Unohana extended her pale, slender hand and said softly, "May I take a look?"
Yamada Seinosuke hurriedly and respectfully handed her the novel.
Unohana Yachiru accepted the small booklet, which radiated a sinister aura, and slowly turned to the first page.
Her gaze fell upon the preface poem titled Blood Blossom—
Blood Blossom
At the end of the river paved with bones,
I heard it—
The sound of the first bud blooming.
It was the soft chime
Of a throat bone shattering.
—Yachino Unaharu
The moment her eyes met those short lines—
"Vmm—!"
Unohana's pupils contracted violently.
Her body froze for a fraction of a second.
These words… these images…
A river of bones. A blood blossom. The delicate sound of a throat cracking—
They were keys, sudden and uninvited, prying open memories she had sealed away for over a thousand years.
Countless blood-soaked scenes and savage cries from the era of "Unohana Yachiru" surged forth from the depths of her past, threatening to shatter the gentle mask she had worn for centuries.
This was—?!
Fortunately, a millennium of time had granted her more than just power. It had taught her unshakable control over her emotions and Reiatsu.
That momentary lapse… was suppressed before its ripples could spread.
Her expression didn't even crack for an instant—still as serene and tender as ever.
Her fingertip lightly brushed the final two characters of the poem as she whispered to herself in a voice only she could hear:
"Yachino…?"
To others, the name might sound poetic, beautiful even—but her?
She knew better.
"Yachino (Originally Soka)" referred to a delicate flower that blooms in April—Unozuki—and whose petals are pale, toothed, and soft.
That name… was a veiled allusion.
To Unohana. The April Flower.
She narrowed her ever-smiling eyes just slightly.
There were only a handful of captains in the Gotei 13 who knew the truth of her past.
And as for the noble clans who might still remember…
With their caution and political instincts, they would never—could never—put such things into writing, let alone publish them.
With a soft snap, she closed the book and let her gaze fall on the flamboyant two characters etched on the cover—Shika.
She looked up at Yamada Seinosuke, her voice as warm as ever, but now laced with an unmistakable undertone of demand:
"This 'Shika'… who is he?"
Seinosuke didn't have a chance to answer.
One of the nearby female squad members, clearly a diehard fan, couldn't hold back her excitement. She jumped in, eyes shining with reverence:
"Captain! Master Shika is the one they call 'the most elegant nobleman of the Soul Society'—and the wielder of the most beautiful Zanpakutō!"
"Yeah, yeah! He's the current 5th Seat of the 9th Division—Shiki Mirai! But we all just call him Master Shika. His writing is absolutely amazing!"
"Oh? Is that so…"
Listening to the chatter of her subordinates, Unohana once again wore the gentle, perfect smile of a camellia in bloom, nodding along as if pleasantly amused.
But beneath those lowered lashes, a dangerous gleam flashed, too fast for anyone to notice.
Shiki Mirai… 9th Division's 5th Seat… Soul Society's most elegant nobleman… Shika…
Heh.
'Looks like I'll need to pay this "author"… a personal visit sometime soon.'
So whispered her thoughts, quiet and cold.
—
Meanwhile, completely unaware that the "killer" he had fictionalized had now taken an interest in the "author" behind the work, Shiki Mirai was humming to himself as he strolled into the Maple Tavern.
He had just stepped across the threshold when he felt two intense gazes lock onto him.
He turned toward the familiar corner and—yep—there they were: Kyōraku Shunsui and Hirako Shinji, eyes sharp and slanted, silently shouting, You finally showed up, huh?
Shiki plastered on his most enthusiastic grin and strode over.
"Ah! Shunsui-nii! Shinji-nii! What a coincidence, you two drinking here as well?"
He greeted them cheerfully, dragging out a chair and plopping down as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then he turned toward the counter and shouted with full confidence:
"Boss! Two jars of your finest Spiritual Intoxication! And clear my tab while you're at it!"
He tossed a heavy coin pouch onto the table and declared with ostentatious flair, "Take it all! Whatever's left, just keep it. Let me know when it runs out!"
There wasn't a trace of noble elegance in that posture—if this table weren't behind a screen, half the tavern would've been gossiping by morning.
"Right away, Master Shiki!" the tavern owner responded with unusual enthusiasm, quickly presenting two rare jars of Spiritual Intoxication, plus a few finely prepared dishes.
He then produced a brand-new copy of The Killer of Meteor City from his robes and, hands shaking, offered it up respectfully.
"Master Shiki… would you mind signing this? The dishes are on the house—just a small token of our appreciation!"
"A trifle!" Shiki waved his hand grandly, accepting the book and pen. With a few fluid strokes, he scrawled his flamboyant signature—"Shika"—across the title page with style to spare.
After seeing the grateful shopkeeper off, Shiki finally picked up a jar and poured himself a full cup. Smiling brightly, he raised it toward the two captains, who wore very different expressions:
"Come on, you two! Don't just stare—this round's on me! Let's drink till we drop!"
"Hmph." Hirako snatched up the other jar, filled his cup, and scoffed in his usual lazy drawl:
"I thought you made it big and decided to ghost us. Too proud to come back to the tavern, huh? Ignoring your dear old captain—what, am I too low for you now?"
Kyōraku, meanwhile, smiled with half-lidded eyes, swirling the wine in his cup, and added casually:
"Speaking of which, Killer of Meteor City has been quite the hit lately. Fame and fortune, huh, little brother~?"
He set the jar down gently, rotating it so the spout pointed toward Shiki. His voice remained relaxed, but a subtle weight hung behind his words:
"Still… I've been wondering about something. That 'Killer' from Meteor Street… did someone like that really exist?"
As he finished the question, the wine in his cup reached the brim.
With practiced grace, he placed the jar back down, pushing it lightly toward Shiki's side.
Then, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, he simply waited—wine cup in hand, fingertip lightly tracing the rim.
Beside him, Hirako raised his own cup to his lips, eyes narrowed as he watched.