Higashino Shuuichi opened his eyes and found himself flat on the ground.
Mind and body screamed with exhaustion.
Just now, he'd brawled with his Zanpakutō again inside his inner world. He did well this round—only died six hundred and nineteen times—until his Zanpakutō grew weary and kicked him out.
One day, I'll knock you down and make you speak your true name to me.
He dispelled the concealing Kidō (demon arts) he'd set up.
Fresh from Hell, then a bout with his Zanpakutō, Shuuichi wasn't in the mood to report to the Seireitei right away. He'd already spent so long in Hell—what's a little more?
He took the flat dirt road ahead, deciding to give himself a tiny day off. A small reward for a long stretch of special training.
Soon he reached a small village.
People in twos and threes, houses scattered neatly, women playing with children by the road.
Harmony like this only appeared in Rukongai District 70 and under. Beyond 70, "law and order" stopped meaning anything.
"Waa—big bro, are you from outside or a new soul?"
Before Shuuichi even reached the village, a sharp-eyed boy spotted him, bouncing up with a piping voice.
"What do you think, am I from outside or a new soul?"
No one resists a cute, honest kid; Shuuichi was no exception. He'd come to unwind, and his mood fit his persona: gentle and kind.
"From outside! The souls I've seen always have empty hands. You've got a sword!"
The boy pointed at the Zanpakutō at Shuuichi's waist.
"Then big bro's from outside. Little brother, could you show me around? And if there's a place to get something tasty—better yet."
Shuuichi bent to ruffle the boy's hair.
He hadn't expected people here not to recognize a shihakushō. On second thought, it made sense—the uniform had no special insignia a commoner could read; neither did most Zanpakutō. Only captains' haori and noble garb had some recognizability.
"Sure! Uncle Ichiraku's ramen is super good—I'll take you!"
Hearing Shuuichi wanted something tasty, the boy's eyes smiled even harder.
Probably trying to bring business to his uncle. Fine by Shuuichi—food is food. Soul Reapers don't need to eat; it was just an excuse. He wanted a taste of ordinary life again, otherwise the moment he returned to the Seireitei, the mask would be back on.
They'd taken only a few steps into the village when the sound of fighting rolled from ahead.
Did I guess wrong? Is this not under 70?
Shuuichi frowned, annoyed. He wanted to relax; he didn't need thugs ruining his break.
"Do bad guys come bother you a lot?"
He probed. No strong reiatsu (spiritual pressure)—but maybe bullies didn't need much against unarmed civilians.
"Nope?"
The boy shook his head, glanced at Shuuichi, then followed his gaze—and understood.
"Ohhh, big bro thinks those are baddies? Nah, that's probably Ikkaku-onii-san picking fights with other big bros again!"
The boy explained like it was normal.
"Ikkaku?"
The surname rang a bell. A bald head fixed in his mind.
…Madarame Ikkaku?
So that was it. Back then, to sell his story, Shuuichi had sweet-talked Zaraki Kenpachi into the Eleventh Division early. He hadn't seen Madarame Ikkaku and Ayasegawa Yumichika join up since—die-hard Zaraki fans in the original flow.
So because I brought Zaraki in early, Ikkaku and Yumichika haven't met him yet?
Interesting. Those two were future mainstays among the new generation. Lose them and the Seireitei loses two mid-to-high pieces on the board. That would ripple through deployments later.
Then he reconsidered. His boss wouldn't care about power at that level. In Karakura, Aizen would style on a pile of Captains. As his most loyal underling, Shuuichi should leave the stage clean for that.
In short: he could remove two future nuisances, but there was no point. Aizen wouldn't care about a few more ants. Neither did Shuuichi—especially now that Kuruyashiki had lent him some confidence.
Shuuichi's interest evaporated.
"If you don't mind, big bro, we can go around and avoid Ikkaku-onii-san."
Afraid of losing a customer, the boy tugged Shuuichi's sleeve.
"Mm. Lead the way."
Once his thoughts settled, he really didn't care about Ikkaku and Yumichika.
But fate's fond of games—the things you try to ignore find you anyway.
They'd just turned toward a side alley when a bald man in a white cloth wrap, sword in hand, chased another around the corner, booting the latter's stick into the air.
The stick spun straight at Shuuichi. He lifted a finger and tapped.
Crack.
It snapped midair and whistled past his shoulders in two halves.
"Fast reflexes!"
A pretty man with a straight bob and a long robe embroidered in red hurried up, eyes widening.
Madarame Ikkaku. And the man prettier than a woman—Ayasegawa Yumichika.
"Omoshiroi. Never seen you before—new here?"
Spotting someone with obvious skill, Ikkaku instantly lost interest in his previous target.
"New. But I'm not interested in fighting, so don't look at me like that."
Shuuichi knew that look—carved from the same mold as Zaraki. He'd even seen it in a woman's eyes once—those memories weren't pleasant. Sometimes he woke at night from dreams of being hacked apart by her.
He didn't like that look.
Ikkaku didn't care.
