Behind him, the faintest scuff of claws touched the frame—Nyx dropped down from the rooftop onto the awning without sound. She dropped again landing two steps behind him like she’d always been part of the plan. She didn’t rush to catch up. Just moved at his pace, eyes already scanning the lot ahead.
The air outside had shifted. He could feel it before the light even changed. Six of them, same as before. Watching. Not hiding. Spread just enough to avoid looking like a wall, but close enough that the message landed anyway. Same presence he’d felt during the meal. Now dressed in daylight, in full view.
Heat rolled through the street—heavier now that the sun had settled lower, casting longer shadows that stretched like they had somewhere to be. The breeze smelled like soot and engine oil, and something fried just far enough off to be tempting.
Market noise played at the edges of the scene—sizzle from a yakitori grill, someone arguing about pickled daikon—but none of it crossed the lot. Not here. Not yet.
He didn’t blink. He didn’t reach for a stance. Didn’t need to. The market held still around him, waiting to see who moved first.
Something in the background tugged at him—not ki exactly, not fire. Just a faint wrongness, like a note off-tune in a song he didn’t know he was listening to. It didn’t pulse. It hovered. Like a breath waiting to turn into a scream.
One of them shifted their weight—small, but not accidental. Another adjusted a grip. Not on a weapon. Just readiness. He let his gaze drift. Slow. Measured. Not sharp enough to be hostile—but deliberate enough to make sure they noticed.
Uniforms. Half military, half rescue worker. Not a gang. Not a government squad. Something in between. Authority with a conscience. Which made them more dangerous than either.
He didn’t know their names yet. Didn’t need to.
Nyx’s ears flicked once. She settled beside a nearby planter, posture still and low, like she was waiting to see which one would twitch first.
The one in front had the bulk of someone who bench-pressed fire engines for fun. Broad chest, gloved hands, and a black shirt soaked through with sweat at the collar. The heavy-duty suspenders didn’t seem decorative—more like they were holding the street together—and he was fine with that.
A scar crossed the bridge of his nose, half-hidden under a brow that didn’t move unless it needed to. His frame didn’t shift—but gravity took him seriously.
To the right, standing in the shade, was a man lean and sharp in both build and posture. Hair combed too neatly for this humidity and glasses that caught the light like a warning. His jacket sat perfect at the seams—creased like it filed its own paperwork. He adjusted a cuff like it was a firing mechanism.
Nyx turned her head briefly, gold eyes flicking across the group—not toward movement, but intent. She didn’t crouch. Didn’t rise. Just shifted her weight the way animals do when the air goes wrong before a storm.
To the left, muscle coiled beneath a black tank top, seated on a narrow bench with one arm braced along the backrest, legs angled like they hadn’t decided whether to stand or wait you out. Purple eyes narrowed, sharp beneath bangs that swept short across her brow.
Hair twisted back into a ponytail. Her frame was sturdy, built like she could flip a vending machine on principle. She didn’t stand like a fighter. She stood like someone waiting for the fight to justify itself.
Beside her, the one in white sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. Not nervous. Just patient. The kind of patience that didn’t need to stand to be heard. White habit drawn just enough to shade her blue eyes, sat a young woman with pale blond hair and the stillness of someone trained to endure quiet.
She didn’t move. Just watched. A cross pendant caught the light beneath her collar, and the wind never touched her robe the same way twice.
Further back near a vending machine, a blond kid with too much posture and not enough mass didn’t hide the fact that he was already halfway into imagining this as a duel.
A little scuffed from something recent and standing like destiny was already calling his name. His sword was slung over one shoulder, blue eyes locked forward with knightly commitment and a smirk that said he liked his odds.
Tamaki stood in an orange jumpsuit zipped to mid-chest, collar open just enough to catch the breeze. She’d crossed her arms, weight settled in her hips, one foot angled like she hadn’t decided whether to fight or flirt. Her twin tails flicked in the breeze, but her golden eyes didn’t waver.
Her posture was relaxed, but her fire wasn’t. Not angry. Just alert. Her eyes found his and held there—not challenging, not scared. Just present. Like she’d been expecting this exact moment and hadn’t figured out how to feel about it yet.
