In the factory district outside Junlin'an, the air carried its usual industrial blend of metallic heat and pulped paper—but today, the atmosphere felt… different.
Two figures walked down the main road in silence, one ahead and one behind. Workers paused mid-task to steal glances, their eyes wide with curiosity and awe.
"Look! Isn't that the guy people call the 'Number One Noble of the Soul Society'? Fifth Seat Shiki Mirai?"
"Wow… that aura—cold and distant, but with this undercurrent of melancholy… It's like he doesn't want anyone close, and yet I can't stop staring…"
"Nothing like the stuck-up noble geezers we usually see. Now that is what I call presence."
"Shhh! You wanna die? Keep it down!"
The two walking figures were, of course, Shiki Mirai and Third Seat Yamasue Tetsu.
They walked silently, as if surrounded by an invisible barrier that discouraged all approach.
Mirai, however, sighed inwardly.
This much attention is ridiculous…
Ever since they'd stepped out of the 9th Division barracks, all the way into this far-flung industrial zone, the stares hadn't stopped.
Not that he liked being treated like some rare creature on display, but… it wasn't all bad.
With this many eyes watching, anyone hoping to try something underhanded would think twice.
And besides… when it came time to publish the book, this kind of 'notoriety' could convert directly into cold, hard sales.
That was part of why, back when Yamasue suggested using his portrait for Seireitei Communication's illustration section, he hadn't exactly agreed—but he hadn't said no, either.
Once they reached the factory zone proper, the workers' attention began to wane. Though some still peeked at them on the sly, no one openly gawked anymore.
After all, people here worked to feed their families. Pretty boys didn't put food on the table.
Up ahead, Yamasue kept his gaze locked forward and spoke in a low voice:
"When we meet the printer, don't speak. Let me do the talking."
"Recently, the Ōmaeda family handed part of their industry to the young heir for 'training.' You've never studied noble etiquette. So remember—follow my lead."
Mirai slowed a step, giving the older man a sidelong glance.
Old Tetsu… are you kidding me? With your eternally expressionless 'iron face,' where exactly am I supposed to read your 'expression'? If you twitch a brow, I'll count it as my loss.
Didn't expect this—Old Tetsu with a sense of dry humor? Kind of terrifying… but also a little funny.
Suppressing a twitch in his lip, Mirai replied in an even voice:
"Understood. Though handing such a massive enterprise to a kid… the Ōmaeda sure are bold."
His gaze swept across the endless rows of buildings, each one sprawling and dense—every factory a river of revenue.
To let a mere "young heir" handle all this? That level of audacity… really made him feel poor.
Yamasue's tone remained flat, like describing gravity:
"This is the fundamental difference between the nobles and those from Rukongai. The resources they have access to… you can't even imagine."
"Even if the young heir loses a billion Kan, to the Ōmaeda family, it's a drop in the ocean. The important thing is that he learns how to manage large-scale operations."
"We're here."
Mirai stopped in front of the building.
The sign above the main gate read simply: Ōmaeda Printing Works. No fuss. No gilded plaques. Just big, bold characters daring you to get lost.
Yamasue gestured with his eyes for Mirai to wait outside. Then, solemnly, he took out the two manuscripts they'd polished the night before, straightened his collar, and stepped through the factory doors.
Mirai folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his robes and stood outside with a bored expression, casually scanning his surroundings.
Let this go smoothly… If I can get these published as standalone volumes, the efficiency of Spiritual Resonance collection will skyrocket.
His thoughts drifted back to the stifling limitations of serializing in Seireitei Communication.
A meager 3,000 characters per issue—even with his rising popularity and Captain Muguruma's leniency—was all they could afford him.
And that was already generous, considering how many captains submitted content themselves.
Captain Ukitake of the 13th wrote poetry, Unohana of the 4th shared insights into flower arrangement, and even Shunsui and Shinji would pen a few whimsical essays when the mood struck.
But emotion needed space to bloom.
A mere 3,000 characters? Nowhere near enough to build that emotional resonance—the kind of power that generated strong spiritual reactions.
If I could publish entire books… let the reader dive in, page after page, uninterrupted… the results would be on a whole other level.
And if this failed?
The image of Yoruichi's smirking face floated through his mind.
The Ōmaeda might be wealthy, but they were still only mid-tier nobles. And behind them stood none other than the Shihōin.
If Yoruichi decided to lean on them, even if they knew it would be a loss, the Ōmaeda would never dare say no.
But…
I really don't want to owe her.
"Hey, what are you doing here?"
The sudden voice—deep, yet laced with boyish youth—snapped Mirai out of his thoughts.
He turned to find a plump teenager standing a few steps away, clutching a massive bag of snacks. Crumbs clung to his lips. Judging by the casual air, he must've been some staff member's kid.
"I'm a writer," Mirai answered calmly. "I'm here to discuss printing my books."
"Oh?" the boy—Ōmaeda Kichiyo—eyed him up and down, still crunching away on his snacks.
He circled Mirai twice, inspecting him like a product on a shelf. Then, after a pause, he said:
"You're kinda good-looking. Which family are you from? I don't recognize you."
"I'm not a noble."
"Oh? Really?" Kichiyo's beady eyes twitched in surprise. "You're not a noble and you write books? You sure you're up to it?"
Unbothered, Mirai replied in the same even tone:
"My work's been serialized for years in Seireitei Communication. My pen name is 'Shika'."
"Oooh! You're that guy who wrote Prodigy Boy!*"
Kichiyo's face lit up with recognition. Then a hint of skepticism returned.
"I always figured the person who wrote that had to be some big-shot noble. Can't believe it's you."
In his little noble brain, people from Rukongai weren't just undereducated—they couldn't even string coherent logic together, let alone craft literature.
And that prideful, cutting aura that surrounded Aisuke, the protagonist of Prodigy Boy? That wasn't something he imagined a street rat could possibly create.
…