Kisaragi Akira stared at the pile of defeated rebel soldiers, lost in thought.
The mission had gone almost too smoothly, to the point where it felt unreal. It was as if he were a character in some game, following each step methodically, until the exclamation mark over his head shifted into a question mark. From Yamamoto issuing the task to completing it, the entire sequence had taken less than a day.
Could it be… that I'm just too strong?
He looked at his spotless hands and found himself temporarily convinced.
Yoruichi had vanished from sight, casually lifting a still-breathing rebel. She started questioning him:
"Who sent you—"
Before she could finish, the rebel's face twisted in sheer terror, as though he'd glimpsed some unspeakable horror. Black markings spread rapidly from his lips, engulfing his entire head.
Yoruichi's pupils constricted. Sensing imminent danger, she instinctively flung the soldier away.
Boom!
A crimson explosion erupted in the sky above, dazzling in its intensity.
"Good. The last live one is gone."
Yoruichi shot Akira a glare, annoyed, and explained: "These were rebel death soldiers. Each of them was implanted with a Kido trap. If captured, it triggers a reaction like what you just saw."
"The Second Division has dealt with people like this before. They're often tied to highly sensitive secrets or intelligence—sometimes capable of tipping the scales of war, or shaking the foundation of the noble houses."
As a fellow noble and a member of the Five Great Noble Families, Yoruichi was well aware of the messy, petty politics behind such schemes.
"Why are the rebels collecting civilian souls?" Akira frowned, perplexed by the twisted logic of these people.
"Lots of uses," Yoruichi replied. "Illegal soul modifications, materials for forbidden experiments, dark rituals… the list goes on. But with such limited clues, we can't be certain what they're after yet."
"Let's head back to Seireitei and report. I also need to brief the clan elders," she sighed. Anything involving the rebels was never simple, and judging by the signs, bigger trouble was likely brewing.
After collecting enough evidence to confirm the rebels' identities, Yoruichi sealed the ruined outpost with a temporary Kido barrier. Then, the two of them formally returned to Seireitei.
Not long after they left, more figures appeared near the destroyed outpost. Dressed in black from head to toe, their presence was ominous. Without time to react, they moved to assess the situation.
"The difference in power is too great… one hit and they're dead."
"The forbidden Kido has triggered. The enemy may have noticed our plan."
"We must report this immediately!"
...
First Division Barracks, Tea Room.
Yamamoto calmly tended to the hearth, placing the tea kettle precisely and maintaining an unflappable expression. Sitting across from him, Akira animatedly recounted the events, emphasizing his contributions and hardships, while also relaying Yoruichi's analysis and possibilities.
"I understand," Yamamoto said slowly, nodding. "Although we didn't locate that suspicious figure, we've wiped out a rebel outpost and tied the missing souls case directly to them. Well done, Kisaragi Akira."
"You remind me of Kyōraku back in the day," he added with a glance at the still-smirking young man, sighing inwardly. This kid, no matter how much advice I give, seems to understand it only when it suits him.
"Continue investigating. Find that suspicious figure as soon as possible to prevent further chaos."
Akira nodded. He had no objections—there were lulls in the Eleventh Division's work anyway, so tracking someone down could double as both duty and training.
After finishing his tea, as he rose to leave, Yamamoto spoke again.
"One more thing…"
"About Futake…" the elder hesitated, frowning. "You know his condition. Do you have any concrete solutions? Rituals, divinations—whatever works."
Akira paused to think. He had a rough understanding of Futake Jūshirō's situation. He had contracted a lung disease at age three and nearly died. Later, he had sacrificed his damaged lungs to Mimihaki, stabilizing his powers but leaving his lungs permanently impaired.
For most, it seemed insurmountable. But to Akira, it was just a matter of… a lung transplant.
The problem: modern technology couldn't achieve the scale of surgery required.
Yet in the Soul Society, the technological landscape was… unusual, to say the least. While most regions, including the Sixth Division's noble quarters, remained ancient in their infrastructure, the Twelfth Division had embraced modernity. When Akira had visited Aizen there, he had seen highly advanced equipment he couldn't even comprehend.
A medical solution for Futake's lungs could be achieved through technology. Akira trusted Sōsuke to find a way. And if not, he had Plans B, C, and D. With a little ingenuity, anything was possible.
"How healthy is Futake now, I wonder…"
"There will be a solution," Akira said, spreading his hands. "But I need to consult with others. Special cases like Futake's require careful evaluation before action."
Yamamoto nodded, reassured. Despite Akira's usually reckless demeanor, he proved reliable when it counted. Perhaps further nurturing was warranted.
...
Sixth District, Noble Street.
Under the Sixth Division's jurisdiction, this area housed most of the Soul Society's nobility. At the heart stood an ornate estate, corridors weaving between buildings like a labyrinth.
Shadows moved through the dark, halting before a classic study. Inside, voices of conversation drifted from the room. The shadows lined the hallway respectfully, awaiting orders.
"Enter," came the command.
