Blade without Edge/Chapter Four

Chapter Four Akakusa The morning came suddenly. Thin, gold light was barely visible above the dark rim of the horizon when they at last left the Seireitei. If they had turned back they would have seen the city of the Shinigami in the pale light of early dawn: the white walls a dull gray and sleeping quietly under the deepness of the fading night.

Takashi did not glance back, and he gave no final look of farewell towards the place that was meant to be called “home,” instead setting his face to the west with an air of resolution. There was a stiff breeze that came from behind them and urged them onward, and with each step the lieutenant seemed to grow lighter and more eager to be on his way.

The distant mountains were calling to him, and while there was still bitter, wistful stirrings within his heart as he fixed his gaze on the horizon, he was glad to at last return to the wilderness. Kohaku must have felt his excitement and anxiety as well, for she took to the skies soon after leaving the main city-block that surrounded the Seireitei. The hawk shadowed them from a dizzying height; a mere speck in the sky that was quickly transforming from velvet ebony into a clear, light blue. They used Shunpo at intermittent intervals, attempting to reserve some of their energy for the long journey ahead of them.

As they continued west the elevation began to rise, and the terrain soon gave way to the rich, rocky ground of a mountain’s base. They passed through fields, fallow and gold in the early fall, and it was here that Kohaku plummeted from above to make her first catch of the day. They decided to have their own breakfast while she enjoyed her meal, and it was during this pause that Takashi finally decided to break the long silence between the two Shinigami to talk to Kishō.

“Do you know how a hawk finds it prey?” he asked, although from his tone it was more like he was simply externalizing his own, quiet thoughts, and did not expect Kishō to respond. “The pattern of its flight has a purpose: It doesn’t simply soar around and hope to spot movement. There are a thousand calculations and observations, the direction of the wind and its own shadow, for instance, where prey is most likely to be found, whether there are other predators in the location, or if it’s even safe to dive.” he paused, then added softly, “Their tactics are flawless, and they are peerless as hunters.”

His gaze shifted to Kishō then, and his eyes seemed to be those of the very raptor he was describing. Analyzing him, observing him… waiting for him to make a move.

But the next instant and the illusion had passed. Takashi was only a normal, sleep-wearied Shinigami, pensively considering the natural world around them.

“My father is the one who first told me that...” he mused before trailing off. There was a long moment of silence and then, abruptly, Takashi said:

“Tell me, Hōsōshi-san, what was your father like?”

Deep in thought, the Hōsōshi paid little attention to his surroundings. He took small bites from the breakfast that they prepared beforehand. It seemed that it was an everlasting silence, that is, until the fukutaichō mentioned something about the “hawk’s hunting style”. And yet, Kishō, while listening to Takashi, didn’t fully grasp onto his words. After all, he hadn’t found himself a good night rest ever since the deaths of his many comrades years before. Now, with Wakiya’s death, Kishō had not fallen asleep at all.

… His small bites on the food stopped when Takashi mentioned the word “father.” The lack of attention was no more, as tired eyes rested on the superior.

“Your father sounds like a wise man,” is how the heir began, complimenting on the vaguely heard description about the hunting style. “I apologise, however, as I am unable to recall my father. He has passed away a long time ago.”

Takashi seemed to consider this for several moments, as he did not immediately respond.

“I see,” he said at last, “Mine as well.”

Kishō turned slightly more towards Takashi from his position. “... he passed away in my early teens, when I was about 50.” He was silent for a moment, debating whether or not he should expose the possible range of his age. “Heh, 400 years eh.”

Without warning Takashi choked on his food and suffered a fit of coughing. When at last he regained control of himself he could not help but stammer: “Four… four hundred?” his surprise was evident. “You’re nearly as old as the captain is then.” He shook his head. “Incredible.” he murmured under his breath. He could have sworn that Kishō had been younger than he was, and was only now beginning to realize how short-sighted his assumption had been.

