Bleach: The Template System Chose Me, The Forgotten Kuchiki

In less than three seconds, the thirty-sixth-cycle students, led by Sato, had been reduced to unconscious bodies strewn across the training field, each one a testament to a swift, clinical defeat that had unfolded with blinding speed.

"You're the last ones standing," Shiraha murmured, his voice calm yet unyielding, while his grip on the wooden training blade remained steady, his gaze falling upon Omaeda Marechiyo and the remaining fifth-generation students—those who continued chanting with growing desperation, their synchrony fraying at the edges like cloth under fire.

Now, with the others collapsed and groaning on the ground, only Omaeda's squad remained upright, though their pride had been thoroughly battered and their breaths came shallow and uneven beneath the invisible weight pressing down upon them.

Each step Shiraha took forward was deliberate, and while his spiritual pressure neither surged nor dipped, its unwavering density coiled around the field like a vice, compressing the lungs of his opponents and locking their limbs in a creeping paralysis born of fear.

Sweat poured freely down Omaeda's face in glistening streams as he fought to maintain eye contact with Shiraha, who seemed to radiate dominance without even trying, each subtle shift in his movement exuding an authority that made resistance feel foolish, yet despite this, the students held fast to their task, raising their voices until the incantation rang out like a final declaration of hope.

"Hadō Number Thirty-Three: Sōkatsui!"

With that final cry, countless bursts of flame ignited within their outstretched hands, and an onslaught of bright blue fireballs surged forth in all directions, their momentum fueled by the students' last reserves of spirit energy, converging on Shiraha from every angle with the fury of a collapsing sky.

Explosions erupted across the clearing in rapid succession as the spells collided with the earth and each other, sending shockwaves and flame plumes skyward, while the impact zone vanished beneath smoke and fire, the ground trembling beneath the weight of dozens of simultaneous detonations.

Flames licked at the sky while soot and dust spiraled into thick clouds, swallowing the battlefield in a choking haze, and though the smoke masked all vision, the sheer force of the attack left no doubt that it had struck its mark.

"We hit him!"

A student's voice broke the silence with an exclamation of triumph, and his words ignited a flicker of hope among the exhausted ranks, causing even those who had slumped over in defeat to lift their heads with renewed energy, while small smiles broke through the fatigue like light through a crack.

While a single Sōkatsui might have been classified as a mid-tier Kidō, their sheer number and the proximity of the assault meant that even a seasoned officer would have been forced to yield—or worse, critically wounded—by the bombardment that had just unfolded.

To them, it seemed undeniable.

After all, Shiraha was no Vice-Captain, had no seated rank, and bore no Zanpakutō.

He was still a first-year student.

He had arrived at the Academy only a month prior.

How much spiritual pressure could someone like that conceivably possess?

Even the instructors observing from the perimeter began to relax, some of them lowering their arms slightly as the smoke billowed across the battlefield, believing, perhaps foolishly, that the skirmish had reached its conclusion.

"Could it really have ended that quickly, just like that?"

Omaeda Marechiyo stood frozen where he was, chest rising and falling with uneven rhythm, his gaze fixed on the smoke, and though everything about the situation pointed toward a successful strike, a deep, insistent doubt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, one born not of pride but of pure instinct.

He had seen what Shiraha was capable of—how effortlessly he had dismantled dozens of his fellow students—and something about the ease of this conclusion didn't feel right.

"Is that really all it took to bring him down?"

"He was practically unstoppable just moments ago... how could he go down so suddenly?"

"Well, regardless of what just happened, the fact that he lasted this long, despite being a freshman, is something worth respecting."

The murmurs that passed between the spectators carried an air of disbelief wrapped in admiration, their voices hesitant and uncertain, each word trying to reconcile the sheer power Shiraha had displayed with the supposed outcome they had just witnessed.

"Brother Shiraha wouldn't fall that easily. I know him."

Renji's voice cut through the whispers with quiet certainty, his eyes locked on the smoke with unshakable focus.

"Renji, don't cling to fantasies," Kira Izuru replied gently, placing a calming hand on Renji's shoulder in a gesture of quiet reassurance. "Even Brother Shiraha can't survive an attack of that magnitude."

Despite his words, Kira's expression wavered slightly, and beneath his calm exterior, his heart stumbled with each beat as uncertainty chipped away at his belief.

"He won't fall. Not like this. I believe in him."

Hinamori Momo's voice was soft but resolute, and though her fists trembled at her sides, her conviction remained clear in every syllable.

"I suppose this is the end, then."

One of the invigilators exhaled with subdued acceptance, his eyes still trained on the smoke-filled clearing. "Given everything we've seen today, he did more than anyone could have imagined under these conditions."

But even as he spoke, the smoke moved in a way that defied the wind.

An unnatural pressure pulsed outward from the center of the blast zone—silent, weightless, but unmistakable to anyone sensitive to spirit energy.

