Chapter 1: The Tendo family and their fantasy life
Chapter Text
It had been over fourteen years since those chaotic, almost supernatural days. Sure, every now and then they still had to exorcise a demon, neutralize a cursed artifact, or keep some magical device in check. But life now was… kinder. No more deranged warrior women bursting through the door, no more strangers demanding payment for ancestral debts. They had their work, their family, and they’d both changed so much that sometimes, they’d catch each other’s gaze and barely recognize themselves.
Akane was still beautiful—flawless in her own way. Her readers (blog followers, social media devotees, even the ones who bought her books) never let her forget it, even when she’d deflect with a modest smile and a swift change of subject. Her writing was eclectic, sharp: Japanese fantasy, body horror, critiques of the self under the weight of her country’s patriarchal structures—the kind she always made sure to clarify weren’t the same as Western ones. Her hair was short now, a sleek pixie cut that framed her strong, graceful neck. Her hands, deceptively delicate at first glance, were calloused from years in the dōjō and motherhood—marks that didn’t mar them but mapped her history… and a weakness for her partner.
Her eyes, a soft, quiet brown, contrasted with that shrewd, piercing gaze that could dismantle you without a word. The muscles she’d inherited from martial training weren’t hidden behind any pretense—they were visible, real, functional. She stared at her laptop, adjusted her glasses with a finger, then took them off, rubbing the bridge of her nose. When she looked up, her gaze drifted to the engawa, where a five-year-old boy was intently watching the koi pond. Drawing.
She smiled before she could stop herself. The boy felt his mother’s eyes on him, turned, and grinned before sprinting toward her with the chaotic speed of childhood.
“Mama, look! It’s like Mama Ranma’s!” He held up his sketch—a fish mid-leap, ink wings stretching from its fins.
Just then, a whirlwind of energy burst into the house, trailed by a man (or woman, depending on the day) with firm muscles and a smile that never quit. He’d never been the tallest in the world, and still wasn’t, but there was something about him now—that serene confidence, that voice that rarely ever lost its calm—that made him seem larger than life. He moved like the world owed him nothing, and like he had no interest in collecting.
“Mrs. Tendo, shouldn’t you be in your office?” Sarcasm dripped from his tone, eyes glittering with hunger and a playfulness only she could fully read.
Akane masterfully ignored the insinuation—though not before biting her lower lip, a detail her spouse didn’t miss.
“What can I say, Mr. Tendo? I’m a mother. My son is my muse.” Her voice was soft as she ruffled little Masaki’s hair. The boy nuzzled into her like a content kitten.
“Guess my five hours of labor didn’t earn me the ‘mother’ title,” Ranma shot back, mock-offended, winking at his wife, who rolled her eyes.
“Daaaaad! You promised gyoza!” The girl’s shout sliced through the moment with the precision of a professional comedian.
Akane laughed, loud and bright, while Ranma sighed with dramatic resignation.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m goin’, Kasame.”
He headed to the kitchen with a light step, while the girl flopped beside her mother. Now both kids were tucked against her, their small bodies pressed close as if she were the sun they orbited. Masaki kept drawing, this time a fish with fins so long they looked ready to take flight. Through the open window, the breeze carried the scent of the garden—jasmine, rosemary, damp earth—as if the world itself was conspiring to make the moment perfect.
“What’re you writing, Mama?” Kasame asked, chin propped on the table.
“A funny story I remembered. There used to be this haunted tunnel full of ghosts—spirits of couples who’d broken up inside it. Ranma and I went once. But since we were always fighting back then, the ghosts didn’t even recognize us as a pair.”
“I don’t know much about books, but I’m pretty sure people don’t wanna read about your relationship drama,” the girl declared, her tone wise beyond her seven years.
“Oh, Kasame honey… you’d be surprised,” Ranma said, reappearing—this time in her feminine form. Her curves caught Akane’s gaze for a heartbeat: a playful goddess, like a Benzaiten delivering gyoza instead of blessings. She set the plate down with a smirk.
Then she knelt beside Masaki, voice dripping with sweetness.
“What’cha drawing, sweetheart?”
“A picture like yours. The carp’s gonna turn into a dragon, like in Mama Akane’s story.”
The tenderness hit Ranma like a wave. She pulled him into a hug, kissing his head, squeezing as if she could tuck him into her ribs forever.
“Stooop, Mama!” He wriggled free and scampered to the table. Akane closed her laptop with slow, almost ceremonial care, then joined them.
The food smelled heavenly, so familiar it was home itself. Gyoza was Kasame’s favorite, and the room filled with the quiet joy of a house that needed nothing more than its own warmth. Today, they rested.
Later That Night
Once the kids were asleep and the house was wrapped in the hushed warmth only families truly bonded could know, Ranma slid beside Akane. They sat on the tatami, bare feet brushing under the low table.
“So… what were you really writing?” Ranma murmured, like she was sharing a secret.
“An essay on love’s expectations. How societal pressure shapes parenthood in Japan.” Akane still didn’t look up. “And believe it or not… I used the Tunnel of Lost Love as a metaphor.”
Ranma watched her, smiled slowly, and said nothing. She didn’t need to. The way her hand found Akane’s, fingers lacing together, spoke louder than words ever could.
Then Ranma’s arms circled Akane with fierce tenderness. Even in her feminine form, her muscles were undeniable—though these weren’t the tense, conflicted ones of a teenager at war with her body, but a woman’s, shaped by practice, by motherhood, by love. Muscles that didn’t need to prove anything because they’d already proven everything.
Desire flowed between them with the ease of habit, the intimacy of two people who knew each other’s scars and dreams. One hand settled on Akane’s waist, while the other—as if asking the world’s permission—slid under her shirt. First over fabric, then beneath, unwrapping her like something sacred. Layer by layer, until fingertips met warm skin, and they both exhaled like an ancient breeze had passed through them.
The air thickened with withheld pleasure, with burning tenderness. Akane turned just enough to find Ranma’s lips, and the kiss was long, deep, more history than hunger. Just as their bodies aligned like puzzle pieces—
A tiny sound cut through the room.
A snore.
Kasame.
They froze, remembering they were in the same room as their sleeping kids, then stifled laughter. Their eyes met, desire hanging between them like an open book on its best page. They shared one last kiss—too long to be innocent—then drifted asleep on the tatami, Akane curled in Ranma’s arms, her face peaceful in a way her younger self had rarely known.
Nap time ended as the sun dipped west. Ranma woke with bedhead and a serene expression, setting the rice cooker for later before checking the clock. Time for the seniors’ class. She stretched with lazy grace and headed to the dōjō, steps steady as ritual.
Kasame blinked awake soon after, rubbing her eyes, surprised she’d dozed off. The first thing she did was look for Dad. She knew he’d be teaching—and without hesitation, she bolted to assist. In her mind, she was the best assistant ever. (She wasn’t wrong.)
By the time she arrived, warm-ups were done. Ranma (male now) led with precision and charm. The elderly students were just arriving, but instructors warmed up first—she’d messed up by not being ready! Kasame scolded herself silently before bee-lining to the closet. She distributed mats, towels, and bokken by skill level, remembering who preferred floor exercises, who had bad knees, who’d forget their towel if not handed one.
Ranma watched from the mats, smiling faintly. His kid was incredible.
“Good afternoon, everyone. As you know, our Kasame will be helping today. Please follow our instructions carefully.”
Some bowed, others chuckled. Ranma stayed male; the older generation still wrestled with prejudices even he couldn’t erase. And he understood. It didn’t hurt anymore. He’d learned to pick his battles.
“We’ll start with gentle stretches. Kasame, with me.”
“Hai, Sensei!” She grinned.
They moved in sync: neck rolls, shoulder rotations, controlled leg bends, guided breathing. Kasame counted aloud, rhythm steady. Then came modified tai chi—slow, circular motions for balance and muscle memory.
“Every movement has purpose. Feel the air, how your body responds. This too is martial arts. This too is strength.” Ranma adjusted an elder’s posture with care.
Next was adapted kendo. Kasame grabbed a child-sized bokken and faced Ranma. Their demonstration was deliberate, almost theatrical—basic strikes at half-speed, then faster. A few students clapped.
“If you have hypertension, avoid jerky motions. Tell me if you feel dizzy or sore. Martial arts is discipline, not punishment.”
Kasame followed, helping a grandmother secure a towel around her wrist to ease tendon strain. The woman patted her cheek, grateful.
Class ended with seated meditation. Kasame guided the breathing—in for four, hold for four, out for four—eyes closed but feeling Ranma’s gaze. Not judging. Watching like a flower unfolding at its own pace.
When it was over, soft applause filled the room. Some thanked them; others simply bowed. Kasame addressed each by name, a tiny but relentless host.
Ranma ruffled her hair.
“You took this real serious, huh?”
“Of course. Today I taught. And teaching is caring.”
Ranma nodded. Akane was right—this kid was a miracle.
The TV was rarely on in the Tendo house. Little Kasame practiced katas in the garden with the focus of a Zen monk and the intensity of a miniature lightning bolt. The yard wasn’t the austere, functional space of their youth—now it was a living work of art, a choreography of stone and foliage. Akane and Ranma had cultivated it for years, selecting every flower, every rock, as if painting with life itself. Lilies, azaleas, a path of ink-black stones, moss tended by hand… the whole space was a tiny shrine to balance and natural beauty.
Kasame moved under her parents’ watchful eyes, each strike precise, each step weighted with intent. Akane observed with a martial artist’s critical eye, perched on one of the garden’s flat stones, laptop balanced on her knees. Between paragraphs, she called out corrections like second nature:
“Kasame, breathe—power comes from your center, not speed.”
The girl nodded without breaking rhythm.
Nearby, Masaki crouched under a low shrub, sketchbook in hand. He always found something new to draw: a dragonfly, a shadow, a leaf bent by the wind. In his world, everything could transform—a fish into a dragon, a stone into a mountain, a mother into a constellation. His sketchbook was a logbook of everyday magic.
Ranma, between teaching classes, split time between cooking and painting. Today, in her feminine form, she sat before a small canvas, applying color with deliberate strokes. Painting gave her the same thrill as a fair fight—a direct contest between technique and emotion.
Then the visitors arrived.
“I always thought you two would wreck this place,” Nabiki said, sauntering in with her trademark razor-edged smirk. “But now it looks like a Zen architecture spread. Pass the wifi, sis-in-law.”
Ranma didn’t look up from her canvas. “That’s what you get for changing phones every six months. It’s by the physiotherapy shelf, on the tiny frog painting.”
Nabiki barked a laugh. “Once you find an obsession, you really commit, huh, Ranma?”
Meanwhile, Nabiki’s girlfriend, Tomoyo, hovered with quiet curiosity. It was her first visit. She wasn’t nervous about the situation itself—but about what wasn’t happening. No tension, no hostile silence. Just life, flowing.
“How long’s it been?” Ranma asked, still painting.
“A year,” Tomoyo replied.
The house had welcomed her with casual ceremony: tea served solemnly, questions about her full name and work asked without a hint of judgment. Tomoyo, used to environments where relationships like hers were still awkward to mention, was stunned by the ease here.
“Oh, so she actually likes you,” Ranma said, pausing mid-brushstroke. “My big sis can be… eccentric. But if she brought you home this fast, she’s serious. Nice to meet you, Tomoyo. This is your house too, whenever you want—”
She leaned in, whispering mischievously:
“—or whenever you get sick of her.”
Tomoyo burst into genuine laughter. The warmth here left no room for anything else.
Just then, a phone wedged between them. Nabiki had returned, glaring playfully.
“Ikeda Shōen, hands off my girlfriend!”
“Nabiki’s jealous—you seeing this, Akane?!” Ranma called toward the garden, laughing.
Akane looked up from her laptop, eyes wide, then just smiled. “Welcome to the family, Tomoyo! Kasame, widen your stance—patience, you’re rushing.”
And she went back to typing as if nothing had happened.
Masaki, still in his own world, approached Nabiki with his sketchbook. “Auntie, do you think my art could be in a gallery like Mama Ranma’s?”
Nabiki braced herself to be the “cool aunt”—complimentary but noncommittal. But when she saw the drawing, she froze. The lines, the composition… this wasn’t child’s play. It was promise.
“This is—want your mom’s agent’s number?”
“Nabiki, he’s five,” Ranma cut in, setting her brush down. “Let him enjoy childhood and an education.”
“Fine. But he’s going on Instagram as ‘artist in development.’ Look, Tomoyo.”
Ranma rolled her eyes and headed to the furo, towel over her shoulder, mission accomplished.
Tomoyo was speechless. Not just at the kid’s talent or the mothers’ artistry—but at the family itself. Nabiki had called them “traditional,” yet here were two women (one painting, one writing), kids raised between katas and sketchbooks, and a love so fluid it shattered every preconception.
After tea, they offered cookies, then… nothing. No forced small talk. Just the quiet trust that guests could inhabit the space at their own pace.
Ranma spoke while painting, recounting her history with Akane—their disaster of a teenage romance, the wild sincerity that grew between fights and clumsy confessions. Then Tomoyo saw it: the painting wasn’t abstract. It was this moment—Akane writing on her rock, Kasame practicing, Masaki drawing.
The style was unmistakable.
“You’re Tendo-sensei?” Tomoyo whispered.
Ranma smiled. “I don’t sign my name. But yes. That’s me.”
Tomoyo nearly fainted. She knew these paintings—soft in color, raw in subject. Works that dissected gender, motherhood, the self. Critics called them “dangerous.” Now she understood why.
Then came the second bombshell.
Akane.
“She’s A. Kuroha,” Nabiki said, grinning.
Tomoyo’s tea froze mid-sip. A. Kuroha. The writer who’d blown her mind a dozen times over. Essays, light novels, short stories—all hers?
This family was a revelation. So far from the world’s rigidity, so fiercely committed to their art, that everything seemed to float. Acceptance. Beauty. Freedom.
Which made the next shock even more visceral.
A man—muscled, shirt clinging to his back—appeared from inside the house.
“Akane, you took the clean laundry to—”
Tomoyo tensed. Who was this? A husband? A third partner?
But no one reacted. Not Akane, not Ranma, not Nabiki. The man vanished briefly, then returned in looser clothes, grabbing Ranma’s phone to type clumsily.
Tomoyo’s brain stuttered. She forced calm into her voice.
“We… haven’t been introduced.”
The long-haired man blinked, then covered a laugh with his hand. He bowed with grace that defied binaries.
“Hi. I’m Tendo Ranma. Husband and wife of Tendo Akane. And yes, you’ve already met me.”
A wink. Then he was in the kitchen, returning with a tray of perfectly cubed watermelon.
“As you can see,” he said casually, “cold water changes me…”
He dumped a glass over his head. Before Tomoyo’s eyes, he shifted back to her—hair gleaming, features softer, but the same sharp gaze.
“…and hot water changes me back.” She touched the steaming cup beside her, like a domestic RPG potion.
Tomoyo swallowed hard. Then stared at Nabiki, who shrugged: Yes, this is real.
“You had to warn her first, dumbass,” Nabiki muttered.
Tomoyo’s world tilted. Was this a spiritual awakening or an anime plot?
The kids stampeded in, treating watermelon like a national holiday. Akane joined, laptop in one hand, fruit in the other—a scene of surreal domesticity.
“So… the ‘magic artifacts’ weren’t metaphors,” Tomoyo managed.
“Nope,” Nabiki said, resigned. Not to the magic, but to the fear that this weirdness might scare Tomoyo off. (She wasn’t ready to explain the two cursed springs by the shed yet.)
But Tomoyo’s imagination did a backflip over skepticism. Her eyes sparkled like she’d found a secret coven of mystic artists.
“Your painting on motherhood…?”
“Firsthand experience,” Ranma said, sitting with the kids. “I carried them. Right, little terrors?”
Masaki nodded proudly. Kasame stuck out her tongue. “I tell school you’re my dad!”
Akane closed her laptop with a soft click. “Kasame, respect my husband.”
The girl pouted. Akane turned to Tomoyo.
“I had uterine issues. We had an… accident. Magical. At first, accepting we couldn’t have kids was…” Her voice cracked. The confident woman flickered into a girl weighed down by fate.
Ranma took her hand.
