A spirited, rousing howl threaded itself into every available ear.
The cheerful, crackling heat of firewood burning in a hearth, the funereal toll of a bell, a crushing presence, a triumphant melody intertwined with the studied silence of gravestones and soaring above it all, the fiery bird Kiko sang hymns of rebirth.
Such was the aftertaste of the unique Reiryoku of his Zanpakutō's special ability.
He had barely mustered enough strength to activate it; he and Aogari had walked the razor's edge, stretched the summoning over time, but they had still managed to pull that specific Hollow, the one with the baboon mask that had lunged at the desert assassin, into the world of the living.
Such was the power of Aogari's Shikai the creation of copies of the opponents its master had defeated.
Not all of them only the strongest. Those who had forced him to use all his strength, to surpass himself, to strain every fiber of his being on the threshold of death.
The Minus he had summoned was one of his earliest victories, slain precisely during the unlocking of his Shikai, when his Zanpakutō had whispered its name into his rebellious, desperately determined soul right in the thick of battle.
The very first trophy from his inner world, the Arena of Heroes. The place where all opponents worthy of remembrance stood. All whom he could call back.
At least, he could before.
Now, even in his Shikai form, all his strength was only enough for a single Hollow. Summoning the next combatant, a nameless thug from the 70th districts of Rukongai, already demanded too much Reiryoku, as did the other powerful Hollows.
Still, the Shinigami hoped a monster like this would be enough to finish off the enemy.
After all, this Hollow had earned its place in the pantheon of the Arena of Heroes for a reason: a tremendously powerful, ferocious beast with thick hide and strength-based attacks.
Back then, the young Okumura had only defeated it by a miracle: luring the monster into a Kido trap prepared by his already-deceased Academy classmates, then bombarding the trapped beast with spells and stabbing it with his sword until all his strength was spent.
And now, that same monster, only with eyes burning blue fire, claws, and a mane, was beating the crap out of the local traitor.
The whisper of scorpion legs on sand, the grating of mandibles like gravel in a millstone, ten red eyes focused on a single target, its entire body the color of white glaze with red patterns, like one big Hollow mask. The last of the desert assassin's Minus subordinates had come for Okumura's soul.
Despite his poor condition, the Shinigami still managed to evade the blow. He cried out, rolled away from the death machine with its poisonous stinger. His muscles still hadn't recovered from the lightning projectile; convulsions wracked his body, and his eyes couldn't see properly through the constant twitching.
Nevertheless, the Third Officer of the Gotei 13 dodged the incomplete Hollow without much trouble, somehow grasped the hilt with his disobedient fingers, and waited for the next round of attack.
The first leg of the giant scorpion flew off after a swipe of the razor-sharp blade. The second and third followed the first. Nothing particularly difficult; he just had to use the inertia of its massive body, carefully watch the tail, and stay out of the pincers' strike radius.
Where is its mask? Where do I strike? The center, where the main pattern is? Or…
He clumsily jumped onto the creature's back, waved his arms after losing his balance, almost fell back, but then a small, childlike hand closed over the woven hilt of his Zanpakutō. The creature beneath him let out one last indignant trill before the tantō was driven up to its guard into the gap in its armor where the cephalothorax met the abdomen.
"Whoa," Seki uttered a confused exclamation as the Hollow beneath him instantly dissolved into black flakes and the Shinigami, to his own surprise, landed flat on his backside.
Did you see that, Aogari? Too quick of a purification. One moment it's there, the next it's gone! No soul, like with Hollows. The Minus's very Reiryoku vanishes without dissolving. It's as if the world just threw this monster out the moment its physical anchor disappeared!
"Your battle is not yet over, Master," his Zanpakutō's voice held, besides its usual soft irony, a note of pensiveness.
"What do you think?"
"Our summon did not cause him much trouble. However, he did take one hit. His Hierro… his Aura is flickering. It's clearly almost depleted, like that Huntress's."
"Hierro, you say? I'm personally leaning more towards a Quincy's 'Blut'. Though he called his technique 'Aura'. It's hard to tell what it's like. It looks like it will disappear once he expends all his energy. Besides, the thug said something about 'percentages taken' after my first attack…"
"You know what to do."
