In the center of Zaraki District, beside that shattered old well…
A dozen figures crept out of the shadows and ruins, holding their breath and stepping lightly.
Each pair of eyes was locked onto the unmoving body in the clearing's center. In their hands were makeshift weapons — rusted metal shards, sharpened bones, clubs tied with stones.
At their head was the same frail man Kuryashiki Kenpachi had tossed aside earlier like garbage.
His eyes darted wildly — half panic, half greed and madness.
They moved slowly, cautiously, like the ground was littered with invisible blades.
The distance narrowed — five meters, four, three…
Three meters.
That infamous three meters.
Every one of them froze at once. For several seconds, even the air felt too still.
The man on the ground didn't stir. His chest rose and fell faintly with breath, but otherwise, he remained motionless.
The frail man broke first. His shoulders began to shake, then his whole body trembled.
He grinned, revealing his last few yellow teeth. "Three meters! You see it, don't you? We're inside!"
He whipped around and growled at the others, spittle flying.
"Ever since that Demon came to Zaraki, anyone who stepped within three meters — dead! Slashed to bits! You remember that last big shot? He lasted a few swings and still dropped!"
He jabbed a trembling finger toward the fallen youth. "But now? We're right here! He let us come close! He's down! That Shinigami's slash crippled him!"
The last spark of hesitation was incinerated by greed. The frail man let out a hoarse shriek. "The Demon's head is mine! No one touch it!"
He lunged first, rusted half-blade raised high.
He would behead the monster who had ruled Zaraki in fear. He'd take his place as the next Big Bad.
The rest couldn't hold back.
"Rip him apart!" someone howled — and a storm of ragged figures surged forward, weapons swinging.
They were going to tear apart the symbol of their fear, baptize the future in his blood.
"You'd better stop there."
A voice rang out — soft, almost sweet, unmistakably a little girl's.
"You'll die."
Everyone froze — even the lunging frail man.
Their heads turned stiffly toward the voice.
Beneath the withered tree beside the well, a small girl had appeared.
Short, thin, wearing an oversized, faded shirt. Her tousled hair was a dusty shade of pink.
She stood still, her face blank, staring at them without fear.
A pause.
Then —
Laughter burst out.
"Ha! Hahahahaha!" The frail man doubled over, wiping tears from his eyes.
"Where'd you crawl out from, brat? You must be real 'lucky' to drop into Zaraki District!"
He exaggerated the word drop — in Rukongai, souls were reborn into random districts, and landing in Zaraki? That was Hell difficulty at spawn.
He looked her up and down with a sneer. "Just wait till we're done with this Demon. Then we'll teach you how to survive here."
The threat in his tone was naked and foul.
But the girl didn't flinch.
She just looked at them again, voice steady and serious.
"You'll really die."
"Die? Us? Because of this half-dead—" The man sneered and turned back to finish his "execution."
His grin froze on his face.
A shadow had fallen over him — thick with the stench of rust and blood — and it came from right behind him.
It wasn't the sun. It was a presence.
He had lived in Zaraki this long by relying on an animal-like danger sense and the reflexes of a man with no morals to weigh him down.
At that moment, all thoughts of greed, of conquest, of glory — gone.
Only survival.
Turn! Drop! Beg!
He ran through the entire survival protocol in an instant. His body obeyed immediately — spinning, dropping to his knees—
Squelch.
A soft sound, like a ripe fruit splitting open.
His face still wore the twisted mask of panic and surrender. But his eyes had already gone glassy.
He felt a coolness at his neck.
Then everything — strength, thoughts, life — bled out with it.
Thud. Thud. Thud…
One after another, dull sounds echoed across the plaza.
All the would-be vultures — the dozen screaming, scrambling souls — were now strewn across the ground in twisted heaps.
The wounds varied.
But none had survived.
The plaza fell silent again, only the wind moaning across the ruined well.
The youth stood where they had tried to swarm him.
His right hand loosely gripped the jagged longsword. Blood dripped from its tip in slow beads.
He raised his left hand to his neck and stretched it side to side. Crack… crack. His spine clicked softly.
He looked down at his chest.
The gaping wound Kuryashiki had inflicted… was gone.
Only a faint scar remained — thin and pale, as if the injury had occurred long ago.
He tilted his head slightly, frowning at the blade in his hand. Then he glanced around at the corpses.
"…Stronger?"
He muttered to himself, puzzled.
The strength that surged through him when he woke — the ease of that swing — it hadn't felt the same as before.
Before he could figure it out, something tugged gently at his pant leg.
He looked down.
The pink-haired little girl had come to his side at some point. She was looking up at him, wide-eyed, her small hand gripping the cloth of his trousers tightly.
"…Kid." His voice was still rough, gravelly. "What're you doing."
She said nothing.
Just kept looking up at him with those big, bright eyes.
They stared at each other, the dusty wind whirling between them.
Neither moved. The girl held onto his leg like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Eventually — he looked away first.
"…Come with me," he said flatly.
Her eyes curved into bright crescents.
"Mm!" She nodded hard, her voice cheerful and clear.
Before he could react, she nimbly climbed up his broad shoulder — as if it were a game — and sat there like it was her spot. She grabbed a strand of his messy black hair to steady herself.
Swinging her feet, she grinned. "What's your name?"
"…Name?" The man started walking — steady, effortless, like she weighed nothing at all.
"Ain't got one."
"I don't either!" the girl said, her pink hair bouncing as she spoke. "I really want one…"
She puffed out her cheeks a little, looking a bit glum.
A name…
The word lingered in the man's ears. As he walked through the desolate streets of Zaraki, something stirred deep in the fog of his memory.
A fragment — something related to a name?
A syllable floated to the surface.
"Yachiru," he said suddenly.
"Huh?" The girl blinked.
"From now on, you're Yachiru."
"Ya-chi-ru…" She tasted the word, cheeks puffing again. Seemed like she wasn't totally sold.
But she didn't object.
Instead, she tugged gently on his hair. "What about you? What should I call you?"
"Me?" He thought for a moment.
"Call me… Kenpachi."
"Oh!" Yachiru nodded, quickly accepting it. She began swinging her legs again. "Ken-chan, where are we going?"
His shoulders were rock steady beneath her. She was perfectly at ease.
He raised a hand and pointed.
"Seireitei."
"To find those guys in white."