Clink
Krr
Clink
Krr
The rhythmic sounds of metal against stone echo throughout the valley of Rukongai District 77, Sōshō (創傷,
lit. Wound). The heads of pickaxes scrape against the scabbed remains of a dead land. In hundreds, they pick and pull at the festering wound, digging deeper and deeper into the flesh of the soul society beneath them. The ringing of their labor haunts the valley for miles, as they toil away.Once, this place was a prosperous farm land, home to a village of simple-minded folk, tending to their simple lives. Those who lived here believed that the ground they walked upon was sacred. Indeed, the soil of District 77 is one of the most luscious in all of Soul Society, sought after as a prized fertilizer even to this day. It was said that if a man planted a seed in Sōshō in the morning, by night he would have an entire crop. Some believe this to be an exaggeration, others knew different.
The community thrived for a time, but with prosperity comes those who seek to profit off the success of others. Bandits flocked to Sōshō, flourishing just as much as the simple farmers. They flooded the fields with the blood of innocents. Being so far from the Seireitei, the villagers of this place were left to fend for themselves. Pushed to the far edges of desperation, the villagers did what they always had done, they turned to the land. There beneath their very feet, they found blood for blood.
The discovery seemed to save them at first. Bestowed with new power, their prayers had been answered. Little did they know that by tapping into the lifeblood of their land, they unleashed a blight far worse than bandits. The blight of Shinigami.
Now, not a single thing grows in this barren place. Long abandoned after the eradication of all life, the soft soil and luscious crops have been scrapped away down to the callous and black bedrock. Where once there was a blossoming village, now there is only a desolate pit. Here the digging and scrapping is accompanied by dark plumes of smoke, which rise from its depths to pollute the air. An excavation site, which serves to dredge up the dark secret of the past and resurrect the history of the wounded district. A hive of insects, mosquitoes flocking to gorge themselves on the source of this land’s corrupted power. The source of the Soul King’s Blood.
Abandoned and desperate, the souls of the Rukongai have gathered at this place. Making their camp around the abysmal pit, their tents and canopies extend in every direction for as far as the eye can see. Not merely a hobbled community of forlorn refugees, this is the organized headquarters of an army of angered extremists. As the sounds of excavation ring out, so too do the unified steps of trained soldiers marching, the clanging of steel against steel, the grinding of weapons against the whetstone, the barking of orders, and shouting of men.
In the center of this camp great machines rise and fall from the site, carrying crates of barrels in and out of the depths of the pit. While along the edges, a wall surrounds the campground for miles on end. Five feet wide by twenty feet tall, it is composed of massive chunks of black stone, cemented together but what appears to be coagulated blood. Such a structure would do well to ward off the prying eyes of bandits and such other threats, but seemed a trivial defense against the likes of Shinigami. No, the encampment had its own message for Soul Reapers.
Lining the road into the camp’s only entrance, are wooden pillars of death. Impaled upon these rudimentary pikes are the remains of men clad in black robes. A strange combination of thieves and Shinigami, butchered indiscriminately as a clear warning to both. What makes matters even more dire, to those who possess such insight, is that the corpses of the Shinigami are not solely those of Seventh Division patrol units. In equal numbers to these, are the remains of Onmitsukidō agents. Why would the Onmitsukidō be here, with an entourage of Seventh Division, apparently in the company of thieves? The answer would be clear only to those Shinigami who hail from the Second Division, the moment their eyes lay upon the entrance itself.
On either side of the gateway heading in, two bodies stand out from the rest. Each body sits limp, tied to their poles rather than impaled, broken and beaten instead of dismembered. They were kept in one piece, to look upon the deaths of their comrades helplessly as they themselves slowly died from their wounds and starvation, exposed to the harsh elements of their grim environment. They are the true examples, the true message of this morbid warning. One, a thief clad in a black hood, the other a monk donning orange prayer beads, despite their differences in appearance,and unknown to the common onlooker, they are both Shinigami.
Little else can be heard amongst the commotion of the legion of extremists, who work to deplete the land of its righteous power for their own righteous cause. The cacophony of turmoil amongst the legion’s camp serves to drown out all noise that would distract them from anything besides their nefarious goal. Yet, among the thunderous workings of excavation sites and battle preparations, one drowned out sound is perhaps the most significant.
“.....nng…”
It is the single labored breath of a resilient man thought to be dead. The long lost Xiaolin….lives.