Okumura sighed against his will.
The brief skirmish with the scorpion had taken the last of his already meager strength; his body simply wouldn't withstand another fight with the criminal. He needed to finish the enemy off as quickly as possible. Or, at the very least, make the most of the ongoing fight between the summoned Hollow and the top-hatted killer.
"Ruler, he who wears a mask of flesh…"
However quietly the incantation was spoken, it instantly drew attention. Experience, coupled with the criminal's intuition, the skin-prickling sensation of a structured flow of Reiryoku such signals were something the enemy simply could not ignore.
"A-A-A!" The desert dweller roared in fury the moment he noticed the dissolving remains of the scorpion Hollow and the Shinigami's outstretched palm.
The summoned baboon Hollow already bore a number of nasty wounds but still refused to die, and the criminal himself had been too cautious, preferring a safe and certain approach. But the moment he saw the hateful child, his attitude changed instantly.
"R-ra!" With one mighty blow, the large, ugly cleaver severed the Hollow's right arm.
The fist of his left hand came down on the enemy's head, only managing to knock it aside. The energy around the thug's body flickered and finally shattered with a barely audible, crystalline ring.
He draws back his arm with the cleaver. The one-armed monster lunges forward, trying to slow or hinder him.
Too late.
The guttural sound from his mouth merges with a wheeze, the Hollow's roar drowns out the human scream of fury.
The cleaver flies forward, spinning in the heat-thickened air.
Had Okumura been a weak rank-and-file soldier or an inexperienced novice, the jagged piece of iron would have surely split his skull. But he was a Third Officer, almost a lieutenant, an elite among Shinigami, with a century of survival experience in battle.
Thus, the skill of casting spells while moving had long become automatic, no matter how much his personal control or raw power had diminished after his rebirth.
"Hadō number 19: Hyōma no Hakkyū!"
A stream of glittering, crystalline ice slammed into the screaming killer, who had completely lost his murderous charm, into the dying Hollow beside him, into the cubic meters of sand around their intertwined bodies, into the air, under their feet.
And there was no more "Aura" left to survive the Shinigami's final attack.
The desert warrior was frozen solid in a large cube of ice, his terrifying, colorless eyes almost popping out of their sockets, his mouth half-open, his fingers clutching the fragments of the Hollow's mask.
A finished composition.
A second or two later, a small crack suddenly snaked across it, visibly widening into a major fissure.
The cube cracked, shattered into glittering shards, captivating in their innocent winter beauty amidst the hot desert.
And along with the ice, large crystals began to crumble into pink dust, melting in the air into a pleasant, shimmering haze. A minute later, only a pile of rapidly drying rags remained as evidence of the human presence that had been there.
"A dog's death for a dog. I hope you end up in the local hell. Or are reborn as a tree in the Forest of Menos," he muttered, the words incredibly bloodthirsty for his former self.
Though, the Shinigami did have some excuse for such intemperance.
His battered body sent him nervous impulses of discontent, leaving messages on his tender skin in the form of huge, black-and-purple bruises. His wrist, after a single parrying attempt, had to be reset, then tightly bandaged and put in a sling. His legs ached, his muscles were exhausted, crying for mercy, his eyes burned from the sandy wind, the abrupt Shunpo speeds, and the Reiryoku amplification.
Can't rest, he wheezed the thought to himself, the saddest one of the entire day.
He wanted to fall right onto the sand, wrap himself in a soft, alluring dune, pillow his head on that cozy corpse over there, blissfully stretch out his legs…
"The survivor!"
Okumura suddenly felt ashamed.
While he had been standing there dumbly, blinking and dreaming of rest, one of this world's warrior women the one who protects people from Hollows, a possible analogue of a Shinigami, practically a sister-in-arms was dying from her wounds right beside him.
He sighed and, without any argument, even without his weak-willed dreams of rest, headed towards the tall cactus at the base of which he had last seen her body.
To Seki's relief, she was still breathing.
To Seki's dismay, her wounds looked anything but trivial. If he did nothing, the woman would almost certainly die.
