AOMR 34

The kettle whistled loudly in the otherwise quiet house.

A quiet, steady sound that slipped through the air and into his ears. Nothing like the roaring geysers of steam that once issued from Ryūjin Jakka or the chorus of screams that accompanied his younger days. Just a polite whistle. It almost felt like even the kettle was tired and sought its own retirement.

Yamamoto rose as he discarded his brush and unfinished kanji to the side. He moved slowly, an act that was not necessary, an act that hid the fluidity of his joints and limbs. Unlike a mortal old man, there were no creaks, groans, or protests from his body. He simply moved like that due to reinforced habit that followed the stature that came with an older man.

He made the short walk to the kitchen, then lifted the pot from the flame. His hands did not tremble at the weight as he poured the hot water over the tea leaves. The smell of roasted barley rose with the steam. It was quiet here. It had been for some months.

There were the ever-present children, of course, but with the city growing peaceful they had been given a wider range of movements, accompanied by the multitude of momentary rewards that had been heaped upon him since he killed the towering monstrosity of stone and fire. He had discarded them to the side and Sachiko, the ever-reliable woman, had taken them in hand and used them to send all the children to the human version of the Shinigami academy.

He took his cup and sat by the window, looking out at the garden. A garden he had planted months ago, with the sole purpose of creating reishi-infused tea leaves. The project had ballooned and now it was a host to more than just tea leaves. There were a variety of other flowers present as well as a small artificial pond. The moss was coming in nicely. The sakura tree he had planted was due to bloom soon. What would’ve been an act of at least a decade had been cut short due to the amount of reishi he allowed into it.

His mind drifted. Mei Mei was busy, she was growing fast and the child had decided she wanted to be a hero. He had not cared to stop, judge, or correct her. He had simply given a nod and sipped his tea. That was all the permission she had required before running off with her blue-eyed friend. Kenta was just as busy, keeping vigilant watch over the territory while making sure to check up on the younger girl.

Yamamoto had brought in an ill-mannered brute from his… brief stroll into China, and Sachiko had whipped, prodded, and beat the brute into submission in a matter of days. Still, it was an act of smoothing out the edges. Kenta had as much Chōjirō in him as he did Kenpachi. Yet Yamamoto was loath to call anyone else Chōjirō or even a lieutenant. The name and title Kenpachi would be enough, even if he was a far cry from the true monsters that held that title.

Yamamoto’s mind wandered again. It had been doing that a lot recently. He had once ruled a wasteland of death, in the Soul King's name. He had barked orders across battlefields soaked in blood, and he had cut through armies with flame, fury, and purpose. Now, he watched his koi fish chase each other in slow, lazy circles inside their pond. Retirement. Peace. It was a strange reward, perhaps, for a life such as his, a life he had led by the blade.

But then, perhaps it was not so strange.

He sipped his tea. Still hot. Still bitter. More importantly, still fueled with reishi. Not nearly the quality or amount he was used to, but better than nothing.

Once, long ago, longer than most civilizations, he had sat upon broken hillsides littered with the blood of his enemies and asked himself what would come after war. That was the difference between a warlord and a commander, wasn’t it? By then he was no longer a simple warlord, he had slowly begun to transition into something else. The warlord wanted to win. The commander had to think about what came next. About rebuilding. About the generations to come.

He hadn’t always understood that.

There had been a time when the smell of fresh blood and the weight of his sword were the only truths he cared for. In that era, things had been simpler. He had been a killer. A war-bringer. He remembered the silence after his first battle, standing alone amid the corpses, rain falling on blood-soaked and stained white kimono.

He had felt nothing.

It had taken him far too long to understand that was not strength.

He had built the Gotei 13 to change that. To make something that endured. Something that protected instead of simply killed. A shield rather than just a sword. Something that could protect the soul of the world even if it was born from men like him.

He still remembered them, the first captains. Monsters all in all. Wild beasts disguised as men and women. As dangerous as a katana without a hilt, to wield them was to know they were as likely to cut you as they were to cut your enemy. However, despite all that, they had been loyal in their own way, but barely tamed. He had to earn their respect, not with speeches but with his fire, with his presence, with his willingness to stand in front of anything. With his willingness to beat them within an inch of their life. To tame monsters, you needed to be the biggest monster of them all.

And now…

Now they were all gone.

He looked at his calligraphy, half-finished kanji on parchment. His brush had dried while he was remembering.

Another sigh.

Ichibe would have scolded him for that, called him "sloppy." Then let out a boisterous laugh. He wondered, did he miss that? Did he truly? The answer came easy to him. He did not. He had his fill of it, and like everything, it was time to move on. So he had, discarding those thoughts. He moved back to the present, not the past.

Kenta, the whelp, had promise, fierce and clear-eyed. Just enough arrogance to push forward. Just enough wisdom to know when to shut up and listen, especially when the one speaking had shown the capability to beat him within an inch of his life and the willingness to do it again. Mimi, too. Sharp like her Sachiko. She didn’t flinch when challenged. After her kidnapping, she had grown sharper, more focused, and unwilling to be the reason he nearly wiped out a continent once more. She reminded him of Unohana in her own way.

