Morning sunlight hung high overhead, warm and dazzling, as crowds flowed steadily through the streets.
A cheerful figure darted between the barracks, humming a bright little tune.
"Such a lovely sunny day~"
"With flowers red and grasses green—♪"
Soon, he came to a halt before an old mansion radiating an air of deep luxury.
A large vermilion gate towered over him, a nameplate hanging from the center in elegant gold lettering:
Shihōin.
The moment the guards noticed the boy appear out of nowhere, they blinked—then quickly straightened, recognition lighting their eyes.
"Kisaragi-sama!"
They bowed deeply with sincere respect.
Ever since Kisaragi Akira's last visit to the Shihōin estate, practically every member of the clan had committed this boy's face to memory.
After all, he was the one who helped Lady Yoruichi reclaim the recognition of her family's Zanpakutō—an undeniable benefactor of the Shihōin family.
Naturally, no one here would dare act arrogantly toward him.
"Please wait just a moment, I'll inform Lady Yoruichi right away!"
With that, the guard vanished instantly with a well-executed flash step.
Akira blinked in mild surprise.
So even their gate guards were this skilled?
The Shihōin family really lived up to its reputation.
It wasn't long before the same guard reappeared, gesturing politely for Akira to follow.
Led through several spacious, ornate corridors, Kisaragi Akira finally arrived inside a large training hall.
Yoruichi, however, was nowhere in sight.
He was just starting to look around when a slicing sound cut through the air above him.
A lithe figure dropped from the rafters like a shadow, one strong, well-shaped thigh descending toward him like a battle axe.
Boom!
Akira raised his arm and caught the blow with practiced ease. When he saw who it was, his brow lifted.
Sweat glistened on healthy sun-kissed skin. A long violet ponytail swung behind her back. Her black, skintight combat suit clung to her frame and highlighted her curves with perfect precision.
Years of training hadn't diminished her charm—if anything, they had turned her into a high-proof liquor: rich, bold, intoxicating.
"Perfect timing," Yoruichi said with a grin.
"I just developed a new Hakuda technique. Come help me refine it."
Not giving him any chance to refuse, she launched into a flurry of fierce attacks.
To Yoruichi, Kisaragi Akira was an absolute Hakuda prodigy.
In all of Soul Society, few could compare to him.
What a shame he hadn't joined the 2nd Division.
If he had, she could've sparred with him every single day.
Her fists—small, delicate, but terrifyingly sharp—whistled through the air, kicking up bursts of wind, faint crackles of lightning snapping around her knuckles.
This was nothing like their first Hakuda match.
Back then, Akira was basically a punching bag—only barely stealing a move or two through raw talent and turning them into counterattacks.
But now?
Now he didn't need to steal anything.
Just the techniques he'd learned from Captain Yamamoto over the past few days were more than enough to fight openly and dominantly.
When Yoruichi's slender fist shot toward him, Akira extended his right hand at the same moment.
Rock-paper-scissors.
Smack!
His hand landed over her fist with an almost casual gentleness—slow, smooth, deceptively soft.
Then, in the very instant his palm fully covered hers, a brutal shockwave exploded outward.
Air roared violently through the dojo.
Yoruichi froze for a heartbeat. She knew this move.
Before she could recover, Akira gave a mischievous grin, twisted his wrist, and flowed seamlessly into a new Hakuda technique—
A close-quarters grappling maneuver.
Yoruichi's pupils shrank. A raw, unstoppable force surged through her, locking up every possible movement she might've made next.
She snapped back to focus, trying to counter with refined Hakuda technique—
But Akira gave her no openings.
His relentless barrage pushed her back step after step until her heels touched the dojo wall.
Total domination.
One step behind meant every step behind.
When the assault finally paused, Yoruichi realized—
Her wrists were pinned tightly together.
Her right leg was locked by Akira's knee.
She couldn't move at all.
Technique suppression.
Physical suppression.
Her only advantage—spiritual pressure—was completely useless on him.
Facing his close-up, confident grin, Yoruichi quickly turned her head away and coughed lightly.
"Ahem— I surrender."
Akira reluctantly released her wrists.
What a shame.
If Yoruichi had held out a little longer, he could've enacted the plan he'd thought up earlier—pinning her down completely.
Later — In the Study
Sipping the fine tea a servant poured for him, Akira waited quietly.
After a short while, Yoruichi returned, freshly bathed and wearing a loose yukata. Her violet hair dripped softly over her shoulders, a faint fragrance lingering in the air.
"So, what brings you here today?" she asked.
"Don't tell me you finally came to join my 2nd Division?"
Her playful grin hadn't faded at all despite losing earlier.
"That can wait," Akira waved. "This is about the Shichijō family's assets."
He briefly explained what Shichijō Sōya had done.
"I see," Yoruichi said, arms crossed.
"You want to avoid too much entanglement with nobles, so you're trying to sell off the Shichijō family's fixed properties."
Akira nodded. "You're the only noble I trust with this. So I came to you.
…You wouldn't swindle me, right?"
Yoruichi barked a laugh and slapped his shoulder with gusto.
"I'd never betray a benefactor like that. Leave it to Ōmaeda—he's got plenty of channels. He can liquidate those estates fast. Don't worry."
"Thanks," Akira said.
"What's with the thanks? That's not how it works between us!"
