Bleach: Sea of butterflies

The first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, touching the sodden ground with a faint, dispassionate glow. But to Musashi, the light felt harsh, like an insult to his pain. Nothing was warm or comforting here, not the sun, not the rain-drenched earth—only the vast, aching silence left behind by his friends' absence. On his knees, he stared down, unseeing, his hollowed eyes fixed on the blood-stained ground where they had all fought and fallen. Where he had failed.

The silence in the air pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting, as if the weight of his failure was a physical force bearing down on him. His hands dug into the cold, wet dirt, nails scraping against the gritty soil as he clenched his fists. His friends were gone, all because he hadn't been enough. The memories surged back, sharp and merciless.

Rin's hopeful face. Minoru's calm strength. Arata's loyalty. Hideaki's fire. He could still hear Hideaki's final words echoing in his mind, cruel and unrelenting: *It's all your fault.*

The thought twisted inside him, a cold blade cutting deeper each time it echoed in his mind. 'He's right,' Musashi told himself, his throat tight, his breath ragged. 'They're dead because of me. Because I wasn't strong enough. Because I froze. Because I let them down.'

His fingers loosened, trembling. Slowly, he looked around, his gaze falling on each place where they had died, each patch of earth now scarred with the blood of his friends. Shame, guilt, self-hatred—it all flooded him, dragging him under, drowning him in despair. A voice in his mind whispered, low and cruel: *They trusted you. They believed in you, and you couldn't even protect them.*

The hours stretched into a numb blur as he dug shallow graves, his hands raw and bloody. It was all he could do to keep moving, to keep himself from collapsing under the weight of his remorse. But with every handful of dirt he moved, another crack split open in his heart. And the darker thoughts continued to claw their way forward, relentless, whispering cruel truths he could not deny.

*You were weak,* the voice taunted, cold as steel. *Pathetic. Not strong like Hideaki, not brave like Rin. You didn't have a dream to keep you going, a purpose to drive you forward. You were nothing but a burden to them.*

The sun climbed higher, but he barely noticed. He was alone now, with nothing but his self-loathing to keep him company. His mind circled endlessly around the same dark thoughts, the same memories he couldn't escape. 'Why did I survive?' he wondered, bitterness flooding his chest. 'Why am I still here, while they're gone? What right do I have to go on living when they can't?'

The world around him felt gray, hollow, drained of meaning. Even the faces of his friends were beginning to blur in his mind, their voices fading, lost to the shadows of his guilt. All he could remember was the way they had died, the horror etched on their faces, their final words.

*It's all… your fault.*

The thought twisted inside him, so sharp and cutting it felt as though it was tearing him apart from the inside. The day passed, dragging into night, and still, he sat there, numb and broken, lost in his own despair. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't do anything but sit in the darkness, haunted by memories he couldn't escape.

---

For two days, Musashi didn't move from the graves. His stomach ached, his throat was dry, his muscles were cramped and sore, but he barely noticed. All he could feel was the hollow ache in his chest, the weight of his shame pressing down on him, smothering him.

With each passing hour, his mind sank deeper into the shadows, the dark thoughts circling closer, tighter, wrapping around him like chains. 'Maybe… maybe it would be better if I just disappeared,' he thought, his gaze unfocused. 'I don't belong here. I don't deserve to be here.'

The memory of Rin's dream floated to the surface of his mind, unbidden. He remembered the way her face had lit up as she talked about it, her voice filled with a quiet, determined hope.

*I want to be a shinigami. I want to help people, protect them… Maybe then, people like us can be happy.*

The thought tore at his heart, bringing fresh waves of guilt crashing over him. Her dream had been so simple, so pure. She'd wanted to make the world better, to protect others, to bring light into the darkness. And now… now she was gone. Her dream was gone, her future stolen away, all because he hadn't been strong enough to protect her.

*She believed in you,* the voice in his mind whispered, soft and cruel. *And you failed her. You failed them all.*

He looked down at his hands, his fingers caked with blood and dirt, trembling with exhaustion. He could feel the weight of their expectations, their dreams, pressing down on him, suffocating him. He was nothing, less than nothing—a coward, a weakling, a failure who didn't deserve the life he had been given.

The pain in his chest grew sharper, the darkness in his mind closing in, suffocating him. For a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to just… let go. To give up. To let the darkness take him.

But as he sat there, teetering on the edge, a faint spark flickered in the back of his mind. He remembered Rin's smile, the quiet determination in her eyes as she'd talked about her dream. She had wanted to help others, to make a difference. And he had taken that dream from her.

The guilt surged again, sharper, cutting through the fog of despair that clouded his mind. Slowly, he looked down at the katana lying beside him, its blade catching the faint light of the rising sun. The weapon felt heavy in his hands, the weight of it grounding him, pulling him back.

He lifted the katana, staring at its edge, his reflection dark and distorted in the blade. His face was pale, hollow, his eyes shadowed and empty, his mouth set in a hard line. This weapon had been his last connection to his friends, the only thing left of the world they had shared. And now, it was all he had.

With a ragged breath, he tightened his grip on the hilt and raised the katana above his head. His body ached, his muscles trembled, but he ignored the pain. Slowly, deliberately, he swung the blade down. The motion was awkward, unrefined, but he didn't care. He needed to move, to do something—anything—to keep himself from drowning in the darkness.

He swung the katana again, and again, each movement fueled by the anger and guilt that churned inside him. The pain in his muscles grew sharper, his hands raw and bleeding, but he pushed through it, using the physical pain to drown out the voices in his mind.

'Maybe if I get stronger… maybe if I push myself hard enough, I can atone. I can make up for what I did.'

He continued to swing the katana, his body screaming in protest, his mind filled with nothing but the rhythm of the blade. The world around him faded, reduced to the simple, brutal repetition of his movements. The guilt and shame, the darkness that had clouded his mind—all of it was swallowed up in the single-minded focus of his training.

He didn't stop, didn't pause, didn't allow himself a moment to rest. He swung until his arms felt like they would fall off, until his hands were raw and bleeding, until he could no longer feel the pain in his muscles. And still, he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not until he had become someone worthy of their memory.

(End of a chapter)