born of the soul

by Taishi_lockheart

Summary:

Once dead, the stories faded, the records were burned, the legacy disappeared, or so it was thought, until the remnant of what once was now roams the world, what will be the consequences?

Notes:

Hello and welcome to the remastered version of Ranma and the Cursed Curses. I've been planning this for a while, so I hope you like it. I'll take this opportunity to say that English is not my original language. I'm open to constructive criticism. Also, I'm currently looking for a beta reader!

Chapter 1: THE STRONGEST

In the mountainous lands of northern China, where the peaks rise like silent guardians, lived Lirien, a young woman who had left behind her childhood to become a proud Amazon. She had just completed the ritual that marked her passage into adulthood, proving her bravery and skill before the village elders. These women, with faces weathered by time, named her a warrior, a title she carried with her chest swollen with pride.

In her village, women ruled with strength and honor. Lirien had been born into a world where the female sex was the backbone of society. Her mother, a fierce warrior, had trained her in the art of combat and the principles of honor, while her father, with immense affection, had cared for and supported her at every step of her journey. Together, they had given her a solid foundation to face the challenges of her people, one of the many Amazonian settlements scattered across the region, dedicated to protecting their own and spreading their culture throughout the vast country.

Lirien had learned much in her short life, but there were still mysteries that eluded her. Amid whispers and rumors, she had heard of a secretive elite group formed by men and women with extraordinary abilities, so enigmatic they bordered on the impossible. Her teacher, Shi Zhe, the village wise woman, had mentioned them once with a tone of reverence, calling them "sorcerers." According to her, they protected the villages from threats that an ordinary warrior did not need to understand. However, many villagers and some warriors regarded them with skepticism. Over time, their reputation and air of mystery had earned them the name of the Black Order.

For Lirien, magic was not her path. She trusted in the solidity of her spear and the strength of her sisters to face any threat that dared to challenge the growing Amazon Empire. But that day, something in the air felt different. It was a strange heaviness, like the prelude to a storm, though the sky was clear. A premonition unsettled her, a certainty that something important was being hidden from her.

While standing guard that morning in her village, a small fishing port on the border near the sea, Lirien spotted something unusual: a group of eight hooded figures entering the village. They were members of the Black Order, unmistakable with their dark robes that covered their faces. Some revealed tattoos in the form of lines on their exposed skin, a detail Lirien could barely discern. She had always wondered why they hid their faces. Was it shame? Fear? It seemed absurd to her. As an Amazon, she bore her rank with pride, and if they were the empire’s elite, why hide under layers of cloth? Besides, those robes seemed impractical for combat. Did they wear lighter armor underneath? The idea intrigued her, but it also frustrated her.

What troubled her most was their number. In a place like her village, a port of little significance, it was normal to see a single member of the Black Order, if any. But now, with those eight, there were nine in total. Why so many in such an insignificant place? Her protective instincts flared. As an Amazon, it was her duty to know what was happening.

When her guard shift ended, Lirien could not contain her curiosity. She decided to go straight to her teacher’s house, Shi Zhe, to demand answers. But as she approached, a murmur of hushed voices stopped her before she could knock on the door. She knew eavesdropping was wrong, but the urgency to understand the situation was stronger. She glanced around, ensuring no one saw her, and stealthily slipped toward a closed window. She pressed her ear to the wood, where the voices filtered through more clearly. Her heart pounded, torn between duty and intrigue. What secrets did the Black Order hold? And, more importantly, what threat loomed over her village?

Lirien held her breath, her ear pressed against the closed window of her teacher’s house. The voices inside were a tense murmur, charged with urgency. She immediately recognized the calm but firm tone of Shi Zhe, her teacher, whose wisdom had always been a beacon for the village. Yet today, there was a hint of unease in her voice that sent a chill down Lirien’s spine.

“Are we certain it’s coming here?” Shi Zhe asked, her tone laden with a mix of authority and concern.

“It’s impossible to ignore its signature,” replied an unfamiliar voice, soft, almost timid, but with an air of professionalism that betrayed experience. “Our tracker in Japan followed its trail. We know, at the very least, it wants to leave Japan, and based on the direction it’s taking, it’s likely already reached a port. The most direct routes from there lead to our ports, but we can’t be sure which one.”

Lirien frowned. That voice undoubtedly belonged to a member of the Black Order. It was a young man, judging by the tone, and though he spoke calmly, his words carried an unsettling certainty. The young Amazon felt a shiver. What could be so important as to gather so many elite members in her small village?

“Wait, what exactly are we facing?” interrupted another voice, this time a woman’s. Her tone was bold, almost defiant, and Lirien couldn’t help but clench her fists. Who dared speak to Shi Zhe, a revered wise woman, like that? “No one has bothered to explain anything to me.”

The silence that followed was heavy, as if the words had cut through the air. Then, Shi Zhe spoke, her voice grave and laden with a solemnity that made Lirien hold her breath.

“A monster,” said the elder, and the word echoed in Lirien’s mind. “Even in my youth, I heard tales of this creature. It is a curse born of humans, a being so feared that its very name is taboo. Ryomen Sukuna, a creature with four arms and two faces, so powerful that in Japan, the cradle of jujutsu sorcery, it was known as the Queen of All Curses.”

Lirien felt a knot in her stomach. The mention of Japan, sorcerers, and curses was a distant, almost mythical world. Shi Zhe continued, her voice now an urgent whisper.

“That is why we have gathered you here. Compared to our brothers across the ocean, we lack enough sorcerers. We have contacted other families who also wish to destroy this monster once and for all. Be cautious, my children. When we know where it will arrive, Xun Zong will use her technique to track it across the sea. We will evacuate the city where it lands and eliminate it once and for all.”

The conversation continued, but Lirien’s mind had stopped, caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. Sorcerers, curses, a nightmarish creature… It all sounded like a tale to scare children, but the gravity in Shi Zhe’s voice left no room for doubt. Whatever this Ryomen Sukuna was, it was no mere threat. Yet Lirien clenched her teeth, her resolve strengthening. It didn’t matter if it was a monster or a cursed queen. She was an Amazon, a protector of her people, and she was ready to face it with her spear and her courage. For her family, for her village, for the honor of the Amazons, she would stop that creature, no matter the cost.

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The orange sun sank into the horizon, tingeing the sea with golden reflections that danced on the waves. The clouds, dyed purple and pink, created a hypnotic spectacle, but they also cleared the view toward the horizon, leaving an unsettling clarity. Lirien, firmly gripping her spear, observed the landscape from the coast of her village. That afternoon, after receiving orders to prepare for battle, she had helped evacuate the villagers. The pressure she had felt the previous day, like an invisible weight in the air, was now almost unbearable, a foreboding that quickened her pulse.

Around her, activity was frantic. At least fifteen members of the Black Order were present, their dark robes billowing in the wind. Alongside them were unfamiliar figures, likely the sorcerers from Japan that Shi Zhe had mentioned. Lirien couldn’t be certain, but her instincts told her they were allies in this imminent clash. As an Amazon, her duty was not to question but to act. She gripped her spear tighter, her gaze fixed on the horizon, ready to protect her people.

“Grandmother Shi Zhe, is it safe for the warriors to remain here?” asked one of the Black Order members, his voice laden with concern. “We don’t know if their attacks will be effective against it. Besides, the cursed energy gathering here might be too much for those untrained, and it will get worse when the enemy arrives.”

Shi Zhe, her gaze lost on the horizon, responded calmly, but her eyes reflected unwavering determination.

“I have trained my warriors to be strong,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “They know what they face and will fight. They will not disappoint me.”

She paused and then added with authority:

“Bring young Mingzhu. It’s time to begin the first phase of the plan.”

Lirien frowned as she saw a hooded figure from the Black Order approach Shi Zhe. Other members began moving with precision, using thick black ink to trace a complex circle on the ground. The design enclosed a young woman in a crescent shape, with lines branching into symbols Lirien recognized as lunar phases. The young woman, named Mingzhu, sighed deeply and removed her hood, revealing a sight that left Lirien breathless. Her body was covered in tattoos resembling the drawings on the ground, intricate lines converging at a black point on her stomach, just above her navel. It wasn’t a mere tattoo: it seemed like a dark void, an abyss that absorbed light. Mingzhu wore black hakama pants and a leather bralette of the same color, her appearance as enigmatic as it was imposing.

“Everything is ready, wise one,” Mingzhu said with a firm voice. “We can begin.”

Lirien couldn’t contain her curiosity. As a man began a ritual dance and others, positioned on the lunar symbols, murmured chants in a language she didn’t recognize, she approached Shi Zhe.

“Teacher, what is this?” she asked, her voice tinged with awe and confusion. “How will this help us against the threat?”

Shi Zhe turned slowly toward her, her eyes assessing her with patience before responding.

“Sorcery, Lirien, is not so different from science. Every action has a reaction. In a frantic battle, sorcerers must use their techniques quickly and skillfully, but to reach their full power, they require a complete ritual. What you see here is a ritual technique amplified by another, a work of young Liang.”

Lirien could barely tear her gaze from the ritual unfolding before her. Shi Zhe, with her serene yet authoritative voice, continued explaining as the chants resonated in the twilight air.

“Normally, using pure cursed energy to attack is a waste,” the elder said, watching Mingzhu closely. “But young Mingzhu’s innate technique allows her to channel that energy and release it in a concentrated form. First, it must be gathered and compressed, and that’s what’s happening now.”

On the horizon, where the last rays of the sun were fading, Lirien spotted a shadow: a ship slowly approaching the coast. Mingzhu, in the center of the ritual circle, began to tremble. The tattoos on her body, converging at the strange black void on her torso, flared with a purple glow. Lines of vibrant fuchsia spiraled, as if the energy itself were coming to life. The young woman, visibly tense, murmured with effort:

“Everything… ready.”

Shi Zhe nodded, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Silence fell over the scene, broken only by the distant murmur of the waves. After seconds that felt eternal, the elder gave the order with a firm voice:

“Fire.”

Suddenly, Mingzhu’s tattoos lit up with blinding intensity. A beam of orange light, so pure and concentrated it seemed to slice the air, shot from the center of her torso. The beam, silent but imposing, vanished into the darkness toward the ship. Mingzhu collapsed to the ground, exhausted, as Lirien blinked, bewildered. She frowned, about to protest, thinking the attack had been in vain. But then, the sky lit up.

A column of water rose on the horizon, barely visible in the dusk, followed by a fireball that devoured the night. The resulting explosion was so colossal it illuminated the entire ocean, and the shockwave that reached the shore nearly knocked Lirien down. She clung to her spear, standing firm, as she gazed in awe at a display of power she had never imagined witnessing. She looked at Shi Zhe, whose eyes remained fixed on the explosion.

“Did it work?” Lirien asked, her voice trembling slightly.

The young man from the Black Order, the same one whose soft voice she had heard earlier, held a strange device in his hand. His face, still hidden under the hood, reflected tension.

“No…” he replied, his voice breaking. “Its cursed energy is still present.”

Before he could say more, an invisible force struck Lirien like a punch to the chest. It wasn’t a physical impact but an oppression so intense it nearly brought her to her knees. She grunted, gripping her spear and adopting a combat stance. Around her, everyone seemed affected by the same overwhelming presence. The Black Order members and the foreign sorcerers grimaced, some standing firmer than others, but all tense. Lirien realized she hadn’t been struck: it was the cursed energy of Ryomen Sukuna, a pressure so dark and overwhelming it seemed to crush the soul itself.

Shi Zhe, unperturbed, raised her voice:

“We didn’t expect a single attack to stop it. Prepare yourselves, everyone. The assault begins now.”

Lirien clenched her teeth, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. The Black Order members and the foreign sorcerers began to move, forming a united front. With her spear raised and the echo of the explosion still ringing in her ears, Lirien prepared to face whatever emerged from the horizon. The fate of her village, and perhaps the entire Amazon Empire, depended on this battle.

