The cherry blossoms fell like snow that spring morning.
Yaho sat beneath the ancient tree at the estate's eastern edge, his guitar resting against the gnarled trunk beside him. Pink petals drifted down in lazy spirals, catching sunlight as they descended, painting the air in shades of rose and white. Some landed in his hair. Others settled on his shoulders. He didn't brush them away.
Iki and Yukina sat before him on the grass, cross-legged and attentive. They'd just finished morning training—two hours of spiritual control exercises that had left Yukina exhausted and Iki barely winded. Now came the other part of education, the part Yaho considered equally important: philosophy.
"I want to tell you something," Yaho began, his voice carrying the easy warmth that was his default setting. "Something I learned when I was younger, when everything seemed dark and hopeless. Something that saved me, in a way."
Both children watched him with different kinds of attention—Iki's analytical and distant, Yukina's eager and engaged.
"Do you know what the odds of being born are?" Yaho asked.
Yukina shook her head. Iki waited silently.
"One in four hundred trillion." Yaho let the number hang in the air like the falling petals around them. "That's not an exaggeration or a metaphor. That's actual mathematics. For you to exist—for anyone to exist—your parents had to meet. Their parents had to meet. Going back generations, every single ancestor had to survive long enough to reproduce. Every chance encounter, every decision, every moment had to align perfectly."
He picked up a fallen petal, holding it between his fingers.
"And that's before you factor in the biological impossibility. The specific sperm meeting the specific egg at exactly the right moment. The millions of variables in genetic combination. The fact that your mother's body didn't reject you during development. That you survived childbirth. That you've survived every day since."
A breeze stirred the branches overhead, releasing another cascade of blossoms.
"You are one in four hundred trillion," Yaho said softly. "Both of you. Every person who's ever lived. We're all born from impossibility itself. Miracles walking around pretending to be ordinary."
Yukina's eyes shone with wonder. "We're miracles?"
"You are. I am. Everyone is." Yaho's smile broadened. "That's why I believe life must be cherished. Why I try to find joy even when things are hard. Because existence itself is so improbable, so precious, that wasting it on despair feels like..." He gestured vaguely. "Like spitting in the face of the universe that went through so much trouble to create you."
"That's beautiful," Yukina breathed. Then, with typical eight-year-old enthusiasm: "I'm going to tell everyone they're miracles! Even the mean kids in town when we go shopping!"
Yaho chuckled. "That's the spirit."
But Iki had been silent throughout, his dark eyes fixed on his uncle with uncomfortable intensity. Now he spoke, his flat tone somehow making the question more pointed:
"What about those who suffer endlessly with no chance of relief? Is their miracle a curse?"
The question hit like a stone through glass.
Yaho's smile faltered. A petal landed on his knee, and he stared at it rather than meeting his nephew's gaze. "What do you mean?"
"You said existence is a miracle. That life must be cherished because the odds of being born are so small." Iki tilted his head slightly. "But some people—some beings—exist only to suffer. They didn't choose their circumstances. They can't escape them. For them, being that one in four hundred trillion means winning a lottery they never wanted to enter. Is that still miraculous? Or is it just cruel?"
Yukina looked between them, confusion replacing her earlier joy. "Iki, what are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the Soul King," Iki said simply. "And anyone else who's trapped in eternal agony. If their existence is miraculous, then miracles can be torture."
Silence settled over them, broken only by birdsong and the whisper of wind through branches.
Yaho set down the petal he'd been holding. Ran his hand through his hair, dislodging several blossoms. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its characteristic lightness.
"You're right," he admitted. "I don't have a good answer for that."
"You don't need a good answer," Iki said. "I just want to know what you think."
"What I think..." Yaho stared up at the cherry tree, at the branches that had witnessed generations of Susami family gatherings. "I think life is complicated. I think the philosophy that saved me—that helped me survive losing my entire family—might not apply to everyone. Some suffering is too vast for optimism to reach."
He looked at Iki directly now, meeting those unsettling eyes.
"But here's what I also think: even in the worst circumstances, even in eternal suffering, consciousness itself has value. The ability to think, to feel, to be—that matters. And if someone is trapped in agony, then the miraculous thing isn't their suffering. It's that they endure. That they continue existing despite everything screaming at them to give up."
"So endurance is the miracle?" Iki asked.
"Maybe. Or maybe the miracle is that someone like you exists who can ask these questions. Who can recognize injustice and want to fix it." Yaho's expression softened. "You carry something that suffers, don't you? That's why you ask these things. Because you feel it."
