[Event: Bond Level with Saitō Furofushi Increased ↑]
[Reward: None (Training Bout)]
[Acquired Bond Trait: Art of Footcraft]
[Bond Trait · Art of Footcraft: Your boundless passion for the feet of maidens has finally set you on the ultimate path known as The Art of the Foot.]
[Bond Effect: The further you tread The Art of the Foot, the higher your Shunpo talent ceiling rises current limit breached, talent restriction now at Tier 8]
[Quote: "The first time I saw Saitō-chan's feet, how should I put it? Well, it sounds a bit crude, but… heh, I popped a boner!" - Makoto · Face Censored · Fujimiya.
[Recorded in the Daireishokairō][1]
"What?!"
The dojo emptied out as the instructors dispersed.
The battered hall stood silent, abandoned.
Makoto scrolled through the dense wall of system prompts flickering before his eyes, only to stumble upon a tiny entry tucked at the bottom.
Instantly, his jaw dropped.
He stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the fine print: Recorded in the Daireishokairō.
For a moment, his mind couldn't process it.
When it finally clicked, he sprang into action like a rabbit on fire. Darting forward, he seized the battered Asauchi he'd tossed aside, red-eyed and frenzied, shaking it wildly.
"Delete it! You damn thing, delete it now!"
"Written in a place like that, it's going to be skimmed by a horde of people, isn't it?!"
"This is pure slander!"
"Defamation!"
"A stain on my honor!"
But what use was this pitiful, raging howl beyond making noise?
It was just a sword, after all.
Makoto clutched his sorry little blade, bellowing until he realized he might look a tad ridiculous.
After all, his Zanpakutō never so much as farted a tune when they were alone.
It only perked up abnormally so when it could stir trouble for him.
Yet just as he was about to give up, a faintly familiar female voice chimed in his head, laced with a chiding, exasperated tone.
[You really don't get it at all, do you?]
[Onee-chan will show you the way.]
[Here's the deal, go grab those tabi right now, tie them to the scabbard, knot 'em tight, and trust me, you'll thank me later!]
It spoke?!
Makoto gawked at the blade in his hands, stunned.
During Jinzen, it wouldn't even dignify him with a peep![2]
But as her words sank in, suspicion crept over him, his expression wavering between belief and doubt.
His sidelong glance fell on the tabi Saitō Furofushi had left on the floor.
White.
Soft.
Likely cotton, about palm-sized roughly the fit of a grown man's glove.
Maybe because they were fresh that day, or perhaps high-tier Shinigami didn't sweat like mortals, they carried no stench when he picked them up.
They even smelled… faintly sweet.
"Hm?!"
Makoto jolted upright, flinging the tabi he'd somehow clutched back to the ground.
This damn blade was definitely messing with him!
[Quick! Do it already!]
Seeing his reluctance, his Zanpakutō only grew more insistent.
Makoto hesitated, his thoughts drifting to the breached Shunpo talent cap on his panel…
"I'll just... give it a tiny try!"
"I'll untie it right after."
He muttered to himself.
With that justification, his conscience lightened considerably. Reaching down, he fastened the tabi to the sageo cord at the scabbard's end.[3]
The moment he did, the panel reacted.
[You've advanced further on The Path of Footcraft!]
[Shunpo (Talent Restriction): Tier 9 ↑]
[Guh! Bliss~!]
Makoto froze, a short, spasmodic gasp escaping him as he rooted to the spot.
From now on, this wretched blade had him by the throat.
But…
If small acts like this could steadily transform an ordinary guy like him into a genius rivaling Soul Society's elite...
Being a little weird didn't seem so bad.
The sheer, immediate payoff, so stark it hit like a freight train, sparked a shift in him.
Makoto began to rationalize it!
Once the perverse thought takes root, the world opens wide.
Even if it was for the sake of growing stronger, he'd have to walk this Footcraft path further, damn it!
"That's right!"
"Exactly!"
"A necessary sacrifice!"
He thrust his Zanpakutō high, bellowing to psych himself up!
Pity the figure behind him wasn't so indulgent.
"Ahem, cough-cough."
Makoto's body seized with a shiver, whipping around.
There, at the dojo's entrance, stood Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto alongside Chōjirō Sasakibe and Genjirō Ōkikiba.
Sasakibe, perhaps out of fellow fanboy camaraderie, clenched a fist to his mouth, feigning a consumptive fit with exaggerated coughs.
Sasakibe shot him frantic winks, desperation in his eyes.
Yamamoto's death-mask face bore a grave expression, wrinkles folding into each other.
Ōkikiba turned his head aside, shielding half his face too mortified to look.
There stood Makoto in the ravaged dojo's center, head tilted skyward, gripping his sword aloft. Dangling from the sageo cord beneath the scabbard fluttered the pair of tabi he'd just won from Saitō Furofushi's feet.
Half a foot more, and they'd be in his mouth.
He looked downright eager.
No!
To these three, it must've seemed he was about to "sample" them the moment the place cleared out!
"Huh?!"
"N-No!"
"It's not what you think!"
Makoto's body went rigid, his heart sinking like cold lead. He thrust out a hand in a frantic gesture.
It's over... they know!
Yet, astonishingly, Yamamoto merely regarded him with that heavy look.
Only when Makoto seemed to settle did the old man speak, his voice a deep, middle-aged rumble, "Got everything you need?"
"Then let's go."
That unflappable calm from Yamamoto only deepened Makoto's embarrassment.
Still, for the sake of his honor, he forced himself to speak, resolute, "Actually, I'm not the pervert you think I am!"
"It's all this Zanpakutō's fault!"
As he declared it, the girlish tabi tied to his scabbard swayed in the breeze like a bold, proud banner.
As if nodding in agreement.
Sasakibe buried his face in his hands.
Hopeless.
Yamamoto, meanwhile, turned away without a care, striding toward the dojo's rear courtyard.
As he walked, his low voice intoned a lesson, "To teach without distinction, that's the creed of the Genji School."
"So long as you don't disgrace this institution, whether you're a chicken, a dog, or some freak fond of women's tabi…"
"I'll treat you all the same."
"Follow me."
Those broad, unbridled words stirred something deep in Makoto, a surge of unexpected emotion.
At last, someone saw him!
And if you thought about it, it made sense!
Hadn't Shunsui Kyoraku later become one of Yamamoto's disciples too?
This old man, reigning as the mightiest for over a millennium, what hadn't he witnessed?
Makoto's quirks were nothing in comparison!
Sure, Yamamoto's metaphors carried a sting, but for now, he'd let that slide.
"Yes, sir!"
Makoto pressed his lips tight, schooling his expression, and hurried to fall in behind the trio.
Sasakibe's eyes widened in awe.
As expected!
Worthy of Genryūsai-sama!
But as Makoto squeezed into step behind them, Yamamoto suddenly paused, as if noticing something. With a tone dripping with disdain, he waved him off, "Scram!"
"I didn't say follow this close, there's someone ahead!"
"Keep your distance from me."
"???"
---
[1] Daireishokairō (Great Spirit Book Gallery) is a repository of all the knowledge and history of Soul Society.
[2] Jinzen (Sword Zen) is a way to communicate with Zanpakuto and gain access to its name and powers.
[3] Sageo cord is a hanging cord that ties a Japanese sword's scabbard also known as saya to the belt.
***
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700 Power Stones = 4 BC
1000 Power Stones = 5 BC
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