Ever since Unohana and I began sleeping in separate rooms, a thin frost settled between us.
It was inevitable. We hadn't split beds for some cheerful reason; it happened because the two of us failed to understand each other.
No—sleeping apart for a "good reason" is a contradiction in terms.
So how far has the gap grown…?
"…She's already gone."
I'd wake up, set breakfast on the table, and when she didn't come out I'd knock on her door—only to find the room empty, her scent long since faded.
We weren't anywhere near divorce, but it was clear we were keeping each other at arm's length.
Yet I neither took the initiative to mend the rift nor offered an apology.
It wasn't pride or vanity. It was the life-code I'd written with my own hands; to renounce it now would be to deny the million years I'd spent living by it.
If I admitted fault and bowed my head here, I'd be swinging the blade at my own creed. That, at least, I could not do.
Because these were the laws I set for myself.
"…."
Of course… that doesn't mean I'm at ease.
She was the first person I ever let stand beside me—the first I thought I could die with and feel no regret.
A wedge has been driven between us; how could my heart possibly be calm?
"…Haa."
A sigh, one of many these days, slipped out as I closed my eyes.
The empty space next to me felt too wide, so I opened them again.
'I never needed to sleep in the first place.'
It was true. I didn't need sleep, I didn't need food.
I only ate and slept because Unohana was there, and I wanted, at least a little, to live like a man.
Unable to catch any rest, I left the house and swung my sword in the dōjō.
Nothing empties the head quite like repetition.
Yet whether I cut a thousand times, ten thousand, a hundred thousand—whether night bled into dawn and disciples poured in until the floor was packed—my body never tired.
I wasn't even out of breath; not a drop of sweat fell.
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"Haa… haa… Master…! How… much longer… must we keep swinging…?!"
The disciples who tried to keep pace with me had all collapsed.
Guilt prickled. I declared the dōjō closed tomorrow—told them to enjoy a day off—and barred the doors.
Most cheered, but a few raised worried brows, asking after my health. Good kids.
I flashed a smile and lied, "I'm taking a little trip of my own." Then sent them home.
"…."
Yes, I lied.
There was no need, really. I could have been honest and nothing would've changed.
Once the place was empty, I set the sword down.
What I needed now was thought—yet all I'd done was swing steel. If that isn't escapism, what is?
With a bitter grin I raked a hand through my hair.
"I don't even know what I want anymore…."
A feeling of helplessness—one I hadn't tasted in ages—closed in.
Where should I start? What do I want? How do I feel? I couldn't put certainty to a single thing.
"Able to save, yet refusing… Knowing, yet doing nothing…."
—Why?! That's abandonment!
Unohana's words shot through me, lodging like thorns in my chest.
After a long while spent frozen in place, I realized the answer wasn't here. I propped the fallen sword in a corner.
I opened the barred doors and left a letter on the dōjō's tokonoma.
[Taking some air. Don't know how long I'll be. The senior instructor has full authority; let him run the hall until I return.]
What I needed now was time.
Time to sort out this maze.
Maybe it would take a while. No—definitely.
But it was necessary. If I stayed frozen, nothing would ever change.
So I told no one and stepped into the World of the Living.
I wasn't after any grand objective. I was simply putting my own advice into practice.
'If you want answers, walk the world and seek them with your own eyes.'
I'd said that to countless pilgrims; now it was my turn.
So I wandered—feet where they would, wind where it willed.
No food, no sleep, drifting like a wraith skimming the heavens.
I watched life burst into the world with a wail, and life gutter out in the hush of old age.
I saw deaths by accident and miracles of narrow escape.
I saw fervent prayer and cool deist doubt.
And in the midst of rambling, I saw a man robbed and left to die.
The north wind cut like knives; left alone he wouldn't last minutes.
I stood over him, gazing down in silence.
"Save… please save me… anyone… anyone's fine…."
Clutching the stab wound in his belly, he begged—not me, but the sky—to live.
Do I reach out? Or do I watch in stillness?
Must I exist as a god… or live as a man?
Life, or death.
In a single heartbeat, a million years replayed inside me like a panorama.
I had borne the Soul King's will and lived as a god, yet yearned for a human life.
If I truly sought pure divinity, I would have shed the world as Kagaya did.
But I refused, choosing to remain.
A god desiring a human life.
And still insisting on being a god.
Because the Soul King asked me to guard humanity?
No. It was simply greed—my own hunger.
Up to now I hadn't lived a personal life at all; I'd existed as a component of the world, hidden among its gears.
Think about it.
I always reacted to someone else's move, moved by someone else's action.
Had I ever acted purely of my own will?
I hadn't even chosen my own name; I wore the name someone else pinned on me.
Always a step back, observing, hiding behind the excuse that a god mustn't meddle in human affairs.
Yet I wanted others to call out to me, sought connection.
I butted into things that needed no interference, jabbering under the guise of asking questions.
A human wielding godhood.
A god craving humanity.
Either way—a calamity.
Aizen merely hauled that calamity into the light.
I approved of Aizen as a god; therefore the human ties I'd forged shook loose.
—Live your own life.
Ha. What a joke. All that half-baked philosophy I spat was contradiction.
I couldn't even live my own life, and I had the gall to preach?
—To be ruled by one who exists without consciousness or will is wrong.
The one living without will wasn't the Soul King—it was me.
A dry laugh escaped as Aizen Sōsuke's words surfaced.
Neither affirming nor denying is just dumping the choice on someone else.
"Do as you please" is divine impartiality, yes—but from a human angle, it's shirking responsibility.
'If rights belong to humans, then responsibility and duty must as well….'
I turned Aizen's line over softly.
I stand at the crossroads of life and death.
Die as a man with will—
Or live on as a god in the truest sense.
If I choose divinity, I will stand above the world and leave every human bond behind.
If I choose humanity, one day I will age, and death will come for me as it does for all.
So—what will I do?
No… how will I live?
"…If I have time to spare, I'll spend it doing what I want."
Right. That's what I'd always said.
I'd only mouthed the words—now, at last, I would act.
Answer settled, the long contemplation ended; I opened my eyes.
Despite all that thinking, not much time had passed. The man was still breathing.
'Good. Any longer and my meditation would've killed him.'
I exhaled in relief, knelt, and healed him swiftly.
The blade had only slipped half a handspan inside; the work was quick.
The dying man explored the smooth skin where a wound had been, eyes wide, then blinked at me.
"Did… you save me?"
"Who else? There's nobody around for miles."
He glanced about, patted his belly again, then jerked his head up.
"Thank you—thank you so much!!"
"Forget it. I did it because I felt like it. I wasn't looking for thanks or payment. Honestly, I almost walked past you. So skip the gratitude. You're alive, that's enough. I'm leaving—busy day."
He blinked, dumbstruck, but the moment I turned my back he shouted,
"Then at least—your name, savior!"
I froze mid-step, lifted my eyes to the sky, and shut them.
A name. Right… I should have one.
"Tenjin Shaku. Call me Shaku, if that's easier."
On that day, I was born again.
Not as a god—but as a man.