It began at dawn.
Not the soft, golden kind.
The cold, sharp kind — the kind that makes Seireitei feel like polished bone under a pale sky.
Ethan stood alone in the Fourth Division's rear courtyard, dressed in standard shihakushō, ribs still bandaged. He expected another day of medical drills, recovery work, maybe some seated instruction on advanced Kaidō.
He did not expect Unohana to be waiting for him.
Not smiling.
Just watching.
Like a quiet, beautiful blade.
"Good morning, Ethan."
He bowed. "Captain. Is this about the hybrid attack?"
"In part."
Her voice was polite, gentle… and completely unreadable.
"Today," she continued, "you will begin training under my other methodology."
Ethan swallowed. "The one that isn't for healers."
Her smile returned — small, serene, and infinitely dangerous.
"Correct."
She turned and started walking. He followed her through a side gate, down a narrow path hidden behind a line of decorative shrubs. It led to a forgotten training hall: tall wooden walls, sliding doors, and an empty interior that smelled faintly of old blood sealed beneath wood varnish.
The doors closed behind them without a sound.
Unohana faced him with her hands folded in front of her.
"Remove your sword."
Ethan blinked. "Wait— we're using live steel?"
She giggled softly.
A playful, warm giggle that somehow made Ethan's stomach drop.
"Of course. Dead steel teaches nothing."
When he hesitated, she stepped forward, her reiatsu blooming for the first time — not overwhelming, not crushing, but deep. So deep it felt like he was standing beside a well with no bottom.
"Ethan," she said kindly, "I need to understand something."
Her hand drifted to her zanpakutō.
"You survived a Hollow hybrid."
Her palm rested on the hilt.
"You reacted instinctively."
The slightest pressure shifted the air.
"And you lived."
Her eyes sharpened.
"Show me how."
Ethan barely had time to draw his blade.
Unohana crossed the distance between them like a sigh — no killing intent, no warning, just pure, fluid motion. Her sword arced toward his throat with elegance so clean it felt like choreography.
He blocked — instinctively, sloppily, with both hands.
The force still rattled his bones.
Interesting.
Unohana stepped back, smile widening just a fraction.
"You resist well," she said. "But only when forced. Which means we must force you properly."
She came again.
This time her reiatsu pressed like cold mist curling around his ankles. Her movements were slow enough to see, but heavy with intent — the kind that trained killers used to break combatants without touching them.
Every strike pushed Ethan backward, slicing the air centimeters from vital points: an artery, a tendon, the space between ribs.
She wasn't trying to kill him.
She was teaching anatomy through fear.
"This," she said softly between movements, "is instruction I once reserved only for certain individuals."
Her blade flicked past Ethan's cheek, carving a thin line of blood that she didn't let him wipe.
"You show promise. Potential. A strange resonance that does not belong to this world."
Another strike — short, deceptively simple — sent his sword flying from his grip.
It hit the ground with a clatter.
Ethan froze.
Unohana didn't.
She pressed her blade lightly against his throat.
Gentle.
Comfortable.
Like a doctor checking for a pulse.
"Fear," she murmured. "Your body holds it. But it does not guide you."
She stepped back and lowered her blade.
"That will be your first lesson: fear is information. Not a command."
Ethan exhaled shakily. "Captain… did you bring me here to break me?"
Unohana looked genuinely pleased by the question.
"Of course not."
She sheathed her sword.
"I brought you here to wake you."
---
Round Two
They began again — slower, with Unohana narrating calmly as if teaching stitching techniques.
"Step forward, not back."
"The hands must move before the feet."
"You hesitate before committing reiatsu. Stop doing that."
"You read opponents' rhythms well. But you do not trust your own."
She corrected his stance with the gentlest touch on his elbow.
She adjusted his grip with a brush of her finger.
But when his focus slipped?
Her blade tapped a pressure point so precisely he saw white for a breath.
Unohana spoke softly:
"Pain is also information, Ethan."
By the time an hour passed, Ethan's arms burned, his breaths came ragged, and sweat soaked through his uniform. His legs shook from absorbing impacts cleanly and poorly in equal measure.
Unohana hadn't even broken a sweat.
She circled him once, expression calm and almost affectionate.
"You are adapting. Faster than before."
He nodded, still catching his breath. "I… can handle another round."
"I know," she replied. "But that is not the purpose of today."
She approached, hands clasped behind her back.
"The hybrid reacted to you, Ethan. And you reacted to it. This tells me two things."
She lifted her finger, ticking points like she was explaining a medical procedure.
"One: your reiatsu has a depth you do not yet understand."
She raised the second finger.
"Two: others will notice."
A chill ran through him.
Unohana leaned in slightly, voice dropping:
"That is why I am training you. Because if danger seeks you out, you must be prepared to greet it."
Her eyes softened — but the softness was not comforting.
It was recognition.
"You are becoming someone interesting."
Ethan didn't know if that was praise or a warning.
Probably both.
---
Final Moment — A Captain's Decision
As they exited the training hall, Unohana spoke quietly:
"We will continue this every morning. Before normal duties."
Ethan blinked. "Every morning?"
"Of course. Growth must be cultivated."
Then she paused, turning her head slightly.
"And Ethan… you must not speak of this training to anyone unless I say so."
Not a suggestion.
A command.
He nodded. "Understood."
Her smile returned — soft, warm, and sharper than steel.
"Good."
She started walking.
"We begin again tomorrow."
And Ethan realized:
This was no longer healer training.
This was preparation.
For something she already saw coming.
And whatever it was…
It was coming for him.