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A waving line trailing up the Zanpakuto's curved blade separated dark steel from light, ending at an oval guard made of polished wood and a hilt wrapped in criss-crossing maroon silk. The scabbard was plainly wooden, polished to a black sheen. Ichigo tied the scabbard to his robe's waist sash, then practiced drawing the blade a few times—as he had practiced in Tatsuki's Dojo.
Tatsuki. His friend.
He had left all his friends and classmates behind in the living world.
There was no going back, not until he becomes a Shinigami, and even then, they wouldn't be able to see him. The Soul Society was where he belonged. This was his new home whether he liked it or not. No point in dwelling on the past now.
Ichigo swallowed an aching lump, buried it deep in his chest to be forgotten. His fingers tightened around the Zanpakuto. Something gave way against his untrimmed nails. Silk threads were unraveling, poorly woven, poorly taken care of by those kids. Some great weapon this was.
On second inspection, holding the Zanpakuto up to the sun, Ichigo spotted a hairline crack running all the way from the hilt down to the tip of the blade. The crack was perfectly straight. And deep. Someone had sawed this whole thing in half and then glued it back together. The scabbard too. Was this even a Zanpakuto? Kenji could've been wrong. He was merely some poor, powerless teenager, after all.
But a sword was a sword. The edge was razor sharp, Ichigo moronically testing it against his index finger, drawing blood. A shallow cut. He clenched the wound, sighing, and continued on his way back toward the town's center. He had enough of this outskirt part of town and its residents; cautious glares were now constantly on him and his weapon. Many sneered in challenge and showed their own weapons as he passed by. He ignored them all. He made no eye contact.
Closer to the better part of town, behind an open wooden window, a handful of boisterous men were playing a card game and drinking from wooden cups. Drinking alcohol by the smell of it.
"Any of you got food?" Ichigo asked them, releasing spiritual pressure in their direction, just a sideways gust to put them off balance. Enough to get the message across—both a threat and a plea for help.
Necks twisted. Eyes were wide. Cards fumbled onto their broken table.
The man with graying hair said, "No, sir, we don't."
"We only have Sake, sir," the youngest said.
Sir?
Because they thought he was a Shinigami. Or something alike.
"Nevermind then." Ichigo briskly walked onward.
Upon reaching the town square, the clock tower rang twice just before the large hand hit a faded hour mark. Two waves of near-unnoticeable spiritual pressure splashed outward from the tower, passed through Ichigo harmlessly, and dispersed into the countryside far short of mountains on the horizon. By the sun's trajectory, that mountain range was due south, right in the way of Ichigo's destination. It didn't make a difference. A hike was fine by him.
Might as well start moving.
Start foraging and hunting.
Ichigo followed the main road cutting through the town from north to south. The further south he walked, the more appealing dwellings were. Some houses were whitewashed. A few were made of clay bricks. But roads were still just compacted dirt. A few wore sandals, their robes in better condition. Ichigo would've blended right in if it weren't for this Zanpakuto.
Drinking from bottles and cups, old timers were hanging around a brick building. More alcohol. A jug was labeled Sake.
Attention was on a commotion inside.
Ichigo looked through a window. His jaw fell loose. Heat rushed to his face.
This was a stripper bar.
A dozen guys—adults and teenagers—gathered around a half-naked woman sitting on a table. Her waist-length orange-blonde hair framed her slim figure well. Brazenly, she sat with her legs slightly spread, on display for all their lustful eyes and predatory grins. She was facing away from Ichigo, so he didn't see anything good, unfortunately.
One of the teenagers, a boy around Ichigo's age, cheered, "Take it off! Take it off!" His face was red like a swollen tomato. As red as Ichigo's.
"So impatient," the woman said playfully.
"Take it off, Haruka," a man slurred, spilling drops of Sake on the floor. "Let's have a good time, yeah? I'll have you moaning for days."
Haruka was giggling. "Oh fine then." Her knees came together, and, to Ichigo's amazement, she really did take off her lacy white panties before throwing them to one of the teenage boys in the room. She beckoned at him.
