The Limits of a Ninth-Level Hero
The Shiba family had never feared danger.
There were always things in their hearts more important than life itself.
This was true for Shiba Kaien, and Kūkaku was no exception.
If Shiraishi were willing to treat her as a partner, to be honest with her, she would risk her life to accompany him—facing danger together, never abandoning, never giving up, living and dying until the very end.
But if he chose to conceal the truth from her? Then he could forget it.
Kūkaku Shiba was not so cheap as to gamble her life on someone who didn't trust her.
"It's nothing," Shiraishi repeated, his voice unchanged.
"Then leave my house," Kūkaku said coldly, turning her back on him.
"Sorry." A flicker of helplessness passed across Shiraishi's face. To explain himself would mean revealing too much—how he knew that Aizen Sosuke possessed a power that could perfectly conceal spiritual pressure, or that he had been conducting Hollowification experiments in secret.
Even if Shiraishi fabricated an explanation, there was one undeniable truth he could not avoid.
They could not defeat Aizen.
Even without Kyōka Suigetsu's terrifying hypnosis, Aizen's mastery of Kidō, Shunpo, and raw spiritual power was overwhelming. A single strike would be enough to crush Kūkaku.
Shiraishi knew he could withstand perhaps two blows at best. That wasn't pessimism—it was calculation.
His current spiritual output was measurable: his reiatsu capacity stood at roughly 6,200 units. At full release, his Zanpakutō Infinity could double his attack power under certain conditions, especially when combined with his combat style and sword techniques. With momentum and precise timing, he could push his strikes beyond 10,000 units of force.
The problem was simple: he needed time to build up that strength. Against Aizen, there would be no time.
He estimated that he would need to reach a level of mastery equivalent to a seated officer far beyond Ninth Seat—perhaps even on par with a lieutenant or captain—to surpass Aizen. Until then, provoking him was suicide.
As for the thought of joining forces with others? Impossible. Shiraishi was already a fugitive, wanted by the Onmitsukidō. What could an outlaw like him possibly do against the seated captain of the Fifth Division?
"Thank you for your hospitality last night. I'll repay you for the meal and the lodging," Shiraishi said quietly.
"Ah…" Kūkaku sighed, her hard exterior softening just a little. Turning back, she asked, "Where are you going?"
"Wherever the wind takes me," Shiraishi answered casually. In truth, he had no destination in mind. He had never expected to be leaving the Shiba household so soon.
What should he do next? He had no idea—he would take it one step at a time.
Kūkaku folded her arms. "There's a teahouse in Shitou Village, West Fourth District. The owner, Yagyū Ichirō, keeps his ear to the ground. Ask him—maybe you'll find what you're looking for."
"Thank you," Shiraishi nodded, accepting her advice.
"Your clothes are too conspicuous. I've got some of Kaien's old clothes you could wear."
"No. I'll keep this outfit," Shiraishi refused. His current attire was bound to his Zanpakutō's manifestation, a Shikai state that repaired itself and subtly boosted his critical precision. In a battle where survival hinged on the smallest chance, he couldn't afford to abandon that edge.
Kūkaku only shrugged. "Fine. Head north to Stone Village. Ichirō's house is across from the tiled one."
"See you later," Shiraishi said, waving as he departed with a flash step.
He darted across the plains, the looming cliff wall blotting out the sky. At the last moment, he kicked off the ground, soaring upward like a hawk spreading its wings.
The breathtaking view of West Fourth District spread out before him—overlapping mountains, winding loess paths, and forests painted in green, like an ink wash painting.
He used the ridges and valleys as springboards, leaping from peak to peak. The sensation was exhilarating, and with time to spare, he let himself play.
The sun climbed higher. Eventually, he dropped into the shade of a lakeside tree and shed his jacket, shirt, bag, and shoes, stripping down to his underclothes.
Before him lay a crystal-clear mountain lake, shimmering beneath the light.
To pass by without taking a swim would be a waste. With no hesitation, he vaulted from a branch and dove into the water. The cool embrace wrapped around him, refreshing to the core.
The water of Soul Society was pure and drinkable, sustaining countless souls. In the poorer districts, rivers were often fought over as resources, while places like West Fourth District enjoyed abundance.
But there was something eerie about the wilderness. Ever since the founding of Seireitei, wildlife had been domesticated or culled—used for food, pets, or blood sport. The outer lands were silent. No birdsong. No fish in the lakes. Nothing but stillness.
Shiraishi swam for a while before pulling himself ashore. As he wrung out his clothes, something strange prickled his senses.
A flow of reishi, carried by the northern wind.
He stiffened. That hollow emptiness, that devouring chill… unmistakable.
A Hollow.
His pulse quickened. He hurriedly dressed, snatched up his Zanpakutō, and launched forward in a blur of motion, homing in on the reiatsu.
Not out of fear—he welcomed the danger.
His only concern was getting there before a Shinigami patrol destroyed it.
He wouldn't let this chance for growth slip away.