Born in Seireitei

"... There will soon be a funeral for a Shinigami named Imao Soze," the servant began softly. "He hasn't visited the estate in a long time, but he is still remembered here. The last time he was here was about five years before you were born."

For a Shinigami, that's hardly any time at all, I mused to myself. It was quite possible that he was someone important to my grandfather, even if he hadn't been around much. What would my grandfather's old friends do here, anyway, considering he practically lived at the First Division's headquarters? But for him to drink himself into a stupor over the death of another Shinigami? Wasn't he used to this sort of thing by now?

I glanced unconsciously toward the house, where, if I focused, I could still sense the overwhelming reiatsu of a powerful soul. To get drunk, he'd need more than a barrel of sake...

Besides, he's more of a tea drinker than a fan of alcohol. That begged the obvious question—who was Imao Soze?

"And who is he, exactly?"

I didn't expect a detailed response, but surprisingly, the servant did know a little about him.

"An old friend and comrade of your esteemed grandfather. He also served in the First Division," the servant explained, coughing lightly into his fist and adjusting the sleeve of his gray kimono. "If I understood correctly, he was the last friend of his generation. Perhaps they even became Shinigami together, along with many others who used to visit here…"

There was no need to elaborate on where all those old friends had gone now.

"My grandfather is old and has lost many people," I said skeptically. "Would he really be so devastated over losing the last friend of his generation? Assuming he even was the last one."

After all, hearts can grow hardened, and Shinigami have a peculiar relationship with death. Yet, this was the first time I'd seen my grandfather in such a wretched state. Had his friend died because of a Hollow? Or perhaps it was just unfortunate timing, one event compounding on another. People do experience things like that.

"I'm afraid I don't know any more than that," the servant admitted with a small bow. "If there are no further orders, I'll return to my duties…"

"Yes, of course," I nodded at his questioning tone.

Left alone, I frowned and rubbed my temples with my fingers. I just couldn't believe that my grandfather would drink himself into oblivion over a friend's death. That wasn't like him. To honor someone in silence, with memories and a cup of sake, sure—why not? But to let himself get like this? There had to be more to it—I could feel it.

I paced back and forth for a bit, absently kicking at the sand. He just had a little too much to drink; why was I so worried? It wasn't as if my grandfather was on his deathbed. Really, I needed to calm down and get back to my usual routine. He's not a child—he can handle his own problems.

A few hours later, as I was in the estate's library skimming a couple of scrolls that had caught my eye, my otherwise uneventful day was interrupted once again by the appearance of the servant in gray. I was beginning to feel guilty for not remembering his name.

This time, he brought a letter—thick white paper, a red wax seal, and the corner of the envelope adorned with a black ribbon. An invitation to a farewell ceremony. In other words, a Soul Society-style funeral.

"And why are you bringing this to me?" I raised an eyebrow as I broke the soft wax seal.

"The old master ordered not to be disturbed. Perhaps…" The servant hesitated. "You could deliver it to him yourself?"

"He's not going to kill you, is he?" I snorted, scanning the overly formal lines.

The letter was filled with aristocratic pleasantries, an invitation to Imao Soze's final farewell ceremony. A polite request for the honorable family's presence, and so on… all written in elegant, calligraphic handwriting by a hired scribe.

The style was too formulaic, with thin strokes and minimal flourishes. It lacked "personality." Such things are hard to describe but easy to sense, like a painter's brushstrokes or their choice of favorite colors.

With my experience, I could spot this kind of thing right away. Not everyone had someone with a calligraphy hobby handy, and official correspondence sometimes demanded… well, style, let's say. And we were still far from a digital age where you could select ornate fonts with a single click. A scribe or calligrapher was still a viable profession in the Seireitei.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the servant flinch. He wasn't spiritually awakened, was he? A drunk and angry Shinigami could easily traumatize an ordinary soul by pressing their spiritual energy on them for even a moment.