"How much Reiryoku do I have left, Aogari? I need to know precisely, and right now I…"
"You're having trouble sensing the total capacity," his Zanpakutō finished for him. "You've been reborn, Master. This mortal body is too inexperienced to have the sensitivity level of a trained soul. The recalibration will be long. Perhaps even bloody." A wide, approving grin, and he felt a warmth in his soul.
At least he had managed to emerge from his first battle in this new world with honor.
The Shinigami sighed, shook his head, and shrugged at the ambiguous hint at the end. He would return to that problem after he dealt with the most pressing ones. For instance…
"You have enough Reiryoku for a level seven from the Way of Healing. But you won't be happy about it that's point one. And you should provide first aid, as mortals do that's point two."
"You're right. I need every chance for success." He grunted, kneeling before the wounded body of the "Huntress," whatever that term meant.
He preferred not to think about how his understanding of "first aid," be it first, second, or third, began and ended with the meaning of the word "aid" and his knowledge of numerals.
The first thing the Shinigami did was remove her white cloak. Torn, stained with blood, scalded by acid, frayed by small-caliber gunfire it still resembled clothing rather than a piece of faded rag, involuntarily earning his respect.
The civilian analogue of a Shinigami uniform's durability was impressive. Perhaps it could even be repaired.
Beneath this beautiful, indestructible cloak was a rather impractical, old-fashioned corset with a knee-length dress, the laces of which drove the pale, burning-eyed, and painfully frail youth to the brink of insanity.
In the end, he simply cut them with his sword.
He'd get new ones later. Fortunately, under the corset, he found quite modern athletic wear from his first life.
The most difficult part was removing the clothing without disturbing the serious compound fracture in her arm or the wound in her side. Most of her other injuries, like Okumura's own, were large bruises or minor cuts.
Only, while the Shinigami had gotten his from fists, feet, or the hilt of a cleaver, the woman no, the girl before him had clearly taken a whole series of potentially fatal attacks. The flattened bullets that showered down after removing her cloak only confirmed his theory.
"So, the local defensive technique, 'Aura,' not only depletes from attacks but can be breached prematurely by a sufficiently powerful blow. Like armor that might protect from a direct hit but will still leave a bruise. And if the damage is too great, it breaks bones, and so on. Good to know."
Seki grunted as he needed to turn the Huntress onto her side to check the wounds on her back. It was a hassle, but there were no major problems there.
Only two injuries were truly concerning: the very messily broken arm and the deep wound in her side. The bruises, contusions, and scratches would heal on their own.
"Okay. Now what do I do? Let's say, I'll… I'll… I'll set the… How did that weirdo from the Fourth put it when that idiot Komamura got himself banged up again? Immobilize it, right. Meaning, tie it to a stick or a board so the bones don't move around," he began reasoning and smiled, proud of himself for figuring out how to help her arm.
In truth, every rank-and-file soldier knew first aid for fractures: many souls could "break bones" themselves, meaning they could project a real injury to their soul's vessel onto the physiology of their past body. In short they could imagine a broken arm so vividly that it would actually appear "broken."
Hence all the problems with bleeding, internal organ damage, the extra pain from a hit to the genitals, and other injuries in young souls who, by inertia, imitate their past bodies, even if no, especially if they don't remember their previous life and don't understand where these notions come from.
Truly old souls, those born in the Seireitei, or those who had undergone special training could ignore even decapitation if not more than a fraction of a second had passed and they hadn't had time to process the injury before reattaching their head.
This principle was the foundation of the monstrous regeneration some ancient Captains possessed.
Unfortunately, the vast majority of souls were still dependent to some degree on the human physiology of their past lives, which is why Seki had been trained in treating injuries.
In theory.
At the Academy.
A hundred years ago, when memories from his past life hadn't yet faded.
From there also came knowledge about disinfection and some other practices, of which he only remembered scattered, vague things from his first life in the World of the Living. No infections, except for spiritual parasites, could stick to souls, so the teachings of asepsis and antisepsis were largely useless here.