For half a second, her flame didn’t feel like hers. It stuttered—like something brushed against it from the inside. Nyx flicked her ear once, but didn’t react. The pulse passed. But he felt the note of discord scratch behind his eyes.
She didn’t flinch. But the air around her pulsed—subtle, reactive, like her flames hadn’t forgotten the way he’d felt her before she’d even turned around.
Nyx’s head tilted, just slightly. One ear dipped toward Tamaki, then twitched back like she’d registered the static but found it beneath comment.
He took three more steps before stopping near the edge of the stoop. His hands casually in his pockets. Didn’t square his shoulders. Didn’t posture. Just stood there like gravity worked the same for everyone.
The air between them didn’t buzz, didn’t crackle—this wasn’t a fight yet. But it watched. Coiled. Waiting for someone to lean too far in.
He could feel their read on him—too clean to be instinct, too impersonal to be curiosity. They were taking stock. Calculating whether he was a threat, a wild card, or just a headache wrapped in martial arts and unresolved questions.
He didn’t sigh. Didn’t smile either. Just exhaled through his nose, took one more step to make sure they felt the motion land, and let his voice carry. It wasn’t conversation anymore. It was pressure—passed back and forth like a baton no one wanted to drop.
He tilted his head, and finally let the corner of his mouth pull sideways.
“Twenty-four hours,” he said, voice dry like the weather, “and I’ve already got government stalkers. Gotta be a new record.”
“I’d be flattered, if it wasn’t so creepy.” A smile followed, crooked and deliberate.
“Stalkers, huh...” Tamaki muttered, just loud enough for Ranma and the big one to catch it.
The big one didn’t answer. Just shot her a glance—quick, sharp, and enough to shut her up mid-smirk. She closed her mouth, but her eyes were already doing laps.
Ranma didn’t wait. He tilted his head, eyes drifting across the group like he was browsing store shelves. “So... are you handing out cookies, or is this one of those punch-me-first, ask-later kind of welcomes?”
Someone laughed—soft, almost reflexive. He didn’t catch who until purple eyes bumped the blonde with an elbow and a whisper that didn’t stay quiet.
The blonde kid squinted, one hand drifting toward the sword on his back like it might hold answers. “Wait—we have cookies?” He looked around like someone had been holding out on him.
“Gonna be real awkward if the kid’s right and they do have cookies.” Ranma muttered.
That got a second laugh. Definitely the small blonde this time. It felt like a spar—conversation landing in controlled arcs, each of them testing for openings without drawing blood.
Nyx blinked up at him, tail flicking once. If cats did judgment, hers landed somewhere between unimpressed and insulted. Like even she thought the cookie bit was beneath him.
A scooter backfired somewhere near the yakitori stand. The wind didn’t even bother with a breeze. A lone pigeon flapped off a signpost. Even it looked unimpressed.
The one with glasses—light catching sharp off the lenses—shifted just enough to show he didn’t appreciate the commentary. Not enough to break formation. But enough to register.
Ranma didn’t miss it. The guy didn’t scowl. Didn’t blink. Just adjusted his stance like a man preparing to file paperwork under ‘noncompliant.’
Nyx turned her head to watch him more directly now, eyes narrowing. Not aggressive. Just... annotating.
He gestured lazily toward the group. “We doing introductions, or just sticking with the creepy stare thing?”
The one in front stepped forward—not fast, just far enough to make it count. Heavy frame, lighter step. Presence, not pressure. “No one’s staring,” he said. “Just watching.”
“We figured we’d introduce ourselves the polite way.” he said, voice even. “Before someone else tried the less polite version.”
“Captain Akitaru Obi,” he said, voice level. “Fire Force Company 8.” No bark. Just enough weight to carry without dragging. He didn’t square off. Didn’t escalate. Just let the title hang a second, like he was offering it up for inspection.
Ranma didn’t flinch. Just shifted his weight to the heel of one foot. Loose. Balanced. Watching the shift in Obi’s shoulders more than the words.
“Fair enough.” His tone stayed casual, but the edge was there—polished into something that could pass for charm if you didn’t listen too closely.
