Bleach: The Template System Chose Me, The Forgotten Kuchiki

The system's notification echoed crisply through Shiraha's mind, the words etching themselves into his consciousness with quiet gravity. A new check-in task had appeared—this time requiring him to descend into the Human World and complete a soul burial in Karakura Town. If successful, the reward would increase his template progress by ten percent, bringing it to a total of sixty. At that stage, Shiraha estimated he would possess enough strength to rival a standard Gotei 13 captain.

He couldn't help the surge of satisfaction that bloomed in his chest. His expression shifted subtly, a faint, confident smile forming across his face.

With his progress sitting firmly at fifty percent, the next ten percent would finally push him past the vice-captain threshold into captain-level combat capabilities. Though he had fought battles already well above the scope of a typical seated officer, this was the first official confirmation that he was on the verge of crossing a true boundary.

"System," Shiraha asked in thought, "without a proper Zanpakutō, can I still perform a soul burial?"

It was a valid concern. Though the staff-like weapon at his waist resembled a Zanpakutō in form, he was well aware that it lacked the full spiritual resonance of a true forged Asauchi. He'd referred to it as such for appearances, but deep down he knew it served as a cover—an instrument to conceal his manipulation of gravity rather than a blade born from his soul.

The system responded without delay.

"The host's cane sword originates from a modified Sealed State and possesses all required functions for performing soul burial on wandering spirits."

Relief eased the subtle tension in Shiraha's chest. With the system's confirmation, he no longer needed to worry about obtaining another Sealed State or facing suspicion for doing so. In the eyes of others, he already had a personal Zanpakutō, and duplicating that claim would raise questions he wasn't prepared to answer.

Just then, the doors of the dojo opened, and a voice rang through the air with sharp clarity.

"Welcome, everyone. I am Shihouin Sifeng, your assigned Kendo instructor at the Spiritual Arts Academy. Since you've all completed your Sealed State selections, we'll begin class immediately."

Clad in traditional kendo garb, with a sheathed Zanpakutō hanging at his waist, Shihouin Sifeng strode across the ruined floor of the dojo with practiced ease. His eyes briefly scanned the damage—gaping gouges in the polished wood, the twisted wreckage of iron dummies—but he dismissed the thought that it could've been caused by the freshmen before him.

He greeted the gathered students and formally initiated the day's training session.

A descendant of the prestigious Shihouin Clan—one of the Four Noble Houses—Shihouin Sifeng had long been considered a master of the sword within the academy, having served over three centuries as a tenured instructor. He commanded deep respect from both students and faculty, not simply for his lineage but for the unparalleled sharpness of his blade and his relentless teaching methods.

In perfect unison, the students stood and bowed, offering their reverence.

Without delay, Sifeng launched into his explanation of foundational Kendo techniques, instructing on stance, breath control, and footwork. His movements were clean and precise, each demonstration followed by rigorous drills. One by one, he selected over a dozen students to challenge him in sparring duels, testing their basic mastery.

None lasted more than a few exchanges.

Each opponent crumbled under the weight of experience and sharp technique, quickly overwhelmed by the sheer pressure Sifeng brought to bear even without drawing his Zanpakutō.

Among the seated students, Shiraha remained silent, his thoughts drifting toward the system task. The soul burial was time-limited—only six months—and the Academy's standard internship in the Human World wouldn't begin for at least another month. If he wanted to begin the mission soon, then early graduation was the only viable path.

To do that, however, he would need to demonstrate comprehensive mastery of all four primary Shinigami skills: Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Hohō, and Kidō.

Just as his thoughts turned to logistics, Shihouin Sifeng's voice rang out, firm and cold.

"Kuchiki Shiraha, what are you thinking? Step forward. You're next."

The tone was sharp, laced with authority and irritation.

Within the Soul Society, nobility commanded high status, and instructors usually treated noble students with an added layer of formality. However, Shihouin Sifeng, himself born into nobility, bore no need to appease anyone—not even a Kuchiki. His own bloodline, and his reputation, were more than enough to speak for him.

"Yes, sir," Shiraha replied evenly, rising to his feet. He walked calmly toward the center of the dojo, selecting a wooden training blade from the nearby rack.

