The first thing Shiro noticed when he regained consciousness was the overwhelming silence. It was different from the quiet that followed a storm or the peace that came after an exhausting day. It was an eerie, oppressive silence, one that made him feel small and insignificant.
When he opened his eyes, he was met with a sky that was neither bright nor dark. It was a dull shade of gray, as if the world itself was still deciding whether to be day or night. He lay on the ground, feeling disoriented, his body cold and stiff. There were no sounds of cars, no voices of people chatting or honking horns—nothing from the world he once knew. Instead, he was surrounded by what appeared to be nothing more than dirt, empty fields, and scattered debris. The faint outline of small buildings loomed in the distance, and the air felt strangely... unfamiliar.
Shiro's head spun. Where am I?
The last thing he remembered was the truck—the deafening screech of metal, the child screaming, and the pain. Then nothing. Just darkness. But now, here he was, lying in the dirt, confused and cold.
He groaned, his muscles protesting as he pushed himself up, wiping the dirt from his face. His clothes were worn and torn, nothing like the neat outfit he had been wearing in the human world. He looked around, seeing nothing but the barren landscape stretching out in front of him. The sky above was a constant gray, never changing.
Did I die? His mind raced, the question hanging in the air like a bad omen.
As he stood, trying to find his bearings, a strange feeling crawled through his chest—something gnawing at him, something wrong. His body felt heavier than it should have, yet lighter at the same time. It was as if he was not quite alive, but not quite dead either. He wasn't sure if that made sense, but it was the only way he could describe it.
Before he could fully comprehend his situation, he heard footsteps behind him. Shiro turned quickly, his senses heightened by the unfamiliar environment. A figure emerged from the shadows of the nearby buildings—a tall man, dressed in what looked like a worn-out uniform. His expression was hardened, his eyes sharp but wary as he approached.
"You lost, kid?" The man's voice was rough, carrying a tone that suggested he wasn't particularly concerned about Shiro's well-being.
Shiro blinked, still trying to process everything. "I—uh—where am I? What is this place?"
The man looked him up and down with a dismissive glance. "Rukongai. You don't know where you are?" He let out a short, almost bitter laugh. "Figures. Well, you're dead, so welcome to the afterlife."
Shiro's heart skipped a beat as the truth started to sink in. I'm dead?
"I'm dead?" he muttered, feeling like the world was slipping from his grasp. His mind raced, but nothing made sense. "No, this can't be right..."
"Tell me about it." The man's eyes softened for just a moment, almost as if he had a similar story, but then quickly turned back to indifference. "Listen, kid, you're in Rukongai now. This is where the souls who aren't worthy of Soul Society end up. If you want to live, you'll have to find a way to survive."
"Rukongai? Soul Society?" Shiro repeated, confused. The words felt familiar, but he couldn't make sense of them. "What are you talking about? I don't remember..."
"Of course, you don't. Most of you don't. Forgetting is part of the process when you die," the man replied, shrugging. "You'll figure it out. But for now, you need to survive. If you've got no Reiatsu, you're gonna have a hard time in these parts. You better start figuring out how to get by."
Reiatsu? That word triggered something deep within Shiro's mind. He didn't know exactly what it meant, but the way the man spoke about it made it sound important. Still, he couldn't concentrate on that now. He was dead—he was dead. Everything he had known, everyone he had known, was gone. It felt like his heart had been ripped out, leaving a hollow space behind.
But the man's words were clear: Survive.
Shiro's gaze lingered on the stranger, still processing his advice. "How do I survive here?" he asked quietly.
The man raised an eyebrow, then grinned. "Find food, find shelter, and don't get yourself killed. Simple, right? You're in Rukongai, kid. No one's going to help you."
Shiro nodded slowly. He didn't know how to survive in this new world, and the thought of going through it alone was terrifying. But he couldn't just lie down and accept his fate. He had to find a way out—there had to be something more for him than just wandering through this forsaken place.
The man seemed to sense Shiro's inner turmoil. "One more thing, kid," he said, a bit softer now. "You're not alone here. There are people who've lived in Rukongai for decades. Some of them can be helpful, some can be dangerous. But if you want to survive, you need to start figuring out who's who. And be careful—Rukongai isn't kind to the weak."
