Born in Seireitei

The sky had darkened, and evening began to claim its reign. Deep in the forest, nestled between Rukongai's vast districts, a small group rested. The men lounged on the green grass of a clearing, lazily chatting and basking in the warmth of the campfires.

Each of them was well-equipped, their weapons kept close at hand. To any observer, their affiliation with the Okikiba family would be obvious. Their dark blue clothing, armored shoulder and arm pieces reinforced with kido, and, most notably, the family's trefoil emblems left no room for doubt.

Dozens of such warriors typically guarded Okikiba enterprises—stores, pharmacies, and a variety of facilities and caravans marked with the trefoil crest. But here, there were no wagons laden with goods, just a single, albeit large, palanquin.

Three campfires spread warmth and light into the evening air, with spits turning over flames, roasting quickly marinated game caught in the surrounding area.

The local environment was always generous, abundant with gifts for anyone resourceful enough to take advantage of them—or for those driven by hunger, which afflicted only the stronger souls.

And everyone in this group felt hunger, myself included, silently watching the sparks and flames of the fire.

Thirty-two men, ravenous as wolves, salivated at the scent of roasting meat wafting into their nostrils. The five stationed further out along the camp's perimeter had it worst, forced to keep their backs to the fire as they scanned the dim forest for any signs of danger.

You never knew who might be mad enough to attack a group of thirty well-armed awakened individuals.

"Sir, would you like a drink?" one of the guards sitting across from me offered.

"Hmm, no."

The man shrugged, unbothered by my feigned indifference. He calmly took a gourd carved from wood, pulled out its stopper, and took a generous swig of sake. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he sighed in satisfaction. No one reprimanded him or threatened to take his head for drinking in the presence of nobility. They only glanced enviously at the alcohol.

During the journey, everyone had grown used to my demeanor and my deliberate ignorance of certain actions. It had made them more relaxed in their behavior and speech. I enjoyed watching people act like people instead of robots programmed for endless etiquette.

It was nice to see them being themselves, though I knew this sense of freedom would end the moment we returned.

I shifted on the red cushion pulled from the palanquin—a massive contraption of wood and paper that now rested at the center of the clearing. It required twelve grown men to carry it, who had to switch out every few hours.

The palanquin's white walls bore golden trefoils proudly displaying the family crest to any onlookers. Beneath the pristine white exterior and gilded emblems, however, were ancient and powerful kido barriers.

While inside the palanquin, its walls appeared as clear as glass to me, allowing a full view of the scenery. The barriers could prevent penetration by arrows, blades, and even low-level magic. Unless an attacker were of Gotei 13 officer level, they'd exhaust themselves trying to breach it.

If anyone asked, I would admit that traveling this way—with both safety and comfort—felt ideal compared to walking. Any embarrassment about being carried in a palanquin evaporated when I considered the alternative: trekking for hours on end across rough roads—or worse, places where no roads existed at all.

We had been on the road for a long time and were expected to reach the 23rd District by tomorrow morning, where we would begin our search for the son of the Muguruma family—assuming he was still alive and there.

The bits of information we had gathered in the now-deserted 22nd District weren't encouraging. The Hollow incursion into the western part of the 23rd had been significant enough to require Shinigami intervention. Refugees spoke of a massacre. The breach had been contained closer to the border between the 22nd and 23rd Districts—the very area where Kensei lived. Such breaches were rare in these parts, meaning the destruction was likely severe.

There was no guarantee that all the Hollows had been eliminated. These predators of souls knew how to hide their devouring forms when the heat was on. As such, everyone in the group remained on high alert.

During the journey, I had come to realize and understand some critical truths. It's not something you think about until you step beyond the walls of Seireitei, but once we left the areas of the tenth districts, the difference was stark.

Gone was the reassuring presence of strong reiatsu belonging to people in black shihakusho. In its place, the farther we traveled, the more chaotic and peculiar the reiatsu of ordinary Rukongai souls became.

Through the palanquin's transparent walls, I could easily see patrol groups that did not belong to the Gotei 13. These were warriors armed with simple weapons, wearing mismatched clothing and often lounging in postures that were a far cry from the discipline of Shinigami.

When we stopped in the large town of the Twelfth District and I felt and saw so many awakened souls, I came to a simple, harsh truth:

Not everyone in this world dreams of becoming a Shinigami.