And that young teenager had the face of a rabid, needy, drunk puppy who had just been given a box full of delicious treats. He stepped forward to her and growled, "Spread you legs."
Her thighs slowly parted as her hand went to her crotch. "Like this?"
"Move your hand, now," the teenager barked.
Haruka giggled as she did as asked.
Guys were cheering as though this were the best thing in the world, and the teenager was now drooling.
So was Ichigo. Hot blood was ballooning in his waist. His pulse was drumming with hormonal desire. His felt his hold over his spiritual pressure begin to slip. Instinctively, resisting temptation, he looked down at the floor and imagined a concrete wall. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Only Haruka had noticed his slip up and looked over her shoulder. Her light-blue eyes flicked to him. She was very attractive, not in the pixie-cute way like Rukia and Yuyu, but a world-renowned fashion model. She purred, "Hey there, handsome. Why don't you come in for a drink? You look very thirsty."
He swore his nose was bleeding, for he now saw her full, perky breasts. Her skin was flush rosy around her nipples. His control began slipping again. Madly he shook his head. "What kind of guy do you think I am?!"
"Oh, you're the shy type? We can get a room later if you want, just you and me." Haruka winked.
"Shut up! This is crazy!" Ichigo stomped away before his urges made him do something regrettable, careful to hide the bulge in his robe.
It took impossible willpower to force his legs to move in the direction opposite to where they wanted to go. Every last Reishi fiber in him was screaming at him to go back and have a drink. To see what was between her thighs.
He was drooling like that kid.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before daring to glance back at the Sake bar. Where he had stood outside the window now was hunched over some fat-ass who ought to piss the hell off. Lucky bastard; he certainly was in heaven. So were all those other guys.
Willpower faltering, Ichigo's fingers jittered.
Deeps breaths. Deep breaths.
God damn, what the hell was happening? He had never been this hot-headed before.
Deep breaths.
Eventually, after countless bone-creaking steps, his blood cooled and he managed to rid images of that crazy stripper from his head. And she had called him shy. The nerve of her.
The town boundary was a palisade. By the gate, two walking figures wore black outfits. The air grew thicker as Ichigo neared them—spiritual pressure. Weak.
Shinigami finally. Ichigo picked up the pace.
They were two black-haired young teenage guys, engrossed in something the shorter of the two was holding. They were without doubt Shinigami. Sheathed swords were at their hips; one was a Katana while the other was more of a dagger. Different types of Zanpakutos.
"Hey, I'm Ichigo Kurosaki." He let loose a small portion of his own pressure in no particular direction, matching theirs.
They stood straighter. They looked at Ichigo's Zanpakuto. "Hello, I'm Hanataro Yamada," the shorter teen said in a meek voice. He was holding a plastic device with buttons and a screen. Modern technology.
Relief lightened Ichigo's shoulders.
The taller teen said with a little more confidence, "I'm Saiki Kirinji. We're from Squad 4. What squad are you? What happened to your Shihakusho?" He looked at Ichigo's robe.
"I'm not a Shinigami," Ichigo said, "I swiped this Zanpakuto from some punk kids in the poor part of town. I just arrived in Soul Society an hour ago. Rukia Kuchiki told me she's giving my name to her superiors due to my spiritual powers. I'm heading to the Seireitei."
Understanding widened their eyes, and Saiki said in a friendly tone, "My apologies for the confusion, welcome to Soul Society."
Hanataro was staring at Ichigo's Zanpakuto. "Wow, this really is a Zanpakuto."
"How can you tell?" Ichigo asked.
"Can't you feel its spirit pressure?"
Ichigo closed his eyes, emptied his mind of all distractions, focused on only his Zanpakuto. It took a long moment for him to realize its spiritual pressure was part of his own. He was subconsciously channeling his power through it.
"I see now," Ichigo said, "but it's a little damaged. Some genius thought to saw it in half and glue it back toge—" A frown pinched Ichigo's brow. He couldn't quite tell, but the hairline crack was worse than before. Maybe it was his imagination.
