The sky was clear, clouds drifting lazily.
A dirt path, earthen slopes, short trees along the incline—and the clamor of voices.
"Today's training was so satisfying."
A girl with a sash tied around her waist wiped the sweat from her forehead, her face alight with joy, still gripping her sword.
"Right, Yūta?"
But the moment she turned, she suddenly remembered and quickly apologized: "Ah! Sorry, sorry."
"I almost forgot—you can't talk anymore, can you?"
The girl turned, her gaze landing on a pale, wide-eyed boy in rough-spun clothes, hanging from a tree branch by ropes.
Deep sword wounds cut into his shoulders, waist, elbows, and knees, blood soaking large patches of his clothing. Yet the cuts were precise—deep enough to cripple but shallow enough to keep him alive.
The boy vomited blood, seemingly trying to speak, but no sound came out.
The girl patted his uninjured shoulder gently, her voice sweet.
"It must hurt, right?"
"But what can I do? This is the rule if you want to be a test subject for our Asaimon family!"
"Didn't you say you liked me on the street? If you're a man, you've got to endure to the end."
"Don't worry, my sword is quick."
"Last one now—I'll free you soon."
Hearing this, the boy's eyes dimmed, blood bubbling from his lips.
True to her word, the girl swung her sword once—cleanly severing his head.
The blade's path was flawless.
One could only wonder how many heads it had taken to hone such precision.
Flicking the blood off her sword, the girl turned and proudly surveyed her surroundings.
Compared to her, the other young nobles practicing nearby seemed far less skilled.
Dozens of short trees lined the path, each with people—mostly elders, a few unlucky youths, and even children—hanging from their branches.
An entire village's worth of residents, save for those who'd fled, now dangled like macabre ornaments.
The grove was filled with agonized screams.
The nobles standing before them, all wearing robes embroidered with "Asaimon," had headbands tied around their foreheads, practicing their swordsmanship with solemn focus.
This ritual was called "Tsujigiri"—crossroads killing.
For the ancient Asaimon clan, it was a rite of passage for inheriting the family's "Sword Tester" position.
Originally, it had been for testing and evaluating blades.
But over a thousand years ago, after a new deity ascended in the Royal Palace and linked Shinigami with the Asauchi, the tradition of nobles forging their own "private Zanpakutō" and "testing" them gradually faded.
Now, only a few upper-tier noble families—like the Asaimon and the Kifune—still retained the ability to forge "Zanpakutō prototypes" and "modify Zanpakutō abilities." Thus, the Asaimon clan continued the "testing" tradition purely as a swordsmanship exercise.
For the Asaimon, this was a proud legacy of their noble lineage.
But for the residents of the Rukongai's 37th District?
It was just sustainable slaughter.
Not that anyone cared.
As one of the Soul Society's upper-tier noble families—second only to the Five Great Noble Houses—everything in West Rukongai's 37th District belonged to the Asaimon.
Including the residents, who were harvested like crops—cut down, regrown, and cut again.
No one cared.
Just as the Asaimon's traditional practice continued as it had for millennia, a small squad of about a dozen people appeared at the end of the path.
A sentry stood in the middle of the road, eyeing the approaching group warily. Their black shihakushō matched the Gotei 13's uniform.
"Hey! Who are you?!"
The Asaimon sentry called out sharply.
At the front of the squad was a tall young man with a rough cloth strip tying back his long hair, a battered Asauchi at his waist.
The only oddity?
His scabbard had a pair of small, floral-patterned women's tabi socks tied to it.
Fragrant.
A little perverted.
He spat out a blade of grass and jerked his chin at his companions.
One of them immediately shouted back:
"We're messengers from the Ōmaeda family in the 40th District! The front lines have pushed back again. Are you the Asaimon family?"
As he spoke, the Shinigami stepped forward, holding up a waist tag.
The characters "Ōmaeda" were clearly inscribed.
No one noticed the bloodstains on the back.
The sentry relaxed.
"That's us!"
"Wait a moment, we'll lower the barrier."
Just then, a crooked red signal flare rose slowly from the woods behind them.
Even in broad daylight, it was unmistakable.
"You idiots!"
"Who didn't finish their kill this time?!"
Fujimori cursed under his breath, turning to glare at his squad.
The Shinigami behind him flinched.
But the Asaimon guards at the checkpoint paled.
A red flare in the Seireitei signaled extreme danger.
"Enemy attack!"
"Alert the clan!"
Instantly, the guards' faces twisted in terror, their hands trembling around their swords.
"The Genryū invaders are here—!!"
"Kill them!"
Fujimori roared, charging ahead.
Behind him, a dozen Genryū Shinigami drew their blades with bestial snarls, storming the checkpoint.
Some tried to hold the barrier.
But before they could channel Reiatsu into it, a furious shout rang out:
"Hadō #33: Sōkatsui!"
A torrent of blazing spiritual fire erupted from Fujimori's palm, scorching air and earth alike as it smashed into the fragile barrier like a hammer.
The explosion shattered the translucent shield—and the Asaimon guards behind it—into ash.
Fujimori didn't pause, his Shunpo carrying him into the woods.
The explosion jolted the young Asaimon nobles mid-"training."
At the sentry's cry of "enemy attack," they froze—then, under the lead of a few overconfident swordsmen, swelled with excitement.
"Just some Genryū bandits! Nothing to fear!"
"Let's hold them here and wipe them out!"
"Today's the day we make our mark!"
The girl from earlier raised her sword, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
As one of the clan's most promising heirs, her 9th-class Reiatsu already earned her a seat among the elders. Her status as the third-ranked Sword Tester candidate made her the de facto leader of the youth.
What did she have to fear from some rogue invaders?
"Right!"
"Exactly!"
After a brief pause, the other nobles rallied, their morale soaring as they marched toward the "bandits."
Dozens of bloodstained youths, swords in hand, strode forward with imposing grandeur.
Then they collided head-on with Fujimori's squad.
Both sides froze.
"Charge!"
The girl shouted, swinging her sword—but stayed behind her peers.
The bloodied youths, hearts pounding, roared as they charged the outnumbered squad.
Fujimori, having fought his way here, had never seen nobles advancing toward battle. Their blood-soaked, murderous aura made him think they were elite Gotei troops retreating from the front.
Instinctively, he went all out.
His body blurred forward like a bowling ball into pins.
"Ikotsu!"
The first few Asaimon youths met his fist head-on.
Splat.
Like overripe tomatoes, they burst apart.
The sheer brutality stunned the remaining nobles.
The girl at the back blanked.
What followed was a massacre.
The "Sword Testers" and "Headhunting Asaimon," so fierce against civilians, were lambs before true battle-hardened killers.
Soon, the grove echoed with screams—far more desperate than the villagers'.
All bark, no bite.
This was the nobility.