With sponsorship secured - and the cast's fees squeezed down to the absolute limit - Alex could finally do what he'd wanted from the start: spend the money exactly where it mattered.
On the screen.
And in this production, what mattered most was the thing that devoured budgets like a black hole.
Visual effects.
Alex didn't cut corners where the impossible had to look real. He brought in top-tier artists - people who'd been doing this for years, people who didn't get impressed easily. Even so, he insisted on reviewing everything himself. Shot by shot. Layer by layer. Tweaking details most viewers would never consciously notice: a glow coming from the wrong angle, a shadow that betrayed the trick, a trail of energy that needed weight, like it could scrape the air.
He only truly breathed once he was certain there were no cracks.
When the last problem of the day was finally solved, Alex collapsed onto the couch in his office like his joints had quit along with him. He let the air out in one heavy exhale, the way you did after holding pressure in your chest for too long.
That was when a bright, tiny voice cut through the fatigue.
"Alex! Tea."
Violet Grant - one of the youngest kids on the company's orbit - appeared with a cup in both hands, as if delivering it was the most important mission in the world. Small. Impossibly cute. Huge eyes shining with the confidence of someone who knew she could earn a smile just by existing.
Alex took the cup and laughed, more in his eyes than his mouth.
"Thanks, Violet."
He sipped. Hot. Perfect.
For a moment, the tension in his shoulders loosened.
It was impossible not to understand why so many people lost composure around a child like this. It wasn't just "cute." It was a kind of instant medicine - this tiny presence that seemed to say, without words, that the world could be simple for five minutes.
Violet drifted closer, bold as ever. When Alex ran a hand lightly over the top of her head and then under her chin, she made a sound so ridiculous it shouldn't have been real.
"Mrow… mrow…"
No - there wasn't a cat in his office.
The "cat" was her.
Violet closed her eyes and rubbed her head against his palm, insistent, like Alex's hand was the safest place in the universe. And Alex - who on the outside tried to keep the posture of a cold, calculating producer - was absolutely crumbling on the inside.
He could handle criticism, pressure, meetings, all-nighters, financial risk…
But this?
This was cheating.
If that kid had cat ears and a tail, it would be a flawless finisher, he thought - and immediately coughed, as if he could expel the idea from his brain.
No. No, no. Better not. Some thoughts endangered both sanity and reputation.
Still, watching Violet like this - this shamelessly devoted - Alex found himself imagining something different once Death Note wrapped. Something lighter. Something healing. A story that didn't need to crush the audience's soul every other episode.
He loved making people shiver with Bleach, with JoJo, with Death Note… but nobody lived forever at that voltage. Not the audience, and not him. Especially not when you kept playing monsters and villains - after a while, something stuck. A residue. A shadow.
"Alex…" A voice came from the side, older, threaded with barely concealed jealousy. "When are we going to the States to shoot?"
Emily sat there with her notebook open, trying to look mature and composed… failing the moment she saw Violet monopolizing his attention. She practically lived at the company on weekends, did her homework there, saw Alex more than some adults saw their own bosses. But unlike Violet, Emily was old enough to understand boundaries.
And that meant she was at a disadvantage.
Violet didn't have brakes. Emily had pride.
And pride always lost.
Before Alex could answer, there was a discreet knock at the door. His male assistant didn't step inside - he stayed outside, like a man trained to preserve his own mental health.
"Mr. Alex… the representatives from Penguin Streaming, Ukoo, and KiwiPlay are here."
Alex lifted a brow. Smart, he thought. The guy knew very well there were things no man should witness when entering an office unannounced.
A shame he was a man, honestly. Alex had already decided he'd replace the position sooner or later - purely for… logistical reasons.
He stood and, with a gentle gesture, tapped Violet's nose, easing her off his lap the way you separated a cat from a couch.
"You two focus on your work. I've got a meeting."
Violet grinned like she'd won a war and, before he could slip away, leaned in and planted a loud kiss on his cheek.
"Good luck, Alex! Mwah!"
Alex wiped his face, defeated.
"I told you… you're supposed to call me 'Uncle.'"
Across the room, Emily looked like she was about to stand, her eyes bright with a very bad idea. Alex reacted fast - pressing a hand lightly on the top of her head and guiding her back down like he was disarming a bomb.
