Born in Seireitei

Two weeks had passed since the first hellish training session in the Okikiba style. Since then, nothing much had changed in the training routine. Grandfather visited twice more, still insisting on my completing the obstacle course and not even hinting at anything new.

It was still all about drilling basic agility and dexterity in preparation for the real Hoho.

As both motivation and a subtle mockery, he always left using shunpo, stoking the fire of my dream to move like that with fresh kindling each time.

He also made the course harder with every visit. Something told me that I'd eventually reach the Shihoin standard—marble spheres in hand and steel rods striking my back. Strangely enough, the thought didn't terrify me anymore.

The reason was simple: confidence. Every day, I could see and feel myself becoming stronger than the day before. In the mornings, I ran the obstacle course relentlessly, never stepping onto the ground until noon. Then I'd rest and recover, dedicating a few hours to my usual training or reading my father's archives.

If the training went poorly... the healing bath and a servant with the hands of a godly masseuse were always at my disposal. I swear, sometimes she kneaded me so thoroughly I'd end up feeling like walking, blissful jelly on wobbly legs.

In the afternoons, I was free to do as I pleased—unless I passed out until the next day, as I had during the early sessions. Most often, I simply swung a weighted bokken; the obstacle course had already given me my fill of running.

The whistle of air from each swing and the weight of the wooden sword in my hand set a serious tone and calmed my mind. Even Grandfather approved, saying that the fundamentals of swordsmanship were always good, as they strengthened both the arms and back.

But all of that was just icing on the cake—the real treasure was the growth of my reiatsu. Since my awakening and the start of Grandfather's training, my reserves and density of spiritual energy had grown in leaps and bounds. It was like flowers blooming, soaking in sunlight and moisture with gratitude.

In the same way, my overworked body drank deeply of the spiritual energy drawn from the depths of my soul, nourishing itself and becoming stronger, faster, and sturdier.

When I fell awkwardly and braced myself to hear the crunch of bones, instinct and fear fortified my body so effectively that I felt nothing at all. Often, I jumped farther or in the wrong direction simply because I wasn't yet used to my growing capabilities. But the same training on the posts quickly helped me adapt. More and more, I began to think that this was the very point of such exercises.

The pain from punishments faded into bruises that disappeared within hours. Fatigue? I only remembered it when my reiatsu ran dry.

Day by day, hour by hour, my body and mind were transforming, adapting to a state of being beyond that of a mere human soul.

Something deep inside me, within the core of my being, was striving to grow and strengthen. It felt as though my soul already knew what it was like to be powerful and was racing to reclaim that feeling. Stronger, faster, tougher, better—and I was becoming all of these things.

That sensation was more pleasant and fulfilling than any other pleasure I'd ever experienced. I could confidently say that in terms of raw strength, I now stood on par with a solid Academy student, without having ever set foot in its hallowed halls.

I was growing in power so quickly that I began noticing wary, respectful glances from the servants and guards—looks I'd never seen before. From them, I could also identify who in the estate was sensitive to reiatsu, mentally marking a few as potentially promising individuals.

Was I proud of this? To be honest, yes, a little. Just a tiny bit, and silently at that. If I didn't feel this way, I'd start wondering if something was wrong with my head. But I didn't allow myself to dwell on it, fully aware of where I stood in the hierarchy of strength in the Three Worlds. I was still far below, just a grain of sand beneath the feet of true warriors.

In general, my daily routine hadn't changed much—except that my training had become harsher. I was surprised at how quickly I adapted to whatever Grandfather threw at me. Was it my character or some "talent" at play? Maybe it was the ludicrously expensive medicines in the healing baths? Or perhaps the bracelet with a shard of Grandfather's Zanpakutō that he had yet to reclaim? Most likely, it was a combination of everything.

Evenings under the starry sky, when there were no clouds, I still spent relaxing by the koi pond. On other days, I'd retreat to the secret archives in Father's study, reading among confidential reports of the past with a plump teapot of green tea and shamelessly gorging on jam.

Sometimes, I practiced writing kanji in calligraphy until my mind went numb and my brain tingled with an inexplicable, pointless enlightenment. But after such sessions, I slept so sweetly that any other rest seemed sacrilegious in comparison.

I called it the peaceful life of a budding Shinigami aristocrat—and I enjoyed it with a clear conscience.

Until today.

That was when the first personal letter from Father arrived, in a pristine white envelope with a bold ink seal, swollen with lines of writing. The first serious task. And it arrived in a rather unusual way.