“Ranma,” he said. “Currently unaffiliated. Mildly annoyed. Still digesting.” A half-shrug followed—loose, almost apologetic. But the timing was deliberate.
“You got a lot of folks out here for one bowl of ramen.”
Obi didn’t move. The rest didn’t either. But Ranma could feel the ripple pass between them—like something unseen had just shifted weight from one foot to the other.
“Doesn’t usually take this many people to follow up on a lunch break,” Obi said, level. “But you’re not exactly routine.”
He continued, calm as a man who bench-pressed his own doubts hours ago and left them with the sweat towel.
“We’re not here to arrest you. You haven’t attacked anyone. You helped contain a threat. That buys you a conversation.”
Ranma raised an eyebrow, almost impressed. The reply didn’t overreach. It didn’t underplay. Just enough give to say this wasn’t a trap, but not enough to give the ground away.
He tilted his head slightly, testing the space again. “You keep a list?” he asked, voice light, but the air behind it didn’t laugh.
“A few of us do,” Obi said, one shoulder dipping with an easy shrug. “Mostly for training purposes.”
Ranma’s eyes didn’t narrow, but his breathing stilled just slightly. Training. So that was the angle. Not threat assessment. Skill appraisal.
Another beat. He stepped down from the stoop like the street had invited him personally, then tapped his foot once against the pavement—not loud, not sharp. Just enough. “I’ll try not to mess up the rankings.”
Obi stepped forward—just enough to shift the center of gravity.
Ranma tracked the motion without turning his head, weight sliding to the balls of his feet so smoothly it didn’t read as movement. His hands stayed in his pockets.
“Ranma Saotome, right? Just wanted to make sure we got that right.” Obi said, tone low, steady.
Hinawa finally spoke, voice flat and direct. “That name doesn’t show up in our system.”
Ranma shrugged. “It’s the one that stuck.”
The corner of Obi’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You’re not on any registry. Not Empire. Not Temple. Not Haijima.”
Ranma’s brow lifted just enough to acknowledge the statement, not the concern.
“Gotta say,” he replied, eyes still scanning their spacing, “your background checks are faster than your introductions.”
That earned him a faint exhale from purple eyes—half laugh, half breath caught wrong. The guy built like a spreadsheet didn’t move. But his glasses caught the shift like a balance sheet just went negative.
Obi kept his voice even. “Just trying to understand what we’re dealing with.”
Ranma finally looked at him. Not hard. Not dismissive. Just present. “Funny,” he said. “That’s what I’m doing too.”
Obi didn’t press the exchange. Just let the silence settle for another half-breath, then shifted his weight—centered, grounded, not aggressive. Still offering.
“Well,” he said, glancing once to either side, “since we’re all already standing around awkwardly...”
He lifted a gloved hand and motioned to the group with his chin.
“This is Lieutenant Hinawa,” he said, nodding toward the one in the shade. “Our second. Handles strategy, suppression, and anything that doesn’t like burning twice.”
The man didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just acknowledged the nod like he’d already catalogued Ranma twice and was halfway through the third pass.
Ranma didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth ticked up a hair. The guy stood like his job required a kill switch and a clipboard.
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Obi’s chin tilted slightly left. “Sergeant Maki Oze. Close combat, fire manipulation.”
The woman didn’t stand. Just gave a polite nod, the kind you could miss if you weren’t looking for it. Her eyes had already been watching his posture—now they tracked his expression too. Like she was watching the way the wind moved around him, not just the man himself.
Ranma let his eyes track the shift. Her weight distribution. The angle of her elbow. Where she’d brace, if she needed to move.
“She hits harder than most buildings.” A faint edge of pride colored Obi’s tone—but it stayed measured, like even that was offered by permission.
Nyx crept forward a single step beside Ranma, her gaze following Maki’s posture with clinical interest. Her tail stayed still.
“Figured,” he said. “You’ve got that whole ‘don’t start none, won’t have to throw a vending machine’ kind of vibe.”
Her smirk twitched up, then paused—like it hit a wire she didn’t expect. Just long enough to flick her eyes away and back again.
“Good guess,” she said, but the words landed softer than they could’ve. Not shy—just… checked.
