Born in Seireitei

I'm enjoying tea and the picturesque view of the garden at the inn. Seated in a beautiful gazebo by the pond, I take in the peaceful surroundings.

The gazebo is made of light-colored wood, open on all sides, with only four posts supporting a slender, rounded roof. Inside, there's a round table and two high chairs, both of a distinctly European style. It's a bright and pleasant spot, and most importantly, completely empty of other people.

I've discovered something rather amusing that I hadn't noticed before. The teapots in this inn—and in a few others I've stayed at recently—are almost identical to the ones I have at home. At least in shape: flattened, bulbous, with a cheeky little spout. Even the lid has a ceramic or stone ball in place of a handle. If it weren't for the difference in materials, they'd be a perfect match. Given how much care my family takes with elegant items, it's odd.

Today, I figured out the answer to this little mystery. I'd been sitting in the gazebo for over half an hour, sipping tea in small, leisurely sips and occasionally refilling my cup. The tea remained scalding hot throughout. It piqued my curiosity—why? It couldn't possibly be just an ordinary teapot.

Driven by curiosity, I lifted the teapot and saw intricate patterns etched into its bottom. On closer thought, I realized I'd seen similar patterns before... on paper talismans used to set boundaries for kido barriers.

Ah, that explains it. When I placed my palm near the designs, I could sense a faint amount of reiatsu. I hadn't known these symbols could hold power on their own—I thought they merely acted as conduits or markers.

It seems someone developed a small spell for something as simple as a teapot and then turned it into a business. Now nearly every wealthy household has these handy temperature-maintaining teapots.

Of course, it's nothing extraordinary like powerful runes or fuinjutsu. Just an interesting, minuscule barrier designed to retain heat. Such a minor application of kido wouldn't even warrant an official classification. But even in small things, there's fascinating knowledge to be found.

People are incredibly inventive. Geniuses and curious minds exist in every era. Should I still be so surprised by such things? Probably not, but as someone who lived in a purely technological age, I can't help marveling every time.

You go through years of life taking things for granted, only to uncover shocking little details later. A delightful discovery. I wonder what else I've missed?

I pondered this, running through dozens of mundane items in the estate in my mind. Wasn't that ink brush a little strange? I recall when I was learning to write with a brush—it was odd how I never made a single ink blot. Not a single extra drop of ink fell from the brush.

And why don't even the oldest scrolls in the archives decay? I haven't seen a single rotted one, even though some of them are ancient. Thinking about it, I'm convinced there must be artisans and craftsmen specializing in purely domestic and practical kido. People with modest power, not strong enough to make waves, who go largely unrecognized.

I understand that for the average residents of the Soul Society, such things are too familiar to warrant discussion. Who in my world thought about the production of ballpoint pens more than once, for example? It's the same here. But to me, these small kido are still magical. How do they work? Hmm…

The morning is still young, with a couple of hours until noon, and the sun hasn't started scorching yet. The shade of the gazebo is cool, the air by the pond pristine—it's a blissful day. If only I didn't have business to attend to…

My relaxed state is disrupted when I see Daiki, the head of my guard, walking toward me on the stone path through the grass, leading another man.

The newcomer appears to be a middle-aged man who's let himself go a bit, dressed in clothes suggesting wealth. Few can afford such bright green garments with embroidery. However, one glance at his belt explains his affluence. A wide fabric sash with a pair of red tassels hangs from his waist, each adorned with a golden coin featuring square holes.

If I'm not mistaken, this indicates membership in a local merchant guild—a network of the town's business elite. For any Noble Family, most such guilds are of little consequence. Except those tied to the interests of another noble, like the trade empire of my own family.

Still, such emblems are useful—they make it easy to grasp a person's connections and profession at a glance. It's convenient, honestly. You just have to learn to read the signs. I was taught to identify such things immediately.

People here love standing out or feeling a sense of belonging to something greater than themselves. In a world where the rule of the strong is so prevalent, it's only natural.

Even among the Shinigami, it only seems like everyone just wears a standard shihakusho. Each division has subtle differences in how they wear their uniforms. For example, the Third Division ties their sashes a bit differently, while the Ninth likes to roll up their sleeves. And every collar has the division insignia and the Shinigami's name, so laundry services don't mix them up.