The air vibrated with an oppressive energy, as if the world itself were holding its breath. A sorcerer from the Black Order, his voice breaking with frustration, shouted:

“I can’t see anything! Its cursed energy is everywhere! How will we know where it’s coming from?”

His words were abruptly cut off. Something crashed from the sky with a deafening roar, raising a cloud of dust that enveloped the sorcerer. Lirien, clutching her spear, felt her heart stop. When the dust settled, a figure emerged, imposing and terrifying.

It was a woman, but unlike any Lirien had ever seen. She stood at least two and a half meters tall, her presence dominating the beach like a living mountain. A blood-red bony armor covered a quarter of her face, but it wasn’t a mask: it was part of her flesh, fused with her skin. Two uneven eyes, glowing with an inhuman intensity, rose above the armor. Black tattoos in the form of serpentine lines snaked across her body, contrasting with her long, pink hair, wild as a storm. She wore a black kimono with a red obi, open to the waist, revealing a bralette made of elastic bandages. Her wide sleeves exposed not two, but four muscular arms, each exuding intimidating strength. But the most disturbing feature was the mouth on her stomach, a grotesque abyss where her navel should have been, displaying sharp teeth that seemed ready to devour.

Her smile was not cruel or sadistic but complacent, as if she had found exactly what she was looking for. Her long, hard fingers, ending in black nails that resembled claws, were sunk deep into bone. With a smooth, almost careless twist, she hurled the body toward the bay’s rocks. The impact turned the stone to rubble. The man’s body fell like a lifeless doll.

Lirien felt a knot in her throat. It wasn’t fear that tightened her chest but a realization—or rather, an incomprehension of what she saw. Everything she had been taught, everything she knew, was not just a body but a presence, something that should not exist.

Sukuna cracked her neck, a dry sound that echoed in the tense silence. Her eyes swept over the group—sorcerers, warriors, and foreigners—with a chilling calm.

“Well then, who’s next?” she asked, her voice deep and resonant, laced with a confidence that froze the blood.

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An explosion threw Lirien against a tree, the impact rattling her bones. With gritted teeth, she leaned on her spear to stand, pain coursing through her body. The explosion carried no signature. Only violence. She couldn’t even tell if it came from Sukuna or one of the sorcerers. Unlike the Amazons, the foreign sorcerers didn’t seem accustomed to fighting as a team, forming small groups among themselves, creating barely controlled chaos. Still, Lirien allowed no room for doubt. She stood, her gaze fixed on Sukuna, who dominated the center of the battle.

A sorcerer had raised a cloud of sand that swirled like a vortex around the Cursed Queen, obscuring her figure. Lirien saw her chance. She ran toward the cloud, spear ready, determined to seize the moment. As she entered, she glimpsed Sukuna engaged in combat. A sorcerer swung a katana at her neck, but Sukuna stopped it with one hand, catching the blade by its blunt side. With a swift motion, one of her upper arms delivered a brutal elbow to the sorcerer’s face, twisting his head and forcing him back. Before he fell, the abomination grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him into the ground, unleashing a tremor. Blood gushed from the sorcerer’s mouth and nose, but Lirien didn’t stop.

With her spear raised, she took advantage of Sukuna’s turned back and lunged, aiming for her nape. The spear’s tip pierced the flesh of one of Sukuna’s arms, which intercepted with inhuman speed. The blade lodged, unable to advance further. Lirien pushed with all her strength, but the wound seemed to grip the weapon like a claw. Sukuna turned her head, her uneven eyes locking onto Lirien with cruel amusement, as if she found it laughable that a mere warrior dared to challenge her. The spear’s tip was centimeters from her face, but it didn’t move a millimeter further.

Up close, Lirien could observe Sukuna’s details. Her face, though intimidating, had a youthful softness, as if she weren’t much older than Lirien herself. Without thinking, words slipped from her lips:

“Who hurt you so much?”

The impulsive, sincere question made Sukuna narrow her eyes. For an instant, the air grew even tenser.
No one dared to move.
Not even her.

From Sukuna’s perspective, the question was like a sting. Who did this girl think she was, speaking to her like that? Condescending, her, a mere warrior with no trace of cursed energy? Rage bubbled within her, souring her mood. The spear remained lodged in her arm, but it didn’t budge, no matter how much the girl struggled. With a swift gesture, Sukuna unleashed her Slash technique, and the spear shattered. Her free hand seized Lirien’s face, lifting her off the ground as if she weighed nothing. The warrior struggled, kicking futilely, drawing a knife from her pocket and stabbing Sukuna’s arm. The blade barely sank before breaking. Sukuna looked into her eyes, her fury restrained but palpable, and activated Slash again.

Blood sprayed the air, precise cuts opening Lirien’s skin as if she were a sacrificed animal. But her gaze didn’t waver. Despite the pain, despite the certainty of death, her eyes burned with defiant passion. Sukuna frowned. This weak creature, who had no place in a world where only the strong prevail, refused to yield. Finally, Lirien’s arms hung limp, her body slack. Sukuna released her, letting her fall to the ground like a broken doll.

The sand cloud dissipated, revealing the battlefield. Of the sixteen sorcerers Sukuna had counted at the start, nine lay dead. Just over a dozen warriors, not sorcerers, remained standing, but the tension was palpable. A shout cut through the air:

“Now!”

Sukuna sensed a fluctuation of cursed energy. Reddish sand spheres rose from the ground, glowing with a strange intensity. She understood instantly: the sorcerer manipulating the sand—or something similar—had hidden Kamo blood in the cloud, infusing it with cursed energy. What she had sensed wasn’t residue from the sand technique but blood charged with cursed energy.

“Supernova!” shouted a sorcerer dressed in white and black.

Sharp spikes, like starfish, emerged from the spheres. Sukuna used her four arms to destroy most of them—her two upper arms quickly smashed those threatening her upper body, while her lower arms used Dismantle to destroy those targeting her lower half. Still, one spike pierced her lower left arm, dark blood spraying from the protruding tip. Another stabbed just below her diaphragm. Sukuna grunted—not in pain, but in annoyance—as her insides regenerated. At the same time, two sorcerers emerged from the sand at her sides, their cursed energy suppressed until that moment to avoid detection. Sukuna growled, activating her reverse cursed technique to heal her wounds while destroying the blood structures with Slash.

A sorcerer in front of her attacked with a large machete, wielded with one hand, while animated ropes writhed like snakes in the other. From behind, another shouted:

“New Shadow Style!”

A non-innate technique she had heard of before. She planted both feet firmly in the sand, observing her opponents.

“Slash: SpiderWeb.”

Red lines spread across the ground, radiating from Sukuna as the epicenter. They erupted in a massive cut that shook the sand, destabilizing everyone. The fighters sank or slipped, but Sukuna capitalized on the chaos. She kicked the machete-wielding sorcerer’s hand, snatching the weapon, and passed it to her upper left hand. With a fluid motion, she blocked a katana coming from the other side. Her upper left and lower right arms swept in opposite directions, unleashing another Dismantle. The rope sorcerer was sliced in half, but the katana wielder resisted, surrounded by a glowing aura.

“Domain amplification, huh?” Sukuna said, her smile curling again, ready for the next move.

From Ryomen’s mind, the battle was a spectacle of human errors, a dance of insects believing they could challenge her. The “New Shadow Style”—called by the ignorant “the technique of the weak”—was, in her view, misunderstood. Humans thought it emerged from nothing, a recent creation, but they were wrong. It was merely the coherent evolution of weapon-based skills rooted in domain amplification that already existed. In a sense, it was their mastery. Humans seemed to forget that innate techniques weren’t everything in sorcery. A key part of being a sorcerer was knowing how to use the full arsenal cursed energy offered, or they’d never reach their techniques’ maximum potential. Thus, people would realize Slash and Dismantle weren’t twin cuts but opposites. Slash stemmed from traditional cursed energy, while Dismantle arose from positive cursed energy, causing an inverse effect in its use. The reason it harmed people instead of healing them was that the cut wasn’t literally made of positive energy but used it as its battery.

Thus, domain amplification was another key to perfecting skills and innate techniques outside of domain expansion or supreme techniques. It provided a natural barrier against cursed energy and positive energy, dampening techniques or disabling rituals that required a constant supply to function, like barriers or veils. That’s why domain amplification, especially simple domains, was so effective against domain expansions. Yet it was scorned as the technique of the weak when its proper use in one’s innate techniques produced a far more potent effect than people believed. Disabling her technique’s effectiveness with domain amplification was, in theory, clever, but these sorcerers overlooked many things.

Sukuna sank a foot into the sand, advancing toward the katana sorcerer with lethal calm. The machete she had seized pressed against the enemy blade, deflecting it with ease. The sorcerer attempted a predictable slash, which Sukuna dodged by leaning her body to one side. With one more step, she seized the man’s wrist and delivered a punch to his stomach with one of her upper arms. The sorcerer writhed in pain but drew a retractable cursed dagger from his pocket, attempting to stab her. Sukuna, with her other upper hand, grabbed his second wrist. Her lower hands formed a seal, extending forward and closing together. A glowing aura emanated from Sukuna, identical to the sorcerer’s but more intense. Sukuna’s domain amplification pushed the sorcerer’s to nullification. With a single gesture, she disabled his defense and used Slash. Multiple cuts opened across the sorcerer’s chest, and he fell to the ground, blood gushing from his wounds.

This sorcerer had made fatal mistakes. First, he underestimated her physical strength, believing close combat could keep her occupied. A suicidal error. Second, he relied on his domain amplification, ignoring that her four arms gave her an overwhelming advantage. Finally, he ignored or tried to prevent her from using her own amplification, which didn’t end well for him. A domain amplification was useless against a stronger one. Just as a powerful domain could overpower another, domain amplifications worked the same way, and hers was unmatched.

The battlefield was a canvas of chaos and blood, a testament to her supremacy. The sorcerers had fled, and she could feel them retreating in the distance, but they wouldn’t get far. The Kamo still intrigued her, and she hadn’t seen all the other sorcerers’ techniques. Amid the red-stained sand and scattered corpses, only one figure remained still: a decrepit old woman, Shi Zhe, whose gaze seemed to pierce Sukuna’s soul. Those eyes, laden with judgment and pity, made the ever-latent rage under her skin bubble with fury. Normally, Sukuna ignored what others thought of her, but something about this old woman set her ablaze.

She began to walk, her steps echoing in the sand, until she loomed over the elder. Shi Zhe spoke, her voice firm despite her frailty:

“Are you satisfied? Amused? So much death, so much loss, just for futile emotions. For what? With nothing to achieve, nothing to gain beyond immediate satisfaction. Are you trying to teach the world something, child? Do you want to prove something?”

Sukuna narrowed her eyes, her head tilting slightly, letting her wild pink hair fall to one side. A predatory smile curved her lips, baring her teeth.

“It’s bold of you to think I care about any of that,” she retorted, her voice dripping with disdain. “Why would I need a motive, a reason? I do what pleases me, what amuses me. I enjoy watching them suffer, writhe, watching those worms crawl as they discover how weak they truly are.”

Shi Zhe sighed, turning for a moment to gaze at the beach, now a graveyard of sorcerers and Amazon warriors. When she looked back at Sukuna, her eyes were a mirror of compassion and resolve.

“Is that what you tell yourself to justify it?” the elder said. “No, Sukuna. Perhaps the stories prejudiced me, but you’re just a child. Someone who was hurt and found a way not only to avoid pain but to inflict it. I don’t care what you look like or what you pretend to be. I’ve raised and cared for enough people to know that, beneath it all, there’s just a wounded child throwing a tantrum. Because your parents didn’t love you, you decided to eliminate everyone else. Because they saw you as a monster, you chose to give them exactly that.”

Sukuna’s brow furrowed into a deep scowl, a vein pulsing at her temple. Her voice grew lower, more dangerous, a barely contained growl.

