Early the next morning, as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Haru woke up and went through his morning routine.
After working up a good sweat exercising in his courtyard, he looked around at the desolate, weed-choked grounds and let out a heavy sigh.
‘I’ve got a long road ahead of me.’
Grabbing his Zanpakutō, he took a leisurely stroll out of the noble district.
His dilapidated estate sat right on the outer fringes.
If anyone ever decided to stage a grand rebellion against the Seireitei, his house would definitely be the first to get flattened.
Thankfully, Lieutenant Omaeda had hooked him up, otherwise, he would have had to sell the property and move to the Rukongai by now.
Omaeda’s “friendship donation” was currently strapped to Haru’s waist, though the pouch was considerably flatter.
He had given half of the funds to Yuriko for household expenses and kept the rest for himself.
Having money in his pockets put a spring in his step.
After stopping by a street stall to buy a couple of steamed buns, he used Shunpo and made his way to the Shin’ō Academy to report for duty.
The Seireitei was ridiculously massive; even with his mastery of the flash step, it still took him nearly fifteen minutes to cross the district and arrive at the academy gates.
He paused to adjust his robes.
For a moment, he felt a prickle on the back of his neck, as if eyes were watching him from the shadows.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw nothing but the empty street and the lush, sprawling trees shielding the morning sun.
Haru chuckled, offered a casual wave to the empty trees, and strode through the academy gates.
Classes were already in session, and Haru passed by the rooms unnoticed.
It wasn’t until he reached the faculty and staff area that the hushed whispers began to swarm around him.
“Look, isn’t that him?
The guy who was supposed to marry into the Shihōin clan?”
“Keep your voice down!
Are you trying to get in trouble gossiping about the Great Nobles?”
“It’s fine, he didn’t actually marry in, did he?”
A few stifled giggles echoed down the hall.
They were supposed to be whispering, but their voices were pitched just loud enough for Haru to hear perfectly.
Haru frowned.
‘So loud.
Where are their manners?’
Hidden beneath the wide sleeve of his uniform, his fingers quietly snapped.
“Ugh…
I feel dizzy…
I think I’m gonna throw up…”
“Now that you mention it, my head is spinning…
hurk!”
Ignoring the sudden outbreak of violent nausea behind him, Haru made a beeline for the headmaster’s office and knocked politely on the door.
“Come in.”
The elderly headmaster of the Shin’ō Academy scrutinized the recommendation letter, then looked up at the young man standing before him, feeling a bit conflicted.
A letter from Marenoshin Omaeda obviously carried immense weight.
Nobody wanted to offend a major financial backer of the Gotei 13.
If Haru were applying to be a student, it would be a breeze, but he was here to be a teacher.
That required some consideration.
Naturally, the headmaster was fully aware of the messy broken-engagement scandal that had recently dominated the front page of the Seireitei Communication.
“Haru Shimizu,” the headmaster said.
“Yes, sir.” Haru offered a shallow bow.
“If you wish to join the academy as an instructor, I need a comprehensive understanding of your background.” The headmaster pulled out a stack of papers meant to be Haru’s personnel file.
It was completely blank.
“You are not a registered Soul Reaper?”
“I am, sir.
Due to certain unique circumstances, my registration was kept off the public records.”
The headmaster nodded in understanding.
Noble clan politics.
It was common enough.
“My previous deployment was entirely within the Executive Militia,” Haru elaborated, “so my combat data is classified.”
“I see.
However, if you are to teach here, it is my responsibility as headmaster to assess your capabilities.
This is out of duty to the students, as well as to yourself.
Show me what you can do.”
Haru nodded.
It was a reasonable request.
A massive wave of Spiritual Pressure abruptly crashed down upon the room.
The air in the office instantly solidified, growing heavy and suffocating.
The teacup on the desk rattled fiercely, and the old headmaster’s beard fluttered in the unseen gale.
