The world was distant, a haze of muted echoes and blurred sensations. Slowly, the darkness peeled away, and Ichigo's eyes fluttered open. Cold droplets splashed against his face, and he blinked as the sky above swirled in a storm of gray and black. Rain poured down in relentless sheets, drumming against the earth in an endless rhythm.
He groaned softly, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his small frame. Small.
Something was wrong.
Ichigo pushed himself up, his hands sinking slightly into the wet ground beneath him. He froze as he caught sight of them—his hands. Small, delicate, unscarred. His heart pounded violently against his ribs as realization set in. These were the hands of a child. His hands from years ago.
Panic surged through him as he scrambled to his feet. The world around him felt eerily familiar—the scent of rain, the way the water pooled on the pavement, the quiet hum of distant streetlights flickering in the downpour. He knew this place.
Then, a sound cut through the rain—a weak, pained gasp.
Ichigo snapped his head toward it, and his breath hitched.
A few feet away, a massive figure loomed in the storm's darkness. A Hollow. Not just any Hollow. Grand Fisher.
Ichigo's blood turned to ice.
And there—beneath the monstrous creature—was Masaki Kurosaki, his mother.
She was lying on the ground, her body bruised and injured, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Rainwater mixed with the blood on her torn clothes, her usually warm and protective presence now frail and vulnerable.
This was that night.
The night he lost her.
A cold fury unlike anything he had ever felt surged through him.
Before he even realized what was happening, the world blurred. His body moved on instinct, his feet barely touching the ground as he reappeared in front of Grand Fisher. The Hollow flinched, its grotesque mask twisting in surprise.
Sonido.
Ichigo's mind reeled—he had used Sonido instead of Shunpo. His abilities were manifesting even in this small body.
Grand Fisher's shock faded quickly, replaced with amusement. It let out a deep, mocking chuckle.
"Well, well… what's this? The little brat has some bite to him?" The Hollow's grotesque face stretched into a smirk. "How cute. What do you plan to do, little boy? Cry for your mommy? Oh wait—" It laughed cruelly. "She's about to die."
Masaki's voice rang through the storm. "Ichigo! Run! Now!"
Ichigo's hands trembled, but not with fear. His small fingers curled into fists. His heart pounded—not with dread, but with a deep, seething rage.
He would not let it happen.
He would not lose her again.
Grand Fisher lunged.
And Ichigo moved.
The power surged through him like a roaring tidal wave. His hand stretched out instinctively, and in a flash of black and crimson, Zangetsu materialized in its Bankai form. The long, slender blade gleamed in the rain, its edge sharp enough to cut the very fabric of fate itself.
Grand Fisher barely had time to react before Ichigo swung.
A single arc.
Black energy surged along the blade's path, slicing cleanly through the Hollow's massive body from head to toe. The creature barely had time to scream before it split apart, its howls of agony swallowed by the storm.
The rain washed away the remnants of Grand Fisher as his body dissolved into nothingness.
Silence.
Ichigo stood there, panting, his small chest rising and falling with each breath. The rage, the fear, the grief—all of it burned within him, but for the first time in his life, he had done what he couldn't before.
He had saved her.
Slowly, he turned.
Masaki was staring at him, her expression frozen in shock and… horror.
Ichigo felt his stomach drop.
She wasn't supposed to see this.
The sight of her young son standing there, drenched in rain, holding a sword that should not exist, standing over the remains of a monster—it was too much. Her face was pale, her eyes wide.
Ichigo felt his strength slipping. His vision blurred. His body swayed.
His voice was weak, barely above a whisper.
"…Mom… I'm… sorry…"
The weight of exhaustion, of everything that had happened, finally overtook him.
His small frame collapsed to the ground.
The last thing he felt was the warmth of his mother's hands as she frantically reached for him.
Masaki's breath hitched as she caught her son before he could hit the ground. His small, rain-soaked body was limp in her arms, his face pale and his breathing shallow.
