"So this… is the Soul Society Lord Yanmo spoke of."
Shisui stepped through the gate and felt solid earth beneath his feet. Night here as well. A clear sky. Moonlight pouring down and washing the courtyard in a pale glow.
His Sharingan flared, then turned to a Mangekyō. He scanned the grounds with careful vigilance. A long, low compound stretched before him—rows of wooden houses around a broad, empty yard, spacious enough to hold the entire Uchiha clan.
Even in death, the architecture feels familiar…
The courtyard lay still. No figures. No immediate danger.
The moment he arrived, a subtle ease spread through his body, as if the air itself carried energy. Each breath seemed to replenish him. The sensation was faint, but unmistakable to someone with his sensitivity—like stepping from a thin, high-altitude world into one rich with oxygen.
"The air is filled with particles… reishi," he murmured. "No wonder Lord Yanmo said most souls here can live by breathing alone."
Shisui, long dead, had begged Yanmo to leave his soul in Konoha—to watch over the village and the clan. This was his first time setting foot in the Soul Society.
He confirmed it was safe, then slipped back through the gate to guide the others.
One by one, the Uchiha crossed into the courtyard. Under Shisui's direction, they formed lines and held simple order.
"Iteka. Inoka. Everyone's inside."
"Yashirō, let's go."
"Captain, the Police Force is moving now."
The last to remain outside were Fugaku and Mikoto—and Shihōin Yanmo, holding the rift and the gate open.
At the threshold, husband and wife turned for a final look at the land they had guarded for generations—the district they called home, the village they had bled to protect.
A slow ache rose in their chests.
Itachi must have acted under the village's sanction. He would not have done this alone.
The strongest clan in the shinobi world had not fallen on the battlefield. They had been culled by comrades they once defended. Bitter irony.
"Only Sasuke… he'll face this cruel world alone."
"Itachi will watch him," Mikoto said softly. "And we can still return to visit. Come."
Fugaku exhaled, took her hand, and stepped into the light.
When the last soul had passed, Yanmo sheathed his blade, pointed to the barrier encasing the Uchiha grounds, and tapped the air.
"Scatter."
The Kidō shell broke like a soap bubble. Yanmo slipped into the rift and through the gate, swallowed by white radiance. Without his support, the air sealed shut. The gate evaporated.
The portal itself was not his power but Soul Society craft. He had adapted their technique, fusing it with his Zanpakutō to cut a direct passage.
Ordinary Shinigami used a mountain gate near Seireitei, flanked by two towering square pillars, access by request only. Yanmo had used a noble family's private gateway—easily obtained as the Shihōin clan's future son-in-law.
As he emerged, the wooden door closed and reverted to two square posts over three meters tall, inconspicuous and mute.
Before him stood rows of Uchiha. Shisui and the Police Force kept order. Fugaku breathed in, feeling the strange energy saturating the air. This was truly another world.
The Uchiha were anxious but hopeful. Here there was no Konoha's suspicion and no persecution from above. Here, the dead would begin anew.
A people erased in the shinobi world had returned to life in the realm of souls.
Seeing Yanmo at last, Fugaku reacted at once. He dropped to both knees and pressed his forehead to the ground, offering the Shinigami who had given them new life his full respect and gratitude.
Behind him, the clan followed like falling dominos—strong and weak, young and old, all the same.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heads bowed. Spines bent. The courtyard filled with the drum of devotion.
"Lord Shinigami," Fugaku said, voice clear and solemn, "the Uchiha clan offers boundless thanks for your grace. From this day, we shall follow you through life and death and never betray your trust. Should any act against you, may they fall forever into Avīci and never rise again."
"Uchiha Clan, pay respects to our lord!"
A thousand voices—firm, aged, childlike, bright—rose as one and rolled like a tidal wave. No boast. No hesitation. Only truth.
They had already died once. Oaths by death felt cheap beside a god of death. So they swore by the harshest of hells.
A thousand pledges to him alone. It would stir any heart.
They were his private army now, in all but name.
Yanmo suppressed the surge of feeling. He raised a hand, steady and restrained.
"Rise."
"Yes, my lord!"
They stood in a rustle of cloth and sandals, eyes fixed on their new master—reverent, grateful, curious, uncertain. Complex. Human.
Fortunately, the surrounding estates were his, and the clamor would not carry far.
"Shisui. Fugaku. And your senior stewards—come with me."
He turned for the gate. Fugaku signaled to a few leaders. Shisui and two silver-haired elders stepped forward and followed.
Outside the first compound, Yanmo pointed out the nearby estates—large, walled residences spreading across several blocks.
"These were gifts from a friend. Your people will live here for now. There are more than enough rooms."
"This district sits on the outer edge of a prosperous area, not far from Seireitei's center, and secure enough. Food and water are ample. You can sustain yourselves."
He brought out a small wooden box from a side room and handed it to Shisui. "Currency. Enough to live on for a while. Use the time to adapt. The customs are close to your old world. You'll adjust quickly."
A friend's gift, again.
"One more task," Yanmo said.
The four leaders straightened, attentive to the order.
"Find those among you who feel hunger. I will focus on training them."
"In other words," he added, "becoming a Shinigami is within reach."