A second later, the Reiatsu vanished entirely, leaving the office perfectly still once more.
“High-seated officer level,” the headmaster noted with an approving nod.
To possess that much raw power at his age was impressive.
His future was boundless, and he was more than qualified to teach.
‘But with this kind of strength, why would he agree to be a trophy husband?’ The old man couldn’t fathom the minds of the youth.
“Do you have a specialized subject?
This will determine your faculty placement.”
Haru cheered internally.
He had passed the interview.
“Kidō.”
“Very well.
You’ll start as an Assistant Instructor.
I won’t inquire about your Zanpakutō’s abilities, but please ensure you register it with the First Division as soon as possible.”
Haru left the office thoroughly satisfied.
This was certainly worth celebrating.
He hadn’t spent a single day in school, yet here he was, an instructor at the most prestigious academy in the Soul Society.
Sure, he was just an assistant and had a probationary period to get through, but he actually loved the career path Omaeda had set up for him.
It was relaxed.
It was low-stress.
Most importantly, it gave him plenty of free time to focus on his own affairs and steadily stockpile his strength until he was ready to soar.
Laying low?
Playing it safe?
That strategy might make sense in other worlds, but this was the Soul Society.
This was a world where style and presence dictated absolutely everything.
If you couldn’t stand on the main stage and shine blindingly bright, you might as well be dead.
But until he actually possessed that overwhelming power, maintaining a low profile was the smart play.
The Soul Society’s timeline was notoriously long and confusing, and his knowledge of the plot was only half-complete anyway.
For him, the story had basically ended after the Arrancar arc.
He only knew bits and pieces of the lore that came after.
But one thing was absolutely certain: Yoruichi hadn’t fled to the World of the Living with that bastard Kisuke Urahara yet.
That meant Sōsuke Aizen hadn’t triggered the Hollowfication incident either.
That afternoon, the second-year students in one of the academy’s Kidō classes were surprised to find not one, but two teachers standing at the front of the room.
Originally, Haru had planned to keep a low profile and simply observe how a professionally trained instructor taught a class.
But after sitting through half a lecture, he realized the man was arguably a worse teacher than he was.
Most of the academy’s staff were injured, retired officers from the Gotei 13.
Their combat skills were undeniable, but their pedagogy was severely lacking.
They relied entirely on “genius-style education”—meaning the teacher would demonstrate a spell exactly once, and then expect the students to just figure it out on their own.
Whether the kids actually understood the mechanics was irrelevant to them.
Haru’s teaching instincts began to itch.
Being a respected, venerated mentor figure?
Who wouldn’t want that?
After politely offering a few constructive suggestions to the main teacher—and being brutally shut down—Haru took action.
Suddenly, the poor, stubborn Kidō instructor was overcome with violent dizziness and uncontrollable nausea, forcing him to take the rest of the day off.
Stepping up to the plate, the helpful Assistant Instructor graciously volunteered to take over so the students wouldn’t fall behind.
“Good afternoon, class,” Haru said.
His excellent mood instantly soured when no one stood up.
‘Why didn’t the class rep call for them to rise?’ He frowned, deeply unaccustomed to the lack of classroom etiquette.
“I am your new substitute teacher, Haru Shimizu.” He turned and wrote his name in large characters on the chalkboard.
“You may call me Mr.
Shimizu.”
While there were a few nobles in the Shin’ō Academy, the vast majority of the student body hailed from the Rukongai.
Because of this, they held a deep respect for their instructors.
The classroom remained dead silent, giving him their full attention.
Haru nodded in satisfaction.
His eyes briefly landed on a figure sitting quietly in a back-row corner.
“First, I need to know where you are in the curriculum.
Who can answer?”
A girl nervously raised her hand, her face flushing red.
“M-Mr.
Shimizu…
we’re only in our second year.
We’ve only learned the most basic Bakudō and Hadō spells.”
‘Perfect.
