Chapter 1: A Stray Dog of Rukongai
"Hey, kid! Wake up! You'll die like this!"
Forcing open his heavy eyelids, Asuka tightened his grip around a battered longsword and lifted his head warily, staring at the towering figure before him.
It was a burly old man with a bamboo basket on his back. His bald head was topped with an oversized straw hat, blocking the clumps of snow falling from the sky.
He wore a not-quite-thick cotton jacket, the straw stuffing inside clearly visible. Draped over it was a tattered cloak—also woven from straw—now blanketed in snow, looking like it leaked cold air from every seam…
Yet compared to Asuka—curled up against a wall, wrapped in a straw mat, his hands and feet turning a sickly bluish purple—it was an enviably warm outfit.
For an instant, greed flickered in Asuka's eyes.
He weighed the thought of knocking the old man out and taking his clothes… or pressing a blade to his throat and forcing him to bring back some food…
But in the end, he abandoned the idea.
It was simply too cold. So cold that his limbs had already gone numb. He wanted to speak, but no sound came out. He wanted to move, but couldn't muster the strength.
Maybe the old man was right.
Maybe he really was going to die…
If he was already at death's door, what was the point of doing any of that?
The old man frowned as he looked at Asuka—those hostile eyes, those lips frozen purple.
This kid had been here for four days already…
He wasn't the type to play the saint, but with a snowstorm like this—who knew how long it would last? To watch a life fade away right in front of him… even the Buddha would take offense.
After a moment's thought, the old man bent down, reaching out to lift the frail boy—only for Asuka's body to twitch violently.
That wary posture—too weak to even sit up, yet still clutching the longsword in a death grip—made the old man pause. Then he spoke:
"Don't get any ideas. I just don't want you dying at my doorstep."
Ignoring Asuka's uneasy, unfocused gaze, he scooped the half-conscious boy into his arms and carried him, step by step, toward his shabby little courtyard.
When Asuka finally regained consciousness, he found himself lying inside a crude mud-brick hut.
Firewood crackled in the hearth, and the spreading warmth made the blood in his veins feel alive again.
He licked his lips, faintly catching the lingering fragrance of rice. Only then did he notice the empty porridge bowl sitting on the small wooden table beside his bed.
That old man… saved me?
Asuka could hardly believe it. The next second, he sprang upright.
"Where's my sword?!"
"On the cabinet."
From the other side of the mud-brick hut, the bald old man was leaning against a wooden rack, his face stiff as he sorted through winter medicinal herbs he'd gathered in his bamboo basket.
He didn't even look up when Asuka moved—only tapped the cabinet lightly with the small knife in his hand.
"I don't get it," the old man said sourly, shooting Asuka a sideways glance before returning to the herbs. "A kid who can't even get enough to eat—what's the point of dragging around a piece of scrap iron like that?"
Asuka ignored him.
He rolled off the bed, staggered over, and yanked the long blade into his arms. The sword was pitch-black, its scabbard chipped and worn.
Only after confirming it was unharmed did he finally relax—then he stiffened again, eyeing the old man warily.
After a moment's hesitation, he bowed deeply, silently.
"…"
The old man kept his hard expression and spoke coldly.
"Get back in bed. You've barely eaten. I'll give you some medicine later. Once you've recovered, get lost."
Asuka showed no resentment. He obediently did as told, wrapping himself—and the sword—tightly in the bedding, cherishing every scrap of warmth as if it were precious.
His name was Seventy-Eight Asuka.
Much of his past had grown hazy. All he really remembered was that he wasn't originally from this world—just a wandering, nameless soul of Rukongai.
Rukongai was the place where those who hadn't yet passed on resided within Soul Society. Divided into eighty districts, it grew worse the farther one went—poorer security, harsher environments, scarcer resources.
Asuka had been captured there, sold to a bespectacled man who looked refined on the surface. Through some kind of vile experiment, the man had cast him into this place—turning him into someone of flesh and blood.
It had been three months.
Three months that were harsher than three years in Rukongai.
He'd fought stray dogs over scraps of food, robbed well-dressed townsfolk, and even used the sword that arrived with him to battle street thugs—just to survive.
But this winter was too cold.
He finally couldn't endure it anymore.
