Chapter 1 - Walking Dead 

   A sound echoes over the countryside, bouncing between hills and valleys, carried on the winds. It’s an other-worldly sound, like the cry of a desperate animal in painful starvation; a shrieking, malevolent roar. 

   Beneath a dark sky, only briefly illuminated by a reclusively shy moon, the origin of these calls is revealed - a beast, as large as a bear, perched atop a mound at the edge of a dense forest, like a predator observing its fertile hunting grounds. 

   From its glimmering twin rows of teeth, deep set into an emotionless, cold mask, strands of putrid saliva ooze, dripping down its jaw as its empty eyes scan the darkness for the monster's next victim. 

   It can smell death, its stench clinging to the very landscape all around it. There are oh so many spirits wandering these blasted fields and desolate wastes. So much variety that it’s been a virtual buffet for the creature. But a Hollow’s hunger is never satisfied. It must consume more, more human souls, enough to quell its agonising urge to devour. 

   A huge, grotesque tongue licks at the bony protrusions on its face, like a glutton wetting its lips. Steam rises from its nostrils as it catches the scent of something unfamiliar on the breeze. The Hollow turns its bulky mass around to peer deep into the woods behind it, certain that someone is there. 

   “Come out of the shadows Soul Reaper.” it speaks in a deep, bone chilling voice, a hint of prideful confidence apparent in its tone. He receives no response. The world is still… That is until a blinding flash of light fills his vision, the shimmer of a sword’s blade becoming the last thing this demon will ever see. 

   The next morning, as the clock nears seven fifteen, the sun shimmers through a curtain of mist and white smoke. The air seems to vibrate with the pounding of incessant concussive blasts. Shockwaves rip across the landscape, and licks of fire shoot up from the earth as chunks the size of boulders are flung high into the sky, crashing back down like falling stars. A belt of destruction winds a path for as far as the eye can see, a fuzzy, shapeless mass of constant explosions, again, and again, and again! 

    Every man on the British front line knows what is to come. The bombardment shakes the teeth in their skulls, it squeezes their eyeballs, turns their legs to mush - Yet it must be worse for the Germans. Still they sit, some cry, some stare blankly. Many are drunk, intoxicated on copious gallons of rum delivered the night before. They are all ready; their rifles in hand, heavy haversacks on, entrenching tool, bayonet, mess tin, everything accounted for, everything weighing them down. 

   They crouch in the shallow, narrow trench, shoulder to shoulder as debris from the artillery fire showers overhead. Among these men is Private Johnson Wolf. Dressed in his brand new service dress and steel brodie, he carries his rifle, a Lee Enfield, clumsily slung on its sling up his back. He’s new here, just transferred in, a fresh recruit. Most of these soldiers are in fact. Many have known each other for a long time, school boys, pals battalions. They have come here, to France, to do their duty, for King and country.

   Breathing heavily, his body barely able to move under 70 pounds of kit, Johnson notices the soldier next to him fumbling about, his hands shaking like leaves as he paws at his water canteen. 

   “Let me, Sergeant.” John says as he takes the metal bottle to unscrew the cap for his superior officer. He receives no thanks, the man is too afraid to utter a word. 

   Then… Silence. The explosions cease, the bombardment has lifted. It should be wonderful, yet it is anything but. It is now 7:30 am and a shriek comes down the line, a terrifying sound, worse than any artillery, a whistle, then another. The men get to their feet, some clambering up short ladders, others heaving up over the parapets, John among them. 

   Out into No Mans Land they go, and immediately a hail of gunfire sweeps the field. Some men are cut down with one foot still in the trench, others make it less than a few metres before falling down. Some are more lucky, if you can call it that, and begin their impossible march across this barren, desolate wasteland - And a march it is; they don't run, they don't even attempt to hide, they just walk forward at a steady pace, forward into death. 

   Before the advance lies the British wave of barbed wire, cut through with passages in preparation for the battle. The men filter through these causeways easy enough, so to speak. It's a madhouse of an environment to be sure, great flashes of light pepper the near horizon like sequins shining on a dress, and a thunderous symphony of chugging machine guns echoes over the countryside. The air itself buckles as streams of lead cut through like swarms of enraged insects, finding targets here, and there. 

   But the onward march continues, the men push on, fewer and fewer. Johnson has made it this far, his fresh uniform already caked in the thickest mud you’ve ever seen, his boots threatening to be pulled off in the slurry. His eyes are hazy with tears and flush with adrenaline. He wishes he could run, but where to. It's all so confusing, is any of this even real? How could such insanity be real?

   “Stick with us lad!” Calls out the soldier just beside Johnson. “We all stay together!”

   Johnson nods in agreement, but almost immediately a passing curtain of smoke blocks his sight of the man, and he never sees him again. Johnson finds himself alone, he knows there are thousands and thousands of men all around him, he can hear them screaming, but he can't see them. 

   Finally, after what felt like an eternity Johnson makes it across the wastes, only for his hope to be shattered. Before him stands a mass of barbed wire, so thick and dense a cat could not find its way through, so oppressive it appears little more than a solid black wall. This was not supposed to be here, the bombardment which had been continuous for weeks was meant to have annihilated this, yet here it stands, untouched. There is no way through, not without cutting the wire. But that would take forever, and forever Johnson doesn't have, as unfortunately just as the defences remain in place, so does a German mounted gun only a few yards away. 

