BLEACH: Blade of Purification

Ling Qing moved through a dilapidated city.

On the long, empty highway, countless cars of all kinds were jammed together, their doors wide open, blocking the road to the point of being impassable. More importantly, massive boulders, seemingly fallen from nowhere, had crashed onto the highway, not only flattening the vehicles but also gouging out crater after crater, like giant traps.

Looking into the distance, the city appeared as if it had been bombed. An utter, deathly silence filled the air. Skyscrapers were either toppled or bore the scars of explosions.

This city was dead.

In this city, only Ling Qing was alive, moving through it alone.

After walking for an unknown amount of time, crossing an unknown distance, Ling Qing stopped in a plaza. He could imagine how, in the past, this square would have been teeming with crowds at all hours. But now, it was far too empty, too desolate.

Standing in the plaza, Ling Qing scanned his surroundings, looking into every corner, every place where someone could possibly hide. But in the end, he saw no trace of the person he was hoping to find.

He lowered his gaze slightly and let out a helpless sigh.

"So... it's still like this..."

Then, Ling Qing opened his eyes.

What appeared before him now was a room with an antiquated charm.

It was described as "antiquated" because a sense of age was visible in both the architecture and the wooden floorboards, evident in the corners and the gaps between the wood. The building itself radiated a long history. This feeling of antiquity was not something that could be easily erased by the room's decorations.

Compared to the rustic room itself, the furnishings were all new. Instead of the common tatami mats, there was a bed, along with a desk, a cabinet, and other such items. Several decorative paintings hung on the walls. Additionally, a four-panel folding screen stood in the room. Its pattern was simple, and while it might not look like much, a discerning eye would know that the screen alone was worth several houses.

The new paper on the sliding doors, recently applied, was pristine and white.

This was Ling Qing's room, or more accurately, his personal courtyard—the same one he was in when he spoke with Shihōin Sōichirō.

Ling Qing was now a member of the Shihōin clan, the adopted son of the family head. This was an unshakable, decisive fact.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, the excessively long tachi resting on his lap. This posture was known as tōzen, or "sword meditation," a special method used by Soul Reapers to communicate with their Zanpakutō.

Through this, a Soul Reaper could enter the consciousness of their Zanpakutō—their own inner world—and converse with the Zanpakutō that resided within.

Ling Qing had already successfully transformed his Asauchi into a Zanpakutō and learned the relevant knowledge about them. Naturally, he could no longer treat it as an ordinary, replaceable weapon. Communicating with his Zanpakutō had become a matter of course.

However, it was frustrating that no matter how many times he tried, he could not find that familiar yet strange figure in the dilapidated city. He couldn't find the man who had a name so obvious, yet who had cut him off before he could speak it.

Simply put, his Zanpakutō was hiding from him, refusing to communicate.

The tables had truly turned. Previously, Ling Qing had never thought about communicating with his Zanpakutō, and now, it was avoiding him. A Soul Reaper had to learn the name of their Zanpakutō from its own mouth to achieve Shikai, and then Bankai. But now, Ling Qing couldn't even see his Zanpakutō, so how could he possibly ask for its name?

"...But the name..."

Ling Qing lowered his head, looking at the sword on his lap.

Out in an open space, its length wasn't as noticeable, but bringing it into the room made him realize just how absurdly long it was. If not for the Shihōin clan's vast and wealthy estate, it might have been difficult to even get the sword inside.

The spirit of Ling Qing's Zanpakutō. He had only seen it once, when he was in a desperately weak position against an Adjuchas-class Hollow. He had never seen it since.

Recalling the words 'he' had spoken at that time, the implication was that Ling Qing should have, and in fact, had long known its name. Every time he thought of this, Ling Qing felt as if a name was stuck in his throat, as if he could speak it naturally just by opening his mouth. But this was merely a feeling; even if he did open his mouth, he couldn't say it. It was like planning to do something one moment and forgetting it the next.

Forgetting what he should remember, unable to call out the name he should be able to speak—it was that kind of frustration.

Ling Qing sighed softly again and placed the two-meter-long Zanpakutō aside. He got off the bed, slid open the paper door, and stepped out onto the veranda.

The moment he stepped outside, a cold wind blew against him. Even Ling Qing couldn't help but shiver. He looked up at the sky. The vast sky of the Soul Society had the texture of a damp slate, and the clouds blanketing it seemed to whisper.

Because the cloud cover was so dense, the sun was not visible, but this did not mean the light was dim. On the contrary, the world was slightly brighter than usual.

Snow glare. It was a sign that snow would soon fall.

This would be the first snow Ling Qing had seen in the Soul Society.

In the blink of an eye, half a year had passed, from the height of summer to the cold of winter. From the most remote 80th District of the Rukongai to the Seireitei, the gathering place of the Soul Reapers, and even further into the realm of the Five Great Noble Clans. In just these short six months, Ling Qing's life had undergone a world-shattering transformation.

Since he possessed spiritual pressure, he no longer felt the cold after adapting to the temperature. Ling Qing leaned against a pillar on the veranda, thinking of nothing, simply watching the sky.

As if sensing his gaze, the sky did not keep him waiting long. About a minute or two later, the first snowflake began to fall. There was no terrible winter wind; the snowflakes lazily drifted down. At first, there were only one or two, but soon it turned into a heavy snowfall of goose-feather-sized flakes covering the entire Seireitei.

In an instant, it felt as if the entire world had fallen silent.

"Oh, Ling Qing!"

Ling Qing watched the snow fall gently, losing track of time. But a voice called him back to reality. Ling Qing looked toward the source of the sound.

He saw a middle-aged man with his neck shrunk down and his hands tucked into his large sleeves—his father in name, Shihōin Sōichirō.

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