“I’ve had this ‘curse’ since childhood. For years, I hated it. Then, in college, I researched Jusenkyo. They call its waters ‘the mirror of what you refuse to see.’ I thought it was punishment. Then I thought my soul was female. But the truth? Both forms are me. Not one or the other—all of it.”
Tomoyo listened like it was gospel.
“When we learned about Akane… I made a choice. We used a powder. Akane became male temporarily, and well…”
They shared a look. No words needed.
“Ranma said they’d carry them. I didn’t believe it. But they did.”
They hugged the kids, then—as if love were an ambush—dragged Nabiki and Tomoyo into the embrace.
“Knew you’d embarrass me!” Nabiki squawked, laughing.
Tomoyo didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or float. Magic was real. She was dating her idols’ sister. This family was witchcraft and rainbows. And most importantly: they approved. For someone like Nabiki, that meant everything.
Dinner passed in warm chaos. The couple trained in the garden at dusk, leaping between stones and branches with synchronicity that turned the yard into a kabuki stage. Not a single flower was disturbed.
Kasame and Masaki practiced too, their movements mechanical but earnest.
Then Nabiki frowned. “Hey… where are Dad and Uncle Genma?”
Silence.
Akane, mid-sip of tea, transformed. Ranma, on instinct, shifted into “Kasumi mode” and fled to make more tea, as if cosmic balance depended on it.
The kids grabbed hands and bolted upstairs. Voluntary exile.
Akane set her cup down. “Those idiots don’t live here anymore. I kicked them out years ago.”
“What happened?” Nabiki asked.
“Genma mocked Ranma. Again. That disgusting voice—‘Ranma’s lucky your mom broke the contract, or our heads would be on spikes, Tendo.’”
Ranma returned with fresh tea.
“Thanks, love,” Akane said sweetly—then roared like a vengeful spirit:
“And our father said, ‘It’s a women’s space, Genma! Stay out of the ladies’ territory!’”
A gulp of tea.
“Then he added, ‘Might turn the kids gay,’ and laughed like a moron.”
Akane exhaled. “Five minutes later, their shit was on the lawn. Last I heard, they’re living with Aunt Nodoka. Birds of a bigoted feather.”
Tomoyo didn’t know whether to applaud or apply for asylum.
“Dessert?” Ranma asked, smiling.
Two tiny ninja-hands swiped rice crackers and vanished upstairs.
“Brush your teeth!” Ranma called after them, then added dryly: “For both your parents’ sake.”
A loaded comment. A nod to Tendo-sama and Nodoka—flawed people who’d tried, clumsily, to mend what they’d broken.
Ranma sighed. “They’ve apologized. Really tried. But then they say something stupid.”
Akane groaned. “Like your hobby comment. ‘Give up art for the dōjō.’ As if teaching Tai Chi to Parkinson’s patients isn’t work. As if raising our kids isn’t enough.”
“And Mom,” Ranma said, biting a cookie like a peace treaty. “Offering katanas to toddlers. ‘To protect your mother.’ He was four.”
“He was holding a plushie!” Akane half-laughed.
Tomoyo slumped onto the table. “My dad wants me to be a lawyer. Like him. Like his father. Like every gray-suited ghost in our family. And, well… he’s not thrilled I’m happy, creative, or gay. Got sake?”
Ranma shook her head. “Not since Kasame tried fermenting peach jam and nearly got the koi drunk. Confusing week.”
Tomoyo laughed—the kind that cracks armor.
Akane sat beside her, steady as a hearth.
“Bedtime, depressed wives,” Nabiki declared, tossing blankets like surrender flags.
“Officially wives, or emotionally wives?” Tomoyo teased.
“Both,” Akane and Ranma chorused, a refrain learned in the war of identities.
Ranma tucked Akane in with the tenderness of decades. Then, wordless, she turned off the lights.
Outside, fireflies drifted like living ink between the stones.
And inside that eccentric, sacred, imperfectly perfect house, four women shared a weariness that wasn’t weakness—but proof they’d lived true to themselves.
Chapter 2: Of Magical Mushrooms and Unexpected Confessions
Summary:
Family Tendo face the challenges of modern and magical life. While looking for a babysitter for their children, Kasame and Masaki, Ranma and Akane must deal with a complicated school teacher and the complexities of a home filled with magical objects and fantastical creatures.
The plot deepens with the arrival of Tomoyo, Nabiki's girlfriend, and Nodoka, Ranma's mother, who both offer to watch the kids. Through intimate and revealing conversations, both women—from different worlds and generations—forge an unexpected bond. Tomoyo, with her modern perspective, helps Nodoka confront her past, her sexuality, and the guilt she carries for being absent during her son's childhood.
The chapter explores the life of a family that has learned to balance martial arts, magic, and unconditional love, proving that even in a world of curses and transformations, true strength lies in honesty, acceptance, and family ties.
Notes:
We continue celebrating my birthday ¡Feliz cumpleaños a mi! Even if it's been 10 days.
Chapter Text
“So you perform real exorcisms? Does that mean all those ghost stories, yōkai, and ayakashis are real?” Tomoyo typed into the family chat, where emojis coexisted with magical references as if it were the most natural thing.
‘Yeah, but it’s not always as ‘epic’ as you’d think. I sweeten things up a lot in my stories”, Akane replied, attaching a sticker of a daruma doll with sparkling eyes.
"’Sweeten’ isn’t the word, little sis. I’d say exaggerate”, Kasumi wrote, her signature passive-aggressive tone in full force, accompanied by a smiling face with closed eyes.
“LOL”, was all Ranma contributed, while wiping down the kitchen counter with the efficiency of someone who had tamed both ghosts and burnt pots.
“Shouldn’t you be prepping for your class, Ranma? 😒” Akane added, with the most wifely emoji possible.
“Actually, dear… it’s Thursday. Your turn”.
The moment was followed by an unmistakable sound—fast, dramatic footsteps thundering from the office to the dōjō like a domesticated storm. Ranma couldn’t help but laugh, leaning out from the kitchen with a raised eyebrow and shooting Akane a look that carried the weight of an entire marriage’s worth of history.
Akane responded by sticking out her tongue mid-stride, adjusting her gi belt with the dignity of a general.
“Ara~” Kasumi typed, as if watching an episode of a soap opera.
“LMAOOOO”, Nabiki and Tomoyo replied in unison.
“So, Kasumi… think you can watch the kids next Wednesday?” Ranma wrote, shifting into logistics mode.
“Sorry, Ranma. Three employees called out, so I’ll have to cover the restaurant that day. Plus, Souta has a meeting with his father. Maybe Mu Tsū could help?” Kasumi sent the message while reviewing the sake and tempura inventory.
“No. Last time, he turned into a giant duck and took the kids flying”, Ranma replied with absolute seriousness. “And destroyed my favorite family portrait 😮💨” he added, with a funeral-themed emoji.
Outside the chat, Tomoyo sat in Nabiki’s office, working in silence. Their teacups had long gone cold. She lifted her gaze from her laptop and fixed it on her girlfriend.
“I could watch them”, she said, as casually as offering to carry a box.
“Tomoyo, I love you… I really do. But I’ve dealt with enough Ranma and Akane to recognize them in miniature form”, Nabiki replied, not looking up from the legal documents for Akane’s book reprint.
“Not you”, Tomoyo shot back, offended. “Me”.
Nabiki lifted her head slowly, as if a shinigami had just materialized over her printer.
“You’re seriously going alone to a house full of magical artifacts, martial arts kids, and a gender-changing pond? Really?”
“They seem calm…” Tomoyo answered with a brightness that bordered on madness.
Nabiki sighed like someone already envisioning disaster.
“Take the emergency numbers”. And please don’t sign any glowing scrolls.
“I’ll watch them, Ranma”, two people typed at the same time.
Tomoyo… and Nodoka Saotome.
Nodoka read the message with a raised eyebrow. Who the hell was this Tomoyo? Meanwhile, Tomoyo racked her brain trying to figure out why the name sounded so familiar. Then her eyes widened like saucers.
“Oh… Ranma’s mom!”
Ranma, reading both messages, smiled as he stirred tofu in the pot.
“Actually, we could use both of your help. Thanks, Tomoyo. Thanks, Mom”.
He knew exactly what he was doing. Nodoka could handle exorcisms, possessions, and interdimensional portals—but he didn’t trust her with childcare. Tomoyo, on the other hand, was great with kids… but couldn’t tell a cursed teapot from a normal one.
Ten minutes later, his phone rang.
“Ranma, who is this Tomoyo?” Nodoka’s voice was sharp, restrained.
“Nabiki’s girlfriend. She’s really sweet. Works from her computer, like you with your detective stuff”. Ranma’s voice was soft, feminine—probably after rinsing fruit in cold water.
“You don’t think that… affects the children’s upbringing?”
Ranma stopped stirring.
“Mom. That’s homophobic. Like a lot. And no, it doesn’t. Remember how I gave birth to them through magical means? Or that I change bodies regularly? Not to mention Genma’s a literal trash panda. If you’re gonna act like that, maybe you shouldn’t come”.
Silence.
“No… it’s fine. I’m just… struggling to adjust. If I’d known women could be together back in my day, I might’ve broken off the engagement with Genma immediately…”
The silence that followed was brutal.
“Ranma, are you there? “
“Yeah… I just… wow. Mom, are you a lesbian?”
Nodoka, sitting in her living room, blushed like a schoolgirl caught reading BL novels.
“What?! No! I’m just saying… women are objectively more attractive than men, right?”
“100% agree, Mom, Ranma replied, triumphant. That’s why I like women. Try naming an attractive man”.
“That boy who serves the okonomiyaki…”
“Is a girl. And young enough to be your daughter”.
Another silence. Longer. More awkward.
“Yeah, we should proba
bly talk about this properly later”. Ranma sighed after five minutes of emotional static.
Ranma walked to the dōjō, his heart unsettled but his routine unwavering. He entered quietly, following Akane’s cues as her assistant instructor. She didn’t even glance at him—just raised a finger, signaling him to demonstrate a judo technique. He nodded with a knowing smile. The weight of the day dissolved with each movement.
The self-defense class for housewives ended smoothly. There was laughter, gratitude, even an elderly woman who confessed she now felt capable of hurling a sandal at her son-in-law with professional technique.
Soon, only the two of them remained.
As they rolled up the mats, Ranma turned to Akane, his voice caught between playful and earnest.
"Guess what I found out about Mom?"
Akane stretched, gaze tilted toward the ceiling. Without pausing, she replied:
"Ranma, just tell me."
"I think she’s a lesbian."
Akane froze mid-stretch, her arm suspended in air.
"Sorry, I thought I heard… you say your mother is… a lesbian?"
"That’s what I said," Ranma confirmed, crossing his arms with an easy grin.
Akane stayed frozen. The dōjō air itself seemed to still. Only a cricket in the garden dared chirp—and even it sounded regretful.
"Well…" Akane finally blinked. "That… explains a lot."
They held each other’s gaze, silent. Sometimes love lived in gestures; other times, in shared shocks that could only be digested over tea… and maybe an incantation.
Akane finished her stretches with a slow exhale. Her muscles relaxed, her skin glowed faintly under the paper-filtered light of the dōjō windows, and the sacred afternoon silence draped over every wooden plank like a truce.
Then she felt it.
*** Mild sexual content
Ranma approached from behind with the precision of a whisper. His fingers brushed against hers, as if asking permission to exist together in that moment—again. A delicate touch, a spark subtle but undeniable.
"Ranma, don’t—" she murmured, without bite, as if the protest had already surrendered.
"Don’t worry, Akane," he whispered, his voice rough yet reverent, grazing her ear. "I locked both doors."
The world narrowed to that instant: their bodies, the charged air between their skin, the warm wooden floor, the dust motes hanging like static constellations.
Ranma trailed his fingertips down Akane’s arms with the slowness of one who’d memorized desire’s map. With a fluid turn, he pulled her against him, and in a wordless ceremony, they sank onto the tatami—layer by layer, movement by movement, shedding their dōgi until skin met skin without pretense. That moment when bodies no longer lie.
Their torsos pressed together, warm and vulnerable. There was no friction, only dance. No rush, only refined hunger. Ranma’s hand traced Akane’s waist as if committing a poem to memory. And Akane, with the same quiet strength she’d used to endure everything, now yielded: her nails dug into his back, marking him not in anger, but need.
Their bodies began to pulse in sync. The desire was ancient, familiar, no less fervent for it. Animal, yes. Visceral, absolutely. But also tender—the kind of care that persists even in ecstasy. Ranma cradled her as his hand slid up Akane’s chest, not roughly, but like a blessing. Then downward, slow, tracing an invisible line between love and flesh. His fingers—calloused, yes, but skilled, patient—skimmed her thighs, grazed her hips with intent, until inevitably, they found the wet heat that welcomed him without hesitation.
"Tell me, Akane…" he pleaded, voice thick with reverence, not lust. "May I continue?"
She nodded. Her eyes were promise and answer.
Ranma’s movements were like katas—devotedly learned, masterfully repeated. A perfect balance of strength and softness. One hand held her gently while the other caressed with precision. His kisses trailed her neck at a measured pace, leaving sparks in their wake. And when he finally cupped her nape, locking eyes with her… they felt it.
The first climax hit Akane like a warm wave. Her back arched, but her gaze never left his. He trembled too, restraining himself, respecting. Because they knew this wasn’t the end.
An hour passed.
Ranma’s hair clung to his neck, sweat gleaming like pearls. He collapsed onto the tatami, exhaling with the serenity of a conqueror. Wordlessly, the couple stumbled toward the furo. Akane pushed him down with a smirk, straddling him, trapping him between her thighs.
"I’ve told you you’re vulnerable in the bath," she whispered, mischief in her eyes as she pressed a palm to his chest.
And she claimed him.
Their bodies joined seamlessly, as if they’d always been one. Akane moved with assured rhythm, her hips reading Ranma’s body like a language. Her short hair swayed with each roll, her moans soft as secret mantras.
"Oh, Ranma… I love you," she gasped between waves of pleasure that needed no height to feel infinite.
The second round was slower. Deeper. More intimate. Akane knew every silence of Ranma’s; Ranma surrendered, letting himself be touched, owned, loved unconditionally.
When they finally stilled, Akane poured warm water over Ranma’s shoulders. The woman before her now was the same as before—yet softer, as if tenderness had seeped beyond skin. Ranma, in her feminine form—the one who’d birthed their children, wept, laughed, loved—parted her legs without a word. Her eyes said everything: Do it. Hold me with your mouth. Not as desire, but as truth.
Akane knelt. Slowly. Starting at her thighs, her lips descended until she found the core of Ranma’s pleasure. The scent was familiar, sacred; every kiss a hymn. Ranma gasped, fingers tangled in Akane’s hair, guiding her without hurry. The third round was liquid, timeless, as if their bodies had dissolved the hours.
*** End, let's continue the story
Then, in the calm after the storm—the alarm blared.
Akane and Ranma locked eyes.
"Masaki…" they said in unison, and laughed soundlessly.
Because despite everything, they were still parents.
They arrived with the stride of those trained in martial arts since adolescence—swift, agile, efficient, yet never losing composure. Exactly on time. Not a second to spare, but never late.
Ranma, still in her feminine form, didn’t bother to change. She fastened her sports bra and, with the serene elegance of someone who’d long made peace with her reflection, slipped into an Italian-cut suit. Her hair, tied in a low ponytail, spoke more of confidence than coquetry. Akane, meanwhile, wore a long skirt that swayed with each firm step and a thick-knit sweater that seemed to hold the warmth of a safe home. They were running, but not desperately—with the quiet urgency of those who know their children are the center of the universe.
And upon arrival, they faced a scene that was no longer unfamiliar, yet demanded a new kind of fortitude each time.
A woman with haughty posture and a twisted smirk. A scowling boy at her side. Teacher Nakamura, visibly tense, caught between them. And of course, Masaki—their son. Standing calmly. As if nothing were happening. As if he weren’t the accused.
"Good afternoon, Teacher Nakamura," Ranma began, with a measured smile and a voice borrowed from her mother, Nodoka—polished to a samurai’s courtesy, yet edged with something sharper. Kasumi and Nodoka had taught her to wield elegance like a blade. Akane called it "the voice of broken porcelain": beautiful, but cutthroat if mishandled.
