*Somewhere in the partition between life and death*
The void was neither black nor white, but a suffocating mixture of both — like smoke that did not rise, like ink spilled into water but frozen mid-swirl. It had no walls, no floor, no ceiling, yet it pressed against all who entered it, as though existence itself was being smothered under an unseen blanket.
Within that abyss, something stirred.
A vast shape emerged, larger than any mountain, its body not of flesh or stone but of shifting, living shadow. Each ripple across its form birthed new shapes — wings one moment, claws the next, faces crying and vanishing again into smoke. It was primordial, older than language, older than light.
Its presence was heavy enough to silence even the whispers of eternity.
The entity crouched low, its eyes like dim embers in the ocean of black. A guttural vibration escaped its chest, the sound like the grind of tectonic plates. It was not a roar, not yet, but a growl of irritation. It had sensed something — a disturbance, a trespasser in its realm.
And then it saw it.
A broken fragment of light drifted into its dominion: a human soul, tattered and faint, a glowing orb trembling on the edge of dissolution.
The shadow-being reached out with hands vast as storm clouds, each finger like a column of smoke that carried the faint smell of blood and charred iron. The soul resisted, flickering feebly, as though trying to float beyond the creature's grasp, to escape toward the light of peace.
But the entity was faster.
Its fingers closed around the orb, darkness swallowing light.
"Pathetic," it whispered. The voice was not a single tone but a thousand layered echoes — some booming like war drums, others faint like a dying breath. It slithered into the ears of nothingness itself.
It studied the soul with disdain. "An empty vessel, from the day of your birth until the hour of your death. Weakness carved into your bones. Helpless even at the end."
The voice carried no mercy, no empathy. It was judgment born from wrath, a verdict passed by something older than morality.
Yet as it stared, its ember-eyes gleamed. Within the dimming soul it saw something — a spark, hidden beneath failure and despair, something raw. Not strength, not courage. Rage.
The massive hands squeezed tighter, enclosing the orb until light seeped out like cracks in shattered glass.
"Then rise," it hissed, the void itself trembling. "Rise and continue the cycle. You are mine now. Bring forth my wrath."
The shadows swirled, forming chains that pierced through the soul, binding it to the entity's essence. The orb pulsed, faint at first, then stronger — glowing red instead of white, bleeding light like a wounded star.
And with that, it was cast back into the mortal plane.
***
**At the Blast Site**
The world had not stopped to mourn.
The battlefield where Renji's team had made their final stand was now a crater of ruin. Trees lay snapped like matchsticks, their roots clawing desperately at mud that no longer held them. The earth was scorched black, pockmarked with burning ash that hissed angrily each time the rain struck it.
A heavy downpour had begun, as though the sky itself sought to cleanse what remained. Sheets of water battered the wreckage, carving small rivers through dirt and blood. The rain mixed with smoke, turning the air into a suffocating fog that reeked of iron and sulfur.
The storm was not ordinary.
Thunder rolled across the heavens like drums of war, shaking the ground with every strike. Lightning forked violently, each flash illuminating fragments of armor, shattered weapons, and the mangled corpses of Renji's fallen comrades.