Mirai stood at the entrance of Junrinan, District 1, wearing a perfectly polite smile and waving as if it were part of his duties.
He kept waving—right up until Aizen disappeared around the corner.
Only then did Mirai let out a sigh.
"Dealing with someone like that… shortens your life," he muttered.
He rubbed his cheeks. They ached from holding that smile in place.
Truthfully, when he first arrived in this world, he tried to survive the easy way: by imitating stories.
He dug up famous plots he remembered from popular novels and tried to force them into the Soul Society as-is.
It went badly. The tone didn't match. The world didn't accept it.
Even his Lieutenant, Mashiro Kuna—who could drift off in the middle of anything—stayed focused for thirty seconds before lifting her eyes from the draft.
"I don't get it," she said, completely unmoved.
Reality had a way of grinding people down in Seireitei. After that, Mirai had no choice but to change methods.
If borrowed stories didn't fit, then he would write what did.
He began using the people around him as material.
And among all possible "models," using Aizen was… safer. In a manner of speaking.
He altered a few details, sanded down the sharpest edges, and wrote The Loneliness and Arrogance of a Genius Boy: Aisuke.
He assumed that kind of brooding, self-examining "artistic" style would only appeal to a small group. He only wanted enough money to keep himself fed.
Instead, it exploded overnight.
The reaction was absurd.
It seemed every reader in Seireitei secretly believed they were a misunderstood genius—and naturally, only "geniuses" could understand Aisuke's life.
Mirai belched softly, the aftertaste of Spirit Mist still clinging to his throat.
He shook his head to clear the lingering Spiritual Intoxication and followed the river toward the 9th Division barracks.
Moonlight stretched across the water. The walk took half an hour—long enough for his thoughts to tighten like a noose.
I can't keep writing Aisuke.
If I continue, the book won't just get banned… someone will start looking at me too closely.
He pressed his fingers to his forehead and did the arithmetic he had been avoiding.
"I need a new story—quickly," he murmured. "Otherwise, when my salary arrives next month, it will all go straight into my tavern debt."
"And I'll have nothing left."
Two replacement ideas surfaced almost immediately.
The first: The First Kenpachi, with the protagonist modeled after the original Kenpachi, Yachiru Unohana.
The second: The Godfather of Death, describing the brutal early days of Captain-Commander Yamamoto when he first formed the Gotei 13.
Two legends. Two lives carved into Seireitei's history.
If he wrote them well, he wouldn't be short on wine for a long time.
So absorbed was he that he walked straight into someone.
The figure was thin—yet Mirai felt as though he had collided with stone.
He stumbled back, blinked, and immediately set his polite smile in place.
"Captain Hirako! My apologies. I was thinking about my next story and didn't watch where I was going."
Shinji Hirako, Captain of the 5th Division, stood beneath the moon with long blond hair and a faintly mocking expression that never seemed to leave his face.
He didn't look angry.
If anything, he looked entertained.
He stepped forward, draped an arm around Mirai's shoulder, and pulled him in with a grip that was far too firm to be friendly.
"You brat," Shinji drawled. "Drinking without calling me—what's that supposed to mean? You look down on me now?"
He leaned in and sniffed the air.
His expression tightened.
A vein pulsed at his forehead.
"Spirit Mist," he said, and the words came out like an accusation. "So you've become rich."
He grinned, showing bright teeth—yet there was nothing kind in it.
"Ungrateful, are you? Did you forget who helped you with Kensei so your story got published in the first place?"
Mirai's stomach sank.
Because it was true.
When he first handed his draft to Captain Kensei Muguruma, Kensei didn't like it. Kensei favored straightforward, hot-blooded stories—battle, conviction, the kind of thing that hit like a fist. He had no patience for "artistic" lamentations.
But Shinji had happened to be visiting that day. He'd read a few pages, then tossed out a single line:
"This is interesting. Let him try."
That was the reason the manuscript lived.
In a twisted way, Shinji was the one who had uncovered Mirai's "talent."
"Captain Hirako, how can you say that?" Mirai replied quickly, still smiling. "I wouldn't dare."
"You don't understand—Lieutenant Mashiro has been hunting me everywhere. She wants me to continue that disaster of a book."
"I was avoiding her. I only came to the river so I could drink in peace."
"That is one matter," Shinji cut in, unmoved. He poked Mirai's chest with a finger. "This is another."
"You can drink by the river with Aizen, but not with me?" Shinji's voice lowered, and with it came pressure—quiet, oppressive, the air itself turning heavy. "Is that because I'm not good enough? Or because you look down on me?"
Mirai cursed him in his head while keeping the smile on his face.
"Captain, you misunderstand. Aizen found me at the tavern and paid for the wine. I didn't invite him."
