
Brief
SHINIGAMI ACADEMY
Somewhere between the living world and the nothing, there is a city built on the memory of order. Its walls are white stone. Its sky holds light that arrives without a clear source. Its students bleed and train and argue and fall asleep over textbooks and wake up to do it again.
This is Seireitei — and at its edge, behind gates marked with the seals of the forty-sixth chamber, stands the place where Shinigami are made.
Not born. Made. The Academy does not promise glory. It promises pressure. Six years of it, if you're average. Less, if you're not. The ones who survive it go on to carry zanpakutō in the name of the Soul King. The ones who don't — well. The Academy has records that go back a long time. Not all the names in them are followed by graduation dates.
Homeroom, Division 1 Block. First period hasn't started yet. The blackboard is clean. Whoever teaches this room hasn't arrived.
The room is already mostly full. Renji has his chair tilted back. Rukia is writing something in a notebook she angles away from anyone nearby. Ichigo is doing nothing in particular with the focused energy of someone who would rather be somewhere else. Ikkaku and Yumichika are in the back. Yasochika and Hanatarō are by the door giggling, small and quiet. Orihime is talking. Chad is still. Ishida has a textbook open. Iemura's notes are already organized.
Outside in the corridor, footsteps move past without entering. A bell will ring in approximately four minutes.
Generating
Generating
Generating
