[145] The Unknown

"Ughhh."

In the living world, within the Quincy casualty tent.

The air inside and outside the tent reverberated with piercing wails.

Pure white Quincy uniforms, once pristine, were now drenched in blood, stained a vivid crimson.

Medics darted through the narrow paths between the rows of tents, their steps hurried as they diagnosed and treated the wounded with relentless speed before moving to the next in line.

Pain, sorrow, and death clung to this forsaken ground.

The war between Shinigami and Quincy, though framed as a duel among a handful of elite warriors, was built on the relentless attrition of the weaker masses on both sides.

Yet, whether in the Shinigami's captain meetings or the Quincy's Sternritter reports, these souls, wailing, suffering, and inching toward oblivion, were nothing more than cold numbers on a page.

Living, breathing beings reduced to mere statistics.

The law of survival of the fittest seeped into every crack of this world, where death loomed as an ever-present shadow.

Some cried out, some writhed in agony, others drowned in regret.

A flood of raw, negative emotions surged through the heart of the camp, enveloping the Quincy who had fought their way back from the Dangai to the living world, only to face their inevitable end.

Until...

"Tap."

A black boot pressed into the muddy path.

One deliberate step followed another.

The mournful cries from the camp's front abruptly fell silent, as if strangled or smothered.

The pervasive shroud of despair that had blanketed the camp seemed to freeze in that instant.

Wounded soldiers, teetering on the edge of consciousness, felt an inexplicable pull. Through the slits of tent flaps, they peered outward, their gazes flickering with fragile hope.

As one, they held their breath.

What emerged in their blurred vision was a figure cloaked in black, a stark contrast to the white and red chaos around him.

Long hair, a beard, a flowing cloak, and boots, all cast in a hue that defied the surrounding carnage.

No words were needed. Every soul present recognized him instantly. Even the unconscious groans faded as they turned their eyes toward him in quiet reverence.

Yhwach stood as composed and unshaken as ever.

Even after withdrawing from the Soul Society to regroup, he bore no trace of defeat, exuding the same aura of absolute mastery.

He remained the ageless progenitor of the Quincy, the sole emperor of the Lichtreich, and the dispassionate god who presided over this brutal realm.

Almighty. Unassailable. Supreme.

Yet now, the eyes of the wounded soldiers no longer burned with the blind devotion they once held before the battle.

In this world, fervor inevitably yields to clarity. Some find it through quiet reflection; others require a reality more merciless than they could have imagined to awaken them.

Most of those lying here clearly fell into the latter group.

Their gazes wavered, then drifted away.

Yhwach, however, seemed oblivious to the shift in their stares. His steps remained measured, unhurried, as he traversed the path through the wounded soldiers' camp, the sounds around him rising and falling like a tide.

Zeidritz and Adalbert trailed close behind, their eyes blind to the suffering and cries surrounding them.

The lives of these weaklings meant nothing to them.

But the man striding ahead appeared to see things differently.

"Tap."

The black boots halted before an open-air tent. On a crude straw mat lay a wounded soldier, his low groans persisting even as Yhwach drew near.

Two figures rested on the mat.

One sprawled flat, his right side saturated with blood.

Even from a distance, it was evident: his right arm and leg were severed at the root, and half his face had collapsed inward, shattered beyond recognition. His mind hovered between torment and unconsciousness.

Only his mouth moved, releasing instinctive moans, a soul's lament, raw and pleading.

"Ugh, ughhh..."

Beside him, curled into a ball, lay a man with a severed arm.

He remained still, silent on the mat.

Yhwach stood before them, his gaze settling on the soldier whose body was half-destroyed.

To others, it might be unthinkable, what force could sustain such groans in a state so broken?

Yet Yhwach felt an odd kinship with that resilience.

"Zeidritz."

"I am here."

Yhwach's eyes lingered on the dying man as he spoke with quiet calm. "Do you know what a person's soul ponders in its deepest depths when wracked by ultimate pain?"