“Don’t meddle in things you don’t understand, decrepit old hag. If you’re not going to do anything interesting, I’ll just kill you.”

She aimed a hand at Shi Zhe, her fingers forming an imaginary pistol, ready to unleash a deadly slash. But the elder, with surprising agility, drew a disproportionately large staff from nowhere and deflected Sukuna’s hand, causing the slash to miss its mark.

“Whatever gave you that appearance makes you seem more mature than you are, dear,” Shi Zhe said, her tone firm yet almost maternal. “Talking to you is like talking to one of my most stubborn students. Still, your sins are too many to ignore, Sukuna. Life threw you a rock, and you chose to create an avalanche. Your misfortune doesn’t justify your actions. Surrender and turn yourself in. Perhaps I can give you an honorable death.”

Sukuna snorted, her hand gripping the staff’s tip with force.

“There’s no such thing as an honorable death,” she spat. “Death is death. Your body stops working, and you cease to exist. The weak die, the strong prevail. That’s the nature of the world. A legacy will be distorted and fade with the generations. Nothing you do will endure. Trying to change that is pure foolishness.”

A light emanated from Sukuna’s palm, the air tearing as the heat began to intensify.

“It’s a pity, dear,” Shi Zhe said, her voice tinged with sadness. “Who knows, perhaps in another life, you could have been a wonderful student.”

Sukuna didn’t respond. The heat reached its critical point, and with a single word, she unleashed her power:

“Open.”

The sand crystallized, nearby trees turned to ash, and the seawater evaporated in an instant. An explosion of fire consumed everything in sight: bodies, stories, memories. The beach was reduced to a landscape of devastation, with Sukuna at its center.

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The village in flames was yet another monotonous scene, a canvas of destruction that barely sparked her interest. She had come to these northern lands of China drawn by rumors of superior warriors, Amazons who wielded forces distinct from cursed energy: chi, ki, concepts that, from what she had heard, stemmed from a primitive understanding of sorcery. But Japan had grown small, boring. How long had it been since she felt the thrill of a fight that put her life at risk, that forced her to exert herself? She couldn’t recall. Everything resolved with disappointing simplicity. A mere Dismantle was enough to fell most sorcerers. These Amazons, though stronger than the average human, were no match for a first-grade sorcerer, let alone someone of her caliber. She was seriously considering the offer from that man with stitches on his head: to become a cursed object and await a new era of worthy warriors. The seal he had given her was growing more tempting. Boredom consumed her, and that irritated her.

A spear sliced through the air toward her head, but Sukuna dodged it with a slight tilt of her neck. With a flick of her hand, she unleashed a slash that spilled the Amazon’s entrails onto the ground. The village burned around her, one of many she had razed. The Amazons, with their message of supremacy, were pathetically weak. No sorcerer or warrior in this place had been worth her time so far. She had thought they might at least ignite her interest, but ironically, it was the Japanese sorcerers she had encountered who had slightly caught her attention. But then, interrupting her thoughts, a man appeared at dizzying speed, leaping from the air with a kick aimed at her face. Sukuna raised her upper left arm, intercepting the foot with her hand. The impact reverberated through her body, a blow she actually felt. Finally, something interesting.

The man didn’t stop. He bent his knee, attempting to strike with the other leg, but Sukuna twisted her body, grabbed him, and hurled him toward the ground in the opposite direction. Yet the man didn’t crash. He placed both hands on the sand, propelled himself with an agile spin, and landed in a combat stance. It all happened in a fraction of a second, and Sukuna couldn’t help but let a small smile curl her lips.

It was ridiculous. She didn’t recognize his stance as part of any known martial art, but if she had to describe it, it was wild. The man wore orange shoulder pads with black stripes and a suit that seemed made of tiger pelts. He had struck with more force than any sorcerer or Amazon she had faced before, with a speed and reaction time that surpassed many in Japan. However, his eyes kept drifting to Sukuna’s breasts, a distraction that completely ruined the moment.

“Tell me your name before I kill you,” Sukuna said, her face devoid of emotion, her voice cold as a sword’s edge.

The man puffed up, raising a fist with a mix of bravado and defiance.

“My name is Jian, and I belong to the Musk Dynasty!” he proclaimed, pounding his chest with his fist. “You, woman, have been marked as a troublemaker, and I’m going to defeat you and take your head as a trophy to earn recognition!”

Sukuna scoffed, eyeing the fool before her. Now that she looked closely, she noticed details: claws on his hands, slitted eyes suggesting a mutation. More intriguing was his ki. With so many people using ki in these lands, Sukuna had developed a technique to detect it. Since ki and cursed energy repelled each other, she projected her cursed energy toward where she suspected ki was present. Though undetectable to someone without cursed energy like Jian, her cursed energy molded to the ki like a cast, repelled but outlining its shape. This allowed her to gauge its quantity. And this man… his ki was overwhelmingly superior to anyone she had faced before. Finally, something worth her time.

“Let’s see how long you last,” Sukuna said, her predatory smile returning as she prepared for combat.

The fight with Jian was a rare spark of interest in a world of disappointments. The tiger-man launched a fierce offensive, charging with a speed that made the air whistle. His claws flashed toward Sukuna’s face, but she deflected the blow with her lower left arm, raising it upward, and threw a punch with her upper right. She wasn’t aiming to end him immediately; she wanted to play, to test something new. Jian dodged the punch by ducking, maintaining his momentum, and shaped his hand into a cone, using his claws as a spearhead. Sukuna grinned widely, opening the mouth on her stomach. With a brutal snap, she closed its teeth, trapping Jian’s hand. The warrior, with a mix of surprise and disgust, tried to pull back, but two of his fingers were torn off, eliciting a hiss of pain and rage as he shook his hand as if it were a minor wound despite the dripping blood. He stepped back, while Sukuna’s lower mouth licked its lips.

“Look at that,” Sukuna said, her voice laced with amusement. “Your flesh tastes different from ordinary humans. When this is over, I’m going to devour you.”

Jian, for some reason, blushed but responded with a new flurry of attacks. He was an acrobatic fighter, competent despite his arrogant attitude. As he performed a midair flip, Sukuna unleashed a Dismantle, but Jian, with an impossible twist, altered his trajectory and landed in the sand. Sukuna advanced, launching another Slash with a sweep of her arm, forcing Jian to jump again. Seizing his airborne position, Sukuna closed in to finish him, but a deafening roar erupted from Jian’s throat, near-visible soundwaves halting Sukuna for a fraction of a second. It was enough for Jian to escape his vulnerable position. Sukuna’s punch arrived a moment too late, and Jian, spinning in the air, clung to Sukuna’s extended arm, sinking his nails deep into it.

“Tiger Kick!” Jian shouted, executing a forward somersault.

His foot descended with force, connecting with Sukuna’s head. The impact cracked the ground beneath her feet, opened a wound on her scalp, and stained her pink hair with dark red at the roots. Jian used Sukuna’s head as leverage, propelling himself backward to gain distance.

Sukuna, unfazed, clasped her lower hands together like a hook, intertwining her fingers, and murmured:

“Domain amplification.”

In theory, this should interfere with Jian’s ki. If ki and cursed energy repelled each other, a stronger domain amplification could nullify it, as her slashes had shown by affecting ki users without difficulty. With this reasoning, they charged again. Just before the exchange of blows, Jian entered the amplification’s range. Though Sukuna couldn’t use cursed techniques within it, she trusted that Jian’s natural ki resistance wouldn’t be enough against her physical strength. Her upper right and lower left arms moved, aiming to destabilize both flanks and end him quickly.

But then, Jian’s eyes widened, and his body became a blur of speed. Sukuna reacted just in time, striking his cheek with a punch loaded with cursed energy, this time fully serious. The impact barely moved Jian’s face. She attempted a kick to push him back, but Jian, though not fully dodging, withstood the blow, retreating only a few steps.

Sukuna frowned. What had happened? The tiger had experienced an explosive surge in physical abilities, something he hadn’t shown before. He hadn’t been holding back; this was new. And then she understood: her domain amplification hadn’t nullified Jian’s ki but had somehow enhanced it. Cursed energy and ki repelled each other, yes, like a membrane keeping them apart. But when that membrane broke, they interacted. The combination of Jian’s exceptionally strong ki and Sukuna’s domain amplification had shattered that barrier, allowing Jian to absorb her cursed energy, convert it into ki or amplify his own, and use it against her.

“Intriguing,” Sukuna murmured, deactivating her domain amplification.

She glanced to the side, noticing her lower right arm lying in the sand, severed by Jian’s attack. The force had been violent, powerful, but not without cost. Jian likely lacked an equivalent to a reverse cursed technique to heal his body. Forcing a power he wasn’t accustomed to must have weakened him, putting unsustainable strain on his physique. Sukuna smiled, her interest renewed. This tiger-man might be more than a fleeting distraction.

The fight with Jian had been a spark of intrigue, but now it was fading. The tiger-man, though reinvigorated, lacked his initial drive. The fight had been useful, not for its quality—far from her best—but because it allowed her to understand more about the interaction between ki and her cursed energy. Brief, to the point, but it was time to end this game. Jian lunged again, his movements more predictable, his ferocity waning. Sukuna watched him with disdain, her interest evaporating like the smoke from the burning village.

“Tiger Fang Impalement!” Jian shouted, his voice ringing with a mix of fury and desperation.

Like a predator hunting, he aimed his thumbs at Sukuna’s heart, slightly to the left, while his other fingers, save for the missing ones, targeted her lungs. It was a lethal attack: no matter how strong you were, a direct hit would kill. In Jian’s mind, he already saw himself victorious, facing this creature—as he called her to preserve his sanity—that challenged him. But Sukuna was one step ahead. Just as Jian’s hands neared her chest, she seized his wrists with two of her hands, gripping them tightly. She forced Jian to open his palms, spreading his fingers, and with a deliberate motion, guided his hands under the bandages of her bralette, pressing them against the soft, warm flesh of her breasts, one now stained with Jian’s blood from the open wound.

Jian froze. His eyes widened, a deep blush rising to his face. His hands, still held by Sukuna, felt the firm skin, sensing a contrast of softness and something hard at the center against his palms. His mind collapsed, unable to process the sensation. What was this? The creature… no, the woman before him… His hands were trapped, pressing against something that completely disarmed him. He wanted to squeeze but couldn’t move. The first time he saw a woman, felt this—they were warm, large, heavy, seeming to melt in his hands, and the more he registered, the slower his brain processed. Sukuna scoffed, amused by the absurdity of the situation. She had seen enemies fall for stupidity, lack of skill, fatal errors, but never for breasts. It was almost pathetic.

Seizing his paralysis, Sukuna raised her upper right arm and delivered a brutal punch to Jian’s face. The impact threw him to the ground, creating a crater in the sand. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth, his face a mask of confusion and pain as his body trembled, struggling to recover. With the little strength he had left, Jian stammered:

“Impossible… no… by a… a mere woman…! This won’t stand… Our leader… our emperor… when he’s done with his business in Jusenkyo… he’ll finish you!”

Sukuna didn’t respond. Her upper left arm delivered another punch, sinking him deeper into the crater. Jian’s body convulsed and finally lay still, defeated. Sukuna stood, feeling her lower right arm regenerate thanks to her reverse cursed technique. With a casual gesture, she adjusted the bandages of her bralette, which had shifted under Jian’s hands, her kimono’s lower half still open as before to give her lower mouth the space it needed. Her gaze lifted to the horizon, where the mention of Jusenkyo and this “emperor” sparked a faint glimmer of curiosity.

“Don’t worry about that,” she murmured, her voice laden with a lethal promise. “I’ll go for him.”

The village burned around her, a graveyard of ashes and bodies. Jian, the tiger-man, had been a fleeting distraction, but his leader… perhaps he’d be worth it. Sukuna smiled, her pink hair billowing in the hot wind, but first, she could always make a quick stop for a taste of exotic cuisine.

