The journey passed in near silence.
Beyond his initial introduction and a reiteration of Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto's summons, Chōjirō Sasakibe spoke not a word.
Makoto could only keep pace with Shunpo, his gaze drifting across this unfamiliar land he'd yet to tread.
Compared to the savage crucible of Zaraki, District 64 Sabitsura, hardly brimd with wealth, but signs of life dotted the edges of its main roads and the foothills beyond.
By the occasional lakes and ponds, gone were the blade-wielding predators of Zaraki, stalking prey with bared teeth and bloodlust.
From this single vantage, it carried a faint echo of a classical era's golden age.
"Not bad, huh?" Sasakibe broke his silence, catching Makoto's wandering eyes.
"Much better than Zaraki." Makoto nodded in agreent.
"It wasn't always like this."
"I was born in Sabitsura, and a thousand years ago, this wretched place wasn't what you see now barely a step above Zaraki."
A rare, heartfelt smile softened Sasakibe's perpetually icy features. Even his golden eyes, gazing toward the distant villages, ward with a tender hue.
"All of this is thanks to Genryūsai-sama."
In those few words, Makoto felt he'd glimpsed the man's core. Tentatively, he ventured, "Genryūsai-sama must be incredible."
"Exactly!"
Sasakibe's voice surged with fervor, a broad, approving grin flashing toward Makoto, a look that said, You've got a good eye, kid.
A beat later, he caught himself, realizing he'd said too much. His face stiffened back into that expressionless mask, a frozenKyōko-store dummy once more.
But when his eyes t Makoto's again, they carried a newfound glint of camaraderie.
Makoto nodded knowingly.
Ahh~
A little fanboy, huh?
Soon, they crossed a lush, wooded hillside. In the distance lood a modest compound nestled within a bamboo grove, complete with a pond in its courtyard.
Aside from its sprawling open space, it didn't seem much different from the wooden hos dotting the villages below.
"We're here."
Sasakibe's face remained stoic as he halted at the gate, switching to a asured stride.
Yet, perhaps stirred by their earlier exchange, he paused before entering, adding a rare piece of advice: "Genryūsai-sama is strict and exacting, uncompromising with everyone, always. When you step inside, answer only what he asks. If he asks nothing, say nothing."
"Understood?"
"Yes."
Makoto grasped the warning well enough.
From the plot analyses he'd devoured in his past life, no matter how you sliced it, the Yamamoto of a thousand years after founding the Gotei 13 was a softened shell of his forr self.
Even an old rival like Yhwach had called him weak compared to his past.
So what was this Yamamoto like?
In the first arc, he'd sentenced Rukia Kuchiki to execution without a flicker of rcy, drawing his Shikai against his pleading disciples.
In the Karakura Town battle, watching Aizen fell his Gotei troops, he'd unleashed Ennetsu Jigoku without hesitation whether his own n burned alive was irrelevant.
"Those who guard the court should die for it." One of his signature lines, embodying the creed that rcy has no place in command.
Extrapolating backward, Makoto could well imagine what kind of ruthless monster Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto was. The architect of Soul Society's millennial order had been a thousand years prior.
Swinging a blade over comrades' corpses wasn't so poetic taphor; it was a blunt statent of fact.
Makoto mulled this over.
But as Sasakibe reached the door, a young man with long samurai hair stepped out, bowing slightly. "Sasakibe-san, Genryūsai-sama is holding an instructors' eting. I'm not sure if-"
Before he could finish, a deep voice rumbled from within, "Genshirō, Chōjirō."
"Bring him in."
Both n outside faltered, caught off guard. They hadn't expected Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto to take such keen interest.
Sasakibe recovered first, turning to Makoto. "Let's go. You're cleared to enter."
Yet, hearing their exchange, Makoto's nerves flared. His left hand instinctively clamped onto his sword hilt as he blurted, "W-Wait a sec…"
"Instructors' eting... what's that about?"
"Wasn't it just Genryūsai-sama alone?"
Sasakibe's eyes flicked to the hand on the hilt, his brow creasing faintly before easing.
No one would be foolish enough to fret over the safety of the monsters inside that room.
His displeasure stemd only from the breach of decorum, a slip that might reflect poorly on his competence.
Still, duty-bound, he explained, "When urgent matters arise, Genryūsai-sama, as the grandmaster, calls a temporary council."
"Right now, all the school's instructors are likely present."
Makoto's composure cracked.
Cautiously, he ventured, "Sasakibe-san, could you maybe hold my Zanpakutō sowhere for until we're done?"
"Honestly, my Zanpakutō got a bit of a… brain issue. Loves crowded places and gets real excitable."