“What of your mother?” he asked, attempting to change the subject.

There was a soft smile on the older Shinigami’s lips, his eyes filled with amusement. “You look rather surprised, Sakuma-san.” He had dropped the formal form of address, even if it was just for a moment. Yet, Kishō stayed quiet at the mention of the captain.

“She’s alive.” His answer was cut and short. It didn’t sound too pleasant. “The former Head of the clan, my older sister succeeded her. However...” he paused, remembering that he should not speak of his family this much. “I’m sorry. You’re an outsider and a Shinigami… I cannot tell you any more.”

For some, inexplicable reason, Takashi felt his skin crawl to hear Kishō say that, and his expression darkened, the tone of his voice turning serious.

“Hōsōshi-san, while it may not be my business to pry into the personal affairs of your family, I hope you have not forgotten that you too are a Shinigami. If there is something… some interference, that is impeding your ability to serve as a member of the Gotei 13, it is my duty as your superior officer to be made aware of it.” he did not move, he did not even blink as he gauged Kishō narrowly. While the words he used may have seemed perfectly amiable in and of themselves, the threat that lay just beneath the surface was obvious.

It was evident that Takashi was daring Kishō to cross him.

They were interrupted, however, when a violent gust of wind sent a flurry of dead leaves rushing across the field, and Takashi stood abruptly, cutting off Kishō’s chance to respond.

“Well then Hōsōshi-san, shall we be on our way?” he said without looking in his direction. “We should be able to reach our destination by nightfall.”

The amusement faded away from his pair of different eyes. While Kishō appeared to be more soft-spoken, he definitely wasn’t when he felt as if his position as Shinigami or family had been threatened. It wouldn’t matter who it was, there are no exceptions to that. There were no words needed to show his displeasure with his superior. Someone who forced him to leave Seireitei, probed into his family’s matters and as result Kishō slightly snapped at Takashi. And it wasn’t as if it bothered him in such sense to even apologise.

No, instead, Kishō glowered at Takashi.

He contrasted his displeased expression through the heterochromatic eyes that appeared to glare murderously at the superior. It was for a mere second that a shadow overcasted his expression, darkening it furiously and the eyes now evidently glowing vibrantly. Just as the rumours had spoken, back in his academy days, the Hōsōshi clansman looked slightly… demonic… or rather evil.

Kishō spoke no words.

But the tension between the pair was obvious.



Akakusa was the 21st district in the west Rukongai, and it consisted of a mid-sized town nestled up against the base of a deeply wooded mountain slope. As Takashi had predicted, they arrived just as the sun was beginning to set on the other side of the mountains, casting the town in a soft, comforting, blue light.

They followed the river that led to the center of town, and the clear, cold water whispered to them as they made their way down the path that skirted along its edge. As they neared the town the banks became steeper, and soon the dark earth transitioned into brick walls of whitewashed stone. The path turned to cobblestone, and here, without even realizing it, they had entered the town. The lamps had just been lit, casting pools of golden light across the streets, and they walked through clouds of steam from the noodle stands selling Akakusa’s famous tsukimi udon. While the streets were bustling in the early evening, there was a certain calmness to their movements. This was simply a nightly routine, a well-worn habit, or even tradition. They could hear the friendly banter being traded around them, as most people in the town were well-acquainted with one another, despite Akakusa’s large size. But when they noticed the two Shinigami they became guarded and cast wary glances over their shoulders. It was a typical reaction in the Rukongai: The Seireitei was seen as some distant symbol of power, largely detached from day-to-day affairs, and if the black-robed servants of the Gotei 13 were here, it could only mean some trouble had been brewing somewhere closeby, and they were here to deal judgement in the form of a swift, sharpened blade.

There was, however, one man who did not seem intimidated by their presence, and he called out to them as they passed by his noodle stand. The cheery tone of his voice was somewhat off-set by the thick, burly arms crossed over his chest, but his smile was bright and wide.

