Eleventh Division's martial arts arena
Hollow Disaster It has been a long time, the cracks on the ground have been filled up, and the knife holder has been replaced. However, the people sitting on the sidelines seem to have used up the strength in their bones in advance. The wooden knives are placed on their knees, sweating and wiping, and no one is talking about another round.
Shibata Takanobu sat firmly in the captain's seat and became heavier and heavier.
He rarely raised his voice. Outside of tasks, he would always only say, "You think about what to do."
If you think wrong, you are stupid. If you think right, he won't admit it.
Today I praise you for your neat attack, but tomorrow I can call you to the team corridor for the same chop, and say slowly, "That's it? Eleventh Division's face has been completely humiliated by you alone."
His mood is the office weather forecast, the one everyone relies on to determine how hard they should stretch their backs today.
You never know which sentence will hit you hard.
During a meeting, he would suddenly call on a name and make people stand up, not to ask Zanjutsu, but to unpack a small matter in front of everyone, until the person himself began to doubt whether he was really useless. After unraveling, he would smile again and say that it was for their own good. The person who was called could only laugh along. With a smile, he learned to bow his head before speaking.
Gradually, Squad Members spent the most energy not on doing things, but on guessing what he wanted.
It was that process that he liked, no blood, no punishment, but a little bit of self-esteem that was worn away, a little bit of spirit that was drained away, like an aristocratic slave owner watching the gladiators he raised and watching them lower their necks.
He hid this desire very well.
There is no bright cane like Murata Shō, nor are there strict regulations written on paper.
The amount of training remains the same, the meals remain the same, and the penalty column on the roster is still there. No matter who you show it, you can't find anything wrong with it.
He was just dragging the entire squad into an invisible drain slowly and silently day after day.
The first thing Squad Member people noticed was only one word.
Tired.
Young Squad Member was paralyzed on the edge of the martial arts arena, with the wooden knife lying across his feet, and his chest heaving. Sweat stuck his forehead to his skin. He raised his hand to wipe it, and the sweat came back again after wiping it off.
"Recently... why do you feel more and more tired?"
The person next to him handed over the kettle, but he didn't drink it himself. He just stared at the piece of soil that had been stepped on in the center of the field.
"Yeah. I'm so tired."
"The amount of training hasn't been increased much..."
"But I just feel like my energy is getting weaker and weaker every day."
Another person answered, with an indescribable irritation in his tone.
"I feel the same way. I can't tell what's wrong. I just feel very tired and depressed. Do you think this is normal?"
Several people looked at each other.
Eleventh Division You shouldn't say this
"Is the captain in a bad mood lately?"
"I don't know... the captain didn't punish us either."
After saying this, no one answered the question.
No penalty, this is the most unclear part.
If you are beaten, you can point to the scar and say it hurts.
If you are deducted from your salary, you can still point to the empty bowl and complain.
But now there is nothing. The captain still appears in the corridor on time, still arranges tomorrow's shift in a voice that cannot be heard as happy or angry, still nods when you do something right, and lets you think about it when you do something wrong.
After thinking about it, people become even more tired.
That something wrong was like an invisible, sticky substance that quietly seeped into the bones of the entire Eleventh Division.
No bleeding.
Don't make a sound.
None of them could tell what it was.
Rukongai, a tavern somewhere.
The oil lamp was dim, and the smell of alcohol mixed with the smell of sweat permeated the low wooden house. There were people arguing outside, laughing after a few words, and continuing to drink after laughing. The night here was unruly, but it didn't have the quietness of Seireitei that slowly wears people away.
Ashido sat in the corner and placed a bowl of wine heavily on the table. The wine spilled a little, but he didn't wipe it up.
He was carrying an Odachi with a green non-slip belt and a square hand guard. Even the boss took a second look when he walked in.
"... I'm telling you, the atmosphere in the team is getting weirder and weirder now."
He took a sip. The wine was bad and spicy, just right. He lowered his voice, as if he still felt that the sticky stuff would follow his words.
"I can't tell. I'm just tired. Everyone is tired. Even me, I feel out of breath."
The man sitting opposite was tall, with messy long hair, but his clothes seemed to be neat. He had a knife hanging sideways on his waist. The guard was old and there were scratches on the sheath. Reiatsu was heavy, so heavy that the oil lamp in this shabby tavern dimmed.
Kuruyashiki.
He picked up that knife from some ruins in Rukongai. Its origin is unknown.
"Ha!"
Kuruyashiki raised his head and downed a large bowl with a loud voice that shook the whole tavern. The people at the next table cursed, "Tired? That's because you're thinking too much!"
Ashido glared at him, "Shut up, you are so heartless, of course you don't feel tired."
"Hahahahahahahaha!"
Kuruyashiki laughed loudly, "So, Ashido, stay in Seireitei every day, frowning, what are you doing?"
Ashido didn't smile with him.
He put down the wine bowl and stared at the indifferent face opposite
"Kuruyashiki."
"Huh?"
Ashido's tone suddenly became serious. "You are so strong, you shouldn't be hanging around in a place like this."
Kuruyashiki raised his eyebrows
Ashido made it clear word for word. "You should go to Seireitei, become Soul Reaper, kill the void, and protect more souls like us who crawled out of Rukongai, instead of living in this shabby tavern, relying on a knife you picked up, and drinking."
The oil lamp crackled.
Kuruyashiki Look at him
"You guy!"
He laughed again, boldly and loudly, which could overthrow the gloom in the entire tavern. The people at the next table followed suit, some knocked on bowls, and some shouted for another pot. The laughter hit the low beams, fell down again, and fell on Ashido's face.
Ashido I wanted to persuade him again, why Eleventh Division shouldn't be like this, why some people wield their knives in the open, while others sharpen their swords in the dark, but when the words reached my throat, I was choked back by the laughter.
He opened his mouth, but in the end he could only hold back one sentence.
"... Why are you laughing?"
Kuruyashiki stopped laughing and did not explain. He picked up the wine bowl and shook it at him. The light danced on the wine, making the messy face flicker in and out.
"Okay, I understand. One day, I really go to Seireitei, and you have to treat me to a drink."
Ashido Looking at his appearance, he suddenly couldn't get angry anymore.
There is something powerful about being angry, but this person doesn't have it, and the sticky tiredness in the team doesn't seem to be able to get to him.
Ashido just picked up his bowl and touched it heavily.
The rims of the bowls hit each other, making a crisp sound. A little more wine splashed out.
"... this guy?" he whispered.