Ranma clocked the hesitation, but didn’t chase it. You don’t call someone out for pulling a punch they didn’t mean to throw.
“And Sister Iris,” Obi continued, his tone softening just enough to draw contrast, “Keeps us human.”
Her eyes met his for a moment. Nothing in them screamed judgment. Just quiet inquiry. Like she was holding a question she didn’t think she had the right to ask.
Ranma blinked once, slowly. Not fire. Not fight. But still part of the circle. That kind of silence doesn’t come from doubt. It comes from choosing when to speak.
Obi turned, just a touch, and thumbed behind him.
“Arthur Boyle. Knight of the Round Table. Self-appointed.”
The blond’s chest puffed a fraction on cue, sword shifting on his back as if to co-sign his own legend. He didn’t speak—just squinted, like Ranma was a puzzle with too many pieces flipped face down.
“Knight King Arthur Boyle,” Arthur corrected. “But I’ll allow it.”
Nyx laid down on the pavement and yawned, one paw stretching forward like the whole ordeal personally offended her.
Ranma exhaled lightly through his nose. So we’re doing delusions today. Great. Like a less annoying version of Kuno. He raised one eyebrow. “Right. And Cookie enthusiast.”
Arthur blinked. “I didn’t get any.”
Ranma raised an eyebrow. “Tragic.”
Maki made a sound under her breath that might’ve been a laugh—or might’ve been restraint.
Tamaki let out a breath like it had something to say, then rolled her eyes so hard it made a sound.
Obi didn’t indulge the derailment. Just kept moving.
“You’ve already met Tamaki,” Obi said—tone steady, but the glance he gave her landed just a shade longer. “Third Generation. Agile response.”
She straightened slightly at the name—arms still crossed, but the set of her jaw pulled tight like it hadn’t been ready to be said aloud. Her eyes flicked toward Obi, then back to Ranma. No change in temperature. Just a little more noticeable now.
Ranma didn’t press. Just held her eyes a second longer than the others. Flame’s still twitching. Still remembering. Not just from the ruins. From before that. She felt it when I noticed her. And she hasn’t decided if that’s a compliment or a warning.
Obi didn’t say anything else. Didn’t fill the space with talk. Just let the lineup settle. Like cards turned face-up, waiting to see which ones got played.
Ranma rocked his heel once against the pavement. Still didn’t move his hands from his pockets. “Alright. Roll call’s done. Now what? Fireworks? Dance-off?” he said, eyes sweeping the group.
He tilted his head. “Tell me this is the part where someone challenges me to a duel for the fate of the neighborhood.”
Off to the right, a half-choked laugh escaped one of the teens. She elbowed the other and clutched the daikon box like it might help.
Then Arthur stepped forward half a pace. Not fast. But like the idea had been waiting in his back pocket since breakfast. “I accept,” he said, absolutely serious.
Ranma blinked once. Not slow. Not surprised. Just… noting.
“Oh good,” he muttered. “The honorable idiot accepts.” his mouth tugged sideways. “...You’re adorable.”
Arthur didn’t flinch. “You implied a challenge. A knight answers when duty calls.”
Obi’s exhale was more breath than sigh. “Arthur—”
“I’m always ready,” Arthur cut in, adjusting the angle of his scabbard like it mattered. “You’re clearly not an ordinary man. Which means you could be a Dragon or even a Demon King in disguise.”
Maki didn’t look up. “Arthur,” she said flatly, “for the last time—he’s definitely not a dragon.”
Arthur turned to her with perfect sincerity. “That’s exactly what a dragon would want you to think.”
Maki didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him either. Just exhaled—slow, controlled—and pressed two fingers to her temple like she was filing for emotional compensation.
She closed her eyes slowly, like she’d seen this movie too many times to be mad about the ending. Then cracked one open again—long enough to glance his way.
Ranma didn’t blink. Just tilted his head the other way—like the breeze had changed direction.
Her mouth twitched once, and she looked away again.
Ranma didn’t follow her glance. Just let it drift past like he hadn’t caught it—whatever that almost-smile was, it didn’t belong to him.
“Don’t worry,” Obi said. “He accepts a lot of things.”