“Oi! How about a bowl of udon for you two gentlemen?” he asked in his loud, rough voice.

Takashi hesitated: he wanted to reach the dōjō as soon as possible, but at the same time he did not want to impose upon Chiyoko, and knew it would be prudent to stop for a meal before they arrived. Not to mention the sound of gently simmering noodles and the salty, mouth-watering scent of dashi was becoming harder and harder to resist.

“Are you sure you want our business?” Takashi replied, “After all, we ‘hated dogs’ of the Gotei could mar the reputation of your establishment.” This served to make the other passerby uncomfortable, and soon Takashi and Kishō found themselves and the noodle vendor relatively alone amidst the crowded street.

“They know quality when they smell it,” he answered jovially, “They’ll be back.”

Takashi glanced at Kishō and nodded towards the counter.

“What do you say, Hōsōshi-san?” it was not exactly a question, since it seemed as though he had already made up his mind, but then he added anyway: “If you leave Akakusa without trying the tsukimi-udon it would be a tragedy.”

If the man had recognized Hōsōshi’s name, he gave no indication of it, instead dipping two bowls into boiling water to warm them, as if the matter had been settled. It was something Takashi took note of. Considering Akakusa was relatively close to the Hōsōshi clan’s lands, he knew that the name should have at least been familiar to the district’s residents.

Kishō had no word into this matter. He only muttered it softly, still audible to Takashi and the man too if he had keen ears, “If Sakuma-fukutaichō desires so.” Yet, Kishō did not approach the stand as he waited for Takashi to take the initial step.

“Sakuma eh? I knew I recognized your bird,” the vendor commented as he measured out a portion of white noodles that nearly glowed into each bowl, “You’re from the Hotake dōjō aren’t you?” he asked.

“Word travels around, doesn’t it?” Takashi said as he took a seat.

“What brings you back here?” the man expertly ladled soup stock over the noodles and, with practiced ease, topped the entire thing with a poached egg and wakame.

“Just passing through.” the reply was firm, suggesting to the man that he should ask no further into the matter.

“Tell me though, how has the dōjō been doing since…”

“Mmh,” the man cut him off, an unspoken word of understanding having passed between them. “It’s actually grown somewhat: that young lady is a good master.” he said. “In fact, my son is one of the members now!” he added proudly. Takashi smiled, somewhat sadly, and only said:

“That is good to hear.”

“Well, at any rate, here you are… enjoy.” he said as he pushed the noodles across the counter.

Kishō followed directly behind Takashi and took the seat next to him. He didn’t dare to interrupt the conversation, and instead only listened. A slight interest raised after the vendor had cut off Takashi’s sentence. Only appreciated the scent of the noodles, and thanked the man with a soft mumble. However,

“Mister, could I request some sake?” The corner of his lips tilted up slightly, forming a gentle smile. His eyes of different colours appearing warmer than before.

He breathed out deeply, staring off at somewhere in the shop. “About…earlier,” Kishō paused for a moment. “I apologise. I had no right to phrase myself in such a way.” He sounded sincere currently, however, at that moment Kishō behaved far from that.

“Your apology is not needed,” Takashi said slowly, without looking in Kishō’s direction, “As Kohaku kindly pointed out, I was the one who perhaps overstepped my bounds.” Sensing his confusion, he added, “Kohaku is my Zanpakutō.” It was stated as a simple fact, and he held up a piece of fish with his chopsticks for her to eat.

Should you have told him that? she asked, her tone somewhat concerned.

He would have found out sooner or later either way. Takashi answered with a shrug.

The vendor placed a small ceramic bottle and two cups in front of them. “Let me assure you two that this is the finest sake in Akakusa.” he offered generously. Takashi was incredulous.

“Surprising. I could have sworn the vendor two stands down says the same thing.” The man laughed heartily.

