Murata had always known hunger, loneliness, and survival. Life in District 79, Kusajishi, was not for the weak. The outskirts of Rukongai were dangerous, more so than most of the inner districts. There, the lawless ruled, and violence was a daily reality. But Murata learned to endure. He had no family, no real memories of how he arrived in the Soul Society, only a vague sense that he had been wandering for as long as he could remember.
He had grown up as an orphan, scrawny and starving, in the shadow of rotting buildings and dust-filled streets. The strong preyed on the weak, and the weakest didn't last long. Yet, somehow, Murata always survived. He was clever, quick with his hands, and quiet when he needed to be. He avoided conflict whenever he could, knowing that in Kusajishi, strength was measured in blood, and he had little to offer.
That all changed the day the Hollows came.
---
It started like any other day. Murata had been scavenging for scraps near the edge of the district when the ground trembled. The air grew thick, heavy with an unfamiliar pressure that made his skin prickle. He froze, eyes wide, as the sky seemed to darken unnaturally. Then, he saw them—**Hollows**, grotesque creatures with masks of bone and gaping mouths filled with hunger. They tore through the streets, their monstrous forms wreaking havoc on the already ruined district. The residents of Kusajishi, used to fighting amongst themselves, were no match for these monsters.
Murata ran, his breath ragged, feet stumbling over broken stones and debris as the screams of the dying echoed around him. He knew hiding would do no good; the Hollows could sense souls, and in this wasteland, there was nowhere safe.
A massive Hollow, larger than any he had ever seen, suddenly blocked his path. Its hollow mask grinned down at him, eyes glowing with malice. He could feel the pull of its hunger, the primal need to devour. This was it. He was going to die.
But just as the Hollow's clawed hand descended upon him, a flash of light split the air, and the creature recoiled with a screech. Blood sprayed as a blade sliced through the Hollow's mask, cutting it clean in half.
Murata blinked, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. In front of him stood an old man, wearing the distinctive black robes of a Shinigami. His face was weathered with age, a thin beard lining his jaw, but his eyes burned with fierce determination. In his hand, he held a blood-stained zanpakutō, the blade still humming with spiritual energy.
"You're lucky I was nearby, kid," the old Shinigami said, his voice rough but not unkind. "Those things would've torn you apart."
Murata collapsed to the ground, his legs giving way beneath him as the adrenaline faded. He had never seen a Shinigami before, not in Kusajishi, not this far out in the wilderness of Rukongai. The man wiped the blood from his blade and glanced down at Murata with a thoughtful expression.
"What's your name, boy?"
Murata swallowed, still trying to catch his breath. "I-I don't have one."
The old man raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on the absurdity of that statement. Instead, he sheathed his sword and knelt beside Murata. "You've got strong spiritual pressure for someone living out here. That's why the Hollows found you. They're drawn to souls with potential."
Murata didn't fully understand what he was saying, but the words "potential" lingered in his mind.
"Come on, kid," the old Shinigami grunted, pulling Murata to his feet. "You're not gonna last long out here if you don't learn to defend yourself."
---
Over the next few weeks, the old Shinigami stayed with Murata in Kusajishi, teaching him the basics of combat and survival in a world where spiritual pressure could mean life or death. The old man introduced himself as **Kazuki**, an unseated member of the 11th Division of the Gotei 13. Though he was past his prime, his skill with a zanpakutō was unmatched. Kazuki was gruff, rarely smiled, and his methods were harsh, but he took to teaching Murata with a strange sense of duty.
"It's not every day you find a kid in Kusajishi with your kind of potential," Kazuki would say as they sparred. "You've got the spirit of a fighter. With the right training, you could be a Shinigami."
Murata soaked up every lesson like a parched man finding water. Kazuki wasn't just teaching him how to fight; he was giving him purpose. For the first time in his life, Murata felt something more than the constant grind for survival. He felt *hope*.
During their training, Kazuki spoke of Seireitei, the stronghold of the Shinigami, and of Shin'ō Academy, where souls with spiritual power trained to become protectors of the afterlife. Murata listened with rapt attention, his mind racing with possibilities. Could he—someone from Kusajishi, a place where souls were forgotten—really become a Shinigami?
One evening, as the sun set over the jagged horizon of Kusajishi, Kazuki sat with Murata by a fire, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"I'm leaving soon," Kazuki said abruptly, breaking the quiet. "There's something I need to take care of back in Seireitei. I've taught you all I can for now."
Murata's heart sank. The idea of being left alone again, after everything Kazuki had taught him, filled him with dread. But the old Shinigami seemed to sense his thoughts.
"You're strong enough to survive without me now, kid," Kazuki said, a rare flicker of pride in his voice. "And when you're ready... when you're strong enough... come to Seireitei. Apply to Shin'ō Academy. That's where you belong."
Murata swallowed hard, nodding. "How will they know who I am?"
Kazuki stood, brushing the dirt from his robes, and looked down at Murata with a knowing smile. "Take my name. From now on, you're Murata Kazuki. With that name, you'll be recognized as someone with potential. Don't waste it."
---
Murata never saw Kazuki again after that night, but the old Shinigami's words stayed with him. For months, he honed his skills, practicing the techniques Kazuki had taught him. The training was grueling, but Murata pushed through the pain, driven by the desire to leave Kusajishi and make something of himself.
One day, when he felt ready—when the emptiness of Kusajishi could no longer contain his ambition—he began his journey. The road to Seireitei was long, and the journey was fraught with danger, but Murata's resolve never wavered. He would prove that even someone from the forsaken outer districts could become a Shinigami.
---
When he finally reached Seireitei, the gleaming white walls of the city stretched high into the sky, intimidating and grand. For someone who had only known the squalor of Kusajishi, Seireitei was like another world entirely.
Murata Kazuki stood at the gates of Shin'ō Academy, clutching the tattered robes Kazuki had left him. He was nervous, but excitement burned in his chest. This was his chance. His future.
He was no longer the lost child of Kusajishi. He was Murata Kazuki, and his journey to becoming a Shinigami had just begun.