Head of the Shihoin Clan's Private Chambers – Afternoon Tea
Wisps of tea aroma mingled with the cloying sweetness of exquisite wagashi drifted through the spacious, opulent chamber. Hiroki lounged languidly on cushions so soft they threatened to swallow him, a delicately sculpted sakura-mochi pinched between his fingers and poised at his lips.
"Ding. You have a new Dāma order, please check."
A cold, mechanical voice—utterly devoid of emotion—detonated inside Hiroki's mind. It bypassed his ears and spoke directly into the depths of his consciousness.
"Mm?" His hand froze, the sakura-mochi half-raised. His whole body locked in place; the languid smile congealed on his face. He frowned, glancing left and right. The chamber remained serene—only the hush of wind threading through the garden bamboo and the quiet presence of Izumi standing beside him. Warm sunlight bathed everything in peaceful perfection, as though the "ding" had been a midday hallucination born from ten years of comfort blunting his vigilance.
"What the heck? Auditory illusion?" he muttered, shaking his head as if to dislodge the intrusive noise. Had last night's "tax payment" left him mentally drained, or had Yoruichi ticked him off one too many times?
Yet the icy mechanical tone sounded again, cutting cleanly through his self-doubt:
"Damn this accursed system—finally dropping a quest! Thank heaven!"
This roar wasn't the system; it was Hiroki's soul-deep howl after twenty years of waiting. All the resentment, the reluctance, and a flash of wild joy—like finding daylight at the edge of despair—burst through every scrap of cultivated poise. Noble bearing? Composure? The instant the system reactivated they could all go to hell.
"Show me the quest!" he barked, voice trembling with excitement, almost crushing the sakura-mochi and scattering bean-paste across his fine haori.
"Understood."
The system's frigid reply fell, and the air before Hiroki warped. A pale-blue holographic screen unfurled in complete silence—high-tech starkly alien amid Soul Society's classical ambience.
Information glowed on the panel:
Client: Asta
Details: Herta Space Station is under large-scale assault by the Destruction Legion. Defensive strength is critically low; the main control section risks falling. Urgent reinforcements requested!
Objective: Ensure the safety of Station Master Asta
Personnel required: 50+ combatants
Reward: 10,000 points
"Huh?" Hiroki's eyes bulged; his expression flickered through shock, disbelief, and half-suppressed laughter.
"What now? Asta? Where are you shipping me off to?" His mouth twitched. "Herta Space Station? Destruction Legion?" Though years in Soul Society had steeped him in spiritual energy, fragments of memory from his past life remained.
"And this plot-line…" He knit his brow, fingers drumming the low table. "Why does it sound so familiar? Crap!" He slapped his thigh, nearly overturning the table. "Isn't this the Star Rail newbie village quest? Send the Trailblazer to protect Herta Space Station and smash those scrap-heap Antimatter Legion mobs?!"
"Oh right, final boss is a Doomsday Beast that the Stellaron Express one-shots."
He rubbed his temples, half amused, half exasperated at the system's arrangement.
"System, you're a real sweetheart—handing me a newbie village quest." Five parts disdain, five parts odd relief laced his tone. Compared with Soul Society's usual Captain-level crises or the looming Aizen drama, a starter-zone mission sounded downright gentle.
Yet when he saw "Personnel required: 50+", a smug grin curled his lips. A measly newbie village—ha! Watch me roll in with fifty overpowered goons and steamroll it.
Still… the points.
"System, what do points buy?" he asked the key question.
"After acquiring points, the Shop system unlocks. The host may spend points to purchase anything the Shop offers." The same icy voice, but the content sent his heart racing.
"Anything?" His pulse quickened as his mind raced to Soul Society's coveted treasures—an asauchi? A supreme Zanpakuto? Even the Hōgyoku?
"Affirmative."
Instantly Hiroki's ambitions ballooned. Anything? "Then can I buy a Trailblazer?!" he asked, half-joking, half-serious. If he could purchase a Trailblazer, to hell with being a live-in son-in-law—he'd be the world's overlord.
"You can't afford it."
Four icy words, precise as a blade, doused his soaring dreams like a bucket of slush.
"Tch! Who're you looking down on?" He spat in mock annoyance, but his thoughts were already spinning. If not a Trailblazer, plenty else was for sale. A Shop—the golden finger staple! Ten thousand points sounded like serious money. This mission was mandatory, and ASAP. A starter-zone grind wouldn't wait!
Decision made, his efficiency maxed. The slacker aura he'd worn for years evaporated, replaced by crisp, commanding resolve.
"Izumi." Without lifting his gaze from the screen, his voice rang clear.