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In the heart of Jusenkyo, where the cursed springs whispered ancient secrets, Tao Haoyu, the venerable elder leader of the Amazons, gazed at the horizon. Her eyes, laden with centuries of experience, seemed to discern the destruction that the night brought with it. In less than a week, Sukuna had turned the burgeoning Amazon nation into a field of ruins. Villages burned, lives cut down—children, students, siblings—and any dream of expansion reduced to ashes. The tragedy was unbearable, a wound that could not be allowed to continue or repeat. That was why, though it repulsed her, Tao Haoyu had agreed to ally with Di Lie Chen, the emperor of the Musk Dynasty. Beside her, the man with a white beard and a face etched with wrinkles, his eyes seemingly perpetually closed, clad in fine and elegant robes, observed the terrain with a calm that only age and experience could forge. He was not as old as she was, but his presence exuded a wisdom that the young simply lacked. He knew they faced a monster, and he was willing to collaborate.

Jusenkyo, home of the cursed springs, was the last bastion. Here, the remaining forces had gathered: the Black Order, foreign sorcerers, members of the Musk Dynasty, and the Amazons. They knew Sukuna would come. They had evacuated as many as possible, leaving only a handful of combatants capable of facing the threat. Many Amazons, though brave, were not frontline warriors. Their duty was to protect the people, guide refugees, hunt, and secure provisions in a moment of extreme vulnerability. Tao Haoyu knew this: her Amazon warriors were not just berserkers but the guardians of their people. Most had dispersed, organizing villages and protecting survivors, leaving only the most capable in Jusenkyo.

Despite the urgency, tensions between the allied clans were inevitable. A man from the Musk Dynasty, with the musculature of a gorilla, shoved an Amazon while carrying a crate, causing her to fall to the ground.

“Get out of the way, woman!” he growled.

The Amazon, with a grimace of rage, sprang to her feet.

“Come here, you damned idiot, I’ll kick your monkey ass!” she retorted, ready to pounce.

Before the situation escalated, Tao Haoyu struck the Amazon on the head with her staff, a firm reminder of discipline. At the same time, Di Lie Chen shot a withering glance at the man, who flinched and quickly retreated, muttering apologies. It was then that the ancient wise woman saw the man’s eyes—or rather, their absence. He hadn’t opened them once since arriving. He wasn’t blind; that was certain from how he moved, yet he managed to intimidate his subordinate. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

Tao Haoyu approached the emperor, her staff resounding against the sacred ground of Jusenkyo.

“I assume everything is ready for this to begin,” she said, her voice deep but serene. “Our tracker indicates movement across the river. She shouldn’t be long.”

Di Lie Chen nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“I know. One of my informants stopped responding. Either he was discovered, or he did something reckless. His absence is useful information: she’s moving faster than we expected.”

Tao Haoyu looked at the Amazons and Musk working the terrain, preparing for battle. She sighed, her face reflecting the weight of responsibility.

“It’s time for non-combatants to withdraw. If we fail again, as we did at the dock, there won’t be another chance. Only a select few can stay.” She paused, her gaze hardening. “This battlefield has been carefully prepared. You know the springs as well as we do. No matter how strong Sukuna is, she’s not a force of nature—I don’t like what we’ll have to do—”

The Musk emperor merely nodded, stroking his long beard. “—but even so, we’ll do what must be done.”

Di Lie Chen inclined his head in agreement, his eyes gleaming with determination. The cursed springs of Jusenkyo held secrets even Sukuna couldn’t foresee. The terrain was ready, and the final battle approached. Tao Haoyu gripped her staff, her mind focused on one certainty: the Cursed Queen would not pass Jusenkyo.

Sukuna advanced along the winding path to the summit of Jusenkyo, her steps echoing on the bare rock. A thick mist began to swirl at her feet, rising slowly, enveloping her like a veil. The atmosphere was somber, the silence broken only by the bubbling of water in the distance, a sound suggesting geysers or hot springs. Perhaps the summit rested atop an underground quarry rich in minerals, explaining why they had chosen this place as their last bastion. But there was something more. It wasn’t just ki; she felt it everywhere, like a tar-soaked rope burning beneath the earth, an infinite pulse vibrating in her senses. Ley lines? She had heard of places where the energy that fueled the world converged—or so the theory went. Cursed energy stemmed from negative emotions, but did it simply appear spontaneously? Or was it something else before, with negative emotions as the catalyst? She’d have to investigate later. For now, it was clear they had prepared a welcome for her.

The first attack came from the sorcerer manipulating the terrain. The rock beneath her feet bent like paper, attempting to crush her. Sukuna reacted instantly, her four arms gripping the rising walls at her sides. At that moment, a blood beam sliced through the mist, aimed at her. With an agile leap, she positioned herself upside-down on the rocks, releasing them to crash into each other, deflecting the blood beam. But the attack rose, pursuing her. With a fluid motion, her lower left arm drew Kamutoke from a sheath sewn into the back of her pants. She used one of the cursed weapon’s tips to deflect the blood beam, raising it simultaneously. Electric bolts sparked from the weapon, illuminating the mist. Though visibility was low, the lightning should stun nearby enemies, perhaps even hit one. She smelled no burning flesh, only the ozone-charged air. She had surprised them but not harmed them. Before facing the Kamo, she needed to find the terrain manipulator.

On the beach, cursed energy mingled with the sand, making detection difficult. Here, on the rock, it was different. Cursed energy seeped through the minerals, making it much easier and clearer to detect, leaving a distinct trail. Sukuna followed that trail, running toward its source. The mist parted slightly, revealing a woman in a black robe who gasped upon seeing her. Sukuna gave her no time to react. She launched a Dismantle with one arm, slicing the air toward her. The woman sank her hands into the rock, raising an improvised shield that absorbed most of the cuts, crumbling into pieces. But it couldn’t stop Sukuna’s punch, which shattered the remaining shield and slammed her against a rocky wall. She was about to launch another Dismantle, but turned just in time, using Kamutoke as a dagger to block a blood blade. The Kamo, covered in red scales glinting around his eyes, hands, and legs, had charged at her. His blood manipulation technique, Flowing Red Scales, enhanced his physical abilities.

The battle between them was a whirlwind of rapid strikes. The Kamo dodged Sukuna’s four arms cautiously, seeking an opening. He launched a Cutting Saw, a technique that forced Sukuna to move, but a Dismantle pierced the blood, dissolving it in the air and forcing him to step back. Sukuna reached him with a strike he tried to block with his technique-enhanced arm, but all he achieved was being thrown back with a satisfying crack of a fracture. As they fought, Sukuna sensed heavy footsteps approaching through the mist. She raised both upper arms just in time to block an attack from above. A man, nearly as large as her, with the musculature of a gorilla, had leaped from the sky. The impact of his fists reverberated through her body, cracking the ground beneath her feet and sinking her several centimeters. Sukuna responded with a kick that forced him back, but the bones in his arms, likely broken by the blow, didn’t seem to stop him. His reverse cursed technique must have already healed him.

During the fight, Sukuna had been projecting her cursed energy in all directions, mapping the terrain. She hadn’t sensed the gorilla-man’s ki, but she detected something else: a ki far more powerful, surpassing that of the tiger-man and this new opponent combined. That was interesting. It was time to finish these insects quickly and seek the real challenge. With an arrogant smile,

Sukuna observed the gorilla-man with a mix of disdain and amusement. He was a wild being, his movements driven by brute force enhanced by ki, but lacking refinement. He wasn’t exceptionally fast, and his frustration was palpable as he tried to reach her. Sukuna deliberately stayed out of his reach, moving with lethal grace, using sweeps of her arms to unleash Dismantle at point-blank range. The cuts tore into the man’s flesh, but didn’t penetrate deeply. However, the constant repetition began to wear him down, both physically and mentally. Rage burned in his eyes, and Sukuna seized that moment of weakness. She caught one of his arms, clumsily aimed at her head, and with her upper left arm delivered a brutal elbow to his face, drawing blood from his nose. Simultaneously, her lower right arm landed a punch to his stomach. When his other arm swung over her, Sukuna ducked and struck his ribs. Finally, with a fluid motion, she wrapped his neck in a chokehold, holding him still for a few seconds, letting the certainty of defeat sink in. Then, she unleashed Slash. Dozens of cuts, far deeper than Dismantle, lacerated the gorilla-man’s body. His muscles tensed for an instant before collapsing, drained, crumpling onto the shattered rock.

Sukuna turned her attention to the sorceress. She could still feel her, her cursed energy pulsing weakly. The earlier blow hadn’t killed her, but it had left her vulnerable. When their eyes met, the sorceress gritted her teeth and sank into the rocks behind her, vanishing into the stone as if merging with it. Sukuna frowned, deducing her cuts wouldn’t pierce the rock fast enough to reach her. But that wasn’t her only tool.

She recalled a technique she had observed before arriving at Jusenkyo: Bakusai Tenketsu, a ki application that located the breaking point in a solid surface and saturated it with energy to shatter it. Though useless if attempted directly with cursed energy—the principles were different—Sukuna had devised a way to adapt it. The breaking point wasn’t just the weakest spot but the core where structural flaws converged: cracks, unevenness, density variations. By combining this with her domain amplification, she could achieve a similar effect. Normally, infusing an innate technique into a domain amplification would turn it into a domain expansion, which would collapse instantly due to barrier incompatibility. But if she activated the amplification for only a fraction of a second, infusing her innate technique at the precise moment before deactivating it, the result would be a concentrated version of her technique.

Sukuna smiled, her hands extending as she activated her domain amplification. She called it Slash/Dismantle: Zhòu Bào—Cursed Explosion. She sank two fingers into the rock, infusing her innate technique into the amplification. The air turned red for an instant before she deactivated the barrier. The result was devastating: an explosion of cuts pulverized dozens of meters of rock in the blink of an eye. The mist cleared, revealing the sorceress’s body, torn apart by the cuts, a deep slash crossing her face. She was dead.

Sukuna turned, ready to finish the Kamo and end this farce. But what she saw stopped her. The Kamo lay on the ground, a fatal wound piercing his neck, blood soaking the rock. Beside him stood an old man, dressed in fine robes that billowed slightly in the mist. His eyes were closed, but his presence was imposing. Sukuna surveyed the terrain: the bodies of the gorilla-man and the sorceress, whom she had killed moments ago, were arranged in a deliberate pattern, surrounded by marks etched into the rock. Teleportation? She hadn’t sensed cursed energy in the old man, but the bodies suggested something else: a ritual, a technique. Then, the man opened his eyes. They were crystalline, a celestial blue reflecting the moonlight like an infinite ocean, almost hypnotic. Sukuna narrowed her eyes, her interest ignited.

The old man, Di Lie Chen, spoke with a deep, resonant voice that seemed to vibrate with Jusenkyo’s own energy.

“Long ago, the Musk Dynasty was born alongside the Son of the Dragon, a divine being whose blood and genes gave rise to a child stronger than any other. Capable not only of wielding his power but of summoning the dragon’s familiars. An art that, over generations, faded. The blood diluted, but never vanished. Until a child was born different, one who saw beyond what any Musk had seen. His eyes, legend says, were those of the dragon itself. Eyes not even the first Musk possessed.” He paused, his eyes glowing with a supernatural sheen. “These eyes allow me to access a power that doesn’t dilute but sleeps. I am old, my prime is past, but that doesn’t limit me. It opened other doors.”

Serpentine dragons etched themselves into the rock, their forms intertwining in a seal surrounding the corpses. The energy in the air intensified, a hum resonating in Sukuna’s senses.

“To destroy our enemies, to please the gods, to bring the dragon back. Nations and beliefs divided us, but dragons are one. Sometimes called Longwang, Dragon King; in other lands, Yamata-no-Orochi. It answers my call.”

