The screams started just after sunset.
Ethan Hunt had learned to recognize the different types of screams that echoed through Rukongai's 78th District. There were the drunken shouts from the sake dens—loud, slurred, and ultimately harmless. The territorial fights between rival gangs produced sharp, angry cries that cracked like whips through the narrow alleys. Even the occasional domestic disputes had their own particular timbre, rising and falling like some terrible music.
But this scream was different.
This was the sound of pure, primal terror.
The eight-year-old boy—or at least, he appeared eight years old; time worked strangely for souls in the afterlife—dropped the wooden bucket he'd been carrying. Water splashed across the dusty ground, turning the red earth to mud. He stood frozen for a heartbeat, his small frame trembling as the scream cut off with horrifying abruptness.
Then another scream began. And another.
Run, his survival instincts whispered. Hide. This isn't your problem.
But Ethan's feet were already moving in the opposite direction.
He'd lived in District 78 for as long as he could remember—which admittedly wasn't very long. His first clear memory was waking up alone in an abandoned building, with no recollection of his name, his death, or his previous life. The old woman who'd found him said that sometimes happened with souls who died young or traumatically. The mind protected itself by forgetting.
Someone had left a note pinned to his ragged clothes: His name is Ethan Hunt. Please take care of him.
No one knew who'd written it. No one cared enough to find out.
District 78 wasn't the kind of place where people asked questions or got involved in other people's business. It was where the Soul Society dumped the souls it deemed too rough, too poor, or too troublesome for the more civilized inner districts. Here, you kept your head down, scavenged what you could, and tried to survive another day.
But Ethan had never been good at keeping his head down.
The screams were coming from the old marketplace—a collection of ramshackle stalls and crumbling buildings where District 78's residents traded whatever scraps they could find. As Ethan rounded the corner, skidding on loose stones, he saw what was causing the panic.
The creature stood at least twelve feet tall, its body a grotesque amalgamation of bone-white armor and writhing shadows. A white mask covered its face, frozen in an expression of perpetual hunger. Red eyes glowed behind the mask's eyeholes, and from its mouth came a sound like grinding metal and distant screaming mixed together.
A Hollow.
Ethan had seen drawings, heard stories whispered in the dark by those who'd survived encounters with these monsters. Hollows were corrupted souls, consumed by their own negative emotions until they became predators that fed on other spirits. They were the reason Shinigami existed—the black-robed warriors who protected the Soul Society and the living world from these abominations.
But there were no Shinigami here. Not in District 78. They rarely bothered to patrol this far out.
The Hollow's massive hand swept through a fruit stand, reducing it to splinters. A young woman stumbled backward, tripping over debris. The creature's head snapped toward her with predatory precision.
"No!" The shout escaped Ethan's throat before he could stop it.
The Hollow paused. Slowly, its masked face turned toward him. Even from fifty feet away, Ethan could feel the weight of its attention like a physical thing pressing against his chest. His knees threatened to buckle.
The woman scrambled to her feet and ran. Smart. The Hollow didn't even glance at her.
It had found something more interesting.
"Well, well," the Hollow's voice was like rocks grinding together, barely intelligible. "What's this? A little morsel with actual reiatsu?" Its tongue—long, black, and forked—slithered out to lick its mask. "Delicious. I can taste your fear from here, boy. And something else... something bright."
Ethan's hands clenched into fists. His whole body was shaking, but he held his ground. Behind the Hollow, he could see other people huddled in doorways and behind broken walls. Among them were the Tanaka children—three orphans even younger than him who lived in the same abandoned building he called home.
They'd never outrun this thing.
"Run," Ethan said quietly, his voice somehow steady despite the terror coursing through him. "Everyone run. Now."
"Oh, I don't think so." The Hollow took a step forward. The ground trembled. "You see, I'm quite hungry. And you... you're going to be the appetizer."
It lunged.
For a creature so massive, it moved with horrifying speed. One moment it was fifty feet away; the next, its clawed hand was descending toward Ethan like a falling building.
Time seemed to slow. Ethan could see every detail—the cracks in the bone-white armor, the way shadows coiled around the Hollow's arm like living things, the red eyes burning with malevolent hunger. He could smell something acrid and wrong, like burning hair and rotten meat.
I'm going to die, he thought with odd clarity. Again.
But something else stirred inside him. Something that had been sleeping, waiting.
Something bright.
Ethan threw his hands up instinctively, a futile gesture against certain death. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact—
The impact never came.
Instead, there was a sound like breaking glass, a wave of heat that washed over him, and screaming. Not human screaming. The Hollow's screaming.
Ethan opened his eyes.
Light.
Pure, brilliant, incandescent light was pouring from his hands. It wasn't like the warm glow of a lamp or the steady shine of the sun. This was light given form and fury, blazing with an intensity that made his eyes water even as it flowed from his own palms. The beams had struck the Hollow's descending arm, and where they touched, the creature's flesh was simply... gone. Not burned. Not cut. Erased, as if it had never existed.