Iki nodded slowly.
"Then maybe," Yaho said, "the miracle isn't the suffering. It's the possibility of ending it. The fact that you exist, with your impossible power and your strange connection to something divine—maybe that's the universe's way of saying 'enough.' Maybe you're the one-in-four-hundred-trillion chance that things can change."
Yukina had been listening with growing confusion, clearly not understanding half the conversation's subtext. Now she threw her hands up in frustration.
"This is too complicated! I don't understand all this talk about suffering and miracles and changing things!" She looked at Iki with absolute conviction. "But I know Iki is special. Really, really special. So if there's a problem, he'll fix it. That's what special people do!"
Both Yaho and Iki turned to stare at her.
"That's your contribution?" Yaho asked, somewhere between amused and exasperated. "Just 'Iki will fix it'?"
"Yes!" Yukina nodded vigorously. "Because he will! He's the strongest, smartest, most amazing person ever, and if anyone can solve all the world's problems, it's him!"
"I can't solve all the world's problems," Iki said flatly. "That's an impossible standard."
"You can try! And trying is what heroes do!" Yukina beamed at him with such unshakeable faith that Yaho felt something twist in his chest.
She doesn't understand, he realized. She hears us talking about cosmic suffering and eternal imprisonment, and all she takes from it is another reason to worship Iki. She's not engaging with the philosophy—she's just reinforcing her fantasy.
But maybe that was okay. Maybe eight-year-olds shouldn't have to engage with existential horror. Maybe Yukina's simple faith—however misguided—was healthier than Iki's burden of cosmic awareness.
"Well," Yaho said, forcing brightness back into his tone, "I suppose that's one approach. The 'Iki will fix it' school of philosophy."
Yukina giggled. Iki's expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes suggested he found the concept absurd.
"Can we practice now?" Iki asked, clearly ready to move past the conversation. "I want to try something I've been thinking about."
"Practice what?"
"Breathing."
They moved to the garden's center, where a small meditation circle of stones marked the area Yaho used for spiritual training. Iki positioned himself in the middle, settling into a cross-legged stance with perfect posture.
"What exactly are you trying to do?" Yaho asked, settling nearby while Yukina plopped down in the grass, content to watch.
"The Soul King's Lungs let me breathe in spiritual energy when I'm attacked," Iki explained. "I can inhale Ceros, Kido, even reiryoku-based barriers. But I've been wondering—can I do it without being attacked? Can I just... breathe in the spiritual particles that exist naturally in the environment?"
Yaho's eyes widened. "You mean like Quincy?"
"Similar, but different. Quincy manipulate reishi—they reshape it into weapons and tools. I just want to absorb it. Pull it into myself and let my body convert it to usable energy." Iki closed his eyes. "Like breathing in oxygen."
"That's..." Yaho trailed off. Because what could he say? That's impossible? Everything about Iki was impossible. That's dangerous? The boy already carried a divine organ in his chest. "Be careful."
"I will."
Iki began to breathe.
At first, nothing visible happened. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, his expression perfectly calm. But then—slowly, subtly—the air around him began to change.
It started as a shimmer, like heat waves rising from sun-baked pavement. Then it became more pronounced: visible distortions in the space around Iki's face, particularly near his mouth and nose. And finally, Yaho saw it clearly:
Streams of spiritual particles, normally invisible to the naked eye, flowing toward Iki like smoke in reverse.
They came from everywhere—the grass, the stones, the trees, even the air itself. Reishi pulled free from its natural resting places and drifted toward the boy in thin, luminous threads that spiraled into his nose and mouth with each inhalation.
"Incredible," Yaho whispered.
Yukina gasped. "I can see it! The air is sparkling around him!"
She was right. The reishi caught sunlight as it moved, creating prismatic effects that made Iki look like he sat at the center of a slowly swirling galaxy.
Minutes passed. Iki's breathing remained steady, but the effect intensified. More reishi flowed toward him. The streams grew thicker. And Yaho realized with growing alarm that the ambient spiritual density around them was actually decreasing—Iki was inhaling so much reishi that he was creating a localized spiritual vacuum.
"Iki," Yaho called gently. "That's enough for now. You don't want to drain the area completely."
The boy's eyes opened. The streams of reishi cut off immediately, and the world returned to normal—or what passed for normal around Iki.
"I felt it," Iki said, and for the first time, there was something like excitement in his voice. "I felt the reishi entering my body. Being converted into reiryoku. Strengthening me. It worked exactly like I thought it would."