Once afraid, so it's happened before?Not surprising. It's all too easy to imagine something like that happening. Not with Grandfather, of course—his iron self-control is legendary. But a scenario involving a tipsy Shinigami in some bar in the Seireitei? Yeah, that tracks. I don't envy the spiritually unaware folks in situations like that.

"Alright, I'll tell him myself."

"Thank you," the man exhaled in relief, bowing so low that his back was parallel to the floor.

Such a decent guy… I genuinely feel bad for not remembering his name.

The walk to Grandfather's quarters was short and eerily quiet. Near the sliding doors, the sharp scent of alcohol hit me—a fresh, pungent tang so strong it tickled my nose. I barely managed to hold back a sneeze as I slid the doors open and stepped into the dark, unlit room.

Instead of the stern gaze I expected, I was met with the soft snores of my sleeping grandfather. The old Shinigami was sprawled on the floor by a small table littered with empty bottles and jugs.

I approached quietly, gently removing the nearly empty sake bottle clutched tightly in his hand.

"Grandfather?" I called softly, giving his shoulder a light shake.

His breathing didn't change. The room reeked of alcohol, and his face was flushed red. He looked like someone so deeply passed out that even a cannon wouldn't wake him. His disheveled hair stuck up in every direction, as if he'd been pulling at it himself.

Strands of gray jutted out wildly, save for the family's signature trait—a single black lock that stubbornly refused to turn gray even at his advanced age. His meticulously groomed mustache, cared for with obsessive precision and a secret little comb no one was supposed to know about, now bristled under his nose like a stiff brush.

In all, he looked like a complete wreck—a grieving man brought low. It hurt to see him like this.

After a moment of reflection, I glanced at the opened letter in my hand and sighed heavily, realizing what needed to be done.

There was no way Genshirō Okikiba could make it to the funeral today. And it was today—late in the evening. Even if he woke up, showing up in his current state would be a disgrace.

The Okikiba family needed to be represented at the funeral, though. Otherwise, I knew Grandfather would only feel worse. My father? Not a chance. That left only me.

"Grandfather?" I called again, louder this time, though I knew it was hopeless.

Of course, he didn't wake up.

I went to his bedroom, grabbed the first pillow I could find, and returned. Carefully, I shifted him into a more comfortable position—one that wouldn't leave his old joints stiff and aching in the morning—and slid the pillow under his head. The house was warm, so he didn't need a blanket.

As I left, I gently slid the doors shut. The invitation in my hand seemed to grow heavier, weighing my arm down. As I pondered where exactly I was supposed to go—since the address wasn't specified—I almost bumped into a familiar figure in the corridor. White hair and a combative attitude.

"Hey, Kensei?"

My smile made the guy flinch for some reason.

"Yeah? I didn't do anything!"

"I know," I waved dismissively. "Have you ever been to an official Shinigami funeral?"

Of course not. It was a rhetorical question. Those were held only in the Seireitei. I hadn't attended one myself, only heard about them. Before Kensei could even process the question, let alone answer, I added:

"Well, you're coming with me. Got any black mourning clothes?"

The poor guy looked like a deer caught in headlights, completely frozen by this sudden twist of fate.

"Don't worry about it. I'll lend you some," I said reassuringly, smiling as I walked past him. "The servants will bring them to you. See you this evening."

I swear, Kensei needs to work on keeping a straight face. Living with Mashiro has apparently taught him an astonishing array of facial expressions. If a person could somehow simultaneously convey panic and a stroke, that's the face Kensei made whenever he was caught off guard.

It's terribly rude to laugh while holding a funeral invitation, I reminded myself, shaking with silent laughter as I walked away.

---

Muguruma Kensei prided himself on being a man of strong character and remarkable composure… At least, that's what he told himself when there weren't any particularly irritating people around to test his nerves to the breaking point.

Which was why he now stood with a straight back, squared shoulders, and an expression that practically screamed "I've seen this all before, and it's not worth my attention." His posture was so rigid it was as if someone had shoved a stick somewhere unpleasant.

Internally, however, he was cursing up a storm, fighting the telltale twitch in his left eye. And for this, he blamed Sujin Okikiba, who was seated smugly in the front row of the gathered crowd.