The Hollow staggered backward, clutching the smoking stump where its hand had been. Its scream of pain shifted to something else—fear.
"What... what are you?" it hissed.
Ethan had no answer. He stared at his own hands in shock and wonder. The light was already fading, pulled back into his body like water draining into parched earth. His arms trembled with sudden exhaustion.
The Hollow's fear lasted only a moment. Its eyes narrowed behind the mask, and rage replaced terror. "You'll pay for that, you little insect!"
It charged again, this time leading with its remaining hand. Ethan tried to summon that light again, reaching for whatever well of power he'd tapped before. But his body wouldn't respond. His legs gave out, dropping him to his knees. The world spun.
Too much, some distant part of his mind realized. Used too much energy at once.
The Hollow loomed over him, its shadow swallowing what little evening light remained. Its mouth opened impossibly wide, revealing rows of serrated teeth.
"At least you'll taste interesting—"
A blade of pure white light pierced through the Hollow's chest from behind.
The creature's words dissolved into a gurgling gasp. It looked down at the glowing sword protruding from its torso, then slowly turned its head. Behind it stood a figure in a simple gray kimono, his weathered face composed in an expression of mild disappointment.
"Truly pathetic," the old man said quietly. "Preying on children in the outer districts. Have Hollows fallen so far?"
He twisted the blade. The Hollow's mask cracked down the middle, and its entire body began to disintegrate, dissolving into particles of light that scattered on the wind.
Then the old man turned to Ethan, and their eyes met.
Ethan had lived in District 78 long enough to recognize power when he saw it. This wasn't some random wanderer. The way he carried himself, the casual confidence with which he'd destroyed a creature that had terrorized the entire marketplace—this was a warrior. Probably a retired Shinigami, judging by the faint spiritual pressure that made the air feel heavy.
"Interesting," the old man murmured, studying Ethan with sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing. "Very interesting indeed." He knelt down, bringing himself to eye level with the exhausted boy. "Tell me, child. What's your name?"
"Ethan," he managed to whisper. "Ethan Hunt."
"And do you know what you just did, Ethan Hunt?"
Ethan shook his head weakly.
The old man smiled—a genuine expression that transformed his stern features. "You used reiatsu. Spiritual pressure. The fundamental energy of souls." He gestured to where his own blade—now just a simple walking stick—rested against his shoulder. "Most souls in the Rukongai never develop enough spiritual awareness to manifest their reiatsu at all. Those who do usually require years of training."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're eight years old, completely untrained, and you just manifested reiatsu with enough power and control to wound a Hollow. Do you understand how extraordinary that is?"
Ethan didn't. Everything was still spinning. The marketplace, the old man, the sky above—all of it blurred together.
"I..." He tried to form words, but exhaustion dragged at him like weights. "The others... are they...?"
"Safe," the old man assured him. "Everyone scattered when you gave them the chance. You did well, boy. Rest now."
"Who..." Ethan's vision was darkening at the edges. "Who are you?"
The last thing he heard before consciousness fled was the old man's reply, spoken with a mixture of pride and sadness:
"My name is Kenji Fujimoto. I used to be the 4th Seat of the 4th Division, a very long time ago. And you, Ethan Hunt..." His hand rested gently on Ethan's head. "You might just be something special."
Ethan woke to the smell of rice porridge and medicinal herbs.
He was lying on a thin futon in a room he didn't recognize. Sunlight streamed through a paper window, creating bars of gold across the worn wooden floor. His body ached in a way he'd never experienced before—not painful exactly, but hollow, as if someone had scooped out his insides and left him empty.
"Ah, you're awake." Kenji Fujimoto sat in the corner of the room, a small clay cup of tea in his weathered hands. "Good. You've been unconscious for nearly two days. I was beginning to worry."
"Two days?" Ethan struggled to sit up. The room tilted alarmingly before stabilizing.
"Spiritual exhaustion," Kenji explained. "You depleted your reiatsu reserves completely. For someone untrained, that's extremely dangerous. You're lucky you didn't damage your spiritual pathways permanently." He took a sip of tea, his expression thoughtful. "Though I suppose 'lucky' is relative. If that Hollow had been any stronger, we'd be having a very different conversation. Or none at all."
Memories flooded back—the marketplace, the screaming, that terrible white mask. And the light. That impossible, beautiful light that had poured from his hands.
"What happened to me?" Ethan asked quietly. "What was that... that power?"
Kenji set down his tea and stood, moving to the window. He gazed out at the ramshackle buildings of District 78 with an expression Ethan couldn't quite read.
"That, my boy, was your soul finally waking up." He turned back to face Ethan. "Every spirit has reiatsu—spiritual pressure. It's the fundamental energy that allows us to exist in the Soul Society. But most never learn to consciously control it. It simply keeps them alive and aware."