   John never sees it coming. It's more confusing than anything else, to be shot. Almost as if he was punched from out of nowhere, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he slips back and slides down into the shallow ditch of a shell crater. The young man can hardly scream, he has no idea how badly injured he is, even his body hasn't processed the pain yet.

   An explosion goes off nearby, showering Johnson in debris as he lays in the muck, the pool of stagnant water quickly turning red as he bleeds out. He notices a few other men approach the wire back on the surface. They don't give him even a glance, they don't have the time before they are all cut to ribbons and fall out of sight. All across the line this story plays out, man after man, slaughtered. 

   The air becomes thick once again with mist, smoke from firing guns and creeping barrages elsewhere along the front, lowering visibility to nothing. Time seems to slow for Johnson, his senses waver, ears defend, legs numb. He’s just a young lad from Sheffield, he wanted to be a hairdresser. As his head sinks back into the mud he notices one last thing, something unusual - a soldier cowering over his own dead body, a strange metal chain attached to his chest. Then he spies another a little further away, wandering around with one arm, a third with his stomach blown out, a fourth trying to pull off his own chain. 

   Then from out of the smoke emerges a bizarre arrival. A group of about ten people come walking slowly perpendicular to the German line. They are not dressed as soldiers, and seemingly pay no attention to the bullets whizzing by, almost as if they don't get hit at all. They wear long black robes which billow in the wind, black hoods, their faces covered by a simple white cloth so that only their eyes appear visible. Large brown capes, or cloaks wave out behind them as they come silently across the battlefield. 

   Each apparition carries a large amphora, one hand on the bottom, another by a handle. Soon they pass by one of the panicking chained up soldiers, and as they do the man calms down, his body shimmers with a bluish-white glow, and his form fades into an energy which is pulled into the nearest jug. Every man they pass does; filtered into ghostly energy and contained away. 

   In only a few moments this reaper's march arrives over Johnson. He hadn't noticed he’d already given up his mortal body, a chain bound to his own chest. The group walks by, their gaze never leaving the path ahead, never looking at the spirits before them. Johnson feels calm all of a sudden, he can feel a smile forming on his face, a warm tingly feeling on his skin. His body glows bright, as had the others, and his soul is drawn into an ornate jug. The robed figures continue on, almost seeming to glide over the hellish landscape. They disappear into the smoke once again, and all that can be seen of them is the occasional flash of blue light, like lighting in a distant storm. 

   An infinite clear blue sky hangs over the Soul Society, painted with the occasional patch of white clouds. The air is still, everything serine, harmonious. The sun bakes the ground with a pleasant warmth, and there is a slight scent of sweetness on the breeze. Somewhere distant the sound of activity can be heard, people running about, but it's overcome by the sound of peaceful birdsong. 

   Close to the centre of the mighty walled city known as the Seireitei a beam of light erupts into the vast open skies, emanating from the columned courtyard of the Great Senkaimon - the gateway between the world of the spirits and that of the living. The heavy doors heave open, flooding the yard with blinding light as members of the Kido Corps maintain the connection. 

   One by one the group of robbed figures emerge from the light, stepping out into the huge open space. Usually this area would be well maintained, kept clear and peaceful, however as of recently the senkaimon has become something of a freight yard. Carts are parked up all around, piled high with the same two-handed-jugs that the figures cradle tightly. Each of them places down their cargo, becoming lost in a sea of almost identical pottery. Here and there Soul Reapers conduct intake, scribbling down notes, recording incoming and outgoing amphora, pushing carts away and bringing in new ones. 

   One of the Soul Reapers who just returned sighs a deep, relieved breath as she takes down her hood and unclips her mask. She adjusts her short black hair, her eyes wet with emotion, affected by the nightmare of the Human World. After taking a moment to watch over the many hundreds of pots, Katsumi Shinobu averts her eyes and slowly makes her way out of the courtyard, back home to the Squad Ten barracks. 

   The sun drifts down approaching the horizon casting long inky shadows across the plazas, avenues and gardens of the Sereitei. At the Tenth Division squad members slowly filter into the rather subdued compound, fatigued after a long day tending to their duties, either here in the Soul Society, or out in the World of the Living. The war has forced everyone to do their part. There is no room for idleness, not now. But just as human soldiers require rest, so do Shinigami, and as the day draws to a close many simply disappear off to their quarters. 

   There’s a beautiful small rock garden near the centre of the barracks, and off to one side, in the darkening shade of a canopied walkway, Katsumi leans against a railing in quiet solitude. Her head is so full of thoughts right now that she tries in vain to focus on the sound of the water bubbling over the pebbles in the nearby rockery. Yet it is no use, the whole situation is just too frustrating. The poor young Shinigami is so terribly distracted by her thoughts that she fails to notice the presence approaching behind her. 

   “Well someones giving off gloomy energy.” Jokes Captain Isshin Shiba, his voice shattering the quiet and causing Shinobu to jump with fright. 

