Duckweed

Floating Duckweed

Pre-reading Notice

1: Ensemble cast, multi-threaded tasks, primarily advancing the plot through daily life.

2: Some chapters will feature forced arrangements just for the sake of it, creating a severe sense of fragmentation; this only accounts for a small portion.

3: Regarding power scaling, the dungeon difficulty given to the protagonist is consistently very high, so situations where he cannot defeat opponents will occur.

4: Captains and lieutenants automatically have a Restriction Seal placed upon them when going to the World of the Living; this is Kubo's setting.

5: This work contains a large amount of derivative content, meaning secondary creative settings. Do not disturb if you dislike this.

Rukongai

North 79th District

This was one of the most peripheral areas of Rukongai, and the light of Seireitei had never shone upon this land.

The moon in the sky was blocked by dark clouds, and only sparse stars cast a dim silver glow upon the cracked earth.

The wind blew from the east, carrying dust and the stench of decay.

Shuichi curled up behind a collapsed earthen wall, wrapping himself in a tattered cloth he had picked up from somewhere.

He had not eaten anything for three days.

This was not a rare occurrence.

In this district, hunger was the only constant.

The surrounding wandering souls did not need to eat; they had no Reiatsu and were merely walking clusters of consciousness that sustained their existence by drinking water.

The way they looked at him was like looking at a monster.

"Why do you still need to eat?"

"Are you a dead person or a living person?"

"Stay away from me, you smell like a living person."

Shuichi did not blame them, for he could not figure out what he was himself either.

Unlike other wandering souls, he did not know why he had come here, nor could he remember things from before, but he clearly knew that this was the world of the dead.

Yet this body stubbornly refused to become a "deceased person."

He had once tried to go to the more forward districts.

Even if it was just the 60th District, he heard there was food, order, and even a chance to be picked by people from Seireitei to become a Soul Reaper.

However, he was driven back midway.

The people of those districts said he was a stray dog from the back streets, unworthy of setting foot in their territory.

Thus he could only return here, living like a genuine stray dog in this wilderness that did not even have a name.

His luck seemed rather good today.

He dug out half a moldy flatbread from the ruins; it was unknown who had dropped it, and it had already become as hard as stone, covered in grayish-green mold spots.

He broke it into small pieces, stuffed them into his mouth, slowly softened them with his saliva, and then swallowed them.

It was bitter, astringent, and had a muddy smell.

Yet he ate very seriously, chewing every bite for a long time as if doing so could squeeze more nutrients out of this rotting food.

After finishing the last bite, he even licked the crumbs stained on his fingers clean, then sat down against the wall and closed his eyes.

He had survived another day.

How funny.

He did not even know why he was living.

There was no purpose, no belonging, and no one needed him.

He merely instinctively resisted death, just like all living things.

The wind stopped.

The surroundings suddenly grew quiet, unnervingly quiet.

Shuichi opened his eyes.

At a distance three steps away from him, a blade was planted at an angle.

The blade body was covered in rust, the wrapping cord on the hilt had rotted to the point where its original color was barely discernible, and the crossguard was crooked, as if someone had casually stabbed it into the dirt and then forgotten it here.

Yet Shuichi recognized what that was.

Asauchi.

In the rumors that occasionally drifted from the direction of Seireitei, he had heard of such things.

The blades used by Soul Reapers were initially these nameless Asauchi.

When a Soul Reaper's Reiatsu synchronizes with it, it transforms into a unique Zanpakutō.

He did not know why an Asauchi would appear in a place like this.

Perhaps some Soul Reaper had dropped it while pursuing a Hollow, perhaps a transport unit had lost it while passing through, or perhaps... it had simply been abandoned here from the start.

Just like him.

Shuichi stared at the blade, a low, hoarse chuckle escaping his throat.

"Were you thrown away too?"

No one answered him.

The Asauchi stood quietly thrust into the dirt, covered in rust, as silent as a scrap of waste iron.

He ought to turn and leave.

This kind of thing had no meaning for him; he was not a Soul Reaper, he had no Reiatsu, and he was merely a vagrant who could not even afford a meal, a walking corpse trapped in Soul Society.

Yet he still stood up.

His steps were very slow, as though he were being pulled by something.

One step, two steps, three steps.

He bent down and reached out to grip the hilt.

The cord on the hilt made his palm itch.

