Bleach: The Template System Chose Me, The Forgotten Kuchiki

"What kind of strength?" Omaeda Marechiyo scoffed, his words dragging with contempt, "At the very least, you need the power of someone like my uncle. But you—"

His mocking stopped midsentence, the words severed like a wire under strain.

"Triple gravity."

Shiraha's voice, devoid of tension or emotion, struck with quiet finality, and the effect was instantaneous.

A muffled thud echoed across the courtyard, followed by the eerie silence that always follows an unnatural collapse. The atmosphere thickened.

The air itself seemed to fold downward as invisible force pressed down, and in that moment, Omaeda Marechiyo's frame, heavy and arrogant, crumpled under the unrelenting pressure of Shiraha's gravitational command. His knees buckled, his spine curved forward in protest, and he sank into the stone like a broken pillar. Tremors coursed through his arms as sweat soaked through his robe almost instantly, the crimson flush on his face deepening into something nearing panic. Mouth open, lungs gasping for air that barely entered—his voice failed him, suffocated by unseen weight.

To Marechiyo, it felt as if a mountain had settled atop his shoulders, one that bore down not just on his body but his ego, his composure, and his entire sense of superiority. Veins pulsed grotesquely across his forehead, bulging in protest as he struggled futilely to rise. But the force binding him wasn't mere physical pressure—it was a spiritual dominion, crafted by someone whose control over reiatsu functioned like gravity given will. And will, in this case, had declared he would kneel.

"What just happened? Why did he drop like that?"

"Was that a Kidō? Or some hidden Zanjutsu?"

"No... that pressure... that had to be his Zanpakutō. That wasn't natural."

"I heard Kuchiki Shiraha had his Zanpakutō even before setting foot in the Academy."

The students near the Sixth-Year campus stood rooted, their voices hushed but increasingly sharp with awe. Many struggled to comprehend the swift, brutal demonstration of control they had just witnessed. In a space defined by cultivation and hierarchy, moments like this rewrote the unspoken rules.

Omaeda Marechiyo, while far from a genius, had already advanced through the sixth training cycle, received his Zanpakutō, and built a respectable spiritual foundation. His reiatsu was sufficient to keep most underclassmen at bay, and his presence typically commanded attention, if not outright respect.

Yet now, Shiraha had silenced him—without taking a single step.

No blade drawn.

No incantation muttered.

Just one quiet word.

"Seal your Zanpakutō's ability immediately."

The authoritative voice cut through the murmurs like steel. A senior instructor from the Academy stepped forward, his expression measured but unmistakably cautious.

"Understood, sensei," Shiraha replied, inclining his head slightly, the gravitational field dissolving at once as his spiritual pressure withdrew like a receding tide.

As the weight vanished, Omaeda Marechiyo collapsed into coughing, his throat raw from the strain, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. His soaked uniform clung to him like a second skin, and as he forced himself back to his feet—legs shaking, pride in tatters—he met Shiraha's gaze and instinctively looked away, now stripped of any semblance of bravado.

"Well then," Shiraha asked softly, brushing a nonexistent speck from his sleeve, "do I now possess the strength required to be here?"

Though phrased politely, the question held no room for disagreement. The difference in power had already rendered judgment.

Had Shiraha chosen to exert even a tenth more pressure, perhaps using the twenty-fivefold gravity he typically reserved for more serious encounters, Marechiyo wouldn't simply have been grounded—he likely would have been crushed outright. Bones shattered. Will broken. That he remained conscious was proof Shiraha had shown restraint.

"Y-Yes! Of course," Omaeda Marechiyo blurted, the honorific tumbling from his lips in an uncharacteristic stammer. "You've clearly earned your place. I was out of line, and I deeply apologize."

He bowed low, humility replacing arrogance as quickly as heat fleeing shadow. For a single moment, during that unbearable weight, he'd been genuinely convinced his chest would cave in and his heart would stop.

Though the Academy was more lenient in hierarchy than the Court Guard Divisions, strength still carved out authority—and Shiraha's statement had been undeniable.

"You were incredible, Brother Shiraha!"

Renji Abarai raced forward, practically vibrating with admiration, his ponytail bouncing as he reached Shiraha's side. "That gravity—was that your Shikai? That wasn't just reiatsu…"

"And Marechiyo's no rookie either," Kira Izuru added as he joined them, his normally reserved tone thick with astonishment. "I heard he was close to unlocking his Shikai. You beat him like it was nothing."

