Rootless Hatred

In a remote corner of Rukongai, far from the Seireitei, far from the bases of the various divisions, far from the reconstruction sites and bustling crowds.

The buildings here had not been touched by war, because there was nothing worth touching. A few crooked thatched huts, a dirt road that turned muddy in rain and dusty in sun, and a settlement without even a name.

Most of the wandering souls living here belonged to the lowest rung, unable even to enter the earlier districts of Rukongai. Their Reiatsu was so weak it was nearly imperceptible—or perhaps they had no Reiatsu at all. They merely lived, and when they died, no one knew.

Shendu Wuming sat on the threshold of a thatched hut. His clothes were old and faded white, with several holes worn through at the knees and cuffs. His loose collar hung slackly from his shoulders.

His Zanpakutō leaned against the wall beside him. Its sheath bore several scratches, and the wrapping around the hilt had loosened, exposing a section of dark wood beneath. The blade could still be used, but that was all.

He was desperate.

That burst of Reiatsu from several dozen days ago.

It had come from the direction of the Seireitei. Separated by dozens of districts, hills and rivers, countless wandering souls' huts, and thin Reishi-filled air, it had still been as clear as the sky falling.

Then came the heat. Not the kind of heat brought by the sun, but heat that seemed to seep out from between one's bones. It was so hot that wandering souls throughout Rukongai lay gasping on the muddy ground, so hot that withered grass across several districts burst into flame at once.

Those wandering souls who possessed Reiatsu, yet only the faintest amount, could not withstand the aftershock of that Reiatsu. Like candles snuffed out by the wind, they fell one after another.

That was how she died.

Whenever Shendu Wuming closed his eyes, he could see her face. She had not been some peerless beauty, merely an ordinary female wandering soul from Rukongai. Her hair was always a mess, she showed neat white teeth whenever she smiled, and she always put too much salt in her cooking.

He had known her for a long time—so long that he no longer remembered which district, or which street, they had first met on.

He only remembered that she had not been afraid of him. Other wandering souls avoided Soul Reapers whenever they saw them. She did not.

When she died, Shendu Wuming had been in West 50th District, cutting down Quincy.

They had not been remarkable Quincy. They were the scattered kind found in Rukongai, ordinary Quincy who could barely draw their Reishi bows straight. They might not even have been Quincy or their Reishi Armed Forces, but merely a Rukongai organization calling itself Quincy.

He had cut down three of them and taken two arrows himself. They would not kill him. Soul Reapers of Rukongai could take a beating.

By the time he dragged his injured leg back to the settlement, she was already dead. Her spirit body had even begun to turn transparent, reverting into Reishi and returning to the Reishi cycle.

One by one, the neighbors disappeared.

The wandering souls who had drunk and bragged with him, the elderly and weak whom he had protected and who called him "Lord Shendu," those who possessed only weak Reiatsu yet struggled to survive—they were all gone.

Some died on the night that Reiatsu erupted. Some died in the scattered retaliatory attacks by Quincy afterward. Some simply slipped away one day, heading for more distant districts, safer places, anywhere without Reiatsu, where people would not die or vanish without reason.

Shendu Wuming sat on the threshold with his head lowered, his hands hanging between his knees and his shoulders trembling faintly. He had been like this, on and off, for a long time.

"Why...?"

The sound squeezed out from deep in his throat, hoarse and low, like sandpaper scraping rough wood.

"Nobles! Soul Reapers! Why did you attack so indiscriminately?!"

He suddenly raised his head, the sky outside the hut reflected in his pupils.

He did not know what had happened in the Seireitei that day. He did not know what the Sternritter were, what a Schrift was, or what Yhwach was.

He only knew that a burst of Reiatsu had come from the direction of the Seireitei, and that Reiatsu had killed her.

"Because the Quincy invaded? The Quincy!"

He rose from the threshold, his voice growing louder and shakier, like a string pulled to its limit and about to snap at any moment.

"With their pathetic strength, what right did they have to make you use such a weapon?!"

The strongest Quincy he had ever seen in his life were no more than the sort who could gather an armed squad of several dozen people on the outskirts of Rukongai, shoot Reishi arrows a little more accurately, and run a little faster with Hirenkyaku.

He had no idea what the Seireitei had faced: Schrift users capable of taking on entire divisions alone, Sternritter members who forced Captain-Class Soul Reapers to fight for their lives, or the Quincy King whom Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto had needed to draw his blade against personally.

He knew nothing.

In his understanding, Reiatsu was something Soul Reapers used to fight, not to kill civilians.

Controlling Reiatsu precisely was a basic skill every Soul Reaper learned on the first day. When releasing Reiatsu, one had to consciously avoid noncombatants. That was common sense, the bottom line, the line Soul Reapers should never cross.

That Reiatsu had been so immense that all three hundred and twenty districts of Rukongai could feel it, so immense that it killed tens of thousands of ordinary people who, like him, had struggled to survive in Rukongai despite never knowing him.

This was not battle. This was slaughter.

In Shendu Wuming's eyes, something capable of releasing Reiatsu on that scale could not possibly be a person. It could only be some kind of integrated weapon, some massive, cold-blooded killing machine hidden deep within the Seireitei by Soul Reapers and nobles, one that cared nothing for the consequences.