---

I was calmly having lunch in the Calligraphy Room when a quiet knock caught me off guard. Until now, not once had a servant ever interrupted my meal. Setting down my chopsticks on the plate with a barely touched, perfectly roasted white fish—its sides glistening with fat and juices—I whispered to it mentally, I'll come back for you, my dear.

"Yes?"

The door slid open to reveal a hesitant face with a square jaw. A tall, muscular man in a dark kimono stood there, sporting a delicate wooden shoulder guard on his right side. Burned into the lacquered wood was the unmistakable crest of my family.

Our family crest is a simple design—a cloverleaf, typically depicted in gold. Neither better nor worse than the rest. Among Noble Families, showing off with an elaborate crest isn't customary. The simpler the design, the better.

Why? Because the simpler the crest, the older it likely is. Simpler marks were harder to claim in ancient times. By contrast, an ornate crest usually signals a newer family, which is seen as less prestigious.

Just one of the many trivial fixations of the nobility, really, with little real meaning. Ah yes, the man at the door. My father's lessons on important topics must have been drilled into me so thoroughly that I still get flashbacks, haha.

The man looked like a seasoned swordsman in service. His hairstyle was amusing too, with a topknot like a samurai's... That's Daiki—no last name—the head guard of the estate.

Daiki found me with his gaze, blinked in mild confusion, and said:

"Apologies for interrupting your meal."

"Have we been attacked or something?"

"No, no," the head guard hastily dismissed the idea. "There's a strange Shinigami at our gates, insisting that he has a message from the Council and that it must be handed to you personally. He refuses to speak to anyone else."

"Really? Well then, bring him here."

"At once."

While the guest was being escorted through the meticulously maintained garden paths, I managed to finish my lunch and watch the visitor from the Calligraphy Room's windows. The moment I spotted the red cloak, white bandages on his shoulders, and the peculiar headgear resembling a miniature wooden roof...

"Those idiots," I groaned, running a hand down my face.

I stood and quickly headed downstairs to the entrance. My displeasure was already evident as I looked at the three guards, Daiki at their head, dragging the guest by his arms.

"You fools. Have you never seen a courier before?"

"A courier?" Daiki echoed, bewildered.

He looked so innocently dumb that I couldn't help but flare up like a match.

"A Shinigami from the Courier Division! Of the Council of Forty-Six, for heaven's sake! Idiots! What are you even trained for? My father is a damn Councilor—how do you not know this?!"

The courier's face was mostly hidden—his hat's shadow covered everything from his forehead to his nose—but I caught a faint smile. Seems like they'd gotten under his skin at the gates. Judging by the open mouths of the two burly guards and the quiet panic in Daiki's black eyes, they were starting to realize how badly they'd messed up.

I admit that ordinary Seireitei residents wouldn't necessarily recognize Council couriers, let alone see them. But here? This should have been as basic as knowing the Lord's Prayer during a Crusade.

"Release him, now!" I barked.

"Yes, sir!" The guards let go of him so quickly, it was as if they'd been burned.

The tense atmosphere was broken by the courier's soft, calm voice:

"Ahem." He cleared his throat, dusting off a wrinkled sleeve, and continued in a polite, good-natured tone. "It's rare for us to be addressed with such respect, Okikiba-dono. Please, don't be too harsh on your guards. I hold no grudge. These days, few remember or recognize us."

"But in this household, they should," I replied firmly, promising the guards a reckoning with a single look.

"Fair enough," the man chuckled gently.

The courier reached behind him to a small, almost inconspicuous backpack shaped... like a birdhouse? I might have laughed if I didn't sense the immense kido barrier concealed beneath its unassuming exterior.

He retrieved a letter and carefully extended it to me with both hands.

"A delivery for Okikiba Sujin, by request of a Councilor, directly to your hands."

"Thank you."

The moment my fingers touched the envelope, a faint blue flash appeared on the paper. Ink bloomed across the previously blank envelope, forming an official seal. The courier relaxed almost imperceptibly, as if ready to snatch the letter back and flee had the mark failed to appear.

"Delivery complete," the courier nodded. "I apologize, but I'm running a bit late. May I depart using shunpo?"

The unspoken etiquette among Shinigami. It was oddly pleasant to have someone ask me something like this.

"Of course."

"Have a good day, Okikiba-dono."