"How do you feel?"
"Stronger. Not dramatically—I only absorbed a small amount. But definitely stronger." Iki looked at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. "If I practice this regularly, I could grow much more powerful over time. And without needing to fight or face danger. Just... breathing."
Yaho felt pride and worry war in his chest. Pride because his nephew had just accomplished something that should be impossible. Worry because this new ability made Iki even more abnormal, even more likely to draw dangerous attention.
"You have to be careful with this," Yaho warned. "Absorbing reishi from the environment—that's something Quincy do, and Soul Society hunts them for it. If anyone finds out you can do this—"
"They'll see me as a threat," Iki finished. "I understand. I'll only practice here, within the estate's barriers, where no one can sense it."
"Good." Yaho paused, then added: "But also—I'm proud of you. You're learning to understand and control your power. That takes discipline most adults don't have."
Iki's expression didn't change, but he nodded slightly in acknowledgment.
Yukina, who'd been watching with rapt attention, suddenly announced: "I want to try!"
"Try what?" Yaho asked.
"Breathing in the sparkly air! If Iki can do it, maybe I can too!"
"Yukina, that's not—" Yaho started, but the girl had already closed her eyes and was taking exaggerated deep breaths, her face scrunched with concentration.
Nothing happened.
After thirty seconds, she opened one eye. "Is it working?"
"No," Iki said bluntly. "You don't have the right physiology. The Soul King's Lungs give me the ability to breathe in spiritual energy. Normal Fullbringer lungs can't do that."
Yukina deflated. "Oh. That's... that's fine. I'll just get strong in my own way!"
But Yaho saw the disappointment she was trying to hide, saw the way her hands clenched in her dress. The gap between her abilities and Iki's was widening every day, and no amount of determination could bridge it. She was a normal Fullbringer—talented perhaps, but fundamentally human.
Iki was something else entirely.
The afternoon passed in more mundane training. Yaho worked with both children on physical conditioning—because spiritual power meant nothing if your body couldn't support it—and by the time the sun began its descent toward the horizon, all three were pleasantly exhausted.
They were heading back to the main building when Yaho stopped abruptly.
His head snapped toward the forest's edge, eyes narrowing. His hand instinctively reached for his guitar.
"What's wrong?" Yukina asked.
"Someone's watching us," Yaho said quietly. "A Fullbringer. I can feel their reiatsu—they're suppressing it, but not completely. They're observing from a distance."
Iki turned, his empty eyes scanning the treeline. After a moment, he nodded. "I taste them. Bitter coffee and old leather. They've been there for about twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?" Yaho felt a chill. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"They weren't hostile. Just curious." Iki tilted his head. "Should I have mentioned it?"
"Yes! Always tell me when you sense unknown Fullbringers!"
"Understood. I'll remember for next time."
Yaho rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Sometimes Iki's literal interpretation of social norms was endearing. Other times, it was deeply concerning.
"Stay close to me," Yaho instructed, positioning himself between the children and the direction he sensed the observer. "Whoever they are, they're not approaching. Which means they either lack confidence to confront us, or they're gathering information."
"Is that bad?" Yukina pressed against Iki's side, her earlier playfulness replaced by nervousness.
"Depends on why they want information." Yaho's fingers rested on his guitar strings, ready to play if necessary. "Not all Fullbringers are allies. Some work as informants for Soul Society—trading information about other Fullbringers in exchange for protection or payment. Others work for human organizations that study spiritual phenomena. And some are just paranoid, keeping tabs on anyone they consider a potential threat."
"Which type is this one?" Iki asked.
"I don't know yet. But the fact that they sensed us—sensed you specifically—and chose to observe rather than introduce themselves? That's concerning."
They waited in tense silence for several minutes. The sun dipped lower, painting the forest in shades of orange and gold. Birds called to each other as they settled for the evening. And the mysterious presence remained, watching, waiting.
Then—finally—it withdrew. The spiritual signature faded into distance, heading away from the estate at a pace that suggested deliberate departure rather than flight.
Yaho let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "They're gone."
"Should we follow them?" Iki asked.
"No. If they wanted confrontation, they would have approached. Following would only escalate the situation." Yaho ushered both children toward the house. "But we're increasing security protocols from now on. I'll reinforce the barriers tonight, and I want both of you to practice suppressing your reiryoku even more thoroughly. We can't afford to be careless."
As they entered the estate, Yukina asked the question Yaho had been dreading: "Do you think they'll come back?"
"I don't know," Yaho admitted. "But we need to be ready in case they do. Or in case they report us to someone worse."
