"Brat! Whether you like it or not, you're acknowledging this agreement today!"
Yamamoto grinned triumphantly as he held up the contract.
"It's all written down in black and white, complete with Batsu'unsai's signature and handprint. Don't tell me you're planning to deny it now. Hmph! You're not escaping from the palm of my hand!"
That smile looked more terrifying than any demon Kazuma had ever seen.
Inside, Kazuma was screaming.
This damned deed of sale had nothing to do with him!
He hadn't signed it!
If Yamamoto wanted someone to honor the agreement, he should go bother Batsu'unsai.
"I swear on my life, this slave contract has absolutely nothing to do with me!"
Kazuma pointed indignantly at the document.
"Whoever signed it is the person you should chase down! Besides, something like this wouldn't even be legally enforceable in modern society. This is blatant human trafficking!"
He slapped his chest.
"No matter what you say, I refuse to acknowledge it!"
Then Kazuma suddenly threw his head back and howled,
"HEAVENS ABOVE! WITNESS THIS GRAVE INJUSTICE!"
Yamamoto froze.
What the hell was this brat doing now?
Had he actually gone insane?
"Hmph. Stop putting on an act."
Yamamoto gave him a dismissive look.
"I don't care how wronged you think you are. If you have a complaint, go home and argue with Batsu'unsai."
"She is your wife. Since she already agreed on your behalf, you, as her husband, are obligated to follow through."
He looked completely certain that he had Kazuma cornered.
Kazuma nearly exploded from anger.
The argument was shamelessly unreasonable.
Worse, Yamamoto had struck directly at one of Kazuma's greatest weaknesses.
His fear of his wife.
For once, Kazuma had no immediate comeback.
At that moment, he could only curse his luck for marrying such an unreliable woman.
Was she trying to kill him?
"Wuwuwu…"
Kazuma's shoulders began trembling.
"Batsu'unsai has ruined me…"
He sniffled.
"Batsu'unsai has ruined my life!"
With every possible escape route seemingly cut off, his mind went completely blank.
Kazuma slowly slid down against the wall and collapsed into the corner, trembling as he sobbed.
The sight was genuinely pitiful.
He looked like a man who'd suffered the greatest injustice known to existence.
Then his thoughts turned toward what awaited him if Yamamoto actually succeeded.
Endless administrative work.
Division reports.
Emergency briefings.
Regular captain meetings every single week.
Kazuma's vision darkened.
His heart practically died.
When he'd been captain of the Seventh Division, almost every unpleasant piece of paperwork had been dumped on Iba Tetsuzaemon.
As for the weekly captains' meeting?
Kazuma had merely been one attendee among many.
If he overslept once in a while, he could simply make up an excuse and skip it.
But Captain-Commander?
He would go from being a participant to the person responsible for organizing and presiding over the entire damned thing.
Skipping meetings would no longer be an option.
There would be nowhere left to hide.
"Has he really gone mad?"
Yamamoto stared suspiciously.
Kazuma had started alternating between crying and laughing while mumbling nonsense about freedom, dreams, and the death of his future.
It was only the Captain-Commander position.
Why was he reacting as though Yamamoto had sentenced him to eternal torment?
"Hehehe…"
Kazuma slowly raised his head.
"Captain-Commander… hehehehe…"
His eyes looked unfocused.
Then his arms began waving randomly as his entire body started twisting and swaying like a lunatic who'd escaped from an asylum.
Yamamoto watched him for a while.
'Is the brat actually insane, or is he pretending?'
After considering the matter carefully, Yamamoto suddenly reached a very reasonable conclusion.
"Mm."
He nodded to himself.
"He's about to become Captain-Commander, so he must simply be overwhelmed with excitement and temporarily lost his mind."
"Yes."
"That must be it."
Then, without warning—
SMACK!
Yamamoto slapped Kazuma across the face.
Hard.
The blow sent Kazuma flying straight out of the tea room like a kite whose string had been cut.
He traced a graceful arc through the air before crashing into the courtyard outside.
The scene looked like something out of an old story about a man who lost his mind from sheer joy after finally striking it rich.
Only Kazuma was receiving Yamamoto's unique version of emergency medical treatment.
Physical therapy.
Very physical therapy.
Kazuma landed face-first and stayed there.
Completely motionless.
At this point, he'd apparently realized that resistance was useless.
So he switched strategies.
Playing dead.
Perhaps if he simply refused to participate in reality, reality would eventually leave him alone.
Yamamoto waited.
No response.
His brows twitched.
Then he rushed over, grabbed Kazuma off the ground, and began another round of intensive treatment.
Fists rained down like cannonballs.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Within moments, Kazuma's previously handsome face had swollen so badly it was barely recognizable.
Yet despite the beating, Kazuma displayed remarkable determination.
His eyes remained firmly shut.
Not a sound left his mouth.
He was committed to the act.
Dead men couldn't become Captain-Commander.
Probably.
Yamamoto eventually stopped and stared at him.
Kazuma had adopted the ultimate attitude of someone who no longer cared what happened.
Beat him.
Kick him.
Do whatever.
He was dead!
Yamamoto found himself running out of options.
Violence apparently wasn't working.
So he resorted to one final technique.
He grabbed Kazuma by both ankles, swung him around, and drove him headfirst into the soft soil of the courtyard like a human fence post.
Kazuma ended up buried upside down with only his legs sticking out.
Yamamoto looked at him.
Still not satisfied, he delivered several more kicks.
Dirt flew everywhere.
A small cloud of dust rose over the courtyard.
Only after thoroughly venting his frustration did Yamamoto finally calm down.
"Chōjirō!"
He raised his voice.
"Go to the Seventh Division and bring Batsu'unsai here."
He gestured toward the upside-down Kazuma.
"Tell her that her husband suffered a bout of temporary insanity."
Yamamoto straightened his robes.
"Fortunately, this old man intervened in time. His condition is now stable and already showing signs of improvement."
Hidden nearby, Sasakibe Chōjirō shuddered.
He'd actually sensed something unusual the moment Kazuma returned.
However, Chōjirō had long since mastered a very useful philosophy:
If something had nothing to do with him, stay far away from it.
So he'd remained hidden nearby, pretending to rest.
Then the sounds of violence began.
Punches.
Kicks.
Air whistling from the force of the blows.
Clearly, Kazuma was getting beaten half to death.
Strangely, however, there hadn't been so much as a whimper from him.
That was unusual enough to awaken Chōjirō's curiosity.
He quietly peeked out.
And witnessed Yamamoto personally administering his highly specialized form of physical therapy to Kazuma.
A chill immediately raced from the base of Chōjirō's spine to the top of his head.
His entire body began trembling.
Whatever was happening here—he wanted absolutely no part of it!
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