At the 9th Division headquarters, Shiki was just about to stretch out and enjoy a leisurely afternoon nap.
Then, without warning, a chill ran down his spine.
"What the hell…?" He froze mid-motion, one foot still on the floor and the other halfway onto the bed, caught in a ridiculous pose. His neck creaked as he slowly turned his head, eyes sweeping over the empty room.
The windows were shut tight. The door was locked.
Within his Reiatsu-sensing range, aside from the occasional squad member passing through the courtyard, there was nothing unusual.
And yet, an inexplicable sense of unease tickled at his chest like a kitten pawing gently—but persistently.
"That can't be right…" Retracting his leg, he sat cross-legged at the edge of the bed, starting to count on his fingers.
"Aizen's getting along 'splendidly' with Captain Hirako over in the 5th… Lady Yoruichi and that swindler Urahara are busy tinkering with their secret underground lair… The Killer is selling well, royalties incoming…"
He ticked them off one by one—seemed like there were no imminent disasters.
Was he just paranoid? Had writing too many thrillers given him delusions of persecution?
Just as self-doubt began creeping in—
"Little Mirai~!"
A cheerful, high-pitched female voice—sharp enough to pierce eardrums—echoed through the entire 9th Division compound.
"Come out already! I know you're in your room! If you don't, I'm coming in!"
Shiki's face collapsed.
Crap! That!
He slapped his forehead hard and dove beneath the desk, yanking out a blank sheet of paper. Snatching the brush nearby, he jabbed the ink onto the page like he was trying to stab through it, frantically scribbling.
Mashiro.
He had, in a moment of desperation, casually promised to "wrap up" Hell Girl, a long-abandoned flop of a manuscript he hadn't touched in ages.
And then, of course, the chaos of publishing his new book completely wiped that from his memory.
Now the debt collector was here.
If he didn't produce something right now to shut her up… based on Vice-Captain Kuna's personality…
She was perfectly capable of initiating a 24-hour full-surveillance campaign on him.
Follow him to meals. Wait outside the bathroom. Hover at his window while he slept.
Any normal girl might worry about appearances or what people thought.
Mashiro? That wire isn't even installed in her brain.
She would just think this kind of "supervision" was fun and effective.
Shiki felt every hair on his head begin to stand on end.
His mind went into overdrive. The brush in his hand moved so fast it left afterimages.
He wasn't even using his Zanpakutō Tsuzuribumi Banshō—just an ordinary brush.
And the reason was simple.
Back when he first awakened his Zanpakutō's ability, he ran experiments.
If the stories he wrote had nothing to do with Soul Society—no connections to its people, history, or world—
Like his earlier attempts: Battle Through the Spirit Realm (Heaven), Soul Land, and those other isekai-style fictions—
Then even if readers experienced emotional resonance, the Reishi produced wouldn't be drawn to the manuscript through Tsuzuribumi Banshō's power. It simply wouldn't stick.
In short, only local stories could harvest spiritual energy.
That was also one of the main reasons he "axed" all those alternate-world novels early on.
Not only did they flop—nobody read them—but they did nothing to help him grow stronger. Total waste of time. Writing into the void.
"Little Mirai, I'm counting to three! Three!"
Mashiro's overly energetic voice tore through the door again.
"Idiot. Stop yelling in the courtyard," came a deeper, slightly exasperated voice—that would be Captain Muguruma Kensei.
Captain, dear brother, savior—please rein her in! Shiki screamed in his heart.
"Two!" Mashiro didn't acknowledge him at all.
"Knock it off," Kensei's voice had a sharper edge now. "If you break something, the repair fees come out of your paycheck."
"One!"
A beat of silence.
"Go ahead and dock it! I spend all your money when we go out anyway!"
"Absolutely not!" Kensei snapped back instantly, firm and indignant.
"I just spent my budget on that new spiritual-power-assisted workout gear the 12th Division recommended. I'm broke!"
He sounded completely righteous about it.
"Then use the Division's reserve funds!"
Mashiro's voice suddenly spiked—at the same time, a ripple of Reiatsu began to gather outside. The air vibrated faintly.
"Kuna Mashiro—charging up!"
