Bleach: The Invincible Slacker from Rukongai

The First Division Headquarters, Captain's Office—

Behind an aged wooden desk sat Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni, the venerable Captain-Commander of the Gotei 13. His stern eyes, deep as ancient wells, scanned a report from the Technology Development Bureau. The air felt heavy, tension crackling like an unseen storm.

In front of him stood Kurotsuchi Mayuri, his pale face painted with that ever-present grotesque smile. His golden eyes shimmered with unsettling amusement, yet his voice carried an edge of gravity.

Yamamoto's voice, low and commanding, broke the silence. "Is the situation truly this severe, Kurotsuchi?"

Mayuri inclined his head, his grin stretching wider. "Indeed. Due to insufficient manpower, Hollow incursions are surging. If the concentration of spiritual pressure in Hueco Mundo surpasses that of Soul Society, the barriers between the worlds could distort—" his voice lowered, a note of relish creeping in, "—or worse, collapse entirely."

A cold stillness followed his words, like the hush before a typhoon.

Yamamoto's fingers tightened slightly over the report. "I understand. There is no need to inform the other divisions of this matter for the time being," he declared, his tone brooking no argument.

Mayuri's smirk curled higher. "As you command, Captain-Commander."

In the adjacent office of the First Division—

Uehara Shiroha leaned back lazily, his feet propped against his desk. His eyes, however, flicked toward the corridor where Mayuri passed, noting the scientist's unsettling departure with mild curiosity.

Then, turning toward a gruff figure standing before his desk, he grinned. "Genshirō, my dear Third Seat… So, about that little… bill—" He flashed his most innocent smile. "I didn't get caught using public funds for… ahem… essential social engagements, did I?"

Genshirō Okikiba, the venerable third seat of the First Division, stood like an ancient oak—sturdy, stoic, and unimpressed. His beard and hair, long faded to silver, clung stubbornly to a patch of black on the right side, as if even his hair refused to surrender completely to time.

The old Shinigami's voice rumbled, thick with disapproval. "Uehara… Thirty million rings. In one month." His eyes narrowed, glinting like flint. "Care to explain how you spent an entire vice-captain's annual salary?"

To clarify—Rings, the currency of Soul Society, held purchasing power equivalent to modern Japanese yen. The average vice-captain's salary, a few million rings annually, was more than comfortable. But thirty million? That was a fortune.

And Uehara Shiroha had blown it—all on food, drink, and hanamachi indulgences—and then had the gall to charge it to the First Division's expense account.

Had anyone else pulled such a stunt, Genshirō's Zanpakutō would've resolved the matter—decisively.

Uehara raised his hands in mock surrender, his expression one of theatrical innocence. "Trust me, Genshirō-san, I'm as shocked as you are! Are those women spun from gold and silk? It's daylight robbery!" He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "I didn't even place half those orders, but somehow they still ended up under my name!"

Then, with a sly sideways glance, he added with faux innocence, "Besides, I've only been a Seventh Seat for a few years—a man of modest means, really. No savings, no wealthy wife. Now, someone like you, Genshirō-san—long years of service, third seat salary… surely you've saved a fortune by now, right?"

Genshirō's eyes flared wide, and he practically felt his blood pressure spike. His fingers twitched, itching to reach for his Zanpakutō—not to strike, but perhaps to intimidate some sense into the cheeky rogue before him.

But… he stopped short. Continuing this conversation any longer felt like inviting a heart attack.

With an exasperated sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, "Fine. We'll… let it slide this time. But mark my words, Shiroha—no more stunts. Shape up and remember your duty."

Uehara's expression melted into something suspiciously sincere. "Duty! Of course! Captain Kensei, Captain Hirako—" he placed a hand over his chest with mock reverence, "—now they were the pinnacle of diligence and hard work. Tirelessly serving the Soul Society! Real role models, don't you think?"

A pause. Then, with a perfectly timed smirk—

"…And just look at where that got them, right?"

The room dropped into a dead, cold silence.

Genshirō's face darkened like a thundercloud. "…" His lips pressed into a thin line, his knuckles whitening as his hands curled.

