You were the result of one reckless night.

Shunsui Kyōraku—already a captain then, though not yet the Captain-Commander—had been deep into his cups. A mission had gone well. There was music, drink, laughter. And when the haze took over, he wandered into the 79th district of Rukongai and into the arms of a stranger.

He never asked a name. He never looked back.

He returned to Seireitei, resumed his duties, and rose higher than anyone had expected. He wore the haori of the First Division now. The weight of command sat easily on his shoulders. He never knew that, in the chaos of that night, he’d left behind a child.

Your mother had been a courtesan—tough, quiet, with callused hands and tired eyes. She hadn’t planned on a child. She was saving to leave the outer districts, to find a place with water that didn’t smell like iron. But when she found out about you, everything changed.

Clients disappeared. Work became dangerous. Money stopped coming in. Her dreams dried up. She blamed you for it all.

And then, one night, she was gone.

Some said it was drugs. Others said someone had silenced her for debts she couldn’t pay. You never got the truth—only the silence that followed.

You were left alone.

You learned to survive. You scavenged for food, patched your own clothes, fought off others when you had to. You taught yourself to cook with scraps, read with torn pages, write with stolen chalk. Your fists became tools. Your mind, your weapon.

Then your power surfaced.

It started as pressure—doors slamming when you were angry, the air turning thick when you focused too hard. People avoided you. Then they started talking.

"That one’s dangerous.” “Too much power for someone from the 79th.”

You applied to the Shin’ōreijutsuin anyway.

No sponsor. No noble name. No formal training. Still, you passed. You didn’t just pass—you soared. Techniques came naturally. Kidō responded to you like a current pulling toward deep water. You weren’t just gifted. You were relentless.

And that’s when the whispers began.

“Looks like Kyōraku, doesn’t it?” “Same eyes. Same hair. Even the way they walk…”

You ignored it. You had no reason to care who you resembled.

But the similarities were striking. The eyes, the color of sun-warmed bark. The loosely-tied hair. The calm in your movements that echoed something older, deeper. The resemblance couldn’t be denied. Eleven months passed. A record.

You were granted early access to the Gotei 13 placement exams—something no student in recent memory had achieved. You stood now in front of the results board, scanning the list. Your name was there. First. Again.

Then the world shifted.

A spiritual pressure rolled through the courtyard like a slow storm. Not hostile—but vast, calm, unshakably strong. It pushed against your chest like a memory that hadn’t happened yet. People nearby moved back. Conversations halted. Some stepped away without realizing they had.

You didn’t move, A voice drifted in behind you.

“So you’re the one everyone’s been whispering about.”

It was smooth. Warm, even. But it cut through the silence like a blade.

You turned.

Shunsui Kyōraku stood a few paces behind, half in shadow. The pink haori draped over his shoulders caught the wind. The straw hat tilted slightly over one brow. He looked every bit the legend you’d seen in portraits—taller, older, relaxed. But his gaze wasn’t lazy. His eyes were sharp, quiet, calculating. You began to bow.

“Ah—no need for that.” He lifted a hand casually. “I just wanted to talk.”

He said it easily, like the two of you had known each other before. But his eyes didn’t lie. They flicked from your eyes to your jaw, your shoulders, your stance. He saw it. Not just the resemblance—but the echo. The rhythm of power shared through blood.