Chapter Text
The days following the end of the Quincy War were a chaotic blur for Shuhei Hisagi. The Seireitei, once the formidable center of shinigami power, was unrecognizable. Rubble filled the streets, walls of several divisions were cracked or entirely destroyed, and the previously calm and orderly atmosphere was now heavy, saturated with the smell of dust and blood. Even the more distant Rukongai was suffering the aftermath of the conflict, with displaced citizens wandering in search of aid and safety.
Shuhei could barely stand. His body was covered in bandages, deep wounds still throbbing, a constant reminder of his vulnerability. But there was no time for rest. Not with the Seireitei in utter chaos and so many divisions without leadership. The Seventh Division, having lost Komamura-taichō after his transformation into a wolf, needed support. The Third and Tenth Divisions had their taichōs gravely injured and unable to take command. The Eighth and Thirteenth Divisions, directionless, were paralyzed. Even Shuhei's own Ninth Division struggled in the absence of Muguruma-taichō, who was hospitalized and out of action.
The workload weighing on Shuhei’s shoulders seemed impossible to bear. He focused on his division’s primary duty: policing the shinigami within the Seireitei. With so many leaders absent and despair spreading among the ranks, tensions inevitably rose. Reports of insubordination, infighting, and even desertions were piling up. Shuhei had to handle it all while also preparing his division to welcome Kensei back, assuming the taichō recovered in time.
He knew he needed to put the Seireitei Communication aside, even though he was its editor-in-chief. There was no time for it now. Maintaining order amidst chaos took absolute priority, yet the thought of abandoning the publication—a symbol of the Ninth Division’s identity—hung heavily on his mind. It was just another burden added to an already overwhelming list of responsibilities.
As he trudged through the damaged corridors of the Ninth Division’s headquarters, Shuhei carried a stack of reports. His steps were slow, his breathing labored, and his subordinates’ worried glances reminded him of his appearance—he looked exhausted. Because he was. He hadn’t slept in days, surviving on just enough rations to keep from collapsing. The emotional toll of the war haunted him: lost friends, allies who might never recover, and the constant doubt about whether he was capable of keeping everything together.
There were moments when it all felt futile. How could he, just a fukutaichō, hold everything together without breaking? He tried to push these thoughts aside, but insecurity was relentless.
Stopping in front of a desk piled with papers, he closed his eyes for a moment, attempting to prioritize. There was no time for grief, yet the chaos around him made it hard to ignore. Everything felt jumbled, disordered, as if the Seireitei itself was falling apart.
He often thought of Muguruma-taichō. How much easier things would be if the taichō were there to guide him. Kensei had always been a symbol of strength and control, someone Shuhei trusted implicitly. But now, everything fell on him, and the weight was crushing. He could only hope things would be somewhat organized when the taichō returned, though that hope seemed to fade a little more with each passing day.
Shuhei tightened his grip on Kazeshini’s hilt, as though the familiarity of the weapon could lend him some strength. He had to move forward, had to bring order to the chaos, even as time worked against him. After all, he was the fukutaichō of the Ninth Division. Even if he didn’t completely believe in himself, he knew his subordinates were depending on him. Somehow, he had to find the strength not to let them down.
Shuhei let out a sigh, heavy with exhaustion, echoing in the uneasy silence around him. He stood before a massive wall, once one of the proud structures of the Seireitei, now collapsed to the ground like a fallen giant. Seven meters of solid stone lay scattered, each block a grim reminder of the destruction the war had brought. His tired, shadowed eyes scanned the scene, though his mind was elsewhere, lost in thoughts he couldn’t shake.
The smell was the worst. A sharp, acrid stench rose from the site where the stones had crushed everything beneath them. Shuhei already knew, even before approaching, what it meant. One of the 476 missing was there—or what remained of them. He closed his eyes for a moment, the emotional weight of that thought nearly overwhelming him more than his still-healing wounds.