"I think I need alcohol. Pour it on the wound? Or is it only for drinking? Is that why people drink it? Or do only souls drink it? Kuso, how does this work? Ah, I'll do both, luckily I can tell by the smell. If it stinks sharply, it's definitely not water. Right, I also need new rags for bandages. Clean ones! Yes, better to use the second Kaidō spiritual cleansing right away. I should have enough for a trifle like that in any state. And… Okay, that's enough alcohol for now."
A flask with the characteristic stench was found almost instantly on one of the dead defenders. Okumura sniffed it, then tasted a drop, and based on long-forgotten sensations from a century ago and rare drinking bouts with the adventurous Shiba, he delivered the verdict: "Seems like THE stuff." He then somehow managed to get the Huntress to drink some (she coughed and spat), and began cleaning her wounds with a soaked rag.
The sharp stinging definitely had to hurt, especially when he reached the large laceration. Tested on his own wounded fingers. But the girl didn't regain consciousness, only moaning in a thin, clear voice that was pleasant despite the circumstances.
The Shinigami sighed, quickly wiped his own scratches with the rag, took a big gulp of the sharp, disgustingly warm vile liquid, and then carefully placed the Huntress's broken arm into a terrifying contraption made from the clothing of the criminal who had perished in the ice, metal tubes from the firearms (he couldn't remember what they were called, something like a rifle, but why did that remind him of a machine for washing uniforms from his vague memories?), and a found coil of metal wire.
"She's shaking. A-a-ah, I don't know what to do!!!" He grabbed his head. "Kuso! Should I give her medicine? What kind?! Shake her back? No, that's stupid. Chikushō-o-o! I guess I'll have to after all…"
Okumura Seki wasn't too fond of Kidō. Or rather, he didn't like using Kidō. Not all of it, of course; he adored the Ways of Destruction and Binding. His objections were reserved for only some spells, just one-third of the available disciplines.
The whole damned, unpredictable, lethally dangerous-for-everyone: doctors, patients, and random idiots alike Way of Healing.
There's a certain grim truth in the fact that the best medic and permanent Captain of the Fourth Division was the first Kenpachi: Unohana Yachiru, the greatest killer in all the Seireitei, the first holder of the killer's title, Kenpachi.
And the only Captain of the Fourth before her had even been promoted to the Zero Division, the Royal Guard.
This was because only great talents, mediocre practitioners of low-level Kidō, psychopaths, or hedonists willing to do anything for money could practice such Kidō regularly. The latter rarely lived long if they had even a drop of ambition.
"And those crazy bastards from the Eleventh still love to pick fights with medics. Damned suicides," Okumura muttered quietly, gathering his strength.
He was none of those things. He had just learned the minimum and even that in a rare moment of inspiration from Aizen's demonstrated talent in this branch of Kidō.
So, his fear of using the Way of Healing, the "healing" spells, was justified. A pity he was sometimes forced into a corner.
"Ruler, he who wears a mask of flesh. Before whom all things flutter their wings…"
This time, he chanted long and carefully. A monotonous, extremely precise recitative with the measured intonations of academic rhetoric continued for over a minute, as the Shinigami had managed to get used to the human physiology of speech.
A green glow in his hand gradually took shape, enveloping the patient's figure and face in reflected light.
"Way of Healing number seven: Miko Iyase!"
The most standard, commonly used Kidō from the Way of Healing. More or less safe, if one monitored the Reishi pressure in the spiritual pathways and the overall Reiryoku level.
And the most effective spell in his meager arsenal for this situation.
He carefully placed his hands on the girl's chest. Spiritual energy flowed from his fingers into the wounded body with an inexorable, solemn slowness. Most of it went to replenishing and restoring her own energy, until the girl's mysterious "Aura" flickered into a frail, barely visible film.
It flickered, and then began to aid in healing the other wounds. It literally guided the emitted Reiryoku where it was needed.
This amazing symbiosis of soul power and bodily energy, fused into a single form of interaction, proved more useful than he had assumed. Shinigami couldn't boast such intuitive use. Maybe the locals hadn't invented hundreds of different Kidō spells (though who knew!), but they had their advantages.