"Ladies Tendo, I— Well, you see—" The teacher faltered.
"Your son hit my Haru!" the woman shrilled, tone dripping with the entitlement of someone used to bullying others into her narrative.
Then came a silence that weighed.
Three pairs of eyes pinned her. The least unsettling was Masaki’s—and yet, for a five-year-old, it was unnerving. Cold. Analytical, like a wolf pup already adept at marking enemies. The other two gazes? Far worse.
Ranma, in her tailored suit, smiled politely, but her eyes were a she-wolf’s scenting blood. Akane, dressed like a homemaker, exuded a calm only earned through internal wars. The woman gulped.
Akane broke the silence, her tone firm yet diplomatic, leaving no room for rebuttal:
"Ma’am, we are the Tendo family. And we demand respect for the teacher—for our son, and for this community. Perhaps you’re new here." Their eyes scanned her, assessing character over clothing. "But in this neighborhood, respect is earned, not imposed."
Ranma added, even gentler:
"You moved here two weeks ago, didn’t you? Nerima has… quirks. There’s a reason no Yakuza dare operate here. And with your permission—we’d like to keep it that way."
The woman froze, realizing she’d tangled with something far beyond a "pesky parent."
"You may continue, Teacher Nakamura," Akane said warmly, the kindness of someone who’d already won.
The teacher exhaled. The Tendos were peculiar, yes—but fiercely protective. She never wanted to cross them.
"Haru accused Masaki of hitting him. Three boys backed his claim. But Masaki insisted we resolve this together, in front of adults. It was… remarkably mature."
"I see," Akane said calmly. "We’re missing the other children, but let’s begin."
She knelt to Haru’s eye level. Her voice softened—not feigned sweetness, but the tone of a true teacher addressing an equal.
"Sweetheart… Haru. Could you tell us your side?"
The boy puffed his chest, shooting Masaki a smug glare—until Ranma’s gaze locked onto him. Neutral. Unshakable. Supernaturally patient. He hesitated.
"Masaki teased me… Said mean things about my mom," he lied clumsily.
Ranma gave Akane a subtle signal. A silent pact between wives.
"Haru," Akane murmured, "you can’t lie to a witch. Especially one who practices martial arts."
The boy swallowed.
"See my wife? She is a witch. And she knows you’re hiding part of the truth. Look at me… and tell me everything."
Haru met her eyes. Akane’s were honey-brown—soft yet unyielding. A gaze that said, "I won’t hurt you… but I see you."
"I—I yelled at Hana. He scolded me. I tried to hit him, but he dodged and said… martial artists protect the weak. I got mad and called him a liar. He just laughed at me."
Akane nodded, compassionate.
"Anger is natural when we’re shown what we lack. But that doesn’t make it untrue."
Ranma crouched beside the boy, uncaring of her suit staining. She spoke quietly:
"Of all the martial and magical arts I’ve learned… words are the most powerful. The only magic that needs no incantations."
She raised her palm.
"For example: Huǒ."
A tiny flame flickered to life. The children gasped. The woman crossed herself.
"…I can make fire. But if I say xīn huǒ—"
The flame warmed, washing everyone in inexplicable calm—like the embrace of home.
"—that’s emotion. An idea. A feeling. Words, Haru, are real magic. They can build… or wound."
The boy nodded, visibly moved.
"We’ll go now, Teacher Nakamura. Masaki—" Ranma extended a hand.
Their son sprinted to her without hesitation. She lifted him effortlessly, as if he mattered more than any suit or appointment.
The sun dipped low. And though the world remained tangled, in this small corner of Nerima, justice still flowed through katas, magic… and a family’s love.
It's Wednesday. The parents were restless. Not the nervous kind of unease that comes with facing the unknown, but the subtle, everyday anxiety of responsible adults leaving their children in someone else’s care—even when those hands are trustworthy. Because trust doesn’t erase worry; it just contains it.
At the gate, Tomoyo flipped through a notebook as if its pages held the formula for universal stability. Nodoka, meanwhile, seemed calmer… though the couple walking away kept glancing back every few seconds. Their looks were a mix of love, duty, fear, and that contradictory urge to double-check one last time if everything would be alright.
"You know where the colored pencils are," Ranma insisted, voice edging into pleading. "And if Kasame wants to practice new moves, Mom, you can teach her—but please no steel naginatas. She’s barely turning eight."
Nodoka rolled her eyes with an elegant sigh.
"I won’t do it again."
It was a promise that sounded as maternal as it was ominous. Akane stepped in, handing Tomoyo a notebook crammed with numbers, schedules, margin notes, and color-coded tabs.
"If any magical objects act up, the kids know what to do. But don’t try to handle it alone, Tomoyo. Emergency contacts are on the first page, and Ranma’s calendar is clear—call if you need backup."
Ranma nodded, tension tightening her jaw.
"Mom, follow the list exactly. It has routines for the mushrooms, the plants, and the house’s magical creatures. Do it with the kids. They’re better at it than anyone. No improvising."
"And no coffee for the children!" both parents shouted in unison, as if they’d already witnessed the mini-apocalypse that could unleash.
They tried to keep rattling off instructions, but Nodoka and Tomoyo herded them out with a flawless combination of smiles and gentle authority. The gate clicked shut behind them—a soft sound that landed like a tombstone in the parents’ ears.
On the other side of the gate, both women sighed in unison. The air was warm, thick with leaves and the scent of magical herbs drifting from the house.
"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Saotome. I’m Kurokawa Tomoyo, I’m the—" Her voice faltered. She groped for the right word, unsure if "your Nabiki’s girlfriend" would be welcome. She didn’t know this woman. Hadn’t heard concrete stories about her. And that ignorance left her unsettled.
"My child mentioned you," Nodoka replied, her tone deceptively calm, gaze unwavering. "Nabiki’s girlfriend, correct?"
Her words were diplomatic, but something thrummed beneath them—an invisible tension. Since that phone call last week, too many thoughts had churned in her mind. Things Ranma had tried to drag into the light, things she still didn’t know how to voice. And that was the problem: Ranma was the person she trusted most, but also the one she most needed to see her as strong, poised, wise. And that—by the tenets of her upbringing—was an unforgivable contradiction.
Tomoyo, unwittingly, had begun treading on fractured emotional ground.
"Oh! Thank you. I’m glad they told you. Honestly… I’d have been terrified otherwise. Not everyone is kind about… this." Her sigh escaped like a breath held since adolescence.
Nodoka’s eyes narrowed, discomfort flickering. Then, almost like someone casting a rope across a chasm, she asked:
"To be honest, I… No. Never mind. May I ask you uncomfortable questions?"
Tomoyo blinked. The request was startlingly direct, vulnerable. Rare for someone like Nodoka.
"Oh… Of course. I’ll answer what I can. Just a moment—" She pulled out her phone and set an alarm. A grounding habit—she wouldn’t forget to pick up Masaki from kindergarten.
Nodoka inhaled deeply.
"How did you… realize you liked women?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. Tomoyo wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered, attacked, or simply bewildered. But something clicked. This was that kind of conversation.
"It was… strange," she answered slowly. "Even as a child, I felt more drawn to women. But I knew when I started dating men—out of pressure. Fear of not fitting in. It never felt right. Something in me screamed that I was wrong, but I didn’t know how to stop. For years, I thought I was the problem. I denied it. Hid it. Rationalized it. But it doesn’t go away. It never goes away."
Nodoka nodded, absorbing each word like a bitter memory.
"I… think I understand. May I tell you a story?"
"Of course," Tomoyo said, still uneasy but unable to refuse the raw openness before her. There was something about this woman that moved her—as if she’d gone centuries without speaking these words aloud.
"When Genma took Ranma away—" Nodoka’s voice barely grazed the air, as if exhuming this memory might topple the invisible pillars holding her up. "It’s difficult to say. Nowadays, Ranma is likely the person I trust most to speak with… but I’ve never been able to tell them this. Perhaps because it isn’t trust I fear losing, but respect. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to talk to you, Tomoyo. Because you don’t know me, and I… don’t have to pretend I was better than I was."
Tomoyo tilted her head slightly, an instinctive gesture of attentiveness. She was accustomed to listening without interruption—the way one does with people burdened by too many silences. Nodoka didn’t need interjections. She needed a crack to let the truth seep out without shattering.
"When Genma took Ranma as a child… I felt relief. Not because I wanted to be separated from my child. Never. But because, for a fleeting, cowardly moment… I was free of Genma."
The stones beneath their feet seemed to tense.
"Relieved not to endure that man’s shouting, his demands, his way of wielding duty like a punishment. And at the same time—" She paused, the weight of it pressing down. "An immense grief. A guilt that’s never faded. What kind of mother feels relief when her child is taken away?"
Tomoyo didn’t answer immediately. The confession was too intimate. This wasn’t a mother speaking—it was a woman who’d lived inside the scaffolding of duty for too long. That kind of pain couldn’t be answered with words. So she simply nodded.
But something nagged at her. A dissonance.
"Wait…" Tomoyo hesitated. "Did you just say your husband took Ranma? That he took them from you as a child?"
Nodoka’s face remained still, but her body coiled inward. A faint tremor in her fingertips betrayed an emotion she rarely let surface. In her world, showing feeling wasn’t virtue—it was weakness.
"Let’s go inside," she said s
imply.
Not as evasion, but as containment. A pause for the soul.
The interior was clean, warm. It smelled of dried tangerine peel and roasted tea. Nodoka prepared the infusion with the precision of a woman who had turned the act into a language. Gongfu cha wasn’t just a technique—it was a way of inhabiting the world: restrained, aesthetic, deeply respectful. Her hands didn’t tremble. Every movement was harmonious. And Tomoyo, who had studied dance, recognized in her someone who had learned to live without breaking form.
"Yes… they’re mother and child," she thought. Or perhaps simply two branches of the same tree.
Nodoka poured the tea, and as the steam rose like a sigh held for decades, she resumed:
"I convinced myself it was the right thing. Genma said Ranma needed to become 'a man among men.' A warrior. A strong heir to the dōjō. And at the time… I believed him. Because that was what was expected. Because that was family duty. Who was I to break it?"
Tomoyo tightened her grip on the cup. Her expression had hardened slightly—not with anger, but with a quiet moral discomfort born of respect for Ranma.
"'A man'?" she asked carefully. "Forgive me… but that confuses me. Ranma is… many things. I’m not sure that word does them justice."
Nodoka inhaled slowly, nodding with a dignity that mingled acceptance and loss.
"Ranma never corrected me. Never demanded I call them anything else. Because Ranma has always known that in this house, respect doesn’t come from what we’re called… but from what we do for others. For their partner. Their children. This community."
Tomoyo looked down. She understood. Didn’t agree entirely, but understood. Ranma’s struggle hadn’t been for individual recognition, but to fulfill a self-imposed duty through means no one—not even their mother—could have imagined. And in that tension, that sacrifice, they’d earned their place. Not through identity, but responsibility.
"I think Ranma…" Nodoka said after a long pause, "became something stronger than what my husband dreamed. Not just 'a man among men.' But a soul that can’t be confined to a single shape. One who fulfilled family duty even when that duty was written against them."
Tomoyo closed her eyes for a moment. Silently, she let herself be moved.
Nodoka sipped her tea, gaze fixed on the light spilling through the doorway.
"You see, Tomoyo? Respect isn’t given. It’s earned. Through work. Control. Results. Ranma and Akane… have made me feel respect, even when I don’t understand. And you, by being here… are within that circle."
Silence. Then, without breaking the calm:
"Would you like more tea?"
Tomoyo contemplated Nodoka’s words. She studied her sidelong, without intrusion. She sensed, instinctively, that this wasn’t the deepest wound. There was a root buried further.
"Yes, I’d like another cup, Mrs. Saotome," she replied gently, adjusting her knees. There was something ceremonial in how the conversation flowed between them. "I hope you don’t mind if I ask… What do you think Ranma expects from you?"
Nodoka didn’t answer immediately. It was as if the question had slipped through a crack in her foundation. Not an offense—a mirror. The kind that doesn’t lie.
"Ranma doesn’t trust me," she said with a calm as hard as temple stone in rain. "I know because they rarely leave me alone with the children. They supervise schedules, routines, leave meticulous instructions… and they have reason to. I wasn’t there during their childhood. After age five, I didn’t see them for eleven years. And when they returned… they weren’t a child anymore. They were a shadow marked by Genma. A trained body. A spirit full of defenses. They once told me, with that painfully honest bluntness of theirs: 'I don’t feel like I have real memories until I met Akane.' They have no memories of a warm childhood. No memories of me."
Tomoyo stayed quiet. Nodoka didn’t cry. It was worse—she couldn’t.
"Do you think someone like that wants to hear their mother was simply… afraid? That she used the hope of a 'successful son' as an excuse to escape an abusive husband? That I demanded honor and obedience, when I myself hid behind duty and abandoned my child’s heart?"
Nodoka drank another sip. Her movements remained flawless, but her shadow seemed heavier.
"Sometimes," she continued, "I feel Akane and Ranma are braver than I ever was. They took everything I avoided and faced it teeth clenched. They’ve surpassed me in every way. Even as respected figures in this community. When they walk through Nerima, people bow not because they 'accept' them… but because they need them. Because everyone knows no yakuza would dare challenge them. They’ve filled a void… the void I left."
"Why are you telling me all this, Mrs. Saotome?" Tomoyo asked softly.
Nodoka looked at her, unfiltered, for the first time.
"Because I don’t know if I like men. Because I think I’ve always been uncomfortable with Genma. Because I think I hate him… and that hatred reached Ranma too. And because you, who barely know those children, have chosen to care for them with tenderness. You come from a difficult family too, I suspect. But you’re here. And I, who gave birth to that child, still can’t meet their eyes without guilt."
Tomoyo shuddered. For a moment, all the rigidity of her own life—the absent family, emotional distance, hollow formalities—resonated with Nodoka’s confession.
"I’m not free of expectations either, Mrs. Saotome," she admitted. "I was always the odd one. The quiet one. The one who didn’t measure up. So when I met Nabiki, I tried to become someone her family could accept. It’s not altruism. It’s… compensation. The children seem sweet to me. But I also see them as a chance to do things right, even if just once. And yes… I know you had Ranma young. Too young. You had no time. No support. You carried the duty of an entire generation that raised you to serve, not to question who you were."
Nodoka didn’t reply. She only closed her eyes briefly. Tomoyo understood. She’d said enough.
"Thank you for listening, Tomoyo," Nodoka finally said, rising with dignity. "And welcome to the family."
She stepped onto the engawa, teapot in hand, watching the koi drift between white stones. The afternoon was mild. What she felt wasn’t sadness—just the natural weight of a life finally beginning to accept its contradictions.
Tomoyo, meanwhile, wandered through the house. Not out of curiosity, but respect. She moved slowly—past the greenhouse of magical fungi, the tool shed, the basement door sealed with ancient paper talismans. It all felt like an illustrated storybook left open. "Not an ordinary house," she thought. "But a home. That much is clear."
Soon, the alarm chimed. It was time to fetch Masaki.
"Aunt Tomoyo!" Masaki shouted joyfully when he spotted her at the kindergarten gate. He ran toward her with the explosive energy only a five-year-old could muster. Tomoyo crouched down to greet him, taking his small hand affectionately in hers.
As they walked, the boy began singing cheerfully:
"Ichi, ni, san, shi, go,
roku, shichi, hachi, kyuu, juu!"
Tomoyo smiled at the bright rhythm in his voice. It was easy to love him. Easy to understand why Ranma and Akane orbited their children like devoted guardians.
When he tired of singing, little Masaki gazed up at the clouds for a moment, as if waiting for a signal. Then, with the effortless candor of childhood, he told Tomoyo:
"My classmate Kana really likes cats. Like, super much! She always draws cats with bows and says she’ll be a vet for baby cats. Mama Ranma says we can’t have cats because she’s scared of them. Just a liiiiittle bit! …Okay, a lot. But it’s not her fault—it’s a magic curse! Mama Akane says it’s like cats stick to her back. I tried taping a stuffed cat to my back to see if it’d happen, but nothing! It just fell off."
Tomoyo chuckled. The boy spoke with unfiltered honesty, his thoughts fluttering like butterflies in a storm.
