"Why…"
A gentle woman's voice drifted through the darkness, trembling as though it were being pulled apart by grief. The sound reached him faintly, as if carried across water.
Why… is someone speaking Japanese?
The thought surfaced sluggishly, wrapped in confusion. He tried to focus, but there was nothing to see—only an endless black pressing against where his eyes should have been.
"Why must this child suffer something like this from the moment he's born?"
A child?
The word echoed strangely in his mind. His thoughts felt disjointed, like shards of memory floating without order.
Birth… what are they talking about?
He tried to move. Nothing responded. His chest felt tight, each breath shallow and labored, as though his lungs no longer understood their purpose. He attempted to open his eyes, to speak, to ask where he was—but his body refused every command.
Only his hearing remained.
I remember… a car.
The memory came back in a sudden, painful clarity. A flash of headlights. The screech of tires. A child standing frozen in the road.
I pushed them away.
The impact. The weightless moment after.
So… am I in a hospital? A children's ward, maybe? But why Japanese? This isn't right. This isn't my country.
The unease grew stronger the more he listened.
"Ryūken, our child shouldn't have to endure this. He should grow up healthy and happy, like any other child—not burdened by a congenital illness!"
The woman's voice broke, raw with despair. Her grief felt heavy enough to seep into him, even through the fog that dulled his thoughts.
Another voice answered her, sharp and agitated, cutting through her sobs.
"Hae?! You can't be serious! You're not suggesting that, are you? Absolutely not! The records are clear—using that power will only weaken you over time! Don't listen to what Father says. You are not a tool to be sacrificed for the sake of pure blood!"
Their words blurred together in his mind. He understood only fragments. His Japanese was imperfect—picked up through subtitles and scattered phrases, never meant for conversations like this.
That power? Pure blood?
Before he could make sense of it, the woman spoke again. This time her voice was calm, resolute, carrying a quiet strength that silenced the man.
"This was my duty from the beginning, Ryūken. As a mixed-blood Quincy, I entered the Ishida family to serve you for life. That power was always meant for your future use."
There was no bitterness in her tone. Only acceptance.
"But being able to stay by your side… and even have a child with you… that was never something I dared to dream of."
Her breath wavered slightly before she continued.
"I am no longer Katagiri Hazue. I am Kanae Ishida—the mother of this child. This isn't for the sake of pure-blood Quincies. It's for our son."
Something stirred in his chest.
The warmth in her voice—so full of love, so unwavering—pressed against a place in him that had long since gone numb. He had no memories of a mother. No gentle reassurances. No one would speak of him with that kind of devotion.
The emotion felt foreign. And yet… painfully precious.
Gradually, the voices faded. The darkness deepened, growing heavier, dragging him down like a slow tide.
So this is it, then.
He didn't feel fear. Only a distant sense of resignation.
At least… I saved someone.
In his last moments of clarity, he thought of the child he had pushed away from the oncoming car. A stranger. Someone who would live on.
Since I was an orphan anyway… the only one who might mourn me would be the director.
That was fine. It was enough.
Just before his consciousness vanished completely, the woman's voice surfaced one final time, soft and tender.
"Uryu… you will grow up healthy…"
The name echoed as everything went silent.
Five years later, on the outskirts of Karakura Town, the Ishida family estate stood quietly beneath the afternoon sky.
It was a large Western-style mansion, dignified rather than ostentatious. To passersby, it looked like the residence of a well-off family—nothing more, nothing less. Its walls held no hint of the history, traditions, or burdens that lay within.
Beneath the house, on the first basement level, was the Ishida family's private library.
Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with books of every size and age. Medical texts dominated much of the space—volumes accumulated over the years after Ryūken Ishida chose to walk the path of a doctor. Old tomes sat beside modern publications, the past and present arranged side by side in neat, deliberate order.
At a heavy wooden desk near the center of the room sat a young boy.
He was only five years old.
Small-framed, with dark hair and glasses that rested a little too seriously on his face, he turned the pages of a book with quiet focus. His feet didn't reach the floor from the chair, yet his posture was straight, his expression composed far beyond his age.