Hinamori Momo's eyes sparkled as she took a step closer, looking up at Shiraha with earnest reverence. "I want to become as strong as you someday, Brother Shiraha!"

Shiraha offered them a subdued smile, as if their praise barely registered. "He simply wasn't strong enough."

His words, delivered without boast or cruelty, carried a simple weight of fact. But his mind was already moving forward.

"Sensei," he said, turning to the instructor who had stepped forward, "may I ask the details of the special assessment that the Academy has prepared for me?"

Omaeda Marechiyo had been dealt with. Now the real challenge stood in front of him, one that would determine whether he could leave the Academy early and begin fulfilling his obligations to the System—and the World of the Living.

The instructor's gaze didn't waver, though the silence that followed his next words made the courtyard feel even heavier than Shiraha's gravity technique.

"Kuchiki Shiraha, after thorough discussion among the dean and the senior staff of the Spiritual Arts Academy, your early graduation trial has been set. You are to endure a thirty-minute siege by one hundred sixth-cycle students. During the trial, you are expressly forbidden from activating your Zanpakutō or using its abilities in any form. Your performance will be judged based solely on your proficiency in Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Hohō, and Kidō."

He let the words hang deliberately in the air, watching Shiraha's face for any reaction.

The shock among the surrounding students was instantaneous.

"Wait, a hundred sixth-years?"

"And no Zanpakutō?"

"That's insane—even a seated officer would be overwhelmed!"

"There's no way he's going to survive half an hour…"

The disbelief rippled outward. Whispers turned into voices, and voices into near outrage. Everyone present understood the implication: this wasn't just a difficult assessment. It was a trial designed to break the candidate and force reconsideration.

Even among the elite of the Gotei 13, the idea of facing a hundred trained opponents without Shikai was borderline suicidal. For a first-year student?

It bordered on cruelty.

But Shiraha neither flinched nor frowned.

"One hundred?" he murmured thoughtfully, his lips tugging into the faintest of smiles. "Interesting."

His hand drifted across the hilt of his sheathed staff blade—not in temptation to draw it, but in acknowledgment, a silent gesture of farewell. He would not be relying on its strength today.

Not that he needed it.

"Please begin the assessment at your earliest convenience," Shiraha said with a calm that bordered on arrogance—but was rooted in absolute self-certainty.

The proctor studied him for a long beat. Then, with a curt nod, he turned on his heel and began walking toward the arena designated for advanced dueling exercises.

Shiraha followed silently, his steps slow and steady, as if time itself moved at his pace. Renji, Kira, and Hinamori trailed after him, their expressions torn between concern and awe. Behind them, dozens of other students had already begun to converge on the combat arena, driven by curiosity, skepticism, and in some cases, envy.

By the time they arrived, the arena was filled. Rows of benches surrounded the circular dojo, and within its center stood the assembled hundred—each a sixth-year student of considerable discipline, trained in both the practical and theoretical arts of Soul Reaping. Every one of them held a reinforced wooden practice sword, and though they had been instructed to restrain themselves, their killing intent could still be felt in the air like static.

Some bore looks of amusement, others of challenge or disdain. A few merely looked curious, perhaps wondering if the blind prodigy was more myth than man.

"Is that him?"

"He doesn't even look tense."

"Where's his sword?"

"Oh, right... he gave it up. That's part of the trial."

As Shiraha stepped into the ring, the invigilator raised his hand to stop him.

"Kuchiki Shiraha," the man said, voice sharp with protocol, "you are hereby instructed to surrender your Zanpakutō in its entirety. That includes any sealed or latent states. Do you comply?"

Without hesitation, Shiraha unfastened the staff blade from his hip and handed it over. The motion was fluid, without fear or reluctance, and as he did, the final murmurs in the stands began to die down.

The proctor then unrolled a scroll and began reading names—"San San Arashi, Sato, Omaeda, Yamashita, Nishikido, Shiina, Nakama, Ninomiya…"—until a full hundred had stepped forward. Each carried a hardened wooden blade and had taken up designated formation positions across the field.

Omaeda Marechiyo, back among them, said nothing, but his grip on his training weapon had tightened noticeably.

Shiraha, meanwhile, retrieved a practice sword from the rack near the wall and tested its weight in his right hand. It was light—almost too light—but perfectly balanced. He adjusted his grip once and took his place at the center of the ring.

By the time the final student joined the circle, the one hundred combatants had surrounded him completely, fanning out in six directions with military precision.

The air grew still.

The crowd leaned in.

And Shiraha, calm as ever, blind eyes closed, waited silently in the center of the storm.