Ninth Division barracks, captain's office.
The afternoon sun slanted through the carved window lattice, cutting a sharp line between light and shadow across the dry, cool wooden floor.
The air carried the faint scents of aged ink and old sword oil. Now and then, a speck or two of dust drifted lazily through the yellowed shafts of light, lending the room an exceptional stillness.
Jūmonji Quando, Captain of the Ninth Division, sat cross-legged behind a low ebony desk.
His hands were tucked inside the sleeves of his Shihakushō, and his gaze rested squarely on the figure standing below the raised platform.
Below him, Shinji Hirako had one hand casually tucked into his Shihakushō's trouser pocket. His straight blond bangs lay neatly across his forehead, and his lips held their usual crooked, flippant smile.
He leaned haphazardly against a round pillar beside the doorway, his posture languid.
"Hey, Shinji."
Jūmonji Quando broke the silence in an even tone. "Have you... already learned Bankai?"
"Huh?"
Shinji Hirako tilted his head dramatically to one side. His drooping, dead-fish eyes widened slightly, as though he had just heard the most absurd joke in the world.
"What are you talking about, Captain? Are you still half asleep? What kind of joke is that? Me? Bankai?"
He pulled his hand from his pocket, spread both palms in an exaggerated gesture, and shrugged.
"Come on, I'm just a lieutenant who spends all day slacking off and getting by. Dealing with division business already squeezes my brains dry. How could I possibly reach that legendary threshold? You're giving me way too much credit, Captain!"
At that, Hirako even snorted, reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he laughed it off.
"If I could learn Bankai, then Isshin Shiba from the Tenth Division—the guy who gets