I.
I shall reclaim my heart.
I.
I shall reclaim my power.
Nine hundred years have passed since the last agony.
Wounds will heal, breath will steady, and consciousness will gradually calm.
But…
This humiliation, this hatred, cannot be erased.
We are the forsaken ones, unloved, with no place in this world.
Pitiful. Wretched.
The Quincy, once a proud race, have now dwindled to mere remnants after a thousand years.
What a lamentable sight…
To preserve our lineage, we lowered ourselves, diluting our blood.
How laughable, how tragic.
Perhaps it was inevitable. If not for this… the arrogant, self-righteous Quincy would never have fallen so far.
If I do not take pity on these lost children, what redemption is there?
So…
Come back to me.
Return to your father's embrace.
Let me mend your flaws and shortcomings.
As chaos once gave birth to the heavens and earth, all things must return to one.
Do not fear. Do not struggle. Simply surrender yourself to me… and be freed from this suffering.
Dong… dong… dong…
A deep, resonant bell tolled.
Across the dim earth, countless subjects raised their heads, witnessing ribbons of radiant blue light streaking across the sky.
These streams of reishi surged from all directions.
A tide of power.
A symbol of Quincy might.
To return all things to this—how could one not bow before such authority?
One by one, the people knelt, crying out with fervent devotion.
Your Majesty.
Nine hundred years to regain the heartbeat.
Ninety years to reclaim the power.
Now, all impurities have been purged.
Become part of me, exist within me—together, we shall conquer this world once more.
Atop a grand platform, a man stood overlooking the land, his eyes closed, arms spread wide.
The breeze, the sunlight, the murmurs of his subjects.
The heartbeat, the radiance, the rushing torrent of power.
Descending beams of blue light engulfed him completely.
Like a holy child bathed in divine grace, his garments disintegrated under the sheer force, vanishing into nothingness.
A rebirth.
The King of the Quincy stood, bare and renewed.
And he felt it.
Everything that had been stripped from him… returning.
There were sobs.
There were wails.
Even curses and desperate pleas for mercy…
How poetic.
Once, the Quincy stood unmatched.
Yet, tainted by impurity, they had fallen so low.
It was clear now—his decision had been correct.
To be Quincy is to be proud.
To be Quincy is to be resolute.
Those who fail to uphold these virtues shall be devoured. They shall become the foundation upon which true power is built.
No matter.
A benevolent father forgives all transgressions.
From now on, we shall never be apart.
As the heavenly radiance washed over him, the King of the Quincy parted his lips and uttered the most sacred of words.
This is mercy.
This is absolution.
This is…
The Auswählen.
Time held no meaning.
Even upon awakening, there was no sense of body.
"…"
A silent figure emerged from the shadows.
He lifted his hands—black as smoke, as if woven from mist.
A low murmur of confusion escaped him.
Who am I?
Where am I?
What… am I supposed to do?
His thoughts were fragmented, his mind adrift.
Memories were a blur of shattered images. Given time, he might have pieced them together, understood them fully.
But now was not the time.
Because…
It was raining again.
Not a downpour, but a ceaseless drizzle.
The damp cold seeped into his bones, making him yearn for warmth, for sunlight.
He could not remain still.
He had to do something.
There was no guidance.
But there was a voice.
Urging him forward.
Barren. Desolate.
The puddles beneath his feet deepened with every step.
The gray sky offered no reprieve, pressing down endlessly as if seeking to smother the world back into undistinguished chaos.
Suffocating.
He walked for an indeterminate time…
Until finally—
He stopped.
In this shadowed world, he saw a small figure sitting before him.
A child.
His back was turned.
His small hands rubbed at his face.
Between the ceaseless drizzle, quiet sobs could be heard.
Grief-stricken. Heartbreaking.
"…Why are you crying?"
"…I miss my mom."
A simple answer.
The man stepped forward and sat beside the child.
"Then why not go find her?"
The boy shook his head, bowing lower.
"My mom is dead."
"…"
"My dad is always working."
"…"
"I have two younger sisters to take care of. I'm the big brother—I can't cry in front of them."
"…"
"Today is my birthday. If Mom were here, she would sing to me… she would buy me a cake…"
The man reached out, gently patting the boy's head.
"But if you cry, won't that make her sad?"
"…But she's already gone."
"No. She's still here."
The child's sniffles quieted.
Finally… he looked up.
Tears and snot smeared his face, pitiful like a stray animal.
"Where…?"
"You just can't see her yet."
"…Liar."
"No. I wouldn't lie to you."
As if by some miracle, the endless drizzle seemed to ease.
The boy wiped at his face.
For the first time, he truly looked at the man.
"…Who are you?"
"I…"
A pause.
His name was lost to him.
Yet, clarity flickered in his mind.
The fog receded, just a little.
A faint smile took shape.
"I am a part of you. I am… your power."
"My power?"
"Mm. That's right."
A newfound curiosity shone in the boy's eyes.
He stood up, comparing his small frame to the man's towering form.
"One day… will I be as tall as you?"
"You'll be taller."
"Really?!"
"Without a doubt."
One day, you will be strong.
You will be great.
