Rukongai.
A name that sounded poetic — but in truth, it was just a massive ring built around Seireitei, crammed full of wandering souls with nowhere else to go.
The smaller the district number, the closer to Seireitei — and the more "peaceful" life tended to be. After all, it only took a few steps for a Shinigami to show up. Causing trouble came with consequences.
But the higher the number, the less the rules of Seireitei meant anything.
District 80. Zaraki.
This place sat right on the outer edge of the Gotei's jurisdiction. Going decades without seeing a single Shinigami wasn't unusual.
So naturally, everyone who couldn't make it elsewhere — fugitives, outcasts, or those who simply liked to kill — gathered here.
The air reeked of blood and rot.
"Hah. This place really hasn't changed a bit."
Kuryashiki Kenpachi strolled boldly down the so-called main road of Zaraki, his right hand casually tucked inside his Shihakushō.
If you could even call it a road — it was more like a narrow path strewn with broken stones and trash, flanked by crooked buildings ready to kiss the ground.
He glanced around.
Figures cowered inside roofless shacks, hiding in the shadows. Every few steps, something — or someone — lay sprawled on the ground. Some no longer moved. Others groaned faintly. Stains layered the walls: dark, light, old, fresh.
Ashido followed closely behind, scanning the eyes peering from broken windows and sunless corners. Those stares were sticky and hostile, but no one dared step out.
"Captain," Ashido said flatly, "seems even here, they know what it means to raise a hand against a Shinigami."
Shinigami — especially those wearing a captain's haori — meant one thing in places like this: 'Do not engage.' The people who survived here? Crazy, sure. But not stupid.
"Eh, that's not always the case." Kuryashiki Kenpachi grinned, a wide, reckless smile that clashed entirely with the squalor around them.
"Back a hundred years ago, I came by once. The Eleventh used to have a tradition of 'recruiting' here when we were short on men. So I thought I'd browse a bit."
He gestured lazily with his left hand. "The result? All bark. Looked fierce, but once it came to a real fight, they couldn't even handle our fresh recruits."
Ashido said nothing. He knew his captain's standards — if you couldn't fight, you were trash.
Suddenly, Kuryashiki halted.
He tilted his head, eyes falling on a pile of rotting wood and junk by the roadside.
"Yo, found you."
He strode over with a smirk.
"Captain?" Ashido looked confused.
Kuryashiki didn't answer. His right hand emerged from inside his robes, seized the boards, and yanked them aside.
Crash!
The boards clattered away, revealing a man curled up behind them.
He was painfully thin, clothed in little more than rags. His exposed skin was caked in filth and scars.
The moment he saw Kuryashiki — especially that haori — he flinched violently. Trembling, he wrapped his arms over his head and shrieked hoarsely:
"Don't kill me! I don't know anything! Please, let me go!"
The voice was cracked, frantic — pure terror.
Ashido frowned. "Captain, this guy—"
He didn't get to finish.
Because in the instant Kuryashiki seemed to relax slightly at the pitiful sight…
The man exploded upward.
From beneath his filthy body, a rusted dagger shot forth, aimed straight at Kuryashiki's gut. The edge still bore the crusted stain of old blood.
"Die!"
Gone was the fear. His face twisted into a snarl, eyes bloodshot and wild.
Too close. Too fast.
Ashido's pupils shrank. His hand flew to his sword—
Clang!
A sharp metallic ring echoed. The dagger slammed into Kuryashiki's stomach — and broke. The rusted blade snapped clean off, clattering to the dirt.
The man froze, staring at the jagged hilt in his hand.
Then at Kuryashiki's untouched uniform.
The madness on his face cracked. Panic rushed back in.
"N-Not my fault! He made me do it!" the man sobbed.
Then, with no warning, he lunged again — mouth open, yellow teeth bared — aiming to bite Kuryashiki's throat.
It was seamless — the switch from begging to murder. For this man, they were the same motion.
This time, Kuryashiki moved.
The hand he'd rested on his belly was already raised. He caught the man's face mid-lunge, fingers digging into the grime.
"Tch. Pretty sharp teeth." Kuryashiki hoisted him off the ground one-handed.
