Shff, shff, shff—
Several figures dropped soundlessly onto the blood-stained street.The woman leading them crouched beside a fallen Shinigami, checked for signs of life, then shook her head."Still farther ahead," she said softly. "There may be survivors."
She wore the soft gray-cherry inner lining of the Fourth Division's haori.Her face was gentle, serene—long black hair parted neatly down the middle and braided into twin plaits that fell forward over her shoulders.
Rising to her full height, she gazed toward the smoky horizon and murmured with faint nostalgia,"This district hasn't changed at all. Still as chaotic as ever."
The young Fourth Division healers behind her exchanged puzzled glances.Their captain sounded almost familiar with the outermost Rukongai slums—how could that be?
But their captain, Unohana, said no more.With a graceful flick of her sleeve, she led them onward through the ruins.
The Fourth Division—the Gotei Thirteen's medical and logistics corps—rarely saw its captain leave headquarters.Unohana usually remained within the barracks, overseeing surgeries and critical patients delivered from the front lines.Today, however, she was returning from a special external mission when a distress call from the Fifth Division had intercepted her route.
When Unohana vaulted onto a rooftop and halted, her subordinates followed—only to freeze at the sight below.
Even Unohana's calm eyes flickered with something close to surprise.
Moments ago, the Fifth Division's signal had abruptly cut out.The Fourth Division team had assumed that, by the time they arrived, there would be nothing left to do but collect bodies.Any pursuit or engagement with the rebels would have been left to combat divisions—like the stealth specialists of the Second, or the berserkers of the Eleventh.
But the scene before them didn't match the report at all.The rebels—every single one of them—already lay sprawled in their own blood.And the only person still standing in the middle of the street wasn't a Shinigami… but a rag-clothed vagrant, holding a zanpakutō.
Ten corpses, twisted and broken, littered the ground.In their midst stood a tall man, his clothes torn and filthy, dragging the edge of his blade across his cheek——shaving off the last trace of stubble.
Under the relentless sunlight, the man's face was striking: strong-boned, clear-eyed, faintly smiling as though nothing were amiss.When he finished, he slid the blade back into its scabbard, lifted his head toward the figures on the rooftop, and offered what he thought was a friendly grin.
A chill rippled through the healers.Something about that calmness—standing in a heap of corpses, casually grooming himself—was profoundly wrong.
Unohana stepped forward and descended.Her white haori spread behind her like butterfly wings as she landed soundlessly, her smile as warm as sunlight on still water.She regarded Arata with half-closed eyes, expression soft but unreadable.
Under that gaze, Arata's smile slowly faded.
It had been a long time since he had felt it—true killing intent.
Not the mechanical threat of guns or weapons pressed against one's head,but the suffocating presence of a being whose power could erase him effortlessly,a predator's quiet certainty.
Yes, he thought, heart quickening. This… this is what I came for.
Those so-called rebels, with their clumsy blades and crude reiryoku, had been nothing but warm-up.Not one of them had given him the thrill of real combat.
But the woman before him—she was different.Her presence alone scattered his disappointment and reignited something in his blood.He had only just arrived in this world, and already there were mountains yet to climb, countless battles waiting to test his limits.
The End Space hadn't lied—he would face challenges beyond imagination.
"What is your name?"
Her voice was gentle, the deadly tension melting as she spoke.When she smiled again, it was genuine—calm, maternal warmth replacing the invisible pressure.
"Arata," he answered simply.He made no effort to invent an alias; deceit would serve no purpose here.
From her appearance and overwhelming aura, he could already guess her identity—Captain Retsu Unohana of the Fourth Division, once known by another name: Yachiru Unohana.If she was already captain, that meant Yhwach had long since fallen into slumber.
So the current timeline was sometime before the main Bleach storyline began.
"Arata, then."Unohana's eyes drifted briefly over the corpses. "Did you kill these men?"
"The Shinigami were already dead when I arrived," Arata replied evenly. "I just defended myself."
It was the truth.He had no intention of provoking misunderstanding.Yes, he longed for combat—but he wasn't suicidal, especially not now that he had arrived in such a fascinating world.
Unohana nodded, accepting his explanation without hesitation.She didn't seem surprised that a mere Rukongai vagrant had managed to slaughter ten rebels strong enough to fell trained Shinigami.
"Would you like to join the Gotei Thirteen?" she asked.
Her subordinates blinked in disbelief.The captain herself was extending an invitation—and not to her own division specifically.She had said "the Gotei Thirteen", not "the Fourth."
If she had recognized talent, shouldn't she have recruited him as a healer?
"The Gotei Thirteen?" Arata repeated, momentarily stunned.He hadn't expected his main mission's first objective to resolve itself so easily.All he had to do, it seemed, was nod.
"If you're willing," Unohana said with a small smile."Of course, you'll have to enroll in the Shin'ō Spiritual Arts Academy first. Only graduates may join the Gotei Thirteen."
Arata pretended to think it over, then nodded.Now he understood why the mission's difficulty fluctuated so wildly.If the End Space had a god's perspective, his current path—the one guided by chance encounter—was clearly the "easy route."
In his earlier battle, he'd realized those ten rebels had weaker overall stats than his own.Their combat technique was laughable by comparison.He had killed all ten without so much as staining his clothes.
If he'd left the area alone, wandering deeper through Rukongai, he would have faced far greater dangers—and even if he'd survived, there was no guarantee the Academy would have accepted him.
But with Unohana's personal recommendation, his admission was all but assured.
"Then let's go," she said lightly, turning back toward her team."We're heading home anyway."
Her eyes flicked briefly to the sword at Arata's side."You can keep that as your asauchi."
The healers didn't look surprised.An asauchi—a nameless, unawakened zanpakutō—was standard issue for trainees.Until a Shinigami forged a bond and learned its true name, it possessed no abilities, merely serving as a sharpened blade.
When a Shinigami died, their zanpakutō usually reverted to an asauchi—reset to its blank, unclaimed state.Such blades could then be reissued to new students at the Academy.As long as the weapon remained within Seireitei's system, no one questioned its history.
So by keeping this sword, Arata would not receive another upon enrollment.
He slid the asauchi into his belt and followed in step behind Unohana and her team.Whatever came next, this part of Rukongai was no longer his concern. Other divisions would handle cleanup.
Inside, though, he could hardly contain his excitement.As a lifelong martial artist, the prospect of studying the combat arts of this world—its reiryoku techniques, sword styles, and spiritual disciplines—was intoxicating.
Compared to the contract's promised "return reward,"the chance to learn here, in the living heart of Soul Society, was infinitely more valuable.
And the asauchi at his hip—in its own way, it was already a divine weapon.
(End of Chapter – "The Healer and the Blade")