That means they haven’t picked up too many bad habits from incompetent teachers.’ Haru quickly adjusted his mindset, offered the girl a word of praise, and addressed the room.
“I’m sure you all understand the basic theory of Kidō, so I won’t bore you with a long lecture.
Our predecessors studied and refined the ability of Soul Reapers to manipulate ambient Reishi using their own Reiatsu, granting it specific attributes and forms.
The physical manifestation of that process is the Kotodama—the incantation.”
Haru was quickly finding his groove.
He had been a teacher in his past life, after all.
“By chanting the incantation, we focus our minds, which allows us to mobilize the surrounding Reishi much more efficiently.
Through rigorous, long-term practice, some of you may master an advanced technique known as Eishō Haki—Incantation Abandonment.
By skipping the chant, you can fire a Kidō spell instantly.
Who can tell me the primary benefit of doing this?”
A boy raised his hand, and Haru gestured for him to speak.
“You can catch the enemy off guard with a sneak attack!”
“Exactly right,” Haru smiled.
“That is the most obvious and practical advantage.
You are all future elites of the Soul Society.
No matter which Squad you join—well, maybe with the exception of Squad 11—this technique will be absolutely essential for your survival in the field.”
A few of the noble-born students in the audience exchanged knowing smirks.
Squad 11 was a dumping ground for mindless brutes.
Even if they became Soul Reapers, aristocrats like them would never stoop so low as to join a Squad like that.
“But I digress.
Let’s get back on topic,” Haru continued.
“Since we understand how Kidō is cast, let’s use Hadō Number 31, Shakkahō, as an example.
Why is it that some people can unleash a massive, devastating explosion of fire, while others can barely produce enough light to read a book in the dark?”
As he spoke, Haru raised a single hand.
Without a single word of incantation, a crimson glow flared to life in his palm.
It rapidly expanded into a sphere of swirling red fire, growing steadily until it was the size of a human head, where it stopped and hovered perfectly still.
In the back row, a student was staring at Haru intently, simultaneously scribbling notes at a rapid pace.
The lenses of his glasses caught the fiery light, reflecting a sharp, analytical intelligence.
Haru didn’t pay him any special mind and continued his lesson.
He stepped down from the podium and walked slowly down the aisle between the desks.
The students nearest to him panicked, leaning away and pressing themselves against their chairs to avoid the explosive spell.
But they quickly realized that the terrifying sphere of fire was unnervingly stable.
It didn’t crackle or spit embers; it merely radiated a gentle, comforting warmth.
“Control,” Haru said softly.
“Kidō only becomes unstable when your control is lacking, or when you attempt to output more Reiatsu than your body can handle.
A perfectly controlled Kidō can be maintained indefinitely.”
He stopped at the center of the room.
“Mastering your control over Reishi, and mastering the output of your own Reiatsu.
I believe this is the truest, most effective way to understand and master the art of Kidō.”
The dismissal bell rang throughout the academy grounds.
Haru closed his hand into a fist, and the fireball vanished without a sound.
“Class dismissed.
Go home and think about what I’ve demonstrated today.
For our next class, I expect a five-hundred-word essay on your thoughts.”
Ignoring the collective groans of despair, Haru returned to the podium and waited.
As the students filed out of the classroom, Haru called out to the last person remaining.
“Excuse me, could you stay behind for a moment and help me clean the chalkboard?” He pointed to his own name written in chalk.
“Of course, Mr.
Shimizu.”
The boy walked to the front and began methodically erasing the board.
Haru didn’t leave; he simply sat on the edge of the podium, watching the boy’s back.
“Your teacher is getting old, and my back isn’t what it used to be,” Haru joked lightly.
“Thanks for the help today.
What’s your name?”
The boy in the Shin’ō Academy uniform paused.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Turning around, he offered Haru a deep, polite bow.
“It’s no trouble at all, Mr.
Shimizu.
My name is Sōsuke Aizen.”