The skies lit up with a supernatural glow. The bodies on the ground disintegrated into dust, absorbed by the seal’s marks. In the air, cursed energy swirled, forming a colossal silhouette. The mist parted, revealing an immense creature: a dragon with green scales, massive wings, and eight long necks ending in ferocious heads. Yellow lightning struck the ground, illuminating its form in blinding flashes. Di Lie Chen knelt, leaning on his staff, exhausted but resolute.

Sukuna, far from intimidated, let out a low laugh, her predatory smile widening. Her four arms flexed, ready for combat, her body exuding a lethal confidence that seemed to challenge the dragon’s very presence.

“Sacred dragon, my ass,” she said, her voice laced with disdain and excitement. “That’s a curse.”

The summit of Jusenkyo vibrated beneath her feet, the cursed springs bubbling with fury. The mist thickened, but Sukuna no longer paid attention to her surroundings. Her eyes were fixed on the colossal creature, its cursed energy resonating with the promise of a worthy challenge. This, she thought, would be fun.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Sukuna moved with lethal precision, her body weaving through the yellow lightning bolts unleashed by the shikigami, Yamata-no-Orochi, from its eight heads. A strike from Kamutoke hit one of them, shattering its snout in an explosion of scales and blood. Three remaining heads opened their maws, gathering cursed energy that condensed into lasers of yellow light. Sukuna ran, scaling the side of a towering rock formation, her four arms gripping the stone as she dodged the beams. From the top, she saw another head preparing to attack. She knew a direct hit would throw her off balance. Her stomach mouth murmured a chant, empowering a Dismantle that she launched with a wide sweep of her arm. The cut, sharp as a guillotine, severed the head and slashed the sides of two others, sending a gush of dark blood into the air.

But something caught her attention. True to the legends, Yamata-no-Orochi possessed prodigious regeneration. It wasn’t just that: the creature didn’t use cursed energy to heal but positive energy. This wasn’t a cursed spirit but a shikigami. Sukuna frowned, her mind racing as the creature lunged, its wings beating furiously, chasing her toward the summit.

Sukuna spotted a colossal rock and, with a Dismantle, sliced it in an instant. Using her immense strength, she hurled it at the shikigami. One of the heads exhaled a dark fireball that pulverized the rock, but Sukuna had anticipated this. She leaped through the debris, hiding in the dust, and clung to the beard of one head. With a Slash, she mangled the scaly flesh, causing the neck to thrash to shake her off. Sukuna jumped to another head, but it pulled back, and a third caught her in its jaws. Before the teeth could close, Sukuna unleashed another Slash, shattering the jaw. But the head flung her into the air, piercing through the mist until she emerged above it.

In midair, Sukuna dodged a laser with an agile spin, repositioning her body to evade a second. She rubbed her hand against the air, generating sparks that she condensed into a fireball. With a precise motion, she shaped it into a fiery arrow and, murmuring “Open,” shot it against the third laser. The arrow pierced the yellow beam, entering the open mouth of a head, which exploded in flames, cauterizing the neck in a burst of fire and smoke.

“Its heads are more than its body,” Sukuna murmured, still falling. “Relics, each with a function, adapting to the situation. They represent harmony, perhaps.”

The wounds from the shikigami’s teeth healed quickly thanks to her reverse cursed technique. Another head lunged, but Sukuna spun in the air, sliding her feet along the neck’s scales while preparing Fuga. In the perfect position, she fired another fiery arrow, destroying three more necks, cauterizing the wounds in a blazing glow. The shikigami, at a disadvantage, retreated, allowing Sukuna to fall and grab a boulder near the mountain’s summit. She watched as the charred skin sloughed off, letting regeneration restart.

“Looks like that trick won’t work on you, huh?” Sukuna said, her voice laced with amusement. “Good thing I’ve got more up my sleeve.”

She joined her hands in a pyramidal seal, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Domain expansion.”

A black barrier began to form, spreading before fading, giving way to a macabre shrine. Bones lined the base, grotesque details emerging around her. Her domain, without a barrier, created a binding vow: it allowed enemies to flee but extended 200 meters in all directions. Dismantle and Slash began devastating everything in the vicinity, bombarding Yamata-no-Orochi with cuts equivalent to her chant-empowered attacks. But it wasn’t enough. The creature regenerated faster, adapting to the speed of the cuts. According to legends, its regeneration was infinite: as long as a part of it remained, it could rebuild itself. Cutting it faster only hastened its recovery.

Sukuna abruptly halted the cuts, her domain still active. She activated Fuga, empowered by the domain and the binding vow. Though weaker and slower than usual, within the domain, she could generate layers of explosive dust with Slash and Dismantle. The explosion would be uncontrolled, affecting her too, but as the user, she’d only take 20% of the damage from her own cursed energy: barely a scratch. The air turned red-hot, the rock softened, the snow evaporated instantly. The dust closest began to ignite as Yamata-no-Orochi lunged at her.

“Open.”

The explosion lit up the summit of Jusenkyo, consuming the shikigami in an inferno that pulverized everything above the springs. Sukuna’s domain faded, the shikigami’s cursed energy dissipating in the smoke. Sukuna laughed, her laughter echoing in the chaos.

“Interesting… truly interesting,” she said, her voice filled with satisfaction.

But before she could savor her victory, jaws emerged from the smoke and ashes, catching her off guard. Had it hidden its presence on purpose? Sukuna tried to retreat, but the head closed its jaws, trapping her on its tongue. Her arms pushed against the palate, preparing to use Slash, but a yellow light shone from the throat. “Shit!” Sukuna exclaimed. The beam, confined in the closed mouth, struck her with full force. The dragon’s head exploded, hurling her to the ground near the springs, her body crashing against the rock with an impact that shook the earth.

Sukuna grunted, pain piercing her bones like burning needles. The impact of Yamata-no-Orochi’s beam had been brutal. Three of her four arms were gone, reduced to shreds of flesh and bone. The fourth hung by torn muscles, trembling under its own weight. Her lower mouth, open and slack, dangled motionless, the muscle controlling it destroyed. Her legs, burned and lacerated, barely held her up. She gritted her teeth, rage bubbling within her. She had been caught off guard, and that should never have happened. Never. She observed the shikigami’s body, its final head destroyed in the last attack, dissipating into wisps of cursed energy. It was defeated. Sukuna only needed time to regenerate with her reverse cursed technique. Even in this state, with her body broken and mobility limited, she was still the strongest.

Then, a blow to her back made her stagger. As she fell, she turned her head and saw an old woman—Tao Haoyu, no doubt—who had pushed her with impossible strength. Perhaps her body, reduced to a fraction of its muscle mass, was more vulnerable than she wanted to admit. She tried to plant her foot on the ground, ready to split the old woman in two with a burst of cursed energy. But the ground didn’t come. Instead, the cold water of a spring engulfed her, pulling her down like a stone into a deceptively deep abyss. The bottom was nowhere in sight. Sukuna propelled herself toward the surface with heavy but no less swift movements, but something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Her cursed energy was being drained at a dizzying speed, her vast reserves plummeting toward zero. Dizziness hit her, her vision darkening as the spring siphoned her essence with a violence that made her gasp underwater.

This was no ordinary spring. The ki permeating the water was overwhelming, unlike any human ki she had felt since arriving in China. There was no membrane repelling her cursed energy as with people; instead, it absorbed it like an insatiable vortex. Her reverse cursed technique began to fail, unable to sustain the regeneration of her broken body—not from lack of energy but because it was impossible to maintain a balance in generating positive energy through the reverse cursed technique with her reserves being consumed like this. Her muscles weakened, her vision narrowed. She growled, bubbles escaping her lower mouth.

“It can’t end like this,” she muttered, her voice muffled by the water. “Not by a damn cheap trick!”

But her body was giving in. The blood loss, combined with the extraction of her cursed energy, pushed her to the brink of collapse. She had one option left: the binding vow seal Kenjaku had given her. The problem was severe: of the twenty fingers needed to activate it, only four remained, some half-regenerated by her reverse technique. They weren’t enough. With a titanic effort, Sukuna reformulated the conditions in her mind, her will unyielding even on the threshold of death.

“In exchange for the vow dictated by Kenjaku,” she recited mentally, “I offer my essence and power, divided into twenty fingers. But given the impossibility of distributing all my power into such small fragments, fifty percent will remain stored in this spring, along with my memories and will. My consciousness… will vanish.”

Her body sank slowly, the cold water enveloping her like a shroud. As her consciousness faded, one final thought crossed her mind.

“Whoever becomes my reincarnation will follow my will: the supremacy of the strongest, teaching the weak their place… and plunging the world into flames until someone stops us.”

The binding vow was sealed. Sukuna’s four fingers saponified, vanishing as the vow dictated, their location now uncertain. Her body began to disintegrate, absorbed by the cursed waters. Her senses faded, her vision plunged into darkness. With one last flicker of consciousness, she thought:

“Perhaps next time… it’ll be different.”

The spring of Jusenkyo stilled, the echoes of the battle fading into the mist. The Cursed Queen had fallen, but her legacy, fragmented into twenty fingers and a spring imbued with her power, waited in the shadows, ready to resurge.

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A Thousand Years Later

In a room steeped in the metallic scent of blood and the stifling heat of human exertion, a woman with pink hair panted, her body exhausted yet pulsing with life. Her sweat-drenched face reflected a mix of fatigue and triumph. Her legs, still parted from childbirth, trembled slightly, her skin sensitive to the rough sheets. The attendants moved swiftly, cleaning the tiny figure that had just let out its first cry, a piercing wail that echoed through the room. The woman leaned back against the pillow, her chest rising and falling as she processed the visceral experience of giving birth.

“If I’d known it would be like this,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but laced with familiar sarcasm, “I would’ve preferred doing it artificially.”

Her thoughts were cut off as an attendant, an older woman from the Toyohama family, the Sulla, carefully handed her the figure wrapped in soft cloth. The baby was healthy, its skin pink and warm beneath her fingertips. Weighing over four kilos, it was larger and sturdier than most newborns. Its lungs, she thought with a grimace, shouldn’t be capable of screaming at such decibels. But she let the auditory torture slide, allowing herself to admire what, in her mind, was her greatest creation.

Her crimson eyes scrutinized the baby. The tiny lips, the face still hidden beneath infantile fat, the small nose, the little hands waving with unusual strength. The hair, the same vibrant pink as hers, gleamed under the dim light. And those eyes… red as blood, intense, almost supernatural.

“Hmm… I think I know what to call you,” she said, her voice soft but heavy with intent. “I’ve had this in mind for a while. Itad—”

Before she could finish, her husband, a man of booming laughter and clumsy manners, burst into the scene. Without ceremony, he lifted the baby from her arms, snatching it from her lap with a roughness that made the maids gasp.

“Ha ha! A boy! It’s definitely a boy! A Saotome! Saotome Ranma!” he proclaimed, holding the child aloft like a trophy.

The maids rushed toward him, trying to retrieve the baby with care, their faces filled with panic. The pink-haired woman sighed, her eyes narrowing with a mix of exasperation and amusement.

“Well, whatever,” she muttered as her husband, finally yielding to the maids, allowed them to return the baby to her arms.

She cradled Ranma, her gaze softening for a moment as she felt the warm weight against her chest. Long ago, her plans had been altered and reshaped because things had unfolded in ways they shouldn’t have. But time and circumstances had led her to this moment. Though it wasn’t what she had initially expected, she had adapted her plans to the situation—something she was quite skilled at. Who said being a housewife was incompatible with her ambitions?

Meanwhile, the tiny Ranma, mere minutes old, seemed to perceive the world with an unusual intensity. The vibrant colors, the scent of blood and sweat, the warmth of his mother—all struck him with a force that shouldn’t affect a newborn. His consciousness, though wrapped in the innocence of infancy…

Chapter 2: Cursed Springs of Jusenkyo

Summary:

The journey begins, continues and suddenly changes

Notes:

Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay and keeping you waiting. I lasted a lot longer with this than I had planned due to an unexpected trip I had. I made some progress during those days but it was considerably slower and not with the quality I would have liked. Even so, I was able to bring you this episode. I hope you enjoy it.