“Most of them imaginary,” Hinawa added flatly, without moving a muscle.
Ranma shifted his gaze again, just enough to look over at Obi without breaking eye contact with Arthur. “This normal,” he asked, “or is this what happens when head trauma gets a side quest?”
“Depends,” Obi said dryly. “You allergic to drama?”
Ranma smirked. “Not allergic. Just develop a rash when it starts quoting fantasy novels.”
A faint snort slipped from Maki’s side, but she turned it into a cough. Her eyes stayed sharp, watching the way his weight shifted between barbs—like every joke came with a centerline read.
“No one’s dueling,” Hinawa cut in, voice flat enough to iron shirts on. “Especially not over fictional neighborhoods.”
Maki didn’t move, but the smile she’d been hiding decided now was a good time to practice existing.
“You sure?” she murmured, arms still loosely folded. “Could’ve been fun to see who blinked first.”
Arthur scowled. “You laugh now, but you’ll regret underestimating the Knight King.”
“She’s not laughing at your title,” Ranma said, still deadpan. “She’s laughing because you’re the only one here who thinks you’re dangerous.”
Arthur opened his mouth—then paused. He squinted. “Wait.”
Nyx’s head tilted sharply—not toward Arthur, but off to the side. She stared into nothing, eyes locked for half a second like she was trying to trace something moving behind the wall. Then she blinked, shook out her fur, and laid down again. But her tail didn’t stop twitching.
Tamaki folded her arms a little tighter, lips pressing into a line that wasn’t quite irritation—but definitely wasn’t comfort. She glanced at Arthur, then back at Ranma like she wasn’t sure who to be more annoyed at.
“You two are gonna drive me crazy.” She said, flat but with a flicker of residual flame in her tone. But it landed loud enough for Hinawa to step in.
The lieutenant didn’t nod. Didn’t twitch. Just stepped forward half a pace and spoke like someone folding a report in half without creasing it.
“No one here wants a fight,” Hinawa said. “But you should know—we don’t avoid them either.” His tone was flat. Not cold. Just... clarified. Like he’d boiled all the sentiment out before speaking.
Ranma didn’t reply right away. “You keep saying that like it’s a spell,” Ranma muttered. “If I vanish, someone write that down.”
Behind them, the vending machine’s compressor kicked on—soft at first, then buzzing louder like it couldn’t decide whether to break or breathe.
He tilted his head again—this time slower. Measured. “Alright,” he said. “So if this isn’t a fight... what is it?”
Obi cleared his throat, just once. “Just a conversation.” he said, tone even.
Ranma didn’t nod. Didn’t smirk either. But the weight behind his next breath shifted—shoulders looser, eyes still sharp.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll talk. I’ll even pretend the cross-examination comes with snacks.”
He turned toward Obi, head still slightly cocked. “But let’s not pretend this wasn’t a test. You wanted a reaction. There it is.”
Nyx aligned beside him again, silent, her gold eyes fixed on Obi. She didn’t growl. But her presence said she’d already filed her opinion.
Iris said nothing, but her gaze lingered—like she was listening to something that didn’t need sound. She crossed one leg in front of the other and leaned her weight just slightly the other way. Her gaze tracked Ranma, steady, but the line of her mouth had flattened—like she didn’t like not being able to predict which way this was turning.
Obi raised a hand—not a warning, just a pause.
“We’re here because too many things about you don’t line up.” he said, calm returning to the surface. “And that means sooner or later, someone will test you.” Obi said it like a fact, not a warning. “I’d rather it be us.”
Ranma let the quiet stretch half a second longer, like he was waiting for someone else to flinch. Then, with a casual shift of weight and no real warning, he spoke again—tone still dry, but this time with a hint of shape behind it.
“So,” he said, eyes drifting toward Hinawa before bouncing lightly across the rest, “this a regular part of your patrol? Just wandering around until a guy with decent posture and better hair sets off the ‘weird’ alarm?”
His mouth tugged half a smirk, but the line didn’t hold—already moving on. “Or am I special?” There wasn’t heat behind the words. But there was a point.
Nyx’s ears flicked. She stretched one paw forward like she’d thought about moving, then changed her mind and stayed put.
