Moving into the Seireitei

The Twelfth Division's former grounds were no longer recognizable.

More than half the barracks had collapsed. Lava had burned several enormous gaps into the courtyard walls, and chunks of cooled, solidified black magma lay scattered across the charred ground.

The lava had not completely covered the entire compound, but the areas untouched by it were not much better. Reishi arrows had left densely packed holes in the walls, while cracks caused by battle stretched from the ground all the way to the rooftops.

Several surviving seated officers were leading the division members in clearing the ruins, moving broken tiles, dragging away snapped beams, and digging usable supplies out of the collapsed warehouses.

Their morale was low.

It was not that they did not want to work. They simply seemed hollowed out, their movements mechanical and their eyes empty. The compound could be rebuilt, and the deaths of so many division members could be mourned, but their captain had died.

Yamamoto appeared at the entrance to the compound with Senjumaru by Shunpo.

The instant his Reiatsu descended, several nearby division members reacted at once.

"Captain-Commander!"

The voices were uneven, some early and some late, some loud and some soft, but everyone bowed.

Yamamoto stood there, his gaze sweeping over the collapsed barracks, the blackened ground, and the silent division members. He said nothing, merely shifting slightly aside to reveal Senjumaru Shutara behind him.

Senjumaru stood at his side. Her hair had been pinned up again, and she had changed into a fresh Reishi Garment, though she was not wearing her crown.

Her back was straight, her chin slightly raised, and her calm gaze swept over the ruins before her and the dust-covered division members.

"This is your new captain of the Twelfth Division, Senjumaru Shutara." Yamamoto's voice was not loud, but it could be heard in every corner of the ruins.

The division members carrying rubble stopped what they were doing. Those searching for supplies straightened up, while those sitting on broken walls and bandaging their wounds turned to look.

The division members froze for a moment, surprised—extremely surprised.

Captain Shandingsi's body had not yet been buried. The division's roster had not yet been counted. The wounded division members were still processing the pain of losing their captain in their own ways, and then the Captain-Commander suddenly appeared and told them: this is your new captain.

They had not been mentally prepared, but the feeling of surprise lasted only a short while.

The division members bowed again, more uniformly than before, bending lower and calling out louder.

"Captain!"

There were no questions, no complaints, no unnecessary words.

Captain Shandingsi was gone, but the Twelfth Division remained. The division needed a captain, and the Captain-Commander had brought them one. That was all.

Senjumaru stood where she was, watching the wounded, exhausted division members bow to her. Her face showed no expression.

"Mm." Senjumaru nodded lightly twice.

Yamamoto glanced at Senjumaru, then at the division members who had resumed clearing the ruins, before turning and leaving by Shunpo.

Senjumaru Shutara remained standing there. The Captain-Commander had left, yet the new captain was still here. No one knew what to do next. Several seated officers exchanged looks, while ordinary division members held rubble in their hands, unsure whether to put it down or continue carrying it.

"Everyone, come here." Senjumaru's voice was not loud, but it was clear.

The division members put down what they were holding and gathered around her.

Some walked quickly, some slowly. Some needed support, while others limped. They formed a loose semicircle before Senjumaru.

Senjumaru's gaze passed over their faces one by one. "State your name, seat, specialty, and field of expertise. Starting with you."

She casually pointed at the first person on the left.

The division members spoke in turn. Some had loud voices, while others mumbled and needed their companions beside them to fill in the details.

Senjumaru said nothing. She merely listened, her eyes shifting slightly whenever she heard certain keywords—Kidō, Zanjutsu, Shunpo, Hakuda, Zanpakutō, position.

She memorized each name and face, as though filing documents into a blank dossier one by one.

After the last person finished speaking, Senjumaru fell silent for a moment.

"Okutano, step forward."

A man around thirty stepped out from the crowd. His Reishi Garment had several holes in it and had not been changed. A wound ran from his brow bone to his cheekbone, scabbed over but not yet fallen away.

He stood properly, his back straight and his eyes fixed on Senjumaru, unlike the others who avoided her gaze.

Third Seat, skilled in Kidō. His voice had not been loud when he reported, but his explanation had been clear and orderly, without a single unnecessary word.

