Tap… Tap…
Footsteps echoed along a narrow mud road, stained deep crimson.
Kenshi walks slowly, each step heavy, until he stops at a bend.
His eyes locked onto a pile of corpses. Silent. Rotting.
A hill of the dead.
He moved forward, hands digging into the of bodies.
Searching—food, weapons, anything.
Blood smeared across his fingers, clung to his face, painting him like some scavenger of graves. But that was all Zaraki had become—an endless graveyard.
Suddenly, a corpse fell from the top of the heap, dragging a wave of bodies with it.
The wave collapsed, swallowing Kenshi whole.
"Hahh… Hahh… Hahhh…"
He gasped beneath the crushing weight, struggling to claw free.
In the suffocating dark of limbs and broken flesh, his eyes caught it—
a katana, black as the night sky, piercing through a corpse before him.
His bloodied hand wrapped around the hilt. With a desperate roar, he drove the blade upward, forcing bodies off him.
Rising from the heap, he yanked the sword free, blood spraying across his face.
For a moment, he simply stared at its polished steel.
And in the reflection, he saw himself.
Skin pale as snow. Eyes black as obsidian—empty, yet hardened by battles untold. A sharp, narrow nose. A face carved by survival, yet touched by hollowness.
A small chuckle slipped past his lips.
"…Looks like I'm not a total monster… Heh."
Now with a weapon in hand, he searches for a higher ground.
Anything, broken trees, hills or even destroyed ridges. To scout the surrounding area
He looked upward. A crumbling hillside rose above the ruins. High ground. He needed to see.
But before he could climb, the shadows around started to stir.
Ragged men emerged from the alleys, their eyes sunken, their weapons jagged with rust.
One pointed at him.
His entire body conveying a single that resonated with everybody standing in the light and hiding in the dark.
KILL!!!
Pure blood lust and despair hung in the air.
They charged.
Kenshi moved. Small body, light feet.
The first swing cut low, faster than the man expected—his shin split open, his scream sharp and high.
Before the others closed in, Kenshi slipped between them, darting like a shadow. His blade flashed upward—across the abdomen of a charging man,guts spilling hot over his face.
But his breath already came harder. Every movement drained him faster than he wanted.
Another man roared, swinging down a rusted axe. Kenshi ducked, rolling beneath the arc, his blade carving across the man's ribs as he slipped past. He didn't stop—he couldn't.
If he lost momentum, they would crush him.
They weren't swordsmen. They brawled like animals, swinging wild, relying on size and strength. But Kenshi's size was his weapon—he was smaller, quicker, unpredictable. His cuts were sharp, deliberate, and cruel.
Still, each clash stole his breath. Each dodge made his legs burn.
One thug managed to grab his shoulder—Kenshi twisted, teeth sinking into the man's hand. The grip loosened just long enough for Kenshi's blade to stab upward under the chin, piercing into the skull. The body collapsed, nearly dragging him down with it.
He staggered, panting, chest heaving. His tiny fingers trembled on the hilt.
More shadows moved in the distance. More eyes hungry for the black blade.
More hungry just for the cruelty of the moment.
To spill blood.
To either be killed or TO KILL!
Kenshi wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing blood and sweat. His steps faltered but kept moving toward the ridge. His body was failing, but his gaze—his gaze stayed hard, fixed upward.
Unknown to even Kenshi, his eyes start to turn peach-hue.
His blade starting to flicker with a wine red colour.
A low draw-cut split a throat.
A tight turn became a coiling slash, carving a man's arm from his body.
Another step, another motion—his sword thrust clean through a chest, then snapped free in a whirl of crimson.
The hill drew closer with every corpse that fell.
Child or not, Kenshi carved a path upward.
His body screamed in exhaustion, but his blade sang—a cold, precise song of slaughter.
And he climbed on.
When suddenly another came from behind, a club raised high.
Kenshi twisted, teeth sinking into the man's wrist before his sword stabbed upward—a thrust—piercing into the skull. The body collapsed, dragging him halfway down before he tore free.
He staggered, trembling, chest heaving.
The hill right above, but more shadows poured into the street.
Ten this time. Maybe more.
Their screams echoed, filling the air with madness.
Kenshi's steps faltered. His tiny arms shook. His vision blurred.
'Too many.'
But then—his eyes continue to flicker.
A strange light, peach-hued, burning faintly beneath the exhaustion.
The black blade shimmered, wine-red veins crawling along its steel.
As if the blade started to come alive to support its master.
Unseen by him, the air stirred. The dust at his feet lifted. The corpses nearby quivered.
His reiryoku, raw and untamed, had begun to pour out.
The men froze, even if only for a heartbeat.
They felt it—a suffocating pressure pressing against their lungs, making their movements clumsy, their instincts scream.
Kenshi didn't understand it. He only felt lighter. Faster. Stronger.
They came at him together.
His blade flashed in a sudden draw—iaijutsu.
The art of quick draw.
The art from his memories.
From the days when he galloped on the battlefields.
One man's head fell before his body realized it was dead.
He stepped forward, reiryoku flaring with his breath. His katana cut a clean, rising arc—kiri-age—splitting another from groin to shoulder, blood spraying like a fan.
Two rushed at once. Kenshi spun, his small body weaving between their swings. His blade became a whirl of crimson light, one cut shearing through an arm, the other slicing across a neck.
Every strike seemed heavier, sharper than his frail arms should allow.
Every motion pushed back against their numbers.
But it was wild. Untamed.
His childish body screamed beneath the torrent of energy, burning itself as fuel.
A man tried to flee, his eyes wide with terror.
Kenshi dashed forward, closing the distance in a blur. The katana thrust straight through his back, erupting crimson from his chest.
The others hesitated.
For the first time, they felt hunted.
An unknown feeling came rushing into their heart.
DREAD, PURE AND DESPAIRING
Kenshi's tiny chest rose and fell, each breath ragged, each step trembling.
The blade dripped red, his pale face smeared with blood. Yet his eyes—glowing faint peach—were unshaken.
In the hollow of his mind, the voice returned:
Yes, divine one. This is your path. Slaughter. Massacre. Every drop of blood brings you closer to destiny. The price must be paid.
Kenshi's grip tightened. He raised his blade once more.
And with reiryoku unconsciously flaring around him, he charged into the mob—
a child, but cutting through grown men like a storm of steel.
The climb to the hill had become a river of corpses.