Because he had never met Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, never sensed what Reiatsu truly felt like at the peak of Soul Society.

In his world, anyone who could call out a release command and use Shikai with a Zanpakutō was already a master among masters. After all, not everyone in Rukongai had a Zanpakutō.

Rootless hatred.

Hatred without a source, without a target, without any complaint that could ever receive an answer.

He hated Soul Reapers, but Soul Reapers did not care.

He hated nobles, but nobles did not know he existed.

He hated Quincy, but the Quincy had already withdrawn.

He hated that Reiatsu, but its owner did not even know how many had died in Rukongai. When wandering souls died, they returned to Reishi, entered the Reishi cycle, and that simply was not something anyone needed to notice.

All he could do was sit on the threshold of a ruined thatched hut, clench his fists, and send out one unanswered howl after another at the sky.

His Zanpakutō leaned against the wall beside him.

Shendu Wuming immersed himself in that hatred.

He could not control it. Every time he closed his eyes, her face appeared. Every time he opened them, the empty hut reminded him that she was gone.

Hatred surged over him like the tide, receded, then surged again—higher each time, fiercer each time, harder to suppress each time.

His eyes were changing. Something slowly spread from the edges of his eyeballs, like ink dripping into clear water, like black vines crawling from the edges toward the center.

It was not Reiatsu, not emotion, not anything Shendu Wuming had ever experienced.

It was an alien, exclusive force that was devouring his consciousness from within.

His vision began to blur. Dark shadows appeared at the edges of his sight, as though someone had drawn a ring of ink around his eyes. He had not looked in a mirror, so he did not know what he was becoming.

"Hey, Shendu. Still haven't gotten over her?"

The voice came from outside the thatched hut. It was not loud and carried a hint of breathlessness, as if its owner had traveled a long way.

Shendu Wuming's body jolted.

The blackness in his eyes seemed to be scalded by something. It abruptly contracted, retreating from the center of his eyeballs to their edges before vanishing without a trace.

His eyes returned to their normal color. His breathing became ragged, his chest heaving violently like that of a drowning man who had just been dragged ashore.

He did not know what had happened in those few seconds, what that blackness was, or what might have happened if that voice had come a little later.

A figure walked into the hut.

He wore clothes nearly as tattered as Shendu Wuming's, with knees and elbows worn pale as well, though they were a little cleaner than Shendu's.

His left hand carried a bulging cloth bundle that gave off the scent of food. His right hand rested on the Zanpakutō at his waist. His fingers were long and his knuckles pronounced, but his complexion was not good.

Wuran.

One of Shendu Wuming's few friends. He was also a wandering Soul Reaper, also unaffiliated with the Gotei 13, also struggling to survive amid the cracks of Rukongai.

He had not died on the night of the Reiatsu eruption. He had not died in the Quincy attacks afterward. He had not vanished like everyone else.

He had returned.

Shendu Wuming's voice tightened. "Wuran, where have you been these past few days?"

Wuran crouched down and set the cloth bundle on the ground. He took out several rice balls and pieces of dried food, arranging them before Shendu.

His movements were unhurried, as though tending to a sick man. "I went to the earlier districts of Rukongai to gather some information."

He did not look Shendu in the eyes. Keeping his head lowered, he continued taking out food.

"What?!"

Shendu Wuming's voice suddenly rose, as if he had been pricked by a needle. "Didn't I tell you not to go over there and deal with those damned Soul Reapers?!"

Wuran's hand paused. He looked up at Shendu, his lips moving as he hesitated for a moment. "I heard over there that the Soul Reapers are looking everywhere for people to join them. It seems they..."

"Shut up!" Shendu Wuming cut him off, his voice so loud that the hut's roof trembled faintly.

"Don't go there again, all right?!"

Wuran looked at him. He had indeed sensed Hollow Reiatsu from him just now. Why would a Soul Reaper have Hollow Reiatsu...?

Of course, there was more than anger in Shendu's eyes. There was fear: fear of losing someone dear to him, fear that the last person he knew would disappear as well.

Wuran saw that fear clearly. He did not want to lose him either.

After a moment of silence, he lowered his head and continued taking out food, placing the final rice ball before Shendu.

"All right. I won't go again."

Shendu Wuming's breathing slowly settled. The bloodshot veins in his eyes gradually faded, and his shoulders no longer shook so violently.

He reached out and picked up a rice ball, squeezing it lightly. It was still warm.

He did not eat it. He merely held it, lowering his head to stare at the soft white rice ball in his hand for a long time.

Wuran sat opposite him and took a rice ball as well. He broke it in half and offered one half over.

"Eat."

Shendu Wuming said nothing.

He accepted the half rice ball and held both rice balls stacked together in his palm, never taking a bite.

Outside the hut, the sky gradually darkened. Wind blew in from farther reaches of Rukongai, carrying the scent of earth and dead grass. In the distant direction of the Seireitei, the glow of Reishi lamps cast a faint white sheen across the horizon. That was a place he never wanted to go.

