It was already dark by the time club activities ended.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni, his schoolbag slung over his shoulder, walked out of Karakura First High School alone.
The streetlights were on, casting long shadows over the sparse shops.
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the roadside trees.
He had participated in the kendo club today—or more precisely, the kendo instructor had asked him to provide last-minute sparring instruction for the other members.
Yoriichi had only joined the club half a month ago, yet no one wanted to spar with him anymore.
It wasn’t that he used too much force.
It was that his opponents often couldn’t even comprehend how they had lost.
Even when Yoriichi deliberately slowed his movements, his shinai (bamboo sword) would still flawlessly strike his opponent’s weak points.
A single strike could be chalked up to coincidence, but dozens of consecutive perfect hits defied all logic.
The instructor had stared at him for a long time before finally asking just one question.
“Tsugikuni-kun, you truly have never studied kendo before?” “No.” “…” The teacher’s expression had been utterly complex.
Yoriichi wasn’t lying.
He truly hadn’t received any formal training.
Yet, the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a sword, his body naturally assumed the most perfect forms.
That wasn’t mere technique.
It was an instinct etched deep into his very soul.
Yoriichi lowered his head, glancing at his right hand gripping his bag strap.
Since he was very young, he could see things ordinary people couldn’t.
The spirits of the dead, monsters lurking in the darkness, and the intricate flow of blood and muscles within living human bodies.
In his eyes, the world was entirely transparent.
This ability didn’t affect his daily life much.
As long as the monsters didn’t harm others, Yoriichi wouldn’t approach them.
As for the wandering spirits, he would occasionally stop to exchange a few quiet words with them.
That was all.
Soon, Yoriichi turned onto a familiar street.
It wasn’t far from his home; the building with the clinic sign ahead belonged to his classmate, Ichigo Kurosaki.
The two had a fairly good relationship.
Although Ichigo had striking orange hair and the scowling demeanor of a delinquent, he often helped the elderly in the neighborhood and would readily step in to take the blame when his classmates caused trouble.
Yoriichi could tell that Ichigo possessed spiritual pressure far beyond that of ordinary humans.
However, Ichigo didn’t know how to control it; he could only perceive the souls of the dead through raw, unrefined instinct.
Just as Yoriichi was about to pass the clinic, he suddenly stopped.
BOOM!
A massive burst of energy exploded from the Kurosaki residence.
The glass windows trembled, and the nearby streetlights flickered and died.
Reishi (spiritual particles) invisible to ordinary people swept outward, creating a chaotic shockwave.
Yoriichi stood perfectly still, his dark bangs whipping in the sudden gale.
So powerful.
But this energy was highly unstable, containing two completely distinct spiritual pressures.
One was cold and violent, reeking of a desire to devour the living.
The other was relatively pure, though it had grown extremely faint.
Yoriichi raised his head.
Through his transparent vision, a gigantic monster crouched atop the Kurosaki Clinic.
It wore a white bone mask, possessed a dark, hollow hole in its chest, and its massive arm had just smashed through the building’s wall.
Hollow.
The name surfaced in Yoriichi’s mind without warning.
At the same time, his heart skipped a beat.
Thump.
A heavy, resonant sound echoed within his chest.
For the first time in this life, Yoriichi’s expression changed.
A scorching power awakened from the depths of his soul, surging rapidly through his limbs.
His previously calm breathing shifted, and scattered Reishi began to converge upon him.
Deep within his consciousness, it seemed a sun had long slumbered.
And now, that sun had opened its eyes.
Yoriichi raised his right hand.
A crimson flash of spiritual pressure ignited across his palm.
The surrounding temperature instantly spiked; a few fallen leaves at his feet quickly withered, their edges curling and charring.
In just a second, he reined the power back into his body.
Yoriichi remained silent for a moment, then looked toward the clinic.
The Hollow had already entered the building.
Bypassing the main entrance, Yoriichi melted into the shadows beside the street, circling around to a vantage point where he could clearly see the second-floor room.
Behind the shattered wall, Ichigo Kurosaki lay on the floor.
His shoulder was bleeding, and his hands struggled to support his upper body.
Standing before him was a petite girl dressed in black Shinigami robes.
The girl was also severely injured.
Blood stained her garments, and the hand gripping her sword trembled uncontrollably.
Even so, she stood firmly between Ichigo and the monster.
“Why are you protecting me?” Ichigo gritted his teeth, struggling to lift his head.
“Shut up,” the girl gasped.
“Shinigami protect humans.
We don’t need a reason.” Yoriichi overheard their exchange.
Shinigami.
Another unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar, word.
Inside the room, the Hollow let out a low, guttural growl, its massive arm rising for another strike.
The girl glanced at the unconscious Kurosaki family members lying in the corner, her expression growing even more grim.
In her current state, she couldn’t withstand a single direct hit.
“There’s another way.” The girl suddenly turned, pointing the tip of her blade at Ichigo’s chest.
“I’ll share my Shinigami powers with you.
Whether it succeeds or not depends on your own spiritual pressure.” Ichigo stared at the sword in her hand.
“How?” “Thrust the sword into your chest.” “Huh?” Ichigo’s expression froze.
The situation was dire; he clearly didn’t have time to consider whether this method was reliable.
The Hollow had already swung its arm down.
“Come on!” Ichigo roared, grabbing the blade and driving it into his own chest.
The next moment, a dazzling spiritual light engulfed the entire room.
An immense spiritual pressure burst through the roof, rapidly expanding into the night sky.
Yoriichi’s school uniform billowed in the wind, but his eyes remained utterly unmoved.
Within the spiritual light, Ichigo’s soul departed his physical body.
Clad in jet-black Shinigami robes, he materialized with an excessively large Zanpakutō in his hand.
The sword was less a refined weapon and more like a massive, sharpened slab of iron.
Yoriichi watched this scene, his right hand instinctively dropping to his waist, resting on a spot where there should have been nothing.
As his fingers closed, a tsuba (guard) and hilt slowly materialized.
Crimson spiritual particles swirled around the grip, eventually forming a katana.
The blade ignited into a brilliant, glowing crimson—the legendary Red Blade of the Sun Breathing user.
Even before the sword was fully drawn, its intense, scorching heat caused the surrounding Reishi to violently vibrate.
Yoriichi prepared to step forward and intervene.
But the instant he shifted his weight, a vast, blinding flood of memories surged into his mind.