[The reason we find a maiden's feet beautiful is that we pause before her, unlike those fearless warriors who boldly reach out to touch them. —Fujimiya "You'd Write Anything, Huh?" Makoto (Quote), archived in the Great Spirit Library]
At this moment, Fujimiya Makoto had already been freed from his restraints.
Though his body still ached faintly, it was merely the aftereffects of being flooded with excessive spiritual pressure—hardly an actual injury.
If he endured it, it might even benefit him in the long run.
With his formidable willpower, it was nothing.
More importantly, he was preoccupied with something far more critical.
Gentle press, gentle press...
Makoto had been a science student in his past life, with a painfully limited vocabulary. When faced with something beautiful, he often found himself at a loss for words, his mind blank.
If forced to speak his mind, he could only muster one phrase:
Edible!
Meanwhile, Saiyō Furafushi was reluctantly seated on the recliner beside his bed. Her small face was expressionless, her single eye darting toward the empty corner of the room, pretending complete indifference.
In reality, her gaze kept flickering back, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush, her lips pressed tightly together as if suppressing embarrassment—or perhaps convincing herself it was no big deal.
Her legs were slightly bent, the black hakama covering everything above her ankles, leaving only her snow-white feet resting on the edge of his bed.
Makoto wasn't a foot fetishist.
He simply appreciated beauty.
Saiyō's feet were like untouched snow—pure, smooth. Perhaps because they were part of a spiritual body, unlike human flesh that changed with metabolism, they bore no odor or blemish.
Faint blue veins traced beneath the pale skin of her instep, each toe a meticulously carved work of art. Her small toenails, embedded in jade-like digits, were a healthy shade of pink, the pads plump and soft.
Sensing his gaze, her toes curled slightly, as if trying to retreat.
But when he took them into his palms, they gradually relaxed, the arches forming gentle curves. Yet her toes tensed again, unconsciously digging into his hands, as if resisting submission to this strange boy's touch.
"Hey!"
Saiyō had always been brash and unrestrained, never considering feet anything special.
But now, seeing him so reverently focused, she couldn't help but flush with indignation, muttering:
"Are you done yet?!"
"Wasn't this just a foot massage?!"
"It's been nearly an hour!"
Makoto's tone remained steady and calm: "Relax. Professional foot massages take time. As a young practitioner, I need to put in extra effort!"
Internally, however, he was growing anxious.
His eyes kept darting to the status panel in his vision.
If this kept up, wouldn't he really be branded a foot-obsessed pervert?!
Hurry up, my god-tier talent!!
---
—PI—
Name: Fujimiya Makoto
Spiritual Pressure: Middle Fourth Rank (Vice-Captain level)
Four Skills:
- Zanjutsu (Swordsmanship): 11th Tier (68/100) — [Secret Technique (3)]
- Hakuda (Hand-to-Hand): 8th Tier (89/100) — [Bone Strike]
- Kidō (Demon Arts): 6th Tier (16/100)
- Hohō (Movement): 10th Tier (76/100) [Talent-Limited]
Zanpakutō: Unreleased
Talent Points: 2
Bond Traits: Sword Prodigy, Foot Art Enthusiast, Wall of Lamentation, "A Teacher Among Us," No-Injury Zone (Shiba Yozuru Lv1), Final Dawn (Kyouraku Shōgo Lv1), Edging (Neliel Lv1)
Romance Traits: None
—END—
Though he hadn't seen his status panel in a while, Makoto reviewed it nightly, savoring his small advantages.
After nearly two years at the Genji Dojo, even he understood how precious Talent Points were.
The higher you climb, the rarer they become!
As everyone knew, Shinigami had limits.
Naturally, the higher one's rank, the harder it became to break through—until they hit the dreaded benchmark known as "Kenpachi"!
In this context, the [Foot Art Enthusiast] trait—which allowed him to bypass talent restrictions and boost his Hohō through foot appreciation—was invaluable.
Thus, Makoto resolved to spare no effort.
But true "foot art appreciation" required mutual enthusiasm, didn't it?
How could one-sided admiration last?
With this in mind, he tentatively asked: "If I keep doing this for you... would you like it, Saiyō?"
Hearing his voice, Saiyō stiffened.
She turned her head, her single eye reflecting Makoto's figure.
Pale from his injuries but still handsome, his slender fingers cradled her feet like precious treasures, kneading with careful precision. His gaze was intense, almost reverent.
When he spoke, he kept his head slightly bowed, as if afraid to meet her eyes—fixated only on her feet.
Seeing this, even the self-proclaimed "ageless" Saiyō felt something strange flutter in her chest.
Something warm.
But she quickly caught herself, gritting her teeth in frustration:
"W-what 'like' or 'dislike'...?!"
"If you hadn't made such a weird demand during our fight, I—I would've left ages ago! Who'd indulge your creepy hobby?!"
For a moment, Makoto's voice seemed to wilt, his head drooping further:
"I see."
"So... you don't like it."
For some reason, Saiyō suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to refute him.
She wanted to cut him off, to explain that she didn't dislike it, that she didn't hate him—this boy who might one day surpass her. That this unfamiliar intimacy just flustered her.
She didn't want to see that dejected look on his face.
But centuries of bloodshed hadn't taught her social graces or the art of words.
When it mattered most, her throat felt clogged, her tongue clumsy.
What could a girl who'd spent her life killing possibly know about "liking" someone?
Finally, she mumbled:
"But..."
"If you promise to show me your full strength someday..."
"...I might let you touch them occasionally."
"Really?!"
Makoto's head snapped up, his face alight with joy—so bright it nearly blinded her, sending her cheeks burning anew.
Realizing her slip, she immediately backpedaled:
"D-don't get the wrong idea!"
"If you keep dawdling, I'll—"
But her raised voice only betrayed her fluster.
"Huh?!"
Makoto panicked.
Just as he debated going all-in with a full foot-washing service, the door SLAMMED open.
Saiyō yanked her feet back, curling into a ball on the recliner, her face crimson as she glared at the intruder—steam practically rising from her head.
Makoto's hands were suddenly empty.
A complex mix of regret, longing, and loss surged through him.
[Foot Art Path: Current Limit Broken — 12th Tier↑]
His eyes lit up.
Whoever you are—BLESS YOU!
"Who—WHO'S THERE?!"
Saiyō, now resembling a flustered quail, bellowed with uncharacteristic volume:
"Don't you know to KNOCK?!"
As if this were her room.
"Saiyō-senpai?!"
Katori Unohana, the serial door-barging addict, froze in the doorway. Her glasses magnified her wide, knowing eyes.
"You and Makoto... are this kind of—"
Recognizing her, Saiyō panicked:
"W-wait! It's not—I didn't—!"
Snatching her tabi socks and shoes, she bolted for the window—GONE before another word could be said.
Her ears, still burning red, were the last thing visible.
Damn that busty glasses-wearing busybody!
"You saved me, Unohana."
Makoto sighed in genuine relief.
If this hadn't worked, he'd have actually gone for it...
Unohana blinked, then sighed in disappointment: "I came to see if you'd written anything new... Guess not."
His current state clearly indicated no progress.
"S-sorry! I'll make it up!"
Makoto shuddered, recalling his recent blacksite writing sessions, and vowed: "I'll catch up! All of it!"
"Good."
Only then did Unohana remember her actual task: "Ah, right. Yachiru-sensei wanted me to tell you—"
"LEAD WITH THAT NEXT TIME!"