He pulled it out.

The rust-covered blade was lighter than he had imagined, so light he could barely feel any weight.

Moonlight shone upon the blade, casting no reflection, only a layer of lifeless grey.

Shuichi looked at this sword and suddenly felt that he was very much like it.

Both were abandoned.

Both were corroded.

Both were nameless.

The blade shuddered slightly.

It was not an illusion.

He clearly sensed a faint warmth pulsing from his palm, like a spark buried deep within the ashes, trying to burn anew.

Shuichi did not even have time to let go.

Reiatsu.

The Reiatsu he had never noticed, which had always slumbered within his body, seemed ignited by something. It surged forth from every corner of his body, pouring frantically into that Asauchi.

The rust on the blade peeled away in an instant, revealing a blindingly white blade beneath.

Shuichi opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

He felt his body expanding; that power was too vast, too immense for his body to contain. It was like a balloon stretched to its limit, ready to burst at any moment.

The surrounding Reishi air began to distort, the ground cracking, rubble floating.

He tried to let go, but his fingers seemed welded to the hilt, completely unable to move.

His Reiatsu refused to obey him.

Like a beast caged for too long that had finally found an exit, it rushed outward recklessly.

Shuichi's consciousness began to blur. He heard the sound of his own heartbeat, racing like a drumbeat, followed by ringing in his ears—a sharp buzzing that drowned out everything else.

Beneath his feet, the earth split open. What poured from the fissure was not dirt, but gouts of turbid Reiatsu, like steam and dense fog, spreading in all directions.

The surrounding wandering souls shrieked and fled, sensing the terror of that pure, untamed power.

Shuichi dropped to his knees, his hands gripping the sword tightly as the blade drove into the earth.

His eyes bloodshot, warm liquid flowed from his nostrils, but he felt no pain.

He felt only a single thought, as clear as if it were carved into his bones:

I don't want to be thrown away anymore.

Then, darkness swallowed him.

Shuichi awoke amidst a sea of white light.

Above him was an unfamiliar ceiling.

It was not the smoke-blackened, crumbling thatch roof of a shack, but a smooth, pristine ceiling without a single crack.

A faint scent of sandalwood hung in the air.

He lay upon a couch, soft bedding beneath him, covered by a light blanket. He glanced down at his hand—

Clean.

It had already been cleaned up by someone.

"Awoke?"

A voice came from beside him.

Shuichi sat up abruptly, tugging at the wounds on his body and drawing in a sharp breath of pain.

He turned his head and saw a middle-aged man sitting behind a desk not far away.

The man wore a black cross-collared short-sleeved tunic and black hakama, with a white haori draped over the outside.

He had a balding pate and a handlebar mustache, with a cross-shaped scar on his forehead. His expression was resolute, and between his brows was an imposing aura of natural dignity.

"Where is this..." Shuichi looked around.

"Seireitei, Gotei 13, First Division Barracks."

The man put down his teacup: "Old man Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, Commander-in-Chief of the Gotei 13."

Shuichi was stunned.

He had heard this name before.

In the most remote corners of Rukongai, wandering souls who lived longer would occasionally mention it.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, the strongest Soul Reaper in Soul Society, the founder of the Gotei 13, the man holding the strongest Zanpakutō.

But he had never imagined that he would be sitting in the same room as this person.

"I..." Shuichi organized his thoughts.

"Why am I here?"

"Your Reiatsu went on a rampage."

The two of them asked and answered in turn.

Yamamoto looked at Shuichi, his face calm: "That Reiatsu nearly upended half a block in the North 79th District."

Yamamoto suddenly stopped speaking, and the two stared at each other, the room falling silent for a moment.

After only a brief interval, Yamamoto spoke again, asking: "When you grasped that Asauchi, how did it feel?"

Shuichi was stunned for a moment, then looked not far away at the sword on the sword rack that already had a black scabbard fitted onto it, with its guard and anti-slip strap replaced.

He could feel that something inside the blade was slumbering.

"I..."

He recalled how it felt at the time: "It was very hot, like a ball of fire, burning until my whole body felt like it was going to burst open."

"Hn."

Yamamoto nodded, his expression not changing in the slightest: "Your Reiatsu is very powerful, far exceeding the level of an ordinary Soul Reaper, but you have never received training, nor do you have any experience controlling Reiatsu. That Asauchi became a fuse, allowing your Reiatsu to find an outlet, but you had no ability to guide it, so it went on a rampage."

