Shiki strode straight to the 2nd Division headquarters and made his way—like someone far too familiar with this route—to the secluded "research room" at the back.
He knocked once, didn't bother waiting for a reply, and pushed the door open.
As always, the room was a warzone of chaos.
Urahara Kisuke was crouched amid a pile of metal scraps and scattered blueprints. His hair looked like a bird's nest, there was a smudge of grease on his cheek, and he held some bizarre contraption while squinting at a circuit-inscribed panel.
Hearing the door, he mumbled, "Hold on, hold on, I'm almost done patching this Reishi circuit…"
"Urahara," Shiki called, his tone low and uncharacteristically serious.
The tone alone made Urahara freeze.
He looked up through the tangle of his hair, and upon seeing Shiki's grim expression, immediately tossed the tool aside, clapped his hands clean, and stood upright—straighter than usual.
"Shiki? What's wrong?"
Shiki stepped in, closed the door behind him, and got straight to the point.
"I need a favor. Urgent."
Urahara's demeanor turned serious as well. "I'm listening."
"I'm heading to the World of the Living tomorrow. With the 11th Division."
Shiki spoke slowly and clearly, each word crisp.
"It's chaos down there. Wars, unrest—people turning each other's brains into mush. You know how battlefields are. No reason. No mercy. Anything can happen."
He paused and locked eyes with Urahara.
"I need something that'll keep me alive. Reliable. The best you've got."
Urahara blinked, puzzled. "The Living World? The new Hollows there are weak. Even Shino Academy grads can handle them. What's so dangerous?"
He wasn't wrong, strictly speaking.
All graduates from the Shino Academy were required to complete a real-world practicum: guiding souls in the Living World through soul burials.
It was mandatory, even for prodigies.
Hollows rarely showed up during this training, and when they did, they were newborn—barely dangerous.
From that perspective, Shiki's concern seemed excessive.
But Shiki only shook his head, voice dropping lower.
"No, Urahara. If you think this is just about a few extra souls needing burials… you're missing the point."
He stepped closer.
"When people start dying en masse—unjustly, violently—the number of souls in the Living World skyrockets."
"And what do massive gatherings of spiritually tainted souls attract?"
He gave Urahara no time to answer.
"Hollows. Lots of them. Swarming from Hueco Mundo, or tearing through cracks in the world."
"Why do you think it's not the 5th Division going to help, but the 11th? Why do you think Captain Kenpachi Kuryashiki is leading the mission personally?"
"That kind of firepower, for newborn Hollows?"
Urahara's eyes widened.
Now that Shiki mentioned it—it didn't make sense.
Hollows that weak didn't require the strongest combat captain Soul Society had.
Unless…
"You think…" Urahara said quietly.
Shiki nodded. "Exactly."
"A few newborn Hollows? Sure, they're manageable. But in an environment like this, charged with that much death and negativity… there's a high chance we'll see that."
Urahara's breath hitched.
"You mean… Menos Grande?"
He'd only seen vague illustrations in textbooks. All he knew was that it was an evolved form of a Hollow, far stronger, far deadlier.
In theory, Hollows that lingered in the World of the Living would eventually migrate to Hueco Mundo. How they evolved from there… no one explained.
But he remembered his Kido instructor's warning:
If you ever see a Menos Grande, run. No matter how proud you are. If you're not a Captain or a Royal Special Force member—turn around and run. Immediately.
"There's definitely a chance," Shiki said grimly. "And if we run into one of those, then I'm gonna need a hell of a safety net."
That was all Urahara needed to hear.
Without another word, he turned and sprinted to the cluttered corner of the room. He pressed something against the wall.
Click.
The sound of concealed mechanisms echoed beneath the floor. A panel slid open, revealing a pitch-dark opening.
Urahara dove inside.
What followed sounded like a minor landslide.
Then, a few minutes later, he emerged again—sweaty and disheveled—carrying a metal case.
He dropped it onto the clear spot in front of Shiki and flipped it open.
Inside, nestled in soft padding, was… a plain piece of wood.
Palm-sized. Thin. Rough-edged. It looked like it had been chipped off a board by hand.
"This," Urahara said solemnly, "is still in testing. I call it the Substitute Tag."
He pointed to the plank.
"If you infuse it with your Reiatsu and chant the activation phrase in a moment of danger, it'll swap your position with wherever this tag was last placed—within 900 meters."
Shiki's eyes gleamed. "You're telling me this is a pocket emergency Body Replacement Jutsu?!"
Urahara scratched his head sheepishly. "Well… something like that. Just make sure you plant it somewhere safe ahead of time."
Shiki picked up the wooden tag, examining it closely. It was smooth, unmarked. Just an ordinary piece of wood—until it wasn't.
"What's the catch?" he asked immediately.
If Urahara was calling it a prototype, there had to be a drawback.
"Side effects…" Urahara grimaced. "After the swap, you might feel extreme dizziness and nausea for about ten minutes. That's all."
Shiki exhaled in relief.
"That's it? I'll take it. Worth it if it saves my life."
He tucked the tag into the inside of his uniform, directly over his heart.
Then he clapped Urahara on the shoulder and grinned.
"Thanks, Urahara-emon (Doraemon). You really saved me."
"…Emon?" Urahara blinked, confused by the strange nickname. But when he heard Shiki's next words, his entire expression lit up.
"When I get back alive, I'll invest another 200,000 Kan into your lab. Deal?"
Shing!
Urahara's eyes gleamed brighter than his Reishi lamps.
In an instant, he grabbed Shiki's hands with both of his, shaking vigorously.
"Shiki! You can count on me! You'll come back safe—I guarantee it! The money isn't important! Your survival is what matters most!"
Shiki winced at the over-the-top sincerity, but couldn't help feeling comforted.
After giving a few more instructions, he turned and left the disaster-zone of a lab with a clearer mind—and a tiny safety net in his pocket.
…