Yoruichi thumped her chest proudly—sending a noticeable ripple across her yukata.
Judging by her appearance, she had simply thrown the yukata on right after bathing.
"…Between us?" Akira muttered, mentally scolding himself for staring before asking out loud.
"What relationship?"
Yoruichi sat casually across from him, refilled her cup, and answered with perfect seriousness:
"You promised to marry into my family, didn't you?"
Akira: "???"
Where did that rumor even start?
Yet Yoruichi seemed to believe it completely.
Leaving the Shihōin Estate
Back on the streets of Seireitei, Akira tugged at his Shin'ō Academy uniform.
If Yoruichi hadn't pointed it out, he might've forgotten he still hadn't gotten his new Shihakushō.
Gojū had promised to get him a fresh one prepared, but when they checked the 11th Division's warehouse, everything had been cleared out.
He'd had to file a request with the 12th Division.
Several days had passed—surely it was ready by now.
Akira decided to head there immediately.
And while he was at it, he should check how Aizen was doing in the 12th Division.
If the guy wasn't adjusting well, Akira could pull strings and transfer him to the 11th.
Then the two of them could endure quietly for a few decades and eventually steal old man Yamamoto's seat.
12th Division — Main Grounds
Standing before the 12th's front gate, Akira frowned and sniffed the air sharply.
"Miso… tempura… tonkatsu… yudōfu…"
"…Are they having a banquet in there?"
After spending so many late nights sneaking into the Shin'ō cafeteria, he had become proficient at identifying dishes by smell alone.
Following the aroma, he slipped inside.
After two corridors, he arrived at a spacious area—
A massive kitchen.
Akira froze.
Who am I?
Where am I?
What am I even doing?
A bustling cooking scene sprawled before him—people rushing around, handling tasks with intense focus, not even noticing the intruder.
Akira's instincts kicked in. He blended in instantly, weaving between stoves and cutting boards.
"Tasteless fish balls. Fail."
"Unpicked daikon. Fail."
"Pork skin boiled too soft—no chewiness. Fail."
"Pig's blood watery and collapsing—fail of all fails."
"…Ugh. Large-intestine sashimi? Hard pass."
Judging from their skills, that intestine dish might actually be the worst disaster here.
Aizen, watching from a distance, let out a weary sigh as Akira prowled through the kitchen.
He knew Akira was unreliable, but to brazenly sneak into the 12th Division like this…
Wasn't he afraid someone would mistake him for an experiment and slice him onto a dissection tray?
"What are you doing here?" Aizen asked, approaching.
"Looking for you," Akira replied, setting down an empty plate.
"I figured if you weren't fitting in here, I could transfer you to the 11th Division."
Aizen sighed softly.
So it had finally come to this familiar pattern…
When Akira moved to swipe more food from another station, Aizen grabbed his sleeve.
"These aren't just dishes.
They're Captain Urahara's research experiments."
Akira stared at him with a look that screamed: Don't make fun of my intelligence.
Sure, the food was bad, but calling it research?
In his mind, research was people in white lab coats using complicated instruments and saying incomprehensible words—not… whatever this was.
Seeing Akira's expression, Aizen gave him a simplified explanation of "spirit-linked cuisine" research.
Akira's eyes brightened.
"So you're telling me… eating can make you stronger?"
"…In a manner of speaking."
"Do you have any finished samples?"
Aizen shook his head.
The experiment had only just begun, and the researchers were still struggling with basic cooking.
"Okay then, got anything good to eat?"
Aizen handed him a bowl of silky tofu pudding.
Akira's eyes lit up.
This was on a different level entirely.
The milky-white tofu gleamed like jade, trembling gently with the slightest touch.
This wasn't just food—
This was art.
At the first bite, the smooth, creamy texture melted instantly on his tongue. The fragrance blossomed in his mouth, lingering sweetly.
In seconds, he finished the bowl and slid it toward Aizen.
"Another."
"No more."
He'd only prepared enough soybeans for two bowls—and he planned to eat one himself.
Seeing no other appetizing dishes, Akira turned away.
Everything else tasted terrible now that he'd had the tofu pudding.
Shaking his head, Akira glanced at Aizen—who was now wearing a brand-new Shihakushō. With his slightly drooping brown hair, he looked surprisingly gentle.
"Oh right—do you know where to pick up my Shihakushō?"
Aizen pointed. "Remember the Shudōrō Research Institute we visited last time?"
Akira snapped his fingers.
Right— the place that looked like a giant dye works, with flamboyant fabrics hanging everywhere.
"Alright, I'm heading there."
Without giving Aizen time to speak, Akira vanished from the kitchen.
Aizen sighed.
Hopefully, he wouldn't suffer too much.
Shudōrō Research Institute
The building was exactly as extravagant as before—giant skeletal arms encircling cocoon-shaped chambers, colorful ribbons fluttering around the perimeter.
After explaining his purpose, the guards took him to a laboratory.
"Lady Tsunade is inside."
Akira pushed the door open.
Bright fabrics draped from the ceiling, looms clacked rhythmically deeper inside, and now and then came the sound of cloth tearing.
"Welcome back…"
Clacking geta grew louder as an elegant pale-skinned woman approached.
Her dark eyes studied him up and down, lingering long enough to make the back of his neck prickle.
Then—
"If you're here for your Shihakushō," she said calmly,
"take off your clothes."
Akira froze.
…What?