"If it says sothing it shouldn't, it'd be beyond rude."
Sasakibe tilted his head, puzzled.
Who didn't know a Zanpakutō and its Shinigami were one in spirit?
You say your Zanpakutō's got a screw loose, but you seem sane enough to .
"…No can do."
He shook his head. "Genryūsai-sama likely intends to test you as well."
"After all, you're the one Unohana-sama brought back."
That single line slamd shut Makoto's sneaky escape hatch.
Right.
He might even have to fight soone in there.
Dare to show up unard?
A chill prickled his scalp.
Truth be told, he'd wandered Zaraki alone for far too long.
So long that only now did sothing click.
He rembered, the unholy pact between his Zanpakutō and that vulgar system, how they'd conspired from the start to force him to max out his Shunpo in one relentless push.
But here he was.
Could he really turn tail and run now?
Whoosh!
The doors swung wide.
Sasakibe and the other lingered outside.
Makoto steeled his face, gripping his sword hilt tightly, and strode forward under the piercing stares of a dozen ferocious instructors lining the dojo's sides.
At the head sat a bald, middle-aged man with black hair styled in a crescent-moon cut, unmistakably Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, the man, the myth, the legend, whose renown blazed at its zenith and would for another millennium.
anwhile, the instructors flanking the room turned curious eyes upon him.
Closest to the front, Unohana had already shifted her gaze his way. A faint, springlike smile graced her pallid, bloodless face... an exceedingly rare sight.
Makoto's expression stiffened further.
Under the weight of all those eyes, the dojo fell into a hushed stillness.
But before Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto could speak, a one-eyed girl with deep purple twin tails at the queue's end narrowed her lone eye. Her tongue slithered out like a soft serpent, grazing her lips as a glint of intrigue flickered in her gaze.
"Such young vibrant reishi… No matter how many tis I see it, this old soul can't resist." She purred.
"Surely this boy's body courses with blood just as delectable, no?"
"It's… positively tantalizing."
At her voice, Unohana's eyes turned frigid, her head snapping toward the speaker.
Saitō Furofushi t her stare unflinchingly with that single eye, a low chuckle rumbling forth.
"What's that?"
"Fancy a taste of too?"
In an instant, tension crackled between the two won, a storm brewing on a razor's edge.
The surrounding instructors, all grim and fearso, shifted their focus from Makoto, watching the standoff with the casual anticipation of seasoned spectators.
Makoto, seeing the spotlight veer off him, exhaled a quiet breath of relief.
Now, if only that damned system would shut up…
But before Unohana could retort, a sprightly, almost unhinged voice burst from Makoto's waist, not carried by air, but slamming directly into every mind present.
[Ahh~ I love it!!]
[Quick, quick taste !]
At that mont, every motion in the room froze.
That single outburst plunged the hall into a deathly, surreal silence.
Makoto shuddered.
It's over… they know!
Then, the voice spiked, launching into a frenzied, heartfelt chant.
[Purple twin-tailed, one-eyed, flat-chested loli, I adore her! That soft slippery snake tongue, I love it! The gap of a loli calling herself 'old soul'. I am absolutely obsessed with that!!]
[Please, I beg you, step on with those cute little white tabi socks! Stab with your sword! Lick with that snake tongue!]
[Sit on my face, please!]
[I can't hold back, it's at the limit…]
[Hurry up and move!!!]
In a flash, the confusion in every eye vanished, replaced by a collective, incredulous stare at Makoto, a look teetering on the edge of absurdity.
This guy was a heavyweight contender!
That was Saitō Furofushi they were talking about!
Cute little tabi socks…
Wasn't that a bit too extre?
Even Yamamoto at the center twitched an eyebrow, his face rigid, the wrinkles seeming to quiver in sync.
Makoto's body turned an eerie ashen gray as if petrified.
He stood rooted, motionless.
Abruptly...
His left hand flicked, hurling his Zanpakutō to the floor.
With a feigned nonchalance, he kicked it aside. The battered scabbard skidded across the dojo's wooden floor with a whoosh and chattering on its own in the distance.
"What the fuck is that blade?"
"Not mine."
"…?"
The purple twin-tailed girl fixed her gaze on him silently. A scarlet gleam pulsed in her lone eye barely contained. Her fingertips danced rhythmically along her sword hilt with eager, almost musical, her breathing growing heavier, her smile twisting into sothing bewitchingly feral.
Her cleaving itch had flared.
***
Bonus Chapter:
100 Power Stones = 1 BC
300 Power Stones = 2 BC
500 Power Stones = 3 BC
700 Power Stones = 4 BC
1000 Power Stones = 5 BC
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