Before long, the nearby Asaimon were wiped out—not a single one escaped.
The remaining Genryū Shinigami hurried to cut down the villagers. Every one of them trembled with rage—most Genryū Shinigami came from the Rukongai. The few exceptions were noble bastards or outcasts.
They understood the villagers' suffering.
But fury couldn't save lives.
Their squad had no healers.
Most of the rescued villagers died quickly, their wounds too severe. Many begged for a swift end.
The grove fell eerily quiet, save for the grim thuds of mercy killings.
Fujimori watched silently.
Two months had passed since his conscription.
Now, his squad served as the vanguard, clearing the way for Unohana Yachiru and the main force.
From the Rukongai's 64th District to the 37th, he'd seen too many scenes like this.
His heart had hardened.
Yet every time, Yamamoto Genryūsai's words echoed in his mind:
"As long as you still see them as people, that's enough."
For a modern man, this was obvious.
But in the Soul Society of a thousand years ago?
It was unthinkable.
"We are nobles with a million-year heritage!"
He'd heard variations of this so often it made his ears bleed.
And so, Fujimori had come to understand the magnitude of Yamamoto's mission.
The old man was dragging the Soul Society—still stuck in the slave era—into the feudal age.
A great undertaking.
Lost in thought, a scruffy kid dragged a half-dead, sash-wearing girl over.
"Teacher Fujimori! This woman says she has intel!"
Fujimori glanced at the bruised noble and frowned. "Kuruyashiki, how many times have I told you? No mercy for these people."
"Eh? But—"
Kuruyashiki Ryūma was a scrawny kid with wild hair, no older than twelve—barely older than Ko-chan. His shihakushō was too big, the hem often tucked into his sash.
Yet he'd been fighting on the front lines for a while.
"W-wait! Sir!"
The girl struggled, her voice desperate. "You want money, right? You need it! My family has spirit rings! I—I know how to make Reitan Pills! They can boost Reiatsu! We raise secret children to make them! I know where—"
Fujimori waved a hand, disgusted.
"Kill her."
"Okay."
Ryūma obediently dragged her away.
"You lowborn scum!"
She shrieked like a vengeful spirit. "We are—"
"—nobles with a million-year heritage."
Fujimori didn't look back, finishing her sentence calmly.
"Idiots."
Behind him, the wet crunching of Ryūma's Zanpakutō filled the air.
By now, they were all used to it.
After millennia of unchecked development, most noble families had secret techniques involving "souls"—for forging, medicine, training, slavery... even cooking.
After all, "souls" were made of Reishi.
Each technique was built on thousands—tens of thousands—of lives.
Priceless.
So whether high-ranking or low, young or old, they all treated these "treasures" as their birthright—even their lifelines.
Yet none seemed to realize:
This was why Rukongai-born Shinigami hated them.
"The nobles' bones pave the streets; their heads hang from the gates."
No exaggeration.
The nobles' generational wealth was built on Rukongai's flesh.
That was why Yamamoto's radical faction wasn't just a majority—it was near fanatical.
His name was revered.
But...
Fujimori's thoughts drifted to the future—the original story.
The nobility hadn't disappeared.
They'd just been caged in the Seireitei.
He shook his head.
Too early to worry about that.
"Teacher Fujimori."
A middle-aged Shinigami appeared beside him via Shunpo. "We can advance now."
"Mm."
Fujimori refocused and gave the order:
"Next objective—breach the Asaimon estate!"
"Yes!"
...
"Lord Shiba Yozuru."
In the hall, the lean Asaimon patriarch bowed deeply, presenting an ornate box to the young man seated above him.
"The famed Reitan Pills of our Asaimon clan."
"Please accept this humble gift."
"Your assistance in this front-line deployment has been invaluable!"
"Oh, I couldn't possibly!" Shiba Yozuru—current head of the Shiba clan—was a clean-cut young man in white robes, his Asauchi at his waist. "These are the legendary Reiatsu-boosting pills, right?"
"Indeed." The Asaimon patriarch smiled modestly. "Though they only work up to the 7th class. Forgive our inadequacy."
"That's still incredible!" Shiba's interest was piqued. "What are they made of?"
"Lord Shiba, that's..."
The patriarch's face stiffened.
"Ah! My apologies!" Shiba flushed, realizing his blunder. "I overstepped."
After his father's sudden death, he'd rarely left the Seireitei. His noble etiquette was lacking.
The patriarch sighed inwardly.
The Shiba were notorious for their eccentricities.
They refused to consume anything derived from "souls"—no spirit cuisine, no Reishi delicacies.
They even treated "souls" like people.
What kind of madness was that?
But given the Shiba's status as one of the Five Great Noble Houses, the patriarch kept his thoughts to himself.
After pleasantries, an extravagant feast was served.
Once the guests were satisfied, Shiba was shown to his quarters.
'The Asaimon patriarch is quite the gracious host.'
Exhausted from a month on the front lines, Shiba sank into the soft bedding—a luxury he hadn't enjoyed in ages.
War wore on the soul.
Even brief respites were rare.
But just as he was about to nap, a jolt of danger shot through him.
"Beast bones, scattered spires, crimson crystal, iron wheels. The moving wind, the still sky. The sound of spear clashes reverberates through the hollow city!"
"Hadō #63: Raikōhō!"
A golden pillar of lightning—like divine retribution—slammed down from the heavens, obliterating the Asaimon estate's barrier in one strike.
The main hall was reduced to rubble.
Dozens of powerful Reiatsu flared to life.
Shiba Yozuru bolted upright.
Enemy attack!