The dangerous wound in her side practically closed, "aged," no longer looking pulsing and inflamed. Her arm had changed too: thanks to the correctly woven construction of rags and metal, the bones were set properly and had timidly begun to heal.
The exhausted Shinigami simply didn't have the strength for more, nor would he spend precious drops on trivialities. She would have time to heal further. The important thing was that her life was no longer in danger…
Okumura slowly straightened up with an inappropriate old man's grunt, looked around at the desert scarred with corpses and wagon debris, at the frantically braying donkey whose reins were so unfortunately caught on a heavy fragment of the carriage, at the blast craters, the patches in the dunes fused into glass.
He inhaled the heavy scent of ash, blood, and something resembling gunpowder mixed with black rice grains, lavender, and a hint of lacquer from thousand-year-old spiritual trees.
"Hmm. The important thing is that the Huntress's life is no longer threatened by the injuries she's already sustained. Not that I doubt there are those who'd wish to inflict new ones on her…"
"Better to move the body to a safe… alright, at least to a cool place, and then," he let out a long sigh of helpless protest, "then I'll have to sort through the wreckage and rummage through the surviving belongings. I should find more information."
However sick, tired, and wounded the Third Officer felt, self-discipline and responsibility easily prevailed over the primitive impulses of his living body.
If there was one thing he could consider himself a genius in, it was the ability to force himself to do what was necessary despite not wanting to. A talent as unassuming as it was rare among the higher officers. Although the reputation of a discipline-obsessed, stubborn functionary annoyed him considerably.
He took a step to the side and suddenly swayed.
Nausea hit his throat so sharply that if Seki had been speaking, he definitely wouldn't have been able to keep it down. Nevertheless, he weathered the wave, irritably furrowing his brow as he once again felt the ominous echoes…
And then he suddenly realized it wasn't just a physiological reaction of the body. It was its emotional part. The part where the soul directly interacted with the body. The situation wasn't just awful from the perspective of an abstract child. No, it was driving a very specific little boy to despair.
His rebirth.
"You dislike the idea of searching, no, even just touching the corpses around here that much, little one?"
Nausea washed over him again. Okumura sighed.
"It's a necessity. The dead have no need for any of these things. They will move on, into the Cycle of Souls, and then awaken in the Seireitei, happy and without memories, to live another long life and be reborn again in the World of the Living. That's how the great balance of souls works, and it cares nothing for any material possessions."
He didn't feel better after this speech, and there were no traces of a previous soul left in the body itself, if one had ever even been there. It's just… He sincerely believed what he was saying. Believed, knew for a fact, it didn't matter.
What mattered was that he managed to override the aversion ingrained in the previous owner, this natural-social reflex, not too deeply rooted due to the body's own youth.
"I'm not a looter, I won't take more than I need. Unfortunately, I can't bury the bodies, there are too many. But the desert will take care of that without me."
He had to remove his Shinigami uniform, his shihakushō, to drag the Huntress he'd saved to a more or less acceptable shelter a wagon with an intact canopy that provided some coolness.
He spread his upper robe, the kosode, under the wounded woman's back, and draped his undershirt, the shitagi, along with her cloak over her to prevent sunburn. He left the equally torn corset dress with the intention of washing it and dressing the woman later.
"Yeeesh, this should be fine. She can manage without my supervision for a couple of hours."
The wagon he found had only one flaw: destroyed wheels and a broken carriage frame. But it was almost untouched otherwise: a few scratches on the outside, some debris inside. Tilted, sunk into the sand, but relatively whole it resembled a small house or a hut more than a means of transport.
Inside, however, it was quite cool: wind and sand didn't penetrate the walls, and a sealed jug on the floor contained the most delicious water, half of which Seki poured into his charge.
Searching and checking the destroyed caravan turned out to be exceptionally exhausting.
Okumura stopped checking every single corpse by the tenth bandit, shot on the approaches to the caravan. Scattered bodies lay here and there, but he focused on the main battlefield. He left the wreckage of the vanguard untouched for the same reason.
Gradually, a picture formed.
