"Do you have faith?"
"N-no, I don't…"
"Good. Then you do now!"
"The One-Eyed Great Deity, Lord Mimihaki, will protect those who dedicate everything but their own eyes to him…"
The middle-aged man trembled violently, staring at the imposing figure before him. The man was built like a fortress, his presence radiating raw strength. His lips quivered uncontrollably, as if stricken by Parkinson's—or perhaps as if he had just stepped on a live wire.
"I-I don't…"
"Huh?!"
The giant man glared, muscles bulging beneath his oversized combat uniform, barely contained by the fabric. He reached out with one massive hand, grabbing the man's collar and lifting him off the ground. Foreheads pressed together, the beastly figure's bloodshot eyes seemed to promise a fate worse than death.
"I-I believe! Is that not enough?"
The middle-aged man nearly cried out of fear, his legs shaking so violently it seemed he might collapse. Anyone caught in such an intimidating gaze would feel suffocated by sheer despair. Even from over ten meters away, Kisaragi Akira could sense the hopelessness radiating from the scene.
Considering the notorious reputation of the Eleventh Division, encountering a future captain like this was almost too much to bear. The middle-aged man's mental fortitude was remarkable—he hadn't wet himself on the spot. That alone was a small miracle.
Once the man agreed to place his faith, the giant relaxed, lowering him gently and even straightening his collar, patting out wrinkles in the uniform.
"It doesn't cost a thing—believe as much as you like. The great Lord Mimihaki will watch over you."
The sudden shift left the middle-aged man momentarily dazed. Could it be… he was only here to promote the shrine's faith? No robbery, no threats, no devouring of flesh? Somehow, he found himself genuinely curious about the One-Eyed Great Deity Mimihaki. If even the infamous Eleventh Division could be swayed like this, surely this deity had real power. The slogans sounded intriguing too. If faith was free, why not give it a try? Compared to the way others were treated, he was already doing fairly well.
As he pondered, he noticed similar scenes unfolding across North Rukongai District One.
"Hey, you little brat! Yes, you! Come and worship the One-Eyed Great Deity!"
"Stop gawking around and get over here to pay respects to Lord Mimihaki!"
"Don't even think about running, scum—Lord Mimihaki is watching every move you make from above…"
A band of reckless fools might not be frightening on their own, but put them under the command of an even crazier leader, and they became terrifying. North Rukongai District One transformed under their chaotic methods—forcing people to worship, recruiting followers, and preaching the deity.
Surprisingly, some genuinely became interested in the shrine. Even minor nobles came forward to inquire further.
Kisaragi Akira watched in stunned disbelief as the Eleventh Division's chaos grew increasingly bizarre. His eyes, blank yet weary, settled on his commanding officer.
"Miyaji-sama," he said, voice tinged with doubt, "forcibly promoting the faith like this… it's bound to have consequences…"
Kisaragi's leader, Miyaji, grinned. "No problem. Even bitter fruit is still fruit. Not sweet, but it quenches thirst. Once they see the benefits, they'll know I speak the truth."
Kisaragi frowned, still unsure of how Miyaji could be so confident. Could such a thing as a god really exist? Wasn't faith meant to be an abstract concept?
Word of these events soon reached the First Division.
First Division Headquarters
"Dammit!"
Veins bulged on Yamamoto's shiny forehead as he glared, normally relaxed eyes now wide with fury, fire seeming to blaze within his pupils.
"What did you do this time?!"
"Preaching faith…"
Yamamoto inhaled sharply, centuries of self-discipline evaporating. "Back at the Spiritual Arts Academy, I could forgive the antics as a student prank. But now, you've escalated. Promoting a shrine on your combat jacket, leading over two hundred people into Rukongai? People who don't know might think you're raising a rebellion to overthrow Soul Society!"
"Why not just attack the First Division, defeat me, and take the position of captain?"
Miyaji dared not speak, fully aware of Yamamoto's overwhelming fury. Even the normally formidable floating Captain Futaba would pale in comparison. Yamamoto's anger seemed almost combustible, a flame threatening to consume everything. Miyaji's mind raced—he needed a way to survive this onslaught.
Finally, Yamamoto narrowed his eyes, recalling Miyaji's recent "crimes." Unable to pinpoint a single incident worth punishing further, he chose another method.
