Better Call Kisuke

The pocket dimension of Urahara Kisuke was a haiku brought to life. A small valley, contained in a space that was not space, existed under a perpetually serene sky. There was no sun or clouds, only a soft, omnidirectional light that bathed the scene in an eternal late afternoon. The vegetation was a lush green, dotted with flowers that no botanist from any known universe could catalog. A river of crystal-clear water snaked through the meadow, its murmur the only constant sound, a melody for meditation. A pair of mist-covered mountains rose in the distance, but they were not real mountains. They were the boundaries of the pocket dimension, conceptual walls disguised as landscape to give an illusion of depth. The entire place was a work of art of control and serenity, a perfect reflection of its creator's mind.

In the heart of this valley was a traditional, modest, and elegant Japanese house. And on the porch of that house, one leg crossed over the other, sat its only inhabitant. At first glance, he looked like a man of about twenty-five. His blond hair, neither short nor long, fell over his gray eyes. He wore a pale green yukata over a kimono of a darker, more muted green. And, of course, he wore his inseparable white-and-green-striped bucket hat.

Currently, this person was engrossed in a task of utmost importance: clipping his toenails with the meticulousness of a surgeon. He held an old-fashioned-looking flip phone between his ear and his shoulder, a small black cat charm dangling from the antenna.

"Yes, yes, I know," he said in a light, carefree tone. "I don't usually accept those kinds of... 'delivery' jobs, but something really interesting is happening in that sector this time. My curiosity is a weakness, what can I say?"

From the other end of the line, a deep, guttural voice that sounded like gravel in a blender responded unintelligibly.

"Eh? What's happening?" Urahara replied playfully, pausing to examine a freshly clipped nail. "But if I tell you, it wouldn't be interesting anymore. It would spoil the surprise. You have to learn to appreciate a little mystery, Lobo-san."

He paused, listening to the reply.

"Speaking of which, what are you doing there? The last I heard, you were whining because someone left you unable to move for two days on some desolate planet. It was on Xylo-7, wasn't it? A dreadful place. No good bars."

Lobo's voice barked an angry response.

"Eh? Was it me who left you like that?" Urahara said with perfectly feigned innocence. 'Of course, it was me. Bakudō #79. Kuyō Shibari. Nine points of pressure. His healing factor is formidable, but it couldn't counteract the blockage of his internal energy flow. A very successful experiment.' "I'd remember doing that, especially to you. You must be confusing me with another handsome, hat-and-clogs-wearing shopkeeper. There are dozens of us."

Another string of growls and curses rattled through the phone's tiny speaker.

"Come now, it's been a while since then. Fifty years? Sixty? You should let go of past grudges. It's not good for the skin," Urahara advised. "Changing the subject, I'll see you on that planet in a couple of days. I have to take care of another personal matter first."

He listened for another moment, his expression turning slightly more serious.

"Alright," he finally said, finishing the last nail. "I'll bring that drink. See you later, Lobo-san."

He snapped the phone shut and set it aside. He stood, stretching his limbs with a groan of satisfaction. The sound of his joints popping echoed in the silence of his dimension.

'It's been a while since I've spoken to Lobo-san,' he thought as he walked inside the house. 'It's rare for him to call me of his own accord. I'm almost always the one who contacts him for a job that requires... a blunt instrument. For him to be on Pyrr, the red-sun planet, right now...'

His mind analyzed the variables. Pyrr was a known hideout for fugitives who feared Kryptonians. It was also a stop on an artifact smuggling route. And, according to his own records, it was the last known whereabouts of a certain traumatized young Kryptonian he had been following with great interest.

'It can't be a coincidence. Either Lobo is hunting the girl, or someone else has hired him to do it. Or, the most likely option, he's simply there to drink, and the girl is a target of opportunity. Lobo's motivation is rarely more complex than boredom or money. Still, an interesting variable.'

"Well, I suppose it's time to stretch these old 'bones' of mine," he joked to himself aloud. "I've been sitting for so long I thought I was going to develop ulcers."

He stopped in the middle of the main room, a minimalist space with tatami floors and rice-paper walls.

"Get ready, universe," he said to no one in particular. "Urahara Kisuke is back in business."

The only reply he received was the peaceful murmur of the river in his own pocket dimension.

Later that night, Urahara was sitting on the floor of his living room. The only light came from a paper lamp that cast a warm glow over him. In his hands, he held a book. It had no title. Its pages were not made of paper, but of a substance that looked like solidified silk. And on those pages, there was not a single word, not a single image. The book was filled with pure, distilled intention.