You will use that strength to protect everything.
So…
"Don't cry anymore, okay?"
Because whenever you cry—
"This sky cries with you."
The boy hesitated.
"…But… I miss my mom."
Of course.
That longing could not be erased.
It was an impossible question with no real answer.
A headache, truly.
But—
This boy was unexpectedly reasonable.
Sniffling, he wiped away his tears.
There was hesitation… but also a tiny spark of hope.
"…Then, if I don't cry… can I hug you?"
The request was unexpected.
But not surprising.
The man tilted his head, his voice laced with curiosity.
"Aren't you afraid of me?"
His body was wreathed in thick, black mist.
Featureless. Inhuman.
The kind of figure that would send any child into screaming fits.
But the boy shook his head firmly.
"Nope."
"I see."
Perhaps it was because they were… one and the same.
A quiet moment passed.
Then, the man knelt.
He spread his arms wide in invitation.
"Will this do?"
The boy didn't answer with words—
He simply ran forward.
And the two embraced.
The storm clouds parted, revealing a bright, open sky.
The puddles at their feet receded.
Everything returned to normal.
"…So warm…"
The child mumbled.
The man gently patted his back, offering silent comfort.
"…What's your name?"
"…Kurosaki…"
"Hmm?"
"Kurosaki Ichigo! My name is Kurosaki Ichigo!"
And at that same moment—
"Ichigo?! Ichigo!!"
Drenched in sweat, Isshin Kurosaki sprinted through the streets.
His son was missing.
Isshin Kurosaki tore through the streets, his lab coat billowing behind him.
Because it was already past eleven at night, most people were asleep.
Ordinarily, causing a disturbance like this would be unacceptable—but right now, Isshin had no room to care about such things.
Because his son was missing.
"Kurosaki-san, when did you first notice Ichigo was gone?"
Neighbors had gathered in response to the commotion, their faces filled with concern.
With an unshaven face and exhaustion weighing down his features, Isshin rubbed his forehead.
He grimaced, his tone filled with regret.
"I… I don't even know."
"There was a group that had scheduled medical checkups today."
"I told Ichigo in advance—told him to eat on his own and put his sisters to bed."
But when he finally closed up for the night…
"I found out he was already gone."
At times like these, panicking was inevitable.
After all, Ichigo was just a child—
How could he have disappeared in the middle of the night?
"I already called the police!"
From a practical standpoint, that was the correct response.
But Isshin was rapidly losing patience.
More than anything, he just wanted to find his son—
To the point where he was considering contacting Kisuke Urahara.
And just then—
Someone came running toward him from down the street.
"We found him! We found Ichigo!"
Isshin rushed forward.
And there, in the arms of another, was his sleeping son.
"You little—!"
His first instinct was to scold Ichigo—his voice filled with frustration.
He almost threw a punch on reflex.
But then he saw the peaceful expression on his sleeping face.
And as he listened to the quiet murmurs around him—
"Ichigo was found at the cemetery…"
"He must have missed his mother."
"…Poor kid."
Call it hindsight—call it realization—
But only now did Isshin remember.
Today was his son's birthday.
What a terrible father.
Guilt overwhelmed him.
With an aching heart, the exhausted father could only hold his son tighter.
I'm sorry…
After thanking the neighbors, Isshin returned home.
His home was both a clinic and a residence.
And as he stepped inside, his expression turned hazy.
An indescribable sense of helplessness filled his chest.
After checking on his two daughters upstairs, he returned to the first floor—
Cradling Ichigo as he walked into the living room.
There was no need to turn on the lights.
Only in darkness could he hide the exhaustion on his face.
Raising a hand, he rubbed his temples.
His gaze fell upon the framed photograph on the table—
A picture of Masaki Kurosaki, smiling.
He longed for someone to confide in.
But… there was no one.
Because now, Isshin Kurosaki was no longer a member of the Gotei 13.
Now, he was just a single father—
A small-town doctor raising three children on his own.
This was his reality.
On instinct, he reached for a cigarette—only to pause mid-motion.
Ichigo was still in his arms.
If Masaki were here, she'd definitely scold him for smoking around the kids.
"…I'm so tired."
Tired of life.
Tired inside and out.
"…I just want to see you again."
Even just to hear your voice.
"…The kids miss you too."
But regret changes nothing.
Years ago, that tragedy had shattered the family they had built together.
Life is hard.
Humans only live for a few decades—
Before they can even grasp happiness, they're forced to face death.
Maybe that's why the living world felt so fragile.
Here, everything was fleeting—
People struggled, reaching for the brightest light before their time burned out.
People chased money—
So they could afford to eat, to have a home, to survive.
A leash wrapped around their necks—
Restraining them, suffocating them, leaving them with no true freedom.
Isshin had never cared for such things.
But for Masaki…
He had given up his long lifespan.
And yet—
"…I guess this is what they call irony."
A bitter smile crossed his face.
Drip. Drip.
Raindrops tapped against the windows.
It had started raining again.
—How I hate this weather.
Just seeing it…
Reminded him of that day.
And just like that—
The rain in his heart began to fall once more.
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Powerstones?
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