Who was it? The question hammered in his mind, though he knew the answer might never come. Was it a friend? Someone he had shared laughs with during training at the academy? Or perhaps one of the younger shinigami, someone he had promised to protect but failed. And if it was someone he didn’t know? Would that make it easier? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t turn away. Not when so many lives had been lost.
Shuhei stepped forward, each movement heavy, as if every step required all the strength he had left. The stones were coated with dust and dried blood, a sight he should have grown used to by now but still left a bitter taste in his mouth. He crouched slowly, the smell intensifying as he drew closer. His hand hovered, hesitant, before brushing against the edge of one of the smaller stones.
“Damn it…” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. His voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper, laden with guilt and exhaustion.
He knew he didn’t have the strength to move that wall alone, not even with the help of a few others. It was a job that would require a team, perhaps even spiritual reinforcement. But the idea of leaving that body there for even one more second filled him with disgust. Every moment spent without identifying the dead was an open wound on the spirit of the Seireitei, a haunting reminder of the price they had paid and how much they still had to rebuild.
Shuhei sighed, looking up at the gray sky hanging over the Seireitei. Life had been simpler when it revolved around two clear duties: filing paperwork and killing Hollows. The responsibilities were straightforward, manageable. He could focus on the work of the Seireitei Communication, revising articles, preserving his division’s tradition, while wielding his zanpakutō to protect souls. There were no moral dilemmas in exterminating Hollows—they were clear enemies, monsters to be eradicated.
Now, however, everything felt absurdly complicated. There were no clear lines anymore, only overlapping shades of gray leading to utter confusion. The Seireitei’s order had been shattered, and he was just one of many desperately trying to piece it back together. It was like assembling a puzzle when half the pieces had been burned or lost forever.
Running a hand through his messy, dust- and sweat-streaked hair, he felt the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders. It was a burden that made him question whether he had changed or if the world around him had simply crumbled. Before, he had felt in control, even if it was just an illusion. Writing, patrolling, fighting Hollows—it all had a logic, a clear cycle. Now he was trapped in a storm of chaos and uncertainty. The decisions he had to make impacted lives, destinies. What if he got it wrong? What if things only grew worse because of his inadequacy?
Shuhei let out a bitter laugh at himself. How ironic. He had always hated the form of his zanpakutō, Kazeshini, for appearing designed solely to kill. But now, killing felt almost comforting compared to the difficult choices he faced every day. Choices that demanded not just strength, but understanding, leadership, and a vision he wasn’t sure he possessed.
That was what unsettled him the most. The responsibility wasn’t just for himself or his taichō anymore. It was for an entire Seireitei struggling to breathe. A Seireitei that needed him in ways he had never imagined.
He kicked a small stone on the ground, watching it roll away before disappearing into the debris. "It was easier before," he muttered to himself, though it wasn’t just about the work. It was about everything. About a time when he could believe that, at the end of the day, things made sense. Now, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Shuhei stood still, watching as his subordinates struggled to shift the massive wall of stone. Some of their muscles trembled with effort, their faces slick with sweat and exhaustion. There were too few of them for such a colossal task. He could hear the grinding of stone against stone, the metallic screech of improvised tools, and the murmurs of short orders. With every passing moment, it became increasingly clear how close everyone was to their limits—physically and mentally. Shuhei inhaled deeply, the air thick with dust and the acrid stench emanating from beneath the wall, a persistent reminder of death.
As he watched, his mind wandered to the problems that piled up endlessly. Resources. It was always about resources. They were scarce now, unevenly distributed. Food, medicine, water—none of it was enough. The dilemma gnawed at him. Who took priority? Who deserved to live? The gravely injured, those with no hope of recovery, were left behind, condemned to wait for death in agony. Their pain was drowned out by the chaos around them, but Shuhei could still hear their echoes. Every scream, every groan cut into him like invisible blades.
