Just as Love stepped forward to speak—
"AAARRRGHHHH!!!"
Arthur suddenly screamed in agony, staggering backward as his blade dropped from his hand and clattered on the rocks.
His mouth opened unnaturally wide, and a thick, white liquid surged out like molten wax, slithering up his jaw, over his nose, across his eyes.
"No—Arthur?!" Lisa shouted, running forward.
The white liquid hardened, swirling… twisting…
Forming a hollow mask.
A dark, primal growl erupted from deep inside him. His reiatsu twisted violently, like a whirlpool of pure rage and chaos.
"NO!!" Shinji shouted, stepping forward to stop him—but before he could—
"GRAAAAAHHHHH!!"
"SHINJI—!!"
Hiyori, weak in his arms, screamed and slashed Shinji across the chest, staggering him backward. Her body convulsed violently, and the same white substance oozed from her eyes and mouth, forming into a jagged mask.
"Not her too…!" Shinji gasped.
But it was already too late.
A cold chill spread through the battlefield as more screams echoed.
Love gripped his chest and dropped to one knee.
Rose trembled, clutching his temples.
Lisa screamed as blood poured from her eyes, her body writhing.
Tōshirō, just 4th seat and barely understanding what was happening, clutched his head as a pulse of hollow energy surged from within.
Their spiritual pressure exploded out of control, distorting with that same terrifying Hollow tint.
Shinji collapsed to one knee, grinding his teeth, trying to resist.
"W-What… is this…?! What the hell's happening to us?!"
Arthur, now with a near-complete Hollow mask shaped like a snarling beast, let out a guttural growl and swung at the nearest figure — Love — who barely dodged, his eyes now glowing with inner Hollow madness.
Shinji clutched his head as the mask cracked down his face. His screams echoed, raw and inhuman. But just before he lost all control—
He saw them.
Three shadows walked forward through the thick fog of spiritual pressure. Calm. Cold. Unbothered.
Sōsuke Aizen. Kaname Tōsen. Gin Ichimaru.
"Now this is a surprise," Aizen said with a smooth, calm smile, his haori flowing gently as if untouched by the chaos. "Captain Hirako. I expected two or three… but even a Kenpachi was sent?"
His eyes flicked to Arthur's unconscious form, bound by Tessai's Bakudō.
"A fascinating test subject."
Shinji growled, his half-mask still forming. "You… You bastard—! It was you…!"
Gin tilted his head. "Should we just kill 'em now, Aizen-taicho?"
Before Aizen could reply—a shift in the air.
The air turned cold. Sharpened. Like invisible blades cutting through spiritual pressure itself.
A voice, low, calm — but full of unmistakable death:
"I'd like to see you try."
The trio turned.
Standing there under the dim sky, Captain Mohit approached slowly, threads already leaking from his fingers like smoke from a burning fuse. Behind him, Urahara and Tessai stood ready — but silent.
Gin's grin faltered for a split second. A flashback hit him — that earlier "warning" Mohit had given him. That quiet moment in the past when Gin had tried to mock him, and Mohit left a crater in the wall behind Gin's head with just his reiatsu.
Now the warning felt like prophecy.
"My, my," Aizen murmured, his gaze sharpening. "Mohit-taicho. That's quite the entrance. You always were… inconvenient."
"No," Mohit replied coolly, stepping forward, his reiatsu unfurling like a storm cloud. "Inconvenient is leaving a trail of broken Shinigami just to test your twisted theories."
Tōsen, angered, stepped forward. "You don't understand justice, Mohit. We—"
Before the words left his mouth, Tōsen's body locked in place. Threads — glowing, barbed, and humming — had wrapped around his limbs mid-sentence.
Snap.
The pressure increased. Tōsen dropped to the ground in agony.
"Hey brat," Mohit said, eyes narrowing, "do you really think you could speak to a captain without his permission when you don't even notice your tendons getting sliced?"
Blood trickled from the sides of Tōsen's neck and arms — the threads were cutting deeper with each breath he took.
Aizen's smile faded a little. "So dramatic. But if you're here, Kisuke…"
Urahara stepped forward.
"Yeah. I'm here too," he said, lifting his cane-sword. "But I'm not here to entertain you, Aizen. I'm here to save my people."
