In mere moments, the nearby Asaimon clansmen were wiped out, not a single one spared.
The remaining Genji Shinigami busied themselves untying the ropes binding the civilians strung up on the trees. Every pair of eyes widened in fury, blood rushing to their heads. Most of them hailed from the Rukongai streets; the few exceptions were noble bastards, cast aside by their kin.
It was precisely this shared origin that let them feel the civilians' plight as their own.
Yet rage alone solved nothing.
No one in their squad knew healing Kidō.
Under such grievous wounds, most of the rescued civilians perished quickly, some sooner, some later. Many, in their final breaths, begged the Genryū to grant them a swift end, a plea for release from torment.
In this stifling atmosphere, the woods fell eerily silent.
Only the dull thud of Genji School's Shinigami, faces rigid, delivering mercy strikes to these souls, so like yet unlike themselves, echoed through the trees.
Makoto said nothing, merely watching in silence.
It had been over two months since he'd received his conscription orders and begun these missions. Now, his small squad scouted ahead, carving a path for the larger force led by Unohana Yachiru and others.
From District 64 to District 37 of the Rukongai, this long trek had shown him countless scenes, some alike, some distinct.
His heart had gradually hardened into iron.
Yet each time he faced such a sight, a phrase Yamamoto had once uttered stirred unbidden in his mind.
"As long as you still see them as people, that's enough."
To a modern soul, it was a given.
But in the Soul Society of a thousand years past, it was downright absurd.
"We are nobles with a million-year legacy."
He'd heard such boasts so often on this journey that his ears had nearly calloused over.
And so, Makoto had come to grasp the gravity of what Yamamoto was striving to achieve.
That old man was dragging the Soul Society, still mired in a slave era, toward something akin to a feudal age.
A feat worthy of being called a great undertaking.
Lost in these musings, he was jolted by a scrappy little figure dragging a half-dead woman by her belted waist. The boy called out loudly, "Makoto-sama! This woman says she's got vital intel!"
Makoto glanced at the battered, bruised woman on the ground, frowning. "Ryūma! How many times have I told you? Don't go easy on her kind."
"Eh? But…"
Kuruyashiki Ryūma was a wiry kid with a mop of wild, grassy hair, looking no older than eleven or twelve, barely bigger than Kirio. His Shihakushō hung loose, its hem often tucked into his belt to keep it from dragging.
Yet at this tender age, he'd already seen years on the battlefield.
"Wait! M-My lord!"
The girl on the ground thrashed suddenly, her voice a desperate wail. "You want money, right? You must need it bad! M-My family has heaps of spirit rings! And, and I know how to make Reigan Pills! It's a secret Asaimon specialty, that can boost your reiatsu! We've got tons of secret kids raised to craft them, and I know, "
In this life-or-death moment, the bravado she'd flaunted minutes ago had vanished. She clawed frantically to prove her worth.
Makoto waved a hand, irritation creasing his brow.
"Kill her."
"Oh."
Kuruyashiki Ryūma blinked dully, then nodded obediently, dragging her off to the side.
"Filthy peasant!"
And so, she erupted into hysterics, shrieking like a vengeful specter: "We are... "
"...nobles with a million-year legacy."
Makoto didn't turn back, quietly finishing her sentence for her.
"Fool."
Behind him rose a chorus of teeth-grinding crunches, the sound of Kuruyashiki Ryūma's Zanpakutō at work.
Such scenes had long become routine.
Through the Soul Society's nobles' chaotic sprawl across eons, most clans had amassed a trove of secret arts, metallurgy, alchemy, training, enslavement… even cooking, all fueled by the Pluses. The sheer variety was staggering, born as they were from the same spirit particles that comprised the Pluses itself.
These techniques were forged atop the lives of thousands, tens of thousands, even millions of Pluses.
Priceless beyond measure.
Thus, whether highborn or low, young or old, these nobles clung to such practices as their treasures, lifelines, and even.