"It's fine," Saiki said.
Ichigo raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure? What if it breaks?"
"Don't worry about that," Hanataro said, "you'll learn all about Zanpakuto in the Shinigami Academy." His face blanked for a moment. He unzipped a sling bag at his hip. "Oh I almost forgot, we carry these pamphlets just for souls like you. Please, read it." He offered a stapled booklet.
SOUL SOCIETY NEEDS YOU!
JOIN THE GOTEI 13!
Ichigo flipped the cover and hastily read size-eight font. The opening paragraph was about how it was the responsibility of those with power to protect those without—the core philosophy of the Gotei 13. Shinigami duties were briefly listed below along with extensive emphasis on high salaries and generous perks of the job, which included glory, a place to live, and an unlimited supply of gourmet food. Everything was taken care of. A life of royal luxury.
Page two went on about the Seireitei and whatnot. From Central 46 to noble families to names of current and past squad captains and lieutenants, this, to Ichigo, all sounded like a lot of pompous drivel spewed up by some guy with a stick stuck up his ass. Then the history of the Shinigami Academy was written in banal detail. Founded by Head Captain Yamamoto a thousand years ago. The glorious starting point for every Shinigami-in-training. An elite academy only for the most gifted souls.
Page three was all about spiritual powers. Zanjutsu, sword-fighting enhanced by one's spirit energy. Hakuda, like Zanjutsu but unarmed. Hoho, basically high-speed Hakuda—teleporting. Kido, magical spells. Above all, spiritual power was measured and ranked in terms of Spirit Class. The only known first-class Shinigami was Yamamoto. Higher ranks were exponentially weaker.
Page four was on Hollows and their home world Hueco Mundo. About their abilities, their evolution stages, their typical Spirit Class rankings. The strongest Hollows of all were known as Vasto Lorde, second-class.
Did Yamamoto write this? Ichigo thought.
The last page was an enlightening revelation on Asauchi and Zanpakuto. They were not just swords. They had names. They were sentient things. Intrinsically linked, his Zanpakuto was part of his soul. Imprinting on a blank-slate Zanpakuto—an Asauchi—was a long, arduous, irreversible process that, once completed, marked one's transformation into a Shinigami.
Shikai. First release.
Bankai. Second release. Those who attained this were forever remembered in the history archives. Eternal glory. Unbridled power to protect.
Ichigo looked at his Zanpakuto. Or was it still an Asauchi? He whispered, "What is your name?"
Silence. Total silence.
A whistling gust blew in from the east as Ichigo continued reading about Zanpakuto and their special, unique powers. His eyes hitched onto a fine print tip. He chocked on saliva, keeling over. This wasn't serious.
Ichigo grabbed Hanataro's arm. "This says female Shinigami are all sluts and whores begging to be taken. What the hell?!"
"I didn't write that, it's—"
"Shut it!" Ichigo stepped on Hanataro's head and squished him into the dirt. It didn't hurt the scrawny guy the slightest. "You think this is funny!"
"No, no, it's just that—"
"You did write this crap! I bet it's because girls don't want anything to do with a scrawny little pipsqueak like you!" Ichigo kept stomping on his head.
"You two, cut it out," Saiki said, expression grave, his eyes on that hand-held electronic device. It was beeping softly in between static noise. His spiritual pressure spiked then plummeted. Was that fear?
"What is it?" Ichigo asked.
"Hollows."
Ichigo's blood chilled. "They attack Soul Society?"
"Why wouldn't they? Outer Rukongai is a daily bloodbath." Saiki hesitated before drawing his Zanpakuto.
Ichigo eyed the device's screen. Five red dots were flashing on a topographical map. One dot was larger. "How strong are they? How long do we have?"
"Normal Hollows. A few minutes. Maybe five or ten," Hanataro answered. "The whole screen would be flashing if they were Gillians." His spiritual pressure was wavering in intensity. Fear. So much fear.
"Then what's the problem?" Ichigo said. "There are three of us and only five of them. Rukia Kuchiki cut down a Hollow with ease."