The new protocols prioritized the youngest—the children, Academy students, and freshly graduated recruits. Souls that could still be shaped, carrying a fragile future on their shoulders. Yet even these young lives suffered. Training at the Academy had ceased, but the nightmares hadn’t. Young shinigami who had never lifted a blade were thrust into the front lines, forced to fight or die. Some survived, but at the cost of their innocence. And the children of the Rukongai… they fared even worse. If they had been starving before, they were now on the brink of collapse. Many had lost even the smallest semblance of community protection. War spared no one.
And there, in front of Shuhei, beneath the crushing weight of that wall, lay what remained of yet another victim. Nothing but a red, shapeless mass clinging to the ground like a stain that could never be erased. Fragments of white bone poked through here and there, as if someone had tried to assemble a grotesque figure. A torn piece of shihakushō was partially visible, soaked in dried blood. Strands of black hair, caked with dirt and grime, completed the horrific scene. There was no face, no name. Just a collection of remains that had once been a life.
Shuhei swallowed hard, his stomach churning. He knew he needed to move, to do something, but his feet felt rooted to the ground. Part of him didn’t want to look anymore, didn’t want to confront that sight. Yet another part forced him to stay.
For a terrible moment, he almost wished it were him beneath that wall. That the weight of the stones had crushed him instead, obliterating everything—his body, his responsibilities, his guilt. The war had already taken so much from him; why not everything? It was a dangerous thought, and he knew it. He couldn’t allow himself to be consumed, but the sight before him made it almost impossible to resist. He could almost see himself there, reduced to an anonymous mass, just another name on the growing list of the missing.
Closing his eyes, Shuhei tried to push away the dark thoughts, but the images remained. He wondered how much longer this could last. How much longer they could continue before even the survivors succumbed to despair? Before the divisions fractured, before the Rukongai rebelled completely? He didn’t know. He had no answers, only more questions that clung to him like shadows.
Another metallic clang pulled Shuhei from his thoughts. One of his subordinates had dropped a tool, collapsing to his knees beside the rubble, gasping for breath. Shuhei took a step forward but stopped. What could he say? What could he do? Everything felt inadequate—empty words in a world overflowing with pain.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low, almost hoarse, yet laced with the authority he knew he had to project, even as he crumbled inside.
"Get a bucket and a shovel," he said, the words dry, direct, and devoid of emotion. But each syllable felt like it weighed a ton. The acrid stench seemed even stronger now, with the wall partially lifted. It was nearly unbearable, but he didn’t step back. He knew no one could do anything—not at that moment, not for the person trapped under tons of debris. There was no time for mourning, no resources for elaborate ceremonies, and no way to change what had already been done. Shuhei took a deep breath, fighting against the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him.
The subordinates paused, some hesitating, others avoiding his gaze. They felt the same weight of the scene before them, but they knew Shuhei was right. There was no other choice. He turned to look at them, their faces weary and streaked with dirt, their gazes lost but resolute. In them, he saw a reflection of his own feelings: a suffocating exhaustion, but also the determination to push forward because stopping was not an option.
A young officer hesitated, as if he wanted to argue, but Shuhei silenced him with a look—a mix of sadness and fatigue. There was no room for debates. Reality was cruel, and they were in a situation where even the dignity of death was often an unattainable luxury.
"We need to clean this up," Shuhei said, his voice firmer this time. "Whoever it was… they deserve at least that. We can’t leave…" His voice faltered momentarily, but he quickly recovered. "We can’t leave this here."
The young officer nodded silently and went to retrieve what Shuhei had requested. The others began moving as well, pushing aside smaller stones, trying to clear space, even though they knew all they would find was debris and what remained of a life.
As he waited, Shuhei crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on the ground, though he wasn’t truly seeing anything. His mind wandered elsewhere. He thought about the countless times he had wielded his sword to protect someone, the battles fought side by side with those now missing or dead. He thought about how, despite all his strength and determination, there were moments like this—where there was nothing left to do but clean up the mess left behind.