Nodoka sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of the dojo, an open structure without walls that allowed the warm summer breeze to drift in. A faint smile played on her lips as she felt the air brush against her skin, the sun at its zenith softened by the shade of the roof. The scent of fresh grass and damp earth from the nearby garden mingled with the subtle creak of the floorboards under her weight. In her lap, Ranma, barely three years old, fidgeted restlessly. His small, clumsy fingers clutched a trembling brush over the paper spread out on the floor. Nodoka was teaching him shodo, the art of calligraphy, not only for the beauty of the strokes but because it instilled discipline, precision, and focus—tools that, unbeknownst to him, would be crucial in his future. The learning process had been… peculiar, to put it kindly.

Nodoka wasn’t particularly fond of children. When she learned she would have to raise one, the idea hadn’t exactly thrilled her. But, like everything else, raising Ranma had its charm. There was something about his tireless energy, his ability to absorb lessons at a surprising pace, that sparked an unexpected satisfaction in her. Perhaps it was the serotonin, she thought with a faint smile, though she didn’t care much to analyze it. Ranma was promising, and that was enough.

She recalled, amused, an incident from the previous week. Genma, with his boundless enthusiasm, had decided to teach Ranma the basics of martial arts. But, as expected from a two-year-old, Ranma only wanted to play. Even when he tried to be serious, his movements were more a game of imitation than disciplined practice. Genma, frustrated, had lost his patience, resulting in an almost comical scene: an adult arguing with a child who, somehow, seemed to have the upper hand.

“No, Ranma, no!” Genma had exclaimed in the center of the dojo, sweating under the sun. “You have to move your feet like this! Otherwise, you’ll fall like a sack of rice. Stand firm, like a rock!”

Ranma, clumsily mimicking his father’s steps, managed an acceptable move, earning a nod from Genma.

“Well done, boy! You’re a statue!” he said, proud. “But you won’t intimidate even a kitten like that. First, we’ll fix that bright pink hair. And then a good haircut will make you more manly! Don’t you want to be like Dad?”

Ranma stared at him, his little finger on his lips as he let out a thoughtful hum. Then, with a radiant smile, he exclaimed:

“No!”

The rejection was so emphatic that Genma staggered back as if he’d been punched in the gut.

“What do you mean, no?” he stammered, dramatic. “Betrayal! From my own flesh and blood!”

“If not me, then who!” Genma continued, spreading his arms as if encompassing the universe. “There’s no other respectable figure you can follow!”

Nodoka, watching from a corner of the dojo, raised an eyebrow. Ranma, glancing between his parents, seemed to ponder his response with an absurd seriousness for a child his age.

“I want to be like Mom!” he declared, pointing at Nodoka with his tiny finger, his shrill voice ringing like a toy.

Genma paled.

“What? But Ranma, wait! She’s a woman!” he said, approaching the boy with desperation.

“And why does that sound like an insult?” Nodoka interrupted, her smile sharp as a blade, her tone more threatening than curious.

Genma swallowed hard, visibly nervous.

“No, no, what I mean is…” he stammered, forcing a smile. “If we want our son to be a respectable man, he needs… er, masculine values. I’m not saying yours are lesser, just… different!”

Nodoka sighed, her face impassive.

“You’re still sounding condescending, Genma, but I’ll let it slide for trying.” She paused, holding his gaze. “Ranma is two years old. I don’t mind you teaching him basic defense or exercises, but at that age, he needs structured education—something you, allow me to say kindly, completely lack.”

Genma flushed, pointing a finger at her.

“I don’t understand how you can say that without softening the blow!” he protested, stepping closer to Ranma and pointing at him. “That doesn’t change that there are things only I, as his father, can teach him!”

Nodoka knew Genma could go on with his tirade for hours. Fortunately, Ranma put an end to the spectacle. He grabbed his father’s finger with both hands and, with surprising strength for his age, lifted it above his head in an impressive move—though Genma’s finger likely didn’t fare well—and tossed him toward the garden pond. The splash echoed through the dojo, and Nodoka decided Ranma deserved extra sweets that night.

Since then, Genma had become even more obsessed with training, fascinated by Ranma’s superhuman strength. He had started designing sessions meant, in theory, for teenagers, but which the boy handled with disconcerting ease. Nodoka allowed it, for now. Her long-term plans had shifted, but she had time. She always had time.

“Mom!” Ranma’s shrill voice snapped her out of her thoughts. The boy, with his pink hair brushing his shoulders, stretched his arms toward her.

Nodoka lifted him by the armpits, smiling. She usually tied his hair into a ponytail or, occasionally, a braid—the only hairstyle Genma seemed to find acceptable for a man, for some reason. As she lifted him, his little hand brushed her bangs, revealing a scar encircling her forehead, faint but unmistakable, as if her head had once been stitched. She gently moved his hand away.

“Oops, that’s rude, Ranma,” she said, her tone light but firm. “Are you bored already, sweetheart? I think it’s nap time. You’ve worked hard today.”

Nodoka cradled Ranma, who dozed peacefully in her arms, his pink head resting on her shoulder. As she crossed the garden from the dojo to the house, the afternoon sun briefly enveloped her, warming her skin before the roof’s shade welcomed her. The scent of freshly cut grass and the soft hum of cicadas filled the air. Upon opening Ranma’s bedroom door, a simple but cozy space was revealed: a bed in the corner, a low table in the center covered with crayon drawings. The most frequent figures were her, Genma, and Ranma himself, though sometimes a maid the boy favored appeared. Nodoka smiled, noticing the maids seemed to secretly compete to be featured in his next scribble.

Carefully, she placed Ranma in his bed, changing him into lighter sleepwear. She turned on the air conditioner—because, though the house was traditional, ignoring modern comforts seemed foolish to her. Her hand stroked Ranma’s pink hair, her fingers gently tangling as she scratched his scalp. The boy stirred, seeking more contact, but Nodoka withdrew with calculated gentleness. She turned off the light, left the air conditioner humming, and closed the door behind her.

A sigh escaped her lips as she heard heavy footsteps approaching. Only one person in the house could make the floorboards tremble like that. Genma appeared in the hallway, a wide grin on his face that, as always, heralded trouble. In his hand, he held some crumpled papers that looked like letters.

“Nodoka, I have incredible news!” he exclaimed, waving the papers enthusiastically. “Do you remember my friend, Soun Tendo?”

Nodoka raised an eyebrow. How could she forget? For months, Genma had talked of little else. He had recounted every adventure shared with Soun from the moment they met until their paths diverged years later. Some stories intrigued her, especially the mentions of their master, whose name Genma never revealed. From what he described, he seemed capable of manipulating ki with unusual skill. And then there were those veiled references to “enchanted” objects or inexplicable events that Nodoka, with her sharp mind, recognized as possible cursed items. More than once, she had discreetly sent a subordinate to investigate, though she never shared her suspicions with Genma.

“Of course, dear,” she replied, her voice calm but tinged with sarcasm. “Your dear friend Soun. What do you want to tell me now?”

Nodoka stared at Genma, the crumpled papers still in his hand, as he gestured with an enthusiasm bordering on ridiculous. The afternoon light filtered through the house’s windows, illuminating the hallway and casting long shadows on the wooden floor. The faint aroma of green tea she had prepared that morning still lingered, mingling with the smell of old paper from Genma’s letters.

“Listen to this, Nodoka, you’re going to love it!” Genma proclaimed, raising a fist as if about to conquer the world. “It’s time for Ranma to find his path! This time has shown he has immense potential, a talent that needs polishing! He’s inherited the best of me, so I want to take him on a training journey around the world. We’ll learn every martial arts style, every possible training! We’ll make Ranma the best of men! No, the man among men!”

Nodoka blinked, her face impassive. Was he serious? Though, to be fair, this was exactly the kind of outlandish idea Genma was prone to. Still, this one took the prize for the most absurd.

“What?” she said, her voice laden with disbelief. “Genma, I can’t even send you to the corner store without you ending up in a fight or one of your ‘adventures.’ How do you expect me to trust you with Ranma for a world tour? Besides, you know as well as I do that we can’t be certain. Have you already forgotten what my family is? Ranma is very likely a sorcerer—”

Genma, unfazed, waved his hands as if dismissing her concerns.

“Oh, come on!” he retorted, crossing his arms in a dramatic X. “My son isn’t some cheater who uses magic tricks to win fights! He’s a martial artist! I’ll prove it to you! He’ll be honorable, not like those sorcerers!”

Nodoka sighed, her patience waning. Her characteristic smile, always sharp and slightly intimidating, began to fade.

“Genma, do you have any idea how dangerous an untrained sorcerer can be?” she said, her tone firm, almost cutting. “Ranma isn’t old enough to develop an innate technique yet, but even now, those of us who can sense it know he was born with an immense amount of cursed energy. He needs specialized training, proper guidance. I don’t mind you teaching him your martial arts, but let me be clear: Ranma isn’t going anywhere until he’s ready.”

Genma frowned, his enthusiasm faltering.

“Woman, nothing will happen!” he insisted, jabbing the air with a finger. “We’ll face any challenge together! Martial arts are superior to any other art. There’s nothing a good ki-based technique can’t overcome!”

Nodoka closed her eyes for a moment, massaging her temple. Every conversation with Genma seemed to circle back to this point: his obsession with ki and his disdain for what he didn’t understand.

“Genma, first of all,” she said, her voice slower, as if explaining to a child, “ki and cursed energy are not the same. They’re incompatible. Ranma is incapable of using ki techniques, do you understand? Besides, it’s dangerous for an untrained sorcerer to travel the world. There are things you don’t know, things you can’t teach him. Your plan is so full of inconsistencies that it would be a miracle if you survived a month without putting yourselves in mortal danger. So no, Genma. This is final.”

Genma opened his mouth to protest, but Nodoka’s cold, calculating gaze stopped him. For a moment, she thought about the irony of it all. If Genma had cursed energy, she could have forced him to accept a binding vow to ensure he didn’t do anything foolish. But the ki he so revered made him immune to such a measure, a limitation Nodoka found exasperating. Her sharp mind was already devising alternative plans, considering possibilities Genma could never imagine.

“Go do something useful, Genma,” she said finally, gesturing toward the hallway. “Like making tea. Or, I don’t know, cleaning the pond. But forget about that trip.”

Genma grumbled but turned away, muttering something about “stubborn women.” Nodoka watched him leave, her smile returning, sharper than before. Everything was under control. It always was. Though, curiously, she realized he had mentioned his friend Tendo at first but never brought him up again… Well, she supposed it didn’t matter much.

The lamp on the table cast a warm glow over the scattered papers in front of her, filled with meticulous notes scribbled in her precise calligraphy. Nodoka had stayed up late, as she often did. She always said nothing was perfect, but getting as close to perfection as possible was a valid goal. Every night, she reviewed her plans, breaking them down into pieces, analyzing every angle, every possibility. What could go wrong? What unforeseen event could catch her off guard? Her mind, sharp as a blade, revolved around Tengen, the entity she knew was out there, lurking. At first, its movements had troubled her, but over time they became predictable. Nodoka had learned to evade Tengen and its subordinates with an ease that almost bored her.

Five months had passed since her last argument with Genma, the one about his ludicrous plan to take Ranma on a training journey. Given how stubborn he was, Nodoka doubted he had given up. Ranma, now four years old, was at the age when his innate technique could manifest at any moment. She suspected he would inherit that technique, despite her family branch, separated from the main line of sorcerers, typically producing children with slightly above-average cursed energy reserves and no innate technique. Ranma, however, was different. His reserves were immense, bordering on those of a special-grade sorcerer. Nodoka knew exactly why, which is why she had been instructing him in the fundamentals of jujutsu sorcery, preparing his mind and body for what was to come.

