AOMR 25

Over the course of weeks, Yamamoto found himself adopting an unexpected role, one that he had long thought he had left behind. He had envisioned peace in retirement. One that constituted a quiet life free from the burdens of the soul society and the responsibilities of others. Yet, as he observed the young girl standing in the heart of the boat graveyard, flames coiling around her like serpents, he realized his retirement had transformed into something else entirely. He was no longer a warlord, no longer a leader. He was a teacher once more, though this time, not of two children that would grow to be shinigami captains, but of a whelp still finding her way in the world.

The sight of her progress stirred something within him, a faint echo of pride, though he was careful never to let it show. Yamamoto was no stranger to the role of mentor; he had honed two wet behind their ears whelps into captain class shinigami's of unimaginable strength in record time, forging them into weapons of immense power and skill. But this... this was different. The girl was younger, malleable, and more volatile than any student he had trained before.

He watched her closely with a perception that went far beyond sight, noting the rhythm and flow of her flames as she practiced. There was a balance forming—a tenuous equilibrium between her raw, psychotic state, which gave her strength but stripped away her humanity, and the awareness that tethered her to reason. It was a fine line she walked, one he had no choice but to guide her along. She could not afford to lean too far in either direction; to lose her rationality would make her a mindless engine of destruction, but to stray too far from her power would leave her weak and powerless. It was a delicate process, one that required both firmness and patience.

“Children are the forge,” Yamamoto had once said to a young warlord seeking his counsel. “And caretakers are the blacksmiths. Our duty is to temper the steel without breaking it.”

The child exhaled again, and this time, the burst of flame that erupted from her was different. It was not the chaotic inferno of her earlier attempts, wild and uncontrolled. This was deliberate—a controlled ignition that sent flames roaring into the sky like a beacon. The fire danced around her, announcing her progress to the world. Not that anyone dared venture near.

The boat graveyard had been visited only once by outsiders since they began their training sessions. A blonde-haired woman accompanied by her cadre of superpowered whelps dressed in a similar fashion. They had come to investigate the disturbance, but Yamamoto had sent them fleeing with a single glance, his presence alone suffocating enough to extinguish any thoughts of interference. He had no patience for meddlesome whelps.

“I did it, Jiji!” the child called out, her face alight with a smile of pure, innocent joy.

Yamamoto remained still, his towering yet stooped form unmoved as he observed her from a distance. Her joy was short-lived, however, as her expression shifted. The innocent smile twisted into something darker. A sharp, cruel smirk that spoke of malice and pain. Her burning eyes met his closed pair, and for a moment, she seemed emboldened by her newfound power. Then he cracked his eyes open by a sliver and his gaze bore into her, the smirk faltered. A shiver ran through her, and she took a cautious step back. Though the edge of her smile softened, a hint of defiance remained.

Good, Yamamoto thought. "Callousness, tempered by fear."

Balance.

The girl turned her attention back to her flames, her hands moving with surprising finesse as she shaped the fire into intricate forms. Coiling serpents twisted around her, morphing into rats, then dogs, and finally into a pair of fiery birds that took flight above her. The display of control and creativity was impressive, even to him. He was well aware of the shard embedded in her mind. The tether that bound her to the firmament roving creature he had glimpsed once. His feelings on it were irrelevant for it worked it's purpose well enough, but her efforts could not be discounted. Through sheer determination and tireless practice, she had achieved more in weeks than many could hope to in years.

The sight reminded him of another prodigy, a child captain with an unparalleled gift for ice. Tōshirō Hitsugaya had once wielded his power with a similar brilliance, his mastery over ice unmatched among his peers. And yet, this girl’s affinity for fire was no less extraordinary.

“Your control is improving,” Yamamoto finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that carried across the graveyard. “But do not mistake progress for mastery. There is still much to learn, and much to temper.”

The child nodded, her burning eyes gleaming with determination. She turned her focus back to the flames, her small figure framed by the roaring inferno she commanded. Yamamoto watched her in silence, as the flames subsided. Slowly but surely till all that remained was a glow in her eyes as she turned back to look at him, uncaring of his impassive features.

This was not the life he had envisioned for himself, but as the flames died and a child rushed him to hug his waist with a grip that might have killed lesser men, he found that he did not mind. For now, his duty was clear. A brief detour from his retirement plans. He would forge this child into something unbreakable, just as he had done before. And perhaps, in doing so, he might yet find peace in this unexpected purpose.

The sound of a sob being let out into the folds of his haori and a whispered, "Thank You" had nothing to do with his decision in anyway, and he would show anyone that thought otherwise, the sharp side of Ryūjin Jakka.

...

“Update?”

The figure known only as Number 009 asked in curt Mandarin, his voice sharp and precise, as he fixed his gaze on the shadowy corner of the dimly lit office. The room was located in the heart of an old, abandoned, and crumbling warehouse. From the outside, the building appeared derelict, its shattered windows and rust-streaked walls a testament to years of neglect. Inside, however, it had been repurposed, barely.

The crude setup provided housing and a base of operations for their group, but the lack of creature comforts mattered little. The facade of decay served its purpose: to hide their activities from prying eyes.

009 tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, the faint rhythm echoing faintly in the hollow space. He disliked this city. Its bizarre language, outlandish clothing, and weak capes grated on him. The so-called heroes and villains here lacked any sense of discipline or real power. They were a joke, unworthy of standing in the same arena as someone of his caliber, a Numbered one with a 00.

The shadowed figure in the corner stepped forward, hesitating for a brief moment before dropping to one knee. Without looking up, the man began to speak in fluent Mandarin. This wasn’t for formality; it was a calculated precaution. In this world of capes, even their blessed language offered no true safety from spies or eavesdropping powers, but it was better than speaking the guttural barbarity of English. If nothing else, it preserved some semblance of respect in an otherwise crude land.

