The first warning wasn't a scream.
It was the pressure—thick, oily spiritual pressure—seeping through Seireitei like a slow leak. Ethan felt it even inside the Fourth Division barracks, a sour vibration crawling along his skin. He straightened from the supplies he'd been organizing.
This isn't normal. That's inside the Court Guard… too close.
A heartbeat later, the alarm bells cracked the air.
"Unregistered spiritual entity detected! All nearby divisions, prepare for engagement!"
Ethan didn't need the rest of the announcement. He was already running.
Behind him, Hanatarō squeaked, "E-Ethan! You can't just—Unohana-taichō said—!"
But Ethan was already out of the barracks and sprinting across the white stone courtyard, reiatsu gathering instinctively in his legs. Fourth Division members parted for him, some shouting warnings, others staring in confusion as the "new guy from Fourth" charged toward the epicenter like he belonged in Eleventh.
The spiritual pressure sharpened—wild, chaotic, but somehow… wrong. Hollows had a certain hungry gravity, but this one pulsed like a broken heartbeat.
A hybrid.
Inside Seireitei.
That should've been impossible.
He vaulted a low wall, landed running, and rounded the corner into Division Eleven territory.
And hell had already broken loose.
The squad yard looked like someone had dropped a bomb made of claws and teeth: shattered stone, overturned racks of training weapons, and dust swirling in chaotic spirals. Two Eleventh Division shinigami were down, bleeding and groaning, while others circled a creature that definitely shouldn't exist.
It stood almost human-height—too humanoid for a Hollow—but its mask had fractured lines like a cracked skull, and two strips of flesh visible beneath its cheekbones twitched like exposed nerves. Reiatsu boiled from it in spasms as if it couldn't stabilize its own existence.
It whipped an arm—bone-white talons slicing through the air—and sent a Sixth Seat flying into a wall.
Ethan hissed through his teeth. "Okay. That's very not supposed to be here."
One of the Eleventh's unseated fighters noticed him. "Oi! Fourth Division? Get back! This isn't a medic's fight!"
The hybrid lunged at the man mid-sentence.
Ethan moved before he thought.
His body blurred forward—training, instinct, and borrowed muscle memory all snapping into place. He snatched the Eleventh Division man by the back of the collar and yanked him aside just as claws cracked into the ground where he'd been standing.
The hybrid's mask turned toward Ethan.
It screeched.
And the sound carried intent. Not hunger—recognition.
Ethan's pulse spiked.
Why the hell does it know me?
It lunged.
Ethan barely dodged, sliding to the side and letting its talons rake sparks from the stone. The Eleventh Division fighters regrouped, shouting, readying their blades again.
"Kid!" one of them yelled. "Run! This isn't your fight!"
But the hybrid wasn't looking at any of them anymore.
Just him.
Crap.
Ethan raised his hands, reiatsu whirling around his palms the way Unohana had drilled into his reflexes. "Alright, buddy. Come on then."
The creature shrieked and dashed forward—
—and was intercepted by a blur of steel and muscle.
Zaraki Kenpachi slammed into the courtyard like a meteor, grin wide, eyepatch already bleeding power. "Now this—THIS is a proper warm-up!"
He swung.
The hybrid blocked with its talons.
The shockwave blew everyone backward—including Ethan, who tumbled across the stone and hit a cracked pillar, breath knocked out of him.
Kenpachi laughed. "You're a tough little brat, huh? Don't die too fast."
The hybrid screeched, mask fracturing further, spiritual pressure destabilizing—
It was going to explode.
Ethan's eyes went wide. "Kenpachi! It's going to—!"
Too late.
The hybrid detonated into a spiral of corrupted reiatsu, shards of mask firing like razor shrapnel.
Ethan threw up his arms, focusing his training—Kaido Barrier: Pulse Shield—a shimmering membrane flaring to life just long enough to block the worst of the blast from hitting the Eleventh Division wounded behind him.
When the smoke cleared, the courtyard was half-destroyed, Kenpachi was brushing dust from his shoulders like nothing had happened…
…and Ethan's barrier flickered out with a painful snap.
His vision swam. But he stayed standing.
Kenpachi turned, eye narrowing at the unfamiliar medic still on his feet after shielding half his squad.
"…You're not one of mine," he said, squinting. "Who're you supposed to be?"
Ethan swallowed, adrenaline still buzzing.
"Fourth Division. Name's Ethan. I… uh… patch people up."
Kenpachi barked a laugh. "Patch people up? You looked more like someone trying not to get blown into paste."
He stepped closer, towering.
Ethan didn't flinch. Mostly.
The Captain's grin widened.
"I like ya. Try not to die before I figure out what the hell that thing was."
He turned and stalked off with the confidence of a man who didn't need answers—just more fights.
Ethan exhaled hard, finally letting his trembling hands drop.
But one thought dug into him like a splinter:
That hybrid recognized me. How?
And he felt it again—a faint echo, fading with the explosion:
Coordinates. A signal.
Something had sent that hybrid.
Something that had been waiting for him to return to the Bleach world.
And this was only the opening shot.