A sudden flash snapped her out of her thoughts. The talisman hanging on the wall burst into a bluish flame, reducing to ashes in seconds. Nodoka blinked, alarmed. That talisman was linked to another surrounding Ranma’s room; if it had burned, it meant the original had been destroyed. She leapt to her feet, her cursed energy fluctuating like an electric pulse as she ran to her son’s room. Her mind raced through a thousand scenarios: an intruder, an attack, a cursed spirit. Upon reaching the door, she flung it open, her hand already on the hilt of the katana at her waist, ready to eliminate any threat.

But the room was empty. Ranma’s bed, with its disheveled sheets, was deserted. There was no trace of cursed energy, save for the faint echo of Ranma’s own. The abductor, if there was one, was either a master at concealing their signature or not a sorcerer. Then she saw it: a note, carefully placed on the bed. She picked it up, her eyes scanning the words scrawled in Genma’s clumsy handwriting:

Dear wife Nodoka,

I’ve waited too long and understand your concern, but as Ranma’s father, you can trust me when I say he needs this. Locked up here like a lab rat is no life for a martial artist. This journey will transform him. I promise I’ll make our son a man among men, a distinguished martial artist, invincible in combat, rugged, dominant, and brave. A man of honor and values. We’ll travel the world, learning from every corner, and our son won’t need to resort to dishonorable magic tricks to shine.

With love,
Genma

Nodoka gripped the note so tightly that the paper crumpled under her fingers, the crackle echoing in the silence of Ranma’s empty room. Fury, contained but sharp, burned within her. But she quickly calmed herself with deep breaths, taking her time to steady her emotions. Genma, that stubborn idiot, had crossed a line. How dare he? She, with her calculated patience, had played the role of devoted wife, mother in an ordinary family, and now she saw her mistake: she had been too lenient. Allowing Genma to feel part of her plans, trusting that his clumsiness wouldn’t interfere, had been a misstep. Ranma, the core of a scheme centuries in the making, was now in the hands of a man who had no idea what was at stake.

With a swift movement, Nodoka inspected the room. Her eyes lingered on the window frame. A thin layer of dust covered it, but there were subtle marks: fingerprints that had gripped the edge. They weren’t clean; a nearly imperceptible layer of dust was already settling over them. This hadn’t happened minutes ago, but hours. Genma had acted with premeditation.

She stepped out into the garden through the window, the cool night air brushing her face as she scanned the ground. The talismans protecting Ranma’s room were designed to be invisible to non-sorcerers. Genma, in a million years, shouldn’t have detected them. She searched for traces of foreign cursed energy, suspecting a sorcerer might have aided him, but found nothing. Worse, there was an unsettling absence: the environment, which normally hummed with a faint undercurrent of cursed energy, was strangely empty. The vegetation around the window, within a two-meter radius, seemed more vibrant, the leaves greener, the stems taller, as if something had absorbed the cursed energy and boosted the surroundings. It wasn’t positive energy, which wasn’t naturally present in the environment—it was something more… energizing, like life itself. It was ki.

A sharp, disturbing thought crossed her mind. It seemed Genma had done his homework. At some point, he must have discovered that exposing ki to cursed energy could absorb it, amplifying his own strength. What she saw now—the vibrant vegetation, the talisman that didn’t signal until the environment began to recover—suggested Genma had used a ki wave technique to neutralize the talismans. The blue flame that consumed the twin talisman on her desk only activated when the cursed energy slowly returned to the surroundings.

Nodoka frowned. She had underestimated him. But they wouldn’t get far. She had been training Ranma to suppress and control his cursed energy, a slow process, especially for a four-year-old. Genma couldn’t hide Ranma for long; his energy was too potentிட்ட

System: potent, a beacon for anyone who knew how to look. Nodoka was already calculating her next steps. A few calls, some strategic contacts, and she would have them back. And then she would deal with Genma. Perhaps a mysterious accident, leaving Ranma in her hands. Or maybe something more… subtle. A new plan was already forming in her mind, each possibility fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.

She grabbed a hardcover notebook from her desk, her pen gliding with precision across the page. On the first line, she wrote: October 5, 1968. Planning for the recovery of the critical subject: Ranma Saotome. The room, lit only by the dim glow of a lamp, seemed to carry the weight of centuries of machinations. Nodoka smiled, a cunning spark glinting in her eyes. Setbacks were merely opportunities in disguise.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The path had long vanished, replaced by a steep, rocky climb that snaked up the mountain. Normally, this wouldn’t have been an issue. Genma’s training sessions were brutal, designed to toughen him up, and a hike like this was a poorly told, rather sad joke in comparison. But training was one thing; wandering toward an unknown destination was another entirely. “We just have to go up,” his father kept saying, as if the mountain’s summit were just around the corner. Yet the journey felt endless, the scorching sun beating down mercilessly.

Ranma grumbled under his breath, his arms straining under the weight of the luggage he carried on his back: tents, provisions, and, most importantly, his black-and-silver guitar, safely stowed in its case. His loose hair fluttered like a flag in the stifling heat. Fed up with his mane feeling like an oven, Ranma used a strip of cloth to braid it clumsily. He barely remembered his mother, but the color of her hair—bubblegum pink, identical to his—was a vivid memory. Genma, of course, insisted it was “too feminine” and not intimidating. Every few weeks, they stopped in villages to buy cheap black dye, or worse, Genma concocted some with who-knows-what, leaving Ranma’s hair a two-toned palette: bright pink at the roots and uneven black elsewhere, faded or glossy depending on the day.

He wore a sleeveless tang suit, picked up in one of their many stops at remote villages. His usual gi was in tatters after one of Genma’s “exploits,” which had managed to enrage a crowd in a village. RANMA had no idea how his father made so many enemies in so little time, but they’d fled with less than they’d brought. Fortunately, Ranma had washed and sewn his gi at night, ignoring Genma’s taunts that sewing “wasn’t man’s work.” If his father wanted to walk around in rags, that was his problem. Ranma had dignity.

The constant training had shaped his body. He wasn’t overly muscular, but anyone could tell he was fit. Genma, stocky and surprisingly strong, was a formidable opponent, but Ranma, though less experienced, was more dedicated and, in combat, more cunning. Not to mention the other element: his cursed energy. His mother had spoken of it, trying to train him before Genma dragged him on this journey, though he could barely recall that time. At first, his father forced him to wear a brooch infused with a small amount of ki that absorbed his cursed energy, expelling the resulting ki into the environment, weakening him. Ranma hated it; it felt like his strength was draining away. Over time, he realized the brooch kept his reserves at a minimum, preventing him from using his true potential.

Everything changed when he joined the group. The man appeared out of nowhere, like a mirage on the road. He was about Genma’s age but seemed younger, with grayish-blue hair swept back, long to the nape and short on the sides. A metal ring adorned his nose like a bull’s, two more hung from his lower lip, and his ears were studded with piercings and a single earring on each. Genma called him a “punk,” but Ranma thought he was cool. The man carried a guitar and played melodies during their walks, his fingers moving with a dexterity that fascinated the boy. Ranma didn’t understand why Genma tolerated him, but he suspected it had to do with the training the man offered. His fighting style was odd, almost theatrical, like a showbiz star, spinning and moving with a grace that seemed to defy the laws of combat.

The path was a jumble of rocks and roots, and the air smelled of dry dust and pine. Ranma didn’t know that Genma, at first, was unaware that their companion was a sorcerer. It was a secret the man shared only with Ranma, teaching him the basics of jujutsu sorcery: controlling the flow of his cursed energy, deploying simple veils, and eliminating minor curses. All this, of course, under the shadow of the brooch Genma insisted he wear. The brooch, infused with ki, absorbed his cursed energy, keeping his reserves at a minimum. Removing it didn’t restore them immediately; they had to replenish slowly, limiting his training. But the man, with his carefree air, assured him even that was useful.

“It’s an orthodox method, kid,” he said once, strumming his guitar under a starry sky. “Most sorcerers become useless without their cursed energy. Some even pass out if it’s taken away like that. But you… you’re already used to it. That’s real strength.”

The man had introduced himself simply as Yoshinobu, with an attitude that exasperated Genma, and accompanied the duo for nearly a year and a half. It was he who taught Ranma to play the guitar, a pastime that became his refuge. “Don’t take things so seriously, kid,” Yoshinobu would say, smiling. “Live it, feel it. Why do something that feels bad or reject something that feels good?” At seven years old, Ranma found in music something that was solely his, far from Genma’s exhausting training. The nights by the fire, with Yoshinobu playing melodies and singing until he drove Genma up PT, were an unforgettable memory.

The day Yoshinobu left, Ranma, fighting back tears, received a gift: the black-and-silver guitar he’d used and lent to Ranma all that time. “So you’ve got something to do,” the man said, ruffling his hair. “We all need a refuge when things go sideways.” Since then, the guitar was his most prized possession, not just for its value but for what it represented. Ranma practiced whenever he had time, composing clumsy melodies at first but improving with every chance. He even dreamed of a Sony Walkman he’d seen in a shop window. It was the only material thing, besides food, he ever asked Genma for. His father, upon seeing the price, let out a yell that echoed down the street and dragged him away, muttering about “kids and their expensive tastes.”

Genma tried to sell the guitar a couple of times afterward. Those days ended in fights that weren’t training, and Genma stopped talking to him for a week. The topic never came up again.

Ranma groaned, stopping in front of a twisted tree with a shape he’d found amusing the first time. But this was the third time he’d seen it, and that was exactly the problem.

“Hey, old man!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the slope. “If you don’t know where we’re going, at least tell me so I can help! We’ve been climbing for an hour, and we haven’t gone down a single meter! How the hell did you manage to make us go in circles?!”

The sun blazed mercilessly on the rocky slope, and the air smelled of dry earth and sweat. Ranma followed Genma, who led the climb with a confidence that seemed more theatrical than founded. The path had long vanished, replaced by a stone wall rising toward the mountain’s summit. Genma, clutching a crumpled paper he insisted on calling a “map,” gestured enthusiastically.

“Now’s not the time to question me, boy!” he exclaimed, smacking the paper with the back of his hand. “This map tells us exactly where we are! We just need to keep going up this mountainous side to the top. Trust your old man!”

Ranma narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. He stepped back a couple of paces and, with an agile leap, landed on Genma’s head, snatching the paper from his hands before propelling himself to a branch out of reach.

“Let’s see, let’s see…” he muttered, unfolding the paper. “Old man, this is in Chinese! And you don’t know Chinese!”

Not that Ranma was an expert, but after nearly a year in China, he’d learned enough to recognize words and hold basic conversations. Playing the guitar on village streets had earned him some money, enough to buy a dictionary that very day. He scrutinized the paper: Jusenkyo Mountain, an ancient and dangerous cursed training ground. It sounded promising, but there was no map. It was an old tourist guide, with a childlike drawing of the mountain instead of a photograph.

“Damn it, old man!” he shouted, waving the pamphlet. “This isn’t a map, it’s a coloring book! You’ve been guiding us with this?”

Genma crossed his arms, unfazed.

“Don’t make a drama, boy!” he retorted. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve been to Jusenkyo before! Look up there, see the steam? That’s a hallmark of the summit! And you’d better not be using your black magic tricks to avoid getting tired.”

Ranma rolled his eyes.

“For the millionth time, I’m not!” he snapped. “It’s called cursed energy reinforcement, no different from what you do with your ki. But I don’t need cursed energy to climb a damn mountain.” He grinned, defiant. “How about we go up the vertical side? Last one to the top washes the other’s clothes for a week.”

Genma laughed, his eyes gleaming with competitiveness.

“That’s what I wanted to hear!” he said, thumping his chest. “Get ready to lose, because your old man has climbed more times than steps you’ve taken in your life!”

