Remnants

The torrential rain over the scorched earth at the center of Seireitei extinguished the last few lingering fires.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto stood amid the charred wasteland. The Solar Dawn Garb had faded, and his Bankai had been released.

The mountains of corpses and seas of blood remained.

Quincy corpses were piled around him. Rainwater washed blood from beneath the heaps, gathering into shallow crimson puddles at his feet.

Once the flames receded, the Quincy who had been instantly killed by the extreme heat revealed their original forms. Some had been burned into charcoal while still standing; some knelt on the ground with both hands still poised to draw their bows; others had curled into balls, as if trying to hide themselves. Yamamoto's gaze swept over every corpse, missing no corner.

There was no Yhwach.

There was no Yhwach's corpse on the scorched earth, no remnants of Yhwach, no lingering trace of his Reiatsu. Even the signs that he had ever existed had nearly been washed away by the rain.

Chōjirō Sasakibe's sword had pierced his chest, and Yamamoto's blade had consumed his body. But what happened after that? Had he died? Or had he escaped at the last moment, just as before? Yamamoto did not know. His eyes remained fixed on the spot where Yhwach had last stood. The burnt earth there had been soaked into mud by the rain, and nothing could be seen.

You can defeat him, but you cannot kill him. The monk's words surfaced in his mind.

Yamamoto sheathed Ryujin Jakka.

Chojiro Sasakibe returned with Shunpo and stopped a short distance behind Yamamoto. He was drenched through, and the white haori on his body was completely red.

His silver-white hair clung messily to his forehead.

Sasakibe closed his eyes and traced strange patterns over his body with both hands. His Reiatsu began to gather.

"Net of black and white, twenty-two bridges, sixty-six crowns and sashes, footprints, distant thunder, sharp peaks, returning earth, nightfall, sea of clouds, blue ranks—fill the great circle and soar into the heavens! Bakudo Seventy-Seven: Tenteikūra!"

Reiatsu spread from his body, weaving an invisible net through the air. Centered on Seireitei, it extended outward in every direction. The net covered every corner of Seireitei, all eighty districts of Rukongai, and every area touched by the battle. Sasakibe's lips parted slightly.

"All surviving Soul Reapers, gather at the center of Seireitei!"

The voice was not loud, but through Tenteikūra's Reiatsu network, every Soul Reaper heard those words beside their ears.

Clear, unquestionable, and carrying Chojiro Sasakibe's distinctive calm tone, the Soul Reapers searching the ruins for comrades stopped what they were doing. Medical personnel bandaging wounds in the rain looked up. Vice-captains searching through corpse piles for their captains straightened their backs. Members slumped everywhere, catching their breath, heard the voice.

Then they began to move. From South First District, South District Two, East District One, East District Two, West District One, West Second District, North District One, the noble estates within Seireitei, and the division garrisons along the border between Rukongai and Seireitei, people emerged everywhere, converging on the center of Seireitei like countless narrow streams flowing in from all directions.

Some moved quickly, some slowly. Some needed support from their comrades; some were carried on stretchers. Some limped along on injured legs. Yet no one fell behind, and no one remained where they were. Sasakibe's voice had reached every person through Tenteikūra.

Sasakibe lowered his hands from their seal, and Tenteikūra's Reiatsu network slowly dissipated.

Sasakibe stood behind Yamamoto without saying a word. Yamamoto silently permitted his order as well.

Every Soul Reaper heard that voice.

They had not heard it through their ears. It rang directly in their minds, as clearly as if someone stood before them speaking—steady and beyond question. From the texture of the Reiatsu, everyone recognized its owner: Chojiro Sasakibe, vice-captain of the First Division.

There was no hesitation, no delay. The Soul Reapers still searching the ruins for comrades stopped what they were doing. Members bandaging wounds in the rain looked up. Those slumped against walls, catching their breath, rose to their feet.

They began to move.

Those with lighter injuries crawled out from the rubble, dusted themselves off, picked up the Zanpakutō they had dropped nearby, checked their direction, and set out. They were not fast, but they were steady. Some limped; some used walls or broken pillars for support; some had to stop every few steps to catch their breath. But not a single one stopped walking.

Those too badly injured to walk were not abandoned either. Those still capable of moving spontaneously formed stretcher teams. Those without stretchers improvised them from Zanpakutō and cloth.

Two carried them, four carried them, and some even carried their comrades on their backs, step by step.

Streams of people converged on the center of Seireitei from every direction, passing through burned ruins, flooded streets, and battlefields piled with corpses. Faces could not be seen clearly through the curtain of rain. Only blurry black silhouettes emerged one after another from the gray-black downpour, joined the flow, and moved forward together.

No one spoke. Only footsteps and ragged breathing sounded dully in the rain.

People surged toward the center from every corner of Seireitei. The Eleventh Division arrived first.

Their formation was relatively intact, and they had more members left than the other divisions. But that was not because the Eleventh Division was stronger. It was because the truly powerful Quincy had all gone after Yachiru Unohana.

Although there had been many Holy Soldiers and vice-captain-level Quincy attacking the Eleventh Division barracks, nearly all the Sternritter elites had been drawn away by Unohana alone.