Masaki walked with short, energetic steps, his tiny backpack bouncing with each stride. He carried a wooden staff decorated with star stickers—one that, according to him, could scare away invisible ogres. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, his pace slowed. Sunlight caught in his dark hair as he stared at the ground, silent.
Tomoyo, attuned to the shift in his tone, bent down gently.
"Everything okay, Masaki-chan?"
The boy looked up. His voice was small, as if pushing the words out took courage.
"Aunt Tomoyo… is it bad to have two moms?" His words trembled. "Yuki said it’s not normal… that it’s weird and wrong. He said kids with two moms can’t play soccer and no one will ever like them."
His eyes glistened, but he didn’t cry. It was more like he expected punishment just for existing.
Tomoyo’s heart fractured. She took a steadying breath, knelt to his level, and held his hand.
"Masaki… are you happy with your Mama Ranma and Mama Akane?"
The boy lit up the moment he heard their names. His eyes sparkled like a treasure chest spilling light.
"Yeeeeees!" he exclaimed, nearly jumping in place. "Mama Ranma teaches me to draw dragons and wolves, and one time we painted a glitter dinosaur! And Mama Akane tells me stories about yōkai who spy from trees, but she says I shouldn’t be scared if I’m brave and respectful. Mama Ranma makes cookies shaped like magic runes—once she made one look like my face! But I accidentally ate it… And Mama Akane gives the best hugs, the kind that warm you up even when it’s not cold. They also teach me martial arts, but not for fighting—just for protecting!"
He paused, then tapped his chest.
"Mama Ranma said ki lives here too, like a little sun that lights up when you do something kind."
Tomoyo listened with a lump in her throat. The way he spoke of his mothers wasn’t idealization—it was living proof of daily care. Steady affection. Presence. And for someone like her, raised in silence and hollow routines, it felt almost magical.
She leaned closer, cupped his face, and spoke softly but firmly:
"Then everything’s alright, Masaki. Because they care for you, teach you, love you, and listen. Most kids don’t have that all the time. Some spend hours alone. Some don’t have moms or dads. Others are raised by grandparents or kind teachers. What matters is that you have a home full of love and magic. And having two moms isn’t weird or wrong. It’s beautiful. Because love is never a mistake."
She ruffled his hair playfully.
"Noooo, Auntie, my hair!" he squealed, grinning as he shook his head like a wet kitten. "Mama Ranma did it this morning! It’s my battle hairstyle!"
"Oh, forgive me," Tomoyo laughed, raising her hands in surrender. "Wouldn’t want to disarm a warrior."
"You’re a warrior too!" Masaki declared proudly. "You’re family."
Then, without hesitation, he took her hand again. The evening sun gilded the trees in the nearby park, and a gentle breeze stirred the air. Between laughter and the patter of small footsteps, Tomoyo thought that—amidst so many unanswered questions—she might’ve just stumbled upon a certainty.
Kasame bounded along the Tendo residence’s wall like a tiny ninja, the evening sun gilding her silhouette. Her breathing was perfectly measured. From the rooftop, she spotted a serene figure seated on the engawa by the koi pond—a woman who exuded elegance even in stillness, her presence hovering like tea steam.
The girl narrowed her eyes, focusing. Now was the time.
She’d trained for this. Ranma-sensei always said:
"Martial arts aren’t just for fighting. They’re an art. Of the body, the mind, and performance. And performance requires feeling."
Kasame steadied her breath, dimming her aura to near-invisibility as she’d been taught. Her steps were silent as shadow between leaves. Her heart pounded—not with nerves, but anticipation. This was emotion tempered by technique. The goal: touch her grandmother’s back before being detected.
One meter. Then another.
Just as she coiled for the final leap—
A firm finger tapped her forehead mid-air.
"Hello, Kasame. How was school?"
The girl hung suspended for a second before landing with a pout.
"Hooow did you knoooow, Granny?!" she whined, her dramatic sulk lasting only a heartbeat before she lunged into a hug.
Nodoka caught her gently. She exhaled silently. Maybe she’d failed Ranma in so many ways… but what if her grandchildren were a second chance? Not just atonement, but a genuine desire to be there? To pass on something… beyond guilt.
"Our family’s martial school has a technique for vanishing," she murmured, smiling. "You’re getting closer, Kasame-chan. But not yet. When you master it, you’ll be as stealthy as your father."
Kasame’s eyes sparkled like constellations. Excitement radiated from her pores.
"Will you teach me, Granny?" she begged, deploying a look Nodoka recognized instantly—the "Say no and I’ll cry just enough to guilt-trip you" face Ranma had occasionally used as Ranko.
How many expressions had she missed by being absent?
"First, you must learn to control your ki at will. And that takes discipline. No shortcuts," Nodoka declared, though her tone stayed warm.
Kasame puffed out her chest like a miniature general, attempting a ceremonial walk. But her bouncing steps and flyaway hair betrayed her youth. The seeds of who she’d become were there—perhaps as brave, protective, and wholehearted as Ranma.
They headed to Kasame’s room, where the girl wriggled into her gi. The white uniform with purple trim made her look like a samurai ready for adventure. Then, to the bujō—the weapons storeroom housing practice blades, sealed artifacts, and an eclectic collection of family relics. Most would never be used by the children, but the space hummed with solemnity. Here lived the soul of the Tendo-Saotome lineage.
Meanwhile, from the front entrance, a bright voice rang out:
"We’re hooome!" Masaki and Tomoyo shouted in unison, their voices flooding the house with energy that shattered the earlier stillness.
No one answered.
Tomoyo frowned, confused. Where was everyone?
Masaki, however, dashed off like a happy whirlwind to his room. Seconds later, he returned wearing his small white gi, the belt barely long enough to wrap around him once. He wore it with a mix of pride and solemnity. His perfectly styled hair gave him the air of a little prince—though his bouncing steps betrayed childish excitement.
"Come on, Auntie! Grandma’s gonna train us!" he yelled, grabbing her hand.
Tomoyo couldn’t resist. The boy was adorable. His enthusiasm was contagious. She took his small, warm hand and thought—not for the first time—that she wanted to protect him. That despite adult doubts, Masaki radiated something that made everything feel worth it.
When they reached the bujō, the scene before them was picture-perfect: Kasame stood serious and focused, a beautiful wooden bokken resting against her back. Beside her, Nodoka held a similar practice sword, posture straight and dignified.
"Welcome," the older woman said with a soft bow.
"We would’ve yelled, but Aunt Tomoyo wouldn’t have heard us!" Kasame added, grinning mischievously.
Tomoyo attempted a joke, slinging the bokken over her shoulder like a rebellious teen.
"Young lady," Nodoka chided with maternal firmness, "that’s not how you carry a bokken. Respect the weapon, and it will respect you."
Kasame, meanwhile, sheathed hers at her waist like a samurai’s katana. For a moment, she felt like she’d stepped into an epic tale.
Nodoka’s sharp eyes studied Tomoyo—not aggressively, but with depth. There was something appraising in that gaze.
"Did you practice aikidō as a child?"
Tomoyo blushed.
"I—just a little. In middle school, to… channel energy," she admitted, laughing nervously.
"You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like," Nodoka offered politely, though her intent was clear. "Just basic forms. It’s good for the body."
"Yes, Aunt Tomoyo! Train with us!" Masaki begged, bouncing.
"But I—" she hesitated.
"We have clean uniforms! Come on, to the dōjō!" Kasame declared, tugging her arm.
Before she could process it, Tomoyo was back in a borrowed white gi—slightly too big but comfortable. Three generations now stood together, aligned before the dōjō’s wooden mirror, their energy harmonious, almost ritualistic.
Each in their place:
A grandmother.
A girl who thought she knew everything.
A boy serene as a monk in bloom.
And an aunt swept along by the current.
Just as Nodoka was about to give the first instructions about the house, Kasame’s voice shattered the calm like a summer lightning bolt:
"Waaaait!" she shouted, eyes wide with excitement, whirling abruptly to her right. Without waiting for a response, the girl took off running full-tilt toward the greenhouse, her bare feet skimming the stepping stones as if each one were a musical note in her sprint.
Tomoyo and Nodoka—along with Masaki—hurried after her, more out of alarm than anything else.
"Is something wrong, Kasame-chan?" Tomoyo asked, imagining magical emergencies—a rogue carnivorous plant, perhaps, or some unwelcome spirit-world creature on the loose.
Kasame, already standing before the greenhouse with a grin stretching ear to ear, puffed out her chest like a miniature town crier ready to deliver a proclamation.
"Papa said when we got home from school, I had to teach you how to care for the magic things!" she announced with absolute pride, as if it were an official title. Her tiny hands settled on her hips with theatrical flair worthy of a martial arts heir.
Tomoyo and Nodoka exchanged glances—equal parts relief and suppressed laughter. Their bodies relaxed instantly, though their hearts still raced as if chasing after Kasame.
"When entering the greenhouse," Kasame began, now adopting a faux-"sensei" voice, dramatically pointing upward just as she’d seen Ranma do during lessons, "we must wear THIS mask."
She opened a carefully decorated box and produced a white mask shaped like a smiling kitsune.
"Then," she declared, slipping it on like a mystical warrior, "we take THIS metal shield with a basket hanging underneath. When you enter, you show it to the right… and red beans appear! But you have to keep the oni side facing out—because there’s a plant that shoots beans! It’s designed to defend against onis! But it also shoots if it sees unhappy faces."
"The shield’s so the plant doesn’t get bored," Masaki interjected softly, as if sharing an ancient secret. He fiddled with the mask like an astronaut’s helmet. "You can go in without it."
"It’s my responsibility, Masaki! Let me!" Kasame snapped, spinning around like an overworked office lady dealing with a meddling intern. Her tone was meant to sound authoritative… but her squeaky voice betrayed her, eliciting giggles instead of fear.
Nodoka and Tomoyo barely stifled their laughter behind their hands. Kasame—like every child desperate to be taken seriously—cleared her throat with exaggerated gravity. Inside the greenhouse, the adults and children were greeted by a spectacle straight out of a storybook.
The space brimmed with impossible flora: electric purples, neon blues, leaves like fish scales, and others that slowly turned to follow movement. Some emitted faint chimes when disturbed, as if laughing secretly.
"After that," Kasame continued solemnly, "the mission is to use the sprayer next to each plant—exactly twice. No more, no less."
At the far end, beyond dangling vines that seemed to reach for affection, stood an odd arrangement: three rectangular water basins covered by metal grates, aligned beside a smooth stone carved with ancient Chinese characters. A thin stream of water trickled from the rock into the pools—barely noticeable, but constant.
"Those are the magic wells. Papa uses them when he turns into ‘big witch’," Kasame whispered, as if revealing state secrets. "Don’t touch them. The small fountain is only for injuries, but you have to check the stone’s symbol first. Don’t forget!"
Tomoyo watched her with tender awe. The girl took her duties so seriously—and yet remained undeniably a child. Her fidgety steps, her emphatic pointing, even her attempts at sounding grown-up only made her more endearing.
Kasame then grabbed both women’s hands and energetically herded them toward a door hidden behind dried lotus leaves. The air shifted as they approached—warm and earthy.
"This is the magic mushroom room," she announced. "But first—"
Before she could finish, a small creature leaped from the ledge onto Masaki’s head. It resembled a stoat… if stoats had baby-reptile faces, bat ears, and translucent wings that shimmered like soap bubbles in sunlight.
"Nyami Nyamy!" Masaki cheered, hugging it like an old friend. The creature squeaked adorably—a wet, sticky sound, like a wild bird saying "thank you!"
Kasame huffed, crossing her arms.
"That’s Nyami Nyamy. Mama says he’s a dragon, but he eats worms," she declared, scrunching her nose. "Worms smell nasty. Bleh!"
She stuck out her tongue exaggeratedly, making Tomoyo cover her mouth to stifle laughter. Masaki kept petting the odd little being as it tried to burrow into his gi, searching for hidden pockets.
"Before opening the mushroom room, you have to turn the handles three times. Not two! Three!" The girl planted herself before a metal hatch, grunting as she threw her full weight into twisting the stubborn handles. Nodoka stepped in gracefully to help… but even she frowned. The resistance was real.
Finally, together, they wrenched it open. A gust of humid, fragrant air rushed out. The space inside was far larger than expected—a silent basement where bioluminescent fungi climbed walls, shelves, and suspended tubes. Mycelium dangled like living chandeliers. The air smelled of soil, magic, and antiquity.
"Papa’s magic mushrooms grow here. When he turns into a witch, he needs them for potions and Mama Akane’s stuff. Just check that the lights are green. If any turn red, pull this lever," Kasame explained, pointing to a homemade control panel plastered with star stickers, pandas, and—for some reason—a Sailor Mercury decal.
Near the corner sat a mesh-covered box where worms squirmed in a slow-dripping honey bath.
"Those are Nyami Nyamy’s worms," Kasame said, visibly disgusted. "They’re also for the fish… but ewww!"
She scooped two spoonfuls with a tiny spatula, making dramatic "I’m gonna die" faces. Nyami Nyamy immediately launched himself at her in excitement.
Kasame squeaked—not in fear, but "not again!"—as the creature tried to lick honey off her neck.
Tomoyo couldn’t hold back her laughter.
But it was Masaki who—calm as ever—scooped up the critter and offered it worms from his own palm. Nyami Nyamy happily munched away, emitting tiny musical chirps.
Kasame shuddered like she’d just defeated a monster.
"Bleeegh! This is the worst part of being in charge!"
Tomoyo watched the scene with a smile she couldn’t suppress. It was all so absurd… and so heartwarming. In that moment, she understood: this house wasn’t just magical. It was deeply, wonderfully human.
And these children—with their kitsune masks, wooden bokken, self-imposed responsibilities, and worm-induced gagging—were the future of something far greater than she could yet grasp.
And these children— with their kitsune masks, wooden bokken, self-imposed responsibilities, and worm-induced gagging—were the future of something far greater than she could yet comprehend.
After the magical tour and feeding the fish, they returned to the inner garden with renewed energy. They reassembled for Nodoka’s lesson, where she—with patience honed by years of introspection—taught the little ones the fundamentals of discipline: breath, posture, focus. She corrected not with harshness, but the elegance of a breeze guiding leaves to earth. Every movement was meditation.
For Tomoyo, she demanded not perfection, but intent. Gentle stances of openness and balance slowly loosened the tension in her modern, city-weary body. This felt less like a class than a ritual shared across generations.
By the end, their bodies glowed with exertion, smiles blooming like late flowers. As they rested in the satisfaction of a lesson well-learned, Nodoka—her eyes brighter now—withdrew to prepare a meal. From the engawa, Tomoyo witnessed something she’d never known: a domestic scene as magical as the bioluminescent fungi or the oni-repelling beans.
Masaki sat cross-legged, coloring in a notebook propped on a low table. His crayons moved with devotion, each stroke serious as a young artist who believes drawings can change worlds. Tomoyo thought—perhaps they could.
Kasame, meanwhile, practiced katas with the flair of someone starring in her own legend. Every air-punch, every spin, was theatrically precise yet utterly earnest. The girl seemed to dwell between two realms—play and tradition—and thrived in both.
The meal was exquisite. Nodoka cooked as if each dish were an offering, her care expressed more readily through flavors than words. Mild, balanced tastes—the kind made by someone who cooks to nurture. Tomoyo helped Kasame with homework, the girl copying characters with childish handwriting yet grown-up dignity. Masaki kept coloring intently.
Suddenly, Kasame began tracing strange symbols—some kanji-like, others invented—murmuring under her breath.
"What are you drawing, Kasame-chan?" Nodoka asked, curious. She knelt beside her with a warm smile.
"Papa told me: ‘Martial arts and magic are two sides of the same coin. Mastering both cultivates mind and body,’" Kasame recited, perfectly mimicking Ranma’s cadence. She straightened like a professor lecturing. "These are body symbols."
Though crudely drawn, the intent shone in every line. A diligent child mapping vast concepts with crayons.
"Do martial magics interest you?" Nodoka asked, intrigued.
"Dunno," Kasame shrugged, though her eyes sparkled. "Mama and Papa haven’t taught me yet. But… once I saw Papa—in witch form—knock out a dojo challenger with one finger! After he mocked Masaki!"
Masaki’s head shot up as if summoned by magic bells.
