The Zaraki District is a mess—literally.
Gosuke Shigure had barely set foot in the district when he was confronted by several outbreaks of violence.
The souls here are not Shinigami, yet they are far more aggressive than the average "Pluses." Armed with makeshift weapons like harpoons, hoes, or chipped kitchen knives, they fight over the meager water supply or whatever scraps they can claim from others.
Some die in the struggle, their souls breaking apart into spirit particles and fading completely.
The victors, meanwhile, revel in their spoils—sometimes even feasting on blood-soaked bread baked from questionable sources, a twisted luxury in this harsh land.
It's not that Seireitei is unaware of the chaos within the outermost districts like Zaraki.
But awareness doesn't mean action.
Resources are said to be limited.
When souls arrive in Soul Society, they are arbitrarily assigned to one of the 320 Rukongai districts. Some luckier souls find themselves closer to Seireitei, where food and water are available. But others—like those dumped into Zaraki—are left to die slowly or fight to survive.
There's no fairness in it—just the lottery of reincarnation.
The central districts closer to Seireitei cannot sustain the influx of new souls. So those in the outer districts are simply abandoned. There are no programs. No aid. Just isolation.
And as long as souls die naturally here, dissolving back into spirit particles, the cycle is maintained, and balance isn't disrupted.
However, if they're consumed by Hollows, it becomes a different matter.
A soul devoured by a Hollow strengthens Hueco Mundo's forces and disrupts the equilibrium. That's why Shinigami are dispatched to eliminate and purify Hollows.
As Gosuke Shigure quietly observed Zaraki's ruinous landscape, he found himself thinking about that phrase—"resources are limited."
Are they really?
Not quite.
In Rukongai, yes, scarcity is real. But in Seireitei? That's where excess thrives.
While some souls in the outer districts bleed and die for a sip of clean water, the noble families in Seireitei live in grandeur—satin robes, gleaming halls, and delicacies imported from the Living World.
The lie of scarcity is perpetuated to justify the nobles hoarding resources.
In the past, there had been revolts—uprisings led by desperate civilians seeking to overthrow the elite and redistribute power.
But the nobles crushed those efforts.
They sealed themselves inside Seireitei behind walls of privilege and spiritual authority, deciding who could become Shinigami and who couldn't, effectively controlling the gateway to opportunity.
Even those who manage to become Shinigami are shackled to the Gotei 13, and the Gotei, in turn, obeys Central 46—a system built entirely by the nobility.
"In the end, the world is shaped by the Five Great Noble Houses."
"The nobles… they're the true victors."
"For a commoner to shatter that system... it's almost impossible."
As Gosuke's mind returned to the present, his eyes landed on the victor of the recent skirmish.
A rugged middle-aged man stood over his fallen opponents, clutching a bloodied kitchen knife.
He had slain four others in battle. Though he bore deep wounds, his focus was on gulping down the pink-tinged water beside him—desperate, frenzied.
Then he noticed Gosuke Shigure.
His eyes narrowed.
Shinigami?
Not exactly.
This soul had never seen a Gotei 13 captain before. He only knew that Shinigami wore black. This man in front of him, cloaked in black but with a white haori over it, felt... unfamiliar.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Come to steal my water too?"
The man's voice was feral, distrustful.
Gosuke shook his head, voice calm.
"I'm not here for your water. I just have a question."
"What question?"
"In the Zaraki District... who's the strongest fighter?"
The question caught the man off-guard. He blinked, then grinned wickedly.
"Do you even need to ask?" he boasted. "Of course, it's me!"
"Didn't you see? I just carved up four of 'em! You looking for a demonstration?!"
He raised his blade, but before he could move—
Gosuke disappeared.
A flash step later, the man was airborne, crashing hard into the parched ground. Pain exploded across his chest as he coughed and wheezed.
"Ugh...!"
Gosuke walked over slowly, peering down at the writhing man.
"Doesn't look like you're the strongest."
"Now tell me... who is the strongest in the Zaraki District?"
"If your answer isn't satisfactory, you will regret it."
The man began to tremble.
He knew how things worked out here. The strong lived, the weak died.
Quickly, he searched his memory—who had everyone feared the most? Who had never been challenged twice?
Then he remembered.
A name. A legend. A monster.
He whispered, then spoke louder, "Wait... I know who it is!"
"There's someone—no, something—in this district. Stronger than anyone I've ever seen."
"They call him... Zaraki."
"Not a name... more like a title. Taken from this very place."
"Over the years, warriors from all over came to challenge him... none of them ever walked away."
"He doesn't fight for water. Doesn't care about food. He fights... just to fight."
"This entire hellhole is his hunting ground."
Gosuke nodded slightly.
"Good. Now take me to him."
The man winced, clutching his ribs, but obeyed. He didn't know where exactly the monster lived, but there were rumors, and faint trails of his past encounters. If they were lucky, they might find him.
And so, wounded but terrified, he led Gosuke Shigure deeper into the wilderness of the Zaraki District.
Eventually, they reached a dry forest. The trees were brittle and leafless, scorched by the relentless sun. Even nature here seemed to have given up.
Under the biggest tree—providing the only scrap of shade—a large man was sprawled out, fast asleep. His haori was ragged, his chest bare, and next to him lay a long, chipped zanpakutō scarred with countless nicks and bite marks.
That sword, though worn, had clearly tasted countless lives.
The guide hesitated, then called out shakily:
"Zaraki-sama! Someone wants to challenge you!"
The man under the tree stirred, opening one eye lazily.
Zaraki Kenpachi had awakened.