He had reached the inner district.
Standing at the mouth of the street, Kurosawa Yori found himself staring into a scene that looked as though it had slipped straight out of an old Japanese period drama.
Gravel roads lined both sides of the small town. Wooden houses stood shoulder to shoulder—simple, sturdy, cleaned with care. Not luxurious, but solid. Lived-in. Whole.
Souls bustled past one another, chatting, laughing, calling out to friends. Children ran between adults in bursts of shrill laughter. The air vibrated with life.
If not for the squad of Shinigami he had glimpsed earlier, Yori would have doubted that this was truly the world of Bleach.
His presence naturally drew stares—curious ones, wary ones. Young souls were rare in Rukongai, and seeing an unfamiliar teenager was even rarer.
Youth was the healthiest, most vital stage of life.Souls who died at that age were less common.
And among the curious glances, some were… less innocent.
A group of young souls leaned against a wall nearby—lazy posture, mocking expressions. Their eyes lingered on the stone axe at Yori's waist, then traced up his body with a predatory interest. Murmured conversations passed between them.
Yori felt their gaze.He turned and looked back—calm, steady, unflinching.
His eyes met theirs one by one. Not confrontational, not fearful—just quietly acknowledging their existence.
Before they could respond, he had already moved on, scanning the district once more.
That composed indifference made them retreat.This newcomer was young, but his physique was solid, his demeanor unafraid.Not an easy target. Not worth trouble.
And aside from the crude stone axe, he owned nothing. No sandals. No valuables.Useless.
They lost interest quickly and went back to their idle chatter.
Yori caught all this from the corner of his eye and filed it away.
In a world ruled by strength, showing weakness invited predators.Picking fights without cause invited disaster.
For now, observation and information were priceless.Street thugs were not.
Without lingering, he blended into the flow of people, eyes searching the buildings lining the street.
A hundred meters in, he heard a swell of voices—livelier, denser. The source: a wider, sturdier wooden building nestled between houses.
An izakaya.
Warm-toned timber walls bore the marks of age—dark and light streaks across the grain. A dark-blue noren hung at the entrance, swaying gently with every passing soul. A white 「酒」 character stood bold against the fabric.
It drew the eye immediately.
"Found it."
A small smile flickered across Yori's lips.His guess had been right.
Souls didn't need food to live.But desire—cravings, appetites, the yearning to enjoy—those remained a part of being alive.
The kitchen gardens he passed earlier.This izakaya before him.
All proof.
He dusted off his clothes, straightened what he could, and lifted the noren.
Behind it was a sliding door, half open. Shadows of movement flickered inside.
Ka—la—
"Welcome—!"
The moment he stepped in, a wash of scents—broth, grilled fish, warm sake—rolled into him, mingled with a bright, cheerful greeting.
The voice belonged to a young waitress weaving between tables, dressed in a pale blue kimono and a white waist apron. She turned with practiced hospitality—
And froze.
Her smile stalled mid-curve.Her gaze locked onto Yori's face.
The ordinary Rukongai residents she served daily were rugged, worn-out, often jaded.But the boy before her—
Young.Clear-eyed.His black hair tied back casually, his face striking in its simplicity.His presence—calm, quietly determined—felt wholly different from the drifting souls she knew.
His eyes were the most striking.Bright. Focused.Eyes that looked toward something ahead—not down, not away.
Even with road dust on his clothes, his presence couldn't be dulled.
She stared for two, three seconds—before his gentle smile met her gaze.
Her face flushed.She bowed her head quickly to hide it.
"Ah—ah, o-one guest? P-please, this way…"
She led him toward a quieter corner table, though she couldn't stop her eyes from flicking toward him again and again.
"What would you like? The bonito today is very good."
"Thank you," Yori said with a polite nod."But I'm not here for food yet. I was wondering—may I speak with the owner? I'd like to ask if you're hiring."
She blinked, stunned.
"You… want to work here?"
"Yes. I just arrived from the outer district. Business seems busy—I thought there might be work available."
His manner was calm, words neatly ordered.The girl noticed then—he had come barefoot. For someone this young, surviving alone in the outskirts must have been difficult.
Her heart softened.
"The owner should be in the kitchen. I'll… I'll go ask for you. She's a kind person—you might have a chance."
Her voice grew gentler without her realizing.
"You have my thanks."
Yori bowed lightly.Her warmth was the second kindness he had received in the Soul Society.
"P-please wait just a moment."
Flustered by his earnest gratitude, she hurried off behind the curtain.
Yori sat quietly, absorbing the atmosphere—the chatter, the clinking bowls, the warm lighting. No anxiety. No fear.
This was the first step of his plan to take root in the Soul Society.He fully intended to succeed.
It wasn't long before two figures emerged from behind the kitchen curtain.
The owner walked in front—a woman in a dark patterned kimono, hair neatly pinned, though a few strands had escaped and clung softly to her neck in the kitchen steam. Her sharp eyes held the confidence of a practiced businesswoman.
Customers greeted her warmly as she passed. She returned each greeting with a pleasant smile, gracious and familiar.