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 their clamoring crowds.

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

Most of the wandering souls who lived here were at the very bottom, unable even to enter the first few districts of Rukongai. Their Reiatsu was so faint it was nearly imperceptible—or they had no Reiatsu at all. Living was merely living, and if they died, no one would know.

Shendu Wuming sat on the threshold of a thatched shack. His clothes were old and bleached pale, 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 on its hilt had come loose, exposing a section of dark wooden core. The sword 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. Across dozens of districts, across hills and rivers, across countless wandering souls' shacks and thin Reishi-filled air, it had still been as clear as if the sky were collapsing.

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

Those wandering souls with Reiatsu, though their Reiatsu was extremely weak, could not withstand the aftershock of that pressure. 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 a peerless beauty, merely an ordinary female wandering soul from Rukongai. Her hair was always a mess, her smile revealed neat white teeth, and she always put in too much salt when she cooked.

He had known her for a long time—so long that he could no longer remember in which district, on which street, he had first met her.

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 District 50, cutting down Quincy.

They had not been impressive Quincy. They were the scattered sort found in Rukongai, ordinary Quincy who could barely draw their Reishi bows straight. They might not even have been Quincy or part of the Reishi Armed Forces, but merely a Rukongai organization that called itself Quincy.

He had cut down three of them and taken two arrows himself. They would not kill him. Soul Reapers in 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 to Reishi and returning to the Reishi cycle.

The neighbors vanished one by one.

The wandering souls who had drunk and bragged with him, the elderly and weak he had protected who called him "Lord Shendu," the people who had weak Reiatsu but still struggled to live—they were all gone.

Some had died on the night that Reiatsu erupted. Some had died in the scattered retaliatory attacks by the Quincy afterward. Some had simply left quietly one day, heading for more remote districts, safer places, anywhere without Reiatsu, without death, without people vanishing for no reason.

Shendu Wuming sat on the threshold with his head lowered, his hands hanging between his knees, 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 abruptly raised his head. The sky outside the shack 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.

"Was it because the Quincy invaded? Quincy!"

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

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

The strongest Quincy he had ever seen in his life were only capable of gathering armed squads of a few dozen men on the outskirts of Rukongai, shooting Reishi arrows a little more accurately, and running a little faster with Hirenkyaku.

He had no idea what the Seireitei had faced: the Schrift wielders who could challenge an entire division alone, the Sternritter members who forced captain-class Soul Reapers to fight for their lives, 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.

Precision in controlling Reiatsu was a basic skill every Soul Reaper had to learn on the first day. When releasing Reiatsu, they had to consciously avoid noncombatants. That was common sense. That was the bottom line. That was the line Soul Reapers should never cross.

That burst of Reiatsu had been so immense that all 320 districts of Rukongai could feel it. It had killed tens of thousands of ordinary people he had never met, people who, like him, struggled to survive in Rukongai.

This was not battle. This was slaughter.

To Shendu Wuming, something capable of releasing Reiatsu on such a scale could not possibly be a person. It could only be some kind of integrated weapon, some enormous, cold-blooded killing machine hidden deep within the Seireitei by Soul Reapers and nobles, one that disregarded all consequences.

Because he had never seen Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, never sensed what Reiatsu at the true pinnacle of the Soul Society was like.

In his world, anyone who could call out a release command and perform Shikai with a Zanpakutō was among the strongest of the strong. After all, not everyone in Rukongai had a Zanpakutō.

Rootless hatred.

No source, no target, no grievance that could ever receive an answer.

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

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

He hated the Quincy, and the Quincy had already withdrawn.

He hated that burst of Reiatsu, yet its owner did not even know how many people had died in Rukongai. When wandering souls died, they returned to Reishi and entered the Reishi cycle. It was not something that needed to be noticed.

All he could do was sit on the threshold of his broken thatched shack, clench his fists, and howl at the sky again and again without receiving a response.

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 shack 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 climbing from the edges toward the center.

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

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

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

"Hey, Shendu. Still not over her?"

The voice came from outside the shack. 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 have been burned by something. It suddenly contracted, retreating from the center of his eyeballs to the edges before vanishing completely.

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

He did not know what had happened during those few seconds. He did not know what that blackness was, or what would have happened if that voice had arrived a little later.

A figure entered the shack.

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

He carried a cloth bundle in his left hand. It bulged with food and gave off its scent. His right hand rested on the Zanpakutō at his waist. His fingers were long, his knuckles distinct, but his complexion was poor.

Wuran.