"Mama Ranma’s so cool!" he yelled, arms raised like he could summon lightning. His drawing lay forgotten.
Nodoka watched them. Their unfiltered innocence, the way they said Mama, Papa as if the world held no contradictions… It awed her. And unsettled her.
"Why do you call Ranma ‘Papa’… and you ‘Mama’?" she asked gently. Not judgmental—just sincere.
The children stared as if she’d asked why trees have leaves.
"Because they are," Kasame said, chin in hand like a sage. "Can’t you see?"
Nodoka smiled faintly. She couldn’t. But she was beginning to. She asked no more.
Soon, the children slept, exhausted by the day’s wonders. Crayons lay scattered like artificial flowers on the low table. Tomoyo joined Nodoka on the engawa—this time preparing tea herself, her motions clumsy but earnest.
"You have questions," Tomoyo observed, watching the older woman’s pensive gaze. The steaming cup between them became an invisible thread linking generations, doubts, and hopes.
Nodoka nodded silently before speaking:
"My husband’s oath—‘a man among men.’ He swore if Ranma failed, they’d commit seppuku… together. But when I first met Ranma, they were ‘Ranko.’ A Tendo daughter. I think Ranko and Ranma… are just two faces of one soul. And I was blind."
Tomoyo’s eyes flashed with indignation.
"Seppuku?!" She spat the word like poison. "What kind of father—? Now I see why Akane threw him out."
Nodoka looked bewildered. In her world, that vow was honorable… wasn’t it? But Tomoyo’s horror, Ranma’s guarded gaze—they hinted at deeper truths.
"Ranma-san or Ranma-kun?—is more than just a man," Tomoyo said firmly. Her words came precise, as if rehearsed in silence for days. "They understand womanhood, yet don’t abandon masculinity when needed. I met them as a woman, use ‘she,’ and they don’t mind. I’ve read about identity spectrums—how they vary across cultures, across souls. Sometimes… there’s no single answer."
Nodoka stirred her tea absently. Then, like a child begging for a bedtime story:
"Tell me more?"
Tomoyo smiled. She settled in, the tatami becoming her classroom.
"Oh, we have much to discuss…"
And so, over midnight tea and shared sweets, a grandmother rediscovered the world—while a young woman, unknowingly, helped weave that redemption.
Meanwhile, in another room of the Tendo residence, two children dreamed of magic beans, kitsune masks, and a mother who toppled villains with one finger.
Chapter 3: Under the Tendo roof, the education of a kitsune
Summary:
In the previous chapter, Kasame and Masaki were looked after by Nodoka and Tomoyo. In this chapter, the couple carries out their magical activities; but the things they will witness will bring a change to the family. New members, mysteries to solve, a person in a locket, and the memories of a genius witch from another time.
Chapter Text
"You really think this is a good idea?” Ranma asked, restless, staring out the train window as if seriously considering jumping out and running back to their kids.
“Raaaanma!” Akane huffed, a mix of annoyance and weary fondness in her tone.
“Yeah, yeah, I know… I’m overreacting. Mom’s different now, maybe she can be a good grandma,” he sighed, letting his back slump against the seat. “Guess I’ve got as many hang-ups about her as she does about me. We try to be modern parents, but in the end… we’re still a traditional martial arts family.”
“I know. I remember the looks on the faces of the Great Japanese Martial Virtue Association. ‘You are young people who still uphold the martial and family traditions,’” Akane said, rolling her eyes with theatrical flair.
“Did I tell you the judo rep from the university said to me, ‘You are a fine, upstanding man, young Tendo. Kokushikan University would have welcomed you with open arms’? And I’m just sitting there thinking, ‘I was at the Olympics last year and you didn’t even notice.’ But I had to swallow the comment… because that guy was our contact for the home renovations.”
“Though, at least the Shintaidō and Mixed Martial Arts Association people were pretty nice. ‘What a joy to have two women so well-educated, both culturally and martially,’” Akane imitated the representative’s nasal voice with a mocking grimace.
“Excellent impression,” Ranma applauded softly, with that proud look he reserved for his wife’s little triumphs.
“Thanks, I’ve been practicing,” Akane replied with a sly smile.
“I still think that woman was hitting on you. She probably thought, since we have the same last name, we were sisters,” Ranma said, rolling his eyes and making an adorable pout.
“No matter what body you’re in, whenever you pout, you look like such a sweet, feminine person,” Akane laughed, hugging her husband gently. But then she added, more seriously, “Still, we’re not just a traditional family, Ranma. We’re also artists. And that puts us in circles where the word ‘traditional’ is… well, not very useful for describing us.”
“Like Doctor Aizome Ren, who adores my paintings. He always tells me he loves how I blend history with modernity. He writes the best reviews,” Ranma said, with genuine pride.
“And I think he’s hitting on you,” Akane blurted out, giving him a playful squeeze that made Ranma blush a little.
“Well, the point is… that modern thinking you mention also feeds my fears. I’m scared Mom will be upset about how we’re raising the kids. Kasame calls me ‘Papa,’ Masaki calls me ‘Mama,’ they know about the gender-switching magic… Gods! Tomorrow Konatsu is covering your morning class! It’s gonna be a disaster!”
Ranma started rummaging through his clothes, pulled out a small necklace with a tiny crank. He turned it with precision, and to Akane’s consternation, his body shifted to female with a subtle click. As if nothing had happened, she leaned closer to her wife and said in a soft voice:
“Hold me.”
Akane was speechless for a few seconds.
“What was that!?” she asked, her eyes wide as saucers.
“I’ve been trading with Ku Lon,” Ranma explained with a guilty smile. “I ended up buying her books on alchemy and magical smithing. Traded her for two Obedience Mushrooms, one Age Mushroom, and a Divine Honey Mushroom.”
Akane raised an eyebrow. Ranma shrunk back a little.
“You know I’ve been studying this condition for years. Well… I think I’ve created the ideal device for me. If I take it off, the magic reverts to its normal course.”
“If we could mass-produce that, we’d be millionaires,” Akane said, incredulous. “It’s a shame we can’t explain it scientifically.”
“You’re the one who said, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,’” Ranma reminded her with a mischievous grin.
“Arthur C. Clarke said that. You quoted it in your thesis on Yūgen; you don’t need to play dumb, nerd. We’ve been married for over ten years,” she poked him in the side.
“Tssh…” Ranma murmured, as if being caught hurt more than a punch in the dojo.
Akane laughed. Then, in a more serene tone, she added:
“But I think your mother understands us as ‘the heads of the household.’ For all our peculiarities, Ranma, you don’t have to worry. You’re free from Genma’s yoke.”
Ranma fell silent. His gaze drifted down the train aisle for a few seconds. Then, in a low voice, thick with affection, he said:
“If your dad didn’t come with the whole ‘Genma package’ attached… you would’ve forgiven him by now, wouldn’t you?”
Akane didn’t answer immediately. She just squeezed the arm Ranma had linked with hers and rested her head on his shoulder.
The train continued its journey through fields and mountains, as if life itself were carrying them toward a deeper understanding of their history, their bonds, and the kind of family they were building… not perfect, but profoundly alive.
They arrived at the station. Akane, now taller than Ranma in her female form, held her sleeping wife, head resting on her shoulder, snoring with a peace that contrasted with the metallic clatter of the train.
“Akane, wake up… we’re almost there,” Ranma whispered, a mix of affection and urgency in her voice.
The woman stirred in her sleep and, instead of sitting up right away, hugged her—at that moment—wife tighter, nuzzling her neck with a sleepy tenderness.
“I’m coming, love…” she said, her voice raspy and thick with sleep.
Ranma smiled and stroked her face. The gesture felt so natural that time seemed to stop for a second amidst the murmurs of the other passengers.
“Ranma, you have to change back… There’s the station,” Akane reminded her, trying to detach herself from the warmth of her partner’s body.
Ranma let out a soft groan and averted her gaze. She felt good in this body today, light, fluid… at peace. But Akane was right: they hadn’t come as the dynamic duo of priestess and witch, but as the Tendo married couple. So, with resignation, she took the necklace with the tiny crank, turned it, and her body shifted back to its male form. He stretched a little, as if needing to readjust to skin that now felt cooler.
They disembarked with their work luggage: ancient scrolls, sealed talismans, containment mirrors, enchanted weapons, books, ritual instruments, and other objects that might look like curios to some… but to them, they were tools for living and protection.
“We can still go back. You perform the exorcism, and I’ll watch the kids,” Ranma proposed, stopping dead in his tracks with a hopeful expression.
But right at that moment, the train pulled away from the station, leaving behind any possibility of escape and Ranma with slumped shoulders.
“Come on, mama bird… you can’t keep your chicks under your wing forever,” Akane said, her voice sweet but firm. “And give me your phone. Let your mom and Tomoyo look after them in peace.”
Ranma made a pout worthy of a school comedy and handed over the phone, crossing his arms in resignation.
After a few minutes, they saw a man approaching who matched the photo they’d been sent. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, with a kind but worried face.
“Oh, good afternoon. Are you the Tendo family? I’m Kusano Harukazu,” he introduced himself with a measured bow.
“A pleasure. I’m Tendo Akane, and this is Tendo Ranma, my husband,” Akane said with a steady smile, and they both returned the bow.
The man seemed nervous, but not out of distrust toward them… rather, because of past experiences.
“I heard you have a good track record with supernatural phenomena. It’s hard to get help out here; we’re very isolated, and more than one person has already scammed us…”
“Don’t worry,” Akane interjected, opening a notebook covered in magical symbols. “You don’t have to pay us until you see results. You already briefed us on the situation. You mentioned cars stalling and occasional accidents. Though none have been fatal… correct?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Harukazu confirmed, guiding them toward his truck.
“And you also said something is driving the mountain spirits away, but the offerings in the fields remain untouched. Isn’t that so?” Ranma added, flipping through an old, well-worn book filled with his own notes.
“That’s it… it’s strange. The harvests haven’t changed, but the offerings are left intact, as if no one sees them,” the man explained as he started the engine.
Akane and Ranma exchanged a silent glance. That wordless synchronicity they’d developed over the years. Finally, Akane spoke in a grave tone:
“We believe it might be a Yūrei, but we won’t know for sure until we inspect the area and confirm the situation. Do you have somewhere we can change? And… an important question: are you uncomfortable seeing magic?”
The man let out a nervous laugh, trying to hide his bewilderment.
“I’ve… never seen it before. But I suppose it’s better to do it at the house. I don’t think it’s safe to see supernatural things inside a car,” he added awkwardly, unsure if he was joking or being serious.
Upon arrival, Harukazu introduced them to the rest of the Kusano family. Ranma and Akane were polite, bowed respectfully, offered cookies to the grandson—a little boy who immediately reminded Ranma of their own calm Masaki—and shared tea before getting down to work.
Once the introductions were over, Akane excused herself to change. When she returned, she seemed like a different person.
She wore a miko's outfit, but not a traditional one. Red and black dominated the fabric, with white embroidery that shimmered faintly in the light, each stitch woven one by one with protection spells by Ranma's careful hands. A ceremonial sword and a gohei hung at her waist; in her right hand, she held a Kagura suzu that jingled with an unsettling frequency. Everything about her emanated authority, an ancient, spiritual air.
“Is she a miko?” Harukazu asked Ranma, surprised.
“Yes. But a real one, with all the respect for the profession,” Ranma replied with a brief smile. “Can we go to the accident site?”
At the location, Akane walked with slow, deliberate steps. The field seemed to whisper around her. She began an ancient dance, subtle yet powerful, and upon finishing, she raised the suzu toward the sky.
The sound wasn't a sweet jingle.
It was like the peal of a sacred bell ringing from the depths of the soul. The air vibrated, the earth seemed to hold its breath, and the echo traveled like an invisible wind, all the way to the other side of the field where the family still stood.
When the sound faded, Akane took a deep breath, but her expression was not encouraging.
Harukazu swallowed, fearful of the answer.
“Is there nothing to be done?” he asked, his fingers clenched, his voice strained.
“I don’t know yet,” Akane responded seriously. “I require a witch to know for certain.”
Then she looked the man directly in the eyes and, in a softer voice, reminded him:
“Do you remember the question about magic?”
“Ah… yes, I suppose I can see magic here,” Harukazu replied, still not fully grasping the dimension of what he was allowing.
At that moment, Ranma gently unclasped the small artifact hanging from his neck. He turned the tiny crank, and instantly, the air around him seemed to empty of gravity.
His body transformed.
Not violently, but as if reality had simply decided to rearrange itself. Harukazu watched, dumbfounded, as the man he’d seen a second ago shrunk in height, his features refined, and from that molecular dance emerged a young, luminous woman, petite in stature but with a presence that overflowed the field.
“What?!” the man shouted at the top of his lungs, taking a step back, unsure whether to kneel or run.
Ranma—now in her female form—let out a soft, calm laugh. Her eyes sparkled with mischief but also with a deep serenity, the kind possessed by someone who no longer fears their body, or definitions.
“I hope you don’t mind if I change behind the bushes, Mr. Harukazu?” she said in a soft, melodic voice, both solemn and playful.
Akane raised an eyebrow.
“Ranma, just be careful,” she warned, but her expression was more affectionate than concerned. Ranma waved a dismissive hand, as if saying “Bah!”, and disappeared into the trees.
When she returned, she was no longer just Ranma, or just the witch, or the husband, or the mother. She was all those things at once, dressed in a hanfu of ancient cut, in the same colors as Akane’s miko attire: deep black and bright red, but with an outer layer of fabric that fell like a dark river down her back. She carried an ornate Western staff inscribed with arcane symbols and a small crown, plus ritual bracelets and heron feathers tied to her waist with a silk cord.
“I look like a ceremonial clown,” she muttered in annoyance to her wife.
“I don’t know, Ranma… you designed that outfit. Come, I need a perception matrix. One that works on both yōkai and divine beings to distinguish them.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she huffed with a resigned smile.
The small woman approached Akane with martial elegance. There was no clumsiness in her movements: each step was measured, as if she were dancing with both the field and the spirits at once. She began drawing symbols in the damp earth with the tip of her staff, forming a circle that shimmered faintly upon contact with the ground.
As she drew, Akane leaned in slightly and whispered in her ear:
“You look cute.”
The blush that flashed across Ranma’s face was instantaneous. She lowered her gaze, but her lips curved into a smile she couldn’t hide.
Harukazu watched them from outside the circle, feeling smaller than he had ever felt. He didn’t know if they were gods, ghosts, or simply human beings too large to fit into a single category. A marriage composed of an armed miko and a shapeshifting witch, surrounded by symbols that burned without fire.
The circle closed. The light emerging from the ground seemed alive. The white embroidery on Akane’s outfit glowed even brighter in the sunset, and the sunrays piercing through the field seemed to revere the moment. Akane began to dance.
It wasn’t a human dance.
It was a ritual dance, the kind the mountains remember and the trees murmur when no humans are near. And when her suzu rose, the sound wasn’t just audible: it was tangible, as if each chime vibrated directly in the chest.
Thousands of threads of light unfolded in the air, floating with the texture of silk and the density of an invisible net. They touched the ground, wove through the branches, and stretched to the horizon like celestial roots.
Akane withdrew from the circle with dignity. She approached her wife without haste and stood by her side, observing the effect.
“Now we wait a little.”
The man, his voice still caught in his throat, asked:
“You… are both women?”
Ranma sighed, with the calm of someone who has answered too many times but still has patience for one more.
“That’s a difficult question,” she replied without harshness. “Magic, unlike ki or spiritual power—though some of us believe the latter is actually a refined form of theurgic magic—can be used by anyone, but it flows better in a female body. Let’s leave it at that.”
She didn’t say it with shame or pride. She said it like someone who has made peace with the world and with herself.
“Ranma, the spell is ready,” Akane informed her in a serene tone.
At that instant, presences emerged.
From the field side appeared a small two-tailed fox. Its fur shimmered like silver fire. From the forest, however, came a group of tanuki with shifting forms: some adorable like mischievous children, others larger and wiser. They all looked at Ranma with a mixture of respect and desperation.
“Witch!” they shouted in unison. Their voices were like a chorus of forgotten childhood.
The tanuki ran closer, but before they did, they shot a hateful glance at the fox, who remained unperturbed. Instead, the kitsune walked slowly toward Akane, with the dignity of an ancestral spirit.