A caravan of three or four dozen wagons and full-sized carriages, plus another dozen carts, was returning from somewhere in the desert. Apparently, there were coordinators and spies for the raiders inside the convoy, and specifically among the guards the ambush was prepared almost perfectly, given that there were hardly fewer dead bandits than simple guards, not to mention the people with strange powers in colorful outfits Huntsmen?
Nevertheless, the enemies managed to inflict massive damage and then separate the mysterious warriors from the main force. Though, if the bandits were aided by Hollows, the task didn't seem that difficult.
Especially since the raiders didn't need to keep anyone from the caravan alive.
He sighed, walking past a pair of children's corpses. A boy and a girl had died in each other's arms, killed by gunfire, with the torn body of a stocky man a relative or a random guard lying nearby.
Seki tried to steer clear of them. He couldn't spend time on burials, and taking their belongings was too heavy a moral burden.
Not for the hundred-and-forty-year-old soul, but for its existence in a young mortal body.
"After all, existence determines consciousness," he thought grimly. "Before, I could calmly spend hours studying souls devoured by Hollows or torn apart by bandits, but now even those who died in battle make me sick. Well, maybe that's not a bad thing. Callousness was never considered a virtue, may the Commander-General forgive me. I just shouldn't aggravate my wounds more than necessary."
He piled the loot onto the only intact cart. Clean clothes from bundles, any devices that evoked a vague associative response from his first world, survival supplies, waterskins, and anything that resembled weapons, ammunition, parts, and vials with the local variant of gunpowder.
"Hmm, wasn't it poured into the metal tube-weapons separately? I vaguely remember some book about musketeers. Though no, rifles fired on their own. Or is it different weapons? But the memory from my mortal life is closer to the current version. So which to believe? Kuso!
This Huntress's tongue will get tired of answering questions long before they run out. Mine is already tired after all that Kidō. And why is this stupid throat always dry?!"
In the end, he carefully poured the gunpowder, or its analogue, into special vials and sturdy-looking flasks, trying not to mix different types, and then packed them into two large metal cylinder-bags, too technological for the caravan's general level. They were almost certainly used for storing such mixtures.
He did manage to draw a direct analogy between the strange effects of the desert dweller's weapon impacts and the types of powder.
"So, what can I deduce from all this?" The Shinigami wiped sweat from his brow with the nearest bloodied rag, then wiped his slick underarms and inner thighs, grimaced, but began pushing the cart towards the safe place where he'd left the Huntress.
"I am definitely in another world, in a desert backwater. This new body is small, not a gigai, not an artificially grown vessel, not the result of some Kidō or Zanpakutō power. Rebirth, no doubt about that. I didn't displace anyone's soul, otherwise there would be signs. So…" He heard Aogari's approving snort.
"So, the memories were triggered by trauma, emotions, or actual death, and the sudden acquisition of power could easily have healed the wound if it wasn't too serious. For a soul, of course; this body would have needed very little. I'll have to find a mirror or a pond later to check for scars. Good."
His lips twitched in a barely noticeable smile. A rather strong display of emotion for him, but completely justified. Okumura had been terribly afraid that he had caused the premature death of an innocent person, or even the destruction of another soul.
Mortals could kill each other a hundred times a day that was their own decision. But to infringe upon free will was to interfere with the Balance in the most vile way, like a despicable parasite. Neither Captain Ukitake nor his comrades would ever forgive him for something like that.
"Alright, my origin is settled. I'm no longer a Shinigami, I'm flesh of this new world's flesh I now have the right to influence it as I see fit. Without any restraining seals or codes of conduct for the World of the Living."
The realization of the latter brought a tinge of bright sadness. Like after a sorrowful parting, when you know the soul before you will be fine, but you will never meet again.
Okumura shook his head but didn't try to suppress these feelings into hatred and pain from the betrayal. Instead, he approached the two bodies that had still been alive when he awoke. No response. Only frozen faces, black wounds, and a swarm of insects.
Hopeless.
He couldn't have helped them even if he'd used all his strength right after waking up.
"Hm?" During his search, Seki returned to the site of his battle with the desert bandit. And this time, he noticed the glint of metal hidden under a layer of sand.