Obi didn’t answer right away. Neither did the others. Ranma could feel the team’s read shift again—no longer just watching, now considering.
“Special’s a strong word,” Obi said finally. “Let’s just say you don’t match the file we don’t have on you.”
Ranma tilted his head. “That your way of saying I’ve got good bone structure, or bad timing?”
Maki made a soft noise through her nose—definitely a laugh this time, though short enough to deny later.
Obi let it pass. “No birth record. No military assignment. No temple registry. And no pyrokinetic signature.”
He wasn’t rising to it. Not dodging, not countering. Just sticking to the facts like they had weight all their own. Made sense. Guys like that don’t fight the wind—they wait it out.
“You left out charming personality,” Ranma said.
“We’re still assessing,” Hinawa replied, without blinking.
There was a beat of silence. On the bench near the daikon stand, one girl leaned toward the other like a conspirator in a comedy. The other tried to stay serious—and failed, laughter snorting out like a traitor.
Ranma didn’t flinch, but the smirk tugged sideways again. “Yeah, figured.”
Obi didn’t step forward. Didn’t shift his stance. Just let the silence stretch half a second longer, like a lead-in to something quieter than command.
“We’re not here to corner you,” he said, voice calm again. “But I won’t lie—we’re still trying to decide if you’re a variable we can afford not to understand.”
Ranma didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled slowly through his nose, the weight in his shoulders drifting back to neutral. The problem with problems, he figured, was that nobody liked being told they were one.
He glanced toward Iris. Her gaze hadn’t moved. Still quiet. Still weighing. He turned slightly toward her—just enough to acknowledge the lingering look.
“And what about you?” he asked, tone even. “You watching because you’re curious… or because you’re the one keeping score?”
Iris didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But her hands—still folded neatly in her lap—pressed together just a little tighter. Her gaze hadn’t broken from Ranma, but the shape of it had changed. Not suspicion. Not fear. Just a narrowing, quiet and internal, like she was listening for something that didn’t need sound.
She blinked. Once. Softly. Then shook her head. “Neither,” she said. “You just feel… different. Like someone pulled your thread from the wrong weave.”
Nyx’s ears flicked, gold eyes sliding back toward Iris with the faintest tilt. Ranma didn’t move—but his expression shifted just enough to count. A sliver of awareness behind the steady.
“I get that a lot,” he said. “Usually right before someone tries to stitch me into the scenery.”
Tamaki made a sound under her breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a warning. She didn’t speak, but her arms drew a little tighter across her chest. But her foot tapped once, then stopped—like her body had moved before she decided to.
Her gaze flicked to Ranma, then away, then back again. Not flirtatious. Not defensive. Just... unsteady. Like she was recalibrating what she thought she knew.
“You really think we’re here to fight you?” she asked, voice low. Not challenging—just trying to land somewhere between confused and annoyed.
Ranma didn’t answer right away. His eyes tracked hers for a beat too long. Then dropped—just slightly—like he was checking her center of gravity instead of her expression.
“No,” he said, calm. “If you were, we’d already be done talking.”
He didn’t smile. But the way his head tilted, the pause between his words—it wasn’t just an answer. It was a courtesy. He didn’t need to give her that calm, but he did. And it landed like heat that hadn’t decided whether it was comforting or dangerous.
Tamaki’s mouth twitched once. She didn’t speak again.
But Nyx blinked slowly at her, then turned her head away, as if the moment hadn’t earned her interest.
Obi stayed quiet. Let the moment land.
Then, with a glance toward Nyx that landed like a fact being updated, not a threat being measured. He added, “We don’t like putting people under pressure. But we’ve seen what happens when the wrong ones slip through.”
Ranma tilted his head. “That supposed to be a compliment, or a caution?”
His voice stayed casual, but the read was real. Obi didn’t say he was the wrong one. But he didn’t say he wasn’t, either.
Obi didn’t flinch. “Call it context.”
Ranma’s eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but consideration. His weight shifted again, not aggressive, just a re-measure of balance. Testing the new tempo.
Nyx took a silent step closer, pressing lightly into the back of his leg—not seeking contact. Just marking territory.