“You know them?!” Harukazu exclaimed, surprised, almost indignant.
Ranma bent down slightly and spoke to them as one speaks to children tired of not being heard. “Did you meet another witch, little ones?”
“Yeeees!” all the tanuki shouted as if responding to a mother.
A more mature one stepped forward. Its eyes were serious, its voice clear.
“The good witch taught us to heal humans and tanuki. She taught us to care for the fields and that not all humans were bad. She told us that if she died, we should give this book to the humans. But two years ago, that arrogant kitsune”—it pointed at the fox—“blocked our path. She said we were a danger to humans.”
The kitsune transformed.
Her body elongated into an elegant teenager with almond-shaped eyes and hair like fire. She pointed toward the temple.
“You are invaders. This is a temple to Inari.”
“It’s a temple to nature!” a tanuki shouted in a childlike voice, and the two began to roar like old enemies.
Ranma and Akane exchanged a look. The sigh they shared was the same one they’d used when Masaki snuck into the forbidden basement to look for worms “to feed Nyami Nyamy.”
Akane took a step forward, her tone maternal yet imposing.
“What is your name, little servant of Inari?”
“My name is Yuzuki,” said the kitsune, her eyes shining. “Will you be the priestess of my temple?”
Akane smiled, soft as a warm night.
“I’m afraid… I already serve a temple.” Yuzuki’s gaze fell, but the next sentence made her light up again: “One dedicated to Inari. One that has a family who tends to it. One without a kitsune priestess… and with a small guardian dragon.”
The little kitsune girl clenched her fists in joy. It was exactly what she had dreamed of: to start her own Zenko, to serve a household where magic and affection were indivisible.
“I… I would like to go. But… who will look after the family of this field?”
At that moment, Ranma, standing by the circle, was flipping through the tanukis' book with inhuman speed. Her eyes shone with that particular blend of wisdom and worry that only parents truly know.
"I'm afraid, little Yuzuki, that this family already has guardian spirits," said Ranma without looking up from the book he was now examining meticulously, leaning against the truck with an air of casual ease. Her fingers flipped page after page as if he were reading the very soul of the witch who had written it. She did it with a glint in his eyes that mixed nostalgia and responsibility. Beside her, Akane narrowed her eyes: Ranma had pulled out her phone again… the one she had supposedly confiscated. She watched him with a furrowed brow, but also with a sense of complicit resignation.
"These tanuki are guardians of nature," Ranma continued, his voice measured, almost didactic, "and as long as this family enjoys their life in this beautiful place, they will continue to protect them. Their presence is part of the balance. Their conflicts… well, their conflicts brought real problems to this family. They are not enemies; they are protectors who were ignored."
"But… I…" Yuzuki's voice, once haughty and solemn, cracked a little. The teenage kitsune was adrift in a sea of contradictions. Her tails, once held high, now curled with uncertainty. She looked at the small temple and then at Akane as if searching for a place to fit in, to belong without imposing.
Akane noticed the struggle in the young fox's eyes. She smiled with a maternal sweetness and pulled out her own phone—with absolute brazenness, as if she hadn't just scolded Ranma for the same thing—and swiped to a photo.
"My sister looks after a kitsune who works at her restaurant. He's very cute, responsible... Look," she said, showing her a picture: a teenage boy with white hair and pointed ears, smiling next to a human child who was hugging him. "He's the eldest."
A blush flashed like lightning across Yuzuki's face.
"When do we leave?" she asked quietly, her voice tinged with embarrassment, as if afraid someone else might hear.
Ranma stifled a laugh with a theatrical gesture, never stopping his photographing of the tanuki book, her movements almost mechanical yet full of delicacy. Each page was a fragment of history, each symbol a piece of a forgotten legacy.
"You can start by apologizing to the tanuki," Ranma said without raising her voice, while once again taking out her little magical transformation device. "They were only doing their job. They were never your enemies."
The young kitsune swallowed, turned slowly, and bowed her head in a deep, respectful reverence to the group of tanuki. Her tails trembled. Ranma and Akane watched her in silence, their faces serene but filled with a warm, contained pride. Yuzuki wasn't just learning magic; she was learning humility, and that was worth more than any enchantment.
Then Ranma turned his crank, and her body changed again. It was an instant, a blink, and the man was back, tall and solid, like a mirror of his other self.
"Kitsune no ko!" Yuzuki shouted, taking a step back with a mix of surprise and indignation.
"No! Tanuki no ko!" the tanuki responded in unison, like an offended pack, shaking their bellies and feet.
Ranma, with a sly smile, took a deep breath… and then burst into laughter. But it wasn't mocking; it was soft, warm laughter, the kind only someone who has learned to laugh at the absurdity of being many things at once can emit.
"No, little ones," he said between laughs. "I just do magic. Neither kitsune nor tank: just witch, mother, husband… whatever is needed." He turned to the teenage kitsune with a more serious expression. "I will teach you, Yuzuki. So that one day, you can teach my descendants. Go with my wife for now. I need to speak with the tanuki. I'll see you at home."
Yuzuki didn't know how to contain her emotion. Her tails rose again, this time not out of pride, but from a vibrant hope. This arrangement was better than she had imagined: she had found a family, a mission… and perhaps, with luck, a restaurant with a handsome teenage fox.
Ranma ventured into the forest with the tanuki. "I need to see that witch's house," he said solemnly to the elder tanuki.
The old tanuki bowed to him with a reverence that seemed older than the field itself. He led him along hidden paths through the trees. There, among roots and flowers glowing with a natural light, stood a small enchanted hut, covered in living moss and protective carvings.
Ranma bowed upon entering. He observed each object, each utensil that had belonged to the witch, with respect. He touched nothing hastily. One by one, he sealed the magical items, wrapping them with words of closure and placing them inside his ritual mirror. He did it with gentle movements, as if storing away the memories of a lost sister.
Finally, he came to the witch's grave. It was a stone surrounded by flowers that glowed with bioluminescence. He knelt. He said a prayer. He asked for permission. He gave thanks. And just as he was about to leave, something stopped him, something on the ground. A locket.
Small, golden, dusty… with two photographs inside. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it. There were two photos; in one was a dog and a… tanuki? Yet he instantly recognized the human in the other photograph. He swallowed. He put it away in silence. He thanked the elder tanuki again and withdrew.
Upon returning to the house, warmth awaited him: tea served in humble cups, rice sweets offered with smiles, and a small gathering where humans and spirits shared food, stories, and space. A magical communion that wasn't just the result of the ritual… but of the love and respect with which Ranma and Akane wove reality.
Later, they both called together the Kusano family and the present spirits. Akane had been poring over the book while Ranma was with the tanuki.
"We would like to announce," Ranma began, his voice clear, his posture that of someone who knows what they represent, "that the conflicts are over. The tanuki present here are the true guardians of this forest, and they will continue to watch over you as they have for generations. Priestess Yuzuki will come with us. But this place… this place is already protected."
Akane took over. "This book is the legacy of a witch who dreamed of harmony between humans and spirits. Here are paths for magic… if you wish to follow them. And also, stories. Stories so the children remember that the forest watches over them."
She handed the book to Mr. Kusano with a formal bow. He accepted it as if it were a treasure from another world. And as he opened it, the tanuki applauded with festive sounds and happy laughter. A supernatural ovation.
That night, the family invited them to sleep in the house. Not out of obligation. Out of affection.
They woke at dawn, as was their custom, to practice in silence as the sun rose. Yuzuki, in her fox form, slept curled atop Akane's suitcase, breathing softly, her two tails twitching with the rhythm of a deep dream.
At the train stop, almost ready to return, Akane asked Ranma:
“Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?”
Ranma didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the horizon, but there was a tension in his jaw, a barely perceptible shadow in his brow.
“How long has it been since we’ve seen Unryū?”
Akane frowned.
“Two months?”
“No…” Ranma pressed his lips together. “Akari, no. I mean Unryū Ryōga.”
Hearing that name was like a chill down Akane’s spine. A knot tightened in her stomach.
“Do you miss him?” she asked in a low tone, with a hint of playful jealousy.
Ranma shook his head and pulled out the locket.
“No, Akane. Look.”
Akane opened it… and held her breath.
“This is…”
“A magical trap,” said Ranma, more serious than she’d seen him in a long time. “I don’t think I’ll be able to paint for a while.”
And the train arrived with its roar of steam and destiny. But inside them, something larger was stirring… something that would undoubtedly demand not just their strength, but all the love they had built together.
The rhythmic sound of the train tracks intertwined with the faint murmur of wind filtering through the slightly open window, marking the tempo of a conversation that couldn't quite find its words. Akane held the locket between her fingers with delicate care, as if it were something alive. Ranma watched it too, without touching it, as if that small object contained an entire past locked inside.
The tension in the air wasn't aggressive, but thick. Like the silence that precedes a storm. Like a decision that hasn't yet been spoken but has already been made.
From her fox form, still curled atop Akane's suitcase, Yuzuki opened her eyes. Her snout stretched in a brief yawn before she spoke in a curious but respectful tone:
“Priestess-sama? Sensei? Is something wrong?”
Both adults looked up in unison. The little kitsune watched them with large, attentive eyes, surrounded by a soft spiritual light that seemed to awaken with the couple's emotional tension.
Ranma was the one who began to speak, his voice lower than usual:
“A long time ago… a friend of mine disappeared.”
But Akane interrupted, not with harshness, but with a weight that couldn't be contained.
“He left our friend with a pair of twins,” she said, her voice bitter, as if it still pained her to say it aloud. She took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. My relationship with him wasn't exactly good when he disappeared. He forced Ranma, for the sake of his honor, to keep silent… until the guilt ate him alive. And he took advantage of his magical condition to get into my bed.”
Little Yuzuki let out a muffled sound and covered her snout with her paws.
“He pretended to be a woman?” she asked with innocence, though indignation was visible on her little face. “But… Ranma-sensei has the soul of both a man and a woman…”
“That’s a good point,” Ranma nodded with a sad half-smile. “But no. It was worse. He pretended to be her pet pig. There wasn't just deception; there was broken trust. The guilt ate at me for a long time. I kept silent out of fear… fear of hurting my friend or the woman I love.”
“But to Ranma, it was important,” Akane added, crossing her arms. “Because he was his only friend for a long time.”
There was jealousy in her voice. An old jealousy, one that didn't fade with maturity but learned to coexist with it.
“Yes,” Ranma said, lowering his head. “The last time we argued, I told him he never listened to others before speaking. And after that… he disappeared. I thought it was just another one of his episodes. He has a curse that makes him get lost. It was always normal not to hear from him for months. But a year passed. And then his wife came. She was very worried. Ryōga hadn't sent a single letter in three months. And I… I feared the worst.”
He held up the locket. The small chain jingled with the sway of the train, and the object glowed faintly as if responding to the weight of what it contained.
“He fell into a witch’s trap,” he added with a sigh.
A long silence fell. The kind of silence the world respects. Only the clatter of the train could be heard, and even that seemed to have lowered its volume, as if the machine knew it had to be discreet.
“Priestess-sama… your friend… did she love him? The perverted boy?” Yuzuki asked with innocent confusion.
The question bounced in the space like a stone in a silent pond. Ranma and Akane slumped their shoulders at the same time. There was no verbal answer. Only a shared glance. The kind that carries twenty years of marriage and can still hold entire sentences.
Ranma pulled out his phone, clumsy, uncertain for the first time in a long while. He dialed. The tone rang once, twice, three times…
And then, a familiar voice answered:
“Hello, Akari?”
Ranma swallowed.
“No, there’s no party… How are the twins?”
Akane stared intently at Ranma. There was something in his posture, a rigidity in his shoulders.
“Oh, I’m sure of that. Believe me, he’s not allowed in the house.”
A pause.
“I… you know we love hearing from you. But this time… I have news. I don’t know if it’s encouraging.”
On the other end, the silence was like a bottomless pit. Then a barely audible voice:
“Yes, I’m still here… Don’t worry. You can leave the resort in charge of one of Nabiki’s employees… Of course you can come to the house with the twins. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Akane could just make it out: a “thank you,” broken and quiet. Just before the call ended.
“Her?” Akane asked softly.
Ranma nodded. The phone slowly lowered to his lap.
“Yes… she was crying,” he said, without embellishment. Then he turned the locket between his fingers as if he could extract answers from it. “Where did you get yourself into, pork-breath?”
Akane wanted to lighten the atmosphere, or at least give it a breather.
“So, Yuzuki… how did a kitsune with so much faith end up in a natural shrine in such a remote village?”
The kitsune blinked and settled into place with a certain pride. The fur around her chest puffed up with dignity.
“My mom is the matriarch of the mountain where I lived. In an encounter with a temple-less nine-tailed fox, they had me,” she said with total normality.
Ranma arched an eyebrow.
“A temple-less nine-tailed fox?”
“Yes,” she replied proudly. “That’s my father. He used to visit me when I was smaller. He brought me gifts: candies, charms, little figurines. Since I developed consciousness at human speed, my caretakers put me to work pretty quickly as a messenger. But… the messages between the gods were… disappointing. They only talked about new cocktails, animes they were watching… nothing important. I felt useless. So I decided to make my own temple. I wanted to do something good. And that’s how I left home.”
Ranma and Akane exchanged another glance.
“Did you tell your parents you were leaving?”
The kitsune looked at them as if the question made no sense.
“No?”
The couple sighed in unison. Not with reproach. With the tender resignation of those who have unwittingly—or unwilling to admit it—adopted a creature who resembles their own children.
“When we get home, we’ll write a letter to the temple you came from,” Akane said, gently taking her paw. “And we’ll try to contact your family through the Inari statue. It doesn’t matter that you’re a divine creature. You have parents. And they worry about you.”
Yuzuki nodded, lowering her head. A tear rolled down, unnoticed by anyone. Outside, the landscape began to change: the fields gave way to the city.
And inside the train car, the small nucleus of this strange family—a witch, a priestess, and a kitsune—settled back into the shared silence of those who have chosen to care for each other beyond titles, species, or the mistakes of the past.
Ranma, now in her female form, and Akane stepped off the train ready to take the subway toward Tokyo. Beside them, Yuzuki was a spark of pure, uncontainable joy. She had never seen so many humans together. Her fox-like eyes shone with pure curiosity. Without even asking permission, she transformed into a teenage girl with a human appearance. Her two tails, though camouflaged under her clothes, couldn't help but swish like fans of excitement, betraying her divine origin with every joyful sway.
The Tendo couple practically had to drag the girl along the platform, unable to suppress their smiles.
“You’ll get to see the city on a shopping day, Yuzuki,” Akane told her, gently pulling her arm while skillfully weaving through the crowd with maternal expertise.
“You need clothes, lots of clothes! You won’t want to stain that yukata or that fancy coat you’re wearing.” Ranma looked at her with an almost theatrical expression.
The girl nodded with overflowing enthusiasm.
“What’s the temple like?” she asked, her eyes wide like lanterns, vibrating with excitement.
“It’s the small temple of a dojo,” Ranma replied. Her tone was simple, but in the kitsune’s mind, she imagined something else entirely.
In her teenage fantasy, the temple was small, yes, but full of grace and solemnity. Like the natural shrine where she had lived for the past two years: moss-covered stones, incense dancing in the air, prayers floating like butterflies among the trees.
But Nerima Station shattered that image with a blow of urban mundanity. The streets were noisy, the buildings tall and saturated with life. And yet, magic was there. Floating among the power lines, brushing against the concrete walls, whispering from the shadows.
When they arrived at the house, the kitsune encountered something even more unusual than Tokyo: two men standing in front of the door, guarded by two imposing stone kitsune statues, their eyes glowing with moss and vines.
“Hello, Father,” said Ranma, in a tone of near resignation.
“Hello, Genma,” Akane added, with a pointed coldness.
The bald, burly man responded with a grunt:
“Ungrateful son.”
Ranma turned slightly and whispered something to Akane. She shook her head. Then, with determination, she took the first step.
“Come in and see your grandchildren, Father,” she said with measured formality.
“May I…?” asked Soun, with a soft, almost childlike hope.
“Tell Nodoka I want food,” grumbled Genma, not quite meeting their eyes.
Ranma responded with a smile that wasn’t exactly friendly.