"From now on, you are the vice-captain."

Okutano froze.

Senjumaru did not explain why she had chosen him.

But everyone present understood. He held the highest seat and had the most experience.

"Yes." Okutano bowed.

Reconstruction began.

Senjumaru stood in the open space, studying the site again and again. At last, she took out a large piece of cloth and began drawing blueprints.

"The main building will have three floors and face south. Two basement levels. Wall thickness..."

"The materials warehouse cannot be farther from the main building than this..."

"There must be connecting corridors in the middle. No open-air passages."

"The laboratory floor will use this material. It cannot leak, raise dust, or reflect light."

The division members were split into several groups and began working.

Some removed broken tiles and snapped wood from the ruins. Some leveled the ground and laid the foundation. Some went to the Seireitei warehouses to collect construction materials.

No one was idle, and no one slacked off. The ruins were still ruins, but their shape was changing bit by bit. Senjumaru stood there watching the division members work, occasionally speaking up. This part was crooked. That part was too high. That beam had been placed backward.

Over the next several days, people gradually began rebuilding across the ruins of the Seireitei.

The Twelfth Division was the first to begin work.

More precisely, it was Senjumaru Shutara's new research institute. The chosen open land lay at the edge of the Seireitei's Central Ring, adjacent to the residences of several Upper Nobility families. Senjumaru had taken a liking to the plot, Yamamoto nodded, and the division members got to work.

The nobles could not sit still.

Several Upper Nobility families whose residences bordered the construction site came together and made their way through streets still muddy after the rain, around ruins that were still being cleared, and to the entrance of the First Division Barracks. Their expressions were ugly.

"Captain-Commander, we need an explanation."

The noble leading them stood before Yamamoto's desk with his back straight, doing his best to keep his voice calm, though his fingers trembled slightly.

Although the residences of their families had survived the attack, the cracks in their courtyard walls had not yet all been repaired. Now, someone was undertaking massive construction right next door.

"Why does that Shutara get to build her barracks beside us? That area belongs to the Upper Nobility. It has always been reserved for..."

His voice faltered. He did not say the words "reserved for us," but the meaning was obvious. Several people behind him nodded repeatedly, muttering things like, "Exactly," "This breaks the rules," and "Captain-Commander, please reconsider."

Yamamoto sat quietly beside the tea table.

Silence.

The nobles stood there, waiting for a response.

Yamamoto never looked up, but his hand settled on the hilt of Ryujin Jakka. The blade slowly slid from its sheath. Before it had fully emerged, the air of the Seireitei had already begun to heat up.

It was not an illusion, nor was it psychological. Ryujin Jakka's flames were already spilling from the gap between blade and sheath. Red firelight reflected off Yamamoto's face, deepening his wrinkles and making his eyes shine brighter.

The nobles' expressions changed in an instant.

From anger to fear, it took less than a second.

Several beads of cold sweat slid from the leading noble's temple, down his cheek, and to his chin, where they trembled. The people behind him were already retreating. Someone stepped on a companion's foot. Someone bumped into the doorframe. Someone instinctively hid half his body behind another person. They wanted to say something conciliatory, something explanatory, something apologetic, but none could form a complete sentence. Their lips trembled, their tongues tangled, and only incoherent sounds squeezed from their throats.

Okiba Genshirō had appeared at the doorway at some point. He stepped aside to clear the path out, his face expressionless and his manner respectful yet distant, as though he were doing something he did every day.

The nobles ran.

The leader was the first to turn around, moving far too quickly for a noble who had recently been injured. The others nearly ran after him, their shoes clattering chaotically across the wooden corridor floor. No one looked back. No one said farewell. No one remembered to bow. They remembered only the room's abruptly rising temperature and the Zanpakutō that had burst into flame before it had even fully left its sheath.

The corridor of the First Division Barracks fell silent again.

Yamamoto sheathed his sword and continued reviewing documents. Ryujin Jakka's flames had long since vanished, and the lingering heat in the air quickly faded as well.

Okiba Genshirō gently closed the door.

The following day.

Central 46's underground assembly hall was even colder and emptier than usual.

