Kenshi stood frozen.
The paralysis wasn't born of cowardice; in his past life, he had faced charging war elephants and walls of bristling spearmen without flinching. This was different. This fear was biological—a primal, lizard-brain signal screaming that he was no longer the predator, but the prey.
The pressure radiating from the beast wasn't just fear; it was a heavy, oily static that made the hair on his arms stand up and his vision swim.
In the center of the square, the creature loomed. It was a grotesque tower of white bone and black, rubbery flesh, its limbs too long, possessing extra joints that clicked audibly when it moved.
A villager, a blacksmith with burly arms, tried to swing a heavy hammer at the beast's ankle. The Hollow didn't even look down. With a lazy, backhanded swat, its claw passed through the man. There was no battle cry—just a wet, sickening thud as the man was pasted against the stone wall of the bakery.
He slid down in a heap of unrecognizable muscle paste, leaving a smear of dark crimson sticking grotesquely to the masonry.
The Hollow threw its head back, the hole in its chest vibrating. It let out a sound that wasn't a roar, but a wet, gurgling rattle—like a drain sucking down sludge. It was laughing. It was reveling in the pain.
Suddenly, it reached down, snatching up the remains of a woman who had tried to run. It didn't bite immediately. It held her up to its mask, empty eye sockets staring at her limp form.
Then, with a sudden, violent jerk, it tore.
The sound was atrocious—like a wet sheet ripping in half.
Kenshi squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clamped over his ears, but the sound vibrated through the ground. Thump. Rip. Crunch. He felt the shift in the air as the woman's body dissolved, turning into blue-white Reishi—spirit particles—that swirled into the Hollow's gaping maw.
Move, his soldier's instinct screamed, cutting through the panic. Flank or retreat. Do not stand in the kill zone.
He forced his eyes open. He had to move. That was when he saw her.
A few yards away, huddled beneath the splintered remains of a vegetable cart, was a little girl. She wasn't crying. She was frozen still, her eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the monster.
Across the square, a man—likely her father—was waving a pitchfork with trembling hands, shouting hoarsely to draw the beast's gaze away from the cart.
"Over here! You ugly bastard! Look at me!" the father screamed, though his voice cracked with pure terror.
The Hollow turned slowly, its attention shifting to the desperate man. Its mask tilted, a predatory curiosity in its movement. The pressure in the square spiked, the air growing colder, heavier.
Kenshi saw his chance. The beast was distracted.
He moved low, his body scraping against the dirt. The fear made his limbs feel like lead, but the muscle memory of his past life hijacked his small body. He didn't crawl like a child; he moved like a scout in tall grass.
He reached the cart and grabbed the girl's cold, small hand.
"We go now," Kenshi whispered, his voice barely audible over the Hollow's gurgling breaths. "Don't look at it. Look at me."
He pulled her. She stumbled, her legs like jelly, but she moved. They made it three steps toward the alleyway. Just three steps.
Then, the father tripped.
He fell backward over a loose stone near the village well. The clatter of the pitchfork hitting the ground was deafening in the sudden silence.
The Hollow was on him in a blur of motion that shouldn't have been possible for something so large. It didn't strike him. It landed over him, pinning him to the well with four massive, clawed fingers.
The girl stopped moving. Kenshi tugged at her hand, desperate. "No, don't look—"
"Papa?" she whimpered.
The Hollow leaned down, its mask inches from the father's face. The man screamed—a raw, primal sound of absolute despair. The Hollow opened its jaws, unhinging them wide.
"NO!" the girl shrieked, the sound tearing from her throat in disbelief.
It happened in slow motion. The Hollow didn't just bite; it savaged him. It buried its face in the man's torso and pulled. The father's scream was cut short by a wet, bubbling gurgle. Blood sprayed in a high arc, painting the white stones of the well in a horrific crimson fan.
The girl stood frozen, her hand limp in Kenshi's grip, watching as the beast tore her father apart, piece by piece, tossing the refuse aside with that same, low, guttural rattling laugh.
The escape had failed.
The monster swallowed, turned its gore-slicked mask toward the alleyway, and locked its empty eyes directly on Kenshi.
It moved with a speed that gave no time to think. Kenshi threw himself over the girl, pushing her face into the dirt, shielding her with his small, fragile body. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the impact of the claw that would send him back to the darkness.
But the blow never came.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. The air, previously thick with the smell of death, suddenly felt like solid lead. It became impossible to breathe. The Hollow, mid-leap, was slammed into the dirt by an invisible, crushing force. Its mask cracked against the ground, and it let out a pained, distorted howl.
Kenshi looked up, gasping for air against the weight. High above, standing on the edge of a jagged roof, was a woman in black robes, a white haori draped over her shoulders fluttering in a wind that didn't exist.
It was a Shinigami. A Captain.
She didn't move a muscle. She didn't even draw the sword at her hip. She simply looked down at the Hollow with cold, piercing eyes. The spiritual pressure the Reiatsu emanating from her was so dense it began to pulverize the ground around the beast.
The Hollow's body began to collapse in on itself, the black flesh disintegrating into dust, the bone mask shattering into fragments. With a final, pathetic wail, the beast vanished, dissolving into black smoke and shimmering gold particles.