The man's legs kicked wildly, striking his Shihakushō with dull thuds.
Kuryashiki tilted his head toward Ashido and shot him a look.
"See that, Ashido?"
His voice remained booming and cheerful.
"In Zaraki, you'll only find three kinds of people. One, already lying on the ground." He gestured toward the corpses.
"Two, about to lie down." He jostled the struggling man, who was now clawing at his wrist.
"And the third — looks like a puddle of mud, but the moment you relax, they're at your throat. No rabbits here. No real trash either. Just predators hiding their fangs."
Ashido eased off his sword, watching the man who, despite being gripped by the face, was still thrashing like mad. He understood.
Kuryashiki turned back to the man, interest lingering in his eyes, even as the smile faded.
"Hey. Tell me something. Who runs Zaraki these days? Answer, and I won't kill you."
Casual tone, heavy weight.
The man's kicking slowed slightly. His eyes flicked around from between Kuryashiki's fingers.
"R-Really? You swear? You won't kill me if I talk?"
"Of course." Kuryashiki nodded. "I'm Kuryashiki Kenpachi, Captain of the Eleventh. I keep my word." But his grip didn't loosen.
The man hesitated for barely two seconds. In Zaraki, that was enough to die three times.
He spilled it all in a rush:
"N-No big bosses left! Used to be, but they're all dead! Now Zaraki belongs to the 'Demon'!"
"Oh?!" Kuryashiki's eyes lit up. "A Demon? Now we're talking! That why everyone's lying around? His handiwork?"
"Yes! Him! He kills all the time! Does whatever he wants! No one can stop him — everyone avoids him!"
The man's head twisted desperately toward the far end of the street. "That way! There's an old well in the center! He… he's always there!"
"Perfect." Kuryashiki grinned and flung the man aside.
Thud!
He crashed onto the stones, tumbled a few times, and coughed up blood — but didn't dare scream. He scuttled into another pile of junk and vanished.
Kuryashiki clapped his hands clean, turned, and strode toward the street's end.
"Ashido! You hear that? A 'Demon'! This trip was worth it!"
Ashido caught up, brow still furrowed.
He'd come to scout for recruits. The Eleventh didn't care about background — District 80 sounded promising.
But what he'd seen so far? Corpses, cripples, and wolves in sheep's clothing. Vicious and cunning, sure — but soldiers? Not likely. No discipline, no loyalty.
Worse, their Reiatsu was pathetic. In a fight among Shinigami, they wouldn't even count as a breeze.
"Captain," Ashido said steadily, "even if there is a 'Demon'… with how weak these people are, I doubt—"
"Don't rush to judge, Ashido." Kuryashiki cut him off, voice calm as they walked.
"Past the Sixtieth District, the turf gets passed around by so-called 'big shots.' Every would-be king in Zaraki ends up dead in a ditch. So if someone's standing tall here — and folks are calling him a 'Demon'…"
He paused, smile sharpening.
"Either he's batshit crazy… or he's got something real. And since we're here, might as well meet him."
They kept walking.
Zaraki wasn't big. The so-called "center" soon appeared.
An open patch of broken stone slabs, dried grass pushing through the cracks.
Right in the middle, just like the man said, stood an old well. Made of stone, the rim chipped — long dried up.
But what caught their eyes wasn't the well.
It was the man sitting beneath the tree beside it.
A young man.
Black hair tumbled messily over broad shoulders. He was tall, built like a beast — muscles bulging under pale skin.
He was shirtless, his body crisscrossed with scars.
Blade wounds. Claw marks. Rips and tears. Some faded, some still pink.
Beside him leaned a long, distinctive sword — wide-bladed, with jagged edges like a saw. In the dim light, it glinted dully.
The young man sat with his head down, as if dozing, or studying something on the ground.
But the moment Kuryashiki and Ashido stepped into the clearing…
He looked up.
His face was young, features clear — even handsome, in a way. But his eyes were empty. Two dry wells. Nothing behind them.
Until they landed on Kuryashiki's haori.
Then, faintly, a spark lit inside them.