“So he does. But this is the best you can get at such a low price: and that makes it the finest, wouldn’t you say?” Takashi only tilted his cup in agreement. “If you’re planning to go to the dōjō,” the man went on, “you should take a bottle with you. It’d make a nice gift to the host, I’d say.” Takashi raised his eyebrow before staring at the man evenly.

“She doesn’t drink.” he stated flatly.

“Well then there’d be more for you,” the man answered easily, and Takashi only shook his head.



The dōjō was a short distance away from the main part of town, located in a quiet neighborhood on Akakusa’s north end. It consisted of an old grain warehouse that had been converted to a training hall, and as it had grown dark they could see yellow light spilling out of the shoji, as if inviting them inside. Apparently someone was still training there. Takashi did not, however, make his way immediately to the dōjō, instead turning aside to a small house just past the school. Unlike the dōjō the house was dark, with only one small lamplight visible from behind one of the walls.

“Good evening, Hotake-san.” Takashi called out as he opened the gate to the front garden and made his way past rows of neatly trimmed bushes, the bareness a sign of preparation for the winter.

“Just a moment,” came the faint answer, the voice of an old woman. To both his and Kishō’s surprise, she did not come out of the house but instead emerged from the other side of the garden, carrying a shallow, wide basket that was piled high with white radishes.

“Had to pull up the daikon, my bones tell me there will be a frost tonight,” she explained as she approached them. When she was close enough to make out who it was from the dim light, however, she stopped suddenly and her entire body went rigid. Rather from shock or some other emotion, it was hard to say, but after narrowing her eyes to peer at the newcomers for a moment, her face lit up with sudden recognition. She promptly set the basket down and practically ran over to where they stood.

“Takashi, is that you standing there by my old mountain fire bush?” she asked.

“It is.” he said. “It is good to see you.” he bowed, deeply and respectfully, as she came nearer. For a moment she paused to look at him, and it seemed as though her eyes suddenly brightened with tears.

“Come now, no need for that,” she said hoarsely as she wrapped her arms around him and embraced him. For the briefest of moments it seemed as though he were taken aback, but then he too held her closely. A moment passed, then Chiyoko straightened up as if suddenly remembering something. She held him at arm’s length and stared at him, finally nodding in approval.

“It is so good that you’re back,” she said decisively, and the wrinkles of her face folded into a hundred smiles.

“And… who is your friend?” she asked, taking notice of Kishō for the first time.

“He is one of the men from my division,” Takashi explained.

“Ah,” the old woman turned towards Kishō and smoothed out the apron in a charming, if futile, attempt to make herself seem more presentable. “Well, I’m Chiyoko Hotake,” she told him in her brisk, sun-filled voice, “And your welcome to this humble old place. I know it may not seem like much, but it’s comfortable enough and the wind doesn’t bite.”

“Come now, you do yourself a discredit,” Takashi said, as if chiding her gently.

Kishō quietly observed the exchange between his lieutenant and the elder woman. It was obvious that she was someone important to Takashi, which the unseated Shinigami took a note of. In fact, he felt slightly uncomfortable to be in their presence, as if he should give them time alone to catch up. Of course, it might be the common nature of the Hōsōshi clan who isolate themselves away from the commoners, who usually only know them from folklore.

As such, Kishō wanted to dismiss formalities with her. Seeing as of how Takashi interacted with Chiyoko, he changed his mind. After she introduced herself, the shorter Shinigami bowed curtly in front of her: a form of acknowledgement. Raising his head, the heterochromatic eyes shimmered with a hint of joy, “I thank you for your hospitality, Hotake-san,” he spoke gently to her. “As Sakuma-fukutaichō mentioned, I’m a member of his division. My name is Kishō Hōsōshi, and it is my pleasure to meet you and to see more of what Akakusa has to offer.”

“And I must admit, Hotake-san, your humble place is quite appealing as far as I’ve seen.” Chiyoko laughed, “My, you’re a formal one aren’t you. Not unlike Takashi, I’d say.” she teased. When the only reply from either of them was a rather sullen look, however, she realized that she had hit a nerve, and quickly tried to smooth things over, “Have you two had anything to eat?” she asked instead.

