Meal
Shiraishi privately thought that Taro deserved that beating.
If it hadn't been Kenpachi Zaraki and Yachiru Kusajishi they'd run into, but any other Shinigami, Taro would likely already be dead. In Rukongai, if a Shinigami killed a rioter or two, no one questioned it. Only when casualties reached the scale of tens of thousands would seated officers—Third or Fifth Seat and above—be dispatched to investigate.
That was why Rukongai residents generally feared and resented Shinigami. Their power to kill with near impunity hung over everyone like a shadow.
Shiraishi couldn't allow anyone to die for him, especially not because of Taro's reckless lie.
Still, he was confident. With his current strength, he could defeat Zaraki Kenpachi. His strikes were a natural counter. Kenpachi had the habit of suppressing his reiatsu to prolong his fights. Against Shiraishi, that meant his opening blows would register as ordinary strikes—but the critical counters that followed would land at double strength.
Unless Kenpachi removed his eyepatch immediately and unleashed his full power from the start, the outcome was far from certain.
Inside the house, Taro yelped as his mother whipped him for a solid seven or eight minutes before he wriggled free, fleeing to his room to change into clean pants.
Shiraishi accepted a cup of tea from Taro's mother, who asked, "Is something wrong, Bai-kun?"
"Nothing serious. I just came to spend some time with Taro," he said lightly.
He didn't mention his need to borrow money. After the scene he'd just witnessed, he felt too embarrassed. Better to stop by the teahouse later and buy on credit.
When Taro reemerged, dressed in fresh pants, he puffed out his chest and called, "Brother, let's go!"
Shiraishi drained his cup, stood, and smiled. "Alright. Sister Lian, I'll be heading out."
"Come by more often when you can," she urged warmly.
"I will," he promised, waving as he left the house and stepped onto the dirt road.
Taro trotted at his side, whispering, "Brother, don't tell anyone I cried. It'll ruin my tough guy image."
"Mm," Shiraishi replied dryly. "That so-called tough guy image." In truth, all of Yone Village already knew Taro was a crybaby.
Soon, other children spotted Shiraishi and ran up.
"Brother!"
"Brother!"
"Big brother!"
Despite his strength, Shiraishi carried himself with calm gentleness. There was no oppressive aura, no condescension. To the children, he was the village's protector, their leader, their "king."
He didn't mind. In fact, he enjoyed their company. Spinning tops was his specialty, and he never lost.
With the noisy group trailing behind, Shiraishi headed toward the village's only teahouse—Saitoya.
It was a humble place: a thatched shed with three tables, a couple of benches, and room for maybe a dozen customers. Guidie, the proprietress, handled everything herself, from cooking to serving.
When she saw him enter, her lips curved in a teasing smile.
"Oh, Bai-jun, long time no see. Have you missed me?"
Her soft voice and playful gaze carried an unmistakable allure, as though her eyes alone could consume him.
Shiraishi chuckled wryly. "Sister Guidie, didn't we just see each other the day before yesterday?"
"As the saying goes, one day apart feels like three years," she purred, fluttering her lashes. "I've missed you terribly. Unlike you, a heartless brat who doesn't care about me at all~"
A beauty mark beneath her full red lips drew the eye, and the loose neckline of her kimono revealed a tantalizing hint of her figure.
Shiraishi kept his gaze forward. For all his appreciation of beauty, he had principles. He wasn't the type to get entangled with married women—or with mistresses like her.
"I'm a little tight on money," he said carefully. "Could I put some dumplings on credit?"
"No problem. And if you can't pay…" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "…you can pay with your body."
"Sister Guidie, please—don't say such things in front of children." His ears warmed with embarrassment.
Guidie was infamous in West District 10: fair-skinned, striking, and charming enough to turn the heads of Shinigami themselves. Her teahouse was small, yet she lived lavishly, draped in ornate kimonos and jewelry. It was no mystery why.
More than a few Shinigami had been caught in her web, supporting her in exchange for her company.
She clicked her tongue at the children clinging to Shiraishi. "And what do you brats want to eat?"
"Big sis, I want tricolor dango!"
"I want sakuramochi!"
"Tempura for me!"
"Alright, alright, wait here," she said, turning back toward the kitchen. None of it was free, of course—it was all going on Shiraishi's tab.
But he didn't mind. He could never eat in front of the children while leaving them hungry. Meals were meant to be shared.
Children without spiritual power couldn't eat much. A skewer of dango was enough to fill them. Together, their costs barely amounted to half of Shiraishi's own appetite.
Before long, Guidie returned with a tray stacked high with dango, sakuramochi, and tempura. The children dove in happily, while Shiraishi picked up his own dumpling skewer with a smile.
Guidie slid onto the bench beside him, her plump form brushing his shoulder as she leaned in.
"So," she asked smoothly, "where were you fooling around yesterday?"
"I went to the Twenty-Sixth District with a friend," Shiraishi answered evenly.
Guidie's eyes widened. "That far? And you made it back already this morning?"
She had entertained her share of Shinigami. She knew their habits and their boasts. And she also knew Shiraishi wasn't the type to brag. Which meant…
He was telling the truth.
"Bai-jun, you're amazing," she breathed, her eyes shimmering with admiration.
Shiraishi allowed himself a small smile. "Not bad, not bad."
Guidie leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Tell me honestly. Has your strength already reached captain-class?"
He shook his head faintly. "Under normal circumstances, I can still exchange a few blows."
It was a careful answer. Shiraishi never revealed his true strength. Not to a woman like Guidie, whose motives were layered and difficult to read.
She could have married into nobility if she'd wished. Instead, she ran this modest teahouse while keeping the attention of several Shinigami at once. That alone told Shiraishi enough: she wasn't simple.
Women like her were complicated. Too complicated. Unlike Suì-Fēng or Konghe—straightforward, simple, and clear in their convictions.
The thought of Suì-Fēng made his lips curve. In just half a month, he had a meeting arranged with her.
That, he was truly looking forward to.