The calm of Squad 10's barracks felt like a fragile illusion. The resolve Akio had forged in the solitude of his room was firm, but it was a resolve built on a foundation of questions. Who sent the assassin? And what was the nature of the artifact that could create such a perfect, isolated killing ground?
Answers wouldn't come from brooding. They came from knowledge. And in the Soul Society, the greatest repository of knowledge, however censored it might be, was the Shin'ō Academy library.
That same night, Akio made his way to the grand, old building. The air inside was thick with the smell of ancient paper and dry ink, a stark contrast to the vibrant, often violent energy of the training grounds. He moved with purpose, his footsteps silent on the polished wooden floors. He wasn't here for general studies; he was here for secrets.
His destination was a secluded desk tucked away in a corner, behind towering shelves of historical scrolls. Seated there, surrounded by precarious stacks of books, was a living legend who preferred the company of the dead past to the living present: Kenpachi Ryūgo, the Second Kenpachi, now the librarian of this Academy library.
Ryūgo was a mountain of a man, even in his advanced age. His face was a roadmap of old scars, and his eyes, sharp and intelligent, missed nothing. He looked up from a fragile scroll as Akio approached, a faint grunt of acknowledgment his only greeting.
"Master Ryūgo," Akio said, offering a respectful bow.
"Brat," Ryūgo's voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together. "You have the look of a man who's seen a ghost. Or made one. What brings you here?"
Akio didn't bother with a pleasantry. Ryūgo would see through it instantly. "I need some information. I have recently learned about the artifact the nobles possess. And have been curious about them."
Ryūgo's bushy eyebrows raised a fraction. "Oh?"
"So can you name any noble possessing an artifact which can manifest a pocket dimension?"
The old librarian's expression grew still, his playful demeanor vanishing. "A pocket dimension artifact… powerful. Rare. Not something you find lying around. Describe its effects in detail."
Akio did, leaving out the identity of his attacker and the final outcome, focusing solely on the properties of the dimension—the warped reality, the muted colors, the sense of being completely severed from the outside world.
Ryūgo listened intently, his fingers steepled. When Akio finished, he was silent for a long moment. "I know of no such artifact in common circulation," he finally said. "Such a thing is not a tool; it is a treasure. A heirloom."
"That's what I feared," Akio nodded. "I was hoping you might know which Noble Clan could possess such a thing."
Ryūgo let out a short, harsh laugh. "Boy, asking a librarian to point a finger at a Noble Clan is a good way to find yourself assigned to permanent latrine duty in the outermost district. I don't know." He studied Akio's determined face and sighed. "But. I am a keeper of knowledge, not a keeper of the nobles' secrets. If you wish to hunt for a needle in a haystack, the haystack is over there."
He gestured a thick, gnarled finger towards a section of the library cordoned off by a simple silk rope. The placard read: 'Genealogical Records & Registered Heirlooms (Restricted Access)'.
"Every noble family, from the smallest to the Four Great Clans, registers their significant artifacts with the Central 46," Ryūgo explained. "Supposedly for historical preservation. In reality, it's a way to keep track of who has what power. The records are vague, often omitting the true functions, but they are there. Small-level families have at least one registered heirloom. Middle-level, two to four. The Great Clans have more than five, and their entries are so redacted they might as well be blank pages. What you seek would belong to at least a middle-level family. Good luck."
With that, he returned to his scroll, effectively dismissing him.
Akio spent the next three hours in the hushed silence of the restricted section. It was a tedious, frustrating process. The logs were dry, filled with grandiose names like 'Scepter of the First Dawn' or 'Jade Mirror of Truth' but with descriptions that were uselessly poetic: '…bestows clarity upon the worthy…' or '…protects the hearth and home…'
He focused on artifacts registered to middle-level families, cross-referencing any that mentioned spatial manipulation, isolation, or dimensional properties. It was like trying to find a specific drop of water in a river.
Then he found it.
Buried in the records of the Ōshiro Clan, a middle-level family known for their past service as master architects for the Seireitei, was an entry that made his breath catch.
'Item: Hakoniwa no Kagami (The Miniature Garden Mirror).'
'Description: A handheld, obsidian mirror, framed in silver. It is said to reflect not the viewer, but a world of its own creation, allowing for private contemplation and meditation away from the troubles of the world.'
The description was sanitized, made to sound like a tool for a reclusive philosopher. But the keywords were there: 'a world of its own creation,' 'away from the troubles of the world.' Private contemplation. Isolated meditation.
It was them. It had to be.
Across the Seireitei, in a manor that was opulent but lacked the ancient, imposing gravity of the Great Clans, the head of the Ōshiro Clan was receiving the worst news of his life.