"Don't even think about it, Emily. Don't."
Her cheeks puffed up, furious. A teenage frog of indignation.
And Alex knew exactly why.
With Violet, any affection could still pass as "he treats her like a daughter." With Emily - standing on that brutal border of adolescence - people wouldn't find it cute.
They'd find it sick.
So he cut off anything that could be misunderstood before it had a chance to become a headline.
Unfair, but that was the world.
He left quickly before the office mood shifted again, walked down the corridor, and entered the conference room. The representatives from the three streaming giants were already seated - professional posture, trained smiles, eyes that calculated numbers like heartbeats.
Alex sat and went straight to the point.
"Thanks for coming in person. Let's discuss the licensing fee for Season Two of Bleach."
The air thickened. Everyone in that room understood: this wasn't about "a show."
It was about leverage.
About who would hold the audience in their hands for weeks.
…
A week later, a live interview on Penguin Streaming detonated across the internet.
"And now, please welcome today's guests: the lead of Bleach, Alex - along with Rebeca Verne!"
The moment Alex appeared in the center seat, with Rebeca beside him, the chat became a storm. The livestream servers nearly buckled under the flood of viewers. It was mass hysteria - the kind of moment where the internet felt like a living organism, thrashing.
Why?
Because the owner of Penguin Streaming - a billionaire famous for solving problems with money in the most shameless way possible - had signed a monstrous deal: a record-breaking figure on the order of 1.5 billion RMB to secure the premiere rights to the Arrancar Arc.
Premiere rights.
Not exclusivity.
Meaning Penguin would have a two-day advantage over the other platforms - new episodes would drop there first.
And if anyone thought that was enough flexing, they hadn't been paying attention. The billionaire paid Alex an eight-figure appearance fee to sit on a talk show that didn't even contain ten minutes of real interview content.
Then - just to make it louder - he brought Rebeca Verne.
Alex almost laughed at the audacity.
Had the man even watched the cut? Why bring a character who exits in a single episode?
If he wanted someone with long-term weight, it would've made more sense to bring Emily… or another major face tied to the season.
But Alex knew the truth.
Rebeca was an icon. And icons carried audiences on their backs. The billionaire wasn't just buying Bleach - he was buying attention, nostalgia, clicks, headlines. He was using her glow like a spotlight to illuminate what he'd just acquired.
During the interview, Alex shared behind-the-scenes stories - funny moments, small production humiliations, what it took to keep a punishing schedule aligned with artistic ambition. He talked about what it felt like acting opposite a Hollywood star like Bale and how that changed the atmosphere on set: it wasn't just talent, it was discipline. Presence.
Rebeca played her role perfectly. Smiled at the right moments. Elegant. Almost like a beautiful statue. Nobody expected major revelations from her - and she didn't seem interested in becoming a meme by talking too much.
At the end, Alex looked into the camera like he was looking straight at the world.
"Season Two of Bleach - the Arrancar Arc - premieres during the May Day holiday. New episodes every Saturday, with two releases per week. I hope you're ready. And thank you for the support."
Ready.
The word alone sounded like a warning.
The chat drowned the screen. You couldn't even read it - just a deluge of hype.
The impact was immediate. The entire entertainment scene felt it.
…
A week later, May Day arrived.
That Friday afternoon, a whole school felt like it was being subjected to slow torture while the teacher finished announcements, assigned homework, delivered the standard holiday warnings - "be careful," "be responsible" - as if anyone was listening.
Students' eyes burned with impatience, locked on the clock like it was a personal enemy.
And when the magic word finally came -
"Dismissed."
What followed looked like an evacuation.
Chairs scraped. Backpacks thumped. Footsteps roared. A wave of students burst into motion through the halls like the building was collapsing.
Outside, the vice principal - a man with that movie-bright bald shine - stood there watching the chaos with the expression of someone witnessing the apocalypse.
"What… what the hell is happening? Is the school haunted?"
A younger teacher passed by laughing, not even slowing down.
"Sir, Bleach Season Two premieres today. They're rushing home to watch."
The vice principal blinked, disbelieving.
"All this… over a TV show?"
"Sorry, sir. I don't have time to explain. I'm going too."
He was already half-running toward the parking lot.