In accordance with Academy protocol, Zanpakutōs were not used during training matches. All students were required to spar with either sealed weapons or wooden practice swords. The purpose was to refine the sword itself—not the release or spiritual abilities behind it.

As Shiraha took his place opposite Shihouin Sifeng, a wave of murmurs passed through the student body.

This was the moment they had been waiting for—the genius who had shattered the spiritual power testing record, the blind prodigy who had claimed to destroy the entire dojo by himself, was finally stepping into an open match. They had heard the rumors. Now, they wanted proof.

Facing his instructor, Shiraha bowed with poise. "Please guide me, Teacher Sifeng."

He raised the wooden sword, gripping it lightly in his right hand and pointing it forward with quiet calm.

Shihouin Sifeng's brow furrowed slightly. "You're not using your Sealed State?"

"This is sufficient," Shiraha said simply, offering no further explanation.

He knew that if he drew the cane sword hanging at his side, even with minimal spiritual power, his first strike could easily prove fatal. The wooden sword was the safer option—for both of them.

Sifeng studied him for a moment, then wordlessly selected a wooden sword of his own. He stepped into position, posture perfectly square, hands locked on the hilt. His body radiated tension—not fear, but focus. In that moment, the air inside the dojo shifted. Particles of dust trembled in the silence, pulled by the ambient force leaking from their poised bodies.

Neither had released Reiatsu, yet an oppressive presence built between them, sending ripples through the surrounding space.

"Shiraha, do your best!"

"You've got this! Show Teacher Sifeng what our top freshman can do!"

"Let's go, Shiraha!"

Cheers broke out from the crowd, their excitement mounting with each passing second. But Shihouin Sifeng remained calm, unaffected by the sudden support directed toward his opponent.

"Here I come," Sifeng warned, and then—without another word—he sprang into motion.

His wooden blade slashed through the air with precision, launching toward Shiraha's right shoulder in a swift, practiced strike. The attack carved a whiplike current of air through the room, its force so sharp that several nearby students flinched instinctively, feeling the chill of its passage brush their skin.

But Shiraha did not budge.

With Observation Haki already deployed, he had sensed the angle and trajectory of the strike before Sifeng had even begun moving. His own blade rose with perfect timing, intercepting the attack mid-arc.

The resulting impact echoed through the dojo with a sharp clang, the two wooden blades grinding against each other in a locked clash. Shihouin Sifeng's expression flickered in surprise as his forward motion stopped completely. A heavy force, unfamiliar and unrelenting, pushed against him from the point of contact.

Before he could disengage, Shiraha countered.

Twisting his blade with a subtle flick, he redirected the momentum and disarmed Sifeng in a single, fluid movement. The instructor's wooden sword soared through the air, tumbling end over end before embedding itself in the far wall of the dojo.

Shiraha didn't pause.

Pivoting his stance, he followed through with a horizontal slash, and from the tip of the wooden sword erupted a crescent-shaped wave of violet energy. The slash, infused with refined gravity manipulation and raw sword intent, roared toward Sifeng in a flash of light and force.

It wasn't just a sparring attack. It was a warning.

Sifeng's eyes widened, and in the same breath, he drew the Zanpakutō at his waist. Spiritual pressure exploded outward, his Reiatsu surging as he blocked the incoming attack just in time. The clash between the violet slash and his hastily summoned defense lit the dojo with spiritual energy, and though he survived the strike, the force behind it hurled him backward nearly twenty meters before he skidded to a halt, one knee pressed into the ground, his sword trembling in his grasp.

His uniform had been torn in several places. A line of blood traced down his chin. His breathing had grown shallow.

Yet, even through the dust and pain, he smiled—shaken, yet respectful.

"Kuchiki Shiraha," he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the dojo, "the teacher… concedes defeat."

A stunned silence filled the room, followed by an explosion of voices.

He had defeated a master swordsman, a noble, and a veteran of over three hundred years—all without drawing his Zanpakutō.

And Shiraha, standing amidst the ruins once again, said nothing.

He simply lowered his sword, closed his blind eyes, and waited for the next task to call him forward.