Chapter 132: Perils and Perverts

Yamabuki Haruto stumbled out of the First Division barracks, Yamamoto’s words echoing in his mind. Mastering Bankai was a solitary journey, one he’d have to conquer alone. But a more urgent matter gnawed at him—Chiyo, the sharp-tongued Shin’ō Academy student, was still missing after her cliffside clash with a Gillian. Her seated-officer-level reiatsu and cunning marked her as a survivor. You’re a walking calamity, Chiyo, he thought with a wry grin. You’ll hold on until I find you.

Morning dew dampened the grass in Rukongai’s mountainous outskirts, the air pierced by distant bird calls. Chiyo stirred in a small wooden cabin, her head throbbing. A thin blanket covered her, reeking of a pungent, medicinal odor—sharper than the herbal brews her mother once forced on her. She wrinkled her nose, covering it with a grimace.

Where am I? Her last memory was the cliff collapsing under the Gillian’s weight, its Cero blazing toward her. Yet here she was, bandaged and alive. Someone had saved her. Her heart fluttered with a fleeting fantasy—a dashing young Shinigami, straight out of a romantic tale, rescuing her for a grand love story.

But the Gillian—where was it? If it lingered nearby, she was in danger. Chiyo sat up, wincing as her bandaged wounds ached. Her injuries had been treated, and her Zanpakutō, Kiribana, rested beside her, a reassuring weight.

The cabin door creaked open, shattering her hopes. No handsome hero entered—just a wizened old man, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. His dark, weathered skin and deeply lined face marked him as ancient, perhaps seventy or eighty. His crooked smile and glinting eyes sent a chill down her spine.

“You’re awake, little miss?” he rasped, hobbling forward with a bowl of bubbling, purplish-black liquid. “You’re hurt bad. Want Grandpa to check you over? Drink this—it’ll fix you up!” His chuckle was unsettling, far from benevolent.

Chiyo stared at the bowl. The liquid’s foul stench and unnatural fizz screamed poison, not medicine. In Bleach’s world, such concoctions were often the work of eccentric healers or mad scientists, and this old man’s vibe leaned toward the latter.

“Thank you, Grandpa,” Chiyo said, forcing a brittle smile. “I’ll… drink it soon!”

“Drink it now, and you’ll heal faster,” the old man insisted, his eyes lingering on her in a way that made her skin crawl. “I’ll leave it here. Rest well.” He shuffled out, his stick tapping the floor.

The moment he was gone, Chiyo scrambled to the window and dumped the liquid onto the grass outside. The blades withered instantly, confirming her fears. Poison! This guy’s a pervert! Her mind spiraled with regrets. If I hadn’t joined the Shin’ō Academy, I wouldn’t have been on that Hollow hunt. No Hollow hunt, no Gillian. No Gillian, no creepy old man!

Escape was her only option. Despite his apparent kindness, the old man’s eerie demeanor suggested ulterior motives. As a noble-born girl—youthful, clever, and, yes, adorable—she couldn’t trust him. Her injuries from the cliff fall ached, but her Bakudō had cushioned the worst of it. She could move.

Chiyo eased the window open, aiming for a graceful exit. Instead, her thumb caught the sill, and she tumbled face-first into the grass, pain flaring through her hand. “Ow, ow, ow!” she hissed, clutching her thumb, tears stinging her eyes.

A shadow loomed. The old man stood over her, his sinister grin wider. “Little sister, where’re you off to? Didn’t tell Grandpa you were leaving.”

Chiyo’s mind raced for an excuse. Before she could speak, a guttural roar echoed through the valley—a Gillian, its towering form lumbering toward them. Perfect, she thought. The Hollow would distract him, giving her a chance to flee.

The old man sighed, his movements slow and frail, like an elder on the verge of collapse. “So many Hollows lately. Annoying,” he muttered, raising his stick. Then, in a blink, he vanished, his speed rivaling the fastest Shunpo. He reappeared before the Gillian, his stick piercing its mask like a blade. The Hollow didn’t just die—its body melted, dissolving into a puddle of corrosive sludge in seconds.

Chiyo’s jaw dropped. That’s no ordinary stick! As a noble-born student, she’d studied rare techniques. The old man’s stick was laced with a corrosive agent, possibly tied to a Zanpakutō or alchemical concoction. The “medicine” he’d offered was likely a diluted version of that toxin.

“You didn’t drink Grandpa’s medicine, did you?” he asked, his smile unnerving.

“N-no appetite!” Chiyo stammered, her grin more grimace than smile. Is he trying to make me a test subject?

Her luck was cursed. First, Yamabuki Haruto’s manipulative schemes at the Academy. Then, Unohana Retsu’s terrifying training sessions. Now, this creepy old man with his toxic brews. Why do I always meet the perverts? she wailed internally.

“Help!” she muttered, her eyes darting for another escape route.