A thread of yakitori smoke curled between them, rising from the vendor stalls across the lot—then caught a breeze and vanished, like it’d decided this wasn’t its fight.
He didn’t look down. Just tilted his head again, eyes locked on Obi.
“Alright then,” he said. “Context noted.”
Iris didn’t speak. But her gaze lingered—quiet, clear, like she was listening for the shape of something unspoken. She uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again the other way—quiet motion, more anchor than restlessness. Her gaze stayed on Ranma—not as a warning, not as approval. Just an open space waiting to be filled.
“Does it always feel like this?” she asked softly. Not a challenge. Not an accusation. Just… genuine.
Ranma looked at her. Noticing the way she didn’t tense, didn’t hedge. Like she wasn’t measuring him the way the others were. Just listening.
“Feel like what?” he asked—voice low, almost amused, but the edges softened.
Her head tilted slightly. “Like the world keeps trying to decide what to make of you before you’ve finished choosing yourself.”
For half a second, he didn’t have a comeback. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t tease.
His breath left slower than before. And that—that got the others to shift, just slightly. Not because of what she’d said. But because of what he didn’t.
Nyx turned her head, gold eyes flicking toward the Sister now like she was finally worth paying attention to. Her tail flicked once.
Ranma blinked once. Then smiled. Not crooked. Not mocking. Just… real.
“Well,” he said, voice dry again. “That’s either the nicest thing I’ve heard today… or the scariest.”
“You ask this many questions of all your good Samaritans?” Ranma asked, shifting his weight again—just enough to keep the rhythm moving. Not aggressive. Just harder to pin.
“Only the ones who stop third-gens with no known abilities and vanish into the smoke,” Obi said.
Ranma’s smile didn’t grow—but it held. Like he’d been waiting for someone to say it out loud.
“Yeah… can’t argue that,” he muttered.
Before the weight of it could spiral, Iris stood and stepped forward—not far, not fast. Just one quiet step that didn’t interrupt so much as redirect.
“I believe you saved lives yesterday,” she said gently. No accusation. No preamble. Just a statement. Like maybe it wasn’t being said for his benefit—but because no one else had.
Ranma blinked once. The words didn’t land like praise. They didn’t land like leverage either. They just landed. Solid. Uncomplicated. And that was the part that threw him.
He didn’t answer her. Not directly. Just shifted his weight back half an inch—more recalibration than retreat.
“I did it because I was there, and because I could.” he said eventually. “Didn’t feel right, watching that go down and not doing anything.”
Tamaki snorted—barely. Arms still crossed, weight now leaning into her back foot. “You say that like putting a guy through a wall counts as subtle.”
Ranma tilted his head. “That was subtle.”
Tamaki’s sigh said otherwise. “You’re impossible.” But her voice betrayed the tension loosening in her chest. Just a little.
“Only when I’m awake,” he replied. The tease didn’t bite. Just brushed past her like a wind that chose not to push too hard.
Obi didn’t cut in. Not yet. He was watching the exchange—not policing it. Like he knew this part mattered more than anything he could say.
Maki’s gaze tracked the shift in Tamaki’s shoulders. Noticed the way her arms hadn’t tightened this time. Her smirk had faded—but not into discomfort. Just into... awareness.
“You don’t act like someone looking for a place to land,” Obi said finally, his voice calm again—but this time with something more human folded into it. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to ask why you fell here.”
Ranma almost replied. But something else shifted—behind them, or beneath. A breath out of place. The feeling of a crack forming in the air, then pretending it hadn’t. His reply came slower than usual. Still dry. Still casual. But the sharpness in it was more careful now.
“Never planned on falling anywhere,” he said. “But I’ve got a habit of landing where things are about to break.”
Nyx flicked her ear once, tail twitching low and slow. She hadn’t moved. But now she was listening. Like something had just called her name from under the floorboards.
Her head turned, slow and deliberate, until her gold eyes settled back on Ranma. Not sharp. Not startled. Just... resigned. Like she’d just heard something she wished she could unhear —bad news already at the doorstep.