The vice principal shouted, too late:
"Hey! You're on duty tonight!"
The reply floated back from far away, like a confession:
"Dock my pay!"
The vice principal stood alone in the wind, trying to process what he'd just heard.
One by one… everybody infected.
And somewhere deep down, something in him stirred. Stubborn pride, maybe.
Fine. Tonight I'll see with my own eyes whether this show is really that good.
…
And it wasn't just the "regular viewers" counting down.
As the premiere hour closed in, industry insiders were glued to their screens, the streaming page open, refreshing compulsively like the button was an adrenaline trigger.
There was nearly an hour left before the official drop, and they still couldn't stop.
Among them were people who'd worked with Alex and were on good terms - like Mark and other veterans. There were also big names who, out of pride or curiosity, needed to understand how this production kept flipping the market on its head.
And there was a third group - more dangerous.
Competitors.
Not hunting for flaws anymore - they'd given up on that. Now they wanted to steal the essence. To watch and figure out the "trick." To copy the formula. To replicate the miracle. To convince some naïve investor to open their wallet with the promise of a new phenomenon.
Dreaming was easy.
Reality was cruel.
When the clock hit exactly 20:00:00, it felt like the whole world inhaled at once.
A collective refresh.
And there they were: Episode 1 and Episode 2 - available.
"Go, go, go!"
In a university dorm, a group of friends crowded around the screen like it was a championship final. Someone hit play with shaking urgency.
The opening was still absurdly stylish - an MV that looked like fashion advertising fused with spiritual warfare. But unlike last season, where the spotlight belonged to the Thirteen Court Guard squads, this time the visuals were dominated by a new threat - figures with a different kind of emptiness in their eyes.
The title card for Episode One appeared.
"Arrancars Incoming: The Father's True Identity."
The reaction was nearly universal: silence. A pause too short to be conscious.
Father?
Whose father?
The fandom's mind snapped onto a single track.
Isshin Kurosaki?
That goofy, unserious dad?
The episode barely started before the first shock landed: a colossal Arrancar, so enormous it looked like it wanted to tear into the clouds, stood before a man wearing a shinigami uniform. The creature drew a blade the size of a skyscraper, too long to belong in the world, and spoke with contempt that felt almost childish.
"The size of your sword is the size of your spiritual pressure. You really think that tiny blade can handle me?"
Then it swung.
The screen seemed to quake.
Isshin didn't change his expression. Didn't blink. He simply rolled his wrist, drew his sword in one clean motion - and the cut was so simple, so absolute, the giant split in two like paper.
Millions - maybe billions - stared wide-eyed at the same time.
The father who looked like a background character… was this?
Isshin flicked the blade, sheathed it, and let out a sideways laugh, like the threat had been an inconvenience, not a danger.
"Let me tell you something, big guy," he said, voice sharpened with sarcasm. "Captain-class shinigami can freely control the size of their blades. If everyone fought with a sword as big as a skyscraper, how would anyone fight properly?"
Captain-class.
Two words.
Two shots to the chest.
The internet choked.
That meant Isshin was… captain-level?
Somewhere, on the set of another production, a young actor watched on his phone and made the most innocent attempt in the world to regain control.
"If Arrancars are all this weak, there's nothing to worry about."
But he knew. Everyone knew.
If this arc was called the Arrancar Arc, then that was just the appetizer.
Around him, other well-known actors - faces that drew attention in any project - were also locked onto their phones. And among them, a veteran who played Jasper Quin watched with almost cruel calm, like he already knew too much.
"When do you show up?" someone asked, excited.
He chuckled.
"Later. You won't see me in the first ten episodes."
A girl in the group - eyes shining with the dangerous glow of a true fan - didn't even care.
"I only want to see Lord Sosuke Aizen."
The veteran froze for a beat, like he'd been stabbed without anesthesia, and fell silent, swallowing his pride.
The episode rolled on.
And the next impact arrived without warning.
In the first half, Isshin cut down a "random" Arrancar.
In the second half, two appeared - and their presence carried a different weight, a danger that seemed to press through the glass.
The Fourth Espada: Ulquiorra.
The Tenth Espada: Yammy.
And in the instant they stepped onto the screen, it wasn't just the audience that understood.
The whole world did.
Last season had been a war.
This was the beginning of an era.
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