Bleach: Sea of butterflies

The sky was deep and dark as Musashi swung his katana in silence, lost in the rhythmic trance of his endless training. The stars glittered above him, indifferent witnesses to the quiet turmoil that lingered within. The girl was asleep inside, her breathing a gentle whisper beneath the hum of crickets, while Musashi's blade sliced through the night air, unyielding.

A shuffling sound broke the silence. Musashi paused only briefly as the old man, Rangiku Kajaba, approached, settling himself down beside Musashi on the rough ground. "I must thank you for saving my granddaughter and me," Old man said softly, his voice carrying a warm gratitude.

Musashi continued to swing, eyes forward, focused. "You are welcome."

The old man chuckled, clearly surprised by the response. "Hohoho, well, that was unexpected."

"What was?" Musashi asked, his voice as steady as his blade.

"I figured you'd ignore us entirely, too focused on your sword to notice the world around you," the old man replied, his tone light, almost teasing.

Another swing. "You were wrong," Musashi replied simply.

Old man watched him carefully, seeing something more than just a tireless warrior. He saw the shadow of sorrow, the pain of loss still weighing heavily on the young man's shoulders. "Well, you're quite a surprise, young man," he remarked thoughtfully, smiling faintly as he observed the young man with an understanding gleaned from a lifetime of experience. "You've been through a lot, haven't you?"

Musashi didn't answer, continuing his rhythm of swing after swing. The old man took his silence as consent and settled down further, reclining slightly. "You know, my bones are getting too old for this wandering life," he mused. "This house of yours—it's a good place for rest."

"You can stay in it, if you want," Musashi said. "I have no use for it."

Old man chuckled again, his voice warm in the cool night air. "How old are you, young man?"

"Don't know. Somewhere in my twenties," he answered curtly.

The old man's eyes widened slightly. "That young? I thought you were much older, perhaps around my age."

Musashi frowned, confused. "What makes you say that?"

"You're… hardened, like a shinigami—a soul forged by battles and time," Rangiku observed. "The way you carry yourself, with such calm resignation. Not many men reach such a state so young."

Musashi said nothing, merely swinging his blade with relentless focus. The old man noticed the way he moved, the grim determination that hid in each powerful strike. Musashi swung with a purpose, but not for growth. He swung to keep something inside at bay, to shield himself from the echoes of a past that haunted him.

Finally, the old man introduced himself formally, bowing his head. "My name is Rangiku Kayaba, and thank you again for saving my granddaughter. Her name is Sensha, by the way."

Swing. "You should go to sleep, Rangiku-san."

The old man nodded and rose slowly, leaving Musashi to his silent vigil under the starlit sky.

---

The morning light filtered through the trees, casting a warm glow across the overgrown grounds as Sensha watched Musashi from a distance, her eyes bright with admiration and curiosity. She approached him cautiously, gripping a small stick in her hands, before calling out, "Big brother! Will you teach me how to do the swinging thing you did to those bad men? Please?"

Musashi's gaze was unreadable as he continued his practice. "No."

Sensha's face fell, and she pouted, crossing her arms. "Why not?"

He gave no answer, only resuming his swings. Frustrated but determined, she huffed and raised her own stick, trying to mimic his movements. Old man sat nearby, watching with a knowing smile as she struggled to lift the stick, her movements clumsy and unbalanced. After just a few minutes, she was gasping for air, wiping the sweat from her brow.

"How… can you… do that all day?" she panted, barely able to hold her "sword" steady.

"Discipline and training," he replied, his voice calm and impassive.

Sensha puffed up her cheeks in frustration. "Big brother, you're a meanie!"

Musashi didn't respond, his eyes fixed ahead, his focus unwavering. But as he continued his routine, Sensha wandered around the house, poking at the overgrown grass and pebbles, until she stumbled upon a small stone tablet near the rear of the house. Curiously, she bent down, brushing away the moss to reveal faded words carved into the stone: *Masaharu Family.*

Next to it, she noticed an empty grave, freshly dug. Her heart thumped as she stared at the simple marker, questions bubbling up in her mind. She returned to Musashi, tugging at his sleeve with childlike persistence. "Big brother, is your name Masaharu?"