“We fear,” the kneeling man began, voice hurried yet steady, “that our plan to use and manipulate the remaining gangs against the old man has reached its limit. Its effectiveness is gone.”

009’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at his subordinate, the sharpness of his scowl visible even in the dim light. He didn’t interrupt, but his silence was heavy and suffocating, prompting the man to hastily continue.

“Our numbers are too small to influence anyone further. The few gangs we managed to sway, those too foolish or desperate to question us have proven to be little more than fodder. And now…” The man hesitated, then pressed his forehead to the ground as he added, “They are being systematically eliminated by the ones dressed like him. The white cloaks.”

009 raised a brow at this but still said nothing, waiting for the man to elaborate.

“They are not capes, at least not as far as we can confirm,” the man continued quickly, his words tripping over themselves. “But they are trained. Too well trained. Especially in guerrilla tactics. They are coordinated and almost militaristic. We believe there is a leader behind them. Most likely…” He swallowed hard. “The woman known as Sachiko. There are whispers in the underworld that she may be a cape.”

A displeased hum escaped 009’s lips. None of this was unexpected, but hearing it confirmed didn’t make it any less irritating. He had no illusions about the quality of the gangs they’d been forced to work with. They were cannon fodder, sacrificial pawns meant to absorb damage and draw attention. Not a single true cape had joined their efforts; the smarter ones had recognized the trap for what it was and wisely kept their distance.

Still, it gnawed at him—how little progress they’d made, how much effort and resources had been wasted. His gaze burned into his subordinate, who dared to glance up briefly before quickly averting his eyes again, bowing even lower under the weight of his superior’s displeasure.

“But,” the man added hastily, “there is more.”

009’s scowl deepened, though his voice remained calm, if edged with menace. “Go on.”

“We believe we have another way to get to him.”

“I’m listening,” 009 growled, leaning forward slightly.

The previous plan had hinged entirely on his ability. A striker power that allowed him to render anyone unconscious with a single touch. It was a potent gift, but it came with limits, especially against the one they sought to defeat.

The old man, the one who had killed the firstborn, Yama given flesh and bone. When his investigation's found out the old man bared the same name as the King of Hell, he had nearly packed up and returned to the motherland, but Loyalty was a chain he willing tied around his neck.

 The old man's ability to sense danger bordered on the supernatural, his eyes often remaining closed dismissing whatever threat that dared to linger at the edges of his path. The plan had always been a long shot. To wear him down with distractions in the middle of the city, which should force him to hold back in fear of harming the civilians, and in that chaos 009 could slip through the cracks and land a single touch. Dangerous, yes, but it was all for the glory of Null.

“We have continued surveillance,” the man said, his voice trembling slightly. “Not on the old man himself, of course, we would never dare to get that close, but on his movements. It is common knowledge in the city that he frequently carries a child to the boat graveyard.”

“Ah, the mongrel.” 009’s lips curled into a sneer. “The one rumored to be his child or grandchild.” He recalled the brief report from days ago, vague and incomplete but enough to pique his interest.

“Yes,” the man confirmed. “And we believe we have a way to draw him to us through her.”

For the first time, 009’s expression shifted. His scowl melted into a slow, deliberate smile as he leaned back in his chair, the shadows casting his features into something both amused and dangerous.

“Tell me all about it,” he said, his voice low and cold.

...

Yamamoto sat opposite Sachiko, the two of them engaged in yet another tea ceremony. It was a tradition that had quietly become a shared sanctuary, something the old woman had come to anticipate as much as he did. Together, they moved through the familiar rites, slow and deliberate, with the unspoken understanding that came from age and experience. The room was filled with nothing but the soft rustle of robes, the faint clink of porcelain, and the soothing aroma of steeped tea.

When the ceremony was complete, they sipped their tea in blessed silence, each lost in their thoughts.

That peace was shattered by the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps pounding up the stairs, the rhythm frantic and desperate. Yamamoto’s expression remained calm, but Sachiko turned sharply toward the door just as it burst open with a loud slam.

Her sharp words—no doubt ready to scold whoever had dared disturb them—died on her tongue when she was met with the tear-streaked, bloodshot blue eyes of Ellie.

The second new child.

Yamamoto had paid her little attention compared to the child called Mei Mei. Ellie had no connection to him, no shared affinity or reason to draw his gaze. She had always been quiet, content to sit on the sidelines, either watching others play or staring into the distance as though lost in another world. The only time she had shown any spark of life was when the little warlord's whelp, had somehow convinced her father to allow her come along on a visit.

Yamamoto remembered that day vaguely. The young warlord and Sachiko had spoken of matters that did not concern him in hushed whispers, while the three girls had been a chaotic handful for the older teens.

Now, however, Ellie was anything but silent.

“She’s gone!” the girl screamed, her voice raw and trembling as her eyes locked onto the two seated figures.

One of the white-jacketed whelps who had taken to hovering around them rushed in after her, clearly struggling to keep up. He reached out in a futile attempt to grab the frantic girl, calling after her, “Ellie, calm down! We—”

She slipped past him effortlessly, her focus solely on Yamamoto. Past the whelp. Past a stunned Sachiko. She stopped right in front of him, her small hands reaching out to grab at the fabric of his robes.

“They took her!” she choked out, her voice breaking with desperation. “They took Mei Mei!”

Yamamoto did not move, his expression unreadable as his cup remained frozen in his hand.

But he didn’t need to say a word.

Not when all of Brockton Bay groaned in response. The low, mournful sound of metal twisting, windows rattling, and buildings creaking under the weight of his displeasure, for Yamamoto was displeased.