Darkness.
Pain.
Silence.
Warm blood spilling from his chest.
Issei's gaze — frozen, lifeless.
Kurogane's merciless laughter before everything faded...
And then, absolute nothingness.
No body. No mind.
No time.
But then…
An eye opened in the darkness.
A single, massive eye — forged of both shadow and light — stared at him from the infinite, as if all of existence had converged into that gaze.
And a voice — deep, powerful, ancient — thundered inside his mind, reverberating like storms across a hollow valley:
— My... blood... awakens... in you.
Motohama tried to speak, but no sound came.
The eye shut, and then the void tore apart into fragments of bluish light, and he was hurled back—
FOOM!
As if sucked through a vortex of cold, merciless blue light, Motohama was thrown back into the world of the living.
His body rematerialized with a dull thud—
THUD!
He collapsed to his knees on the cold wooden floor of his bedroom.
The digital clock on the nightstand read:
"18:30"
The ceiling fan spun lazily above.
His phone lay tossed on the desk.
A distant car hummed down the street.
And his own reflection — distorted in the wardrobe mirror —
Pale. Sweaty. Alive.
Motohama gasped, eyes wide, breath short.
His hands trembled like dry leaves in the wind.
— W-what...? — he murmured, in disbelief.
The chest that had been pierced moments ago… was now intact. As if it had never happened.
But he remembered.
Every second.
Every blow.
Every choked scream.
And then — right before his eyes — a translucent window appeared, casting blue light across the dim room:
[Unique Skill Unlocked]
「RE:START」
Effect: Whenever Kusanagi Motohama is killed, he returns 24 hours in time, retaining all memories and able to copy one ability or power from the one who killed him.
[Copied Power: Essence of Bleach... Essence of the Heir Yhwach — Activated]
Staggering, he rose and walked toward the mirror.
When he saw himself, a shiver ran down his spine.
His eyes — once hidden behind thick glasses — were now bare, wide open, glowing with a cold, translucent blue like eternal crystals.
Around his irises, delicate marks — like ancient arcane runes — shimmered and faded in rhythmic pulses.
But before he could grasp what was happening, the mirror shattered.
As if made of liquid glass, it burst into a thousand fragments, opening into a silent, black portal.
Motohama stepped back, but gravity had changed —
There was no floor, no ceiling, no walls anymore.
He was falling.
Falling slowly… into an infinite void.
And then… he stopped.
Suspended, floating in a white, silent world where nothing existed —
except for a colossal presence, surrounding him from all directions.
And in front of him, as if emerging from the very fabric of nothingness, a figure appeared:
Tall. Imposing.
Draped in a flowing white cloak that vanished into the nonexistent horizon.
Long black hair fell heavily across broad shoulders.
A thick beard framed an austere face, with eyes black as abysses, staring at Motohama like one observes an insect…
or a son.
Motohama didn't need to ask who it was.
He knew.
As if that image had been carved into his spiritual DNA since the beginning of time.
Yhwach.
The progenitor — the King of the Quincy.
His voice echoed not in the ears, but directly in Motohama's soul —
Powerful. Inevitable. Like a cosmic law:
— My power... has awakened within you.
Motohama's knees buckled, but he didn't fall.
He was frozen. Gasping. Unable to even scream.
Yhwach stepped forward — and space trembled with that single movement, as if reality itself bent under the weight of his presence.
— When a Quincy dies... their power returns to me. But you... did not die.
Yhwach raised his hand, and a current of black light — streaked with pale blue threads — surged from his chest and pierced the void, connecting directly to Motohama's heart.
Motohama arched back, screaming soundlessly as Yhwach's essence fused into his soul —
like liquid fire surging through his veins.
Burning. Tearing.
And then… forging. Recreating.
Yhwach approached, lowering his head until his face was close to Motohama's.
— You… who returned from death. Who copied a fragment of my essence. Now, inevitably…
He gently touched Motohama's chest — right above the frantic heartbeat.
— My blood flows within you, Kusanagi Motohama… My power… my legacy… my essence…
Motohama stepped back, terrified:
— I… I don't want this…
But Yhwach raised his hand — and with a single gesture, the spiritual particles in the air stirred violently, swirling around Motohama like a silent storm.
Fuuuuuuuum...
Motohama, grunting in both pain and ecstasy, felt a searing mark engrave itself onto his chest — the Quincy symbol in its purest and oldest form, branded in spiritual fire.
— Accept… or be destroyed.
With no other choice, Motohama screamed:
— AAAAARGH!
A wave of overwhelming power surged through him —
forging, molding, transforming every atom of his being.
Spiritual veins pulsed beneath his skin.
The runes on his eyes shone brightly.
And then, instinctively, he raised his hand—
The spiritual particles around him converged instantly, forming a weapon of pure blue and white light.
A Quincy bow.
Perfect.
Instinctive.
Natural.
Motohama's gaze now radiated a sharp, glacial light —
his pupils tinged dark blue, with a black Quincy star embedded at the center of each iris.
Yhwach smiled faintly and declared:
— You are now… my heir.
Motohama swallowed hard, chest heaving.
— Heir...?
Yhwach turned his back to him, beginning to dissolve like dark mist:
— Live. Kill. Die. Return… And grow ever stronger.
The void shattered like glass — and Motohama screamed as he fell once more.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in his room.
The fan spun.
The moon still shone.
But now…
He was no longer the same.
Slowly, he stood.
Raised his hand —
And with a simple gesture, materialized a small arrow of pure Reishi, hovering silently and lethally above his palm.
He stepped toward the mirror.
Stared at his reflection—
The same face.
The same glasses.
But now, with eyes that carried the weight of a lineage he had never even dreamed of.
Motohama clenched his fists, feeling the Reishi pulse through him, ready to be shaped, fired, unleashed as a weapon.
— You won't kill us again… — he whispered, his voice laced with cold, controlled fury.
Not this time.
He was no longer just Kusanagi Motohama — the loser, the mediocre.
He was a reborn Quincy.
A man who could no longer be truly killed.
If he died — he would return.
If defeated — he would learn.
And this time… he would learn how to win.
A quiet, grim smile curled his lips.
"I am… the Heir of the King."
And beneath the cold light of the night,
Motohama knew that this time...
He wouldn't run.
This time…
he would hunt.