After talking with a few decently dressed merchants in a tavern, I came to understand a very basic truth. Dead or alive, people usually steer clear of dangerous professions.

For souls who have awakened their reiatsu, it's far more advantageous and safer to enter the service of a noble family. Every man in my current group had taken this path. They lived within the walls of Seireitei, saw Shinigami every day, and yet had no aspirations to become one themselves.

There are many paths besides Gotei 13. Becoming the guard of a traveling merchant. Starting a small business to support oneself. Simply finding a family to protect personally. Turning to banditry, or even becoming an exceptionally strong porter, for that matter.

To ordinary souls, all of these options seem far safer and more profitable than becoming a Shinigami. Fighting endlessly for all eternity, until you're devoured by a Hollow or some other enemy of the Soul Society... Or an easy, low-stress job with prestige and a reasonable degree of freedom? Even I had to pause and think about it for a moment.

To those outside Seireitei, the strange individuals in the black uniforms of the Soul Reapers must seem like members of a religious order, dedicating their lives to the Balance of life and death.

Once I understood this, I began to grasp my grandfather's peculiar words and worldview. I started to comprehend the unusual willingness for self-sacrifice, the near-fanatical resolve that seemed to define Shinigami.

The phrase, "Becoming a Shinigami is entirely voluntary," stopped feeling like an empty platitude and took on an unsettlingly profound meaning.

From this perspective, my respect for everyone carrying a zanpakuto has grown tenfold since leaving Seireitei. Each of them, whether strong or weak, made a difficult choice. A choice between an easy life and duty. And they chose duty. Perhaps they also chose a far more interesting life than decades spent as a guard.

There is a significant advantage to being a Shinigami, one that isn't immediately obvious. In exchange for serving Gotei 13, you're granted access to knowledge and power unmatched by anything or anyone across all Three Worlds.

To me, it seems like a fair deal. And I made my decision about accepting it long ago.

But that's a matter for the future—one that always weighs on my mind when I get a quiet moment. Right now, there are more pressing matters…

"Hey, over there," I gave a quiet warning, "If the meat burns, I'll hang your ass over the fire instead."

"Haha," came a nervous laugh from the man by the nearest fire, who immediately began turning the spit over the flames. "My apologies, I dozed off from the warmth."

"You said the same thing last time, Shin," his companion teased. "And the time before that, too. Every time, we risk eating charcoal. Remind me, why are you always the one cooking?"

The head of my guard, Daiki, answered the question with a laugh:

"Because Shin won't share his 'divine marinade' secret. It's the only reason he's here at all."

"Hey, I'm a decent warrior!"

"Sure, sure," Daiki waved dismissively. "You're so threatening with a spoon in your hand. Meanwhile, I'm the heartthrob of women from Seireitei to the Eightieth District."

Daiki pulled such a ridiculously stupid face that for a moment, I could almost see a brainless orc.

The soft laughter from the group made the grown man puff up like a sulking child, but no one showed any real anger. Just friendly jabs that helped ease the tension and created that special atmosphere of a good adventure.

Damn, I'll miss these idiots when the rotation of warriors replaces them with others at the estate... But first, we have to get back.

---

The group ascended the hill, the last elevation that obscured the view of the city.

The morning sun bathed the town in its first warm rays. From a distance, this city appeared much like all the others along the way.

A few wide streets branched into many narrower, smaller ones, like streams breaking off from great rivers. Large estates coexisted harmoniously with dozens of smaller, humbler homes, and there were a few crude wooden watchtowers at the edges of town.

It was a good, quiet town, not yet sprawling into the phase where wealthy districts and slums emerge, instead blending together in a peaceful and harmonious way.

This city even had a small river running through its eastern side. But the river wasn't what set it apart from the others. At least, not on its own. The name did.

Unlike the numbered districts—vast regions of land labeled with simple numerals—the people living in the Soul Society possess a sense of pride and identity. Each district contains settlements and villages with unique names, often more than one, frequently nestled on plains surrounded by cultivated fields and well-trodden forest trails.

This particular city, located in the Twenty-Third Western District, was called Nuyasha.

And from afar, it looked quiet and peaceful. We had come from Seireitei, approaching from the east. But only as we drew closer did I, peering from the palanquin, behold the devastation that had befallen the northern side of the city.