A few minutes of digging under the scorching sun rewarded him with a heavy, clumsy axe-like weapon with a shotgun built right into the handle.
"And just why did I listen to you?! I thought there was something valuable here…"
Aogari flared with irritation, after which the Shinigami decided to channel a bit of spiritual energy into the bulky, ugly weapon.
"Whoa!"
It was no secret that some items a person uses constantly, and loves and cares for, become unconsciously saturated with their unique soul energy. Even ordinary people end up with a slightly more durable, slightly more convenient, or even luckier item compared to its exact counterpart from a store.
This axe, without a doubt, had belonged to the rescued Huntress.
"Alright, maybe I didn't slowly bake myself under this damn sun for this piece of scrap metal for nothing."
"Have you realized where we've ended up, Okumura Seki?"
"Clearly not in one of the subsidiary worlds of our Universe. This is a full-fledged World of the Living, not Hell, not the Valley of Screams, not Hueco Mundo or other isolated spaces. I don't think we can return to the Soul Society."
"Definitely not. No one has ever returned after falling into the abyss of the World Divider," his Zanpakutō agreed calmly.
"At least now we know they survived, and didn't vanish forever like souls killed by Quincies."
"Anything is possible," Aogari shrugged, "though I wouldn't count on it. In this case, you are the most unique one."
The melancholy suppressed by the swift battle and hard labor raised its head again, displacing even fatigue and irritation from their pedestal. Okumura pursed his lips, crumpled the vicious comment tearing from within, suppressed a flash of rage, and put his renewed strength into pushing the cart.
"This world is technological, even if we were dumped in a backwater. Judging by the weapons, roughly on the level of my World of the Living, plus or minus a couple of decades. However, the Hollows here are much more material. Ordinary people can see them, those traitors managed to enslave them, and they themselves are brainless, even compared to low-level Menos."
"These monsters aren't artificially created. I don't feel the ordered lines of artificial souls. More like an altered part of this world, the underside, a mix of Hollows, Hell, and the will of the Soul King."
"This world has its own Soul King?!" the Shinigami genuinely surprised.
"I don't know. But I don't feel a divine presence, so maybe not. Nevertheless, the local variant of monsters is clearly integrated into the World's Balance. They didn't appear from nowhere. Their energy is natural, doesn't contradict the world's flow. I can't say more."
"No one else could say even that much. Thank you, Aogari," Okumura thanked him sincerely, "I'm glad your brains and your sensitivity remain the same."
"Hmph. They've even improved," a satisfied squint from eyes tinged with angry red, "not because of the world, no. It's just that a certain old monster stopped clogging the entire Seireitei with his ashy aftertaste. And the pressure from the Royal Palace also negatively affected the ability to perceive subtle matters."
"Fair enough."
"In any case, if there's an analogue of Hollows here, then…"
"I will fulfill my duty, Aogari. You know that. If this woman is part of an organization, caste, or just a special interest group that deals with destroying monsters, then I will join immediately. Or go through training first, if there's an analogue of the Spiritual Arts Academy here."
"You've accepted reality surprisingly quickly," his Zanpakutō's voice was clear of suspicion.
Just a hint of concern and mild fatigue from his usual stubbornness. His spirit sword always demanded duty be fulfilled, but the Third Officer Okumura had become a hopeless workaholic without a personal life entirely on his own initiative.
"I just don't want to think about the past. And… I don't want to start over, but there's simply no other option. I'm tired, Aogari. Too many faces I'll never see again. Too many names on the division's obelisk. And the last betrayal…"
Okumura never considered himself a social person. The bitterness towards the clan where he was born, where no one cared about him before, turned into a desire to show everyone, to shove his own worth in their faces.
Resentment was the first motivating reason for joining the Gotei 13. The second was his awe of the spiritual arts, real magic. Over the decades, memories of the first world faded, then thinned into vague, half-formed phantoms; the fire of novelty and awe died out, replaced by monotony, and then by work obsession.