“She’s not a servant, old man. Make your own food, like you made me do on the road… Oh, right, I was always the one who made the food for you,” she said, entering with a smug smile that bordered on terrifying.
She glanced sideways at Yuzuki and lowered her voice a little, more out of affection than secrecy:
“Sorry about that. Genma was a good trainer. Not exactly a father.”
Ranma’s smile, though frank, made the kitsune’s skin prickle. Something in it seemed charged with contained power, with unspoken history.
The argument had distracted her… and she didn’t notice the exact moment she entered the house. But when she did, she felt it with her entire being: the place was spiritually rich. Deeply harmonious. As if every stone, every wooden plank, every strand of incense and silence had been placed by a lesser divinity and blessed by a greater one.
The air was full of living energy. She could sleep on a stone here and dream with clarity.
She shifted back into her fox form without thinking, her paws floating across the floor at divine speed, exploring the house like a living kite. She did a full lap of the garden, the dojo, the statues. She came running back to where Ranma and Akane were, panting with contained excitement.
“You have a spiritual pond! I could sleep in that little temple even as a human! Everything is beautiful! Can I really stay!?”
Akane laughed with a rare, joyful, alive tenderness.
“Yes, as we told you, just contact your parents,” she said, with a gesture that was both welcoming and protective.
The girl ran back toward the small shrine, transforming into her two-tailed fox form. At that moment, a small voice piped up from inside the house.
“Was that a…?” asked Soun, his eyes wide as saucers.
And then an electrified, childish shout echoed from within:
“Grandma! Aunt Tomoyo! A kitsune came into the house!”
“And that’s your granddaughter,” Ranma said with humor.
The three adults entered the genkan with the ritual tone that fills any Japanese home with warmth:
“Tadaima! We’re home!”
“Okaeri!” replied Tomoyo, Masaki, and Nodoka in chorus, their voices coming from different corners of the house.
But the most precious thing was the smile of a girl, a girl who, in that moment, was simply… a child. Kasame, always so responsible and serious, shed all composure, her eyes overflowing with joy:
“Mom! Dad! A kitsune! In the house!”
“Yes, Kasame. Her name is Yuzuki. She’ll live with us if her parents give permission,” Akane explained with a soft smile. Seeing her eldest daughter so excited, so pure and unfiltered, was a gift for both mothers. Inside, something warm and ancient ignited.
And then, like a bell in the middle of a forest, a cry cut through the air from the small shrine.
The stone statue was glowing. A clear, white radiance, like a full moon bathing virgin snow, enveloped the figure.
“Yuzuki! Where were you? Don’t you know how worried I was about you!? Your father has been searching for you for two years!” The voice was severe, majestic, and utterly maternal.
Ranma and Akane approached the temple with respect.
Akane bowed, and her voice became formal, vibrant, ceremonial:
“The Tendo family greets the matriarch servant of Inari. We will contact Master Shiipoo as soon as possible.” She performed a perfect bow. “We found the messenger priestess Yuzuki at a temple that already had guardians. We invite you to bless ours. Our family will keep you informed.”
“Raise your head, Miko. You too, witch,” the statue’s voice resonated. Softer now, but still powerful. “I will visit you soon. Instruct my daughter in your arts. Now leave me with her. I want to hear about her adventure.”
The statue’s glow turned warm, like a smile that needed no face. The air filled with the scent of myrrh and cherry blossoms. And as the afternoon settled over Nerima, the Tendo temple became, completely, a crossroads between the magical and the human.
In the end, they had a pleasant dinner. The after-dinner conversation was full of anecdotes, laughter, and traditional sweets that Yuzuki ate as if she had never tasted sugar before. After this, Nodoka, Soun, and Genma returned to the Saotome residence, taking with them the memory of a peculiarly normal day… for a family of priestesses, witches, and guardian spirits.
Nabiki arrived to pick up her girlfriend by car. Suddenly, the house was quiet. Silent of visitors, but brimming with magical presences. Only the Tendo family remained, the little dragon Nyamy Nyamy asleep on a ceremonial pillow, and the newest member: a teenage kitsune, still radiant with excitement, though a bit quieter from exhaustion.
Ranma stood up on the tatami, solemnly raising a cherry blossom twig that served as her power staff for these crucial events.
“Alright, it’s time to decide, family,” she declared, with the intonation of someone who takes their ceremonial role far too seriously. “As you can all see, Yuzuki is the newest member of the Tendo family. She will be a permanent member. Does anyone have any questions?”
The atmosphere shifted. Not from tension, but from the ritualistic feeling of those moments that, though familiar, tasted of magical chronicles. The soft light of the paper lamp cast long shadows, and the walls of the home trembled slightly with the vibration of attentive spirits.
“How does she turn into a fox? Is it like you, Mom?” Masaki asked with total naturalness, as if asking about breakfast.
“No, not really. Think of Nyamy Nyamy,” Ranma said, gently lifting the little furry dragon, who stretched and looked at her as if to say, “This again?”
“She doesn’t use her wings to fly, only to steer. She really flies through the air like a snake moves on land. Actually… how does she do that?”
The little dragon looked at them with large, bright eyes, clearly flattered but also confused. Her expression said, “I don’t know, I just do it,” and she puffed out her fuzzy chest like someone receiving a prize without understanding it.
Akane crossed her arms with a smile that was both teasing and thoughtful.
“I think dragons, like gods, are Boltzmann brains in themselves.”
The phrase landed like a stone in a spiritual lagoon. The silence was brief but dense.
“Wasn’t that the representation of the improbability that the reality of theoretical models about entropic reality didn’t fit with the possibilities of thermodynamic relationships due to the influence of enthalpy itself?” Ranma asked, with a look of pure, feigned confusion.
“I thought you didn’t pay attention in high school, which is why you studied art and physical therapy in college,” Akane teased, with that amused tone of someone remembering they fell in love with a blockhead too.
“I’ll have you know I also studied magic,” Ranma said, raising the twig as if it were a real wand. “Magic is basically the ordering of energy through information. Magic also adheres to thermodynamics in models that haven’t been analyzed by the scientific process, I think…”
As the conversation morphed into a kind of magical-cosmic symposium (almost floating between physics and theurgy), two young minds began to crumble a little inside.
The first was Yuzuki.
First, she was surprised by the question. Then, by the answer. Then, by Ranma’s question-answer. And finally, by the chain of scientific assertions her teenage divine mind couldn’t quite digest.
"How… did she transform? She always believed it depended on her emotion, her hara, her connection to nature, her tail. But now… were there laws, models, theories? Was her divine body subject to thermodynamics? Was magic a science?"
"Would she ever fully understand it?"
She looked at Ranma, her sensei. Her figure changed form as naturally as breathing. And yet, there she was, making calculations about enthalpy. Then she looked at Akane, the priestess-sama, so firm, so serene in her spiritual presence. They understood it. Or at least… they embraced it with maturity.
"Did the gods know how they themselves worked? Honestly, given the messages they transmitted about 'new cocktails' and 'anime premieres,' —she was starting to doubt it—. Oh no, Yuzuki thought with a pang of guilt: Did I just call the gods dumb? I’m being rude to the gods."
And so, without ceremony, Yuzuki’s first crisis of magical faith and identity began. No one had warned her that growing up as a kitsune in a household of enlightened humans could be more bewildering than a divine war.
On the other hand, Kasame, so mature for her eight years, watched her parents argue with big words and gestures she didn’t understand. But she recognized that look. It was the look they had when they talked about important things, things that changed the world.
Her parents were the smartest people she knew. They always trusted books, not what the internet or television said. But now… now they were arguing with each other. Was that normal?
She wondered quietly, without speaking: "Will I ever understand it?
Are martial arts and magic as variable as Mom said?
Is Dad right,and will science one day be able to explain all magic?
What if I’m not smart enough to understand it someday?
A seed of self-imposed pressure sprouted in her little heart.At that moment, Kasame decided she had to study more. Read more. Train more. Understand more. Because she wanted to be on their level… or at least, be able to understand their wise smiles.
Meanwhile, Masaki, oblivious to the existential crises she had sown with her simple question, was already drawing Yuzuki in fox form… riding on Nyamy Nyamy’s back as if they were a single mythological being.
Akane watched the calculations Ranma was scribbling on a piece of paper freehand. Equations mixing magical symbols with physical variables. It was as if a talisman had wandered into a quantum physics lab. She smiled, not with mockery, but with the tenderness of someone who knows their partner’s passion.
“I think you should publish a paper on this,” she said, not losing that playful tone she used when she was interested in her partner’s latest work.
Ranma raised an eyebrow dramatically. “Sure, Akane, I’ll just go to the physicists at Tokyo University and say, ‘Hello, I’m a witch who changes body and gender, magic exists, and here’s the theoretical model.’” She made such an exaggerated gesture that even Nyamy Nyamy made a mocking sound from her cushion.
But in the end, she lowered her hand and rubbed the back of her neck. “Wait a minute… this wasn’t the time for magical theory. We were supposed to be talking about Yuzuki.”
Akane, her gaze fixed on her daughter and new adoptive daughter, said quietly, as if she didn’t want to interrupt their thoughts: “I think we should leave it for tomorrow. I think those two are having a crisis. Kasame, Yuzuki… are you okay?” Akane asked with a maternal tenderness, the kind that’s only honed with time, shared weariness, and multiplied love.
Yuzuki looked at Kasame. A slight movement of her eyebrows, a small nod of her head, and a barely agitated tail were all it took to signal that she could speak. The complicity between them was growing, woven through conversations, shared lunches, and shared silences.
Kasame swallowed. She lowered her gaze, clasped her hands over her knees, squeezed her fingers. She tried to speak, but closed her mouth. She took a deep breath as she had learned in dojo practice, and finally managed to speak, her voice soft but firm:
“I… I was wondering if I’ll ever be able to understand what you’re saying… or if I’ll be smart enough.”
Ranma and Akane exchanged a glance. Not of surprise or worry, but of deep empathy. The kind of look only shared by adults who have walked many paths and remember well how much it hurt not to understand the map.
Akane sighed sweetly, leaned in a little, and stroked her daughter’s cheek.
“You know? Ranma was out of school for more than half his life,” she said, with that mix of honesty and pride only mothers who have seen someone reinvent themselves possess.
Ranma’s smile confirmed it all. Not with mockery or nostalgia, but with the look of someone who has made peace with their past and learned to laugh tenderly at themselves.
“Yeah, I was never the best student. Actually… in high school, in math class, well… I was terrible,” he said, scratching his cheek awkwardly. “Genma didn’t take me to school, so saying I was behind in knowledge is an understatement. Your mom was the one who helped me, a lot. Even in university, it was hard at first.”
Ranma stretched to take the paper from the table, where magical scribbles mixed with formulas still remained.
“Do you know when I started to understand these numbers?” he asked, pointing to the symbols.
“I… I don’t know,” Kasame blinked, confused. The image of her father as someone clumsy in school seemed impossible to her. He was her reference for magical wisdom, her head witch, her father and teacher. Could he have been a bad student? It was like someone saying fire once didn’t know how to burn.
“When I got interested in magic. At first, magic was something like ‘raise your body temperature,’ ‘lower your body temperature,’ ‘control induced trauma’… Then comes ‘throw fireballs’,” he made a funny gesture with his hands as if throwing one. “And it doesn’t stop there. The more you understand, the more you encounter curses, structures, numbers, and magical formulas.”
Ranma smiled with a bit of awe in his own voice.
“I started to understand the complexity of magic about half a year before your mom and I got married. And that’s when I realized how important modern knowledge was, school, science… I probably still don’t fully understand it.”
Kasame looked at her mother, seeking confirmation, and Akane nodded with a calm smile. They both took their daughter’s hands. They were two different pairs of hands: one with the warmth of fire, the other with the serene strength of a river, but both were firm roots.
“So don’t worry or get ahead of yourself,” Akane said tenderly. “There’s no one right path. Walk slowly, have fun. Magic is more than those weird calculations. It’s fun, like martial arts. It won’t do you any good to be the best warrior if you don’t enjoy the performance.”
Ranma winked at her conspiratorially. That phrase held special weight in their family: magic, life, and combat were also art and play.
Then Ranma turned his gaze to Yuzuki, who had remained silent but attentive, as if her spirit had grown denser.
“Speak to the Tendo council, Yuzuki,” he said, solemnly passing her the ceremonial twig. “What is your doubt?”
The teenage kitsune blinked. She held the stick as if receiving a scepter. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, she straightened up. Her ears twitched forward, her expression tightened… and then she smiled, like someone deciding to face their fear.
“I was also wondering if I was going to learn those things,” she said in a soft but determined tone. There was still some confusion in her eyes, but also the glint of newly forged pride. “You will teach me, Sensei, Priestess-sama!” she added with an exaggerated, funny bow that broke the tension for everyone.
Akane chuckled under her breath. She loved how formality became tender on Yuzuki’s lips.
“Oh, that was actually the topic we wanted to discuss,” Akane said, sitting up a little straighter. “We wanted to ask your opinion on something… We’ve been thinking you should go to school.”
“That is,” Ranma added, “we know you grow at human speed, and you seem to be about fourteen, right? Koharu goes to junior high too.”
“We’ll keep teaching you at home, of course,” Akane continued, “but we believe understanding human academic reality will help you a lot with your goals. What do you say?”
Yuzuki fell silent for a moment. She thought of her parents, of the gods, of the teachings she had received so far. Then she looked at the attentive faces of Akane and Ranma. Her new family. This temple that was more than spiritual: it was home.
Inari will be impressed with my effort, she thought excitedly.
She nodded vigorously, her tails wagging with cheerful energy.
“Yes! I’ll do it!”
“Very well, with that, we conclude the Tendo family meeting,” Akane announced in a festive tone, taking the command stick with a movement so smooth Yuzuki didn’t even notice. “We’ll have another one tomorrow. There are still things to discuss.”
Everyone got up. The children, who couldn’t take any more, practically vanished. Quick footsteps were heard in the hallways, sliding doors, a sleepy laugh, and then, the silence of a house surrendering to rest.
Yuzuki walked towards the temple, hoping to connect with Inari, to share what she had experienced. But just as she approached, she felt a tug. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was firm. Strong like a mountain wind. It wasn’t human. It was familiar.
“You will sleep in your room,” Akane told her, appearing like a silent sentinel at her side. “If you want us to connect you with Inari, we’ll set up a circuit tomorrow. But you must sleep in your bed tonight.”
Yuzuki blinked. Her heart was beating fast. For some reason, it gave her a strange warmth in her chest. It was an order, yes. But it was also a show of trust.
Here, I am a daughter, she thought.
And she obeyed.
Ranma was in that room the children weren't allowed to enter. It wasn't out of whim or drama: it was a sacred rule. The most dangerous weapons were kept here; some still whispered if you got too close. Here, Akane practiced her spiritual potion skills and fused broken or condemned souls. The walls, cold and reinforced with containment seals, were decorated with protection ribbons that barely hid the scars of past battles.
The place housed demons that had been turned into defense tools. Some still pulsed. The couple's life was peaceful now, at least on the surface. But there was a time when they had to fight bloodily against madness, night after night, without respite, without rest. They didn't sleep every day, and this was one of those days. Above them was the bujo, the dojo hall, and behind it, the backyard: silent, embraced by a deceptively calm atmosphere.
Akane entered the room with two steaming cups of tea in her hands. Her walk was serene, but her eyes held the shadows of someone who has seen too much.
“Unpacking?” she asked in a tired, almost tender voice.
“Yeah, well…” Ranma scratched the back of her neck, though she couldn't quite do it properly with the gloves on. “I looted another witch’s house. It has to be done carefully,” she added, as her figure stood tall among safety goggles, a gas mask, gloves, and protective gear worthy of a level-four laboratory, all covered in ancient protection symbols. She looked more like a war alchemist than the martial artist she once was.
She pulled things out of the mirror one by one. The technique of storing space within a mirror was something she’d learned from that kind old man who helped them in a teenage adventure years ago. Those memories, though hazy, still warmed her chest.
“Does the witch have time for a cup of tea before I help her?” Akane asked, inviting her with a small smile to the table in the safe zone. Ranma looked at her with affection; her smile, hidden behind the mask, was still felt in her gaze.