One of Shendu Wuming's few friends. Like him, he was a wandering Soul Reaper. Like him, he had not joined the Gotei 13. Like him, he struggled to survive in the cracks of Rukongai.

He had not died on the night of the Reiatsu eruption. He had not died in the Quincy attacks that followed. 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 and placed the cloth bundle on the ground. He took out several rice balls and pieces of dried rations, arranging them before Shendu.

His movements were unhurried, as if caring for a sick man. "I went to the districts nearer the front of Rukongai to gather some information."

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

"What?!"

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

Wuran's hand paused. He raised his head to look at Shendu, his lips moving. After hesitating for a moment, he said, "I learned 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 loud enough to make the shack's roof tremble faintly.

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

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

Of course, there was more than anger in Shendu's eyes. There was fear—the fear of losing a close friend, the 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 the food, placing the last rice ball in front of Shendu.

"Fine. I won't go."

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

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

He did not eat it. He merely held it, lowered his head, and stared at the soft white rice ball in his hand for a long time.

Wuran sat across from him and picked up 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, stacking the two rice balls together in his palm, yet he still did not eat.

Outside the shack, the sky gradually darkened. Wind blew in from farther reaches of Rukongai, carrying the scent of soil and dead grass. In the distant direction of the Seireitei, the glow of Reishi lamps painted a faint white light across the horizon. It was a place he never wanted to go.

"By the way, Wuran." Shendu Wuming had kept his head lowered in silence for a long time before suddenly looking up.

Most of the bloodshot veins had faded from his eyes. In their place was a light Wuran had never seen on his face—not hatred, not rage, but a nearly 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, 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, and the last note bounced around the shack.

Shendu Wuming did not repeat himself.

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

"Rukongai has 320 districts—east, south, west, and north, eighty districts in each direction." Shendu Wuming's voice was not loud, but he spoke far more quickly than usual, as though these words had circled through his mind hundreds of times and had simply never been spoken aloud.

"The closer a district is to the Seireitei, the safer and more prosperous it is, the more it resembles a place for people to live. The farther it is from the Seireitei, the more dangerous and desolate it is, the less it resembles a place people can stay. We live in North District 67. It isn't the most remote, but it isn't good either. Do you know why Northwest District 17 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 whenever they please, so far that no one knows when we die."

Wuran put down the rice ball in his hand and sat on the floor of the shack 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 find people?" "What gives you the right?"

He merely sat there and listened.

Shendu Wuming clenched his hand.

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

His voice trembled slightly over 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 because he had nothing to say, but because 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 establish a Rukongai? Land, supplies, manpower, Reishi resources.

You have none of those. You do not even own a decent set of clothes. The rice ball in your hand was brought back by me after walking for three days from the nearer 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 batch of people, and the Reiatsu storm killed another. Now vast settlements beyond North District 60 stand empty. No one lives there, and no one wants them. Supplies? When the Soul Reapers and Quincy fought, they left behind plenty of things throughout Rukongai: scattered Reishi bows, broken Reishi weapons, damaged detectors. Those who cannot repair them do not care for them, but those who can repair them will become my manpower."

He paused and looked down at the Zanpakutō at his waist.

"Manpower? There are plenty of homeless wandering Soul Reapers like us in Rukongai. It is not that they do not want to join a division. The divisions do not want them. Their Reiatsu is not strong enough, they cannot use Kidō, their Zanjutsu is too poor, they are too old, their origins too low—there are all kinds of reasons. In the end, they are unwanted. But they can fight. They can cut people down. They can draw their blades. They can protect the wandering souls willing to follow them."

Wuran's eyelid twitched. He opened his mouth 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 scores had barely passed. He could not use Kidō at all. His Zanjutsu was nothing but a wild style developed through hard fighting. The people at Genji School had dismissed him without even a second glance.

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

They were the abandoned children of the Soul Reapers.

"What do you plan to do?" Wuran finally asked.

Shendu Wuming raised his eyes to Wuran. He had kneaded the two rice balls into two balls, but he did not care. His eyes shone brightly.

"First, find people—wandering Soul Reapers like us. One or two will not be enough. We need ten, twenty. Once we have people, we find a place. There are vast stretches of empty land beyond North District 70. There are no wandering souls there, only Hollows and Quincy remnants. Once we clear them out, it will be ours. Then we build a Rukongai there that belongs to us. It does not need to be large. It does not need to be prosperous. But it must be safe."

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

Wuran remained silent for a long time.

Outside the shack, night was nearly upon them. The last trace of dark red light slipped through a gap in the horizon and fell upon Shendu Wuming's face, making the spark in his eyes burn brighter.

"All right. I'm with you."