So cold.
The chill didn't come from his skin—it seeped outward, thread by thread, from deep within his bones.
It coiled around his limbs and torso, drilling into every joint.
Each breath dragged scorching pain through his chest, as if countless icy needles were piercing his lungs from the inside.
Senya was forced awake by the soul-deep cold and agony.
His eyelids felt as though they were weighed down by iron blocks. It took tremendous effort just to pry them open a sliver, and even longer before his vision barely stabilized.
Above him were dilapidated wooden rafters—both familiar and strangely alien.
Cobwebs clung to the corners like dusty gray curtains, while faint rays of morning light slipped through cracks in the window frame, casting distorted patches of light across the gray-black floor.
The air reeked of decay—rotting wood and stale dust.
"Young Master?"
A hoarse voice with a heavy nasal tone sounded beside him, cautious, as though afraid a single misstep might shatter something fragile.
An old face leaned into view.
Deep wrinkles carved his features, etched with exhaustion and barely concealed terror. In his rough, withered hands, he held a coarse pottery bowl containing half a bowl of thin rice porridge, faint steam rising from its surface.
"You're awake… thank goodness…"
The old man's voice trembled violently.
His cloudy eyes stared at Senya's paper-white face, fear swirling within them like an endless abyss.
"You were gravely ill last night—completely delirious. This old servant almost thought…"
Senya lacked the strength to respond. He only closed his eyes weakly.
Transmigration.
He had truly transmigrated—into the world of Bleach.
This body belonged to Shiba Senya, a member of the Shiba Clan's branch family. A Shinigami of mediocre aptitude, a complete nobody whose name never even appeared in the original story.
Worse still, his situation was dire.
His elder brother was Shiba Isshin, the head of the branch family—the man who would later become Kurosaki Isshin, father of Kurosaki Ichigo and former captain of the Tenth Division.
But not long ago, Isshin had vanished during a mission to the Human World.
Rumors spread through Seireitei like poisonous vines.
Some claimed he had defected, just like the Visoreds before him.
With its pillar gone, the Shiba branch family became a toothless tiger overnight—stripped of protection, stripped of deterrence.
Life instantly turned brutal.
Even this decaying hut, barely enough to shelter them from wind and rain, felt as though it could be swallowed by the muddy tides of Rukongai at any moment.
"Young Master, please… eat a little."
Yukimura—the old servant who had remained loyal to Senya—kept urging softly as he brought the bowl closer to his chapped lips.
"If you don't eat or drink, how can your body hold on?"
A deliberately suppressed sob trembled in his voice.
Senya tried to speak, but his throat felt scoured raw with sandpaper.
He inhaled sharply.
The icy air sliced through his throat like a blade, triggering a violent coughing fit. His organs churned; his vision swam.
Instinctively, he lifted his hand, trying to push the bowl away—but his strength was pitiful.
The pottery bowl wobbled.
Several drops of scalding porridge splashed onto Yukimura's withered hand, instantly raising red marks.
The old man flinched—but didn't pull away.
Seeing the burn marks, and the bottomless worry in Yukimura's eyes, Senya's heart clenched as if crushed by an icy fist. Guilt surged, tangled with pain.
This body remembered something.
His mother's keepsake—the only warm memory the original owner had left behind.
But—
Live.
The word roared inside his mind, drowning out all weakness.
Only by living was there a future.
Only by living could anything be protected.
Suppressing the metallic taste rising in his throat, Senya forced out a few hoarse words.
"Uncle Yukimura…"
The old man immediately leaned closer.
"Go… find… the precious orb my mother left behind."
Each word drained what little strength he had. When he finished, he gasped violently.
Yukimura froze.
All color drained from his already pale face.
"The… Lady's precious orb?!"
His voice cracked, rising sharply before dissolving into sobs.
"Young Master—that's the only keepsake she left you! A precious orb can't save a life!"
"It can," Senya interrupted.
His voice was weak—but resolute.
Summoning all his remaining strength, he propped himself up slightly on one elbow. Cold sweat instantly soaked his thin inner clothes as his vision blurred.
He stared straight into Yukimura's tear-filled eyes.
In those bloodshot pupils burned a dim but stubborn flame—the gaze of a trapped beast driven to the edge.
"Nor can it protect…" he gasped, "…the Shiba Clan."
As if to affirm his words—
From the silent street outside came shrill, distorted dog barks, followed by a dull thud and harsh curses. The sounds came from the narrow alley beside the house, where garbage and rotting debris piled high.
Yukimura shuddered violently, instinctively glancing toward the door.
Fear spread across his face like spilled ink.
Rukongai devoured the old, the weak, and the sick every day.
"Did you hear that?" Senya said coldly.
"People die here daily."
He paused, letting reality sink in.
"Once dead… there's nothing left."
His gaze locked onto Yukimura's.
"Do as I say."
The old man's shoulders collapsed.
Without a word, he placed the untouched bowl of porridge on the floor. It struck the wood with a dull thud.
He wiped his tears with his sleeve and shuffled toward the corner of the room, his back bent like a tree root eroded by years of wind and frost.
From a dusty cabinet, he retrieved a palm-sized orb.
Its surface was neither gold nor jade, but a warm, understated off-white. In the dim light, it emitted a soft glow—brilliant yet restrained, carrying a calming tranquility.
The moment Senya saw it, his soul trembled.
This was no ordinary item.
As his fingertips touched the orb, warmth spread through his palm, momentarily suppressing the pain and cold ravaging his body.
"South District," Senya said quietly.
"The black market."
"Trade this… for a bottle of the Fourth Division's secret medicine."
Yukimura recoiled slightly.
The ruthlessness in Senya's eyes chilled him to the bone.
This was no longer the gentle, timid young master he knew.
This was—
A beast, cornered and desperate to survive.
"Yes… Young Master."
Yukimura lowered his head and fled.
The decaying door creaked as he disappeared into the pale morning fog.
Senya collapsed back onto the cold mat, gasping violently.
He didn't want to die.
He couldn't die.
As long as he lived, there was hope.
Lying there in agony, Senya clenched his fists.
With my knowledge of Bleach…
I will survive this Soul Society.
He waited.
Like a bow drawn to its breaking point.
Waiting for life—or death—to return through that door.