The soft sound of shunpo, far gentler than Grandfather's thunderous, powerful steps, broke through the air as the man vanished. The guards flinched, watching him disappear before their very eyes.

"You guys..." I began in a threatening tone.

The guards swallowed nervously, and Daiki's jaw tightened so much his muscles visibly twitched.

"I won't tell my father or Grandfather unless they ask themselves."

Relief flooded the air.

"But on your next day off, you're training with me, under Grandfather's system. That includes you, Daiki."

The tension returned a hundredfold. Though they'd only glimpsed or heard rumors of Okikiba Genshiro's merciless training methods, they knew enough to dread them. What? It's not like I'm the only one who should suffer. Besides, I want to see how I measure up against ordinary but sturdy souls. Of the three, only Daiki was awakened—though he was from the lower ranks since I already surpassed him in reiatsu reserves.

Sometimes, I wonder why we even need unawakened guards aside from the status they provide. A single average Shinigami could take them all down in a matter of minutes. The estate is truly protected not by them but by kido barriers, which are more about alerting the Gotei 13 to an attack than actually defending the grounds. And, of course, there are the Shinigami patrols that keep watch over Seireitei's roads.

Although, they say even a lion can be taken down by a pack, so who knows. Our guards could detect an ordinary assassin, sure, but catching and subduing them is another matter. Their role is more that of a sacrificial alarm system than actual protection. Still, I've never voiced these thoughts—it would sound too dismissive.

I still hold a bit of respect in my heart for ordinary people who simply do their jobs honestly. Everyone has their role to play in society, and I'm no exception. I worked to give my face a cold, authoritative expression.

"Be at the training grounds on your day off, early in the morning," I ordered, tapping the thick envelope against my palm. "And bring your rods—ten each. You're dismissed for now."

"Yes, sir!" The men did their best to respond with energy, though their spirits were clearly dampened by the looming punishment.

It's not that I wanted to watch grown men get lashed. But in the Noble Clans, such failures might lead to execution. Servants are often regarded as little more than dust, given the numbers and the rigid traditions. If I didn't impose some form of punishment, I'd be seen not as a kind lord, but as weak-willed. Around here, that's a serious matter.

Unfortunately, the norms of 21st-century behavior, which might be considered progressive back home, are met with disdain here—or outright mockery. At best, they'd call me naïve; at worst, a fool.

No one would obey a lord who couldn't punish servants for their mistakes. If there's no punishment, it means the behavior is acceptable. Theft, laziness, and defiance of orders would quickly follow. It's a simple mentality.

These aren't my personal musings... They're the harsh lessons of my father, Okikiba Ichiro—a shark in the medieval business world and a successful politician.

Under his icy gaze, I absorbed the principles of leadership more thoroughly than a zealot absorbs holy laws. If I were to summarize his philosophy in one sentence, it would be: 80% stick, 10% carrot, and 10% deliberate ignorance. Not everything needs to be noticed—whether it's good or bad. People need a bit of freedom and a slightly loosened leash.

During the year my father trained me, I experienced these methods firsthand. I can confidently say they work like a charm. Now, I use them myself.

But this is all routine for me now, so I quickly pushed the thoughts aside. I had something far more intriguing awaiting me: my father's first letter. Honestly, I was almost excited.

The very first line, however, hit me like a sledgehammer to the forehead. Without any greeting or preamble, my father got straight to the point.

"I want you to find a child. His name is Muguruma Kensei…"

---

I settled onto the bed in my room, absorbed in reading the letter. My father's neat, firm handwriting detailed why and how I now had to search for a soul in Rukongai—a soul destined to become a future captain of the Gotei 13.

To be honest, the backstory turned out to be quite fascinating. And, in its way, rather sad.

Not so long ago, a man named Muguruma Rinkaku lived—and recently died. He had been a Shinigami in the Third Division. He fell in the line of duty in the World of the Living, killed by Hollows during a minor breach from Hueco Mundo, the kind that happens every so often. His entire squad was overwhelmed by the tide of lower-class Hollows before reinforcements could arrive.

That was the grim end of an elite soldier of the Gotei 13 named Muguruma Rinkaku.

But how did an ordinary Shinigami come to have such a close connection with the Advisor of the Council? So close, in fact, that my father personally tasked me with finding Rinkaku's son?

Father explained this in dry, straightforward lines, revealing some unpleasant truths about the past.

It turned out that long before Rinkaku became a Shinigami, he had served my father loyally. Back then, a young Ichiro Okikiba wasn't a pharmaceutical tycoon or a politician; in fact, he was a nobody.