The door opened. The shadows filed in, kneeling respectfully, and reported their findings:
"All forces at Outpost Three were annihilated. Kamiyama Jun is dead."
"Based on analysis, the attack was executed by the genius academy student who stood out during the graduation trials—Kisaragi Akira."
The room went silent. An elderly figure lifted his head, shock momentarily crossing his aged, yet authoritative face.
"Why was he there? How did he locate the hidden outpost beneath Kamiyama's barrier? Do we have a traitor?"
The kneeling Shinigami exchanged glances, unable to answer. The elder seemed unsurprised, his cloudy eyes reflecting deep thought.
"If memory serves," he muttered, "our losses against the Kuchiki clan were also linked to that brat. The talismans he sold to Kuchiki Sōjun influenced the war's outcome, and all prior assassination attempts against him failed."
"Recently, he even assisted Yoruichi in reclaiming the clan's heirloom Zanpakutō. Yamamoto Chōkoku took him as a disciple, despite him being from a minor district like Rukongai… he's truly a restless little devil."
The kneeling shadows were stunned. A mere academy graduate had already achieved so much.
After contemplation, the elder issued new orders:
"Take this seriously. Investigate further. If necessary, use methods beyond assassination."
...
Eleventh Division Barracks.
Ōmaeda Kiyonobu regarded the carefree young man before him with mixed feelings. Though it hadn't been long, the changes were striking. The boy who had once been constantly scolded could now take on a Vice-Captain-level Shinigami head-on.
Even the venerable Yoruichi and the head of the Shihōin family treated Akira with respect, praising his name with both relief and regret.
Relief that the Shihōin's Zanpakutō was finally recognized. Regret that he refused to join their clan.
The disparity gnawed at Ōmaeda.
"Long time no see, Kiyonobu-sensei," Akira greeted warmly, presenting a tea set he had acquired from the First Division. He poured the fragrant tea with practiced skill, pushing the steaming cup toward Kiyonobu.
Though he hadn't formally studied etiquette, repeated exposure had honed his skill. Already, he carried a hint of Yamamoto's elegance.
"Long time no see, Kisaragi-kun," Kiyonobu replied.
"No—better to call me Third Seat Kisaragi now," Akira corrected. News had traveled fast; he had only recently assumed the role of Eleventh Division Third Seat, yet Kiyonobu was already aware.
Given Akira's prowess, even a captaincy would not have been unreasonable. Third Seat seemed a precautionary measure, nothing more.
As a lower noble head, Ōmaeda's political instincts were sharp. He speculated that the graduation trial's high-level examiner, Shiraki Shin'ichi, had been assigned not just to test Akira, but to set the stage for his future prominence. Only a universally recognized talent could inherit the Eleventh Division and the "Kenpachi" legacy.
While Kiyonobu mused, Akira had already finished his tea.
"All the fixed property sales have been completed," he reported. Kiyonobu laid out a neat stack of cash on the table. Akira didn't even glance at it.
He trusted Ōmaeda implicitly—entrusted by Yoruichi herself and recognized by the Shihōin family, his integrity was beyond doubt. Kiyonobu felt a small sense of relief. This boy, despite his academy-era antics, was fundamentally good.
"Oi, Kiyonobu…" Akira leaned in, adopting an almost sly expression. Kiyonobu tensed immediately. He knew this boy too well.
"Spit it out," he warned.
"I asked Yoruichi… she said your Ōmaeda family is among the wealthiest in the Soul Society. Hotels, izakayas, department stores, clothing shops, even black-market trade…"
Ōmaeda's face darkened. Was this really the sort of thing one spoke of openly? And why was Yoruichi divulging all this?
"Cough… what are you asking?" he interrupted before Akira's rambling grew any more outrageous. The boy could soon make the Five Great Noble Families seem irrelevant.
"I want you to make a few sets of clothing," Akira said, rubbing his hands together.
"What?" Kiyonobu asked cautiously.
Akira produced a stack of talismans, each exquisitely carved in white wood with Mimihaki's image, draped in noble attire with a shadowy right hand. Even a direct glance evoked an unassailable authority.
"I want this pattern on the outer haori," he explained. "And add a few promotional phrases or whatever."
Ōmaeda frowned, scrutinizing the talismans and Akira's serious expression.
"Promoting the shrine?"
Akira nodded.
"That's trivial enough," Ōmaeda said, relaxed. "How many sets do you need? I'll have the tailors work overtime."
"Start with two hundred. If that's not enough, we'll make more."
Ōmaeda's eyes widened. Two hundred? This boy might be trying to surpass the Ise family and become a new priestly powerhouse.
He wiped sweat from his brow.
"Two hundred… isn't that excessive?"
Akira shook his head.
"Too much? Not at all. Money sitting idle is just paper—worthless. Only when it's spent does it become money!"
"And… I plan to refresh the entire Eleventh Division!"
Ōmaeda couldn't shake the ominous feeling creeping up his spine as he watched the confident young man before him.