But to everyone outside the Gotei, all Shinigami look the same. Proud, powerful, all clad in black and somber. Even in the capital, Seireitei, not everyone knows how to distinguish Shinigami by division.

While mulling over these small observations, the pair approached the gazebo. Daiki stopped precisely half a meter from the entrance, while the man with him quickly scanned his surroundings. Pretending to wipe his brow with a handkerchief, he darted sharp black eyes over the gazebo, the pond, and finally at me, assessing me from head to toe. His gaze felt unpleasant—shifty.

It would've been deft and discreet if I weren't already awakened. To my perception, he was like a child attempting a magic trick before an adult—too obvious. Of course, I said nothing about it.

"Here he is, sir," Daiki nodded toward me. "I've brought him. This is Maoro Jin, a merchant."

The merchant turned beet red and flustered at Daiki's curt introduction. Avoiding my gaze, he quickly bowed, revealing slick, shiny dark hair styled with something glossy. Everything about this man screamed the stereotype of a slightly sleazy merchant.

But I had already dealt with people of his kind during my travels, so I didn't believe this image for a second. Clever, respectable? Not at all. He's just an ordinary guy with a small business, trying hard to conform to social expectations about how he should look and behave.

Times change, but society's habits remain the same. Like how an office worker is expected to wear a suit, a soldier should stand so straight it seems like there's a rod up his back, and a prostitute must wear heavy makeup and a miniskirt.

Some people find it very convenient to live within such frameworks. And I don't despise them for it because I try to fit my societal role as well.

Inside, we're all individuals with unflattering opinions about others. But it's unwise to make that obvious. Knowing this, I understand perfectly what's in this merchant's head right now.

A big pile of fear and confusion about why and for what reason he's here.

"It's a great honor to meet you, Lord Okikiba."

Wow, what a bow—fit for a royal audience. I almost believed him. Honor, my foot. His mind is a whirlwind of fear and worry, mixed with memories of past misdeeds, rather than any genuine thought about the honor of meeting me.

Right now, he's calculating whether he's been bowing long enough… There, he's straightened up. My silence unnerves him.

Damn, those conversations with my father about human nature and deceit have ruined me! I can't just chat with people anymore without assessing them internally!

It's been years, and I'm still doing this with strangers. This stuff is incurable!

"Good morning," I offered a faint smile. "Maoro-san."

With that, Daiki stepped aside, removing the subtle barrier between us, which only made the merchant even more anxious. Am I really that intimidating? Or has he perhaps heard some stories about my father's bloody deeds? I wouldn't be surprised.

"You seem unsure why you're here?" I asked calmly.

"No, sir."

And he clamps his mouth shut. A good strategy if you're afraid of saying too much. No, sir. Yes, sir. Well, that's unfortunate because I'd prefer to get this man talking.

"There's no need to be so fearful, Maoro-san," I said, waving a hand lightly and offering a friendly smile. "You're not here for anything bad, and I mean you no harm. I simply wish to discuss a small matter, that's all. Would you like some tea? Or perhaps to sit in the shade of this lovely pavilion?"

My question wasn't really a question.

"Yes, of course, sir."

The merchant sat down across from me, perching on the very edge of his chair. I poured him a cup of fragrant red tea myself.

"Try it," I said, sliding the cup toward him. "It's a very fine tea."

"Thank you."

To be honest, this isn't the first time… But watching someone's hands tremble as they try to hide it while drinking tea in front of me is still strange.

I've invited people in taverns to sit with me, to chat and learn how life is for them. And only two out of ten manage not to shake like cockroaches under a sandal. The universal awe ordinary people feel toward nobles or Shinigami is astonishing. Only in the first districts and Seireitei itself do people speak with mere polite respect.

"How do you find the taste, Maoro-san?"

"Thank you," he replied curtly. "It's truly excellent tea."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "Strange, as I was told you can't stand red tea. Or any other drink, for that matter. Apparently, you prefer green tea above all else. Could it be that your friends don't know you very well?"

