After chatting about the daily antics of the Eleventh Division and complaining about Captain Kenpachi’s incomprehensible “training” methods, the conversation, following a brief silence, subtly circled back to that name.
Yanagawa held his wine cup, his gaze fixed on the transparent liquid swirling inside.
He asked a question that seemed casual, his voice steady, carrying little hint of prying:
“Come to think of it, Renji, you were by her side when Rukia decided…
to accept the arrangements made by the Kuchiki Clan, weren’t you?”
The hand Renji was using to lift his cup paused slightly, then with a “glug,” he downed more than half the cup.
Only then did he wipe his mouth, grunt a vague “Mn,” and stare at the wood grain on the table.
“At that time,”
Yanagawa’s gaze shifted from his cup to his friend’s profile, continuing to ask in that same matter-of-fact tone,
“Did you ever think about doing something?
Or, looking back now, do you ever feel…
that perhaps you should have done something back then to stop her from stepping into that world?”
“Thud.”
The cup in Renji’s hand was set back down on the table rather heavily, emitting a dull thud.
He jerked his head up, his crimson eyebrows knit tightly together, the habitual bravado and straightforwardness on his face vanished.
In their place was a sense of irritation from having a sore spot suddenly touched, along with a deeper, almost overflowing complexity of emotions.
“Stop her?
With what was I supposed to stop her?!”
His voice rose involuntarily, but he didn’t care, or rather, he had no capacity to care at that moment.
“That’s the Kuchiki Clan!
The head of the Four Great Noble Families!
Captain Kuchiki stepped in personally.
The conditions they offered, what they could give to Rukia, were things that a guy like me, rolling in the mud of the Rukongai, wouldn’t even dare to dream of!”
“Safety, status, never having to worry about going hungry again, never having to worry about being attacked by a Hollow…
On what grounds could I stop her?
What right did I have to stop her?!”
His words burst out like a barrage, carrying intense emotion—whether directed at Yanagawa’s question or at his own helpless and frustrated self from back then, he didn’t know.
But after the roar, that momentum quickly wilted.
He lowered his head, his fingers unconsciously and forcefully scratching at the rough texture on the side of the cup.
The noise in the tavern seemed to be shut out from this small area, leaving only the somewhat stifling silence at their table.
“Regret, huh…”
Renji’s voice dropped, becoming hoarse, repeating the sharper word from Yanagawa’s question.
He tugged at the corner of his mouth, trying to flash his usual, indifferent sneer, but failed; his expression twisted into an indescribable bitter smile.
“To say I haven’t thought about it would be bullshit.”
He stared at the wine cup, as if he could see the past in its reflection.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, carrying the heavy scent of alcohol:
“I regret…
I regret why I was so weak back then.”
“At the Shin’ō Academy, my grades weren’t as good as yours, I had no talent for Kido, just brute force.
After graduation, I tried desperately to get stronger, joined the Eleventh Division, thinking that as long as I could fight well, that would be enough.
But some things can’t be solved just by hacking away.”
“I even…”
His voice dropped lower, almost as if he were talking to himself.
“I even regret that back in the Rukongai, maybe I shouldn’t have always dragged her around, causing trouble?
If I had been more reliable, if I had gotten stronger sooner, could I have given her a…
a safe place that didn’t depend on the charity of others?”
But he said these words with no conviction.
They knew the cruelty of the Rukongai better than anyone.
In that land of survival of the fittest, what was called “safety” was such a luxurious and illusory thing.
“But…”
Renji suddenly downed another mouthful of alcohol.
This time he drank too quickly and choked, coughing twice.
The corners of his eyes turned a bit red, whether from the choking or something else, it was unclear.
“But what could I have changed?
What could I have said?
Could I really have clung to her legs and cried, ‘Don’t go’?
That would have been truly scummy!”
Yanagawa listened quietly, not interrupting or judging.
He simply acted as a listener, watching his friend pour out the emotions he had suppressed for years, fueled by the alcohol and this direct question.
He understood Renji’s pain.
It didn’t stem from a lack of care or concern, but rather from the intense tearing sensation between deep affection and his own lack of power to provide a “better option.”
And the loneliness of watching helplessly as someone important walked down a path destined to be filled with distance, a path he was powerless to accompany her on.
Renji finally seemed to have exhausted all his strength; his shoulders slumped slightly, his voice weary.
“So what’s the point of regret?
She chose that path herself, and at the time, it was the best path I could see for her.”
“All I can do now is keep getting stronger, strong enough that if she ever needs help, I’ll have the power to do something, instead of just standing there and watching like I did back then.”
Yanagawa picked up his own cup, which he had barely touched, and gently pushed it in front of Renji.
“You aren’t wrong, Renji.”
Yanagawa finally spoke, his voice calm yet carrying a strange sense of persuasiveness.
“And Rukia isn’t wrong either.
At that moment, you both made the most exhaustive choices you could, based on your own understanding and abilities.”
“Ah…
maybe.”
He said in a low voice, downing the wine in his cup.
This time, the swallowing motion was much calmer.
“Thanks, Yanagawa.
Sometimes talking to a guy like you really clears my head.”
He tried to force a smile again, though it was still a bit strained.
Yanagawa smiled slightly and didn’t continue this heavy topic.
He knew that some emotional knots needed time and required the person involved to resolve them on their own.
All he could do was provide a listening ear and a bit of calm analysis from the perspective of a bystander.
“Boss, another pot!”
Renji shouted toward the counter, his voice recovering some of its usual vitality, though the complex shadow deep in his eyes had not completely dissipated.