"…Wait."

The examiner's expression darkened as he extended his senses toward the epicenter, and when realization struck, his voice rose sharply with alarm. "No. This isn't over!"

Then, from within the haze, Shiraha's voice rang out, calm and utterly composed, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Bakudō Number Eighty-One—Danku."

As the smoke finally cleared, the impossible became visible—Shiraha stood unharmed, his clothes unburnt, his posture relaxed, and between him and the scorched earth hovered a colossal transparent barrier, dense with layered spiritual energy and shimmering with residual heat.

The massive shield had intercepted every single Sōkatsui, its surface marked with impact scars and singe lines, but not a single blast had pierced its form, which now crackled softly as fractures began to form across its structure like veins in ice.

With a quiet, crystalline shatter, the barrier dissolved into a cascade of glowing particles that drifted harmlessly into the wind, leaving nothing behind but stunned silence.

"Still a little rough around the edges."

Shiraha spoke more to himself than anyone else, his voice thoughtful as he analyzed the result of the hastily cast spell. Observation Haki had flared a moment before the attack, giving him just enough time to invoke the technique, and while he had skipped the full incantation, he had forced the Kidō into existence through sheer precision and ironclad will.

The barrier had held—just barely—and once it fulfilled its role, it fell apart due to instability.

His mastery wasn't perfect.

Not yet.

But the result remained undeniable: he had absorbed the combined Kidō assault of nearly a dozen advanced students without taking a step backward.

"How… how can this be real?"

The invigilator's voice trembled as he tried to process what he had just witnessed. "Bakudō Number Eighty-One—Danku… and he did it without chanting?"

To abandon the incantation and still cast a high-level Kidō like Danku required not just knowledge, but overwhelming spiritual power—Captain-class, more often than not—and even then, few could execute it flawlessly without preparation.

Vice-Captains rarely succeeded without significant strain.

And yet, here stood Shiraha—still a nameless first-year—executing it with casual effort.

"What did you just say?!"

Omaeda Marechiyo's voice cracked as the truth slammed into him, his knees buckling slightly beneath the weight of realization. His eyes widened as his mind attempted to reconcile the impossible with what he knew of Kidō theory.

He had grown up learning about spells like Danku, spells that demanded nearly unattainable levels of control and poise to master.

They weren't meant to be used in training duels, let alone executed without a chant.

This wasn't simple talent.

This was something closer to a monster in human form.

"This… this isn't a fight we're capable of winning anymore…"

His voice faltered into silence as the truth became self-evident, not just to him but to every remaining student who still stood—those who had raised their weapons with trembling hands now found their fingers going slack, their wooden blades slipping free and clattering to the ground.

In every discipline—Hakuda, Zanjutsu, Shunpo, and now Kidō—he had proven superior.

There was no aspect in which he had not crushed them.

And he had done so with a weapon that wasn't even real.

"He's not even using a Zanpakutō…"

"He's been in the Academy for just a month."

"A chantless Danku… even the Central 46 wouldn't believe this."

"Is this what the next generation looks like?"

The whispers spread again, no longer mere surprise but reverence tinged with fear, as if each word carried weight too heavy to speak aloud.

No one dared raise their voice.

No one dared refute what they had seen.

Then Renji, unable to hold back the joy swelling in his chest, broke into laughter and threw an arm around Kira's shoulders, shaking him slightly as he pointed toward Shiraha.

"I told you, didn't I?! I told you he wouldn't fall!"

Kira blinked rapidly, still trying to process it all, before allowing a stunned, quiet chuckle to escape his lips. "I never imagined even Brother Shiraha could reach this level."

"He's amazing!" Hinamori Momo's voice was bright with awe, rising above the murmurs. "He's not just strong—he's beyond what anyone expected. Who else casts advanced Kidō like that without a chant?!"

At the center of the field, Shiraha stepped forward again.

Not with pride. Not with arrogance.

Simply with calm purpose, his breath steady and the wooden sword still resting in his hand.

"Do you still wish to continue?"

His tone lacked condescension or cruelty; it was soft, almost kind, yet every syllable carried such finality that even the strongest-willed among them felt it settle over their hearts like a mountain pressing into their chests.

Omaeda Marechiyo forced himself upright, his legs trembling beneath him, and though every fiber of his body begged for rest, he looked Shiraha in the eye and gave his answer with honesty born of clarity.

"…No. Shiraha… you win."

He bowed, placing his sword on the ground with deliberate care, and the sound it made as it landed echoed across the now-silent training field.

One after another, the remaining students followed his example.

They bowed low, surrendering not just in body but in spirit, acknowledging that what they had witnessed was no ordinary display of strength, but something transcendent.

The battle had already ended.

Now, it had simply been acknowledged.

And from that moment on, whether in awe or in fear, the name Shiraha would remain etched in their memories, never to be forgotten.