“We got something in town, thank you.” Takashi replied. His attention was beginning to stray towards the light that was coming from the dōjō. Chiyoko seemed to notice this, and smiled knowingly.

“I’ll make you some tea then.” she offered.

“That would be wonderful.” he murmured. Chiyoko turned back towards the house, and Takashi started towards the training hall. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” he said to Kishō, although it was as if he were only half aware of it and lost somewhere deep in thought.

Kishō trailed his eyes away from both, taking in the view in front of him. Just for a moment he took a glance at Chiyoko, shortly following her movements. Hearing the footsteps of Takashi, the shorter Shinigami immediately quickened his pace to catch up with him. He spoke no words, instead out of the corner of his eyes he caught the expression of Takashi, which told him enough.



The remnant’s of the dōjō’s past existence were clearly visible from the support beams that interrupted the evenness of the wood floor and the low ceiling crossed with heavy rafters. One could easily imagine stacks of wheat standing against the wall waiting to be threshed as opposed to the bamboo shinai used in kenjutsu practice. The interior of the training hall was well-lit, and bright light shone off of the worn, polished floorboards and created a halo around the only two other souls in the hall. There was a woman and a heavy-set, middle aged man in the center of the dōjō, and aish and Takashi entered they could hear the satisfying clack of bamboo as the two practitioners exchanged kata.

“Again,” the woman commanded as the man fell back, breathing heavily. He seemed to slump with defeat before managing to gather up his nerve and rush towards her once more. The woman, while clearly at a disadvantage when it came to sheer, kinetic force, was nimble and much lighter on her feet than her opponent. With a flash she had skirted around him, evading his blow and executing a graceful, horizontal cut through the protector over his abdomen. He stumbled back, panting, and it was at that moment that he noticed the two Shinigami standing there, watching him silently. The sweat already pouring down his face seemed to double, and the woman, in turn, stood straight and motionless.

“Let’s call it a night,” she said to the other practitioner, who, nodding and stumbling, made an overly-hasty exit of the dōjō.

A long moment of silence stretched between the three, until at last Takashi spoke.

“I hope that particularly poor example of swordsmanship is not normative for the dōjō,” he commented. The woman seemed to sag with relief, at once the tension from her shoulders dissipated.

“After all this time that is the first thing you say to me?” she asked. Her voice was mellow, soothing, and strong.

“What would you want me to say?” he asked, and she simply shook her head, her eyes shining with amusement.

“I assume you did not come here simply to comment on the quality of the teaching,” she said, and she narrowed her eyes as if challenging him.

“No, but I imagine it is as excellent as always.” Takashi said. The woman smiled and shifted her stance.

“Perhaps you would like to find that out for yourself.” she said as she placed her hand on the hilt of the shinai. Takashi, however, shook his head.

“Actually I was hoping you would be willing to spar with Hōsōshi-san,” he said. She paused and seemed to consider this for a moment, before nodding.

“Very well, you may choose any of those shinai there,” she said, motioning towards the wall.

Kishō did not move from his position. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at his superior, the irises were more clear to appear as slits, and from his height, the shadow of his hair darkened the colours. “I’d prefer to pass up this opportunity.” His voice wasn’t as gentle as before, or it was just an imagination with Kishō’s current appearance.

In reality, the Hōsōshi feared to wield any sort of weapon without the mediation, or rather when there were more people with him, as he still lacked the confidence to pick up an unsheathed weapon in his hands.

“That is a rather dangerous expression, Shinigami-san,” the woman noted, “Are you afraid that you would accidentally injure me in some way?” her question was honest, but it was clear that she was trying to antagonize him. “I can assure you, that isn’t likely to happen.” She squared her shoulders proudly, her skin glowing with energy and her dark eyes burning bright as she challenged him.

