The warm smile on Aizen Sōsuke's face exuded the calm of a spring breeze, a stark contrast to Ichimaru Gin's sly, fox-like eyes that remained narrowed in unreadable amusement.
Even several captain-level shinigami, standing nearby with arms crossed and expressions blank, gave subtle nods of support — though whether to Aizen or merely the process was unclear.
The examinee — clearly disadvantaged physically, yet brimming with a tenacious spirit — had been granted a rare opportunity. And everyone present understood that such favor could only come from the very top.
Rukia Kuchiki and Abarai Renji felt like they were walking to their own execution. Even Aizen's signature warm smile, to Rukia, now carried a sinister undertone.
"Well then," Ichimaru Gin said suddenly, his usual sing-song tone sharpening, "since Captain Aizen seems to value this little candidate so much... whether he ends up in your Fifth Division depends on whether I'm feelin' generous."
His spiritual pressure spiked for just a moment — enough to hush the crowd.
Aizen, still smiling serenely, replied without the slightest change in tone. "Haha, Captain Ichimaru, you seem quite eager as well. But perhaps we should wait for the results before we start fighting over recruits. If the candidate fails, we may both look rather foolish."
Without waiting for further rebuttal, Aizen turned and gestured forward. "Rukia Kuchiki. Please, lead the way. We shouldn't keep the others waiting."
Ichimaru's laugh came from behind like a whispering snake. He followed closely, his gaze never leaving Aizen's back. Though the two were both captains and once comrades, Gin knew Aizen's intentions were never simple.
In truth, Aizen had already read the internal records and knew this examinee's spiritual pressure was well below Shin'ō Academy's accepted threshold. Yet here he was — walking alongside the candidate like a patron of talent.
Why?
Because this wasn't just an entrance exam. It was a chessboard. And the Head Captain, Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni, had made the first move. Aizen was merely responding in kind.
Would the old man maintain the illusion and let this sham of a candidate pass — turning the Academy into a joke? Or would he intervene, break protocol, and expose the favoritism at play?
In Aizen's eyes, this was the kind of test worth watching.
So he added fuel to the fire. A man of strong will overcoming disability — it would stir sympathy and public sentiment. It would muddy the waters.
And that's when things became fun.
Feeling the intense attention of the crowd around them, both Rukia and Renji's hearts sank. It felt like everyone else had backed away, leaving them at the center of a storm.
The crowd's retreat felt more like a ghostly pressure, urging them toward the platform — like spirits dragging them toward a fate they couldn't refuse.
"I guess we're already halfway dead anyway. Might as well go out with a bang," Renji said with a dry laugh.
He had mocked Kuroba earlier for his pitiful three-tier spiritual pressure. Now, he silently prayed that Kuroba would at least stand and not drool through the exam.
Because if he bombed again, they'd be laughed at for the next hundred years.
Still, Renji clenched his jaw and walked forward, shoulders stiff with defiance.
"Next candidate: Kanade Tatsumi!" Ise Nanao called out crisply, adjusting her glasses.
The Shin'ō Academy entrance exam was divided into two parts: a written exam and a spiritual pressure evaluation. But within Seireitei, there was a well-known saying:
"Only the talentless need to pass the written test."
Because in Soul Society, power ruled. You could theorize all you wanted — but only reiatsu could save your life in battle.
The written exam was always held after the spiritual pressure test, and those with sufficient scores could skip it entirely.
Today's test machine, built in the 12th Division's Research and Development Department by none other than Captain Kurotsuchi Mayuri, was a new reiatsu gauge. Unlike the outdated spiritual bead methods, it measured output through physical contact and amplification of spiritual pressure.
As long as you could channel your spiritual energy and strike the target, the machine would output your score — calibrated in "tier" units, the standardized measurement developed for Shin'ō admission.
Kanade Tatsumi stepped forward, face pale, and focused his energy into his fist. He struck the machine.
Bang!
The machine vibrated. A moment later, three crimson numbers appeared on the screen.
"505 — Five tier Spiritual Pressure. Pass!"
Nanao nodded slightly. "Next, Shirayuki."
"480 — Four tier. Fail. Eligible for the written exam."
"Next, Lisanna."
"708 — Seven tier. Pass. Excellent. Potential candidate for advanced placement."
One by one, the candidates continued.
And all the while, the captains watched in silence — their expressions unreadable.
Except for Aizen, who still wore that disarming, ever-calculating smile.
A series of names were called out one after another.
Watching the qualified candidates step forward, seeing the spiritual pressure readings light up on the test device, and enduring the long, grinding wait — it was nothing short of mental torture.
To Rukia and Abarai Renji, this wasn't just an entrance test; it felt like a death sentence wrapped in protocol.
"Next, Shiba Kuroba."
Ise Nanao pushed her glasses up with a practiced motion, her eyes narrowing at the odd group approaching.
She had, of course, heard the rumors. A candidate allegedly overflowing with resolve, despite being physically incapacitated. It was the talk of the test site.
But seeing Kuroba trussed up in layers of bandages, more mummy than man, she couldn't help but frown. Her calm demeanor faltered.
"Can he even move like that? Why hasn't anyone untied him yet?"
"Yeah, get those off. Stop wasting time," she added, more sharply this time.
Captain Kyoraku Shunsui approached with his usual laid-back air, though his face was more serious than usual. Despite his usual love of shirking responsibility and drowning in sake, even he was beginning to regret letting this situation spiral.
He never expected to meet someone who loved drinking more than him — enough to arrive for the Shinō Academy entrance exam completely hammered.
Unlike most present, Kyoraku wasn't fully in the dark. As the Chief Examiner — and someone with a long history under Captain-Commander Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni — he'd already been briefed in secret.
The so-called "disabled" candidate had, in truth, obliterated a demon-class Hollow with a single blow. There wasn't a scratch on him afterward. That raw power had convinced the old man to use Shiba Kuroba as bait — to draw out hidden threats within Seireitei or test unknown variables.
Caught between duty and deception, Kyoraku could only mutter silent prayers to his late ancestors.
Hopefully, once the wrappings came off, the kid would sober up.
If not, sneaking him into the Thirteen Court Guard Squads through this little loophole might become a disaster.
"Untie him…?" Rukia and Renji exchanged troubled looks.
Their faces darkened further. The chaos earlier, the absurd things Kuroba had shouted — they weren't keen to relive it.
Still, Rukia took a deep breath, steeling herself. She forced her voice to stay level.
"Captain Kyoraku, I'll remind you now — if something goes wrong, you have to intervene quickly. Otherwise, we might lose control of the situation."
As she knelt and started to unwrap the bandages, Kyoraku watched with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.
He'd been through warzones. He'd fought Espada and faced Aizen's betrayals.
But as he looked at this drunken, bound-up mess in the middle of the Shinō Academy exam hall… he felt the unfamiliar twinge of uncertainty.
Still — if the kid went wild, a single strike from him could put an end to it.
He hoped.