"Ichigo!" Her voice trembled, panic setting in as she shook him gently. He didn't respond. His sword—that sword—had vanished the moment he collapsed, but the memory of it burned in her mind.
Her son had stood before her, not as the innocent child she knew, but as something… other.
The way he moved. The way he fought. The power that radiated from him—it was something no child should possess. No human should possess.
Her body shook, not just from the cold, but from the sheer wrongness of what she had witnessed.
But none of that mattered now.
She tightened her hold on Ichigo, pressing his small form against her chest as she shielded him from the relentless downpour. He was burning up. Whatever had happened to him—whatever had changed him—had taken a toll.
She had to get him home.
Masaki forced herself to her feet, ignoring the pain coursing through her own body. Her wounds from Grand Fisher's attack stung, but she gritted her teeth and focused on Ichigo. She cradled him in her arms, holding him close as she stumbled forward through the rain.
Her thoughts raced.
What was that power? How did her son—her nine-year-old son—manifest something like that? She had felt it, even from where she lay, watching helplessly. That wasn't just the energy of a powerful soul—it was something deeper, something ancient.
Masaki had been a Quincy once. She knew spiritual pressure. She had fought Hollows. She had felt the presence of Shinigami.
But Ichigo's power… it was nothing like that.
It was something far greater.
And that terrified her.
She held him tighter.
They finally reached their home. Masaki kicked open the door, her heart hammering as she carried him inside. The warm glow of the lights washed over them, a stark contrast to the cold, merciless storm outside.
"Masaki?"
Isshin's voice came from the living room, filled with confusion and concern. Footsteps followed, and in an instant, her husband appeared in the hallway.
The moment he saw her—saw the unconscious Ichigo in her arms, saw the blood, the torn clothes, the fear in her eyes—his expression darkened.
"What happened?" His voice was low, urgent.
Masaki didn't answer immediately. She was breathing heavily, her mind still reeling.
"Isshin…" Her voice wavered. "Something's wrong with Ichigo."
Isshin's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he moved quickly, gently taking their son from her arms. He carried Ichigo to the couch, pressing his fingers to the boy's forehead, his expression tightening.
Masaki watched as her husband's brows furrowed in concentration. He was assessing Ichigo—not just as a father, but as something else.
Something he had tried to leave behind.
"Isshin," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "There's something inside him. Something… not human."
Isshin's fists clenched at his sides as he stared at his unconscious son, his usual carefree demeanor replaced by something grim and unreadable. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, his eyes dark and searching.
"What happened?" His voice was sharp, almost demanding.
Masaki flinched at the intensity in his tone. She understood his fear—she felt it too. But right now, Ichigo needed rest. They needed to gather themselves before discussing anything.
Masaki took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. "I want to put him in his room first."
Isshin's jaw tightened, but after a long moment, he nodded. "Alright."
Carefully, Masaki scooped Ichigo up from the couch, carrying him as gently as she could. His small body was warm—too warm—but his breathing had evened out. Whatever had drained him, it was easing now that he was home.
She walked up the stairs, each step slow and deliberate. Her mind was still spinning, replaying the battle over and over. The way Ichigo moved, the sheer force of his power, the look in his eyes before he collapsed… it wasn't normal. It wasn't possible.
Yet, it had happened.
She reached Ichigo's room and pushed the door open, stepping inside. The soft glow of the nightlight cast shadows across the walls, and the familiar scent of her son's childhood filled the air—blankets, stuffed animals, and the faintest hint of rain from the night's storm.
Gently, she laid Ichigo down on his bed, adjusting the covers to keep him warm. His face was peaceful now, his features relaxed, as if none of the horrors of the night had happened.
Masaki leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
"I love you, Ichigo," she whispered.
She stayed there for a moment, watching him, reassuring herself that he was safe. Then, with a deep breath, she straightened and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
As she descended the stairs, she saw Isshin standing in the living room, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. He was waiting for her.