By closing his eyes, Kishō managed to regain his composure and a gentle smile replaced the stoic expression. He did not comment on her first line that was aimed at him. “I believe you’re greatly mistaken,” Kishō retorted in a calmer tone, “I fear I’m no match for you.”

Takashi, in the meantime, had made his way over to the wall and selected one of the shinai. He weighed it in his hand evenly before tossing it in Kishō’s direction.

“Why don’t you try this one,” he suggested rather sharply.

Despite his apparent inexperience, which Kishō countered under different circumstances, caused extra suspicion to his superior. Once more, his reaction was on point, and normally would have caught the object. His hand was outstretched to catch it, seeing what was thrown at him, however, resulted him into a “frozen state”.

The shinai clattered on the floor after it grazed Kishō’s palm.

Kishō brought the trembling palm in front of him, his eyes had no shock in them. He clenched it, fingers digging into the skin, as the trembles continued. Yet, he remained in an utter silence as if he was fighting with himself.

“Hōsōshi-san,” Takashi said, “Pick up the shinai.”

“I refuse.”

“Is that so? Tell me, Hōsōshi-san, on what grounds do you come by that authority?”

He clenched his hand tighter. It was too late to restore his pride about this, as he should’ve known that his initial refusal wouldn’t be enough. “If I recall correctly, Sakuma-fukutaichō… you told me that I’m not worthy of wielding a sword.” Kishō rested his other hand on top of the hilt of the katana, a subconscious habit, “those are my grounds.”

Takashi strode towards him, his steps long and powerful, but before reaching him he stopped to pick up the dropped shinai himself. He slapped it against his palm, and the sound echoed in the empty training hall.

“Does this look like a sword to you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Kishō’s answer was a simple word. After all, he was no mere practitioner of swordsmanship.

Takashi’s eyes narrowed, and he pointed the tip of the shinai in Kishō’s direction, “Perhaps in the hands of a master,” he said, “But at your current level of skill such a statement is nothing more than empty presumption.”

“Sakuma-san…” the woman began, but she stopped as soon as Kishō started to reply.

“That might be true, Sakuma-fukutaichō.” Kishō paused, his eyes no longer concealing his tiredness. He was tired of running away, instead of facing his deeds. “But her death isn’t caused by an amateur either.” The undertone of his voice sounded much colder mixed with his obvious exhaustion. However, Kishō wasn’t finished yet,

“Remember that I am no young soul either.”

Takashi seemed to draw back, and his eyes widened. For Kishō to speak so casually of Wakiya’s death startled him, and at first he was unsure of how to respond. But then, as it had done then, his anger began to well up within him and drown out his voice of reason.

“Do not dare speak of what has happened as though it is something to be proud of,” his voice was ice as he glared darkly at Kishō, his eyes burning with wrath. “What you have done is nothing short of murder... I have been forgiving up until now, but be warned, Hōsōshi, that you are beginning to severely try my patience.”

The expression of Kishō did not change. Instead, the Hōsōshi observed his superior closely, “Might I ask you what you know? ” He fully turned towards Takashi now, the woman completely forgotten. “After all, Sakuma-san, you speak as if you witnessed the scene with your own eyes, and failed drastically as the supervisor to stop a vital action.”

No longer did the Hōsōshi speak to Takashi as a Shinigami.

“If you wish for me to retire as a Shinigami for the sake of others, I will gladly do so.” He spoke less firm as before, “It should please my clan even more.”

Takashi fell silent. That Kishou had pointed out his own failure served only to rub salt in his wounds, and he found bitter guilt seeping into his mind once more, threatening to choke him.

“There can be no turning back,” he said gravely, “Not for you, nor for me. Did you think I have not realized my own failures?” he asked, and the pain in his voice was evident. “But there is a distinction between you and I, Hōsōshi-san. That is that unlike you, I refuse to act out of cowardice.”

