Born in Seireitei

Chapter 12: Chapter Eleven. Home with a New Weight or Cheerful Mashiro



In the plains of the Fifteenth District of Rukongai, a camp is set up near a small lake.

I sit on a carpet spread over the grass, watching the small waves of the lake break against the shore. Nearby stands my enormous palanquin, surrounded by a few tents set up for the warriors and the two young ones we're guarding.

It's nearing evening, and a fresh breeze carries the scents of meadows and the coolness of the lake. My thoughts are interrupted by Daiki's voice:

"Master, would you care for some fresh rabbit meat?"

The head of the guard sits down beside me, laying his sheathed sword to the right with fluid ease. His movements, so smooth and precise, once again confirm my suspicion that he used to be a samurai. Only those guys—if they aren't Shinigami—handle their swords like extensions of their own limbs, without even glancing.

The Way of the Sword and all that... I've seen him sleep with his sword, eat with it, and even disappear into the bushes without letting go of the scabbard. And his sword isn't even part of his soul, just a finely crafted blade. I wouldn't be surprised if he takes it to bed with him along with... well, a second sword, ahem.

Luckily, Daiki can't read minds, so he doesn't know how I amuse myself at his expense. He nods toward the campfires where a dozen rabbits are roasting on spits.

"There are surprisingly many rabbits here," he says with a smile. "They're not even skittish. Catch as many as you want."

The scent of roasted meat makes my stomach growl.

"Of course, I'll have some. When have I ever turned down fresh meat?"

Daiki whistles softly and signals to the men by the fire, raising two fingers. They nod in response.

A shrill, cheerful shriek pierces the air, catching everyone's attention. I immediately turn my head toward the sound and sigh. Of course, it's Mashiro again.

The petite teenage girl splashes through the shallows, kicking up sprays of water and trying to startle the small fish swimming nearby. She doesn't care one bit about soaking her short, light kimono, which now clings to her like a wet rag, making it hard to move. With gusto, she blows stray wet green hair out of her face.

She's quite cute—her figure just starting to fill out in all the right places while remaining slender and lithe. Mashiro could probably bend backward at any moment to admire her own reflection like a seasoned acrobat. Her flexibility is astounding. She has a knack for poking her nose into everything, trying to squeeze into spaces even a cat, as fluid as water, would struggle to fit.

Right now, though, she's simply running around, splashing the water so high that her kicks turn into vertical splits. Just watching her makes my legs ache, imagining the stretch.

It's safe to say I'm witnessing the early development of the insane flexibility and grace that would one day evolve into her unique acrobatic combat style.

Her fun isn't over yet. After a few seconds of wild splashing, she reaches a section of the shore where Kensei is sitting quietly, trying to meditate. From here, I can't see his face, but I'm certain he's frowning, trying to block out the noise.

I suppress a grin. Big mistake.

Mashiro delivers a forceful kick to the water, sending a wave splashing onto the shore—and onto another teenager, now drenched. Kensei shakes his head like a soaked white kitten, but his voice is far from cute as he exhales through gritted teeth:

"Ma-shi-ro!"

"Haha!" she laughs gleefully, running back the way she came. "Kensei the dummy! Dummy Kensei!"

"You're asking for it!"

And just like that, the chase is on. The warriors watch the commotion with amusement, no longer bothering to intervene or act surprised. Mashiro glances over her shoulder as she runs, only to choke on laughter at the sight of Kensei's furious expression.

"Eek! Scary, scary! Stay back!"

"No chance!"

Now two teenagers are splashing through the shallows, water flying everywhere.

"They don't seem to mind the cold," Daiki remarks with a smirk. "The water's pretty chilly."

"Let them have their fun while they can," I reply with a benevolent smile. "In Seireitei, they'll have few opportunities for such simple joys."

Daiki nods silently, watching the two playful kids. The capital has its merits, but it's also very formal in behavior and conduct. Activities like this would be frowned upon there—at least in the wealthier districts. In the busier and more lively areas, where life hums day and night, things are more relaxed.

Those districts are full of taverns, entertainment venues, markets, and bustling squares, making them popular hangouts for Shinigami on their days off. Two playful kids would blend right in.

But near the estates, like mine? Noise isn't tolerated. Guards might intervene if things get out of hand. Mashiro's antics wouldn't be well-received. If she trespasses on someone's estate, trouble is guaranteed.

And if she's truly unlucky and runs into a merciless guard, they might mistake her for a thief and cut her down without hesitation. This era of the Soul Society is far from idyllic. In the world of the dead, children are afforded no special regard—unless they come from a noble family or possess significant strength of their own.

Here, children like Kensei and Mashiro are treated as small adults, for better or worse. They can work, and they are held accountable for their actions. No one bats an eye at forcing a child to repay debts or holding them on trial for a crime.

This approach has its pros and cons, but by now, I've grown used to and even accepted it. I prefer to focus on the positives. At least from the age of ten, no one dared to coddle me or offer childish entertainment. Not to mention the "gifts" from my father—or more accurately, his council entourage. Toys were replaced with books, scrolls, and more prestigious presents.