Zeidritz hesitated, turning to his emperor with a furrowed brow, lost in thought for a long moment.

"I do not know."

Yhwach's lips curved into a faint smile.

"It is... the will to not die."

"Even if broken, even by any means necessary, they cling to life."

Just as he had at his own birth.

No senses, no limbs, not even a beating heart.

Yet so long as the soul endured, so long as a spark of thought remained, the yearning to "live" burned unquenched, a primal instinct etched into the core of one's being.

Having lived it himself, he understood it profoundly.

As he spoke, Yhwach stepped toward the man with the severed arm.

Zeidritz, still puzzled, ventured, "Your Majesty means...?"

Before he could finish, Yhwach extended his hand toward the armless figure.

In an instant,

Reishi erupted from the man's body like a reverse cascade, surging ceaselessly into Yhwach's palm.

The reishi lingered for mere moments before flowing through his hand into the broken soldier teetering on the edge of death.

The ravaged body began to mend before their eyes. New limbs sprouted, the shattered head and brain reformed, and the hollow, unfocused gaze sharpened as awareness returned.

But the armless man who had lain beside him was gone, not a trace remained.

It was as if...

He had been dismantled, his essence fused into another.

Zeidritz watched, awestruck.

No matter how often he witnessed it, the sight never ceased to stir him.

The soldier, moments ago a breath from death, sat dazed, not yet grasping his reality. Only when he saw his restored limbs did it dawn on him. Overcome, he dropped to his knees, voice breaking as he prostrated himself before the black boots in gratitude.

Yhwach spared him no further glance. He turned and walked on, finishing his earlier thought:

"Since that is so..."

"Then grant their desire."

As his words settled, a storm of reishi vortexes erupted across the camp.

One by one, the soldiers watched as their comrades' bodies flared with brilliant spiritual light, swirling like tempests before scattering and merging into their own forms or those of others. Wounds sealed, pain vanished, and the anguish of their souls dissolved.

They stood anew, whole, healthy, and alive.

Yhwach's voice lingered, calm as he spoke to Zeidritz:

"And then, reap their loyalty."

"Ohhh!!!"

In that moment, the casualty camp, once filled with stifled groans, despair, and averted gazes, erupted in cheers louder than those sparked by the miracle they had witnessed.

Yhwach raised his hand high, his tone sharpening as he addressed the exultant crowd:

"Those who have fallen will forever stand with you!"

The last shadows of doubt in the soldiers' hearts dissolved, leaving only faith and gratitude for him alone.

Every soul was swept up, offering their loyalty and lives in return.

Even Zeidritz fell to his knees, overcome with awe and reverence.

, How foolish.

Such is the nature of mortals, Yhwach thought, that they require someone to ascend as their 'god.'

Watching the scene unfold, he mused silently.

Were it not for the ongoing need to wear down the Soul Society's forces, requiring their continued sacrifice, he might not have bothered with this display.

Yhwach's gaze swept over the devoted soldiers before him, his mind drifting to the Shinigami who had stood against him during the retreat.

Instinctively, he sought to open his Almighty, to glimpse how these figures might ripple the tides of fate.

But as his reiatsu stirred, it collided with the seal within him and he snapped back to reality.

He was no longer Almighty.

Yet...

Yhwach's brows furrowed faintly, his gaze heavy with an unspoken weight.

Though he knew his death was inevitable, the path to that end, its trials, its crises, and the steps toward his downfall, remained shrouded in chaos.

Just as during this recent raid.

Neither Louise's death nor Saizō's piercing strike had appeared in his 'omniscience.'

These repeated surprises forced Yhwach to cling tightly to every shred of power his side possessed.

And then there was that young Shinigami, the one who shamed Louise, who acted so outrageously before the battle lines, bringing Yhwach such disgrace. His name was...

Makoto Fujimiya?