Yet these clever minds never seemed to grasp one simple truth.
That very fact was why so many Shinigami, born of the Rukongai, burned with an insatiable desire to see them dead.
The streets are paved with the bones of lords, and the gates are adorned with the heads of the lords.
No idle boast.
The century-spanning legacies of these Soul Society nobles, built on devouring the Pluses, were the very reason their deaths were inevitable.
Their fortunes were cast from the blood and flesh of the Rukongai.
For that same reason, in these turbulent times, Yamamoto's radical following among civilian Shinigami couldn't be summed up as a mere majority.
His name was nigh a faith among them.
And yet…
Makoto's thoughts drifted instinctively to the original tale, the future yet to unfold.
The Soul Society's nobility wouldn't vanish entirely; they'd merely be caged within the Seireitei, no longer scattered across the land as they were now.
He shook his head unconsciously.
Too early to dwell on that.
"Makoto-sama."
A middle-aged Shinigami appeared beside him with a Shunpo, voice low. "We can move forward."
"Hm."
Makoto reined in his thoughts, issuing a command to those around him, "Next phase, breach this Asaimon shit grounds!"
"Yes!"
…
"Shiba-sama."
In the grand hall, Hakura Asaimon, the Head of the Asaimon presented a brocade box with both hands, his face wreathed in an obsequious smile as he offered it to the young man seated above.
"This is our clan's famed Reigan Pill, renowned across the Soul Society."
"Please, accept it."
"This round of frontline deployments has truly troubled you!"
"How could I accept such a thing?" The man addressed as Yorita Shiba, the current Head of the Shiba, was a striking, short-haired youth. Clad in a white robe with a Zanpakuto at his waist, he exuded a breezy charm.
"This is that rumored treasure that boosts spiritual rank, isn't it?"
"Indeed..." Hakura replied with a modest smile. "Though it only works for lower class, forgive its humble nature."
"That's still impressive..." Yorita said, his interest piqued. "By the way, what's it made of?"
"Shiba-sama, that…"
Hakura's face twisted into a mask of reluctance.
"Ah, my goodness!" Yorita blinked, then chuckled awkwardly as realization dawned. "I've overstepped."
Since his father's sudden death in battle, he'd rarely ventured beyond the Seireitei, and his finesse in noble dealings had grown rusty.
Hakura exhaled inwardly.
After all, the Shiba's quirks were the talk of the Seireitei.
For reasons unknown, they refused to partake in treasures refined from the Pluses. They shunned spirit-infused delicacies entirely, even treating the Pluses as equals.
If that wasn't eccentricity, what was it?
How could the Pluses ever compare to them?
Souls born and reborn in the Soul Society across generations had long ceased to care where the Pluses came from.
Still, out of respect for the Shiba's status among the five great noble clans, Hakura kept such thoughts tightly sealed.
Their chat wound down amicably, and soon a lavish banquet was served, extravagance incarnate.
Host and guest revealed until sated.
Before long, Yorita was ushered to rest.
"The Asaimon head's a decent sort." He mused, sinking into the guest room's soft bedding. After over a month of grueling frontline clashes with the Genji School's shinigami, such comfort felt like a distant memory.
War was a relentless grind on the spirit.
Even fleeting rest was a luxury.
But just as he settled in for a brief nap, a visceral jolt of dread surged through him.
"Sprinkled on the bones of the beast! Sharp tower, red crystal, steel ring. Move and become the wind, stop and become the calm. The sound of warring spears fills the empty castle!"
"Hadō 63: Raikōhō!"
A violent ripple of reiatsu erupted, and a golden pillar of lightning, divine retribution incarnate, crashed from the heavens. With ruthless force, it obliterated the massive barrier encircling the Asaimon clan grounds.
In the same breath, the central Asaimon manor crumbled to ruin under the assault.
A dozen potent reiatsu signatures flared into existence, abrupt and unmistakable.
Yorita bolted upright.
Enemy attack!
***
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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