sighed. "That kind of shine never lasts. Nobles aren't worth banking on—they're supposed to excel. We can't really teach them much."
He shook his head. "Those two new kids… they're not flawless. Nothing like our famous graduates. In fact, they're problem children. One-dimensional, heavily skewed talent. But I'd pick them over the nobles any day."
Ōkido raised a brow. "Speaking of nobles… I heard the Kuchiki girl was sent to the Human World for patrol?"
"Seems so."
"She's from Rukongai herself. Used to be in Class Two. A lot of people don't rate her, but Captain Ukitake believes in her. He thinks she's vice-captain material."
"Her? A vice-captain?" Ōkido muttered. With the Kuchiki family backing her, maybe. But she'd never outpace peers like Abarai, already wearing the vice-captain badge. Or new blood like Akari Koyanagi and Atae Rindō—once they graduated, they'd muscle their way into officer seats on raw strength alone. Compared to them, the Kuchiki adoptee looked underwhelming.
They dropped the subject and continued their rounds of the exam halls. They passed rooms full of applicants who were being turned away simply because they couldn't read or write. It happened every year.
The living world had only just entered the 21st century; illiteracy was rare but not gone. In Rukongai, where resources were thin, education was a luxury. Souls born from other souls were more likely to have spiritual power, sure. But book smarts? Not a given.
The Academy didn't relax its standards. Six years of training already wasn't enough to master the basics of being a Shinigami. Wasting part of that on remedial literacy classes would cripple their combat readiness. A liability to the Gotei 13. A liability to themselves.
So, the illiterate were cut. Harsh, but necessary. The headmaster had no objections.
The admissions weren't impossibly strict, but they weren't a walk in the park either. You needed spiritual potential. You needed basic education. After that came physical ability, Kidō sensitivity, combat aptitude. The top scores filled Class One and Two. The rest? Out.
Harsh, yes. But better than throwing them into a life they couldn't survive.
Still, the headmaster wanted to expand enrollment. More reach, more candidates. But lowering the bar? Never. On that point, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Central 46.
He glanced toward the testing room. "At least the new equipment from the Shinigami Research and Development Institute makes this cleaner than before."
Ōkido snorted. "Expensive cleaner. I'm pretty sure SRDI gouged us hard."
But the headmaster ignored him. His gaze had snagged on a shock of orange hair behind the glass.
"That face… looks familiar."
Inside, the examiner suddenly yelped, "Spirit Class 4?! Potential unquantifiable! Data rejected!"
The headmaster and Ōkido froze, then traded looks—surprise breaking into wide-eyed excitement.
And it wasn't over.
The very next candidate triggered the same reaction.
"Spirit Class 4… potential unquantifiable…!"
The examiners stared helplessly toward the headmaster.
He stood stiff for a long second, then drew in a deep breath, forcing composure. "Background checks done?"
"Yes! Both were Pluses guided into Soul Society yesterday. Settled in Junrinan. Their passes and paperwork are clean."
"Good. Good." The headmaster's tone was steady, but Ōkido's eyes narrowed. Good? What part of this is good?
These weren't Rukongai natives. Not noble-born. Just human souls who'd died and crossed over. And they were already on par with vice-captain-class Shinigami. Without even wielding a Zanpakutō. Without training. That wasn't good. That was terrifying.
How were lifers like Abarai supposed to feel, grinding for decades to reach vice-captain… only to be eclipsed by two random human kids?
Ōkido's chest twisted with conflicting emotions. Pride at the monsters who'd soon be his star pupils. Bitterness at what their existence implied about everyone else.
"Headmaster, there's… another issue."
The examiner handed over a report.
"Ichigo Kurosaki," the headmaster read aloud. "Never heard the surname. Guess the resemblance was coincidence. Spirit Class 4, top marks overall."
"Soma Kiryu. Spirit Class 4, top marks overall."
He nodded. "Weak in Kidō, but compared to the rest, still outstanding. No one's perfect. If they make captain someday, they'll cover every gap."
Then his eye caught the line beneath Ichigo's name—and widened.
'Cultural literacy: failed.'
Ōkido pushed his glasses up, stunned.
"Wasn't the modern world supposed to be advanced?" the headmaster muttered.
The examiner winced. "Headmaster, Teacher Ōkido… the Human World's developed too fast. Grammar shifts, language drifts. Tiny differences add up."
"Then why not the other one?" the headmaster pressed.
The examiner flailed. "Ah—well—maybe a difference in educational background—"
Ōkido cut in smoothly. "They're three years apart. That's all. You wouldn't compare a teenager to an adult and call it fair. Experience levels matter. That's why the Academy exists—to teach. If we tossed out every candidate with rough edges, we'd betray Yamamoto's entire vision."
"Exactly!" the headmaster snapped. He stuffed the report inside his robes. "This gets filed as-is. And those little 'remarks'? They disappear. Bring them up again, and I'll find you a different desk job to reflect on it."
"…Yes, Headmaster." The examiner swallowed.
"Wait—you can read classical Japanese?!"
Out in the hall, students compared notes from the exam. Discovering your roommate was secretly a genius was basically a rite of passage.
Soma shrugged, smug. "What can I say? I'm a cultured guy."
Ichigo groaned. "And I'm not? I was top of my class back home!"
"Sure, but I was on track to be a folklorist. Tokyo U's archaeology department had a chair waiting for me."
Ichigo stopped dead. "…Okay, fine. You win."
"But seriously," he muttered, "I probably bombed half that test. I guessed on so many questions."
"That's the way to do it," Soma said confidently. "Trust your instincts. If there's a problem, it's the Academy's, not yours."
Ichigo grimaced. "God, I hope so. Last thing I want is to fall into the 11th Division's lap. Fighting maniacs all day? Hard pass. I hate brawling."
"Exactly. We're both honest guys. And honest guys don't get screwed by honest teachers. The Academy's run by people of principle. They'll see reason."
Soma nodded solemnly, as if it was the most obvious truth in the world.