As Third Seat of the First Division, he knew all too well—those diligent captains, discarded like worn-out tools after the Hollowification incident. Their loyalty repaid with ruin.

But could he say that aloud?

No.

Uehara, reading the storm in Genshirō's eyes, knew he had hit a nerve. And with that, he cheerfully strolled out of the office, whistling a lighthearted tune.

Reaching the practice field, he raised his voice with a grin—

"Oi, brothers! Afternoon tea's on me—paid for by your generous Seventh Seat!"

A jubilant roar rose from the field.

"Long live Uehara-san!"

"Lord Shiroha, you're the best—!"

Somewhere back inside the office—

Genshirō felt his heart skip a beat. His face paled, and for a brief moment, he wondered— Was this it? Was this the myocardial infarction the fortune-teller warned him about?

Unbothered by the chaos he left behind, Uehara hummed, "Today's a wonderful day."

Suddenly—

[Ding! New Daily Quest: Make a New Friend]

[The weather is fair, and the wind is gentle. Such a fine day for some PY trading. Befriend someone new!]

[Reward: Random Attribute Points ×2]

Uehara's eyes brightened. "A new friend, huh? Easy!" His gaze sharpened mischievously. "For that… the Fourth Division is perfect."

The Fourth Division—the healing corps. Full of gentle, soft-spoken Shinigami—mostly girls—with hearts of gold.

But Uehara knew better than to walk into the lion's den without caution. He carefully scouted the area to ensure that the terrifying "old hen," Captain Unohana Retsu, wasn't on site.

As he stepped into the Fourth Division's barracks, a loud, unpleasant voice grated the air—

"Why aren't my injuries healed yet!? You Fourth Division cowards—looking down on the mighty Eleventh Division!"

Uehara's eyes narrowed. He turned toward the commotion—

In the treatment room—

A scruffy, mustachioed man—Aramaki Makizō, 20th Seat of the Eleventh Division—was shouting at three flustered nurses.

The three girls, clearly intimidated, stood with downcast eyes, cheeks flushed in frustration and fear.

Uehara recognized the man immediately. Aramaki—a comic-relief character from the anime. But this wasn't the screen—this was reality. And here, bullies weren't funny.

Without hesitation, Uehara stepped into the room, placing himself between the girls and the wounded brute. His lips curled in a sharp, cool smile.

"Oi, Eleventh Division Shinigami—" he spoke lightly, but his voice carried a crisp edge. "Do you know who I am?"

Aramaki, still sprawled on the treatment bed, barely spared him a glance—

"Hah!? Who the hell—" His eyes flicked to Uehara's arm—and froze.

There—gleaming on Uehara's sleeve—

The chrysanthemum etched Seventh Seat badge of the First Division.

The recognition hit like a sledgehammer.

Aramaki's mouth dropped open. "A-Ah—! Lord Uehara Shiroha!?" His voice cracked, and he shot upright, his pride dissolving into sheer panic.

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The First Division's Seventh Seat—under Captain-Commander Yamamoto himself. On par with a vice-captain.

Aramaki's back went rigid, his voice trembling. "M-My injuries, sir—they're… they're all healed! I'm perfectly fine—no need to trouble the good ladies!"

But Uehara pressed a firm hand to Aramaki's shoulder, and the man froze—his body locking under a sudden, crushing pressure.

Uehara's voice softened… but carried the weight of steel.

"No, no…" he said, with a slow, tight smile. "I think you're still quite injured. You need…" he pressed down harder, "...proper treatment."

CRACK—! A dreadful creak sounded from Aramaki's joints. His limbs trembled, and he gasped—

"You—you're right, my lord! I-I'm gravely wounded!" Aramaki sputtered, eyes wide and wild. "Treatment—yes! Immediate treatment!"

Uehara turned toward the stunned nurses, his voice light and warm—

"Well? Don't just stand there—treat him well."

The three young nurses, their eyes shimmering with sudden admiration, broke into wide smiles.

"Lord Uehara… thank you so much!"

"You're amazing, sir—so cool!"

"Lord Uehara, ignore those nasty women—marry me instead!"

As the nurses eagerly began their… intensive care on the trembling Aramaki, they simultaneously crowded around Uehara—chatting, giggling, and absolutely smitten.

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