A nervous servant had just delivered the report. The spiritual signature for the ownership linked to the Hakoniwa no Kagami had been severed. Utterly destroyed.
Lord Ōshiro, a man in his late middle years with a carefully trimmed goatee and eyes that perpetually calculated advantage, felt the blood drain from his face. His knees trembled, and he had to grip his desk to steady himself.
As he knew this could mean only one thing.
"He's dead?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "He failed? How… how is that possible?"
The panic set in, cold and sharp. He began to pace his lavish study, his silk robes swishing around him. "I told him to be careful! I told him the boy was under the Captain-Commander's eye! I gave him my family's greatest heirloom! I even provided him with that… that Hollow bait to create a distraction! A former Onmitsukidō operative with a Shikai release… against an academy student… it was supposed to be simple!"
His mind raced, spiraling into terror. The artifact was destroyed. That meant the pocket dimension had collapsed. Had the boy seen? Had someone else? If they recovered the assassin's body, if they connected the unique spiritual residue of the Hakoniwa to his family…
He was ruined. His family would be disgraced, stripped of their status, perhaps even executed for plotting the assassination of a Gotei member.
There was only one person who could possibly shield him from the consequences. The same person who had given him the task in the first place.
He didn't dare send a message. He threw on a plain, hooded cloak and left his manor through a secret passage, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He was granted an audience in a private tea room within a far more magnificent estate. The man who sat across from him sipped his tea, his expression one of mild curiosity. He was from one of the Four Great Clans, his aura one of effortless, unquestioned authority.
"My lord… please, you must help me," Ōshiro begged, dispensing with all formality. He spilled the entire story—the failure, the destroyed artifact, his paralyzing fear of discovery.
The nobleman listened, his face impassive. When Ōshiro finished, breathing heavily, the man merely set his tea cup down with a soft click.
"You panicked and came directly here?" he asked, his voice calm.
"Y-yes, my lord! You are the only one who can—"
"I see." The nobleman sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. "A regrettable outcome. Do not worry, Ōshiro. I will ensure this matter is contained. Return to your home. Act normally. Spread the word among your servants that the Hakoniwa was discovered missing from its vault two days ago. A theft. You had not wished to cause an alarm until you were certain."
Ōshiro nearly wept with relief. "Thank you, my lord! Thank you! I am in your debt!"
"Indeed. Before you go… one more thing. Does anyone else in your family know of your… involvement in this specific task?"
"No, my lord! I swore absolute secrecy! Not my wife, not my heir, no one!"
"Good. That simplifies things. You may go."
As the grateful, foolish Lord Ōshiro scurried away, the nobleman didn't move. He waited until the sound of his footsteps had completely faded.
"Kagerō," he said to the empty room.
A figure melted from the deep shadows in the corner—a man clad not in a shihakushō, but in form-fitting black garments. Another assassin, but this one's Reiatsu was so perfectly contained it was virtually undetectable.
"My lord," the man whispered.
"Ensure Lord Ōshiro's story holds. His heirloom was stolen two days ago. He was so distraught over the loss, he took his own life in shame this morning. Make it look convincing. And retrieve any other heirlooms of value. A grieving family, vulnerable to theft in their confusion… it's a tragic story, but a believable one."
"It will be done," Kagerō whispered, and was gone.
The next morning, Akio sat in the Squad 10 common room, a copy of the Seireitei Communication—newspaper of Sereitei spread before him. He sipped his tea, the headline screaming up at him:
TRAGEDY BEFALLS ŌSHIRO CLAN: PATRIARCH FOUND DEAD, FAMILY HEIRLOOMS STOLEN
The article detailed the grim discovery. Lord Ōshiro had not been seen for two days. When concerned servants forced open his study, they found him dead by apparent suicide. A subsequent inventory revealed the prestigious family's vault had been breached; several priceless registered artifacts , including heirlooms the famed Hakoniwa no Kagami, were missing. The theory was that the Lord, overcome with grief and shame at the theft, had taken his own life.
Akio lowered the newspaper, his tea forgotten. The steam curled into the air, like the mist trailing from his Zanpakutō.
He felt no triumph. Only a cold, deep chill that had nothing to do with the morning air.
The threads of shadow he could now sense were one thing. But he had just been given a brutal, masterclass in the other, far more dangerous webs that existed in the Soul Society—webs of power, conspiracy, and blood, spun by spiders who wouldn't hesitate to devour their own.
The Ōshiro clan had been the hand that held the knife. And now, that hand had been neatly, ruthlessly, severed.
The message was clear. The hunt was indeed on. And his enemy was smarter, more powerful, and far more merciless than he had ever imagined.