Masaki hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward. She had no idea how to explain what she had seen. No way to put into words the impossible things that had just unfolded before her eyes.
But she had to try.
She sat down across from him, clasping her hands together tightly. "I'm going to tell you everything," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Isshin's gaze didn't waver. "I'm listening."
And so, she told him.
Everything.
From the moment she saw the Hollow towering over her, to the moment Ichigo appeared between them, faster than any child had a right to be. The way he moved, as if battle was second nature. The way he summoned that sword—that monstrous black blade—without hesitation. The terrifying power that coursed through him.
And finally, the way he cut down Grand Fisher with a single, merciless strike.
Isshin didn't interrupt. He simply sat there, absorbing every word, his expression darkening with every detail.
When she finally finished, silence stretched between them. The only sound was the rain, still tapping softly against the windows.
Masaki swallowed hard. "Isshin… what's happening to our son?"
Isshin sat in silence for a long time, his fingers drumming restlessly against the table. Masaki's words still echoed in his mind, every detail lodging itself deep in his thoughts.
Ichigo had used Sonido. He had manifested a Zanpakutō as a child. He had erased Grand Fisher from existence in a single strike.
None of it made sense.
Masaki watched him with concern, her hands tightly clasped together. "Isshin…"
He took a deep breath, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, nondescript cellphone. His fingers hovered over the buttons for a moment before he pressed a number he had hoped he'd never have to call for something like this.
The phone rang twice before a familiar, lazy voice answered.
"Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure of a midnight call, Isshin?" Kisuke Urahara's tone was as casual as ever, but Isshin could hear the sharpness beneath it—the ever-present awareness of a man who was always three steps ahead.
"Ichigo," Isshin said, his voice low and serious.
There was a brief silence. Then, Kisuke sighed. "What happened?"
Isshin glanced at Masaki, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He fought Grand Fisher tonight."
Another pause. "...I see. I take it things didn't go well?"
"Depending on the situation, no." Isshin's grip on the phone tightened. "He killed Grand Fisher. Instantly. With a Zanpakutō."
Kisuke didn't respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its usual playfulness.
"Start from the beginning. Tell me everything."
Isshin did.
He recounted Masaki's story, every single detail she had told him. How Ichigo had moved with inhuman speed. How he had instinctively used Sonido—a Hollow technique. How Zangetsu had manifested in its Bankai form without any build-up. How the raw power he unleashed had utterly annihilated Grand Fisher.
When Isshin finished, there was no response from the other end of the line.
"…Kisuke?"
A long breath. Then—
"That's… concerning," Kisuke muttered, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "You're absolutely sure? No mistakes? No exaggeration?"
Masaki bristled. "I know what I saw, Urahara."
Kisuke hummed. "Of course, of course. I didn't mean to offend, Masaki-san." He clicked his tongue. "But this complicates things. A lot."
Isshin's patience was wearing thin. "Then stop dancing around it and tell me what the hell is happening to my son."
Another pause. Then Kisuke said something that made Isshin's blood run cold.
"…It sounds like Ichigo is remembering something he shouldn't."
Isshin and Masaki exchanged alarmed glances.
"What the hell does that mean?" Isshin demanded.
Kisuke sighed. "It means," he said carefully, "that whatever happened to him before he collapsed… it wasn't just a surge of power. It was something deeper. Something older."
Masaki's hands clenched. "Older? Kisuke, he's just a boy."
"That's the thing," Kisuke murmured. "If what you're saying is true… then the boy you tucked into bed tonight might not be the same one who woke up this morning."
The words sent a chill down Isshin's spine.
Masaki's voice was barely above a whisper. "Are you saying… my son isn't Ichigo anymore?"
A long silence.
Then Kisuke spoke, his voice unnervingly calm.
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But I do know one thing."
Isshin gritted his teeth. "What?"
Kisuke exhaled. "We need to wake him up and find out."