"Clan Head, Lord Shihōin has arrived."
Fugaku was bent over ledgers, tallying expenses. To feed, house, and clothe a thousand souls, the Uchiha had been purchasing supplies in waves, learning this strange world as they went. More than half of the heavy purse Yanmo left them was already spent. Worried by the burn rate, Fugaku had stepped in personally to find places to cut.
At the report, he rose at once. "Yakumi, fetch the two elders and Shisui. Have all those who felt hunger assemble before the main hall."
"Yes, sir."
At the gate, Fugaku, the elders, and Shisui waited as two carriages rolled up and stopped. They bowed together.
"We greet you, my lord."
The curtain lifted. A tall man in black stepped down, tachi at his hip, thick brows casting a stern shadow over a composed face—Shihōin Yanmo.
"Up," Yanmo said, scanning their expressions—and nodding inwardly. Ten days in the Soul Society had steadied them. The panic from their first night was gone. At last, they looked… like Uchihas.
"It seems you're settling in."
"By your grace," Fugaku said, stepping forward to speak for the clan. "Even a thousand deaths cannot repay your favor. The Uchiha swear themselves to you."
The others echoed him. Yanmo waved it off lightly. "A small effort."
"For you, perhaps. For us, a debt for life," Fugaku insisted. "We live today only under your shelter."
Their solemn gratitude pleased him more than he showed. So sensible—how did Konoha's elders manage to push them to the brink? he thought.
Yanmo gestured to the second carriage. "Weapons and supplies from the estate. Bring them in."
"Understood." Elder Setsuna signaled, and sentries flowed forward to unload. Yanmo walked deeper into the compound with the four leaders.
"You've learned the lay of this world by now?"
"All goes well," Fugaku said. "The land, customs—much like the shinobi world. After ten days, most have adjusted—sometimes they even forget they're dead."
As shinobi, the Uchiha adapted fast. Information gathering was a reflex; even brief contact with locals had yielded a workable map of things: the Soul Society, Seireitei, Rukongai, the Spirit King, the noble houses, Hollows—and, most crucially, the Shinigami.
The Thirteen Court Guard Squads.
Secrets were scarce, but the broad strokes were clear. Shinigami here were not omnipotent gods but a profession—warriors like samurai or shinobi, trained and ranked. At the peak stood the captains of the Thirteen, each with power beyond common measure—some said world-rending.
Even so, Fugaku felt oddly relieved: better to serve a mighty man than a capricious deity. The pressure was different. Their loyalty to Yanmo did not waver; if anything, knowing the Shihōin name belonged to one of the four great houses made their submission feel… proper.
In the innermost courtyard, they found neat ranks waiting. At Yanmo's appearance, a hundred knees hit the stone as one.
"We pay respects to our lord!"
The shout boomed like thunder. Yanmo lifted a hand. "Rise." He glanced at Fugaku. "And these are?"
Shisui stepped out. "My lord, these are the ones who feel hunger."
Yanmo's head snapped around. Shock flashed in his eyes. The faces before him were blank, cold, oppressive in their stillness. Among them stood not only veterans but children.
"All of them?"
"Yes, my lord."
He had expected dozens. There were at least a hundred—nearly one out of every seven or eight Uchiha. It was staggering.
Hunger meant potential—the capacity to become a Shinigami.
By Yanmo's rough reckoning, Seireitei's thirteen squads might total only a few thousand Shinigami, nobles and guards included—barely a drop against the ocean of souls in the afterlife. "One in ten thousand" was generous.
And yet the Uchiha showed a rate approaching fifteen percent.
Are they truly heaven's favored? Strong in life, strong in death…
The shock wasn't over.
Shisui drew a breath. "My lord, there's something else we discovered these past days. We were about to report it."