He didn’t look at them when he said it. Ranma’s weight shifted to the other foot—casual, but the kind of casual that made it harder to read centerline. He let his gaze drift back to Obi.
“Well,” he said. “You tracked me down. Points for that.”
He paused. Let the next question sit just beneath the surface, like a ripple about to reach the shore.
“But I gotta ask—what makes you so sure I’m not the problem?”
A truck rumbled across the far end of the street, loose bolts clattering like a ribcage shrugging. No one looked toward it. The sound passed, but the question didn’t.
But it wasn’t for their reassurance—it was a mirror, held loose but steady, waiting to see who blinked.
Nyx shifted beside him, the faint rustle of fur against pavement the only sign she’d heard it too.
No one stepped forward. No one stepped back. They just stood there, seven bodies and one cat caught between the past twenty-four hours and whatever came next, all of them watching the line he hadn’t quite drawn—and not one of them sure whether they’d already crossed it.
A single leaf drifted between them, caught in a breeze that didn’t know where to go either. It tumbled once near Nyx’s paw before coming to rest, whole and still. Nothing moved. Not even the air.
Arthur raised a hand. “So... about that duel—”
Obi didn’t even look. “Don’t start.”
One of the teens on the bench let out a sharp breath through her nose, then looked away like she'd seen too much already.
Nyx stretched her front legs out with a low, unbothered yawn—like the only thing she feared was how long this conversation might go on.
Somewhere across the lot, a yakitori grill hissed. The silence didn’t break. It just... thinned.
Arthur’s Notes: Chapter 10 – So... about that duel.
A tarp flapped heroically in the breeze. Beneath it: one fold-out banquet table, three chairs of dubious structural integrity, and a banner declaring in bold crayon, “HOLY POSTURE EVALUATION SITE – Dueling Zone Certified.”
Arthur’s Notes—the only program brave enough to extract eternal truths from brief silences, sidelong glances, and extremely well-timed eyebrow movements! Today we review Chapter Ten: Thread from the Wrong Weave—or as I now declare it canonically—The Duel of Noble Wills!”
Sasuke Uchiha.”
Sandalphon of the Singularity Core.”
emotionally overcorrect, the original puppetmaster of perception itself—Sosuke Aizen, who is here under light protest and one suspiciously binding magical contract.”
Shadowed Mirror Duel, where one warrior’s aloof restraint is answered only by another’s casual posture of destiny?”
someone still isn’t cleared for posthumous participation,” Sandalphon shot back, wings twitching just enough to rattle the windchimes hanging from a nearby ladder.
Triad of Honor! The third stance—the uncommitted stance—symbolizing neither advance nor retreat, but the potential for both.”
“So... are you handing out cookies, or is this one of those punch-me-first, ask-later kind of welcomes?”
really good at pretending not to care.”
exactly the move I would expect from a warrior trained in the ancient art of Subtle Knightly Victory.”
chose not to act,” Arthur explained. “Which, in a duel of wills, is the same as attacking from all directions simultaneously. The one who acts least... wins most.”
not fight.”
Appendix 43: The Art of Not Flinching: A Field Guide to Reading Reality Before It Happens
walks like the sidewalk was expecting him. Like gravity filed a request ahead of time and he showed up five minutes early. The footstep lands, the ground adjusts, and somehow the entire situation rearranges itself to include him without complaint.
effort.
Soul of Ice: Emotional Refrigeration, But Make It Martial
emotional air conditioning. This allows the user to remain completely unaffected by:
- Hostile energy
- Excessive posing
- Public emotional outbursts
- Ex-girlfriends with flamethrowers
Side effect: All microexpressions are now weaponized. Raised eyebrow = social earthquake.
Nekoken Mastery: Controlled Catastrophe and the Claw of Restraint
Now it provides:
- Fluid, nonlinear movement
- Predatory grace
- A tendency to crouch near rooftops like a ninja with boundary issues
- Landing on your shoulder without announcing himself.
- Climbing furniture
- Dodge by standing still while your momentum rethinks its life choices.
- Reading intent through movement and suppressed tension in someone’s ankles
Life Experience: Otherwise Known As 'Why He Doesn’t Bother Explaining Anymore'
Wyrdwyrm