I smirk to myself, watching as Kensei finally catches up to Mashiro. With a look of sheer satisfaction, he dunks her face into the water. The girl flails her arms, spluttering, her rear wiggling as she tries to twist free like a puppy stuck in a burrow. Kensei lets her catch a breath before gleefully dunking her again.

In retaliation, Mashiro's hands grab at Kensei's pants, tugging them downward.

"Don't you dare!" Kensei shouts, releasing her to clutch at his waistband with an iron grip.

"He-he-he," Mashiro chuckles menacingly, panting heavily but refusing to let go of his pants.

The battle turns into a fight for dignity... Pfft, hahaha! I can't hold back my laughter, nor can most in the camp. Even Daiki's usually stern face cracks into a grin as the pants finally drop.

Mashiro stands triumphantly, hands on her hips, smiling like a victor. Her final blow is devastating:

"Your little worm, Kensei... it's so tiny."

The sympathetic looks from the men in the camp make Kensei's face turn ghostly pale.

"It'll grow!" he declares with deadly seriousness. "And anyway, the water's cold."

A worthy comeback earns him a few approving whistles from the warriors as Kensei strides back to shore, tightening his pants.

"But…" Mashiro presses a finger to her lips, pretending to think. "Didn't you say that before? And before that too?"

Oof, that was a dagger in the back. Kensei nearly trips over a stone in the water.

"Shut up, Mashiro!"

"What?!"

"All right, kids!" one of the warriors interrupts, waving a hand. "Come to the fire, dry off. The food's almost ready."

The duo is welcomed at the fire without any fuss. They're handed some rags to dry off and poured small cups of sake for warmth. When Kensei asks for a refill, they oblige without question. I don't even blink at it. Forget about age—they're awakened souls. You can't become an alcoholic no matter how hard you try, though some have spent centuries attempting. It's both a blessing and a curse, as the oblivion brought by such vices is shockingly short-lived.

Power, even the faintest spark of it, comes with its price.

The stronger the individual, the less affected they are by poisons—including alcohol. Maybe that's why the Captain of the Eighth Division drinks himself into oblivion around the clock. A warrior that old must have his reasons for chasing such fleeting forgetfulness.

In this world, attitudes toward children are complex. Even souls who appear as children might be older than the most wrinkled elders. Take Rukia or Hitsugaya Toshiro, the future captain, as examples.

But they're exceptions. Generally, no one cares about age. I used to roll my eyes watching Bleach, not understanding why the noble brats were treated like royalty in episodes featuring little kids. Especially Rurichiyo—it made me wish her attendants would smack her once or twice.

Years of living in this world have changed me. Now, I'd cut off the hand of any servant who dared to even raise it against a child. Without realizing it, my perspectives, values, and sense of right and wrong have shifted.

When I was their height, I wasn't exactly complaining about being the center of attention and having my orders obeyed without question. I wasn't a hypocrite, either, which is why my attitudes from the past have changed. I treat noble peers the same way they treat me—without condescension.

Humans adapt to everything. The clever ones not only adapt but find opportunities within. I like to think I possess enough wit to not just follow rules but bend them to my advantage.

Another day of travel comes to an end. The taste of roasted rabbit in the open air is heavenly. That is, despite Mashiro's desperate but unsuccessful attempts to steal others' portions.

---

The palanquin with its guards moves along the main street of the First District. The road is so wide that people hardly need to step aside. Among the stern-faced guards, hands resting on the hilts of their swords, two young teenagers are turning their heads, taking in the sights.

After all, we're passing through one of the grand market streets, and they've never seen such abundance and variety before.

Tall two-story buildings of wood and stone line the street. Between them, tents and stalls are set up, while in the alleyways, caravans of dozens of carts unload their goods under the watchful eyes of guards, calming the pack animals spooked by the noise.

On both sides, there are countless market stalls and shopfronts with expansive shelves stocked with anything that could bring profit—household items, rare curiosities, and even peculiar trinkets, the likes of which wouldn't be found even in the Living World of the future. Some of them are just bizarre, like that eccentric over there selling nothing but large wrought iron chandeliers with candle holders, spread out on an enormous blanket.

The bustling crowd fills the air with the indescribable hum of a popular marketplace, nearly drowning out Mashiro's excited voice:

"Kensei, look at that!" she tugs at his sleeve.

"Don't yell; you're making us look like country bumpkins," he hisses back.

"But look, it's a golden cat!"

"Where?"

"Over there!"

"Stop pointing, Mashiro… Oh, it is golden. You could probably buy our whole town with it."

"Really?"

"No, you fool," one of my guards interjects, laughing. "It's probably hollow or just gold-plated."

"Really? That's a shame," the girl pouts.