If I die here… will I go back to Rukongai?
District Seventy-Eight was awful, sure—but at least it wasn't this cold…
Lost in thought, Asuka unconsciously tugged the blanket tighter.
Tap. Tap.
The old man finished sorting the herbs, brushed the dust from his clothes, set the basket aside, and moved closer to the stove, rubbing his barely-warm hands in the heat.
"Hey, kid. What's your name?"
"…Seventy-Eight Asuka."
"What kind of stupid name is that? What's your father called—Seventy-Eight what?"
"…I don't have a father."
Staring at the ceiling, Asuka answered indifferently.
"I was born in District Seventy-Eight—Inuzuri. So I took Seventy-Eight as my surname."
"…District Seventy-Eight?" The old man didn't press further. He casually began rolling a crude cigarette from rough tobacco. "Never heard of it. Doesn't sound like around here. You from overseas?"
"…Who knows," Asuka replied, evasive.
District Seventy-Eight was among the worst in Rukongai—water and food monopolized, thieves rampant, survival a daily gamble.
He didn't want to talk about it. He hated looking weak.
Time passed in an awkward silence.
The old man never actually chased him away. And so, Asuka stayed.
A few days later, his body fully recovered—but he still didn't leave.
Instead, he quietly helped clean the hut, chopped firewood, stoked the stove, and watched the old man's movements closely, learning how to sort winter medicinal herbs.
An old man and a boy—strangely sharing a life through the winter.
Weeks later, Asuka was alone, organizing the herb rack. The sun sank low… yet the old man didn't return from the forest.
Unease crept in.
Sword on his back, Asuka asked the neighbors if they'd seen him. Their answers were all the same—the old man had gone into the woods for herbs and hadn't come back.
The dread grew heavier.
"Tch… old man… don't you dare die out there…"
Night fell.
Unable to wait any longer, Asuka followed the path the old man usually took.
The winter wind howled, carrying countless shards of icy snow that battered his thin cotton coat—the one the old man had given him—cold enough to bite into bone.
Snow piled thick beneath towering trees, each step a struggle.
Wading through drifts up to his calves, icy slush crept into his shoes, melted, then froze again against his thin socks. He didn't care.
"Old man! Where are you?!"
The snowfall of the entire day had erased all footprints. With no trail to follow, he could only shout, his voice echoing through the empty forest.
But the deeper he went, the stronger that nameless unease became—like something ahead was pressing down on his chest, stealing his breath.
He'd faced brutal thugs. He'd fought starving wild dogs. He'd even escaped a bear.
None of that felt like this.
If he had to describe it… it was like that vague memory from long ago—
that bespectacled monster who'd tortured him—
That same sickening presence.
Still shouting, still pushing forward, Asuka suddenly froze.
His nose twitched sharply.
"…Blood."
Growing up amid struggle and violence in Rukongai, this scent was as familiar as air.
He couldn't be wrong.
Did something happen to the old man?!
A jolt ran down his spine.
Scrambling forward on all fours, he charged toward the source, heedless of snow flooding into his clothes or branches slicing his cheeks.
Rounding several ancient trees, moonlight reflecting off the snow finally revealed the scene before him.
The bald old man—still carrying his bamboo basket—lay twisted on his back in a pool of blood.
The snow was soaked crimson. Dark red fluid had frozen into bloody crystals on the surrounding bushes.
A horrifying sight.
His throat had been torn wide open—windpipe and shattered bone exposed to the air. His vacant eyes stared skyward, frozen in terror and disbelief.
"Old man…!"
Asuka's voice trembled without him realizing it.
Damn it—was it a bear? Something else?
I should've gone with him…
The stench and sight churned his stomach violently. He fought the urge to vomit.
He'd seen people starve. Freeze. Hang themselves.
But never this.
Fear and grief tore at him.
In all his life—counting even his years in Rukongai—he'd rarely met someone like this old man. Sharp-tongued, yes—but genuinely kind.
To be cast into this world… and receive even such a small warmth…
What incredible luck that had been.
And now—gone.
Just like that.
He hadn't even learned the man's name.
Hadn't even said thank you.
Before the grief could fully drown him, that crushing sense of danger suddenly exploded beside him.
"Hehehe… looks like there's another fresh little one here…"