Don't want to fight? Then I'll make you fight.
That was how he handled the village—no one wanted to fight, so he forced them to.
"Then you don't get a say, outsider. Remember my name—Madarame Ikkaku!"
He charged, sword still sheathed.
"You people are really…annoying."
If he'd known this was coming, Shuuichi would've slipped away first and used a concealment Kidō to end both Ikkaku and Yumichika quietly. Now, standing in the open, he couldn't kill a commoner without cause—especially after being gone so long. First day back and he murders a civilian? What would Central 46 say?
Times like this, he wished his Zanpakutō was Kyōka Suigetsu.
Shuuichi set one finger to Ikkaku's blade tip and let a thin pulse of reiatsu out. The sword—and scabbard—shattered.
He'd also shaped his reiatsu so not a whisper touched bystanders. The old Shuuichi couldn't have managed that; his control over reishi and reiatsu had never been this precise.
Ikkaku missed the "kindness." Feeling that pressure, sweat ran, heart hammered, blood roared.
This was the opponent he wanted.
He didn't spare a thought for the ruined sword. His right fist, hot with joy, rushed at Shuuichi's face—
"You're pushing it, Madarame Ikkaku."
Shuuichi's cold gaze made Ikkaku's heart skip.
The punch skimmed past. Shuuichi buried a fist in his gut. The impact—like a mountain—launched Ikkaku hundreds of meters, furrowing the ground.
Shuuichi flickered with Shunpo (Flash Step) and stood over him before he could rise.
He didn't want to deal with this battle maniac. But his identity wouldn't allow a needless killing—especially after vanishing so long.
"Dead?"
"Gh—cough!" Ikkaku spat blood. "I lost. Kill me."
"Good. Not dead."
Shuuichi didn't waste words. He pointed; Kaidō (Healing Way) flowed, gentle reiryoku wrapping Ikkaku.
"Why save me?"
Shuuichi turned to go. Struggling upright, Ikkaku called to his back.
Without stopping, Shuuichi said, "If you have to have an answer: I'm a Soul Reaper of the Fourth Division of the Gotei 13. My duty is to save, not to kill."
"Even if I want to kill you?"
Shuuichi paused half a beat. "When you can, you'll have the standing to ask me that."
In the original flow, Ikkaku, drunk on admiration for Zaraki's love of battle, chased him into the Eleventh. Shuuichi already had Rangiku and Kisaragi Shūsuke to look after—and sometimes extra lessons for Soi Fon. He had no bandwidth to cultivate new aides. He didn't like Ikkaku's temperament anyway; it tugged on his nightmares. So he reached for his persona: gentle, averse to war.
That should keep Ikkaku away.
Not long after Shuuichi left, Yumichika found him. Thanks to Kaidō, Ikkaku's wounds were already mending.
"Ikkaku, you okay?"
"Yumichika."
"Mm?"
"Do you know Soul Reapers?"
"They manage Rukongai, drive off bullies, deal with Hollows that intrude on the Seireitei. Those people—Soul Reapers."
"Then let's become Soul Reapers."
Seeing the fire in his friend's eyes, Yumichika didn't fully understand, but it had to be about that mysterious outsider. If that man was a Soul Reaper, that level of power made sense.
"No problem."
With his friend's assent, Ikkaku looked toward the direction Shuuichi had gone and set his jaw.
"Wait for me. One day, I'll earn the right to stand in front of you and make you answer me."
Shuuichi had no idea. Even if he had, he didn't have time to worry.
A Jigokuchō (Hell Butterfly) found him, unerring.
A summons from Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni.
Strange. Odd. A little sad.
Strange that the first to reach him was Yamamoto—not Kabuma Sayako, not Unohana, not Aizen.
Odd that a Jigokuchō could find him here so easily—borderline absurd.
Sad that his hard-won day off ended before it began.
Meanwhile, in the Kabuma clan's underground chamber, Kabuma Sayako lay weak, five fiends greedily drawing the reiryoku from her body.
In the spot where Shuuichi had stood before, an old man waited, wearing a captain's haori stitched with the numeral "1."
"So you called me here, Clan Head of Kabuma, to tell me that former Fourth Division lieutenant, Soul Reaper Higashino Shuuichi, was sent to Hell by your order?"
"Yes, Head Captain."
Kabuma Sayako's airy voice echoed off the stone.
"You should know what Hell means. Maki Kurando only went for a short while, and look how he returned. Higashino Shuuichi spent five years."
"Head Captain, Seyabasa told me Shuuichi-kun is fine. I trust Seyabasa—and I trust Shuuichi-kun."
"Even so, it's still Hell's power. Your clan—Maki Kurando—those precedents are clear. I will examine Higashino Shuuichi carefully."
Silence gathered in the chamber until Sayako's voice floated out again.
"Then, Head Captain, if there is a problem with Shuuichi-kun… what will you do?"
"I will return the Kabuma clan's artifact, Seyabasa, to you."
Yamamoto's reply held not a ripple.
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