"What is this!!"
As Kenshi watched the chaos raging in the streets of Zaraki District, a hand suddenly yanked him into a dark alley.
Thin fingers, no larger than his own, gripped him tightly and hoisted him off the ground.
Kenshi turned his head—children. Roughly his age. Clad in rags.
They were the ones holding him up, eyes hollow yet blazing with hunger and desperation.
For a heartbeat, pity stirred inside him—until he saw the oldest child lift a rusty blade.
"Don't worry, kid. You won't feel a thing. Just a sting… and then you'll be in our stomachs," the boy sneered, saliva dripping from his mouth.
His teeth, yellow and streaked with red, glistened in the dark. A musky stench wafted from his breath.
These guys…!!
Kenshi's mind raced. Pain erupted as the blade slashed across his shoulder, hot blood beginning to flow.
The children's eyes widened, feral, their hungry howls echoing like starved dogs.
Their bodies trembled, every instinct screaming at them not to waste a drop of blood—urging them to lick it clean.
As the wound on his shoulder bled, the eldest raised the blade again. Kenshi thrashed, struggling with everything he had, jerking side to side in their grasp.
Their hold wavered, distracted by the blood spilling from his wrist.
Just as the blade descended toward his elbow, Kenshi tore himself free.
Trembling, he crawled toward the mouth of the alley—only for a hand to hold his collar and drag him back.
Bang! His body slammed against the ground, the air crushed from his lungs.
"Cough—!" He wheezed, pain searing through his wrist.
Shaking, he forced himself up, voice trembling but sharp with a rage he had never known.
"Le…t me go!"
"NO! You're our food! Stay and die!" the eldest shrieked, lunging with the rusty blade raised high.
And then—
The air shifted.
Not silence born of peace, but silence that felt wrong. Heavy. Terrified. As though the very world recoiled from what was about to awaken.
Something dreadful.Something magnificent.
Squelch!!!
The sound of tearing flesh. Blood sprayed across the alley. A severed hand dangled in Kenshi's grasp, crimson dripping between his fingers.
The children froze, their hunger warring with a new, primal fear. Their eyes still screamed for blood, but their hearts—
They pounded wildly inside their chests.
For years in Zaraki District, they had seen murder. Carnage. Survival.
But this… this was different.
A blink. That was all it took. And then—blood painted the air.
They looked at the boy staring back at them, unblinking.
Moments ago, his eyes had been the brightest blue.
Now, they burned with a peach-colored glow.
Terror spread through their hearts. Their bodies trembled again—not from hunger this time, but from the demon standing before them.
Then all hell broke loose. Kenshi lunged forward, his mind spiraling as he continues to slaughter his way.
CHILD POV
Pinned beneath Kenshi's weight, a boy felt his chest split open, the world around him slowing into fragments.
It hurts… so cold…Why… can't I breathe?My blood… it's leaving me…
He coughed, crimson spilling down his chin. The alley blurred, faces of his friends melting into shadows.
Mother… where are you…?I… I don't… want…
His eyes rolled back, pupils shrinking as darkness pressed in.
Dark… so dark…
The thought withered, and the last beat of his heart fell silent.
Aah… I tore his arm. How disappointing. I thought I went for the head.
Kenshi stopped suddenly, staring at his own bloodstained hands. His breath came ragged, chest heaving.
The alley was drenched in crimson.
Bodies lay heaped against the walls.
Limbs, eyes, and hands scattered like discarded scraps in a slaughterhouse.
Crushed heads buried into the ground, brains spilling out into the dirt.
The air was thick, metallic, suffocating with the smell of blood.
Kenshi's voice broke the silence, low and weary.
"I told you to let me go…, If only there was a sword…"
And with that, he collapsed in the middle of the carnage, his body giving out after the slaughter.
Kenshi's eyes opened slowly.
The alley was now quiet .
Blood-soaked and still. Limbs lay twisted like discarded dolls, faces on severed heads frozen in disbelief.
The air smelled of iron and something horrible, thick with the finality of death.
He pushed himself up, every muscle screaming, every breath leaving a taste of quiet regret.
His hands were covered in crimson, yet he felt no fear—only the crushing weight of responsibility for what he had done.
Then, cutting through the silence, a voice came.
Not loud. Not commanding. But serene. Reverent. And impossibly old.In a way as if it witnessed history itself.
"Rise, Kenshi."
It was not a voice of judgment. It did not scold.
