Funeral
A sleepless night.
After tossing and turning until past two in the morning, Shiraishi finally adjusted to the hardness of the floor and drifted into a deep sleep, snoring faintly.
Bang!
The sliding door slammed open. A sharp, commanding voice pierced the room:
"Get up and eat."
"Yeah…" Shiraishi muttered, rolling sideways and clutching the quilt tighter, curling up instead of moving.
Shiba Kūkaku, of course, wouldn't tolerate it. With one swift kick to his backside, she crouched down and snapped,
"Listen up. In my house, you follow my rules. No sleeping in. Every morning at seven sharp—breakfast. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand." Shiraishi stammered, distracted by her sudden closeness, eyes darting as if caught off guard.
"Louder!"
"I understand!" he barked, mentally grumbling that reality and imagination truly were worlds apart.
He had once pictured a beautiful woman waking him gently with a soft whisper, a light shake, maybe even a coquettish tone. Instead, he got Kūkaku's drill-sergeant discipline.
"Good. Now stand up." She straightened, a smirk tugging her lips. "Let's eat."
"…Yeah."
Still groggy, Shiraishi dragged himself up and followed her through the corridor toward the main room, his back bent from stiffness.
The sway of her hips beneath the beige skirt, the expanse of bare back, and the occasional side-glance of cleavage all tugged mercilessly at his nerves. He clenched his teeth, forcing his gaze elsewhere.
By the time they reached the table, relief washed over him. He sat cross-legged, posture firm, before the spread: omelet, grilled fish, miso soup, and rice. A simple but hearty meal.
"If it's not enough, there's extra rice over there," Kūkaku pointed out, then sat cross-legged at the head seat. Pressing her palms together, she declared, "Itadakimasu."
"Itadakimasu," Shiraishi echoed, tasting the salty, ocean-tinged miso soup. The grilled fish followed, its spicy kick catching him pleasantly off guard.
"This fish is really good."
"Don't talk while you're eating," Kūkaku scolded between mouthfuls, eating fast and sharp, like she was in a competition.
Is this still breakfast, or basic training? Shiraishi sighed inwardly and sped up to match her pace.
In no time, the dishes were cleared, Jinta and Ururu moving quickly to clean up.
Kūkaku leaned back, stretching her arms wide, her short red top straining against her chest as if threatening to burst. "Shiraishi, you busy tonight?"
"No."
"Good. Then you're coming to my eldest brother's funeral. You won't be bored." Her eyes softened for a fleeting second. "In the Shiba family, we hold happy funerals. No tears. We send our dead off with laughter, not grief."
Shiraishi blinked. "Why?"
She answered without hesitation: "Because our family's creed is to fight for our beliefs until the very end. Crying insults that resolve." Her voice lowered, wistful. "Still… sometimes, I wish my brother had been a little less stubborn."
Then, just as quickly, she barked across the room, "Ganju! You crybaby—if you shed even a single tear today, I'll beat the snot out of you!"
"Huh!" Ganju sniffed, rubbing his reddened eyes. "I—I won't cry, sis! Promise!"
"That's more like it. A true Shiba man."
Rising to her feet, she gestured at Shiraishi. "Let's go. Walk with me."
Shiraishi nodded eagerly. "Gladly."
Outside, sunlight painted the courtyard gold. The sky was a brilliant blue, dotted with drifting white clouds.
"Over here," Kūkaku ordered, leading him behind the house. She stopped at a massive handle protruding from the ground. "Help me with this."
"Watch me." Shiraishi rolled up his sleeves, gripped the handles, and heaved.
With a thunderous rumble, the earth split open. Grass tore away as hidden machinery groaned to life. From below rose the legendary Seireitei-shaking Hanabi Cannon—the Shiba Family's Fireworks Cannon, known to the world as the Hanazuki Cannon.
Its hundred-meter frame gleamed in the sun, no longer disguised as an ordinary chimney.
Haiyan Shiba's coffin lay at its base.
Kūkaku patted Shiraishi's arm with a rare smile. "Not bad. You've got strength."
Shiraishi shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "What is this thing?"
"The Hanabi Cannon." She ran a hand over the dark barrel, pride gleaming in her eyes. "I'm the best fireworks master in all of Rukongai."
"…You're planning fireworks for the funeral?"
"Half right." Kūkaku's tone grew softer, tinged with bittersweetness. "I'm sending my brother's ashes skyward. One great blast—his remains scattered with the fireworks, carried by the wind across Soul Society. That was our promise."
Her smile trembled, edged with grief.
"…Maybe he just said it casually?" Shiraishi murmured before he could stop himself.
Wham!
Kūkaku's fist cracked against his head. "You idiot! Watch your mouth!"
"Ow—sorry, my bad!" Shiraishi rubbed his forehead, chastened. He reminded himself: this was her brother, her family. His opinion had no place here.
"Hmph. As long as you admit it." She exhaled, shaking it off, then returned her gaze to the cannon. "Time to prepare."
The setup was intricate. She tied sacred shimenawa rope around the barrel, drove the stakes deep into the ground, then painted the Shiba clan crest across its surface—a spiraling black vortex.
When night fell and the first moonlight touched the cannon, it would fire.
"Ahem…"
A cough, soft yet distinct, broke the silence.
Shiraishi's pupils contracted. His hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword—then eased. Whoever it was, they weren't within his immediate killing range.
He could sense no one within three steps. Beyond that, his perception dulled unless he consciously extended it. Within three kilometers, though, nothing escaped him once he did.
"Cough, cough…" The voice came again, weaker this time, followed by a scarlet-stained handkerchief.
"…Forgive me. I'm late."
"Ukitake Jūshirō."
Kūkaku spat the name like venom, eyes blazing with barely contained rage. Murderous intent radiated from her chest as she growled:
"You bastard."