The Intention to Kill
West District 10, Mi Village.
Taro began to suspect that it wasn't the road under the old poplar tree that was cursed—no, this year he must have stumbled into the path of evil spirits.
While playing, he had run into Shinigami. Not just one, but a whole squad of them—grim, ferocious faces everywhere.
There were at least ten.
The exact number was too high for him to count with his meager "prenatal education" math skills.
The leader was terrifying: a thin, bamboo-like man covered with scars from his face down to his chest, dense as a honeycomb.
"Drive everyone out," he ordered.
The other Shinigami immediately dispersed, going door to door, dragging residents outside like livestock.
Tens of thousands of villagers were soon herded into the square. None of them knew what was happening. It was the first time they had ever seen so many Shinigami gathered together. The sheer sight of it made everyone uneasy—something enormous was clearly about to happen.
"Silence!" the scarred man roared.
He released his reiatsu—heavy enough to crush the crowd. Those in the front rows couldn't breathe, their voices cut off in their throats. The hush spread like a wave until the tens of thousands gathered stood mute.
"Who here is the elder?"
"I am."
An old man hobbled forward on his cane, his hands trembling. "Excuse me, sir… for what reason have you summoned us all?"
"My name is Chongren Wuliang, Seventh Seat of the Eleventh Division. By orders from above, we are hunting a dangerous criminal—Shiraishi. He has been seen in this district. He has silver hair and wears strange clothing."
Wuliang leaned in close, his hot breath brushing the elder's face. "Do you know where he is?"
"We don't know. We've never seen such a man."
The elder lied without hesitation. Shiraishi was too elusive—no one knew where he was at any given time. Better to deny knowledge altogether than to invite more suspicion.
"Tch."
With a sneer, Wuliang shoved the elder's shoulder, then drew his zanpakutō and slashed him across the chest. Blood spattered the ground.
"Elder!"
The villagers in front tried to surge forward, but—
"Do you dare rebel?!"
Wuliang roared, his reiatsu exploding again, stabbing into their bodies like needles. The crowd froze, their faces twisted with rage but unable to move.
"I know you lowlifes. You won't talk until a few of you are dead."
His bloodlust boiled. He had chased Shiraishi all the way from Seireitei to the West Tenth District and found nothing. His temper needed release, and these helpless villagers were the perfect outlet.
Once, in the outer Rukongai, he had been infamous: slaughtering whole villages for amusement, binding groups of people and setting them ablaze, even tossing corpses into wells to poison entire districts.
But after joining Division 11, his savagery had dulled. Even the wildest beasts cowered before one greater—Zaraki Kenpachi.
Under Zaraki's shadow, Wuliang no longer slaughtered the weak for sport. Instead, he preferred to turn his blade against the strong.
Even so, his cruelty lingered. Now he swept his eyes over the crowd until they landed on the children. A vicious smile curved his lips.
"In outer Rukongai, brats like these rarely survive. But here, you pamper them. So—if you won't talk, I'll take this boy's head first."
He pointed straight at trembling Taro.
His reiatsu pressed down, forcing people aside against their will. The sheer difference in power made resistance impossible.
Taro's legs shook violently. His trousers grew wet. Tears welled in his eyes. Why did misfortune always find him?
Wuliang reached out to grab him—
—and lost his hand.
Half of it dropped to the ground with a wet thud, blood spraying across the dirt.
He froze in shock.
A man stood before him, holding a blood-stained golden blade.
"You—!"
Wuliang's eyes widened in manic delight. He reached for his zanpakutō—
But before he could draw, Shiraishi moved. No technique, no flourish—just a simple, direct strike faster than the eye could follow.
A cold breeze brushed Wuliang's neck.
Then his head flew free from his body.
Blood geysered, and the corpse toppled backwards.
The other Eleventh Division Shinigami instantly drew their swords. None even thought of running.
Shiraishi wouldn't have let them flee anyway. His blade whispered through the air, so quiet it was almost gentle.
A heartbeat later, crimson fountains erupted as throats opened and heads fell.
"I'm sorry," Shiraishi murmured, sheathing his blade and glancing at the fallen elder. "But I'll show these Shinigami what it means to invite their own deaths."
His voice dripped with killing intent.
At first, he had considered hiding underground and letting the invaders exhaust themselves. But he had overestimated their discipline.
When he first noticed the unusual reiatsu, he dismissed it—until it flared with lethal intensity. By the time he rushed up from his hiding place, he was one step too late.
He saw the elder wounded, Taro in danger. That decided it.
Shiraishi had no desire to be an enemy of the Gotei 13. It was troublesome and pointless. But when he chose to fight, he showed no mercy.
"Shiraishi…" The elder raised a trembling hand, wanting to plead for restraint. But the man was already gone, his figure vanished like mist.
"…How powerful," whispered Taro, his eyes shining. Those arrogant Shinigami had been reduced to corpses in moments.
Big brother was incredible!
Clenching his fists, his cheeks flushed with excitement.
Then—
A tall man in a straw hat and a flamboyant flower-patterned coat stepped into view beside the elder.
"Are you the village elder?" he asked.
The elder's heart nearly stopped. That white captain's haori… the black uniform beneath…
A Captain?!
"Yes…" he croaked.
Kyoraku Shunsui crouched down, studying the elder's wounds, then glanced at the corpses of the Eleventh Division. He could guess what had happened.
Ever since the death of his friend Kuruyashiki, the Eleventh Division had strayed further from its roots as the "Flowery Death Squad." By the time of the Tenth Kenpachi, Onigawara, they had descended into nothing but brute banditry.
Even now, only a handful in Division 11 could still reason like proper Shinigami.
"I'm sorry," Shunsui said softly. Rising again, he turned to his lieutenant. "Can you track the remaining reiatsu, Nanao-chan?"
"No… it's untraceable." The bespectacled woman adjusted her glasses, her voice calm but grave. "The situation is very bad."
"Yes." Shunsui sighed. "The recklessness of the Eleventh has provoked the wrong man."
He could feel it: one by one, the reiatsu of Division 11 soldiers were winking out. Their enemy's speed and stealth were overwhelming. Officers below the rank of captain had no chance to respond.
This strategy wouldn't work.
Shunsui tilted his hat, thinking. Then he smiled faintly.
"Nanao-chan, open Tenteikūra."
His voice carried unusual weight.
"Target: the entire West Tenth District."
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