Connections to the Ōmaeda family's industrial empire?
The image of Shihōin Yoruichi's sly grin flashed across Shiki Mirai's mind—but he quickly shook his head.
Calling in a noble favor for something like this… the cost might be more trouble than it was worth.
Especially that black cat. If he actually went to her for help, she'd probably drive him insane in the aftermath.
"I don't have any."
Yamasue Tetsu nodded calmly and continued, "The only reason the factory reserves a machine for Seireitei Communication is because it's the official publication of the Gotei 13—it represents the dignity of all Seireitei."
"But for them to print something for you, personally…" He paused, then laid out the harsh truth.
"You'd have to convince them that your book will generate significant profit."
"True, your Prodigy Boy series has a solid reputation. You've built up some following. But whether it'll sell big is still unknown."
"For a commercial juggernaut like the Ōmaeda family, 'modest earnings' are meaningless. It's just a waste of their time and production capacity."
"Instead of printing your novel, they'd rather keep pressing those glossy picture books and family genealogies for the nobles. The profit margins are more stable."
Mirai's face turned serious—he understood. Yamasue wasn't wrong. Business logic was brutally practical.
"I'm not trying to block you," Yamasue said, finally softening his tone ever so slightly. "But you need to bring them something that'll make them light up—something that screams 'must print.'"
"And then there's distribution," he added. "But that's the easy part. You've got quite the following in Junlin'an. Tavern and shop owners there will likely stock your book just for your sake."
Mirai took a long, deep breath.
"I understand. Give me a moment."
He left the room and returned to his quarters. From inside his robes, he pulled out the manuscript.
But he didn't hand over the original.
Instead, he spread out new sheets of paper and began copying it by hand.
This manuscript wasn't just paper and ink—it was embedded with spiritual resonance. It was the prototype Spiritual Link, the original Soul-Draw. He couldn't hand it to anyone casually.
As he transcribed, he made subtle revisions—refining word choice, improving rhythm, and sharpening emotional impact.
One hour later, he returned with two fresh stacks of paper, still damp with ink.
"This is my new book: The Killer of Meteor City," he said, placing one stack on the desk.
"And this," he added, laying down the thicker pile, his eyes resolute, "is The Boy—restructured and completely reimagined."
"Oh?" Yamasue's gaze gravitated toward The Boy first.
After all, he was secretly a die-hard fan of Aisuke's stories. He picked up the pages, intrigued, and flipped to the first—
Only to freeze.
There, at the opening, was a brand-new preface poem:
Mirror Realm
I. False Mirror
The curve of the lens
bends the sky into a cage
I bow to every god
just to bury the throne
beneath the shadow
of humility
—Aisuke
Yamasue's iron grip on the paper trembled slightly.
His lips parted as if to praise it—then closed again. He drew in a long breath, trying to compose himself. But his slightly ragged breathing betrayed just how stirred he truly was.
This… this hiding of ambition within humility, rebellion masked as obedience…!
It's a thousand levels deeper than the blunt "lone genius" archetype of before!
Barely restraining his emotion, he picked up the next manuscript: The Killer of Meteor City.
And then he read the opening poem titled:
Blood Blossom
I. Blood Bloom
At the end of a river
paved with bones
I heard it—
the sound
of the first
flower
blooming
It was the gentle crack
of a shattered throat
—Yachino Unaharu
"…!!!"
Yamasue's hands began shaking violently.
He looked up at Mirai, voice hoarse from restrained emotion. His iron face remained frozen, but his chest heaved like he'd just been punched in the gut.
"Excellent. What a 'river of bones'! What a 'blood blossom'! That contradiction—beauty born from destruction, art blooming from slaughter—it's… it's—!"
SLAM.
He slapped both manuscripts down onto the desk.
His breathing was ragged. But when he finally spoke again, his tone was more solemn than ever before:
"Listen to me, Mirai. We have to get a meeting with the printing house. With the Ōmaeda family directly."
"In my opinion, both of these deserve publication. And they should be released as separate volumes."
He jabbed a finger at the drafts. "The Boy—deep, philosophical, and full of metaphor. Make it a deluxe volume, over 200,000 words, aimed at high-ranking Shinigami and nobles. Of course, if priced right, even rank-and-file officers will buy it."
"The Killer of Meteor City—sharp, intense, explosive. Launch it as a short booklet, around 50,000 words, with a low price tag. It'll light up the taverns and the street readers in Junlin'an like wildfire!"
Mirai blinked in surprise at Yamasue's sudden 180-degree enthusiasm.
"Old Iron, weren't you the one saying publishing was nearly impossible just a minute ago?"
Yamasue inhaled slowly, then met Mirai's eyes. His iron mask seemed… gentler, somehow.
"What I said was true—for ordinary novels."
He pointed at the preface poems. "But what you've brought me here… is poetry. This is a work with soul."
"Don't forget—in the Soul Society, anyone who takes time to savor words instead of flipping through picture books… has a bit of romance buried in their bones."
"Your past works were exciting, sure. But too direct. Readers got their thrill, then moved on."
"But this… this is romance. Whether it's Aisuke's restrained longing or the killer's blood-drenched poetry—this kind of emotion will stick. It'll make connoisseurs gladly open their wallets."
"And since poetry spreads faster… your odds of a hit are much higher."
He stood and clapped Mirai on the shoulder.
"Rest well tonight. Get your energy back."
"Tomorrow morning, I'm going with you to the printing house! It's time we show the Ōmaeda what a real bestseller looks like!"
As Mirai looked into Yamasue's eyes—now blazing with light barely contained behind his iron mask—
He suddenly felt that this journey to publication… might actually work out.
"Alright then. First thing tomorrow!"
"Old Iron! Don't forget to come wake me up!"
With that shout, Mirai slammed the door behind him.
Yamasue stood alone again, gaze dropping back to the poems on the table.
He picked them up—and began to read. Slowly. Word by word.
…