Just another escape from the pain of a Shinigami's existence. He wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last to plunge headlong into work, to mistake division life for a personal life. Only now, feeling the vividness of human existence himself, did Okumura vaguely sense his own abnormality.
He'd have been better off coping with eccentric antics, foolishness, or alcohol, like many of his other colleagues, especially the Captains.
Instead, Seki withdrew into himself, had only a couple of close friends he often forgot about. On the other hand, he still craved communication, attention, recognition of his merits. In the end, one manipulator read him like an open book.
A smart man like Aizen didn't even need to pick the locks for an introverted workaholic like him. But why did he need Okumura specifically? Not even a lieutenant, though the position in the 13th Division was vacant and Captain Ukitake was preparing him for it.
Apparently, Aizen simply used their connection to divert suspicion from himself. And conversely, to make Shinigami hostile towards Sosuke focus on Okumura.
"Even I didn't value my life as lowly as he did…"
"Aizen is no longer your problem. He crossed a line, and the Seireitei must deal with him itself. Stop belittling yourself, Okumura Seki. If you have no reasons for pride, then look at me. That is enough to justify any of your lives: new or old."
"You're right," the Shinigami forced a strained smile as he tried to calm the miraculously surviving camel.
It didn't want to calm down, running circles around him in the trampled, explosion-cratered, blood-and-body-manured patch of desert. Finally, the animal, following its surviving brethren, bolted far into the sunset, towards the direction from which the caravan had come.
There was still the donkey, however: small, utterly unreliable-looking, though he had no choice.
"No, there's definitely something off about this world. Creatures resembling artificially bred Hollows, people with a special body structure, the soul locked inside, Reiryoku barely leaking out. It would be one thing if they'd learned to use soul power externally, like Fullbringers, but they've fused it with their bodies!
It's an unnatural process. It more closely resembles the evolution of Hollows the Menos Grande. The same defensive Hierro technique, the bodily Sonído acceleration, unlike Shunpo, where spiritual energy is directed around the feet and used to alter the density of air, surfaces, or even gravity, like the Goddess of Flash, Yoruichi Shihoin," he mused to himself.
"The pure power of that guy in the top hat was especially surprising, given the complete lack of long-range techniques. It's not that their strange soul configuration doesn't allow for fine manipulation... It's just that the foundation is completely unsuitable.
Studying power-based techniques is much easier at first, and then... Then technological development provided an acceptable crutch a convenient excuse: there's no apparent need to invent complex workings with internal energy…"
The donkey dug all its hooves into the loose sandy mush, shook its head, braying in a startled, guttural way that was giving him a headache.
Okumura quickly discarded any pity for the animal, strained his aching, overloaded muscles harder, and dragged the stupid creature towards the cart of trophies and the wagon meant for living in.
He had to find a sharp piece of debris and then spend a long time driving it into the ground fortunately, it was long enough to go through the entire layer of sand and sink firmly into the soil.
The Shinigami tied the donkey up, patted its muzzle once it had calmed down, or rather, exhausted itself. Only then did he notice the unpleasant, demandingly helpless feeling inside his own stomach.
It took him a few seconds to understand the meaning of this new pain.
Hunger.
Not that energy-tearing, soul-rending sensation of Reishi deficiency, but a base, human feeling a weakness in the gut, a sucking emptiness in the stomach. Something no Gigai had ever given him.
"I really have become mortal…"
"Your new sensations are agitating my soul. This experience will help us both. Start thinking, Okumura Seki. Your body is now a weapon, just like your Zanpakutō or the demonic magic of Kidō. Take care of it meticulously, without resentment."
"I'll try," he shook his head, still stunned.
Hunger. Who would have thought? And so alien, so unfamiliar. Why did such different emotions in humans and souls denote the same concept?
The Shinigami wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up at the gradually setting sun.
"May the Soul King forgive me, what an idiot I am…"
Out of habit, Okumura had paid no attention to food at all: Shinigami always had their own effective ways to stave off hunger, and for ordinary souls, food was merely a luxury they didn't experience hunger, and sustenance was never a priority during rescue operations.
Now, he suddenly realized that death from lack of food was a harsh local reality.
He had to go and re-check the wreckage once more.