It was odd, Kishō had a soft smile on his lips… while his orbs had a certain spark of amusement in them. “You did not answer my question, Sakuma-san.” He spoke firmer now, the smile remaining, as most of what Takashi said did not affect him, “There is also the fact that you failed to comprehend the strengths and weaknesses of your squad.”

“Do not misunderstand me, Sakuma-san. I am well-aware of my greatest weaknesses. You, as my superior, should’ve prepared for that.” He stated his own mind on the matter, “And I do not blame you, as I’ve not allowed any of such data become existent in the Shinigami’s database. My family isn’t that fond of them, you see.”

“You are correct,” Takashi nearly spat, “Under normal circumstances, Hōsōshi, I do not account for division members turning on and killing their helpless comrades.” he found himself fingering the hilt of the shinai that he still gripped tightly in his hand, I should have never trusted you, he added silently.

His hand no longer trembled, which, now, pinched his nose as a deep breath escaped him. “I will repeat, Sakuma-san. Why do you think her death happened?” But a moment later he rested his other hand on the hilt of the katana again, “Actually, forget what I’ve asked. I give up on trying to make you Shinigami understand.” A flare of anger finally flung into his tone, while he almost inaudibly revealed something of the past, “It’s the same as 300 years ago.”

“If you want to hear the words, Sakuma-san. It was a life or death situation, if I allowed her to crush my throat, I’d not be here.” Kishō did not mention that he was influenced by his Zanpakutō, “As such, in order for me to survive, Wakiya died by my hands.”

He became more quiet, all he last muttered is: “You can’t… or won’t… understand.”

His eyes casted down, the grip on the hilt tightening. He felt its presence, which made him feel nauseous, while the whispers still kept unheard.

The tension in the room was exacerbated by the Reiatsu that suddenly began pouring from Kishō’s Zanpakutō, and Takashi nearly lunged forwards with the instinct to attack, or act, or at least do something. But then he found that someone had caught him by his sleeve, and the woman shook her head, asking him in her own, wordless way to restrain himself.

Then she straightened up, took in a deep breath and shouted: “That is enough, both of you!”

The two Shinigami stared at her, and she continued, her voice significantly more calm and even then her initial outburst. “If you want to fight, then do it with actual words, not insults. Both of you owe each other an apology.” she said, and the intensity of her glare could have melted glass. “It doesn’t matter if you’re Shinigami or not, and it doesn’t matter what you’re even fighting about: you are disgracing the dōjō itself. You should show some respect.”

Kishō lowered his gaze, the floor reflected his eyes, and it discerned his remorse. The Reiatsu felt thicker than before, as if it wanted to suffocate him, at least, that’s how the wielder perceives it. His pale complexion had definitely taken a tone down, perhaps these are symptoms of his exaggerated exhaustion.

It didn’t take away his stern voice, “I apologise for intruding, ojō-san.” Kishō didn’t get a name, nor had he any particular interest in the “commoner” at this moment.

He took a sharp turn, his back straightened out and showed no indication of his lousy state, as he left his superior and the woman behind. Perhaps a moment of solitude would do him better, which, of course, meant that he should find a quiet and serene place.

The moment he reached the entrance of the dōjō, the heir of the Hōsōshi clan leant against the doorframe. His breaths came out short and heavily, it felt as if he was truly suffocating now. It didn’t help once he felt the presence of his Zanpakutō stronger.

He didn’t want its help.

Yet, it felt as if the Reiatsu of the Zanpakutō embraced him entirely.

“I thought… I told you… that I don’t want you.” He muttered in agony, unable to say the sentence in one go.

Immediately the presence disappeared for Kishō. It wasn’t for those that could read Reiatsu.

He left them behind.

The Zanpakutō souls screeched out to him.

And there, next to the doorframe, rested the daishō.

This wasn’t the first time, after all, since the Zanpakutō made its presence aware. Perhaps Kishō wasn’t telling the entire truth about himself.