Ruins now stood where homes and streets once were. Half of a watchtower jutted up like a rotten tooth, its top broken off and lying nearby, charred and skeletal. Traces of fires and destruction scarred the ground, littered with monstrous footprints and dark stains marking where blood had long since dried.

Almost the entire northern section of the city lay in ashes, coated in a blanket of soot like a grim memento of the calamity that had occurred.

Even my men slowed their steps, struck silent by the sight. Daiki, walking to the left of the palanquin, muttered under his breath, and when I listened closely, I caught the unease in his voice.

"A horrible sight," he said quietly, voicing what we all thought. "Such devastation. Could this really have been caused by Hollows? How many of them were here?"

I could have answered but chose to remain silent. I didn't want to frighten or dampen the morale of my own guards.

Just nine Hollows—that was all it had taken.

Pitiful remnants of a Breach, stragglers who had reached an inhabited town. By the time the Shinigami sent to track them down and finish them arrived, hundreds of residents had already been devoured. The Hollows were tearing through houses, pulling out panicked people who had placed so much faith in walls without kidō to protect them. Their faith died with their lives, as the bone-white jaws closed in. All the awakened souls could do was hold them off for a time—or run.

A town like this might have the strength to take down one low-level Hollow, perhaps two. But more? One fully trained rank-and-file Shinigami, armed with basic Academy knowledge of the Four Paths and a zanpakutō to cut through tough hides like butter, could handle a single low-level Hollow.

If it had been nine Hollows against nine Shinigami, the odds—assuming comparable reiatsu—would have been roughly even. Victory would come, but not without losses.

But what chance did ordinary soldiers have? Armed with nothing but iron? You'd praise them if the odds were anything greater than zero.

The monsters hadn't even been Menos-class, nor were they sentient or possessed of special abilities. They were merely moderately powerful low-level Hollows. Yet according to the reports sent to the Council, they were distinguished not by their reiatsu strength but by their size and brute force, as well as their sheer desire to destroy everything in sight. And that was what we now saw. For ordinary people, such creatures are far worse.

The common folk of Nuyasha, who likely thought of Hollows as nothing more than scary fairy tales, probably didn't even realize how lucky they were.

They didn't know that in reports to the Council, towns and villages lost during a Breach weren't even counted. Only the approximate number of dead souls mattered. And the farther a Breach occurred from Seireitei, the higher the casualties.

I was horrified when I understood this. And a little sickened when I grasped the logic behind it.

This wasn't a matter of malice or a horrible scheme. For the Soul Society, rare Hollow Breaches are akin to natural disasters in the World of the Living. Yes, they bring sorrow and pain, destroying homes and lives, but the best one can do is try to mitigate the losses and consequences, then move on.

That's just another simple truth.

It's an easy truth to accept, and even to forget… until it involves someone you know or care about. Until then, life in the Soul Society will always carry this unseen sword overhead, the danger of one day finding a white bone mask before you, hungry for your soul.

Do I understand now the reverence and hope with which people gaze toward the distant White City? Always there, unyielding and steadfast, its spires of white stone gleaming in the sun—ever safe, ever dependable, filled with warriors of unimaginable strength.

For powerless souls, Seireitei is a beacon of hope, a bastion of strength that shields them. I've spoken to refugees, read reports, and now seen the devastation that tore apart part of a city as thoroughly as war—only worse. In human wars, souls are not devoured.

Yes. Now I understand. Seireitei is called the Court of Pure Souls, the White City, and by the old souls, even the City of Gods. Once, I found those titles amusing. Now, my face holds no hint of a smirk.

I am glad and grateful, whether to fate or perhaps the King himself, that I was born and have the right to live there. And to be honest, I'd prefer to return there as soon as possible.

I've also come to understand that people don't become Shinigami just out of duty, but out of a desire for the power to protect themselves. That desperate need to feel safe, to possess a strength that can and will protect you when you need it most.

I'd understood this intellectually before. Now, as I see the destruction and the traces of Hollows in ruins where no one dares linger... and as I myself constantly reach toward the warm fire of strength in my soul, I finally understand it in my heart.

"There's so much blood," the palanquin bearers whispered to one another. "Did you see it over there on the left?"

"No, I didn't."

"But you looked, didn't you?"

"No. I didn't. Understand?"

"Ah, sorry, you've gone pale."

