The Burial Ground

"Hi~Hi~!"

"This time, which sweetheart is calling my name... Huh, it's you guys again?"

Nimaiya Ōetsu's dark face, which nearly filled the entire screen, stretched comically due to the camera's effect before snapping back to a serious expression the moment he saw who was on the other side. He sighed in resignation:

"So, what's the request this time?"

On the other end, Tsunayashiro Makoto, the eldest son of the Tsunayashiro family, glared at the screen with a darkened expression. His face was twisted in fury as he barked at the God of the Zanpakutō:

"Nimaiya!"

"You never kept your promise to us!"

"You swore you'd stop all the Ryū invaders!"

"Our clan already delivered all the forging materials you demanded straight to the Royal Palace!"

"And now?!" Tsunayashiro Makoto's voice rose to a shrill, almost hysterical pitch. "They've broken through to the third district!"

"Where the hell are you, as one of the Royal Guard?!"

"Eh? They weren't stopped?" Nimaiya on the other side of the screen seemed slightly surprised. He picked his nose nonchalantly before continuing:

"Well~ The price you paid only covered this much."

Tsunayashiro Makoto froze.

He seemed utterly confused:

"W-What do you mean?"

Nimaiya Ōetsu looked at him as if it were obvious, counting off on his fingers:

"Four Celestial Stones, six Spirit Vein Branches, a pack of Soul King Powder, plus all those miscellaneous little things... After deducting my labor fees, all that was only enough for me to forge four Zanpakutō for you."

"I'm Nimaiya Ōetsu, the one-of-a-kind craftsman who never mixes personal debts with business!"

"I said I'd help you once, and I never go back on my word."

"But isn't this just you being too damn stingy?"

Tsunayashiro Makoto was stunned: "W-Wait, weren't you supposed to step in personally?!"

"Hey—!"

Nimaiya's voice suddenly turned icy. "Listen, this whole mess happened because you idiots didn't listen to the Monk and screwed up the situation in the lower world, didn't it?"

"Besides, there are only two people in the Royal Palace—me and Ōshō! And you expect me to descend to the lower world without that big bald guy's permission... Do you take me for a fool, or do you really think he's blind?!"

"Not to mention, to repay that damn favor from a thousand years ago, I even sent down sixty of my beloved Sweetheart Guards!"

"Sixty!" He held up six fingers, his voice rising. "No matter how big that favor was, it's more than paid off now!"

Tsunayashiro Makoto roared in protest: "That's not enough! We agreed you'd take action yourself! What good are some stupid Zanpakutō and a few guards?!"

"Eh? Don't underestimate my blades!"

At this point, Nimaiya's tone shifted back to casual, feigning indifference as he bragged:

"Even if they're failed prototypes, the power of those Zanpakutō isn't much different from me stepping in personally."

"After all, all I had to do was pour a fraction of my spiritual pressure into them to create a clone that lasts about thirty minutes."

"With the materials you provided, they'd only reach about First-Class spiritual pressure—no Shikai or Bankai, of course. But even so, those four blades I sent down, plus four Sayafushi, would be more than enough to wipe the floor with all five noble families."

"Too bad! If you'd coughed up something more valuable, I might've even boosted their power to the pinnacle of what a Shinigami can achieve!"

"Now that I think about it..."

"Isn't this all your fault?"

Nimaiya Ōetsu shrugged, effortlessly shifting all blame onto them.

"You... you bastard...!" Tsunayashiro Makoto was so furious he could barely think straight.

"Ah... crap!!"

As if suddenly remembering something, Nimaiya's voice turned urgent. His elongated face pressed close to the screen again as he shouted:

"Hey, hey, hey!"

"Wait! You just said all four blades were destroyed, right?!"

"Forget the material costs for the clones—you still owe me for the four Sayafushi!"

"Even if you're about to be wiped out, make sure you pay me back first, you Tsunayashiro scum! And don't forget the compensation for my Sweethearts' trauma—"

SLAM!

Before he could utter that terrifying number, Tsunayashiro Makoto viciously shut off the Royal Palace communicator. He slammed his fist onto the table with a heavy thud, roaring in rage:

"That damn bastard!!!"

Just as he was about to lose himself in furious screams, ready to smash everything on the table, a slow, aged sigh came from behind him.

"Enough, Makoto."

Tsunayashiro Makoto stiffened, then turned with great difficulty to look behind him.

There, sitting formally on the floor, was Tsunayashiro Shōgo.

His eyes were closed.

Across his lap lay an ancient-styled katana.

"F-Father..."

Tsunayashiro Makoto's lips trembled as if he wanted to say something, but the sight of his father's current state left him speechless.

It had only been two months since the day of "The Sovereign's Wrath," yet Tsunayashiro Shōgo looked as though he had aged decades. His once salt-and-pepper hair had turned completely white, and his once-vigorous demeanor had withered into exhaustion. The wrinkles on his face sagged, making him seem like he had aged from fifty to eighty in an instant.

Tsunayashiro Makoto watched his father silently.

For an entire month, Tsunayashiro Shōgo had sat here without rest, completing that secret technique.

Now that he had finally spoken...

It could only mean one thing.

The technique was complete.

And in exchange—this old man's life.

"Delaying them this long is enough."

Tsunayashiro Shōgo slowly rose to his feet.

Though his body appeared frail, the moment he stood, an overwhelming, mountain-like pressure radiated from him as he stepped forward.

He opened his eyes and looked at his eldest son, sighing inwardly.

Compared to Ogata's composure in the face of death, Makoto was still far lacking.

If only...