The sky was clear, a gentle breeze unfurling the clouds.
A narrow path wound through earthen plains, flanked by low shrubs along the slopes, alive with the clamor of voices.
"Today's training was truly satisfying."
A girl remarked, wiping sweat from her brow. A belt cinched her waist, and a pleased grin lit her face as she gripped her blade.
"Right, Yūta?"
But as she turned, realization struck, and she quickly waved a hand in apology.
"Ah! Sorry, sorry. I almost forgot you can't talk anymore, right?"
The girl with the belted waist spun around, her sword dangling casually. Before her hung a boy in hempen clothes, roughly her age, suspended by ropes from a tree branch. His face was pale, his expression frozen in shock.
Deep gashes marred his body, shoulder, waist, elbow, and knee, each cut precise, slicing to a depth of nine parts yet leaving one intact, preserving the boy's form in a grotesque semblance of wholeness. Blood soaked through his clothes in wide, crimson stains, spilling from wounds too calculated to be haphazard.
The boy retched blood, gasping as if to speak, but no sound came.
With a gentle smile, the girl patted his unblooded shoulder with a delicate, pale hand. "It must hurt a lot, huh?"
"But I can't help it. To become a blade-tester for our Asaimon family, these are the rules! You said you liked me back on the streets, didn't you? If you're a real man, you've got to hold out until the end."
"Don't worry, my cuts are quick."
"One last strike and I'll set you free."
At her words, the boy's blood-filled mouth stilled, the light in his eyes dimming to a faint glimmer.
True to her promise, the girl delivered a single, clean stroke, severing his head.
The blade's path was swift and decisive.
How many heads had paved the way for such skill?
She flicked the blood from her sword and turned, casting a proud glance around.
Compared to her, the youths lined up before the row of trees moved with far less certainty.
Dozens of stunted trees stretched along the roadside, their branches laden with figures in hempen garb, mostly elderly, a few young stragglers who hadn't fled in time, and a troubling number of children. Nearly the entire village, save those swift enough to escape, dangled here.
The woods rang with their anguished wails.
Before them stood figures in ornate robes, each bearing the embroidered name "Asaimon" on their shoulders. Forehead bands tied, they practiced their cuts with solemn focus.
This ritual was called Tsujigiri.
For the storied Harada Asaimon family, it was a rite of passage to inherit the role of blade-tester... a tradition stretching back through the ages.
Originally, it served to test and prove a blade's worth. But over a thousand years ago, when a new Royal Guard rose in the Soul King's Palace and tethered the Shinigami to the Asauchi, the nobles' custom of forging private Zanpakutō, testing them, and spreading their fame faded into obscurity.
Today, only a handful of upper-tier noble houses like the Harada Asaimon and Kasumioji preserved the art of crafting Zanpakutō prototypes and modifying Zanpakutō abilities. For the Asaimon, this meant upholding the blade-testing tradition as a pure exercise in clan swordsmanship.
To the Asaimon family, it was a badge of honor, a legacy of prestige and endurance.
To the residents of West Rukongai's District 37, it was a relentless, predatory slaughter, reaping lives like leeks, only for them to regrow and be cut down again.
But who cared?
As an upper noble house second only to the five great clans of the Soul Society, everything within West District 37 belonged to the Harada Asaimon, including the endlessly harvested souls of its streets.
No one spared them a thought.
As the Asaimon's time-honored practice unfolded, much as it had for millennia, a small squad of a dozen or so approached from the path's end.
A sentry stood at the road's center, peering into the distance. Spotting the black Shihakushō of Seireitei nobility on the newcomers, he tensed slightly.
"Hey! Who are you lot?" Shouted an Asaimon clansman from the distant checkpoint.
At the squad's head stood a tall youth, his features sharp and striking. His long hair was tied back with a coarse cloth strip, and a worn-sheathed Zanpakuto hung at his waist. Oddly, a pair of small, flower-pinned women's tabi socks dangled from the scabbard.
Fragrant. A touch perverse.
Hearing the challenge, he spat out the grass root in his mouth and jerked his chin toward his companions.
One of them stepped forward, raising his voice. "We're messengers from the Omaeda Family of the District 40! The front lines have pushed back again. Is this the Asaimon household?"
As he spoke, the Shinigami advanced a few steps, lifting a badge from his waist.
Emblazoned across it was the bold character "Omaeda."
No one noticed the blood staining its reverse.