“Are you alright, Hōsōshi-san?” It was Chiyoko, who had come up on the path from the house and was now peering at him with a rather concerned expression creasing her forehead.

He gave a small nod towards Chiyoko, not wanting to speak as his voice would betray him. She blinked at him, and while still perplexed came nearer and reached out to take him by the arm.

“Come now, I said I’d make you some tea didn’t I? I think you might be in need of a good night’s rest,” she said, trying to comfort him.

“Indeed you would,” he calmly replied. Kishō didn’t move away from her approach, allowing the elder woman to take him with her.

“Did you know that there is a natural hot-springs just a little ways north of the house?” Chiyoko continued on cheerily, “It’s just in those woods over there, perhaps you’d like to visit it after you’ve had your tea. Mainly it’s used by the students here at the dōjō…”

Chiyoko chattered on as the two made their way back towards the house, but she paused a little ways down the path to cast a worried glance back in the dōjō’s direction. If she wondered what had happened, she did not ask Kishou, instead keeping those thoughts to herself.



The silence rang out clearly after Kishō had left the dōjō. At first both he and the woman simply stood staring after the door, but then she began to move about to stack equipment and straighten up after the day’s training.

Why didn’t you stop me? Takashi asked Kohaku.

Would you have listened? She waited for what she had said to settle in, then went on. ''You’ve allowed your suspicion of Hōsōshi to cloud your judgment and impede your better reasoning. You could have very easily revealed your actual motives here. He already distrusts you, if not hates you. And I would not blame him after the way you have been treating him.''

Takashi closed his eyes in remorse. What his Zanpakutō had said was true, and he was left with no excuse. As always his soul was bare to Kohaku: there was no hiding anything from her.

After a moment’s contemplation, Takashi went to help the woman with her task of scrubbing and polishing a set of bōgu, and the lines in his jaw were tight as he said:

“Rue, I’m sorry… I did not intend for things to go so poorly.”

She shook her head with a sad smile. “I forgive you, but I must admit that your outburst surprised me.” she said gently. “Takashi, I know it is not my business to ask but… what happened between you and him?”

Perhaps it was the familiar motion of the polishing cloth across the helmet he held, or the quiet intimacy of the deserted training hall, but he soon found that he was revealing much more than he had intended to her. He told her of the mission at the mill and Wakiya’s death, of Kishō’s connection to the Hōsōshi, and explained the repeated hesitation he had observed when it came to Kishō and his own Zanpakutō.

“So that is why you are here,” she said after he had ended. “How long are you going to stay?” she asked.

“Only for the night. We will leave tomorrow afternoon.” Takashi said, “We are headed south, to Mount Uroko.”

“For training?”

“Yes,” he replied with his brow furrowed in worry.

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know…”

For a long moment there was only the sound rough scratching as they continued to clean the armor, perhaps more vigorously than they would have otherwise done.

“I noticed you changed the uniform,” Takashi said at an attempt at small-talk. “Did you make them yourself?” He was referring to the sturdily woven, dark blue training kosode that both Rue and the man from earlier had been wearing. The mon of the dōjō was emblazoned on each side of the chest, and he felt a twinge of melancholy to see Rue wearing the crest of his former master.

“I did,” she said, and she seemed pleased.

And then Takashi’s hands stopped, and he stared intently at the floor in front of him, the solemn weight of what he was about to ask crushing down upon him.

“Rue,” he began, “There is something… there is something I need to do. I must ask a favor of you.”

She set the piece of the bōgu she had been working on aside and folded her hands in her lap, sensing the seriousness of his proposition and turning her full attention to his request.

“Are there any skilled kenjutsu students here?” he asked. Seeing her bewilderment he expounded, “Swordsmen who could hold their own against me in a fight.”

She nodded, slowly. “But only a handful. About ten or so.” she told him. Takashi cupped his chin in his hand and thought.

“Then,” he began, “Here is what I will ask you to do...”