It was an artifact that could only be "read" by feeling. Upon touching a page, the reader's mind was flooded not with descriptions, but with the experience itself. The history of a dying star wasn't told with words; you felt the gravitational weight, the desperation of failing nuclear fusion. It was a method of knowledge transfer of absolute purity, and Urahara loved it.

It was a book he had won from a demon archduke, Azmorigan, in a poker game in Hell. He remembered the scene with a smile. The demon, a master of deceit, had bet the true name of a rival. Urahara, in turn, had bet a simple talisman of his own creation. A talisman that, as he explained to the terrified demon, served one very simple function: it prevented its bearer from telling lies or half-truths for a century. The look of horror on the demon's face when he lost the hand had been... exquisite.

"Those were the days," he murmured to himself. "When the only thing that mattered was the insatiable search for knowledge."

He settled more comfortably on the floor and picked up his teacup, which had appeared beside him as if by magic. No one, not even his closest associates, knew where he always got his tea from. He simply always had a cup at hand.

"It's been two millennia, eh?" he murmured, watching the steam rise. "How time flies when you're having fun."

His mind drifted to the past, to the real beginning. To Michael. The memory was no longer painful. After two thousand years, it was like remembering a distant, childhood friend. The first century had been the most confusing, a constant battle between the consciousness of a 21st-century programmer and the memories and power of a fictional Shinigami. But time, like the best integration algorithm, had merged the two. He was no longer Michael in Urahara, or Urahara with the memories of Michael. He was simply... Urahara Kisuke. Michael's mind was now the underlying operating system, the foundation of his humanity, the source of his knowledge about these strange, new universes. But the personality, the intellect, and the experience that now defined him were purely his own.

"I still remember the first time I woke up in this universe. It was so confusing," he whispered to the silence of the room. "With no friends or acquaintances, just trying to survive in a constantly changing universe. A fish out of water... no, a fish from an aquarium thrown into an alien ocean."

He took a sip of tea.

"It's like they say, you're born alone and you die alone," he murmured with a tone of melancholy humor. "Though others, apparently, are also reincarnated alone."

Finishing his tea, he stood up with a fluid motion. He placed the book of intention on a nearby shelf, between a vibrating grimoire and a toaster repair manual.

"Well, it's time to go see Lobo-san," he said, his tone turning more practical. "I wonder what that guy is really doing there."

He stepped outside the house, feeling the artificial breeze of his dimension. He paused on the porch.

"Why do I feel like I'm missing something?" he asked himself. He looked at his empty hands. "Ah, right."

He went back into the house and picked up a cane that was leaning next to the entrance. It was a simple wooden cane with a silver base.

"Sorry, Benihime. I forgot you, haha," he said, laughing at his own forgetfulness. "After two thousand years, you'd think you'd be a part of my arm by now."

"Well, now it's really time to go," he said, his expression turning serious for the first time all day.

He unsheathed his cane, revealing the thin, deadly blade within.

"Sing, Benihime," he said quietly.

The blade gleamed with a crimson light. The simple guard transformed into an ornate one, and the pommel elongated, with a crimson tassel dangling from it. The crimson ribbon that always adorned the hilt seemed to come to life, floating gently in the air. The sword was no longer a simple object; it felt alive, an extension of his own soul.

He held Benihime with one hand and, with a motion that was both elegant and brutal, he "cut" the space in front of him. Reality did not shatter; it opened cleanly, like a zipper in the fabric of the universe, revealing not darkness, but the bright, chaotic interior of a bar on a planet very, very far away.

He simply stepped through.

Omake

Scene: "The Liar's End" - A Gambling Hall in Hell

The air in "The Liar's End" was thick, smelling of sulfur, cheap whiskey, and the unmistakable aroma of stale regret. Smoke from cigars made of broken contracts swirled under lamps that contained silently screaming souls. It was a place for deals, betrayals, and above all, for gambling.

At the most secluded table, under the flickering light of a particularly miserable soul, a high-stakes poker game was underway. Seated at the table was K'tharr, a rage demon with obsidian skin and fists the size of anvils; beside him, Lilitu, a succubus whose smile promised ecstasy and whose gaze analyzed sins; and across from them, Azmorigan, a crossroads demon, a being whose mind was a calculator of probabilities and lies.

