Tokyo, Karakura Town—Modern Day.
"…I'm dead?"
Ichigo Kurosaki stared in shock as his body was carried onto an ambulance, the ground beneath the overpass stained red with blood. His pupils trembled; his mind simply couldn't catch up.
The crowd didn't spare him a glance.
Because what stood there now was no longer his body—only a freshly departed Plus, a wandering soul.
And ordinary people couldn't see him. The only ones who could respond were other souls.
"Yeah. Pretty nasty, too. Got launched a few dozen meters by that dump truck, then run over again. Splat. You're basically a carpet now."
The speaker sat casually on the curb.
He looked about seventeen or eighteen, slim and well-proportioned, his presence calm and collected. Stick a pair of black-rimmed glasses on him and he'd be the harmless class bookworm. Make him put on a serious face and start lecturing, and girls would probably lose patience with him in seconds.
But the way he delivered that line of humor revealed a sharp edge underneath.
His eyes were unusually bright, filled with a strange intensity—giving off the impression that he knew far too much, yet wasn't the typical scholarly type.
"Damn it… where the hell did that truck even come from? And could you please not make me picture how I died? I'm gonna puke!"
The orange-haired teen, who had just been admitted into high school with surprisingly good grades, never in his wildest dreams thought he'd die in a car accident outside a convenience store.
Even if it were attempted murder, there was no way to set up a dump truck in that spot beforehand. And there definitely shouldn't have been a way for it to hit him without a single sound—almost as if it appeared out of nowhere.
And the driver's seat had been empty.
It was practically a supernatural phenomenon.
"Well, since you don't want to talk about your death, let's change the subject. My name's Soma Kiryu. About to start university. Since we're both in the same boat now, let's get along."
Soma Kiryu stood up, brushing dust off his clothes with casual indifference.
"…Ichigo Kurosaki. About to start high school. Same boat, huh? Don't tell me—"
Ichigo trailed off.
"Yeah. I got killed by a truck too."
Soma admitted it bluntly.
These days, even reincarnation was getting modernized.
In the old days, you got struck by lightning. Now? Run over by trucks.
And he'd even been hit twice.
The first time, he'd been eating hotpot while singing "Happy Birthday." Apparently, some god up there decided to join in on the celebration and gifted him with a truck. It sent him into a crossover Tokyo, where he became the heir of a powerful conglomerate.
With the advantage of a reincarnated soul, he grew up smooth-sailing, admired by everyone around him.
But when he decided to take a little trip to Chiba over summer break, that same god must've seen through his lustful thoughts—and promptly sent another dump truck barreling in, forcefully altering his plans.
And, along with them, Ichigo's fate.
Any so-called cheat skills or bloodlines were meaningless before that absurd higher narrative-level supernatural event.
"Anyway, if it weren't for this thing, I'd almost think I wasn't dead. Feels completely different from last time."
Soma glanced down at the chain protruding from his chest, tugging on the broken length of the Chain of Fate. The metallic clink echoed, unnerving in both sound and sensation. It made him want to rip the thing out with his bare hands.
"You always say stuff I don't understand. Isn't this where people are supposed to feel… you know, sad?"
Ichigo took a deep breath.
"What's there to mourn? We're standing here just fine, aren't we? Lost the body, sure, but that's no big deal. Honestly, this might not even be a bad thing. Getting run over by a truck—that's protagonist treatment. Next thing you know, we'll meet some goddess who'll guide us to another world."
Soma waved a hand.
And the moment he did, a strange Japanese-style sliding door suddenly appeared ten meters away, floating in the air above the sidewalk.
The door creaked open. Blue butterflies fluttered outward as a small figure stepped through.
A girl.
Dressed in a black kimono, hair tied in a neat onion bun, her delicate features paired with wide eyes made her look cute. But the long sword at her waist and the stern aura she radiated gave her a sense of undeniable authority.
"?"
"…"
She was impossible to miss.
And the same was true for both sides.
If Soma and Ichigo were stunned by her striking presence and overwhelming aura, then Rukia Kuchiki was equally shaken by the pressure the two boys naturally exuded.
Coming from Soul Society into the poor World of the Living, even the faintest hint of Reiatsu should have stood out like a rare beast.
Yet standing before these two… she almost felt as though she'd never left Soul Society at all.
"They unconsciously let their Reiatsu merge seamlessly with the atmosphere's Reishi… altering the environment itself."
Under such circumstances, even if a Hollow showed up, it might instinctively overlook them.
Rukia's expression hardened.
She landed on the ground, hand on her Zanpakutō's hilt, and advanced step by step—cold, decisive, no sense of hesitation, as if she were an officer conducting official business.
"Hey! Who the hell are you?!"
Ichigo tensed and shouted, stepping back. He didn't notice Soma beside him giving him that "See? Told you so. Goddess just showed up" look.
Unfazed, Rukia explained matter-of-factly, "Relax. I'm a Shinigami stationed here in Karakura Town. My duty is to perform Konso (process by which Shinigami send Pluses to Soul Society) and guide the souls of the dead to Soul Society—the resting place of spirits. That said…" She tilted her head.
"I never expected to run into two high-Reiryoku souls right off the bat. You should be grateful I arrived when I did. A little later, and strong Hollows would've been drawn here. You'd be facing something far worse than death."
"Shinigami? Soul Society?"
Ichigo was completely lost. Two strange encounters back-to-back had short-circuited his brain.
"Do Shinigami have, like, territorial jurisdiction? And really, a katana instead of a scythe, a kimono instead of a cloak? What if you run into religious foreigners—don't they reject the look?"
The moment Soma spoke, the tense atmosphere loosened instantly.
"Of course not. Because I'd use force before they could object—and send them down before they had the chance."
Rukia blinked at him, then puffed up her chest with full confidence.
She might have carried herself with noble grace, but the way she spoke was sly and street-smart—like some slick old-timer. Maddeningly impossible to deal with.
"Wait. 'Send us down'? You don't mean Hell, do you?! How do we even know you're telling the truth? And you—what, you're a grade-schooler? You expect me to trust a Shinigami who looks like a kid?"
Ichigo scowled, every nerve on edge.
"Silence. I'm ten times your age. A human brat like you has no right to question my ability. Still, since you clearly have potential—and may one day serve as my colleagues—I'll introduce myself properly."
"My name is Rukia Kuchiki. You'll come to understand the greatness of that name once you've spent some time in Soul Society."
"Wait—I haven't even said goodbye to my family—"
Before Ichigo could finish, Rukia stepped forward with a thin, mocking smile. With a sharp shing, she drew her Zanpakutō and struck him squarely on the forehead with the hilt. He toppled backward into the radiant white light rising from the ground, swallowed whole.
Then it was Soma's turn.
Unlike Ichigo, he didn't resist. He just stood there calmly, like a passenger letting the flight attendant buckle his seatbelt before takeoff.
Once both were gone, Rukia finally exhaled in relief. She leapt up onto the overpass, gazing at the glittering lights of Karakura Town.
Call it self-promotion if you like—she was determined to silence all doubts with flawless performance and complete her assignment perfectly.
"Come to think of it, I never did ask their names… But it doesn't matter. If they graduate from Shin'ō Academy and join the Gotei 13, we'll cross paths again sooner or later. By then I'll be a lieutenant at the very least—if not seated among the upper ranks."
A smirk tugged at her lips.
"And that blond brat will learn firsthand the dignity of a true senior. Hmph… calling me a grade-schooler, was he?!"