Musashi stopped mid-swing, a shadow passing over his face. He looked down at her with a heavy gaze. "Yes," he answered quietly. "My full name is Masaharu Musashi. How did you find out?"

"I saw the tombstone," she replied innocently. "It says Masaharu Family. There's even a… hole next to it. Is that for… your family?"

Kayaba approached, overhearing the conversation, his expression softening. "How did they die, Musashi?" he asked gently, though he had already guessed the answer.

Musashi's eyes darkened as he turned away, raising his katana and resuming his rhythm. "They were slaughtered by a hollow," he replied, his voice empty. "Only I survived."

Rangiku nodded in understanding, placing a comforting hand on Sensha's shoulder, guiding her back toward the house. As he began preparing a simple meal for them, he watched Musashi outside, the ceaseless swinging of his blade a poignant reminder of the young man's unyielding sorrow.

Later that evening, as the fire crackled and filled the air with the savory scent of cooking fish, Sensha crept outside, stick in hand. She prodded Musashi's cheek with the stick until he finally lowered his sword, his gaze flickering with faint irritation.

"Big brother, do you want some fish? We're cooking it right now," she said with a grin, gesturing toward the makeshift campfire.

Musashi nodded silently and followed her to the small fire. He settled beside them, and Rangiku offered him a stick with a grilled fish skewered on it. Musashi accepted it, eating quietly, his focus trained on the fire as if it held the answers to all his unspoken questions. After finishing, he stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes.

"I'll be leaving tomorrow morning," he said simply, his voice low.

Sensha's face fell, and she looked to old man, ready to protest. But Kayaba held up a hand, nodding in silent understanding. Musashi returned to the front yard, resuming his endless practice under the light of the flickering stars. When morning came, Sensha and Rangiku waited at the exit to the house, watching as Musashi sheathed his blade and approached them.

Sensha ran to him, wrapping her small arms around his waist. "Stay safe, big brother," she whispered, her voice tinged with sadness.

Musashi ruffled her hair gently, giving her a slight nod before turning and walking away. They watched him until he disappeared from view, a lone figure fading into the horizon.

---

The district buzzed with life as Musashi wandered through its crowded streets. He stopped occasionally, asking for directions, his quiet demeanor met with varied responses. Some people sneered or ignored him, while others offered polite gestures, pointing him toward the destination he sought.

At last, he arrived at the gates of the Shin'ō Academy, where rows of hopeful applicants lined up, waiting for their turn. Musashi observed the proceedings, watching as each candidate placed a hand on a glowing orb to measure their reiatsu. When his turn came, he stepped forward, laying his hand on the orb. It hummed beneath his palm, glowing with a steady, intense light.

The examiner raised an eyebrow, nodding in acknowledgment. "Reiatsu level: seated shinigami. State your name for the record."

"Masaharu Musashi," he replied, his voice steady.

The examiner noted his name and pointed him toward a booth where an elderly, bald instructor waited. As Musashi approached, the instructor eyed him with a curious glint.

"So, you've been admitted, brat," the instructor grunted, pulling a plain sword from a rack behind him. "This is an asauchi. It's a basic blade for new students here."

Musashi held up his hand in a gentle refusal, pulling his own katana from his side and presenting it. The instructor's eyes widened, his interest piqued. "You already have a zanpakuto?"

Musashi blinked, unfamiliar with the term. The instructor took a moment, then explained, "An asauchi forms a bond with its wielder over time, eventually connecting with their soul. When that bond is deep enough, the blade gains a name, and that's when it becomes a zanpakuto."

Musashi considered the explanation, then shook his head. "My blade has no name. It hasn't spoken to me."

The instructor seemed relieved but intrigued. "Well, let's hope it does someday, boy," he muttered, handing Musashi a slip of paper with his assigned room number on it. "Room

 120."

Musashi accepted it, nodding as he made his way to the dormitory. Standing at the door to his assigned room, he placed a hand over his heart, his gaze softening.

"Everyone… I did it. I've become a shinigami."

(End of a chapter)