A few days later, Shiki Mirai once again retrieved the manuscripts of The Genius Boy and The Killer of Meteor City from the hidden compartment in his room.
The moment his fingers touched the pages, a gleam of surprise flashed through his eyes.
The "resonant spiritual energy" concentrated within the manuscript was purer and more immense than the sum of what he'd gathered in the past half-month—perhaps even the past two years combined.
"So... publishing the volume really did make all the difference."
He murmured under his breath, wasting no time in placing his palm firmly on the page.
Refined, warm spiritual energy streamed into his soul through his arm in a steady, soothing flow.
He could clearly feel the barrier of his Reiatsu shuddering under the repeated wash of power—widening, strengthening with each pulse.
But once the last drop of energy had been absorbed, Shiki slowly opened his eyes, brows knitting together.
Still not enough...
His Spiritual Might remained fixed at Sixth-Class Peak. That critical threshold—the real breakthrough—was still just out of reach.
Fifth-Class Spiritual Might was the baseline required for Third Seats and even Vice-Captains. It marked the beginning of true qualitative change.
The Genius Boy had already been serialized for too long, and with the recent two-week hiatus, whatever resonance it could produce had already run its course. Even the most loyal readers, rereading it multiple times, would only generate diminishing emotional waves.
If he wanted to break through this barrier, he needed something more intense—more fundamental. A deeper "seed of spiritual energy" to act as a catalyst... ideally, resonance on the level of a Captain's soul.
He re-stashed the now-depleted manuscript of The Genius Boy and reached for another—The Killer of Meteor City.
Unlike the gentle radiance of The Genius Boy, this book's cover gleamed with a deep, inky black, constantly rippling and swirling with power.
When he opened to the first page, the preface poem had turned a vivid blood-red, as if freshly penned in real blood, exuding an aura that made one's skin crawl.
At the sight, Shiki couldn't help but give a silent thumbs-up in his heart.
Ōmaeda Kichiyo... that guy's efficiency was terrifying.
Without hesitation, the man had redirected twenty printing presses and flooded the market with ten thousand deluxe copies of The Genius Boy in just five days.
Then, without pause, he switched the production lines to full throttle and pushed out one hundred thousand copies of The Killer of Meteor City. Over half had already sold.
Everything had gone exactly as planned. The Genius Boy had served as the price anchor and flagship brand—its mission flawlessly executed.
In fact, due to the initial run being discontinued, the secondhand price had skyrocketed to 4,000 Kan per volume. It had doubled in days, a miracle in investment returns.
And when The Killer hit the market with its bloody, fierce energy, it triggered an unprecedented buying frenzy. Some minor nobles even tried to hoard it, snatching up dozens of copies at once.
Pathetic, Shiki scoffed inwardly.
The Killer was always meant to be a mass-market sensation. As soon as the first 100,000 sold, reprints would follow. Get-rich-quick schemes? The market would teach them a lesson soon enough.
Steeling himself, Shiki held the manuscript of The Killer of Meteor City in both hands and gently closed his eyes.
The next moment, that black spiritual energy surged wildly from the cover into his body through his palms!
The blood-red poem on the page dissolved into a mist of gore, heavy with the scent of rusted iron, invading his nose.
"Urgh...!"
The impact hit like a tidal wave.
This wasn't a gentle current. It was sand and ice shards, grinding violently through the meridians of his soul.
Accompanied by fragments of intense negative emotion—rage, despair, a maddening thirst for blood—they battered his spiritual body without mercy.
Absorbing spiritual power steeped in negativity was never pleasant.
Shiki clenched his jaw tight, veins bulging at his temple, refusing to cry out in pain.
But even as the pain seared through him, the once-impregnable wall of Sixth-Class Spiritual Might finally cracked under the assault.
CRACK—
BOOM—!
An overwhelming burst of Reiatsu erupted from within him, forming a miniature spiritual storm. Papers flew like leaves caught in a gale, furniture creaked and groaned under the pressure!
It only lasted a moment.
With sheer force of will, Shiki restrained the leaking Reiatsu, yanking it back into his core.
Silence returned.
Shiki slowly opened his eyes, a sharp gleam flickering within.
He curled his fingers into a fist, feeling the new, surging power within him—and the weightless sense of transformation, as if his soul had shed its shell.
Fifth-Class Spiritual Might!
At last... he had crossed the threshold!
A smile blossomed on his face.
He tucked the drained Killer manuscript back into hiding, then pulled out a heavy coin pouch from the cabinet.
Inside was his first profit share—eighty thousand Kan.
And this was just the beginning. Once the next round of settlements came through, profits would snowball.
From today onward? Spiritual Intoxication? He'd buy two bottles at a time! Drink one... save the other for tomorrow!
He weighed the pouch in his hand with satisfaction, then pushed open the door and strolled toward the Junlin'an commercial district.
Looking up, he found the moon tonight was especially full, round, and bright—as if celebrating with him.
...
Meanwhile, at the 11th Division Headquarters training ground—
"Hahaha! What's wrong, didn't eat? That punch was as soft as a feather!" A hearty voice echoed through the arena.
Kuryashiki Kenpachi—the current bearer of the title "Kenpachi," the fiercest warrior among the Thirteen Court Guard Squads—stood at the center of the field.
He was towering and broad-shouldered, yet his face and demeanor carried a surprisingly cheerful and approachable air. Not a trace of menace could be felt from him as he beamed, guiding his squad through what could only be called brutal sparring.
"C-Captain... I really can't go on..."
"My bones... I think my bones are breaking..."
The ground was littered with groaning, battered squad members—bruised, swollen, utterly spent.
"Oi oi, giving up already? You think Hollows'll go easy on you out there?"
Kenpachi planted his fists on his hips, his tone teasing, but completely free of scorn.
Despite the moans and complaints, the downed squad members grit their teeth and struggled to rise once more.
That was the spirit of the 11th Division. Under a leader like Kuryashiki Kenpachi—powerful yet kind—his troops fought with even greater resolve.
"Captain Kuryashiki."
A calm voice drifted from the edge of the training ground.
It was Ashido, the division's lieutenant. He held in his hand a novel with a dark, aggressive cover—The Killer of Meteor City.
"Hm? Ashido, what's up?" Kenpachi turned his head.
"Have you read this book?" Ashido held up the cover for him to see.
...