The sound of footsteps snapped him out of his reverie. The young officer returned with a bucket and a shovel. Shuhei took the shovel without a word and stepped toward the remains. He wouldn’t delegate this task to anyone else. No matter how vile, cruel, or degrading it was, he felt it was his responsibility.
Kneeling beside the red mass that had once been a person, Shuhei began to work. Each movement was methodical, almost mechanical, but his mind was far from detached. He tried not to think about what he was doing, about the weight of each piece he placed into the bucket, but it was impossible. Every motion was a brutal reminder of the war they had fought—and lost in so many ways.
The others watched him in silence, and slowly, a few began to help. The shovel scraped against the ground, the sound blending with the grinding of stones and the murmurs of the wind. The bucket began to fill, but Shuhei didn’t lift his eyes. He couldn’t. He knew that if he did, he would see the same emptiness in their eyes that he felt inside.
When they finally finished, Shuhei stood, gripping the bucket with both hands. The stench seemed to cling to his skin, but he ignored it. He looked out toward the horizon, toward the ruins of the Seireitei, searching for something—anything—that could bring meaning to all of this. But all he saw was more rubble, more destruction, more reminders of everything they had lost.
Without meeting anyone’s gaze, he gave the next order.
"Take it to the wall and bury it there. We don’t have time for rituals, but…" He paused, swallowing hard. "Do it with respect."
He handed the bucket to one of the officers and turned, walking slowly back toward the shattered halls of the Ninth Division. Each step felt heavier than the last. Inside, a silent battle raged: a fight to keep from succumbing to despair. But deep down, he knew there was only one thing keeping him upright—the knowledge that there was still more work to be done.
Shuhei stood still for a moment, staring at the missing persons report in his hands. His eyes lingered on the number: 476. With a pen that felt like it weighed a ton, he crossed it out in a swift motion and wrote the new figure beside it: 475.
No name could be attached to that body—if it could even still be called a body. There was no identity left, nothing that could reveal who that person had been, what they liked, their ambitions, their fears. Only the cold certainty that this was yet another lost soul. Shuhei knew this would happen over and over again, day after day, until all the missing were accounted for—or until they stopped looking.
He took a deep breath, trying to focus. He could feel his subordinates watching him, waiting for some word or command. But Shuhei had nothing to say. He gave a single nod, a brief and mechanical gesture, silently authorizing them to carry on.
With slow steps, he began to walk away from the site, striving to maintain his composure. The air was still thick with dust, mixed with the acrid stench that clung stubbornly to his skin. He wandered aimlessly for a few minutes until he felt far enough from everyone. Alone at last, he stopped.
There, with no one around, Shuhei leaned against a partially destroyed wall, bending forward. His breathing was heavy, his stomach churning with a force he could no longer suppress. He retched, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. All the tension, the disgust, the weight of the day seemed to pour out of him in violent waves.
When it was over, he remained there, one hand pressed against the wall for support, his breaths ragged. He felt weak, as though his body was finally succumbing to the pressure his mind had tried to ignore. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he couldn’t rid himself of the bitter taste. Just like he couldn’t shake the guilt.
For a moment, Shuhei closed his eyes, trying to pull himself together. He knew he didn’t have time for this, couldn’t afford to falter. Others were waiting for him; other tasks needed to be done. But here, in this fleeting moment, Shuhei let the weight of it all crash over him. The smell, the sight, the sound of the stones—they were all still with him. They would remain with him.
He opened his eyes and lifted his head. The war was over, but the work of rebuilding—both the Seireitei and himself—had only just begun. Shuhei straightened, running a hand through his hair as if he could brush away the dark thoughts. Adjusting the scarf around his neck in an automatic gesture, he took the next step forward.
There was no time to stop. No time to rest. Shuhei knew the chaos was far from over, and he had to keep going. Even as his strength began to wane.