He crossed his hands, folding them across his chest, his gaze falling on Shuichi.

"What is your name?"

Shuichi looked at him and thought for a moment.

A name...

He certainly had a name; he remembered his name, remembered it clearly, but in this patch of Rukongai, no one ever called him by his name. They called him that freak who needed to eat, they called him a stray dog from the backstreets, they called him "hey".

It had been a very long time since he heard someone ask his name.

"Shuichi."

He said, his voice very soft, as if he were afraid of shattering those two characters.

"Shuichi."

Yamamoto nodded: "North 79th District Kusajishi?"

Shuichi fell silent once more. He knew that place seemed to be called the North 79th District, but Kusajishi? He had never heard that name.

"Your Reiatsu is not something an ordinary Rukongai resident could possess."

He said: "What kind of person were you in life?"

Shuichi shook his head: "I don't remember."

He said: "I only remember that when I was alive... I was a person. The rest, I can't remember anything at all."

This was the truth. He remembered the sunlight, remembered the rain, remembered hunger and cold, remembered someone once holding his hand, but those memories were all as if seen through a layer of frosted glass, the outlines visible, the details unclear.

Yamamoto did not pursue the questioning further.

"Are you willing to become a Soul Reaper?"

Shuichi raised his head.

This question came too suddenly.

He was merely a vagrant at the very bottom of Rukongai, a freak who couldn't even afford a meal, good-for-nothing who couldn't even control his own Reiatsu—what qualifications did he have to become a Soul Reaper?

Yet there was no pity in the old man's eyes, no charity.

There was only a calm, examining gaze, as if he were asking a soldier whether he was willing to go to the battlefield rather than asking a vagrant whether he wanted a bowl of rice.

"I..." Shuichi lowered his head, looking at his own hands.

"I have nowhere left to go."

He said: "I can't even figure out what kind of thing I am. But if becoming a Soul Reaper can allow me..."

He trailed off.

Allow him to do what?

No longer starve? No longer be treated like a monster? Or... allow him to find that answer, what on earth he was?

He didn't know.

Yet he knew that he did not want to return to that wilderness without even a name.

"I am willing."

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto watched him for a long time.

Then, he stood up and walked to the window. Outside the window was the sky of Seireitei, blindingly blue.

"Starting today, you are a reserve member of the Gotei 13."

Yamamoto's voice came from his retreating back: "You will be assigned an instructor to learn how to control Reiatsu, Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Shunpo, and Kidō. If you pass, you will obtain an official seated position."

He turned his head and looked at Shuichi.

"If you die, no one will remember you."

Shuichi was stunned.

"I won't die," he said.

Some time later...

Shuichi arrived at a small courtyard in District 1, 74th Street, West Rukongai.

Unlike the cramped, ordinary parts of Rukongai, the houses here all possessed independent little courtyards.

The Soul Reaper who led the way told him that this was a residence arranged for him by the Commander-in-Chief. The various division quarters of the Soul Reapers were not all located in Seireitei; some were in Rukongai, and because he had not yet joined a division, the division dormitories were temporarily not open to him.

Therefore, the Commander-in-Chief had arranged a residence for him here.

The guiding Soul Reaper left after bringing him there.

The outer wall was white, but had grown somewhat grayish due to time, with weeds sprouting at the base of the wall. The roof tiles were uniformly black, and the front gate in sight was wooden, yet new.

Entering inside the gate was a courtyard with a tree planted in it. Shuichi did not recognize that tree. Then there were two side rooms on either side, with the main building being a two-story structure.

There were quite a few neighbors nearby who were reportedly somewhat wealthy Rukongai residents.

Entering the main house, there was a spacious central hall and a table, upon which sat a sword rack and a withered potted plant.

On the left was a study; on the right were stairs and a bedroom. Inside the bedroom, there was also a sword rack and an armor rack.

Oh, there was also a cabinet, with bedding inside.

Upstairs there was nothing at all, seemingly serving as a storage room.

He placed the blade onto the sword rack.

He opened the window.

He sat cross-legged inside the room, looking out at the tree outside the window.

This feeling felt so unreal.

Yet it also felt as though he had experienced this feeling before.

How strange.

Why did he feel like he had experienced it before?

Where had he experienced it?