She approached, sat beside her in silence, and after a sip, murmured:
“I always thought our adult life would be peaceful. One child. You and me teaching classes at the dojo. ‘Curse be gone.’ But now… it’s a magical condition that’s part of me. And we have a magic lab hidden under the house. All of this hidden from our children. I just… want to paint.”
“Oh, Ranma…” Akane sighed, stroking the rim of her cup. “We could choose not to do this. We could turn a blind eye and live that fantasy we dreamed of. But we have this stupid sense of duty… I wouldn’t trust ninety percent of these things to someone like Ku Lùn. She’s already shown us how dangerous she can be, too.”
She stood up with that silent determination one learns over the years and quickly put on her own safety gear.
“So, are you just going to sit there, Witch of Nerima?”
Ranma let out a small, resigned chuckle, almost affectionate.
“I’m coming, Great Priestess.”
When they finished taking out the objects, they began classifying them. Some might even be useful for teaching the children, though with heavy supervision. It was strange to see so much pure magic in one house. Beautiful, extraordinary devices, carved with almost scientific precision. Artifacts designed to control nature’s cycles, to camouflage entire villages with illusions, to create ephemeral life and manipulate the winds.
But among all these treasures, they found something that made them fall silent: a diary.
Hoshiko Okabe (星子 岡部).
A cheerful and studious woman. She began practicing magic not for power or glory, but because she wanted to understand herbs. She wanted to heal her family, feed them in times of scarcity. Many parents would have sold their daughter to the first soul merchant, but her father didn’t. He adored her. She was one of those rare children born of real love. Even the village chief valued her as a priestess, though what she did was technically magic. By the time she turned thirty, she still looked like a young woman of twenty. Her eyes were wise, but her face still held the innocence of someone who believes the world can be changed with effort.
And then the horrors came.
War.
Death.
More people than she could ever hope to heal. She traveled from village to village, gathering remnants of humanity. She saw people cross the threshold of humanity to become monsters: experiments, sacrifices, cities razed. Ashes instead of childhoods. The worst wasn’t the blood, but the radiation. That invisible, lethal presence that couldn’t be fought with talismans.
She couldn’t take it anymore.
She found a corner deep in the forest and made her home there. Not as a shrine, but as a refuge. A self-imposed exile.
Sometimes, she still dreamed of burned bodies.
So she did the only thing that still gave her meaning: magic. She wrote with trembling hands. Her diaries were filled with discoveries: hundreds and hundreds of magical notes, formulas, methods. But they were also the laments of a broken woman. Every spell was a desperate letter to the future, every page an attempt to stay alive.
One day, a young traveler found her. He lived with her for a while. He listened to her, helped her in the garden, laughed with her. And she, as an act of mercy, lifted his curse of getting lost. The boy promised he would return, that someday he would manage to restore her youth and they could walk the world as equals, as friends. He told her it would take time, that it would be difficult, but that he would do it.
He never returned.
Not even in her final days.
She left him a letter, in case he ever arrived. She reminded him that her power could still heal. That even though the world was full of fire, there were still hearts willing to mend.
Ranma and Akane closed the diary. The silence was now denser than any silence spell.
And for an instant, they felt the same weight as that witch: the life that had slipped away from them while they tried to save others.
But also, like her, they were still here.
And that was a spell in itself.
The diary’s pages remained open on the worktable, imbued with that metallic, sweet scent of old ink. The candles, burned nearly down to the wick’s knot, cast trembling shadows that seemed to cradle Ranma and Akane within a small sanctuary of silence. Fatigue anointed their eyelids, yet neither wanted to be the first to stop reading: Hoshiko Okabe’s words were too precious, too tragic, to shut abruptly.
Ranma and Akane were crying; she had been a real person who witnessed humanity’s horrors, its fear, and still wanted to heal. “So, did Witch Okabe not know Ryoga got trapped?” Ranma asked, her voice cracking, almost childlike.
The weight of that question seeped between the candles like fresh ash.
“She probably even forgot she’d set that trap so many years ago. Stupid pork-breath, if only you’d come home, I could’ve helped that woman,” Ranma growled, clutching the locket-trap where her friend remained imprisoned. A contained tremor was visible in her gloved fingers, an echo of powerlessness that ran up her back like a whip crack.
Akane handed her a crumpled handkerchief that was once white and now stained with ink and tears. “I suppose at least she gave her a good memory and had tanukis for company; she wasn’t completely alone,” she whispered, wiping her own face as well. Her free hand slid to Ranma’s shoulder, squeezing it tenderly.
Ranma nodded, but her eyes shone with something more than sorrow. “I guess so, but this woman was a marvelous witch. She writes about the exponential expansion of space in 1952 and AdS/CFT duality years before anyone even imagined it. There are things here that are beyond magic, Akane; it’s pure science. If she’d gone out into the world, she’d be recognized as a great scientist. I don’t understand any of this… I’m just a witch.”
The echo of that confession hung in the air. For Ranma, admitting “I’m just a witch” was also confessing that, despite her martial arts, despite her body that changed with a splash of water, there were realms—feminine, masculine, neutral—she still hadn’t mastered. And yet, that same internal sway was what allowed her to empathize with Okabe’s mutant solitude: a woman caught between eras, cornered by a world that never saw her whole.
A moment of silence enveloped the couple, and for a long time, they reviewed each and every one of the notebooks written by that woman: from teaching methods, the energy efficiency rates of different foods, to diagrams of impossible anatomies scribbled beside stew recipes.
“Look, Akane, she talks about temporal loops, dimensions; these things wouldn’t be known without modern physics, and the most amazing part is she applied that magic to her games with the tanukis,” Ranma remarked, marveling. Each new page made her blink back tears that welled up not just from academic grandeur, but from the image of a brilliant mind sitting alone, year after year, in the forest.
Akane, with the lamplight reflecting in her dark circles, read aloud an impossible equation as the clock’s ticking marked how many hours they were stealing from sleep. “I’m going to bring in a particle physics specialist. Just keep in mind, she’s a physicist; don’t expect a witch to help with your strange experiments, Ranma.” At that moment, Ranma’s phone—a trembling buzz against the wood—jolted them from their study.
“Is it dawn already? I have to get the kids up; you handle breakfast,” Akane said, picking up the now-damp handkerchief again.
They left the lab—first through the mushroom room, then up the basement stairs—with muffled steps. As they opened the door to the house, the chilly predawn air reminded them that domestic duty could be as inexorable as any curse.
The kitchen lit up under the yellowish ceiling bulb. Ranma barely blinked before washing a couple of pots: eggs, bread, fruit; there was no time for rice. The lunchboxes, lined up like soldiers, were already waiting with onigiri and vegetables, prepared the night before. Between one pan and another, she found herself humming under her breath:
“魔法使いは過去に泣き
魔女は孤独に沈む
冷めたお茶なら温めよう
けれど心は 誰が癒すの?”
[A sorcerer weeps for the past,
A witch sinks deep in solitude.
If tea turns cold, I’ll warm it again,
But who will heal a wounded heart?]
Perhaps a melody-less song that Okabe would have appreciated.
“Masaki, Kasame, wake up! Kids, you have to eat,” she announced, as the erratic sound of socked feet on tatami approached. Two sleepy faces peered into the hallway: first Kasame, then Masaki, their hair tousled like swift nests.
Yuzuki, however, stretched with contained awe: this was her first night in a soft bed, under a roof without drafts. The fox temple had no such comforts. Dressed in a borrowed yukata that was almost too big for her, she descended the stairs trying to mimic the solemnity of a sacred procession.
“What are we doing?” the kitsune asked Kasame, a sleepy drawl still clinging to her words.
The eight-year-old girl looked at her through squinted eyes, barely any light in her pupils. “Waiting for Masaki to finish in the bathroom so we can go and also wash our faces.” She said it with the seriousness of someone who has already established an unbreakable ritual. Yuzuki, fascinated, nodded without protest and stood by the doorframe, slightly swishing her tail in her human form, as if afraid of knocking over a vase.
When it was finally her turn, she washed her long cheeks and the bridge of her nose with a splash of cold water; then she ran downstairs and came upon the table: three steaming plates, cut fruit, toast, and the tiny pile of pastries for the children. To the kitsune’s eyes—accustomed to sharing bowls of rice among all the apprentices—it looked like an imperial feast. Her ears, invisible to humans, prickled with delight.
They breakfasted amid yawns; Kasame put on her shoes, Yuzuki helped with her backpack, tying a clumsy but proud knot. Ranma left first with Masaki for kindergarten, the boy clinging to her hand like a koala. Under the clear morning light, Ranma hummed another song to him—one of the old tunes Akane had sung to her once—while their long shadows cast two figures: a father and a son who didn’t yet know how much they had left to dream.
Yuzuki returned with Akane, who sat down at the computer. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as if conjuring word spells. A steaming cup of coffee sat beside her, a fragrant witness to long hours.
“What are you doing, Priestess-sama?” Yuzuki asked, leaning in respectfully, her voice a blend of curiosity and shyness.
Without looking away from the screen, Akane answered, her lips moving at the speed of someone trying not to lose their train of thought: “I’m working. I write. Not everything is successful, but it’s always extra money for the house.” In the monitor’s light, her eyelids trembled.
The girl turned into a fox—soft fur, sparkling eyes—and curled up at the writer’s feet. Akane barely noticed, but the warmth of the little animal supported her tired ankles, as if wrapping them in a armful of warm silk.
When Ranma returned, she found the scene so perfect that she took out her phone and snapped a picture: the absorbed writer, the fox-girl dozing under the desk’s shelter, a sliver of light filtering through the window and painting gold the stray strands of both their hair. The shutter sounded with a soft click, as if blessing the moment.
The sound woke the kitsune. “Yuzuki, come; we’re going to get some things from the basement,” she called, putting away the phone and extending her hand. The little fox transformed back into a girl, stretching with a playful hop, and took Ranma’s fingers as if touching a silver thread.
Ranma, in her female form, stood before the basement door covered in seals. The reflection of the blessed paper strips sparkled in the dim light, as if breathing. She tucked a strand of red hair that fell over her cheek and, without losing her smile, turned to the fox-girl:
“Look, Yuzuki, this is the basement. You know that Ki is the magic that comes from an individual’s strength, right?”
“Like Kon?” asked the kitsune, recalling the stern lessons from her teachers at the Zenko shrine.
“Yes. Kon is an option if you’re a yōkai, but kitsune aren’t entirely yōkai,” Ranma explained in a tone that mixed patience and workshop enthusiasm. “Essentially, kitsune are more like humans than yōkai. Of course, you’ll need kon to grow that tail.” She gently touched the tip of Yuzuki’s own ponytail for emphasis. “That’s why evil kitsune kill humans: it’s their way of gaining strength. But, actually, humans and kitsune can achieve that power another way.”
Yuzuki blinked; it was the first time someone had revealed that nuance to her. Probably, among divine kitsune, that knowledge was considered taboo.
Ranma continued, modulating her voice with the gravity of someone unraveling a great secret:
“Akane will teach you that it’s not the only way to raise your kon. Today, however, we’ll focus on haku, the vital energy unique to each individual. To use kon, you need to involve your soul and your faith; to use haku, you must strengthen yourself, your ideal, and your philosophy. Think: why are you stronger than a human if you don’t have the same amount of muscle?”
“I… don’t know,” replied the kitsune, her tail drooping slightly. She’d been told that humans are born stronger but grow weaker; that kitsune are born fragile but become powerful with age. That now seemed to swirl like dust in a vortex.
“That’s because of your ability to accumulate vital energy,” Ranma gave a light tap on the tatami for emphasis. “It’s an advantage… and a disadvantage when you fight a human. But you’re not stronger than a true practitioner: Akane, me, even my children. There, the line between kitsune and humans blurs. That’s why we can have children between species.”
She turned her head to study her with a warm gaze—her eyes changed their shine depending on the light, reminding Yuzuki that her teacher was made of dualities—and continued:
“We’ll train your vital energy with me and your soul with Akane, little by little. This is your first challenge. That door opens if you turn the lever three times, but if you use your haku, you can do it in one pull. I warn you: if you strain your vital energy too much, things will get difficult.”
The kitsune inhaled; the smell of residual incense mixed with the underground dampness. She gripped the iron lever. Feeling the resistance of the mechanism primed with seals, her fingers tensed.
Ranma, unhurried, moved to a corner where a canvas, brushes, and a collapsible easel already awaited her. She placed the white canvas, took a deep breath, and began to paint: quick, almost choreographic strokes, as if each brushstroke were a silent kata. The pigments revealed the portrait of an unknown family—a father with a gentle face, a mother in a worn kimono, two girls embracing—images filtered through the memories of so many villages visited. That duality between warrior and artist fascinated Yuzuki.
The lever creaked. On the third serious effort, the skin on her hands grew irritated and her breathing became labored. She felt the haku burning in her solar plexus, but the door barely gave a millimeter.
Every now and then, Yuzuki glanced up. Ranma didn’t say a word, but the stillness of her shoulders—tense, firm—conveyed unshakable confidence. You can do it. Without putting down her brush, she raised a thumb stained with cadmium red, a discreet gesture that served as encouragement.
After nearly an hour, the kitsune mustered her courage, channeled her vital energy, and pulled with a muffled roar; the door finally swung wide open. The jingling of the seals announced victory.
“Very good,” Ranma applauded, setting down the brush. “But we have to go now; we need to prepare a class a school commissioned. Come on, let’s find a uniform for you.”
Yuzuki swallowed. Fatigue seeped into her bones, and her palms felt scorched, but the kind severity of her sensei brooked no complaints. Ranma closed the door, turned the bolt, opened it again, and closed it once more. Yuzuki interpreted that ritual—click, click—as a silent warning: discipline or nothing. She straightened her back and followed.
The two of them slipped into impeccable gi and made their way to the dojo. The tatami, swept and scented with tatara, awaited. A group of students, young men in their twenties, gathered with bows. Yuzuki then heard Ranma’s voice, different now: no longer the patient guide, but the general in combat. It resonated like the dubbing of an old marine film:
“Today I will take a female form,” she clarified, raising her gaze to ensure everyone caught the nuance. “Not for you, disrespectful brats, but for the new companion here. She is my personal student, and you had better treat her as you would my daughter. And you know what happens to those who disrespect my family. Understood?!”
“Yes, Sensei !” the response thundered in unison.
The aura of the wise, curious witch Yuzuki had met two days ago now vibrated with a different color: steel discipline. She divided the class: combat and forms. She armed Yuzuki with a bokken and, with every misaligned posture, touched the kitsune’s shoulder or wrist with a firmness that didn’t hurt but corrected.
The fox-girl imitated clumsily, driven by a combination of pride and pure excitement: after all, an idealistic kitsune dreams of perfection.
Midway through the session, while the others were sweating, Ranma approached one of her disciples:
“Saburo, Mu Tsū told me you weren’t at training on Wednesday. Problems at school?” she asked in a firm tone, though underlying it was a closeness.
The boy, flushed, lowered his gaze.
“No, actually… my girlfriend dumped me, Sensei .”
The students waited for a brutal reprimand. But Ranma let out a breath through her nose, meditated for a second, and spoke without raising her voice:
“You shouldn’t navigate matters of the heart alone. Connection with others allows us to move forward and understand our emotions. Never choose solitude when it hurts,” she explained, pointing at him with the tip of the bokken without aggression. “I see the lack of strength in your strikes: that’s not just physical. Even if you don’t have energy for a gym, training here will keep you among people. I know Mu Tsū, Mitsuki, and Tarō aren’t exactly relationship counselors, but you can always come. The older women’s class appreciates it when a handsome young man shows up.” She winked, eliciting smiles. “Martial arts refine the body, the mind, and the community.”
Saburo nodded, his face less clouded.
In a corner, Yuzuki watched, open-mouthed. She understood—without anyone spelling it out—how this fluid being, who could be man or woman, warrior or painter, teacher or protector, wore compassion like an invisible seal on her skin. And in her own kitsune chest, a tiny flame ignited: I want to be like that too.
DasSchnitz on Chapter 1 Mon 07 Jul 2025 07:41AM UTC
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Avangelion on Chapter 1 Thu 04 Sep 2025 10:06PM UTC
Last Edited Thu 04 Sep 2025 10:07PM UTC
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