Please Call Me the Swift Swordsman
A narrow country road wound along the fields, bordered by patches of datura flowers and scattered trees that broke the monotony of the grassland.
The sky hung low and heavy, gray clouds pressing down on the world. The scene carried a somber, almost lyrical beauty.
Shiraishi strolled casually in the middle of the path, unhurried. When his eyes caught sight of a small teahouse perched on the hill ahead, he felt a rare stroke of fortune.
Compared to being caught in the rain, sitting in a teahouse with a steaming cup of tea and a plate of dumplings was undoubtedly preferable.
Without hesitation, he quickened his pace.
Inside, the teahouse was quiet—almost suspiciously so. A few benches and four plain tables were arranged under the awning, but not a single customer was to be seen.
A young girl, dozing with her head on one of the tables, perked up the moment she noticed him enter. She quickly straightened, smoothing her brown clothes.
She was petite, about one and a half meters tall. Her pale skin stood out against the muted tones of her outfit. She had a small, neat face framed by short black hair, with two thin braids tied off with white bandages, gold rings dangling at the ends.
Her light gray eyes were clear and sharp, though at first glance they gave off the impression of a harmless kitten.
"Welcome, sir. What would you like to order?"
Her voice was crisp and flowing, like a mountain spring.
Shiraishi regarded her with a mischievous grin. "Then… a portion of your sweetest smile."
The girl's lips curved politely, though she didn't take the bait. "We only serve three-color dango, tea, dried squid, and tempura."
Seeing she refused to be flustered, Shiraishi dropped the teasing act. "Fine then. I'll take dango and a cup of tea."
"Understood. Please wait a moment." She bowed and called the order inside.
As he waited, Shiraishi leaned forward, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Miss, what's your name? And tell me—do you like green peppers?"
She blinked once, then answered evenly, "My name is Feng. As for green peppers… I don't dislike them, but I don't really like them either."
Shiraishi clapped his hands lightly, as though she had confirmed some cosmic truth. "Perfect. That means we're compatible. We'll have no quarrels over food once we're married. Miss Feng, please marry me."
Feng pressed her lips together, clearly fighting the urge to laugh. "Excuse me, sir, but I have no plans to marry anyone."
"That's only because you haven't met a man as extraordinary as me yet," Shiraishi insisted, not missing a beat. "Look at my clothes—different from everyone else's, right? That means I'm fashionable. And in this world, fashion is just another word for strength."
"…Haha." Feng gave a polite, empty laugh, though her eyes betrayed her opinion.
In truth, she thought his outfit was more outlandish than stylish. Instead of a kosode or hakama, he wore a golden jacket with black trousers and strange black shoes unlike any sandal she had ever seen.
The only familiar part of his appearance was the gold-sheathed Zanpakutō at his waist, and his striking silver-white ponytail.
"This is Yasuo's Prestige skin," Shiraishi continued boasting, as though reading her thoughts. "I'm in my twenties, my face may not be breathtaking, but it's balanced, and plenty handsome."
What he didn't say was even stranger: that he had been transported here mid-game, carrying with him not only Yasuo's appearance but also his sword, abilities, and even a permanent Shikai state.
The only real drawback? The language barrier. It had taken him three whole years to learn Japanese. For three years, he had kept quiet, feigning aloofness. Now, finally fluent, he made up for lost time by nagging everyone he met—especially women.
As he often declared, "My enthusiasm is mine alone. Whether you accept it or not is your problem. As long as I'm happy, it's enough."
Feng quietly excused herself and retreated inside under the pretense of fetching food, grateful for the brief escape from his chatter.
Soon, she returned with a plate of three-color dango and a cup of steaming tea. She placed them carefully before him and said with practiced courtesy, "Please enjoy your meal."
Shiraishi picked up a skewer of dango but didn't eat. Instead, he sighed dramatically. "What a pity. I don't have the honor of tasting dango prepared by the captain of the Second Division."
The polite smile slipped from Feng's face. In an instant, her expression hardened, her gentle aura vanishing. The kitten was gone; in its place stood a wildcat, sharp and cold.
"…How did you discover my identity?"
"Simple. Too many flaws. First, a teahouse in such a desolate spot? Suspicious. Second, a girl with your looks serving in an empty roadside inn? Impossible. Third—"
"Enough."
Her tone cut like a blade. None of those excuses truly explained how he knew. Which meant someone had leaked information—or he was more dangerous than she thought.
No longer bothering with her disguise, she removed the apron and tossed it aside. With quick, practiced motions, she stripped away the outer garments of a server, revealing her true uniform beneath: the black, backless combat attire of the Onmitsukidō.
Even in its simplicity, it radiated authority. On another body, it might have looked imposing. On hers, her slight figure made it severe but elegant.
Shiraishi peeked through his fingers in mock disappointment. "Tch. That's it? I expected something more…"
Her cold voice cut him off. "Criminal Shiraishi. You stand accused of murdering Hasegawa Taizō, Fifth Seat of the Patrol Corps in West Third District. By order of Central 46, I will execute you."
She had planned to eliminate him quietly with poison. But since her cover was blown, she would finish it the direct way: a clean strike under the banner of law.
Shiraishi lifted his chin, unfazed. "I'm no criminal. If you insist on naming me, then call me the Swift Swordsman."
His gaze hardened, though his voice was steady. "That man—your Fifth Seat—was no innocent. He assaulted a woman in public. Tell me, as a man of conscience, was I supposed to watch and do nothing?"
"You should have reported it. Murder is still murder."
Soi Fon's eyes narrowed. Her duty was absolute. "The Onmitsukidō will never forgive the guilty."
"And is it your pride to obey rotten laws and wear them like honor?" Shiraishi shot back.
She didn't flinch. "Enough talk."
Her hand moved to her weapon. "Suzumebachi."
Shiraishi's grin returned, sharp and reckless. "Finally!"
He rose, drawing his golden blade with a flourish. "Steel Tempest!"
The clash was inevitable.