More than half the seats were vacant. White chrysanthemum arrangements sat in the places of the sages and judges who had died in the Quincy attack.

Most of those present bore injuries. Some had arms suspended against their chests, some had bandages around their foreheads, some limped, and some covered their chests when coughing, their faces turning pale. Their ranks had not yet been replenished, nor could they be replenished anytime soon. Central 46 had never lost so many people at once.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto sat in the seat reserved for the summoned.

Across from him, several injured sages spoke in turn. Their voices grew louder, their tones sharper, until their spit was nearly flying into Yamamoto's face.

"Captain-Commander, your actions yesterday were a threat against the Seireitei's highest legislative institution!" A sage with a bandage wrapped around his forehead slammed the table.

"The Upper Nobility has the right to know of all land planning within the Seireitei. Not only did you fail to inform us beforehand, you even drew your sword against the nobles when they raised legitimate questions!"

Yamamoto said nothing.

That only made the sages angrier. They quickly found a new point to attack. "Senjumaru Shutara is not a noble! There is no precedent for her building barracks in the Central Ring! You brought an outsider from Rukongai into the Seireitei's core area on your own authority, and you will not even allow the nobles to question it? What kind of logic is that?"

The others chimed in.

"Captain-Commander! The Gotei 13 is yours, but the Seireitei is not!"

"The nobles' interests must be respected! Not forced down by your sword!"

"If word of your actions yesterday gets out, how will the world see Central 46? How will they see the laws of the Seireitei?"

Yamamoto waited until they were finished.

"I have decided."

Yamamoto's voice was not loud, but the dome of the assembly hall magnified every word several times over, causing them to echo between the stone walls like the ringing of a bell. "All Gotei 13 barracks will be relocated into the Seireitei."

Suffocation.

For a moment, there was not a single sound in the assembly hall.

Then, like a vat of oil set ablaze, the assembly hall exploded.

"Outrageous!"

An elderly sage, his face flushed red and veins bulging in his neck, sprang from his seat. He pointed at Yamamoto, his finger trembling. "What sort of place is the Seireitei? It is where nobles reside! It is where Central 46 is located! It is the political core of Soul Society! It is not your military camp!"

"Relocate them all? Do you know how many noble residences there are in the Seireitei? Where do you intend to put them?"

"You drew your sword to threaten the nobles yesterday, and today you want to drive them from their homes? Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, what exactly are you trying to do?"

Yamamoto said nothing.

He merely released his Reiatsu. Not the world-burning eruption he used in battle, nor the crushing pressure that drove enemies into despair. It seeped out little by little from within him, like rising water. First around his feet, then across his chair, then over the entire table, and finally through the whole assembly hall. Every candle flame in the hall shrank at once. Not because of wind, but because they were pressed down by Reiatsu. The flames were compressed into tiny blue points, trembling in their lamps.

The voices still berating him vanished one by one.

It was not that they no longer wanted to speak. They could no longer speak. Reiatsu was like an invisible hand pressing against their chests, crushing their lungs, their throats, and every sound they had. Their faces turned from red to white, then from white to blue. Some began sweating—not the sweat from slamming tables to fight for the right to speak, but cold sweat. Large beads rolled down their foreheads, slid over their noses, and dripped onto the tables.

At last, someone could not hold on any longer. An elderly sage with more severe injuries swayed, catching himself on the edge of the table with both hands to avoid falling. His lips had turned purple, his pupils were unfocused, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. His injuries had never fully healed. Under Yamamoto's Reiatsu, he nearly passed out.

Yamamoto withdrew his Reiatsu. Not gradually, but all at once. Like the tide receding, like a dam gate opening. The pressure in the assembly hall returned to normal in a fraction of a second. Breathing became easy again, and heartbeats steadied. The sages gulped down air like drowning men who had just been pulled ashore.

Yamamoto rose, turned, and walked toward the door.

No one stopped him. No one questioned him, slammed the table, or said a single word.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridor, one after another, steady and unhurried, gradually fading away. The only sounds remaining in the assembly hall were the candles burning again and the sages' heavy breathing.

Only after Yamamoto had gone far away, his footsteps completely disappearing at the end of the corridor, did someone dare to speak softly in the assembly hall.