This was Kensei's first time attending a Shinigami funeral. Despite the somber occasion and the fact that he had never known the deceased, he found it strangely compelling. It wasn't because of the deceased but because he couldn't help imagining this was how his own parents had been laid to rest by the squad they had served and died for.

The Ninth Division—that was where they had served. Where they had met, fallen in love, married, worked, and ultimately perished. One day, Kensei thought, he would muster the courage to walk through the Ninth Division's massive gates and ask his parents' former comrades and friends about them.

Someday.

For now, though, he had to focus on the proceedings. Being a bit shorter than the adults in front of him, he couldn't see the finer details, but he had a general idea of what was happening.

Around a hundred people in black mourning robes had gathered in the backyard of a modest mansion. It was a tight squeeze, but everyone managed to fit.

At the front stood a tall wooden pyre made of oiled logs. Atop it rested a white coffin, open to the night sky. Midnight was approaching, and with the nearly full moon overhead, there was plenty of light.

Inside the coffin, there was no body. Instead, a broken Zanpakutō lay there. Kensei had been oddly relieved to learn and see that for himself.

Sujin had explained that, in most cases, the fallen Shinigami's comrades retrieved their Zanpakutō from the battlefield. It was considered the proper thing to do—to bring back at least the sword, as the Zanpakutō was a part of a Shinigami's soul. Burying the blade was akin to burying the Shinigami themselves.

Of course, Sujin had also mentioned that in many cases, the body simply wasn't recoverable—or was in such a state that only the blade could be brought back, with the remains being incinerated on-site with Kido. Battles with the monsters of the Three Worlds rarely ended cleanly.

Kensei could've done without that bit of detail. But Sujin, the rich brat, always seemed to delight in stomping on the fragments of Kensei's rose-colored glasses. As if there were any left to break.

The ceremony itself was simple, taking place in three stages. People in the Soul Society weren't particularly religious, after all.

Kensei had heard that the World of the Living was full of different religions, but here, they were almost nonexistent. There were a few small shrines dedicated to local deities—lowercase "g" gods, like gods of harvests or rivers. He'd also heard of gods of luck or travel. But it all seemed more like observing traditions or superstitions than true worship.

As for Kensei himself, he never saw much sense in praying. The people in his town didn't either. Everyone knew the simple truths that couldn't be ignored:

They were all souls, either born here or passed on from the World of the Living. That was a fact.

The cycle of souls existed, which meant reincarnation was real. That was a fact.

The Soul King, the creator of all things and the keeper of balance between the worlds, was real. That was a fact.

Shinigami, often revered as demigods or the lower gods of death itself, were the Soul King's will made flesh. In remote towns and villages, people might even pray to a visiting Shinigami for blessings—or plead for mercy, depending on the Shinigami and the situation.

Everyone knew Shinigami were unpredictable, tasked with the most dangerous job across the Three Worlds. But more often than not, they were kind rather than cruel. That, too, was a fact.

When you could see and know all this firsthand, praying to some other entity that might or might not exist felt pointless.

Kensei hadn't expected to see a priest at the funeral and wasn't surprised when there wasn't one.

Why would there be, when Shinigami themselves stood among the mourners, silently grieving?

Sometimes, the mere fact that he stood within arm's reach of real Shinigami filled Kensei with awe. In the Seireitei, though, it was just part of everyday life.

So was this brief ceremony. Three stages. Then, the coffin would be burned, and the ashes gathered into an urn.

After losing his last home and his last living relative—a distant aunt—Kensei had kept two urns hidden. They held the ashes of his parents, from a ceremony just like this one. No one knew about them, not even Mashiro.

He had buried them in a quiet, secluded spot by the river, far from the city, where no one would disturb them. Only the sound of the wind and the flow of the water kept them company.

Thinking about how many years would pass before he would finally visit his parents, Kensei observed the people around him and imagined himself in their place during a similar ceremony—one he had missed so long ago.