"Today's training," Yamamoto announced, "I will teach you the principles of Genryu. Only by mastering these can one truly control oneself and become a genuine strong warrior."
Miyaji tilted his head, unimpressed. Last time he'd tried Genryu teachings, it was like a potent sleeping spell—three minutes in, he'd be out cold.
Wait.
Miyaji's eyes widened as he realized Yamamoto intended to hit him physically this time.
Bad. Very bad.
Before he could react, Yamamoto began lecturing on the concept of protection. Eyelids drooped, head nodding uncontrollably under the rhythmic voice.
"How dare you underestimate the principles of Genryu!" Yamamoto barked. "Today, you'll learn the meaning of protection!"
With that, Yamamoto removed his jacket, grabbed Miyaji by the neck, and carried him into the dojo. Soon, the two were locked in combat.
Unlike before, Yamamoto held nothing back. His fingers gripped tight, each strike resonating like thunder, spiritual pressure pouring down like a collapsing mountain. Miyaji's eyes reflected a flicker of shock as he was pummeled into the ground, leaving only his head above the surface.
The disparity in strength left resistance futile. Miyaji's brief pride was extinguished, replaced by raw, humbling reality.
Outside the dojo, Major Jiro Suzume shook his head, sighing at the increasing repair costs of the First Division's training hall since Miyaji had joined Genryu as Yamamoto's student. If this continued, they would face a deficit.
"Ugh!"
Miyaji slumped in the ruins, coughing up bile-tinged blood, yet felt invigorated. He could take a few more hits, easily. Yamamoto, nearly spent, glared less harshly now, eyes twitching as he assessed Miyaji's resilience. Even centuries of experience hadn't prepared him for this sight.
Normally, such attacks would kill an average Shinigami instantly. Miyaji barely suffered, vomiting only twice before bouncing back like an unkillable cockroach. His talent was ridiculous.
"Stop playing dead and come here!" Yamamoto called.
Grinning, Miyaji sprinted forward. "What are your orders, Sensei?"
Just bide my time with this old man, he thought. Once I grow stronger, I'll rise up.
Yamamoto responded absentmindedly, knowing Miyaji's sycophantic smile meant no good. Considering the beating he had endured, Yamamoto let it slide.
"Due to your recent mishaps, rebel bases have been disrupted, making them increasingly active. The Sixth Division's frontline is now in a stalemate."
Miyaji's eyes lit up. Could the Eleventh Division be sent as reinforcements?
"No," Yamamoto shook his head. "This is a noble conflict—stay out. Their depths are treacherous. Even with your strength, you can't navigate noble disputes safely. Futaba and Kyōraku, both nobles, have faced similar dangers. Without Genryu training and the leadership of the Thirteenth Division, they would have perished."
Miyaji's expression sobered. He understood exactly how far he was from true strength.
"Be vigilant," Yamamoto warned. "Although your stance is unclear, destroying the rebel base has made certain factions resent you. Killing isn't always done in open battle."
Miyaji nodded. He would survive first, then strike.
At that moment, a black-clad figure appeared, kneeling respectfully. Only their eyes were visible—clearly a messenger from the Second Division's Fifth Squad, specialized in rapid communication.
"Report: A mysterious presence detected in West Rukongai District 38. Awaiting new orders!"
"Understood. Step back," Yamamoto replied. The figure vanished instantly.
"This mission is yours," Yamamoto said gravely to Miyaji. "Confirm the enemy's identity, strategize, and prioritize survival. If overwhelmed, retreat immediately."
Miyaji's eyes widened. Such prudence from Yamamoto? He had assumed the old man was rigid, yet he clearly valued the lives of his disciples. People… can change?
Miyaji grinned, nodding. "Mission acknowledged!"
West Rukongai District 38
Across the desolate plains under dim skies, fierce winds whipped through brown grass.
Suddenly, three meters above the ground, cracks formed in the air, web-like and spreading rapidly. The fabric of space shuddered until shards of translucent matter rained down, vanishing into the earth.
A void emerged at the fracture's center, deep and silent, like a watchful eye.
From the darkness, a blood-red glow flared violently, detonating upon the ground, leaving a crater meters wide.
A monstrous form emerged—its skeletal mask and glowing red eyes radiating hunger, drawing in the air of Soul Society as if tasting freedom.
Nearby, atop a small mound, a lone figure shrouded in intense kido light observed silently…
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