This boy was Ishida Uryū.
For a long time, he had believed he was dead.
After the accident, after the darkness, after that fading voice—he had been certain his story had ended. Instead, consciousness had returned slowly, painfully, in the body of an infant.
Rebirth.
At first, he thought it was a dream. Then confusion. Then disbelief.
By the time he could think clearly, he realized the truth: he had been born again.
Now his name was Ishida Uryū. His given name was the same as before, but his surname had changed. He didn't resent that. In his previous life, even his surname had been something he chose for himself. Only his first name had ever been given with care.
Japan itself had been another obstacle. It took nearly two years for him to fully grasp the language—to speak it naturally, to understand conversations without hesitation.
And once he did, the weight of reality finally settled in.
Ishida Uryū.
Son of Ishida Ryūken.
Grandson of Ishida Sōken.
Child of Kanae Ishida.
The realization had left him stunned.
This wasn't just Japan.
This was that world.
The world of Shinigami.
The world where Hollows roamed, where souls were judged, where humans could be dragged into battles far beyond their understanding.
And he—he had been reborn as Ishida Uryū.
After days of silent panic and nights of restless thought, he forced himself to calm down. He had lived once already. His mind was that of an adult. If nothing else, he could accept reality faster than most.
The world was dangerous, yes—but for now, he was human. As long as he remained in the Human World, his immediate safety was not in question.
If anything, leaving Karakura Town—the Jūreichi that naturally drew spirits and Hollows—would make life far safer.
But he knew better than to entertain that thought.
Given who he was… leaving was never an option.
"Uryu?"
A familiar voice called from above.
He looked up from his book toward the stairway leading down into the library.
A woman with long dark hair descended carefully, one hand resting lightly on the railing. She wore simple, comfortable clothes, her expression gentle but tired.
Kanae Ishida.
His mother.
"Mother!" Uryū closed the book at once and hurried toward her, his small footsteps echoing softly against the floor.
Seeing his anxious approach, Kanae smiled helplessly. "It's all right, Uryu. I'm just walking down the stairs. You don't need to look so worried."
She had grown accustomed to this. Whenever she appeared, her son's attention never left her for even a moment.
She understood why.
Ever since that day, her health had steadily declined. She wasn't so frail that a breeze might knock her over, but illness came easily, and fatigue lingered longer than it should have.
Still, she had no regrets.
Watching her son grow strong and healthy was more than enough compensation.
"Mother," Uryū said seriously, taking her hand, "if it's not important, please don't come down to the basement anymore. The air here is cold and damp. It's bad for your health. If you need me, just call from the top of the stairs."
His concern was earnest, unfiltered.
Kanae covered her mouth, laughing softly. "Yes, yes. I understand. Our Uryu is such a good, thoughtful child. That's my fault, then."
Her eyes softened as she looked at him.
He's just like Ryūken… gentle, attentive, always thinking of others.
If Uryū could hear her thoughts, he would have denied them immediately.
He wasn't naturally gentle.
He was gentle with her because she had given him something he had never known before—unconditional maternal love. That warmth made him careful, protective, and afraid of losing her.
With anyone else, he was far more distant.
"Mother…" He sighed quietly, already sensing where this was going.
She had been told countless times not to come down here. Yet she always did.
Kanae leaned down and rested a hand on his head, stroking his hair affectionately. "But now it's my turn to lecture you a little."
She smiled. "There will always be more books, Uryu. You shouldn't stay in the library all the time. Go outside and play once in a while."
She loved everything about her son—except how much he resembled his father.
As someone who had served beside Ryūken Ishida since childhood, she knew how heavy the burden he carried had been. For the sake of Quincy pride and tradition, he had pushed himself relentlessly.
It had been exhausting to watch.
She didn't want her son walking the same lonely path.
Uryū looked up at her smile and felt his resolve waver.
Mother… you don't understand.
Time wasn't something he could afford to waste.
Not for her.
Not for himself.
He lowered his gaze, hiding the weight in his eyes.
There are only four years left… until that ritual.
And when that day came, everything would change.
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