The Eleventh Division members had faced an ordinary Holy Soldier assault, the kind of opponent they trained against every day. They were covered in wounds, their Shihakushō torn in several places by arrows. Some had bandages wrapped around their heads, some had an arm bound against their chests, and some walked with a limp. But no one was missing limbs, and no one needed to be carried. The vice-captain walked at the front of the group, his face grim and silent.

The Ninth Division, Eighth Division, Seventh Division, and Sixth Division arrived next.

The surviving forces of the four divisions appeared almost simultaneously at the edge of central Seireitei, converging from different directions onto the same scorched ground.

More than half of their formations had been lost. At a glance, they looked sparse, and their ranks could no longer be maintained. Every single one of them was injured.

Some lightly, some severely, but none were unscathed.

The Ninth Division's vice-captain used his sword as a crutch. An officer from the Eighth Division had wrapped strips of cloth around fingers blown off by an explosion. The Seventh Division members supported one another as they walked. Someone in the Sixth Division's ranks coughed up blood while moving.

No one spoke. They all silently entered the central area, found relatively level ground in the rain, and stopped. The injured were carefully laid down, while those who could still stand remained standing there, letting the rain soak them through.

When the Fourth Division arrived, everyone noticed what they were carrying.

Chikiri Shijima lay on a stretcher. Lille Barro had pierced his chest, but he was still alive, though his eyes were tightly shut and sweat covered his entire body.

The Tenth Division arrived almost at the same time as the Fourth Division.

They were carrying someone as well—Wang Tuchuan Yuxuji. His condition was worse than Shijima's—his heart had been pierced, and his Reiatsu was so faint it was nearly imperceptible. The Tenth Division's vice-captain walked beside the stretcher, his face expressionless.

The Second Division appeared afterward.

Shihōin Qianri walked at the front of the group. His steps were still steady, and his back remained straight. He had changed into clean clothes, but not his captain's haori, because there was no replacement for a captain's haori. The injuries beneath it were plainly visible.

The Twelfth Division and Thirteenth Division arrived last.

The two divisions had the fewest survivors, the shortest lines, and moved the slowest, because their forces had been scattered badly and it had taken considerable time to gather again.

The Twelfth Division members carried Zenteiji Yūbin's body. Gerard's sword had pierced his chest, and the front of his Shihakushō was soaked in blood, now washed to a faint pink by the rain. One of his hands hung beyond the stretcher, swaying gently with the members' steps, his fingers pale and stiff.

The Thirteenth Division members carried Saizo Sakigane's body. There were no obvious puncture wounds on him, but his Shihakushō had been burned beyond recognition. The exposed skin was covered in burns and splits. Bazz-B's Burning Finger had left irreversible scars on his body. His sword rested on his chest, with both hands folded over its blade.

The survivors of the two divisions silently entered the central area, placed their captains' bodies on the scorched earth, then stepped aside and stood in the rain with their heads lowered. No one spoke. No one cried.

More and more Soul Reapers emerged from the rain: noble forces, seated officers, ordinary members.

Shuichi was still sitting on the ground. The wound in his shoulder still hurt, the soreness throughout his body had yet to fade, and his Zanpakutō had returned to its silver-white, permanently released Shikai state, resting quietly across his knees. He had just stabilized his Reiatsu and adjusted his breathing when Chojiro Sasakibe's voice appeared directly in the center of his mind.

"All surviving Soul Reapers, gather at the center of Seireitei."

Shuichi abruptly raised his head and looked around. To his left were collapsed ruins and the rain curtain. To his right were Quincy corpses bleached pale by the rain. Behind him was Saito.

She had already withdrawn her arm, turned around, and sat back-to-back with Shuichi.

No one stood nearby. No one was speaking to him. That voice had not come from outside—it had sounded from within.

"Stop looking. It's Tenteikūra."

Saito's voice came from behind him.

Shuichi froze for a moment. "Tenteikūra?"

"Bakudo Seventy-Seven. It's for communication, and it covers a huge range."

"Carry me over." Saito knew that, in her current condition, she could not use Shunpo over a long distance.

Shuichi nodded, sheathed his Zanpakutō, and carried Saito onto his back.

The two arrived relatively early.

West District One was not far from the center of Seireitei. Supporting Saito, Shuichi crossed several streets where water rose over their ankles, detoured around several collapsed buildings, and reached the edge of the scorched area. Quite a few people had already gathered in the center, and the Eleventh Division stood in formation.

At the edge of the scorched earth, Shuichi found a relatively level spot where the water was not too deep. He stopped, bent down, lowered Saito from his shoulders, then used Shunpo to stand beside Yamamoto. Silently, he watched the divisions arrive and assemble.

Yamamoto and Sasakibe said nothing. They merely gave him a quiet glance.

The other captains stood silently as well, at most using Shunpo to move to the front of their own divisions.

The Fifth Division arrived later than everyone else. Their formation was so scattered it could barely be called a formation. The members supported one another in twos and threes. Some held up their comrades' arms, some carried unconscious teammates on their backs, and some used Zanpakutō as crutches as they slowly dragged themselves forward.

The vice-captain at the front had blood all over his clothes. One arm was suspended against his chest with strips of cloth. His face was expressionless as he mechanically put one foot in front of the other.

In their midst, Danjiro Obana lay on a stretcher.

The Fifth Division survivors moved slowly, not because they were deliberately delaying, but because the chaos Pernida Parnkgjas had caused was simply too great.