The bitterness lingered on his tongue—impossible to savor, barely edible—but once he felt himself about half-full, Yori stopped forcing it down.
He approached a willow branch of decent thickness and straightness. With both hands gripping the limb, he lifted his feet and dropped his weight sharply. The jolt snapped the branch clean from the trunk with a crisp crack.
About the length of his arm, as thick as a baby's forearm—he caught it firmly.
Stripping away the smaller offshoots left him with a sturdy wooden staff.
"Not bad."
He weighed it in his hand. The balance was good enough. A few experimental swings made him nod, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Turning toward the riverbank, he scanned the gravel until he spotted a dark shard of flint with a broken edge.
Scrape—scrape—
Crouching, Yori pressed the stone's edge against another rock and began grinding in steady, practiced motions. The rhythmic friction filled the quiet air. His fingers moved with calm precision, eyes focused as the flake gradually sharpened.
When the edge finally had enough bite to nick his fingertip, he stopped. His body didn't have the stamina for more detailed work.
Using the flint, he carved a groove into one end of the wooden staff. Then, tearing strips from the hem of his coarse clothing, he bound the stone to the wood as tightly as he could manage.
A makeshift stone axe.
"If only a system screen would pop up right now and tell me I gained crafting experience…"
But it was only his imagination. No such system existed.
Rough wood bit lightly into his palm as he tightened his grip. Primitive as it was, the weapon brought a palpable sense of safety—his first foothold in this unfamiliar world.
He was about to stand and search for more food when a sound drifted from behind a small slope nearby.
Yori froze.
He tightened his grip on the stone axe, pressed his back to the willow's trunk, and fixed his eyes on the direction of the noise.
Running was pointless now. Moving blindly would only make things worse.
The sound grew closer.
At last, a small figure appeared.
Not a beast.Not a Hollow.Just… an old man. Dressed almost exactly like Yori—rough, worn fabric, simple cut.
Yori's gaze sharpened as he examined him. The man was elderly; hunched, frail, hair thin and white. Deep wrinkles creased his face like cracked earth. His eyes were cloudy, expression flat—numb. A faint scent of death clung to him. No weapons hung at his waist, only an old wooden bucket at his side.
At first glance, harmless.
But something was wrong.
The skin on his hands—though aged—held no signs of labor. Pale. Soft. Unmarked.
That didn't match the environment at all.
Yori tensed again, muscles coiling, eyes narrowing as the old man approached.
The elder finally noticed him—noticed the young man half-hidden behind a tree, gripping a stone axe. He startled violently, stumbling back and dropping his bucket with a hollow thud.
"Wait—please! I won't hurt you!"
The old man raised both hands to his chest, voice trembling.
"You stay where you are. I won't attack you unless I have to. I just need to ask a few questions."
The familiar cadence of Japanese washed over Yori. As someone who lived in Japan for a time and grew up on anime, the language was second nature. He signaled for the man to stand still, lowering the axe slightly but not relaxing his guard.
"Who are you? Where is this place?"
It was sudden, but this was a chance—his first real chance to gather information.
"I am Sato Shigeo. This is Rukongai, West District Three, near Mount Koifuku."
The old man's surprise flickered across his face, followed by faint relief. His tension eased a little as he answered.
"Rukongai, West District Three…?"
Yori repeated the words slowly, tamping down the surge of emotion in his chest.
"Yes," Sato replied."This is the Soul Society. You're a new spirit—someone who just passed on from the living world, I'd wager."
As he continued speaking, his expression softened, becoming almost kindly.
"It happens. Newly reborn souls often have scrambled memories. A few days, and it clears right up."
"It may sound unbelievable, but check your waistband. You should have a sorting slip tucked there. That's your proof."
He pointed to Yori's left side.
Yori's thoughts spun as he heard the flood of familiar terminology—Rukongai, Soul Society, sorting slips.
No denying it.He had crossed into Bleach.
He reached into his belt and pulled out a piece of yellowed paper.Two bold characters stared back:
West District Three.
He suddenly understood the strangeness of the man's hands.
Ordinary souls in this world didn't need to eat. They didn't feel hunger. They lived on reishi drawn from the air and water. Of course his hands bore no signs of labor—he never needed to work for food.
"Sorry… I frightened you."
"You can call me Yori."
He slid the stone axe back into his waistband, picked up the fallen bucket, and stepped closer in apology.
"No harm done. Confusion is normal at first," Sato said gently."No need for formality. Just call me Sato-san."
Seeing the weapon lowered and Yori's posture relax, the old man's smile grew warm.
"You came to fetch water, yes? I'll help. On the way back, you can ask me anything you like."
Yori nodded. For apology—and for information.The original manga barely explored Rukongai. He needed details.
"I'd appreciate that."
"Good, good."
A faint liveliness returned to Sato's eyes.
Yori lifted the bucket, cleaned it briefly at the stream, and filled it to the brim.
Then the two walked side by side along the riverbank, Sato pointing out landmarks and paths with the easy familiarity of someone who had lived here for decades. Yori listened closely, memorizing every word.