First, the family of the deceased approached the coffin, bidding farewell, either silently or aloud. He'd already seen this part. The man who had passed away seemed to have a large family; about fifteen people came forward. After paying their respects, they remained standing near the coffin, facing the other mourners, as if they were joining the deceased in greeting the grieving crowd.

Next came the friends and comrades. This stage was in progress now. One by one, people approached the urn filled with sand placed near the coffin. Each lit a stick of incense, muttering something about how the number of burning sticks would determine the wealth of the person in their next life. Kensei hadn't paid much attention to that explanation.

The third and final stage was for everyone else—anyone who wanted to show their respect by being there. If the deceased had been famous or well-regarded, this part would draw a large crowd.

At the moment, though, it was all painfully boring. Kensei barely stifled a yawn, choosing instead to watch the people around him while trying not to stare too obviously.

That's when he noticed something—or rather, someone—interesting. A boy, slightly younger than him by the looks of it.

There weren't many children or teenagers at the funeral—Kensei had counted five—and all of them seemed just as bored and out of place as he felt. Honestly, if the deceased's name hadn't been mentioned every five minutes, Kensei was sure he would have forgotten it by now.

So, when one of the boys, clearly unable to sit still, started fidgeting, Kensei found it a welcome distraction. The kid had an energy about him, a restless, almost mischievous air. His clothing bore symbols that Kensei initially dismissed as strange patterns, perhaps leeches or something similar. But then it hit him, and he nearly wanted to smack himself for not realizing sooner.

The carelessly drawn swirl with a hook pointing upward—that was the crest of the Great House of Shiba!

What are people from a Great House doing here?!

If Sujin had been standing beside him, Kensei would've already been tugging on his sleeve and pointing. Only the fact that he was alone saved him from embarrassing himself.

Unlike Kensei, however, the Shiba boy seemed completely unconcerned with appearances. Boldly yawning, he glanced at his companion—a stern, muscular man with comically long mustaches—and then casually stepped away.

Grinning mischievously, the young Shiba ran his hands through his hair, transforming his neat hairstyle into a chaotic storm of black strands. Then, without hesitation, he strolled over to the nearest kid around his age.

Kensei couldn't hear their conversation but could see the confused expression on the other boy's face as he responded, clearly saying something unpleasant. The Shiba boy frowned and moved on to the next person—a girl this time—but a stern woman hissed at him, sending him off again.

Kensei tried to focus on the ceremony, but his eyes kept straying back to the restless boy. He was certain that if the kid kept getting rejected, he would eventually—

"Hi!" a loud whisper came from his side.

Oh, for the love of…! Kensei nearly jumped out of his skin. The very boy he had been watching had appeared beside him, seemingly out of nowhere, like a ghost sneaking up from his blind spot.

Kensei's mind went blank. He's a Shiba. What the hell am I supposed to say to him?!

Oh, right. Etiquette! Sujin's lessons flashed in his mind. Introduce yourself, state that you're a ward of the Okikiba family, and bow politely.

Kensei was halfway through this mental checklist when the Shiba boy interrupted with a casual, "I'm Kaien," flashing a gap-toothed grin that revealed a missing front tooth.

Caught off guard by the simplicity of the introduction, Kensei blurted out instinctively, "Hi. I'm Kensei."

And immediately broke into a sweat. Idiot! What are you doing?!

"Oh!" Kaien's face lit up. "Finally, someone without a stick up their butt! This is boring, right?"

Dodged a bullet there, Kensei thought, exhaling quietly and resisting the urge to pat himself on the chest in relief.

"It's a funeral," Kensei muttered.

"Yeah, true," Kaien replied, deflating a little. "Got any candy?"

"Nope."

"Neither do I… We're only here to pay respects to that guy in the coffin or whatever, but I thought there'd be food," Kaien said, sounding even more disappointed before perking up suddenly. "Oh, I know! Let's sneak out and play!"

Most people would've been thrown off by such wild mood swings. But not Muguruma Kensei. Not after months of living with her. The most hyperactive girl in the Soul Society. A little chaos like this was nothing.