"Oh, right, Wuran." After lowering his head in silence for a long time, Shendu Wuming suddenly looked up.

Most of the bloodshot veins in his eyes had faded, replaced by a light Wuran had never seen on his face before. It was not hatred, nor anger, but an almost obsessive, scorching light that burned with conviction. "I want to build a Rukongai of my own."

Wuran's hand froze in midair as he broke apart his rice ball. His fingers pinched half of it near his mouth while his eyes fixed on Shendu Wuming's face, as though trying to determine whether he was joking.

"What?" Wuran's voice came out louder than he had expected, its final note bouncing around the hut.

Shendu Wuming did not repeat himself.

He knew Wuran had heard him clearly. There was no need to repeat it.

"Rukongai has three hundred and twenty districts: east, south, west, and north, eighty districts in each direction." Shendu Wuming's voice was not loud, but he spoke much faster than usual, as if these words had spun through his mind hundreds of times and had simply never been voiced.

"The closer a district is to the Seireitei, the safer and more prosperous it is, the more it resembles a place fit for people to live. The farther from the Seireitei, the more dangerous and desolate it is, the less it is a place for people to stay. We live in North 67th District. It isn't the most remote, but it isn't good either. Do you know why Northwest 17th District is bad? Because it's too far from the Seireitei. So far that Soul Reapers do not patrol there, so far that Quincy can come and go as they please, so far that no one even knows when we die."

Wuran set down the rice ball in his hand and sat on the floor of the hut with his legs crossed, both hands resting on his knees. He did not interrupt, argue, or ask, "Where will you get the money?" "Where will you get the people?" "What makes you think you can do it?"

He simply sat there and listened.

Shendu Wuming clenched his hand.

"I want to build a Rukongai—not one like the Seireitei, lofty and unreachable, and not one like District 80, where there is no hope, no safety, where even staying alive depends on luck. I want one for wandering Soul Reapers and wandering souls willing to live beside them. A Rukongai where we don't have to watch nobles' expressions, don't have to be ordered around by Soul Reapers, and don't have to wait in vain for help whenever Quincy attack."

His voice trembled faintly on the last few words, but quickly steadied. It was not sorrow, but the cold, hard resolve left behind after anger had settled.

Wuran looked at him without speaking. It was not that he had nothing to say, but that there was too much to say and he did not know where to begin. He wanted to say: Do you know what it takes to build a Rukongai? Land, supplies, manpower, Reishi resources.

You have none of those. You do not even own a decent set of clothes. The rice balls in your hand were brought back by me after walking three days from the earlier districts.

Shendu Wuming seemed to read Wuran's hesitation from his silence.

"I know what you're thinking. Land? Rukongai has plenty of empty land. The Quincy killed one group of people, and the Reiatsu storm killed another. Now, huge stretches of settlements beyond North 60th District stand empty. No one lives there, and no one wants them. Supplies? When Soul Reapers and Quincy fought, they left plenty of things all over Rukongai. Scattered Reishi bows, broken Reishi armaments, damaged detectors. Those who can't repair them don't care for them. Those who can repair them will become my manpower."

He paused and lowered his head to look at the Zanpakutō at his waist.

"Manpower? There are plenty of homeless wandering Soul Reapers like me in Rukongai. It's not that they don't want to join the divisions. The divisions simply don't want them. Their Reiatsu isn't strong enough, they can't use Kidō, their Zanjutsu is too poor, they're too old, their background is too low—there are all kinds of reasons. In short, they aren't wanted. But they can fight. They can cut people down. They can draw their blades. They can protect those willing to follow them."

Wuran's eyelid twitched. He opened his mouth as if to say something, hesitated, then closed it. He knew the people Shendu Wuming spoke of truly existed.

He himself was one of them. His Reiatsu test score had barely passed, he could not use Kidō at all, and his Zanjutsu was nothing but a rough style forged through fighting and scrambling for survival. The people at Genji School had not even spared him a glance before rejecting him.

There were many people like that in Rukongai, scattered throughout remote districts. Some had already given up their identities as Soul Reapers and buried their Zanpakutō in the earth. Others still persisted, occasionally cutting down Hollows to earn enough for a few meals.

They were the abandoned children of the Soul Reapers.

"What are you planning to do?" Wuran finally asked.

Shendu Wuming lifted his eyes to Wuran. The two rice balls had already been squeezed into two balls in his hand. He did not care. His eyes shone brightly.

"First, find people. Find wandering Soul Reapers like us. One or two won't be enough—we need ten, twenty. Once we find people, we find a place. Beyond North District 70 lies a vast stretch of empty land. There are no wandering souls there, only Hollows and Quincy stragglers. Once we clear them out, it will be ours. Then we'll build a Rukongai there that belongs to us. It doesn't need to be big or prosperous, but it must be safe."

He paused, and his voice lowered, as though the words were forced from deep in his throat. "It must be... a place where no one will die because of those people in the Seireitei ever again."

Wuran remained silent for a long time.

Outside the hut, night had nearly fallen. The last trace of dark-red light shone through a gap in the horizon, falling across Shendu Wuming's face and making the flicker of fire in his eyes burn even brighter.

"All right. I'm with you."