It guided, like a priest speaking to a god awakening to the path laid before him.
"You have seen the end of others… and yet you remain. Do not shackle yourself to grief. Let the past remain beneath you, like the bodies that lie behind."
Kenshi froze, head bowed, chest heaving. He wanted to speak, to question… but the voice continued, flowing into him like a tide of sacred purpose.
"Your hands are stained, your heart heavy—but the path ahead calls. Do not falter, even if you walk alone. Do not turn aside, even if the weight of all you have done threatens to crush you."
He lifted his gaze. The alley stretched before him, empty and silent, shadows pooling like ink on stone. The world felt sacred now, not peaceful, but consecrated by the aftermath of bloodshed.
"Step forward, Kenshi. The dead will not bind you. The living will not stop you. Your destiny moves with each breath. Walk."
The words resonated deep within him, stirring a strange calm beneath the regret. Not redemption. Not absolution. But purpose.
Kenshi drew in a ragged breath, chest rising with newfound resolve. Slowly, he stepped over the edge of the carnage, leaving the pile of bodies behind. Each footfall echoed against the silent alley, a quiet drumbeat marking the first step of his path.
And the voice lingered—not commanding, not judging—but guiding.
"Forward… always forward."
Kenshi's eyes rolled back, and the world fell away.
He was no longer in the alley of Zaraki District.
He was elsewhere—years, centuries before, in a kingdom already crumbling under the weight of war, in a world far away.
From his past life....
Smoke curled from the blackened walls of the capital, the sky choked with ash. The screams of dying soldiers and civilians blended into a chorus of despair.
He was a general then.
A warrior of renown, clad in blackened armor streaked with gold, a sword at his side that seemed to hum with latent life. His army had been shattered, betrayed from within, leaving the city's streets crawling with enemies.
And she was there.
A woman, the daughter of a noble house loyal to his fallen king, cornered by a group of raiders. Her eyes were wide with terror, body pressed against the wall of a ruined courtyard.
"Do not falter," the voice came, low and steady, reverent in its tone. It was the same voice, speaking within him, a guide, a priest whispering the path of destiny even in blood and chaos.
"Every movement must protect her… every strike must be absolute. Hesitation is death."
Kenshi's hands tightened around the hilt.
The first attacker lunged—a knife aimed at her neck. Kenshi's sword moved before thought. The blade caught the man's arm, slicing clean through tendon and bone. A wet snap echoed as the man fell, screaming.
"Good," the voice murmured. "Focus. Let nothing break the circle. She is the world you guard."
Another raider came from the left. Kenshi pivoted, spinning in a brutal arc. The sword cut deep, the metal biting through flesh with a scream that seemed to answer the sky.
His movements were swift, controlled, almost ceremonial, each strike directed by the subtle, guiding whispers of the voice within him.
"As long as you breathe, and blood flows through your heart..." it said.
"Honor the fallen by your hand, and carry their wrath forward. Protect her."
The courtyard became a nightmare of gore. Limbs were severed, torsos pierced, blood sprayed in arcs like a crimson waterfall. Kenshi moved among the bodies with the precision of a predator and the weight of a commander whose responsibility was absolute.
Every time an enemy aimed for her, Kenshi's sword found its mark. The Zanpakutō's voice whispered with each strike, not cruel, not commanding—solemn, like a priest guiding a god toward destiny:
"Do not falter. Regret nothing. Only forward."
The last of the attackers fell, and silence settled over the courtyard. Kenshi's chest heaved. His hands were slick with blood, his armor coated in gore. Yet the woman remained unharmed, trembling against the rubble, staring at him with eyes wide and alive.
"It is done," the voice said, fading into the hum beneath his skin. "Remember this. Remember the weight of protection. Remember the cost of survival."
Kenshi knelt beside her, chest heaving, sweat mixing with the blood and ash.
"I… I did what I had to," he murmured, voice thick. "You live… and that is all that matters."
As he raises his head to look into her eyes...
All he sees is sekeletons piled to form an altar, on which a shadow of a women can be seen kneeling before it.
Praying...
The vision dissolved, leaving Kenshi trembling in the alley of Zaraki District. The weight of past lives—the lives he had taken, the kingdoms he had failed, the blood he had spilled—pressed down upon him.
But the voice lingered still, soft and reverent, guiding him onward:
"Forward… always forward, Kenshi. Your destiny is not yet fulfilled."
Kenshi moves forward, as the voice fades into his soul, muttering..
"Destiny....."