That night, long after dinner and evening training, after Yukina had gone to bed and Yaho was reinforcing the spiritual barriers around the estate's perimeter, Iki stood alone in the garden.
The sky stretched above him, impossibly vast, dotted with stars that glittered like diamonds scattered across black silk. A crescent moon hung low on the horizon, pale and delicate. The air was cool but not cold, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers and damp earth.
Iki looked up at those stars and wondered.
If reishi existed in air and objects, did it exist in starlight? In the space between worlds? In the void that separated the living realm from Soul Society and Hueco Mundo?
Only one way to find out.
He closed his eyes. Opened his mouth. And breathed.
This time, he didn't pull from the immediate environment. Instead, he reached further—extending his awareness upward, toward the sky, toward the stars, toward the distant sources of light that had traveled incomprehensible distances to reach this garden.
And he felt it: reishi, so dilute it was almost imperceptible, drifting down from above like spiritual rain. Ancient particles that had existed in the space between realms, now falling to earth where they would eventually be absorbed into the living world's natural cycle.
Iki breathed them in.
The effect was subtle—nowhere near as dramatic as absorbing from his immediate surroundings. But he could taste it: the cold, distant flavor of space itself. The ancient resonance of energy that had existed outside conventional reality.
His eyes opened, and they glowed.
Faintly, almost imperceptibly, white light emanated from his irises—not bright enough to illuminate anything, but visible as a soft luminescence in the darkness. It was the same light that appeared during his visions, the same glow that marked him as something more than human.
His body was outlined in pale radiance, a barely-visible aura that pulsed in time with his breathing. Reishi from above flowed toward him in invisible streams, drawn by the cosmic gravity of the Soul King's Lungs.
This is what I am, Iki thought, watching his own glowing hands with detached fascination. Not fully human. Not fully divine. Something in between. A bridge between mortal and god, carrying breath that belongs to another.
It should have frightened him. Should have made him question his identity, his purpose, his very existence.
But it didn't.
Because Iki Susami had never been normal. Had never pretended to be. He was born into abnormality, raised in it, defined by it. This glowing form—this breathing meditation that pulled starlight from the sky—was simply the truth of his nature finally becoming visible.
"You're beautiful," a voice said from behind him.
Iki turned to find Yukina standing at the edge of the garden, her nightclothes slightly disheveled, eyes wide with wonder. She must have woken and come looking for him.
"I'm not beautiful," Iki said. "I'm just breathing."
"No, you are. You're glowing! Like—like a prince from a fairy tale!" She approached slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might dispel the effect. "Like magic made real. Like proof that impossible things exist."
"I'm proof that impossible things suffer," Iki corrected. "The one whose breath I carry—he's in constant agony. This power comes from his pain."
But Yukina either didn't understand or didn't care. She stopped just outside the radius of Iki's faint aura, staring at him with an expression that mixed adoration, fascination, and something deeper—something that looked disturbingly like religious devotion.
"You're going to save him," she said with absolute certainty. "The one who's suffering. You're going to save him, and save everyone, and make everything right. Because that's what you're meant to do."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're you." Yukina smiled, and in the reflected glow from Iki's eyes, she looked almost ethereal herself. "Because I've known since the moment I saw you that you were someone special. Someone important. Someone who would change everything."
Iki considered this, his luminous gaze studying the girl who'd attached herself to him with such incomprehensible devotion.
"You don't really know me," he said finally. "You know what you want me to be. But the real me—the one who questions everything, who carries other people's suffering, who might one day have to make choices that destroy the world—you don't know him at all."
"Then I'll learn!" Yukina's smile didn't falter. "I'll stay beside you and learn everything about you and support you no matter what choices you make. Because that's what—" She hesitated, then said with quiet conviction: "That's what a princess does for her prince."
There it was again: that fantasy framework she'd built around their relationship. Iki wasn't sure how to dismantle it without hurting her, wasn't even sure if he should try. So instead, he simply nodded.
"If you want to stay beside me, you need to grow stronger. Much stronger. The path ahead will be dangerous."
"I will! I'll train harder than anyone! I'll—"
A soft sound cut through the night: wings beating against air, too rhythmic to be natural.
Both children turned to see a bird descending from the sky—except it wasn't really a bird. It was a construct, a thing made of solidified reishi shaped into avian form, glowing with faint blue light as it flew.
The construct landed on the garden's stone path, regarded them with eyes that held too much intelligence, and spoke with a woman's voice:
"The boy with the divine breath—Soul Society will notice him soon. Prepare for consequences."