The merchant gawked at me, looking briefly like a startled frog. Tugging at the tight collar of his kimono with one finger, he chuckled nervously.

"Ha-ha, you know so much about me. And w-what friends?"

"Oh, not mutual ones, don't worry, just your friends. A little gold loosens tongues nicely and helps me understand a person before meeting them in person. A good measure against liars, adversaries, or prospective partners, wouldn't you agree?"

"Y-yes, an excellent measure."

"Relax," I tried to smile warmly again, but the merchant looked at me as if I were the devil himself. "As I said, I mean you no harm. This was just a small precaution instilled in me by my father, nothing more."

The merchant swallowed hard, his pronounced Adam's apple bobbing as he closed his eyes briefly and mustered the courage to ask:

"What do you want from me? There aren't even any clover-branded shops or pharmacies in this city! I've done nothing wrong to the Okikiba family! Nothing!"

The man wrung his hands, avoiding my gaze for more than a second at a time and deliberately avoiding looking at Daiki, who clearly didn't appreciate the loud tone directed at me. The head of my guards was stroking the sheath of his sword with his thumb, staring unblinkingly at the merchant's throat.

Instead of answering, I leisurely lifted my teacup, taking a sip, completely unperturbed by the silence, unlike the poor merchant. I swear, despite him being old enough to be my father, I felt like a lion before a defenseless rabbit. I shouldn't toy with him like this…

"As I've already said…" The sound of my teacup meeting the table made the poor fellow flinch. "I just want to talk. You've done nothing wrong. I have no intention of torturing or killing you, though for some reason, you seem very afraid of that. We'll talk, and you'll leave here unharmed. Probably."

The man, who had just started to calm down, began trembling again.

"P-probably?" he whispered.

"That depends," I raised a finger. "On what you can tell me about a significant debt owed to you by a certain young man. He lives in this city. His name is Kensei. Muguruma Kensei."

This surprised the merchant so much that he dared to adopt a harsher tone.

"What business is that of yours?!"

"Oh, it's quite simple," I replied, narrowing my eyes and explaining slowly, tapping the tabletop with a fingertip. "His deceased father was an excellent Shinigami. And a good friend of my family. A very good friend. Otherwise, would I have traveled all the way from Seireitei to this backwater? Or agreed to speak with someone like you?"

"I see," the merchant exhaled in resignation. "He doesn't owe me anything anymore, does he?"

"That's correct," I nodded. "But only because I will personally settle all his debts. If they're legitimate. What interests me more is this: Kensei's father had no such debts. So how is it that his son ended up owing money or favors to almost every merchant and shopkeeper in this Soul King-forsaken town? He works three jobs like a slave just to pay everything off. And he owes the most to you, the humble owner of a ceramics shop."

And this wasn't just a conversational trick. People genuinely clammed up when the subject of why, for heaven's sake, Kensei had amassed so much debt came up.

The answers were pathetically simplistic. He borrowed money. Broke or damaged something. His aunt supposedly owed debts before her death. Add in ten other vague excuses, and somehow a young man, barely a couple of years younger than me, managed to rack up this mountain of debt in under six months.

"Well, it's a delicate matter… A bit embarrassing for us."

"While I don't intend to scare you," I interrupted the merchant, "I'll warn you: if you lie or if I don't like your answer…"

Daiki, whom Maoro seemed to have momentarily forgotten, placed his hand atop the hilt of his sword. His fingers gripped the yellow-corded handle and gave a slight pull.

The polished steel slid from its sheath with a soft whisper, revealing a blade so sharp it could slice a falling hair. This steel, surpassed only by the kind used for forging Asauchi, bore a faint, wavy engraving.

Maoro, who had probably never seen such an expensive weapon, stared at the sword with a mix of fear and greed. Such a blade could only be found in the finest armories of the first districts of Rukongai, and one like it cost more than ten of his shops.

Daiki fixed the poor man with a killer's gaze—cold and piercing. Then, his fingers released the hilt, his hand lowered, and the blade returned to its sheath with a menacing clang, like a guillotine snapping shut.