He began to pace slowly, his hands clasped behind his back in a way that suggested this was a lecture he'd given many times before.
"Those with particularly strong spirits—or those who face life-or-death situations—sometimes awaken to their reiatsu more fully. They can feel it, shape it, use it." His eyes met Ethan's. "The Shinigami who protect Soul Society and hunt Hollows? They're souls who've mastered their reiatsu and learned to channel it through specialized weapons called Zanpakuto."
"Zanpakuto," Ethan repeated, testing the word. It felt significant somehow, like the name of something he'd been searching for without knowing it.
"Indeed." Kenji smiled slightly. "But we're getting ahead of ourselves. First, you need to learn the basics. How to sense your reiatsu, how to control its flow, how to use it without burning yourself out." He fixed Ethan with a stern look. "What you did two days ago was like a child picking up a sword and swinging it blindly. Effective in the moment, perhaps, but incredibly dangerous to yourself and others."
Ethan absorbed this information, his mind racing. "Will you teach me?"
The question hung in the air between them. Kenji's expression shifted through several emotions too quickly for Ethan to identify. Finally, he sighed.
"I'm an old man, Ethan. I retired from the Gotei 13 over thirty years ago. I came to District 78 to live out my remaining years in peace, away from politics and battles." He walked over and placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "But I cannot, in good conscience, leave a child with your potential untrained. You're a danger to yourself and everyone around you. More importantly..."
He squeezed Ethan's shoulder gently. "I haven't seen raw talent like yours in decades. Maybe longer. It would be a crime to let it go to waste."
Hope bloomed in Ethan's chest, bright and fierce. "So you'll teach me?"
"I'll teach you the fundamentals," Kenji corrected. "Basic reiatsu control, meditation techniques, some simple defensive maneuvers. Nothing fancy. If you want real training, proper education in the Shinigami arts..." He gestured vaguely toward the distant inner districts. "You'll need to attend the Shinigami Academy in the Seireitei."
"The Seireitei," Ethan breathed. He'd heard stories about Soul Society's central court, where the nobility lived and the Gotei 13 was headquartered. It might as well have been another world—a place of order and purpose and meaning, impossibly distant from the chaos of District 78.
"It won't be easy," Kenji warned. "The Academy accepts students from the Rukongai, but the competition is fierce. You'll be tested against candidates from noble families who've trained since birth. You'll face prejudice from those who believe only aristocrats deserve to become Shinigami."
He leaned down until he was eye to eye with Ethan. "But if you work harder than you've ever worked before, if you dedicate yourself completely to mastering the basics I'll teach you, if you refuse to give up no matter how difficult it becomes..." A fierce pride entered his voice. "Then yes. I believe you could make it. I believe you could become a Shinigami."
Ethan didn't hesitate. "I'll do it. Whatever it takes, I'll do it."
"Why?" The question was sharp, probing. "Why do you want this power, Ethan? Is it for revenge? Glory? Fear of being powerless again?"
The boy considered carefully. He thought about the Tanaka children, huddled in terror behind rubble. He thought about the woman who'd nearly been killed. He thought about all the people in District 78 who lived in constant fear because they had no protection, no hope, no champions.
"I don't want anyone to feel that helpless again," he said finally. "Not if I can stop it."
For a long moment, Kenji simply looked at him. Then, slowly, the old man smiled—a real smile, warm and approving.
"That," he said softly, "is exactly the right answer."
He straightened and moved toward the door. "Rest today. Tomorrow, your training begins. And Ethan?" He paused in the doorway. "That light you manifested... I've never seen reiatsu take that form before. It's unusual. Special." His eyes gleamed with something that might have been excitement. "I think there's something unique sleeping inside you. Something extraordinary."
After Kenji left, Ethan lay back on the futon and stared at the ceiling. His hands still tingled with the memory of that power—that brilliant, cleansing light. He raised one hand, studying his palm in the afternoon sun.
Who was he? Not in this life—he knew that name, knew this body—but who had he been before? What kind of person dies and arrives in the afterlife with such power locked away inside them?
The questions had no answers. Not yet.
But as Ethan closed his eyes and felt for that spark of energy deep in his core—that tiny flame of reiatsu that Kenji said everyone possessed—he made a promise to himself.
He would find those answers. He would master this power. He would become strong enough to protect everyone who couldn't protect themselves.
And someday, somehow, he would make that light shine bright enough to drive away all the darkness in Soul Society.
Outside, the sun began to set over District 78, painting the ramshackle buildings in shades of gold and crimson. In the distance, barely visible through the haze, the spires of the Seireitei gleamed like a promise.
Tomorrow, Ethan thought as sleep finally claimed him. Tomorrow, everything changes.
END OF CHAPTER 1
Next Chapter: The Old Man's Teachings