Early the Next Morning
When the first rays of sunlight spilled into the dorms of Shin'ō Academy, a slender figure was already standing before the mirror, quietly washing up.
Aizen Sōsuke brushed his soft brown hair downward, letting it fall slightly over his forehead, giving him a gentle, almost fragile look. Today he would report to his newly assigned division, and to avoid unnecessary trouble, he'd decided to pay a little extra attention to his appearance.
By the time he finished grooming, his already delicate features looked even more harmless—like the transparent, unnoticed type of student you could pass by a hundred times without remembering.
The spacious dorm was empty except for him.
Before the morning bells had even rung, Kisaragi Akira had perfectly demonstrated his talent for disappearing without a trace—quickly washing up and rushing out of the academy, heading straight to the Eleventh Division barracks.
He had shown no hint of farewell emotion, leaving as casually as if he were skipping class.
To him, this kind of separation didn't even qualify as "parting," let alone something sentimental.
Aizen tidied his belongings, then paused at the doorway, quietly taking in the familiar view as flashes of old memories drifted through his mind.
At the end of it all, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips.
"Goodbye…"
Eleventh Division Barracks
Kisaragi Akira arrived with excitement bubbling in his chest, ready to embrace division life.
Before coming, he'd already imagined what the Eleventh Division might look like.
From his past memories, he knew this was a squad that worshipped battle—its members were fierce, hot-blooded fighters, and the barracks even included a dedicated arena for duels.
So even if he saw Shinigami brawling at full force, tearing roofs off houses in the heat of combat, he wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.
Because that was Eleventh Division's normal state.
But the moment he stepped in front of the barracks, he sensed something deeply off.
The air itself felt… defeated.
"…Not right."
Akira narrowed his eyes.
"Very not right."
There were no echoing war cries.
No shirtless muscleheads clashing with wild abandon.
No savage brawls ending in near-death.
The grassy training area was silent and dusty.
Trash was piled everywhere.
A dead, slumped atmosphere hung over the place, and the wooden corridors creaked sharply even under the softest breeze.
With a frown, Akira walked on, searching for even one trace of other squad members.
Sure, the Eleventh Division had the highest casualty rates of all Thirteen Divisions, but this degree of emptiness was abnormal.
Where did everyone go?
And then—he stepped inside and froze.
"Three characters."
"Bamboo!"
"Pon!!"
Several dozen meters away, inside the main hall, the room was buzzing with excitement.
More than ten Shinigami—each exuding the unmistakable aura of hopeless slackers—sat around tables smoking, drinking, and playing mahjong, perfectly embodying the word "degenerate."
When they noticed Akira walk in, the spectators turned their heads lazily.
"Oh? A newbie reporting in?"
"Looks pretty young. Fresh graduate from the Academy? A prodigy or something?"
"Wanna play a few rounds? We don't have to gamble!"
"Oi!! You bastard—you stole my tile just now, didn't you?!"
"Don't slander me! That tile was obviously mine!"
"I didn't say which tile—so you're confessing, huh?!"
"You son of a—keep talking and I'll rearrange your teeth!"
Before Akira's stunned eyes, the entire group immediately exploded into a brawl.
Even without spiritual pressure, their sharp movements made it clear—they were all seasoned fighters.
Clean, efficient strikes—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
If they aimed for your eye, they weren't going to hit your knee instead.
Right as the chaos peaked, another figure rushed in from outside.
A young man with slightly wavy black hair—
the same one Akira had met in First Division: Gojō Itsuki, the acting captain.
As the temporary commander, he still held some authority here.
One stern shout, and the entire squad of slackers shrank back, grudgingly dispersing.
Once the hall quieted, Itsuki bowed deeply.
"I sincerely apologize, Captain Kisaragi—"
"Don't call me captain," Akira interrupted immediately.
"I haven't been officially appointed. And explaining that to the old man would be a nightmare."
Even if everyone already considered it a done deal, becoming a captain fresh out of the academy was too shocking—and extremely suspicious.
It could even make people question whether the previous Eleventh Division captain, Shirogane Sōya, had been framed by Head Captain Yamamoto just to elevate his disciple afterward and seize control of the Thirteen Divisions.
With Yamamoto's power, such a conspiracy wasn't impossible—but paranoid nobles loved spinning such theories.
To avoid unnecessary suspicion—and to extend Yamamoto's life expectancy by a couple more years—Akira planned to wait before accepting the position.
"…Then I'll address you as 'Lord Kisaragi.'"
Itsuki adjusted quickly, immediately understanding.
"That works."
Akira nodded.
The moment he agreed, Itsuki instantly slumped into the same defeated posture as the slackers earlier.
"Honestly… here's how things ended up like this."
After his explanation, Akira finally understood why the once-glorious Eleventh Division had fallen into such decay.
Ever since former captain Kurumadani died in his duel with Shirogane Sōya, the title of Kenpachi had passed to Shirogane.
And because of his Zanpakutō's ability, Shirogane could create multiple clones by condensing reishi—allowing him to take on all division duties by himself.
With no tasks left for anyone else, the members had no choice but to find other ways to kill time.
At first they still trained, sparred, and fought with enthusiasm.
But eventually… boredom set in.
After all, you couldn't exactly cut your comrades in half just to entertain yourself.
Before, when Kurumadani was alive, he led his squad on missions—eliminating Hollows or hunting down rebels.
He handled most enemies alone, but at least the others got to swing their blades and smell blood.
But when Shirogane became captain, missions were completed at impossible speed.
When a task was assigned, the squad would barely be stepping out the door when Shirogane returned, already declaring the enemy defeated.