With that, the man turned and began walking away, leaving Shiro standing there in the dirt, his mind swirling with confusion. What now? he thought. How can I survive here?
As the man disappeared into the distance, Shiro stood there for a long while, his thoughts a tangled mess. The feeling of loss, of being thrown into a strange world without warning, weighed heavily on him.
But one thing was certain: He was alive—alive in this new world, and somehow, he would find a way to survive. He had no choice.
Shiro clenched his fists, the weight of the unknown pressing down on him.
The journey to figure out what happened to him and how to survive in Rukongai had just begun.
In his efforts to understand his place in this strange world, Shiro found himself drawn to others who had lived in the shadows of Rukongai. He met a few people who had been here for decades, some of them desperate, some of them hardened by their time in the slums. They spoke of the Soul Society like a distant dream, a place that few from Rukongai ever reached. But the stories they told weren't of the noble warriors or the dignified institutions Shiro had vaguely remembered. They spoke of the brutal reality—the gangs, the corruption, and the harsh truth that in Rukongai, only the strong mattered.
A man named Katsu, a grizzled, middle-aged soul, seemed to take a particular interest in Shiro. He had lived through countless struggles in the streets and knew the undercurrents of Rukongai better than anyone. Katsu saw something in Shiro that most others didn't. Despite his weak frame and apparent lack of talent, there was a fire in his eyes—determination, perhaps even stubbornness.
One evening, after a long day of training and wandering through the back alleys of Rukongai, Shiro sat on a stoop near Katsu's small dwelling. The night was chilly, and the dim lights of the streetlamps flickered as the distant noise of the city buzzed around them.
"You know," Katsu said, lighting a cigarette, "I've been around long enough to know when someone's got the will to survive. And you've got it, kid. That's the first thing you need if you're gonna make it anywhere. But you'll need more than willpower if you're gonna get out of this shithole and get into the Soul Society."
Shiro didn't respond at first. He didn't know how to, not when his mind was filled with doubts. He wanted to believe he could become something more, that he wasn't just a lost soul in a meaningless world. But the path seemed too far, too difficult. The Soul Society... could he even make it there?
Katsu exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing as if he could read Shiro's thoughts. "You're not gonna get far without learning how to fight. I'll teach you what I know, but you need to know one thing—being weak in Rukongai isn't a crime. But letting yourself stay weak is. That's when you become nothing. Understand?"
Shiro nodded, though the weight of those words was heavy. His training would have to become something more than just an exercise. It would have to become a necessity. If he wanted to have any chance at getting into the Soul Society or even surviving Rukongai, he would need to push beyond the limits of what he thought was possible.
Weeks passed, and with each day Shiro's resolve hardened. Under Katsu's tutelage, he learned the basics of hand-to-hand combat and swordsmanship, though his style was far from perfect. His body was still weak, his movements awkward, but Katsu pushed him relentlessly, never giving him a moment's rest.
Despite the progress, it was clear that Shiro wasn't ready for Shin'ō Academy—not by a long shot. He had no formal training, no Reiatsu control, and no deep understanding of the spiritual arts. He was, in every sense, a nobody. But there was one thing he had learned: there was always more to learn, and nothing came easily. Every small victory, every moment of growth, felt like a step toward something greater, even if it was hard to see from where he stood.
He began to recall more fragments of his previous life—his past, and the world he had left behind. Bleach—the battles, the adventures, the characters. The more he remembered, the more he realized how much he had to catch up on. The Shinigami, the captains, the hollows. And Aizen, that name echoed in his mind like a distant warning.
But for now, survival was the key. And Shiro would fight for that survival, whether it meant training endlessly in the streets of Rukongai or figuring out how to unlock the potential he felt slumbering inside him.
One evening, as he trained by the flickering lantern lights in the alley, Shiro took a deep breath and focused. He had no idea if his Reiatsu was awakening or if his strength was growing, but he could feel something—like a distant murmur inside of him. Perhaps it was just hope, or maybe it was the beginning of something more. Either way, it didn't matter.
He clenched his fists, the familiar sense of resolve washing over him.
It was time to stop waiting for answers. Time to start making his own way.