   “Don't sneak up on me like that!” Katsumi yells in surprise before she realises who she is addressing. “Oh, Captain Shiba!? I didn't know it was you, Sir. Please forgive my outburst.” she continues, giving a quick, submissive bow. Her superior simply chuckles and ruffles his large hand through her jet black hair, motioning the girl to stand with him at the edge of the barrier. 

   “I was just out for my afternoon stroll and I could sense you from across the garden. Something’s troubling you.” 

   “It’s really nothing Sir. Please, get back to enjoying your evening.”

   “You're… Twentieth seat, right?”

   “No, Sir. Nineteenth. Katsumi Shinobu.”

   “Ahh, right. Sorry, it's easy to forget these things. Well Shinobu, as Captain, it is my job to look out for those under my command. So what's wrong? 

   “I was on Soul Syphon duty today…” 

   “I see. You must have seen some terrible things out there.” Isshin says as he scratches at his stubble covered broad chin.

   “Yes… But I’m a Soul Reaper, I’m used to death. That's not what it is. It's the syphons. With a normal Konso you can offer some comfort to a spirit, to reassure them, to give them peace of mind that they are being sent to a better place. Just a few words can make all the difference. But with those containers it’s all so… cold, industrial, impersonal.”

   “That is true. The soul syphons are an archaic piece of technology. I wish we didn't have to use them, but with the number of humans dying in this conflict performing a Konso for every one would be just impractical. I do wish there was another way.”

   “I understand why we have to use them. I hope the humans stop fighting soon.” 

   “I think we all do. It's been two years and it's taking its toll on everyone. Death is our business, but… so much of it. I’m glad you care so much for the human souls - Not every Soul Reaper is so thoughtful.” 

   “It is our purpose, Sir.” Katsumi says with prideful determination. 

   “One of many. If I might offer you some comfort about the syphons: a soul inside feels nothing, not even the passage of time. From their perspective they are sucked up one moment, and spilled out the next. They’ll be just fine.”

   “I didn't know that. Ha! I bet that annoys Squad Four. They have to spend days untangling all the spiritual energy.”

   “Well when you mix a thousand souls into one container things get messy. Thanks for the talk Shinobu. Now go get some rest. And try and forget the things you saw out there, they don't do anyone any good.” 

   “I should thank you, Captain. Have a good night!” Smiles Katsumi. Captain Shiba returns the gesture and continues on his evening walk, plodding down the wooden walkway until out of sight. He’s a good man, Katsumi is glad that of all the captains in the Gotei 13 she serves under him. But he was right, a tiredness suddenly overcomes the petite girl. She really should get some sleep.

   It nears midnight over the Soul Society. The streets and passageways lay silent and still, baring the rogue odd troublemaker getting drunk down secluded alleyways. At the courtyard of the Great Senkaimon things are not quite so inactive however. A multitude of guards stand at their post, or walk routes around the area, bathed in the flickering glow of numerous torches. The cart-loads of soul syphon pots remain stacked close to the middle of the yard, clearly today was quite bloody for human losses. 

   Near one of the large pillars at the edge of the tower on which the senkaimon sits; a lone guard stands, his eyes growing heavy with fatigue. Every night for the past few weeks he has been placed on guard duty. It's an important job, but so very boring. Nothing ever happens, it's just the same day in, day out. But not tonight. 

   From behind the pillar a shadow moves, a dark outline of some hidden figure, moving slowly, deliberately. The lone Soul Reaper leans back and breathes a deep, sleep deprived yawn - and at that very moment his assailant reaches out to snap the unfortunate watchman's neck. 

   Things escalate quickly in the aftermath: as several more shadowy, black-clad intruders scrabble up the pillars to run across the surrounding arches. They move with expert precision, each dropping down or leaping over to yet more oblivious guards, silently spilling blood with small daggers, felling the defenders within moments. 

   The courtyard is littered with half a dozen Shinigami corpses, and the carts of jars stand ripe for the picking. Indeed the eight assassins quickly rush for their plunder, using their blades to slice the rope’s binding the syphons together. As they grab what they came for however an ear splitting sound rings out across the area, the sound of a mallet hitting wood. The ninja-like killers look over to see one last Soul Reaper who wasn't there earlier. He must have just returned, and is quite the sharp one to sound the alarm so quickly. 

   Within moments the sound of rushing feet approach the courtyard as a small army of reapers descend on the position. Wasting no time the mysterious figures retreat with their stolen goods in hand, running to the colossal gate of the senkaimon. One of their members places his hands against its surface, and quite to the Soul Reaper's amazement, the structure obeys his command and opens. The night is illuminated by the heavenly light of the gateway as a single Hell Butterfly emerges to escort the gang through to the World of the Living. They each vanish into the light, and the portal closes with a loud bang. 

   Despite their efforts no Sinigami is fast enough to prevent their escape. It all happened so quickly. Many men stand dumbfounded, others rush to check on the fallen, and still others run off to inform the higher authorities. For the first time in many years Soul Reaper blood has been spilt inside the Seireitei, and on top of that; who knows how many human souls have just been stolen.