And in the fourth seat, with a modestly high stack of chips in front of him, was Urahara Kisuke. He looked absurdly out of place in his green haori and with his paper fan, sipping a tea he had brought himself.

The stakes on the table weren't plastic chips. The center of the table gleamed with the pot: a vial containing the bottled memory of a king's first betrayal, a binding contract for one hundred years of a lesser imp's servitude, and the shimmering soul of a corrupt politician.

"I fold," K'tharr grunted, throwing his cards onto the table. They were cards made of stretched human skin. He had tried to win on a bluff, but Urahara's calm gaze had deflated him.

Lilitu smiled, her lips a deep red. "I fold as well, darling."

'It's useless,' she thought, frustrated. 'I try to read his desire, his fear, his greed... and I find nothing. It's like trying to read a blank page. It's... unsettling.'

The final hand was between Azmorigan and Urahara. The crossroads demon smiled, showing too many sharp teeth. He had a strong hand. He could feel it.

"Raise the bet, shopkeeper," Azmorigan said, his voice an oily whisper. He pushed his entire pot to the center of the table. "And I'll add this."

With a theatrical gesture, he placed a black scroll tied with a golden thread on top of the pile. The other demons at the table held their breath.

"The true name of an Archduke of the Fifth Circle," Azmorigan hissed. "Absolute power over him and his legions. What do you have, shopkeeper, that can match that?"

Urahara didn't pull out a soul or a secret. He set down his fan and pulled a simple, blank paper talisman, an ofuda, from his sleeve. He slid it gently to the center of the table.

"A piece of paper? Is this a joke?" Azmorigan scoffed.

"Not at all," Urahara replied calmly. "This paper is a lock. A conceptual lock. If you lose this hand, I will place this seal upon you. It will not harm you physically. It will simply prevent you from telling any kind of lie, deceit, or half-truth for one standard century."

A dead silence fell over the table. K'tharr and Lilitu stared at the crossroads demon in horror. For a being whose entire existence and power were based on the manipulation of contracts and the art of deception, the inability to lie was a fate worse than annihilation.

"You... you can't do that," Azmorigan stammered, his confidence evaporating.

"Are you sure?" Urahara asked, his smile never wavering. "I call your bet, and I raise you. Your true name... against a century of forced honesty. Do you accept?"

Trapped by his own pride and the stares of the other demons, Azmorigan had no choice but to agree. "I accept. Show your cards, you charlatan."

Azmorigan spread his hand with a triumphant flourish: a full house, kings over aces. A nearly unbeatable hand.

Urahara, without changing his expression, laid his five cards on the table.

Four queens.

Azmorigan's face fell. The color drained from his pale visage as Urahara quietly collected the pot, including the scroll with the true name. Then, he stood up and walked over to the terrified crossroads demon, holding the paper talisman.

"A deal is a deal," Urahara said.

"No! Please! Anything but that!" Azmorigan begged, the powerful demon now reduced to a groveler.

Urahara paused, feigning consideration. "Well... I suppose there could be an alternative. Honesty is such a boring virtue, after all." He put the talisman away. "Let's say, instead of a century of truth, you simply owe me a favor. A very, very big one. No questions asked. No expiration date. Does that seem like a fair trade?"

Azmorigan nodded frantically, relief flooding his face. A debt to this being was terrifying, but it was infinitely better than the annihilation of his very nature.

"Excellent," Urahara said. "A pleasure doing business."

With a slight nod to the other stunned demons, he turned and walked toward the exit of the bar, vanishing into the shadows.

He hadn't just won the game. He had entered Hell's own playground, gambled with the masters of deceit, and walked away not only with the pot, but with a new, powerful asset for his network of debts—all without showing a single card of his power.

***

A/N

Hey everyone, author here! As you may have noticed, or rather read, I'm thinking of adding these kinds of scenes as omakes. You can think of them as flashbacks or "what if" stories. Some will be canon within the main story, and others won't. An omake could involve playing poker with devils, or investigating a really confusing dimension, and there might even be scenes with beings of the highest cosmic hierarchy.

I know updates for this novel might be a bit slower right now, as I'm pouring a lot of effort into planning a massive new project—we're talking at least 1000 chapters! Plus, balancing school and job hunting has kept me super busy.

If you'd like to support my work and get early access to what I do manage to write (including chapters of my other novels!), consider checking out my Patreon. Your support really helps me carve out more time for writing amidst everything else.

Find my Patreon here: https://www.patreon.com/iLikeeMikee