The merchant shuddered so violently that I could feel it resonate through the pavilion. A brief threat, one that any Shinigami would have laughed off, was more than enough for him. He began to sing like a canary.

And he was honest. The topic truly was uncomfortable, touching on the conscience and greed of people, the selflessness of one boy, and one unhinged girl.

It was a story of a Hollow attack, of Kensei, and… Mashiro. A green-haired tornado in childlike form. The cornerstone of all the young man's current troubles.

Here's how it happened.

In a large house lived two families, side by side. A common arrangement in such a town. Their names were Muguruma and Kuna.

During a Hollow attack, one of the monsters targeted that very house, drawn to the delicious souls of two children: a boy and a girl—Kensei and Mashiro.

Naturally, the adults tried to protect them. But in the end… the house was left in ruins. The children became orphans. Kensei lost his last remaining relative, his aunt, while Mashiro lost both of her parents. Both of them awakened spiritually—not just from the stress and sight of the Hollow, but from having witnessed something far worse.

It's said that Kensei didn't speak to anyone for over a week. And the girl, Kuna Mashiro… went mad. She regressed into childhood, as if clinging forever to that happy time with her parents—a time free of worry, pain, burdens, or rules.

Mashiro became so irresponsible and self-indulgent that she caused endless trouble for everyone around her.

She would grab sweets off store shelves as if it was perfectly fine to take whatever she wanted without paying. She'd fall asleep in strangers' houses. Steal food straight from kitchens. Take items—usually shiny or cute—and claim they were gifts.

And then there's the fact that she just punches people she doesn't like right in the face. If someone scolds her, she kicks them or runs away.

"…She's an absolute menace!" the merchant exclaimed, throwing his hands up and nearly knocking over his tea. "With her powers, she easily escapes even from the guards. Once, she ran into my ceramics shop chasing a cat like a lunatic! They destroyed everything down to the tiniest shards! Not a single vase or plate was left intact!"

"That's unfortunate," I murmured softly in agreement.

"Of course, it is!" the merchant nodded furiously. "Nearly a year of honest work, shattered into dust. The losses were so bad I thought I'd have a heart attack! And what did she say?! 'It's Kitty-kun's fault! Kitty-kun!' I swear on the Soul King, if I hadn't had a shred of pity left, I'd have strangled her right there. And this sort of thing happens in the city practically every day! If it weren't for Muguruma, they'd have thrown her out into the forest long ago to fend for herself against the beasts!"

The merchant paused to catch his breath, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief before continuing in a calmer tone.

"Many people knew Mashiro's parents. Out of pity and respect for their memory, they forgave her for a lot at first. But there's a limit to everything! Now, only Kensei-kun and the reputation of his late Shinigami parents are stopping people from taking justice into their own hands and… Well, you understand?"

"No, I don't."

Maoro lowered his eyes and spoke quietly.

"How long can he keep carrying the burden of a mad girl? And as for her, they say she's just a shell of her former self. I've heard she used to be smart and polite, very calm and quiet. Not like she is now. It would be kinder for everyone if…"

"I understand," I cut the rambling man off sharply. "That's all I needed to know, Maoro-san."

Daiki caught my glance perfectly. He nodded briskly toward the merchant.

"Come on. I'll see you out."

The merchant cast a nervous glance at the sword in its sheath. Reluctantly, he got up and walked as though heading to his execution. With a sigh, I added:

"Someone will come by in the next few days to assess the damage and pay for everything. As they will for the others."

It was clear to everyone that these weren't Kensei's debts but Mashiro's fault entirely. I wasn't obligated to step in and cover them, no matter how close a friend of the family the elder Muguruma had been. The reason for such extravagant mercy burned with curiosity in the tidy ceramic merchant's mind. But before he could open his mouth, Daiki cut him off.

"It's none of your business why. Keep walking. And if you dare to ask unnecessary questions of my lord, I'll cut your tongue out."

"U-understood!"

Ah, Daiki. I shook my head with a smile as I watched their retreating backs. Then I finished my tea in silence, stood up, and stretched until my joints gave a quiet crack.

It was an interesting and sad story. And now...

"It's time I met you in person, Kensei. And Mashiro too."