These whelps, his whelps. They were the ones shaping this new world. Not him. He was done commanding.

He did not miss the violence, a strange thought. It was an acknowledgment that surprised him. He had thought he might. He had… worried that with the amount of violence he had indulged in, the slaughter, the killing, he had wondered if he was slowly reverting back to his old bloodstained ways.

Yet now, over a year later, and he didn’t feel the urge to go out. He truly had mellowed out. Still, there was something about hearing a knock on his door and knowing it was because someone required his strength, his wisdom, his judgment. Now, the knocks were rare. And gentle. More often asking if he needed an extra brush or cup of ink.

He stared down at his hand. Wrinkled, veined, and old. Yet still broad. Still steady enough to grip a sword, if he had to. But there was no one left who would ask it of him. No one would dare for fear of what his acting upon the world would cause. The Endbringers had grown silent, gone were their attacks. He did not know why and did not care either. The world had grown just the slightest bit better by his presence.

The thought should have brought peace. He had earned this rest. He knew that. But once in a while, there were days, like today, when peace felt like a punishment more than a reward.

He looked past his garden, past the trees, the flowers, leaves, and the koi pond, and to the street. The primitive locomotives the mortals used passed frequently, yet like they knew a sleeping dragon lay in the house, more often than not, they slowed down the moment they got too close. Making sure the whine and rattling of their vehicles did not disturb him.

A loud bang rang out in the distance, and once upon a time, he would have risen at the sound of that strike, half-expecting some new enemy, some new threat to test his mettle. Now, he stayed seated, cup to his lips.

If there was a threat, they would handle it. Kenta, Mimi, the new generation. He had trained them well. Pushed them harder than they thought they could bear. And still, they came back, stronger each time. He had not been gentle, but he had been fair.

They would not fail.

Still...

What does a sword do when there is no more war? What does a fire do when there is nothing left to burn? He took another sip of his tea. It had cooled now, grown dull. He thought he had answered these questions once when he decided to drop the sword and take up the brush. Yet they still managed to creep on him more often than not.

He set the cup aside and returned to his brush, wetting the bristles, drawing the next stroke with slow, deliberate care. The kanji for patience.

It came easily to his hand.

He cracked a smile, a faint one that would have required the use of one of those glasses older mortals tended to wear to see, but a smile all the same. Perhaps this new life, this retirement, too, was a kind of battle. Not a familiar one, but one all the same. A battle where he had to remain, to endure, to outlive every version of himself until nothing was left but the old man, the old man who wanted peace enough to stay still. Yamamoto knew enough about battles. He had won enough to see this new challenge as something interesting.

Mimi would come soon. Maybe with questions. Maybe with stories of the new mission she had undertaken in her goal of becoming a hero who saved people as he saved her. He would listen. He would offer advice if asked. But he would not interfere.

The garden swayed softly in the breeze, and Yamamoto dipped the brush into the ink pot again, wetting the tip with ink before pressing it against paper once more, the movements growing familiar.

He would write. He would drink his tea. He would live, in this quiet twilight, and leave this new world to those who had inherited his fire, same as he had done in his past world.

And if this new world ever forgot who he had been as his past one had? He would not mind. It was not his world, despite his acts. Their fights were not his fight. He had sought peace and he had gained it. Now all that was left was to rest.

There was a sudden knock on the door, disturbing his peace and contemplation. However, as the only one around, Yamamoto dropped his brush and stood up, then made his way towards one of the strongest yet twisted reiatsu signatures he had felt since appearing in this world.

He twisted the doorknob and pushed it to the side, and standing just beyond the threshold was a young girl.

Long blonde. Pale features. Her hair was curled slightly at the tips, and her eyes were wide and an unnatural shade of blue. The kind of eyes that spoke of madness in a different form. The kind of eyes that stared into the darkness, and when it stared back, the owner giggled.

She wore a white dress with frills, entirely too clean for the road. Her hands were folded in front of her and her feet were bare, yet had not a single sign of dirt on them. But above it all, it was her smile that proved the most interesting. It was too wide, too smooth. It was a mask. All these and more he saw with closed eyes.

"Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto," the child said in a singsong voice.

He said nothing.

"I greet you, outsider to the court," she added, tilting her head just a touch too far. Her eyes never blinking. "I am the Faerie Queen and I have come to extend courtesies."

Still, he said nothing. The girl’s smile sharpened. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just... more. "You did not bow," she said softly, almost disappointed. "Most bow. Even the clever ones." Yamamoto looked down at her bare feet, then met her gaze again.

She let out a theatrical sigh before speaking once more. “As expected of one, not of the court. May I come in? There is much to discuss.” Yamamoto remained silent for five heartbeats before opening the door wide open as he turned his back on the being masquerading as a simple child. “I hope you like tea.”

He heard a giggle behind him, and he wondered with the slightest bit of exasperation. Has his new retirement come to an end once again?