Far above the turmoil of Soul Society—beyond reach, beyond sound—the Soul King's palace lies covered in silence.
Sanskrit chants flow like a heartbeat through the courtyard.
Beneath a towering tree, Ichibei Hyosube ,The false monk, eyes closed, voice low, each syllable older than mountains.
The chant fades. Ichibei opens his eyes. His gaze pierces horizons unseen, falling upon a distant hill where one man fights against a horde of men. Slaughtering them. Kenshi.
"Do you feel it, Oetsu?"
Leaning against the tree, sunglasses tilted, Ōetsu Nimaiya watches the same hilltop.
His usual bravado falters. He smirks, but it doesn't touch his eyes.
"Yeah…. Haven't felt something this special in ages, Monk."
Ichibei's tone hardens, the echo of fire still alive in his memory.
"Is it like his?"
Ōetsu chuckles, short and dry.
"Yamamoto? Nah. His Zanpakutō burned because he burned. In another's hand it'd be just fire. Brighter, sure—but still fire."
The words trail off.
Ōetsu goes still, eyes narrowing. He shakes his head. His next words carry a weight not even his swagger can soften.
"But this one…. His Zanpakutō aren't just weapons. They are power. Pure. Unshaped. And they don't resist him. No trial, no hunger, no desire. They serve him without question. As if—"
His voice dies.
Ichibei's lips move in unison with his, their voices signifying something..... inevitable.
"As if they guard what is already his."
The silence after is suffocating.
Elsewhere—
A battlefield burns.
The ground shskes under Quincy arrows, the sky shaking in agony.
Shinigami fall in heaps, their bodies staining the soil black with blood.
In the center of it all stands Yhwach, blade still, presence unmoving.
His army advances without pause, cutting down everything in sight, yet their king does not watch them.
Yhwach's eyes are fixed far away.
Past the carnage. Past the smoke.
Toward a single hill where one man fights. Kenshi.
The cries of the dying fade. The thunder of war dulls. For Yhwach, there is only that figure on the horizon.
He studies him, silent. Not with hatred. Not with scorn. But with the gravity of inevitability.
Then—barely, almost imperceptibly—his lips curl.
It is not the smile of conquest.
It is something rarer. A recognition.
A recognition for someone unique.
Someone..... Inevitable.
(A person in yellow armor with purple skin: I am inevitable.)
As Kenshi rises from the cave, ready to move forward.
When suddenly the air around Kenshi shimmered, twisting as if reality itself were a thin veil.
One moment he stood on the crumbling battlefield of Soul Society, the next the world fractured beneath him.
Time and space bent, stars streaking past in impossible arcs, colors he had no names for blending into a dizzying whirl.
Kenshi's body tumbled through the anomaly, weightless, suspended between moments.
When the spinning ceased, he landed hard on cobblestone streets, the scent of woodsmoke and rice fields filling his nostrils.
He pushed himself up, his eyes adjusting to the dim, amber glow of lanterns.
The architecture was familiar, yet strangely surreal, as if an echo from old memories. low wooden houses with tiled roofs, narrow alleys crowded with carts and people.
This was no longer the Soul Society. This was… Japan. The Japan he knew—it was grander, rougher, alive in ways that made the air hum with unseen energy.
Kenshi's gaze traveled upward along the winding streets, where merchants shouted over the clatter of horse-drawn carts and the river that cut through the city reflected the fading light like molten gold.
Kyoto.
The capital of the Heian period, 1000 CE. A place alive with the pulse of emperors, courtiers, and warriors alike.
He could feel the city's history pressing down on him, centuries of lives converging in a single breath.
As well as roars from hollows teeming in hidden alleys and eyes that are slowly travelling towrds him.
Some kind, some not so....
As he moved cautiously through the alleys, he noticed children playing near the riverbank, women drawing water, and men in flowing robes negotiating trade.
Every movement felt exaggerated, almost like a performance, yet entirely real.
Kenshi's hand hovered near his blade, an instinct born from battles he survived since waking up. Here, in this world, danger might not be spiritual beasts or hollow remnants—but humans, politics, and war. And yet, a part of him relished the atmosphere.
Even though this world has its share of dangers.
The familiarity dulled any sense of dread or danger he felt after waking in this place.
As the familiar noise soothes his tense soul.
He walked deeper into the heart of Kyoto, passing through temples adorned with paper lanterns and shrines carved into the mountainside. Each step felt heavier, yet alive, as if time itself was aware of his presence, watching this stranger from another world wander through its streets.
The soft glow of lanterns along Kyoto's wooden streets did little to pierce the growing darkness.
Kenshi's senses tingled—a familiar, oppressive pressure, like the aura of Hollow energy he had sensed countless times in Soul Society.
His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his blade.
Ahead, a group of distorted spirits pressed around a figure kneeling on the cobblestones.
Their forms twisted unnaturally, some more skeletal, others barely human, their mouths opening into gaping voids. They were drawn to the monk's Reiatsu, pure and radiant, a stark contrast to their own corrupted, ravenous reiatsu.
Kenshi's Reiatsu surged without him consciously trying.
His memories flashing to the red eye he saw before his death.
The air thickened, the lanterns flickering as if afraid.
he can feel it. They are similar to it but less powerful.
Like corrupted souls born not of despair, but of centuries-old spiritual decay lingering in this world.
One shadow lunged at the monk, teeth gnashing.
Kenshi moved.
Faster than the eye could follow, his blade slicing through the creature in a clean arc. Its form dissipated like mist, leaving only a lingering black stain on the alley stones.
Another charged from the side.
He pivoted, unleashing a flying slash, a trail of concentrated Reiatsu cutting through the air, severing it in two.
The monk cowered, trembling, as Kenshi stepped forward, Reiatsu flaring, his presence alone pushing the remaining Hollows back.
"Stay behind me," he said, his voice calm but firm.
The largest of the corrupted souls surged forward, its energy unlike the others—a chaotic, violent pulse that made Kenshi's Reiatsu resonate in warning.
He drew on his blade, focusing his energy into a single, precise strike. With a surge of force, his blade cut through the Hollow's center. Its scream echoed unnaturally, reverberating in the alley, then dissolved into nothingness.
The monk, still kneeling, looked up, eyes wide with awe and fear. "You… are a Shinigami?" he whispered.
Kenshi's gaze softened, though the edge of a samurai never left him. "A survivor," he said. "now we talk."
As he scanned the alley, Kenshi felt the subtle pull of lingering Reiatsu. Kyoto itself was alive with spiritual energy—some pure, some corrupted. Centuries had passed since these Hollows had formed, yet their hunger remained.
He tightened his grip on his blade . "This city… it has become a battlefield," he murmured. "AA great place to train."
His fist clenched.
As he starts to tremble, not from fear but forgotten feelings.
From his battlefields.
The air vibrated as his Reiatsu expanded, a beam of light in the darknss, alerting any hidden Hollows to the presence of a Shinigami.
Kenshi was a stranger in this time, yes—but his duty, his instincts, were eternal. And in 1000 CE Kyoto, a Shinigami had arrived.