The pressure lifted as the Hollow vanished, leaving Kenshi gasping on the ground.
The Captain leapt down, landing silently in the center of the carnage. She turned slowly, her gaze lingering on Kenshi—observing the way he had shielded the girl, the way he had survived the weight of her power without fainting.
The little girl didn't wait. She scrambled up and ran toward the well.
"Papa? Papa!"
She stopped short. There was nothing left but a ruin of flesh and blood-stained stones. She looked around the square, seeing the other villagers—her neighbors, her friends—scattered like broken dolls. The silence of the village was broken only by her sudden, jagged breakdown.
She fell to her knees, her small hands clutching the blood-soaked dirt, sobbing until her voice went hoarse.
Kenshi stood up slowly, his legs weak. He looked at the Captain, who remained a silent, regal sentinel amidst the horror. Then he looked at the girl.
He felt the echo of his past life again. The failure at Kurukshetra. The feeling of running, fighting, and dying for nothing. He had intended to keep moving, to find a place far away from the shadows and the monsters.
But as he watched the girl collapse in the ruins of her life, the soldier in him died, and something else took its place.
Surviving isn't enough, he realized. Running doesn't stop the war.
"I'm not leaving," Kenshi whispered to the wind.
He walked over to the girl and knelt beside her in the dirt, placing a hand on her shaking shoulder. He looked up at the Captain, his eyes hard and determined.
"I'm staying here," he said, his voice steady for the first time since his rebirth. "I will settle here."
The silence that followed the girl's sobbing was broken not by noise, but by movement.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
The air shimmered as a dozen figures materialized from thin air, landing on the rooftops and the cobblestones with the softest taps of straw sandals. They wore the standard black Shihakusho robes, their faces hidden beneath grim expressions.
Members of Captain Katori's squad had arrived.
They moved with practiced efficiency, a stark contrast to the chaotic butchery of the Hollow. Two of them moved to the well, producing wooden tablets to catalog the spiritual signatures of the deceased. Others fanned out, checking the perimeter, their hands resting on the hilts of their Zanpakutō.
Kenshi watched them, his eyes narrowing. In his past life, he had seen carrion birds descend on a battlefield. These beings were different. They were cleaner, colder. They weren't here to mourn; they were here to clean up the mess.
A tall Shinigami with a scar running down his cheek—likely a ranked officer—stepped forward. He used Shunpo to bridge the gap between the village entrance and the center square in a blur of speed, kneeling on one knee before Captain Katori.
"Captain," the officer said, his head bowed low. "The perimeter is secured. We have confirmed the destruction of the Menos-class target. However..." He paused, glancing around at the devastation. "The civilian casualties are high. Forty-two confirmed dead. The souls have already been devoured."
Katori didn't look at him. She was still watching Kenshi.
"Proceed with the Konso for any lingering spirits. Burn the remains that cannot be salvaged. We leave nothing for the scavengers."
"Yes, Captain!" The officer stood up to relay the orders, but he hesitated. His gaze drifted past the Captain, landing on the small boy covered in dust and dirt, kneeling next to the weeping girl.
The officer's eyes widened slightly. He looked back at his Captain, confusion knitting his brow. "Captain," he lowered his voice. "That child... he is awake."
Katori finally turned her head, her expression impassive. "I am aware."
"But..." The officer glanced nervously between Katori and Kenshi. "To destroy a Hollow of that size without drawing your blade... you released a significant amount of spiritual pressure. It crushed the beast's mask instantly. A normal soul—especially a child—should be unconscious. Foaming at the mouth. He shouldn't even be able to breathe freely."
Katori looked back at Kenshi. The boy wasn't cowering. He wasn't fainting. He was staring right back at the Shinigami officer with a gaze that was too old, too hard for a six-year-old face. It was a gaze that assessed threat levels.
"He shielded the girl," Katori said softly, her voice carrying a strange note of curiosity. "He withstood the fear of the Hollow, and he withstood the weight of my Reiatsu. He didn't just survive, Lieutenant. He remained standing."
The Lieutenant looked at the boy with a newfound mix of pity and wariness. "High spiritual density... A stray?"
"No... he is something new," Katori murmured, turning away, her white haori snapping in the wind. "Mark the boy, Lieutenant. Keep an eye on this village."
"Ma'am?"
"He has decided to stay," Katori said, walking toward the edge of the village where a Senkaimon gate was beginning to open, flooding the ruins with white light. "If he survives the hunger and the spirits that will be drawn to his power... he may be useful to the Gotei 13 one day."
Kenshi watched them go. He didn't understand all their words—Reiatsu, Gotei, Konso—but he understood the look in the Captain's eyes. It was the same look his General had given him before the Great War.
It was an evaluation.
As the Shinigami vanished into the light, leaving the village to its grief, Kenshi tightened his grip on the little girl's shoulder. The supernatural soldiers were gone. The monster was dead. But the war for survival had just begun.
He turned towards the girl, looking straight into her tear-filled eyes.
"What is your name?"
The little girl, choking back a sob, spoke with a trembling voice.
"H...Himawari...Hic..."
"Himawari. Sunflower," he muttered, his gaze traveling across the blood-soaked ruins and the darkening sky. "A bright name for such a dark day."