"Being late is one thing—but strolling in as if you've got all the time in the world? Are you two idiots or what?"
Leaning lazily against the hallway wall after the first period, Yoruichi crossed her arms and stared at the two still standing in punishment.
"It's all Urahara's fault," Ichirō grumbled. "Whose brilliant idea was it to slow down and 'act natural'? If not for that, we wouldn't have run into the instructor halfway there!"
"Hah? You were the one who stopped first, weren't you? If you hadn't, I wouldn't have stopped either!"
"Oh, really? Then whose fault is it?"
"..."
"..."
After a few seconds of silence, both men blurted out simultaneously—
"The teacher's fault!"
"Exactly! If he'd just stayed in class instead of wandering around campus, he wouldn't have caught us walking slowly!"
"Right! And if he hadn't called roll, no one would've even noticed we were late!"
Yoruichi's mouth twitched. Watching the pair's ridiculous reasoning, she could only sigh.
"Oh my god… absolute idiots," she muttered, turning away before their stupidity could infect her.
The two were left standing there for the entire morning. Only because the afternoon class was Hakuda (Hand-to-Hand Combat) were they finally released—otherwise, they would've been standing all day.
---
Though Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Hohō, and Kidō were the four pillars of a Shinigami's strength and the foundation of every assessment, the actual class time devoted to them was relatively small.
Most of the curriculum focused instead on Hollow extermination and soul burials.
Ichirō had expected the emphasis on fighting Hollows—their power wasn't to be underestimated—but the weight placed on performing Konso (Soul Burial) caught him off guard. It seemed simple, yet the procedure was full of delicate details. A single misstep during purification could cause a wandering soul to corrupt and become a Hollow.
This revelation changed Ichirō's perception of the Seireitei. Beneath its political rot and noble corruption, the institution genuinely worked to maintain the balance of the worlds.
---
During his lunch break, Ichirō crafted a pocket watch using alchemy. It wasn't precise—the mechanisms were crude—but it served its purpose.
After that morning's embarrassment, he wasn't about to be late again.
That afternoon, in the Hakuda dojo, the instructor in a black shihakushō swept his gaze across the students. His eyes paused briefly on Ichirō and Urahara, and his brow furrowed.
The morning's stunt had already left a poor impression. In the teachers' eyes, Urahara was a free-spirited prodigy leading a bad example for noble students, while Ichirō was an undisciplined commoner lacking ambition. Neither was the kind of student any instructor liked.
But like it or not, class had to proceed.
"I am Yamada Nakamura," the man announced, clearing his throat. "I'll be your Hakuda instructor for the next year. Before we begin, I want to know—who here has prior training in other combat disciplines? Even those not registered in the Seireitei records, raise your hands."
This accounted for noble heirs who had learned family martial arts before enrolling—and, occasionally, a few Rukongai souls who had inherited old mortal fighting styles. Those with verifiable training would skip the basics.
To everyone's surprise, Ichirō raised his hand as well.
Urahara smirked. "Homemade techniques don't count, Ichirō."
"I know, I know. Don't worry—it's not self-taught."
After all, as a former State Alchemist, learning military combat arts had been part of the job description.
Yamada eyed him skeptically but ultimately said nothing. According to the records, Ichirō had lived for decades already and wasn't even born in the Soul Society. If he truly lacked basic judgment, then perhaps he was better off never becoming a Shinigami at all.
Once the groups were divided, Yamada began assigning lessons. Those who already understood Hakuda—five students in total—were told to spar among themselves while he taught the remaining twenty-five the basics.
Unfortunately, this arrangement left Ichirō in an awkward position.
Urahara was, of course, paired with Yoruichi. The other two nobles already had partners.
And so, as often happens when there's an odd number… Ichirō was left alone.
With a resigned sigh, he decided not to interrupt Urahara and Yoruichi's playful "training session." Instead, he picked up a small branch from the floor, retreated to a corner, and began scribbling formulas and motion diagrams in the dirt.
His alchemy research currently focused on two main areas:
1. Enhancing spiritual power through spirit food, and
2. Restoring his former combat capabilities.
In his previous life, Ichirō had been a battle-ready State Alchemist — not a scholar but a soldier. His alchemy might not have been the most advanced, but his combat ability ranked among the best in the country.
Compared to the captains and lieutenants of the Gotei 13, that strength was negligible, but it had been more than enough to protect himself — something his current body sorely lacked. Unfortunately, the difference between the two worlds made adaptation difficult. Even after decades of research, progress was painfully slow.
Seeing Ichirō off in his own corner, Urahara smiled faintly and turned back to face Yoruichi.
If Ichirō wasn't getting into trouble, that was good enough.
And so, the dojo naturally divided into three groups:
students learning the basics,
students sparring against each other,
and Ichirō — crouched in a corner with a twig, silently running alchemical calculations.
Yamada caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye and frowned slightly, but said nothing. He simply continued teaching.
---
DONG—DONG—DONG!
Time flew by, and the bell rang to signal the end of class.
The students stopped moving and turned toward their instructor.
Yamada nodded curtly. "Class dismissed. Tenshin Ichirō, stay behind."
A ripple of murmurs ran through the group. Other than Yoruichi and Urahara, the rest of the class cast schadenfreude-filled glances toward Ichirō, eager to watch a scolding unfold.
Yamada ignored them and stepped into the center of the dojo.
"Come here," he said, looking at Ichirō. "You were slacking off during class, weren't you?"
"Uh… sensei, I can explain—"
"Not interested. Extra practice!"
"…Fine." Ichirō sighed, dragging his feet forward.
Being held back after class — truly a nightmare.
"Let me make this clear," Yamada warned in a cold tone. "If you lied about having prior training just to skip lessons, I'll make sure you understand what despair feels like before the semester is over."
"Don't worry, Yamada-sensei." Ichirō straightened his posture.
He bent his knees slightly, drew back his right fist to his abdomen, and extended his left hand forward in a knife-hand stance.
It was his old starting form — one honed through years of State Alchemist combat.
Seeing the disciplined precision of the stance, Yamada's eyes lit up. Perhaps the boy hadn't been bluffing after all.
Without another word, Yamada gestured with his hand.
"Go ahead. Make the first move."
A faint smile touched Ichirō's lips as he lowered his center of gravity.
So you think you can underestimate me, huh?
You'll soon learn that this 'mere amateur' isn't someone to look down on.