Mohit turned slightly, his voice still calm, but resolute:
"Urahara. Take Shinji, Rose, Love, Lisa, Hiyori, Kensei, Mashiro, Arthur… and Tōshirō. Get them somewhere safe. Save them — at any cost."
Urahara nodded. "Tessai!"
Tessai slammed the staff into the ground — Dimensional Shift opened instantly beneath them. With a sharp wind and blinding flash, they were gone.
Gin drew his sword slowly. "Looks like it's just us, eh?"
Mohit took a step forward. A blade made of threads now fully extended from his hand.
"Three of you. One of me. Fair odds."
He dropped into a low stance, reiatsu erupting in a cyclone of white and blue threads dancing around him.
Aizen's eyes narrowed. "You know this won't change what's coming, Mohit."
Mohit didn't blink. "Maybe. But I can delay it. I can scar it. And I can make damn sure you remember me when your plans start falling apart."
Then he moved.
Threadlight Slash — Piercing Web Fang.
The fight began.
Tension boiled in the air like a storm on the edge of collapse. Just as Urahara and Tessai completed the dimensional shift and vanished with the afflicted captains and officers, Gin Ichimaru made the first mistake.
He smirked.
And he moved.
Zing—
One flash step.
One slash aimed for Mohit's throat.
But he never reached it.
With a simple pivot and one clenched fist, Mohit met Gin's jaw with a punch that split the air like thunder. The sound of bone fracturing echoed across the ruined clearing. Gin flew backward, spinning in midair like a broken puppet, crashing into the ground and coughing blood.
"Ugh—kgh… what… was that…?"
He barely moved.
Tōsen, still bound by Mohit's sharpened threads, groaned in agony. The threads were now glowing red-hot, pulsing like arteries, cutting deeper into his flesh with every heartbeat. His limbs twitched as blood soaked the ground beneath him.
But then, Aizen charged.
His face unreadable, blade ready, spiritual pressure rising like a flood.
Mohit didn't flinch.
Instead, with a ghost of a smile, he reached up — and removed the cloth covering his eyes.
The moment it dropped…
Even Aizen's expression broke.
No pupils.
No iris.
Nothing. Just hollowed black sockets.
The air warped.
"I don't need eyes to see someone like you," Mohit said coldly.
Aizen slashed.
Mohit moved.
CRACK—!
A clash of steel and thread.
A miss. A slash. Then blood.
A deep gash tore through Aizen's right arm, blood dripping from the elegant folds of his captain's robe.
"Tch," Aizen murmured, pain flickering behind his eyes for a moment — not at the wound, but at being hit.
"Sloppy," Mohit muttered.
Gin groaned, trying to rise again. Staggering. Broken. Eye red and watering.
Mohit appeared beside him — soundless. Sudden.
He grabbed Gin by the hair, yanking his head up.
"Did you forget?" Mohit's voice was low, like a death knell. "The warning I gave you?"
Gin's eyes widened — then screamed.
SHNK—!!!
Mohit stabbed a human-forged blade — not his zanpakuto — directly into Gin's left eye. The scream that followed shattered the air. Gin dropped again, his breath ragged, writhing on the ground.
"You're lucky I left you one."
Just as Mohit turned toward Aizen again, the wind shifted.
Black-uniformed shadows flickered through the trees.
Squad 2 had arrived.
Stealth Force.
Reinforcements.
Mohit paused — he didn't need confirmation. Their arrival meant only one thing: Urahara had succeeded. The operation was complete.
He looked at Aizen one last time.
Aizen didn't speak.
He simply watched.
Gin clutched his face in agony.
Tōsen bled, barely conscious.
And Mohit's body… scattered.
Like spiders dissolving into threads — thousands of tiny arachnid-shaped threads dispersed in the air, fading into the wind. His spiritual pressure vanished with it.
The three traitors — broken, exposed, bleeding — used the confusion to escape.
The scene was left in chaos:
Gin, clenching his ruined eye, crawling away.
Tōsen, torn apart by slicing tension.
Aizen, silent, watching the wind where Mohit had been.
This was no victory.
This was a warning.
And Mohit had delivered it personally.