Hanataro's gaze dipped. "Rukia Kuchiki is the third seat of Squad 11, and they specialize in combat. Squad 4 specializes in healing Kido. We were dispatched to District 77 to clean up a recent Hollow raid."
"We're already days late," Saiki mumbled. "Captain Unohana isn't going to happy about this."
"Hanataro, Saiki," Ichigo said, smirking. "You are both Shinigami of the great Gotei 13. You graduated from the elite Academy. Believe in yourselves."
"Ichigo," Hanataro squeaked, "you don't understand. We're not fighters. Our talents in healing got us through the Academy."
"Is that a Zanpakuto tied to your hip or not?" Ichigo placed a firm grip on Hanataro's shoulder. "Answer me. Is that a Zanpakuto?"
With a shaking, scrawny hand, Hanataro drew his dagger.
As the Hollow detector beeped louder, Ichigo held his own Zanpakuto with both hands. He stepped forward through the gate. The forest was thick. Branches were like flailing arms of panicking men and women. Eyes in the trunks were reminiscent of Hollow holes.
Howling gusts announced their arrival.
A jagged, back hole in reality was ripped open from the other side. From Hueco Mundo. Their howling shrieks were deafening trumpets. A lanky twenty-foot-tall humanoid with an elongated pencil neck jumped out, followed by a stockier humanoid, then three fat Hollows on all fours. Their masks were unmarked. The rotting stench was gag-inducing. The spiritual pressure was suffocating.
The pressure stabbed phantom knives into Ichigo's stomach—killing intent. They were hungry for his flesh. He raised his own pressure to the maximum.
The lanky pencil-neck Hollow could speak: "Shinigami. Vermin. Mine. Only mine." Its voice was layered and distorted.
Hanataro was fighting for breath. Sweat dripped off his chin. "Ichigo, we have to run."
"Get it together!" Ichigo snarled. "People are counting on us to slay these bastards!"
Saiki's legs wobbled. He pointed at the pencil-neck Hollow with his free hand. "Hado 4, Byakurai." Shining bright white, visible spirit energy gathered at the tip of his finger, then shot forth as a crackling line, piercing through the Hollow's shoulder. It roared in pain.
The pencil-neck Hollow vanished.
Spiritual pressure exploded behind Saiki.
Ichigo screamed, "Behind you!"
Saiki's rigid stance twisted, but it was already too late. The pencil-neck Hollow's claws impaled him through the chest, right through the heart. Blood squirted, and when the hollow bit off his head, blood gushed in a fountain of bright red liquid and salty iron fumes. His spiritual pressure diminished to nothing.
Saiki Kirinji was dead.
The Hollow was laughing. Its spiritual pressure was growing heavier. Its body was glowing red in the influx of spirit energy.
"Run, you fool!" Hanataro screamed. He was running into the town.
The Hollow vanished again.
Ichigo had thought it was going after Hanataro, but its pressure popped behind Ichigo. He hopped sideways. Claws tore into his side, grazing skin.
The Hollow's other arm whipped around.
Ichigo ducked and rolled into a horizontal slash. His Zanpakuto met skin harder than rock. Then broke in two down the length.
Ichigo's body seized up. His heart sank as he watched half of the blade, half of the guard, and half of the hilt fall to the ground. Silk threads were dissolving into black Reishi dust. The broken steel was dissolving into dust. Even the scabbard tied to his robe's sash also had broken in two down its length, the two pieces of wood dissolving into dust. And the dust was alive, gathering into a whirlwind of darkness in eddies of his own spiritual pressure. What the hell was happening?
The Hollow's hand swept from the left, swatting Ichigo into the palisade. Bones in his back cracked. The pain was mind-shattering.
He couldn't move his legs.
It was over.
He was going die. Again. This monster was going to eat him, and his soul would be lost forever. Rukia wasn't here to save him this time.
Clawed fingers grabbed him.
Time slowed, Ichigo gazing into the Hollow's bloodied maw. The world dimmed.