"If I leave, I'll get into serious trouble," Kensei admitted easily. "So, no, thanks."

"Who'd you get in trouble with?" Kaien asked, sticking out his tongue as he scanned the crowd ahead. "Maybe we could both beat him up, and then we'd be free to play."

Kensei gave him a bewildered look, but Kaien just laughed and added, "What? I've done it before! See that big guy over there? Think he's wearing that hat for fun? I gave him that lump!"

Kensei knew the most important rule: don't argue with the crazies and act like their nonsense is completely normal. Ahead of the crowd, he easily spotted his benefactor, Sujin, who had just stepped forward to pay his respects. Sujin was burning some fake money and lighting incense.

"That guy there," Kensei gestured toward Sujin with a nod of his head. "But chances are, he'd beat us up instead."

"Doesn't seem like they like him much," the boy noted perceptively.

That's when Kensei noticed it too—the looks from the deceased's relatives when they spotted Sujin's family crest. Their gazes were full of bitterness, malice, and hatred. If looks could kill, Sujin would already be lying in the coffin.

Only the youngest among them didn't glare at Sujin that way. Kensei admitted to himself that if he had faced such hostile attention from the entire crowd, he probably would've stumbled, at the very least. But Sujin didn't seem to notice at all. He bowed to the coffin, lit incense, placed it in the urn of sand, clapped his hands together, and quietly murmured a prayer.

One of the women in front looked like she was about to lunge at him… but Sujin didn't flinch. At that point, Kensei started wondering if Sujin truly hadn't noticed anything. But when Sujin turned to walk back, Kensei, who had known him for some time, caught the tightly pressed lips and the furrow between his brows. Sujin only made that face when something confused him or when he was deeply lost in thought.

"Oh, that's Okikiba, isn't it?" Kaien suddenly exclaimed, punching his palm with a fist. "The Golden Trefoil."

"His name's Sujin," Kensei muttered.

"You know him?"

"A bit," the white-haired boy replied, careful not to reveal too much. "Do you know why they're all staring like that?"

"I'll go ask," Kaien said with a careless shrug and, without hesitation, headed toward his escort.

Stunned by the boy's recklessness, Kensei didn't react in time to stop him and could only stay put, silently hoping he hadn't just triggered some sort of scandal. Luckily for him, someone else noticed Kaien's wandering. A discreet but firm smack to the back of the boy's head was followed by a muscular hand gripping his small wrist like an iron clamp, ensuring he wouldn't be going anywhere.

Next to Kaien, a neatly dressed woman appeared from the crowd. She was beautiful, with features and eyes similar to Kaien's, and wore dark lipstick. She sharply reprimanded the young Shiba, clearly having noticed his aimless wanderings across the courtyard.

At that moment, Sujin reappeared. While Kensei fretted, the funeral pyre burst into flames, prompting the crowd to start moving again.

"We're leaving, Kensei," Sujin informed him coolly. Placing a casual hand on the boy's shoulder, he guided him toward the exit.

Hateful and bitter stares from those around the pyre followed them as they left.

Inside the palanquin, Kensei finally mustered the courage to ask, "Why were they all looking at you like that?"

"They weren't looking at me," Sujin replied wearily, tapping a nail against the golden trefoil embroidery on his robes.

Kensei didn't press further, knowing when to keep quiet. His patience was rewarded with a single sentence that ended their conversation for the rest of the journey home.

"Sometimes, I hate how sharp my hearing is," Sujin muttered into the air, his eyes closed. "But their hissing and false pretenses are impossible to miss. My grandfather was the one who sent Imao Soze to his death. With one careless order, he killed... his last friend from his youth."

Young Muguruma had no idea how to respond to that, so he stayed silent and even tried to breathe more quietly, giving Sujin space to gather his thoughts. Meanwhile, Kensei couldn't stop worrying as he recalled those awful stares and the fact that old Genshiro had locked himself away. He couldn't bring himself to say everything would be fine.

Kensei had always had sharp instincts, and something told him a storm was brewing. This wouldn't end here. What was going to happen now?