Muguruma stood by my father's side through it all, from an unknown heir to a Gotei 13 officer and a minor aristocrat, to a figure of prominence. Together, they endured the good and the bad, the hardships and victories. Rinkaku served as both a devoted bodyguard and someone my father might even have called a friend.

Rinkaku had dreamed of becoming a Shinigami ever since childhood. But bound by his loyalty to Ichiro, he remained a nameless blade in the shadows, supporting a growing aristocrat.

And he did this for one hundred and thirty damn years. One hundred and thirty years of loyalty and blood spilled in service to the Okikiba family. Only when Ichiro became an Advisor was Rinkaku allowed to pursue his dream of becoming a Shinigami.

With Okikiba's connections, Rinkaku's bloody past posed no obstacle. His enrollment in the Academy was easily arranged, as was his acceptance into the ranks of the Shinigami after several years of training. He even joined the squad of his choice—an uncommon privilege for an ordinary soldier.

Rinkaku had enough gratitude, humility, and pride not to trouble the Okikiba family further. Since there were no professional overlaps between an Advisor and a rank-and-file Shinigami, their friendship naturally faded away. Rinkaku lived the life he had always wanted, while my father occasionally checked in on him, busy with his duties in the Council's depths.

And then, sixty years later, Rinkaku died in the World of the Living, leaving behind only a standard will requesting that his accrued wages be passed on to his family. He left behind a sister and, surprise—a son! A boy my age who had been living with his aunt in Rukongai.

My father hadn't even known about this, something that clearly angered him—a fact evident from the more forceful pressure of his pen on the paper.

How did the Advisor discover that his late friend and loyal servant had a son—a son the deceased hadn't mentioned or asked to be cared for in his will, despite having every right to do so?

Through a routine report about a Hollow attack in Rukongai's 23rd Western District. Among the list of casualties was Muguruma Kaya, Rinkaku's sister. The report also included a note about a minor incident—several souls awakened their reiatsu due to the stress of the attack. Among them was a young boy named Muguruma Kensei.

Council reports never skip details, including the names of everyone near an incident, so that anyone of interest can be tracked down.

Naturally, my father took notice! What a coincidence in surnames… which clearly wasn't a coincidence. A little investigation piqued the Advisor's interest, and now my irritated father had sent me a letter ordering me to find Rinkaku's child and assist the son of "that proud idiot."

How exactly I should help was left to my discretion. At the very least, I was to ensure Kensei was alive and well, provide him with a proper allowance to guarantee a decent life without worrying about food or shelter, and, if he wished, bring him to the Academy in time for the entrance exams.

A small nudge from the name Okikiba would take care of everything—ensuring not only admission but also a neutral, if not respectful, attitude from the noble teachers and students. In our time, that's a significant advantage for the future.

"The 23rd District, huh?" I muttered to myself, lying back and tossing the letter aside. "It's quite a journey, assuming he's even still there. And I've never been beyond Seireitei. I might need to cancel training tomorrow… Should I hire a guide? And do I go in style, with guards and a palanquin, or quietly with Daiki?"

Damn it, I've turned into a sheltered homebody! The mere thought of traveling that far, so suddenly, and planning a trip made my palms sweat.

Districts beyond the tenth are considered middle-tier in terms of quality of life. Ordinary, in short. That means an even mix of order and shady dealings. Running into bandits would be as easy as breathing. And though rare, Hollows are occasional visitors. These days, the Gotei 13 doesn't have enough Shinigami to patrol Rukongai adequately—it's simply too vast.

Frankly, it's not entirely necessary. Beyond Shinigami, there are plenty of reiatsu-gifted souls capable of handling a Hollow or two. Soul Reapers are only required for serious threats or breaches, like the appearance of Menos. And that hasn't happened in… two centuries?

Oh, wait, there was that one Adjuchas about fifty years ago, but a captain dealt with it almost immediately. Nothing catastrophic or particularly noteworthy. I've read the archives about such events carefully, so I remember well.

In short, the Gotei has grown complacent in this regard, shifting its focus to the World of the Living and guiding lost souls.

"Well, this should be interesting. What are you like now, Muguruma Kensei?"

Is he already the stern, taciturn warrior ready to crush everything in his path with his fists? Or is he just a weak, sorrowful soul, whose reiatsu was awakened by the awful hand life dealt him?

I'd soon find out.