"I couldn't exactly ignore a reader who was buying my drinks."
"Oh?" Shinji released him and planted his hands on his hips, his tone turning curious. "So he went looking for you specifically…"
"Tomorrow the graduates get assigned to divisions. Is the 9th Division sending you to recruit?"
"Captain, please," Mirai said, scratching the back of his head. "Even if Lieutenant Mashiro doesn't attend, Captain Kensei will. There's no reason a Fifth Seat like me would be sent."
In Soul Society, strength was currency.
A Fifth Seat standing among Captains and Lieutenants had no hope of drawing the best students.
Shinji tilted his head, moonlight cutting his face in half. His gaze looked as though it could see through a person.
"That's not certain," he said lightly. "If you go, perhaps Sōsuke Aizen chooses the 9th Division."
He cleaned his ear with his little finger in a maddeningly casual gesture.
"That kid was only number one in Kidō at the Shin'ō Academy, but…" His smile thinned. "He might be more dangerous than your 'Aisuke.'"
A chill slid down Mirai's spine.
Shinji's intuition was sharp enough to draw blood.
No one else in Seireitei saw Aizen for what he truly was.
Mirai only knew because he knew what was coming.
He forced himself to remain calm, kept the smile steady, and gently redirected.
"Is Captain Hirako planning to recruit anyone?"
"Yes," Shinji said, flicking dust from his fingertip. "I like that Aizen kid. I was considering bringing him into the 5th Division."
Then his tone shifted, and he looked at Mirai again—properly.
"Don't change the subject." His voice was easy, but the meaning behind it wasn't. "How does Aisuke break his limit? Don't tell me you're stuck."
Alarm rang in Mirai's head.
The truth—Hollowfication—was a forbidden abyss. Even brushing against it could get a person erased.
No matter how casually Shinji spoke, if Mirai revealed that he knew too much, Shinji would throw him into the deepest cell without hesitation.
"Haha… Captain, I truly am stuck," Mirai said, spreading his hands as if in surrender. His expression was earnest to the point of innocence. "I've been thinking about it and I can't find a way forward."
"Do you have any advice? I've decided to put the book on hiatus. I'll start a new one to clear my head."
"Aisuke's story will stop here for now."
He held the polite smile and met Shinji's eyes without flinching.
Shinji stared at him for a long moment.
Then he turned away with a lazy wave.
"Fine. But when Aisuke updates, you make sure I'm the first to know."
Shinji slipped into the shadows and vanished without a sound.
Only after he was gone did Mirai truly relax.
His back was damp with cold sweat.
Aizen left… and Shinji appeared immediately after.
That was not coincidence.
Shinji had likely been watching Aizen for a long time. Their meeting hadn't escaped his notice.
Stopping the story now was the right choice, Mirai thought, and the fear tasted metallic.
If I keep writing, I'll stay on Shinji Hirako's watch list forever.
He only wanted money for wine. He didn't want to play games with monsters.
"Clang! Clang!"
"I was framed! I'm innocent!"
An iron gate rattled, and someone screamed from around the corner, snapping Mirai's thoughts apart.
Strangely, the familiar sound made him feel safer. His steps lightened.
He turned the corner and reached the side gate of the Detention Unit.
The two guards spotted him and snapped to attention.
"Fifth Seat Mirai!"
Mirai nodded, slipping into a professional tone.
"How many did we catch today?"
"Sir! Ten Shinigami broke regulations today!" one guard reported.
"Only ten?" Mirai raised a brow. "The 11th Division didn't start any fights?"
The Detention Unit held Shinigami who broke the laws—temporary confinement and questioning.
Only the worst criminals were sent to the Central Underground Prison. This place was more of a holding jail.
"No, sir. Mostly people trying to leave restaurants without paying."
The words without paying made Mirai's eyelid twitch.
Not long ago, he'd nearly been one of those people—running off with Spirit Mist on his breath.
"Ahem." He cleared his throat, burying the guilt. "Good work."
"But follow the shift schedule. Stay sharp. Don't slack off."
After issuing a few more instructions, Mirai walked into the 9th Division courtyard—
—and stopped the moment he stepped inside.
Under the moonlight stood a tall, muscular man with short silver hair.
Broad shoulders. A stance like an iron gate.
Captain of the 9th Division.
Kensei Muguruma.
Mirai's heart jumped once. He steadied himself and approached.
"Captain. It's late… why are you here? Is something wrong?"
Kensei turned slowly.
His eyes were bright in the moonlight, sharp enough to cut.
"Yes," he said, voice deep.
"I've been waiting for you. We need to talk."
He paused, then added,:
"Don't worry. It won't take long."