"You moron! Don't you dare!" Kensei's voice cracked in panic.
BANG!
Shiki Mirai's door burst open from the inside.
He practically launched himself into the courtyard, clutching a still-damp manuscript page, chest heaving, and forcing a brilliant smile onto his face.
"Captain! Vice-Captain! Good afternoon! What a coincidence—I just finished writing!" He held up the paper like a prize.
In the courtyard, Mashiro still held a clenched fist glowing with white Reiatsu—she had actually been charging up to break the door.
When she saw him appear, she snorted, the glow on her fist slowly fading.
She marched over, hand outstretched, eyes leaving no room for negotiation. "Gimme."
Shiki handed the paper over like his life depended on it.
Mashiro glanced down, skimmed the first few lines—then her lips immediately puckered in disappointment.
"Little Mirai, why is this so short?"
Shiki's smile froze. His face began to flush red at a speed visible to the naked eye.
His eyes bulged. His voice cracked.
"What do you mean 'Little Mirai is so short'?! Little Mirai is NOT—ugh, I mean the manuscript!"
"This is the epilogue poem for Hell Girl! A symbolic, profound, perfectly complete ending! It's distilled brilliance, you hear me?!"
He rambled so fast he nearly tripped over his own words—and almost over his own dignity.
"Oh really?" Mashiro raised the page, finally reading it seriously.
The paper read:
"Higan"
Part I: The Pact
Within my pupils
sleeps a river of
endless hatred.
Each time you cast the straw doll,
a flower blooms upon the surface—
a flower that will never bear fruit.
…
There were several more stanzas. The writing was rushed, but it carried a quiet, haunting finality.
Mashiro stood silently, reading.
The courtyard fell still—only the rustle of leaves in the breeze remained.
Then, without warning, huge teardrops rolled from her eyes, splashing down her cheeks.
She looked up, eyes and nose both reddened, and shouted through a choked sob:
"Little Mirai, you idiot!"
Then, clutching the page, she turned and bolted into her room, slamming the door behind her.
Shiki Mirai and Muguruma Kensei stood in the courtyard, staring at each other.
Kensei's face was locked in an expression of pure confusion.
He scratched at his silver buzzcut and mumbled, "What's there to cry about?"
In his opinion, the poem was… well, artsy?
But still just a handful of lines thrown together—where was the emotional landmine?
Vice-Captain brain circuits—he understood them less every day.
Shiki glanced at Mashiro's closed door and quietly exhaled in relief. Dodged it.
He turned back with a gentle, almost melancholic smile and said to Kensei:
"Captain, Vice-Captain Kuna is a deeply sensitive, emotionally rich person. Shouldn't you… go in and comfort her?"
His voice was sincere, his gaze full of "concern."
Kensei immediately scowled, slipping back into his stern captain persona.
"Hmph. She wasted so much of her training time chasing this manuscript. Now that it's settled, it's time to focus on her duties."
He turned to Shiki with a serious look.
"Shiki. Writing is your strength—and it serves the Division. But as a Shinigami, especially as an officer of the 9th, you must not slack on your training. Understood?"
"Yes, yes, of course, you're absolutely right, Captain. I'll double down starting tomorrow!"
Shiki nodded like a bobblehead, his smile never breaking.
Yeah, and I bet you were the one who ditched the recruitment campaign on me so you could go on a 'field trip' with her…
As Shiki was humbly nodding and inwardly complaining—
"Hahaha! If it's training you want, you're always welcome at the 11th Division!"
A loud, hearty laugh echoed from the compound entrance.
Shiki turned reflexively.
At the gate stood three figures.
Leading the group was a tall man in a white captain's haori, a bold "11" on his back. He wore a radiant grin.
Kuruyashiki Kenpachi.
Beside him was the ever-silent, cold-faced Ashido.
And just half a step behind them—clad in a pristine captain's haori, long black hair braided neatly down her back, and wearing a gentle, elegant smile—
Unohana Retsu.
The moment Shiki's eyes met hers—those softly curved eyes filled with warmth and amusement—
BOOM. His mind went blank.
I'm dead. I'm actually dead.
I haven't even touched the alcohol I worked so hard to afford…
…