Yhwach sifted through memories of futures he had probed decades ago.

Had he truly seen this man's 'existence' back then?

How could someone capable of slaying Louise have slipped beneath his notice?

In every future he had glimpsed, Louise perished alongside Saizō in mutual destruction.

Why... did he know nothing of Makoto's abilities?

Had he not seen the man with his own eyes, would he even 'know' of his existence?

Did he wield a Bankai?

A cascade of questions rose from the depths of Yhwach's soul.

This sensation of the unknown weighed heavily on his mind.

For one who deemed himself 'all-knowing,' nothing was more alarming than the 'unknown.'

This fear, for a man like him, a 'coward' who had defied death since birth, was both profound and urgent.

"Zeidritz."

"I am here."

Yhwach turned, eyeing the respectful middle-aged man behind him. "What do you know of the Shinigami named Makoto Fujimiya?"

Zeidritz's eye twitched, and he drew a deep breath.

After a long pause, he answered cautiously:

"Your Majesty."

"When I last saw that man, I thought him ordinary."

"I never imagined he concealed such a nature."

At their last encounter, Zeidritz had seen no hint of the man's perverse tendencies!

Yhwach nodded gravely.

To be such an enigma, yet so well-hidden, with no notable presence in the futures he had foreseen.

This demanded closer scrutiny!

"This casualty camp is the last."

"Prepare the troops."

Yhwach exhaled deeply. "In seven days, we launch the second offensive against the Soul Society."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Zeidritz's figure retreated.

Yhwach lifted his gaze to the darkening sky, murmuring to himself:

"An unknown... anomaly?"

...

"Achoo!"

Makoto sat in the center of the dojo, sneezing involuntarily.

Before he could ponder it, a slender bamboo stick tapped his shoulder with a sharp crack.

A gentle voice sounded before him.

"Focus."

It was Unohana Yachiru.

Makoto straightened his posture.

On his lap rested his Zanpakutō.

He sat quietly for a moment, then couldn't resist glancing up at the graceful woman seated across from him, separated only by a small tea table, her face adorned with a serene smile.

His confidence wavered.

Nearly two hours had passed since Unohana had carried him here.

Aside from her initial instruction to 'sit still,' she had remained silent, watching him without a word.

It was unnerving.

After a brief pause, he ventured softly:

"Unohana-sensei."

"You're not... angry, are you?"

As if sensing his realization, Unohana set down her teacup, her gentle gaze meeting his as she spoke calmly:

"Makoto-kun."

"There's more hidden within you, isn't there?"

Makoto froze.

Unohana's voice continued, unwavering. "In truth, both I and Yamamoto-sama have noticed."

"Makoto-kun is unique."

"After every great battle, every life-or-death struggle with a formidable foe, your strength surges noticeably."

"Yet, this growth is inconsistent."

"What no one could have foreseen is that, standing at the threshold of tier-3 reiatsu, you could leap so far in a single bound."

As she spoke, the refined woman lifted her gaze, locking eyes with Makoto.

In that moment, he caught a flicker in Unohana's voice, a trace of irrepressible excitement, a tremor, a yearning. Even her serene, lake-like eyes seemed to blaze with fervent intensity.

"Once this war ends, if you survive..."

"Makoto-kun, you could go even further."

"Don't you think?"

Makoto understood what Unohana sought.

It was both a challenge and a vow to survive.

His expression softened, and he smiled.

"Yes."

"I'll definitely survive."

Makoto's tone shifted, playful. "But Unohana-sensei, you remember, don't you?"

"If you lose, you'll have to honor the bet."

Unohana's smile grew warmer, as if his threat held no weight.

"The victor claims all."

***

Bonus Chapter:

100 Power Stones = 1 BC

300 Power Stones = 2 BC

500 Power Stones = 3 BC

700 Power Stones = 4 BC

1000 Power Stones = 5 BC

***

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