"Sir?" Uchiha Izumi—silent as a blade—stepped forward, bowed slightly, and answered. Her dark eyes held no ripple, only focused readiness for the next order.
"Pass the order to the Uchiha Clan," Hiroki commanded, crisp and clear. "Pick fifty of your best fighters. Assemble at once, fully equipped, and be ready to enter another world on an emergency mission. Be fast!" He stressed both "best" and "emergency"; the Uchiha knew how to weigh priorities.
"Yes, ma'am!" Izumi answered without a flicker of hesitation, voice sharp. Before the echo faded she was gone—not in a puff of Ninjutsu smoke, but by pure Shunpo refined in Soul Society's spiritual pressure, leaving only a faint ripple in the air.
Watching the spot where she'd vanished, Hiroki nodded in satisfaction. "That's what I like about the kid…" he muttered, half to himself. "Hardly ever asks questions. Says 'got it' and moves—execution off the charts."
"Not like Chizuru," he added, thinking of his ever-shrewder, increasingly vocal maid-cum-steward. "She talks more every day…"
Efficiency made the difference. Moments later the muted but orderly sounds of assembly drifted in from outside the residence. Tamaki Chizuru appeared in the doorway, her expression the perfect blend of inquiry and concern: "Young master, Izumi seems to have called in the Uchiha elite guard? Quite a few of them… Has something happened?" she probed gently.
"Just a small matter—taking them out for a bit of practice." Hiroki waved her off, the gesture clear: stay out of it. He lifted his teacup for a sip. "Handle things at home. If anyone asks, tell them I decided on the spur of the moment to lead the guard on a tour of my holdings in Rukongai." He'd spun the lie on the spot; he did own plenty there, after all.
A spark flashed in Chizuru's eyes—she knew it wasn't a mere patrol—yet she bowed without pressing. "Yes, young master. I understand." She withdrew to field whatever questions might come.
Hiroki straightened his robes and strode out. In a corner of the Shihōin private training ground, fifty Uchiha elite already stood in perfect ranks, dressed in the Onmitsukidō-issue black. They were fifty blades drawn from the sheath—silent, hawk-eyed, radiating the seasoned aura of veterans, no common Shinigami.
Each carried a Zanpakutō on his back—souls' essence priceless in Rukongai, yet for Hiroki, master of the Shihōin, merely stock left to gather dust. He didn't flinch at arming his own. At the head of the column stood the composed Uchiha Fugaku and the almost breeze-like yet chilling Uchiha Shisui.
Hiroki swept his gaze across the detachment that could chill any power in Soul Society, and nodded, satisfaction flooding him—his safety gauge maxed out.
"System, how do I proceed?" he asked in his mind.
"Select the personnel you wish to bring; confirm, then choose 'Begin Transfer.'" The system's voice sounded. Hiroki's will reached out, locking onto the fifty Uchiha in an instant.
"OK!" he confirmed mentally.
Herta Space Station – Causeway to the Platform
The light snapped. Warm sunset gave way to cold metallic glare and flickering scarlet flames. Soft earth underfoot turned into slick, hard decking.
The dizziness lasted less than half a second; his spiritual pressure steadied him. Yet when he raised his eyes and took in the surroundings, even twenty years of "salt-fish" poise couldn't keep his face from twisting.
The sight before him was galaxies away from the "starter village" he'd expected.
He stood in what felt like a vast space-station hub or outer platform. Beyond the high-strength composite viewport stretched not a tranquil starfield but… an interstellar war.
Countless hostile vessels—styles he couldn't name, all radiating cold menace—swarmed like locusts, cannons pouring dense energy beams. Farther off, Herta Station's defense fleet fought stubbornly; under the torrent ships shattered like paper, armor ripping, engines blooming into silent, blinding flowers of death.
Worse, at the battle's heart, several titanic mechanical horrors—impossible to describe save for metallic skeletons sheathed in unknown black armor, scarlet energy veins pulsing across their frames, skeletal wings stretching (Doomsday Beasts)—rampaged through the fleet. One claw tore a warship's thick plating like foil; a blazing beam from its mouth swept the sector, vaporizing friend and foe alike.
A defender's corvette tried to intercept; a beast's talons closed, crushing it into twisted scrap in an eye-blink, shards and sparks flying.
"Boom-boom-boom—!!!" The roar of explosions, dampened by the station's shields, still shook deck and air.
This was nothing like the "starter village" memory of a few small mobs making a ruckus inside the station.
"Hey, System—where the hell are we???" Hiroki's voice cracked with disbelief. Pointing at the apocalyptic war outside the port, he hurled the question at the voice in his head: "You call this a starter village???"