"But in Seireitei, you'll find the real deal," the man promises proudly. "I've even seen a life-sized silver bull with golden horns. They said it took a hundred men to lift it, and an entire team of ten oxen to move it. And that's nothing compared to the wealth of the Okikiba family."

Mashiro's eyes sparkled as she began bombarding the man with questions about the wonders and riches of Seireitei. The poor guy soon regretted opening his mouth.

That story about the bull? I'd heard it too. Apparently, one of the noble clans decided to show off but ended up melting it down for coin not long after. As for the elder who had the brilliant idea to squander half a year's budget on such extravagance…

When the scandal settled, they say he was thrown into the same vat where the precious metal was melted. Along with the craftsman who created the bull and his family, or so the dark rumors go. A tale I'd rather not believe.

From the palanquin, I cast a bittersweet glance at the cheerful girl. I'm sorry, Mashiro, but I didn't bring you to a city of nothing but wonders. There's plenty of horror and cruelty here as well.

That's why the White City shines brighter against the backdrop of such horrors, and why its darkness feels all the deeper when its secrets are revealed. Even in a world directly created by God, such balance exists. Or perhaps it's only the fault of its inhabitants, and the world was pure and innocent before they came. We'll never know now, nor can we ask the King what he intended when he set the laws of existence.

And honestly… it's a relief for me. I wouldn't be able to live in a perfect world. It would be unbearable if everything everywhere were good and flawless. Over time, I'd lose my mind searching for the catch.

Sometimes, I'm horrified by the things that happen in the Soul Society. Yet, a treacherous little thought keeps gnawing at me: what if it's supposed to be this way? Only the righteous find peace in Heaven. For everyone else, wouldn't it feel like a hell of boredom and endless whiteness?

No sex, no fights, no rock, no food, no drinks? Not even money or entertainment? Probably at least half the people would curse such an afterlife. But here, even heroes can find purpose and their calling—or, if they wish, a glorious final death.

I shuddered and recoiled at the cold thought forming in my head. I really hope I'm not accidentally hitting the nail on the head. Let these musings remain as random thoughts during a long journey, leading me down an irrelevant path.

"Kensei-kun, what's that?" Mashiro boldly points her finger at a shop display. "Are those heads?!"

Looking over myself, I almost made the same mistake at first. The mannequin heads on display are incredibly lifelike. Who would have thought they already had these in the Soul Society at this time?

"They're wigs, Mashiro…"

I chuckled to myself. Tough luck for anyone who died bald, since their soul would be an exact replica of their physical self at death. Meaning—bald they were, bald they'd stay. No wonder there's a wig shop on one of the main streets; it must be quite popular.

For a moment, the girl quiets down, examining the wigs before tugging at Kensei's sleeve again.

"But why don't they have green ones?"

"They just don't! What does it matter?!" Kensei's temper starts to flare.

"How does it not matter?" Mashiro pouts. "What if I go bald? What then? I'm not buying some ugly white hair like yours."

The sound of Kensei gritting his teeth amused me greatly, as did the vein throbbing on his temple. Hang in there, kid, hang in there… Be glad that, thanks to me, this won't be a centuries-long vow of patience.

"You used to like them," he muttered, almost whispered.

"I don't remember that," she replied innocently, her attention already shifting to another curiosity and forgetting the argument.

Kensei flinched, opened his mouth to respond but, finding no words, fell silent and lowered his head. He calmed down surprisingly fast… and quietly took Mashiro's free hand in his, holding it loosely. There's a strange contrast between them—a boy and a girl walking hand in hand. One is sad and silent; the other hyperactive and chatty. And only one of them fully understands that something is seriously wrong with the other.

Unintentionally, I caught the awkward scene in its entirety. Even in my jaded heart, something stirred. I'd spent too much time with them.

"Hey, guys," I quietly addressed the steady steps of the palanquin bearers. "Pick up the pace. I want to get home sooner."

Of them all, only Daiki threw me a knowing glance; the others quickened their pace without a word.

"Why's everyone speeding up?" Mashiro asked gleefully. "A race?"

"No, Mashiro," Kensei answered in a tired tone. "And stop whipping your head around, it'll fall off."

"It won't fall off!"

"It will!"

"Idiot-Kensei."

"You're the idiot!"

"Bleh," she teased, sticking her tongue out and pulling her lower eyelid down with a finger.

One passing woman huffed indignantly at the sight but, upon glancing briefly at my palanquin, held her tongue.

"Cut it out, Mashiro," Kensei almost begged. "People are staring at us."

"Say you're an idiot, and I'll stop."

"You little—" he started, only to be interrupted by her mischievous giggles.

"Say it, say it!" she whined persistently.

"Quiet," he tried to cover her mouth with his hand, but immediately yelped as sharp teeth bit down on his fingers. "Don't bite me, you! Ow, damn it! Stop, Mashiro! Fine, I'm an idiot!"

I felt slight vibrations through the palanquin and realized my loyal warriors, currently acting as bearers, were silently but shamelessly laughing. Nothing out of the ordinary—just another day with Mashiro.


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