His absurd efficiency left everyone else completely jobless.
And so… mahjong.
"Don't be fooled by how they look now," Itsuki said with an awkward yet polite smile.
"They're still strong. Give them a couple missions—they'll get their fighting spirit back."
"The only issue is… with their personalities, following orders during missions might be difficult."
Itsuki himself was only acting captain—in reality, more of a vice-captain.
Many members didn't acknowledge his authority.
For one simple reason:
He wasn't strong enough.
Gojō Itsuki had never been a combat-type Shinigami.
When he was suddenly promoted from a desk officer to vice-captain, he'd been just as confused as everyone else.
And when Shirogane went to prison, forcing him into the role of acting captain—it was too much, too fast.
Even he struggled to accept it.
"And what does any of this have to do with me?" Akira blinked innocently.
"I'm just a newbie who joined the division."
Itsuki fell silent, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over him.
He looked at the harmless-looking boy in front of him and wondered what he was supposed to say.
It was hard to believe that this same boy had once punched Shin'ichi Shiromoku to death.
"It's fine," Akira said, patting his shoulder.
"This isn't the time. Once things settle down—pass me whatever Captain Shirogane entrusted to you."
After a moment of quiet, Itsuki looked up at him seriously.
Seeing Akira's sincere expression eased something inside him.
Lord Kisaragi wasn't old, but he carried himself with a calm decisiveness reminiscent of Kurumadani.
It was reassuring.
I hope that day comes soon…
With that thought, Itsuki began gathering people to clean the barracks.
The first impression had been bad enough already—there was no way he'd let the future captain handle chores.
And once Akira took command, maybe he could transfer to a more relaxed division and enjoy a peaceful life.
Like… perhaps the Twelfth Division next door.
Twelfth Division Barracks
When Aizen Sōsuke stepped into the Twelfth Division compound, he briefly wondered whether he'd accidentally walked into the wrong place.
His research had told him that the Twelfth Division was heavily oriented toward scientific study, specializing in various spiritual tools and devices.
They even had multiple specialized subgroups—for example, the famous unit led by Shutara Senjumaru.
But what he saw now completely shattered his expectations.
It was more unbelievable than Kisaragi Akira pulling a full altar out of his pants.
The wide hall was filled with neatly arranged food ingredients—
chicken, duck, fish, shellfish, vegetables, fruit—everything that flew in the sky, ran on the ground, or swam in the water.
Shelves stacked to the ceiling were loaded with shiny cookware.
And in the back rows, Aizen even saw measuring cups, filters, reaction vessels, droppers, syringes, gas-collecting bottles, thermometers…
And several large machines that couldn't fit on shelves:
lightweight reishi centrifuges, oscillating mixers, high-speed dispersers, reishi extractors…
Shinigami in standard uniforms wore white aprons on top as they moved quickly through the aisles, transporting ingredients, prepping food, controlling flames, or handling pans.
Even more absurd—
Along the walls, blazing stoves burned with roaring flames, sending waves of various aromas drifting through the air, creating an unsettling atmosphere.
Aizen began questioning whether he had made the right choice.
He placed his personal belongings in a quiet corner and began carefully observing the environment.
Everyone had a role—carrying supplies, cutting ingredients, controlling heat, cooking.
So focused on their tasks that none of them noticed him at all.
Though he didn't yet understand what was happening, the scene reminded him of the recipe book Akira had gifted him—filled with everything from simple dishes to complex gourmet techniques.
He could even match some of the busy cooks' movements to instructions from that book.
With growing curiosity, he wandered through the bustling space until he reached one of the stoves.
There, the Sixth Seat of the division was vigorously cooking something involving tofu.
Aizen watched quietly from a non-obstructive distance.
Less than a minute later—the corners of his mouth twitched in disappointment.
The technique was terrible.
Worse than the cafeteria cooks at Shin'ō Academy.
Those clumsy, wasteful cuts were an insult to the ingredients.
"Something wrong?"
Aizen turned and saw the speaker—
the captain of the Twelfth Division, Yasuhime Kiryu.
"You must be Aizen Sōsuke, the one who submitted the recruitment request," she said with a warm smile.
"Sorry we couldn't spare people to greet you. Our research entered a critical phase."
Aizen blinked.
Cooking counts as research?
"Now, now—youngsters need to keep their minds open."
Kiryu gestured toward the rows of scientific instruments.
"Food is the most ideal medium for containing a soul."
"…Containing a soul?"
Aizen's interest sharpened immediately.
What she described felt deeply connected to his ongoing research.
Even if the scene differed from his expectations, it seemed his choice of division had not been wrong.
The Twelfth Division indeed held much to learn…
A Brief Calm in Seireitei
After the graduation exams ended, Seireitei returned to peaceful routine.
On breaks, squad members still chatted about what they witnessed that day.
But few cared where the prodigies ended up—people were more concerned with their own lives.
A few days into life at Eleventh Division, Kisaragi Akira had completely learned the squad's rhythms.
Sure, without a captain the division had gotten lazier.
But as a battle division, their overall combat strength still far surpassed most squads.
Normally, they fought on the front lines.
But with no conflicts or incidents happening, work was minimal.
Akira even less so.
To let him focus on training, Itsuki gave him a special "investigator" status.
Not much authority—but extremely free.
His daily task was simple: patrol a designated area, investigate abnormalities, and report or resolve them as he saw fit.
As simple as it gets.
And after finally enjoying a period of calm, Akira's once-quiet heart began to stir again.
He'd settled into his division.
And as a man of his word—it was time to fulfill the promises he'd made.