The voice was mature, carrying an accent Iki couldn't place and a tone that suggested genuine concern rather than threat.
Before either child could respond, the bird construct dissolved, breaking apart into individual particles that dispersed on the night wind until nothing remained but the memory of its words.
Yukina grabbed Iki's arm. "What was that? Who sent it?"
"The Fullbringer who was watching us earlier," Iki said calmly. "They waited until they were far enough away to avoid confrontation, then sent a message. It's clever. Cowardly, but clever."
"We need to tell Yaho-san!"
"Yes. But first—" Iki looked at Yukina seriously. "Don't panic. Whatever's coming, we'll face it. Together."
The glow in his eyes had faded during the bird's arrival, but now it returned slightly—steady and calm, like distant stars refusing to be extinguished.
"Together," Yukina repeated, squeezing his arm. "I promise."
They found Yaho still working on the barriers, his hands moving in complex patterns as he wove spiritual energy into the estate's protective framework. When they explained what had happened—the bird construct, the woman's voice, the warning about Soul Society—his expression cycled through shock, anger, and grim acceptance.
"I knew this would happen eventually," he said, sitting heavily on the engawa. "Your spiritual pressure is too unusual, Iki. Too powerful. Even suppressed, it has a quality that draws attention. And now someone's noticed. Someone who knows enough about Soul Society to understand what they'll do when they sense you."
"What will they do?" Yukina asked nervously.
"Send an investigator, probably. A Soul Reaper assigned to monitor spiritual activity in the living world. They'll want to know what you are, Iki. Whether you're a threat." Yaho's jaw tightened. "And depending on what they discover—what conclusions they draw about the Soul King's Lungs—they might try to take you. To study you. To ensure you can't interfere with the cosmic balance they've spent millennia maintaining."
"Let them come," Iki said quietly. "I'll talk to them. Explain that I'm not a threat."
"But you are a threat," Yaho said, not unkindly. "You're a direct challenge to everything they've built. A walking reminder that the Soul King was once a person, not just a keystone. If they sense that—if they understand what you represent—they won't let you exist freely."
Silence settled over them, broken only by night insects and the distant rustle of wind through trees.
"Then what do we do?" Yukina's voice was very small.
Yaho looked at both children—these impossible, precious lives he'd sworn to protect—and felt the weight of impossible decisions pressing down on him.
"We prepare," he said finally. "We train harder. We get stronger. And when Soul Society comes—because they will come—we'll be ready. To fight if necessary. To run if possible. To do whatever it takes to keep this family together."
He pulled them both into a hug, feeling their small bodies against his chest, feeling the enormousness of the responsibility he'd inherited.
"Whatever happens," Yaho promised, "I won't let them take you. Either of you. That's my vow."
And standing there in the darkness, with stars glittering overhead and warnings echoing in the night air, three souls bound by circumstance and affection made a silent pact:
They would face whatever came together.
They would survive.
They would grow strong enough that no one—not Hollows, not Soul Society, not even the architects of reality itself—could break them apart.
Or die trying.
Far away, in a small apartment in another district, a woman set down her binoculars and sighed.
She hadn't wanted to get involved. Hadn't wanted to draw attention to the boy or risk her own safety by sending warnings. But something about what she'd sensed—that impossible spiritual pressure, that quality of divinity—had compelled her to act.
"Forgive me," she whispered to no one. "But if Soul Society realizes what you are... they'll kill you before you can become what you're meant to be."
She gathered her belongings quickly, efficiently. Time to move again. Time to disappear before questions could be asked or connections could be traced.
Being a Fullbringer meant living in the shadows. Surviving by remaining unnoticed.
But some things were worth risking exposure for.
Some children were worth protecting, even from a distance.
Even if they never knew your name.
And in Soul Society, in the Department of Research and Development, an alarm triggered.
Mayuri Kurotsuchi looked up from his experiment, eyes narrowing behind theatrical makeup as data scrolled across his screen.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting indeed."
A spiritual signature had appeared in the living world. Brief. Partially suppressed. But with a quality he'd only seen once before in ancient records—during his research into the Soul King's scattered organs.
"Captain Kurotsuchi?" His lieutenant, Nemu, appeared at his side. "What is it?"
"A potential specimen," Mayuri said, a smile spreading across his painted face. "Or perhaps a puzzle. Either way—"
He pressed a button, filing a formal request for investigation with the Gotei 13's administration.
"—I intend to solve it."