The Great Hall of the First Division was painfully empty.
Where thirteen proud Captains used to stand in two neat, imposing lines, there were now massive, gaping holes.
Second Division—empty (Yoruichi vanished).
Third Division—empty (Rose hollowfied).
Fifth Division—empty (Shinji hollowfied).
Seventh Division—empty (Love hollowfied).
Ninth Division—empty (Kensei hollowfied).
Twelfth Division—empty (Urahara exiled).
Only seven Captains remained standing in the cavernous room.
Old Man Yamamoto looked like an active volcano ready to blow.
His single eye burned with lethal fury, and the spiritual heat rolling off his body was hot enough to scorch the varnish off the timber floorboards.
“Six Captains,” Yamamoto’s voice thundered, shaking the high rafters.
“Six Captains and four Vice-Captains lost, exiled, or betrayed in a single night.
Central 46 is screaming for blood, the Rukongai borders are unstable, and our entire military structure is severed in half.”
Beside Kazuma, Shunsui Kyōraku pulled his flower-patterned hat down low, sighing with genuine exhaustion.
Jūshirō Ukitake was coughing softly into a silk handkerchief, looking pale.
Yamamoto’s fiery gaze swept across the survivors.
“To stabilize the Seireitei, the surviving divisions must absorb double patrols, outer border sweeps, and mandatory training rotations.
Furthermore, the remaining squads will assist in heavy administrative audits until new Captains can be appointed.”
The words ‘double patrols’ and ‘administrative audits’ hit Kazuma’s ears like physical poison.
Kazuma immediately stepped forward, his face deadpan, holding a thick leather-bound ledger in both hands.
“Captain-Commander, sir,” Kazuma spoke up, his voice ringing with absolute, grave sincerity.
Yamamoto glared down at him.
“Speak, Captain Kazuma.
Unless you intend to claim another stomach cramp.”
“No, sir.
This is a matter of state survival,” Kazuma said smoothly, opening the ledger to show neat rows of stamped numbers.
Yamamoto narrowed his eye.
“And?”
“During the recent catastrophic purge, every division that suffered casualties was operating on high-tempo, aggressive exterior patrols,” Kazuma explained, pointing at the charts with a straight face.
“The Ninth Division was overextended.
The Fifth Division was reckless.
Meanwhile, the Tenth Division maintained a strict policy of localized static defense and defensive meditation.”
Shunsui choked on his spit, coughing violently to hide his laughter.
“Defensive meditation?” Yamamoto rumbled suspiciously.
“You mean sleeping on your porch?”
“Strategic spiritual conservation, sir,” Kazuma corrected without blinking an eye.
“Look at the data.
In fifty years under my command, the Tenth Division has zero casualties, zero desertions, zero administrative leaks, and an unprecedented one-hundred percent survival rate.”
Kazuma closed the ledger with a sharp, echoing thud.
“If you force my division into chaotic outer patrols, you will disrupt our delicate defensive matrix,” Kazuma argued solemnly.
“Instead, I propose a tactical reorganization: The Tenth Division will assume sole responsibility for internal Seireitei peace, static supply line protection, and quiet perimeter stability.”
“In plain words?” Yamamoto demanded.
“In plain words, sir: Leave us alone to guard the interior,” Kazuma said plainly.
“Give us complete administrative autonomy.
In exchange, the Tenth Division guarantees absolute zero incidents inside our sector, zero requests for emergency reinforcements, and zero complaints.
You won’t have to spend a single second managing us while you rebuild the rest of the Gotei 13.”
The hall fell into a heavy, contemplative silence.
Yamamoto stared down at Kazuma.
The old man knew Kazuma was lazy to his very bones.
But looking at the shattered, half-empty room, Yamamoto also knew he didn’t have the manpower or energy to babysit seven different squads.
A division that required zero oversight and never caused trouble was an undeniable asset in a crisis.
“Very well,” Yamamoto grunted, striking his cane against the timber.
“The Tenth Division is granted internal sector autonomy.
“Thank you, Captain-Commander.
For the peace of the Soul Society,” Kazuma bowed with supreme reverence.
***
Two hours later.
Kazuma was lounging on his favorite bamboo chair on the sunny porch of the Tenth Division headquarters, a cold glass of iced plum juice resting on a small wooden table beside him.
His Third Seat walked onto the deck, holding a small stack of papers and looking completely starry-eyed.
“Captain!
The decree from the First Division just arrived!” the Third Seat cheered excitedly.
“We are completely exempt from the external border sweeps!
The Eighth and Fourth Divisions have to work triple shifts, but our patrol schedule has been cut by half!”
“Good,” Kazuma muttered, pulling his straw hat over his eyes.
“Tell the squad to take the rest of the afternoon off.
Meditation hours are mandatory.”
“Yes, Captain!
You truly are the greatest tactician in the Seireitei!” The Third Seat bowed deeply and practically skipped down the corridor to deliver the good news.
Kazuma smirked under his hat, taking a slow, refreshing sip of iced juice.
Out in the world, the board was resetting.
With half the seats empty, Central 46 would soon promote Aizen to Captain of the Fifth Division, Tōsen to the Ninth, and Mayuri to the Twelfth.
And in the Seireitei, Kazuma had just legally secured complete, unquestioned freedom from Yamamoto’s micromanagement.
There was only one tiny flaw left in his paradise: even with autonomy, the Tenth Division still generated routine paperwork.
Budget approvals, barracks maintenance, and squad payroll weren’t going to sign themselves forever.
Kazuma looked up at the sunny sky, tapping his chin.
‘To achieve true, uninterrupted peace,’ Kazuma thought, ‘I need a Vice-Captain.
A very capable, hardworking workhorse who will run this entire division while I sleep.’
A cold, lazy grin spread across his face.
It was time to go talent hunting in the outer districts.