"So we just let it go?"

The speaker was a younger sage with medicinal plaster still on his forehead. He kept his voice low, as though afraid Yamamoto might suddenly return. No one answered him immediately. Several elderly sages sat in their chairs with livid faces. Some still clutched their chests and gasped, while others lifted teacups with trembling hands but could not drink. Tea ran from the corners of their mouths and soaked their collars. Everyone remained silent for a long time.

"Can we beat him?"

This time, another sage spoke. His voice was even softer than the first, and he was not really asking anyone else but himself. No one in the assembly hall could answer that question. They had just been pressed silent by Yamamoto's Reiatsu. Now they were being asked to consider whether they could defeat the man who had stood at the peak of Soul Society a thousand years ago. The answer was obvious. No one wanted to admit aloud that they could not defeat him, but no one dared claim that they could.

"That demon."

No one knew who said it. The voice was quiet, squeezed through clenched teeth, carrying helpless resentment that was almost petulant. No one agreed or disagreed. The words simply lingered in the assembly hall's air before dissipating amid the flickering candlelight.

They could not simply let it go, but they could not defeat him either. So the only thing left was to find someone who could.

No, that was not right. There was no one in Soul Society who could defeat Yamamoto. They needed someone who could speak to him, someone who could sit before him rather than kneel, someone Yamamoto might listen to for even a sentence or two.

The Four Great Noble Clans.

The Tsunayashiro Clan residence lay in the deepest part of the Seireitei. Its walls stood taller than those of the other nobles, there were no guards at the entrance, and its gates remained shut year-round. The sages waited outside for a long time before being allowed in.

Tsunayashiro Shiki sat in the seat of honor in the reception room, with a cup of tea gone cold at his side. After hearing the sages' purpose, his expression did not change. His tone was so calm that it did not sound like a refusal, but like he was stating a fact unrelated to himself.

"The Tsunayashiro Clan oversees the Great Spirit Library and does not participate in noble conflicts."

The sages were stunned.

Someone opened his mouth to say something, only to have the person beside him tug at his sleeve. The Great Spirit Library was Soul Society's oldest Reishi archive, guarded by the Tsunayashiro Clan for generations. They had never participated in the Seireitei's power struggles. That was a fact. No one had ever questioned the truth of that claim, but no one had thought the Tsunayashiro Clan would truly stand aside at a time like this. Now they knew.

Shihōin Qianri received them at the Second Division's temporary grounds. After listening to the sages, he laughed—not because he was happy, but because he found it amusing.

"I'm the captain of the Second Division. You came to the wrong person."

The sages withdrew in disgrace.

The Kuchiki Clan residence had been the first among the Four Great Noble Clans to begin reconstruction. More than half its walls had already been repaired. The head of the Kuchiki Clan stood in the main hall without inviting them to sit, and no tea was served.

"The Gotei 13 entering the Seireitei can effectively improve the Seireitei's security."

That was all.

There was no "but," no "however," no "nevertheless."

After saying those words, the head of the Kuchiki Clan inclined his head slightly. The butler immediately stepped forward in a gesture of dismissal. The sages stood there in silence for a long time before finally turning and leaving the Kuchiki residence. On the Seireitei's rain-soaked streets, standing water mixed with mud. The stone roads had been battered into pits by passing transport crews. Several sages stood at an intersection, unsure where to go. The Tsunayashiro Clan would not interfere, the Shihōin Clan stood with Yamamoto, and the Kuchiki Clan supported Yamamoto. They had visited three of the Four Great Noble Clans, and not one had stood with them.

"There's still the Shiba Clan," someone said quietly.

Another person looked at him, and that look contained everything and nothing. That family had always kept to itself, often absent even from meetings of the Four Great Noble Clans.

No one suggested going to the Shiba Clan.

The sky gradually darkened.

The sages walked silently through the streets of the Seireitei, passing the bustling construction site of the Twelfth Division, the temporary grounds of the Second Division where relocation had already begun, ruins that had yet to be cleared, and noble residences where scaffolding had already been erected for reconstruction. The Seireitei was changing, and they could not stop it.