The sentry relaxed, calling back, "That's us!"
"Wait a moment, we'll lower the barrier now."
As he spoke, a crooked red flare rose lazily from the grove behind the newcomers, vivid even in daylight.
"You bastard!"
"Who forgot to finish the job this time?"
Makoto spat the words through gritted teeth, twisting his head to glare back at his squad. His voice dripped with venom.
The Shinigami behind him flinched, shoulders hunching under his ire.
Across the checkpoint, the Asaimon clansmen undoing the barrier paled in unison.
A red flare in the Seireitei meant one thing: high alert.
"Enemy attack!"
"Warn the others!"
In an instant, the guards behind the checkpoint snapped to attention. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, their contorted faces betraying raw panic. Hands trembling on their swords, one shrieked in a piercing wail, "The rebels are here!!!"
"Kill!"
Makoto's command cut through the air like a blade. He charged forward, leading the assault with ferocious resolve.
Behind him, his dozen or so shinigami, hungry as wolves, fierce as tigers, drew their blades in unison. Roaring with primal fury, they stormed toward the checkpoint.
Some Asaimon guards clung to the hope of holding the barrier. But before they could channel their reiatsu into it, a guttural shout split the air.
"Hadō 33: Sōkatsui!"
A torrent of searing spirit flames erupted from Makoto's palm. The swelling heat engulfed everything in its path, a fiery hammer crashing down on the fragile barrier. With a thunderous roar, the overwhelming reiatsu shattered the translucent shield into oblivion, incinerating the clansmen poised to reinforce it. The path ahead lay scorched as if some monstrous beast had clawed a chunk from the earth.
Blackened ash drifted over the charred ground.
Makoto didn't pause for a heartbeat. His Shunpo propelled him into the woods with blinding speed.
The deafening blast jolted the young Asaimon clansmen mid-swordsmanship training. The cry of enemy attack from the checkpoint froze them momentarily. But soon, spurred by a few self-assured leaders, their hesitation gave way to fervor.
"Just a handful of bandits, nothing impressive!"
"Hold the line with me! We'll crush them in one fell swoop!"
"Today's the day we make our mark!"
The girl from earlier stood among them, raising her blade high. Her delicate face flushed with excitement. As one of the clan's youngest and most capable heirs, her ninth-tier spiritual pressure earned her a place among the family elders. Third in line for the blade-tester role, she was the undisputed leader of the clan's youth. What threat could a ragtag band of bandits pose?
"Exactly!"
"That's the spirit!"
The crowd hushed for a moment before a chorus of equally deluded youths joined her rallying cry. Brimming with bravado, they formed a tight-knit group and charged toward the invaders.
Dozens strong, still in training, they marched forward, blades in hand, clothes stained with blood, steps bold and resolute.
What a sight of fearsome grandeur!
Then they collided head-on with Makoto's small squad.
Both sides halted, startled by the encounter.
"Charge!"
The girl's shout rang out as she swung her blade downward, yet she lingered at the rear.
Her blood-soaked peers, spurred by the fire in their chests, roared and rushed the enemy, a force less than a third their size.
Makoto, seasoned by countless skirmishes, had never faced a noble unit that advanced instead of retreating. Seeing them drenched in blood, exuding killing intent, he mistook them for a freshly redeployed Seireitei elite squad. Instinctively, he unleashed his full strength.
His figure blurred, darting forward like a bowling ball crashing through pins. With a single, devastating swing, he bellowed:
"Ikkotsu!!"
The first clash was cataclysmic. The vanguard of Asaimon youths met his ferocious fist...
BANG!
And exploded into a grotesque splatter of pulped flesh, strewn across the ground like spilled tomatoes.
Utter carnage!
The sudden, staggering blow stunned the once-ruthless youths into silence.
The girl at the back went blank, her mind reeling.
What followed was a predictable massacre.
The blade-testers and executioners of the Asaimon clan, ferocious as tigers against civilians crumpled like lambs before these battle-hardened Zanpakuto, steeped in blood. Their wails and pleas, far more pitiful than those of the civilians strung on the trees, soon filled the battlefield.
All bluster, no substance.
Such was the way of nobility.
***
Bonus Chapter:
100 Power Stones = 1 BC
300 Power Stones = 2 BC
500 Power Stones = 3 BC
700 Power Stones = 4 BC
1000 Power Stones = 5 BC
***
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