I don't know if I'd turned pale like that poor man, but I'd seen it too. A pile of rubble where a large family clearly once lived. The stains there looked as though a cart of tomato juice had overturned and dried. I didn't want to look a second time.

Another flame joined my desire to become a Shinigami, another reason added to the list. Damn it, I will become a Shinigami. And I will never be one of those who can so easily be dragged from their own home and devoured like dog food!

Perhaps it was just my imagination, but the flow of reiatsu from the Soul's Slumber felt a bit cleaner, a bit denser. Or maybe it was just the intensity of my emotions. My grandfather had often told me that steel-like resolve was what separated a good Shinigami from a bad one—the living from the dead. Today, I tempered that resolve a little more.

---

The palanquin was left in the courtyard of the only inn for nobles or the wealthy in the center of the city. The inn stood directly across from an unassuming two-story administrative building, separated from the rest of the city by thin yellow walls.

It consisted of a large house and several smaller ones at a distance, all designed in a classic ancient Asian style for affluent homes, with smooth semicircular arches for doors, windows, and roofs. Everything was surrounded by meticulously tended greenery, and there was even an artificial pond—though without fish.

The inn even had guards at the entrance: two burly men with muscles like demons. However, their faces displayed such servile fear at the sight of the emblem on my palanquin that I barely suppressed a laugh at their comically twisted expressions.

The innkeeper himself came out to greet us—a richly dressed old man who barely reached my waist in height. He struck me neither as arrogant nor ridiculous, just a polite elder who calmly offered me a private cottage on the property and several attendants for any whim. When the attendants turned out to be exclusively beautiful women with low-cut dresses, I understood he meant any whim.

I only availed myself of their services for bathing and their divine massage skills. A fleeting thought of more crossed my mind, but after their delicate hands transformed my body into a blissful, boneless mass, I fell asleep.

At least I managed to give orders before that: gather information about Muguruma and grease some reluctant tongues with gold. While I indulged, my subordinates worked—a truly marvelous privilege of being wealthy nobility. And I didn't feel the least bit guilty about it. I can see why some of my peers let such power go to their heads.

Oh no, I'm turning into a spoiled brat! Whatever shall I do? Tsk tsk tsk. That joke got old back when I was seven. It's a pity only I find it amusing, meaning I can only poke fun at myself.

Wealth and authority exist to be used. Otherwise, why have them at all? People don't strive for such things only to sweep their riches under the rug and pretend they're just like everyone else—ordinary folk.

Whenever I saw such people or even read about them, it always struck me as such blatant hypocrisy. Or simply stupidity.

Especially those types who wrinkle their noses and claim they'll earn their own fortune, bemoaning the injustice of inherited wealth… only to do nothing at all.

I can respect those who act on their words. But the rest? Just idiots. Why the hell did your parents work so hard for all of this? So you could toss aside their efforts like garbage?

If I were a wealthy parent and my child treated me that way, I'd be hurt. At the very least, I'd feel like everything I'd worked and lived for had been in vain.

I will never be that kind of fool. Nor will I be a vapid, spoiled brat. Things are made to be used. Money is earned to be spent. Power is gained to be wielded.

Should I, right now, run around town questioning people, begging strangers to share information? Should I trudge along dusty roads under the blazing sun instead of enjoying good food, cool shade, and the company of beautiful women easing my travel-weary body? Find another fool.

And I was proven right because, when I woke up closer to evening, Daiki was already waiting at the door, armed with papers full of notes and a head crammed so full of city gossip it seemed to make him sick.

"We found him, and he's alive," Daiki immediately reported the most important news. "He's here in Nuyasha. But life isn't going so well for the kid."

The sun had just started dipping toward the horizon, and the servants had already completed their tasks. Good workers. Something previously unnoticed loosened the knot in my stomach. I nodded, inviting Daiki to sit for a more detailed discussion.

A small veranda in front of the house served as our setting for tea and conversation.

Smiling at my loyal guard, I settled onto the cushions and poured tea into cups of green porcelain for both of us. The aroma was excellent—clearly, no corners had been cut on quality. We took a moment to savor the taste, listening to the distant hum from the city center as evening set in.

I placed my empty cup on the tray alongside another identical one. Daiki always drank like a parched pit bull—well, not quite that crudely, but compared to the etiquette ingrained in me practically to the bone, it came across that way.

"Well, go ahead and tell me."

"Understood…"