Both launched themselves at the stone wall, gripping the rocks with steady fingers. If there were no holds, they made them, digging their fingers into the surface with strength that defied their size. Genma took the lead, his experience evident in every move. Ranma, right behind, frowned as his father laughed and, with a deliberate motion, drove his hand into the rock, dislodging a chunk that fell straight toward him.

“Hey! What the hell was that?” Ranma yelled, twisting to dodge it and clinging to the wall again.

Genma, from above, let out a booming laugh.

“Turtle!” he mocked, his voice echoing across the slope.

Ranma’s eye twitched. He took a deep breath, letting the world around him fade away. His mind honed in on a single point: the summit. He closed his eyes, his fingers sinking into the rock with surgical precision. Cut: unstable path, he thought. A rectangle formed on the wall, stretching from his position to a spot just above Genma, filled with jagged black lines. An instant later, the rock shattered into small fragments, causing Genma to lose his grip.

“Damn cheating kid!” Genma shouted as he fell, vanishing into the treetops below.

Ranma laughed, satisfied. Ha, that’ll teach him to play fair, he thought. The summit was in sight, white wisps of steam rising in curls. What had been an endless trek was reduced to minutes. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. He adjusted the guitar case on his back, his most prized possession, and kept climbing, the spark of his cursed energy buzzing with an uncontainable vigor.

Ranma reached the summit with a fluid motion, gripping the edge with one hand and flipping through the air before landing gracefully on both feet. The warm wind tousled his pink-and-black braid, and the sun, still high, cast sharp shadows on the rock. He glanced at the edge: no sign of Genma. Typical, he thought. Probably grumbling somewhere or, worse, lost. With a sigh, he unrolled his mat beside a massive boulder and sat down, carefully pulling his guitar from its case. It was a beauty: black with silver edges, lightning bolt details, and a curious pattern on the neck, speckled with white paint forming symbols reminiscent of the jujutsu talismans he’d seen during his brief time at the sorcery school years ago. Whenever he played, the symbols glowed faintly, reacting to his cursed energy. Yoshinobu, the sorcerer who gifted him the guitar, never explained its purpose. “It’s special,” he’d said with an enigmatic smile. “You’ll figure it out.”

Ranma tested the strings, searching for a melody that matched his mood. He felt calm, but a spark of intrigue nagged at him. Jusenkyo wasn’t just any place; the pamphlet, though ridiculous, described it as a legendary training ground. He wasn’t exactly thrilled, but… curious. The electric guitar’s notes rang out without an amplifier, a small miracle thanks to Yoshinobu’s modifications. It wasn’t as powerful as with real equipment, but it was more than enough for a place like this. Lost in the music, Ranma slipped into a light trance, his fingers dancing over the strings, guided by the environment: the whistle of the wind, the warmth of the rock, the faint damp scent rising from below.

A grunt snapped him out of his reverie, followed by a discordant note that screeched like a wail. Ranma sighed, frustrated, and carefully stowed the guitar. Genma appeared over the edge, climbing with a clumsiness that contrasted with Ranma’s agility. His hair was a mess, and a branch stuck out of his gi like a trophy from his fall.

“Almost fell asleep waiting for you, old man,” Ranma said, crossing his arms. “What took you so long?”

Genma grunted, his usual way of starting any conversation.

“Don’t gloat over a victory won with cheap tricks, kid,” he retorted, pointing a finger at him. “If you want to beat me, do it like a man.”

Ranma rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

“Again with that?” he said, pulling down his lower eyelid in a mocking grimace. “You use ki, I don’t. My cursed energy just evens things out. Besides, I don’t need it to beat you. My martial arts are better than yours!”

Genma laughed, adjusting his black belt.

“That’s the spirit!” he said. “But save that enthusiasm, because today’s not over. We’re in Jusenkyo! And unless you’re scared this old man will give you a thrashing…”

Ranma followed Genma, eyeing the landscape with curiosity. The summit was strange, almost unnatural. Despite some vegetation, it was dominated by stone, shaped vaguely like an enormous crater. Irregular grooves crisscrossed the surface, some shallow, others meters deep, as if someone had tried to slice the rock with a giant sword. Something about those cuts felt familiar, though he couldn’t place it. As he neared the edge, he saw dozens of springs below, bamboo poles jutting from them. The air was thick with cursed energy, a subtle hum that prickled his skin. Genma, rummaging in his backpack, tossed Ranma his white karate gi while slipping into his own.

“Here we are, kid!” Genma announced, tying his belt. “Less impressive than I thought, but it’ll do for balance training. Whoever falls will end up like steamed fish with that mist rising from the springs!”

Ranma changed quickly, securing his black belt with a fluid motion. He glanced at the springs, white wisps of steam curling upward.

“Looks pretty normal,” he said, shrugging. “I can feel the cursed energy stronger than usual, but that’s typical for places with a bad rep. Why did the pamphlet say it was so dangerous?”

Genma grinned, a spark of challenge in his eyes.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, leaping onto a bamboo pole. “Let’s get started!”

The bamboo creaked under Ranma’s feet, bending but withstanding the strain as he and Genma hopped from pole to pole, moving with gravity-defying agility. The air in Jusenkyo was heavy, laced with a damp smell and something else Ranma couldn’t pinpoint but that made his skin crawl. Though he wasn’t using his cursed energy, his body was stronger than most, forged by years of brutal training. Keeping up with Genma in this exercise was easy, even without enhancement. His father, stocky and surprisingly nimble, leapt with confidence, but Ranma knew he could surpass him at any moment. Still, just crushing him wouldn’t be training. Genma, despite his flaws, was one of the few who could keep up with him.

The exercise involved rapid exchanges: punches, locks, and kicks in midair, all while balancing on the bamboo poles. It was a deadly dance, an aerial combat that demanded mentally mapping the surroundings without taking eyes off the opponent. The Saotome “anything goes” fighting style relied on constant movement and improvisation. Ranma dodged a blow from Genma, spinning in the air to land on another pole, his senses sharp. But his mind began to wander. Jusenkyo was… odd. The springs, emitting steam, gave off no heat. It was more like a cold, almost supernatural mist that thickened with each passing minute. When they arrived, the summit was clear, but now they could barely see a dozen meters ahead. At times, Genma vanished into the fog, just a blurry silhouette.

“Hug!” Ranma grunted, frustrated. The mist had grown so thick he could only see his father when they crossed paths in the air, and even then, he was more a shadow than a clear figure. It wasn’t the first time he’d trained blind—Genma would probably say it was a chance to improve—but something in the atmosphere unnerved him. The mist seemed infused with cursed energy, a weight that pressed on his chest and set his nerves on edge. It was as if the place itself was alive, watching them.

Suddenly, shouts pierced the air. Ranma sharpened his ears. They were male voices, in Chinese, laced with warning or fear. He caught words: “visitors,” “hikers,” “dangerous.” He turned his head to listen better, and just then, a punch landed square on his face. Damn it! Genma had capitalized on his distraction. The blow hurt, but his body, hardened by years of training, held up. He kept his balance on the bamboo and retaliated with a punch that sent Genma flying downward. A splash echoed, followed by his father’s grunt. Ranma laughed, savoring the victory, until he felt a shove from behind. What? He’d just knocked Genma down. How had he recovered so fast?

Falling through the air, Ranma twisted his body, using his center of gravity to control the descent. With a quick move, he caught a bamboo pole between the soles of his feet, sliding to a stop upside down, inches from a spring. He sighed in relief, but when he looked at the water, a chill ran through him. The pool looked… rotten. It wasn’t just the murky color or the acrid smell; there was something deeply unsettling about it, as if the water itself was charged with cursed energy.

He tried to compose himself, but something stopped him. In the mist, a silhouette appeared. It wasn’t Genma. It was tall, with long hair, standing at an odd angle. Ranma squinted, trying to make out details. Then he saw them: eyes, not in a normal arrangement, but one above the other, as if embedded in a mask. A curse? Jusenkyo was the perfect breeding ground for something like that, a hotbed for malevolent spirits. Before he could react, his body ignited, as if burning from within. His cursed energy swirled uncontrollably, without him summoning it. He felt pressure on his feet, and the bamboo beneath him exploded into thousands of fragments, unable to withstand the force of an attack that… was it his own technique?

He had no time to process it. The water enveloped him, cold and dense, as if it had a life of its own. Darkness surrounded him, almost solid, pressing on his chest. A wave of emotions flooded him: frustration, anger, a searing rage he didn’t understand. It was maddening, but what was this? He could almost see red, his body moving with greater violence driven solely by the overwhelming anger he felt. He’d never been this furious at… nothing. There was nothing for this rage to target.

Finally, his head broke the surface. The afternoon sun stung his eyes, forcing him to squint in annoyance as he stood, his white kimono with black accents clinging slightly to his body along with the small obi tied around his waist. Around him were some walls belonging to the temple he had claimed upon arriving at this place. It was old, with a hole in the roof through which sunlight filtered. It was… strange. He couldn’t recall what had happened before falling asleep. A lingering sensation, like drowning, and then waking up—that wasn’t normal for him, or rather, it never happened. Amid his doubts, he entered.

“Uraume,” he said, the words slipping from his mouth effortlessly, as if they were natural.

A young man with white hair and a serene expression bowed slightly before him.

“Sukuna-sama, it’s twelve-fifteen,” Uraume replied, his voice calm, almost mechanical. “Seeing that you were taking a while to rise, I ensured we obtained provisions. The food is being prepared, with an extra portion.”

Ranma grunted in acknowledgment, stretching his neck as he stood. Everything seemed normal, yet there was an unease he couldn’t pinpoint.

“Why are we here?” he asked, his tone dry.

“We stopped in this village to resupply before heading to the port city and departing for China, as you planned weeks ago,” Uraume answered, unfazed, as if the question were the most ordinary thing in the world.

China. The word echoed in his mind. He’d heard stories of that place: different fighting styles, energies distinct from jujutsu. Ki, something only a few in Japan mastered—and he’d only met one, without gaining anything useful from them. An entire country full of ki masters was an opportunity, a challenge that could break the monotony of his life in Japan. Few sorcerers there piqued his interest. China, on the other hand, promised new, vibrant battles that could feed his hunger for power and excitement.

“Tell Genma to get ready,” he ordered, standing with a huff of irritation mixed with boredom. “We should already be at the port.”

He walked toward the temple’s exit, the cold floor beneath his bare feet, when a figure stopped him. Nakime, with her dark hair and a confused expression, stared at him. Ranma raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “What?”

“Miss… who is Genma?” Nakime asked, her voice hesitant.

He froze. It was impossible that she didn’t know who that foolish old man was. Was she an idiot? Of… of… who? The question hit him like an echo, blurring the edges of his mind. The temple vanished, and suddenly, he was back in Jusenkyo.

Ranma inhaled deeply, the cool, misty air filling his lungs. The sun, now barely visible through a slowly dissipating curtain of fog, burned his eyes. He scratched his head, his soaked gi clinging to his body. He quickly climbed to the edge and pulled himself out of the water, his ragged breathing steadying fast. Any intense, inexplicable emotion he attributed to something curse-related had completely vanished. He averted his gaze from the annoying sun, noticing the fog beginning to clear above him, allowing the sunlight to hit his eyes directly. There was something… different, something he couldn’t explain. He looked down, searching for the source of the unease plaguing him, and…

He checked his chest, his arms, his hair. Everything was normal. His height, his build, his pink-and-black braid. All in order. And yet, a persistent discomfort nagged at him, as if he’d expected to find something different. It was almost disappointing that everything was as usual, though it shouldn’t feel that way. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The springs were brimming with cursed energy, more than he’d felt anywhere else. This wasn’t a place for ordinary people. And then he remembered: Genma!

“Damn it!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. He ran toward where he thought his father had fallen, his feet splashing on the wet ground. The fog, which had enveloped everything minutes ago, had almost entirely dissipated, revealing a landscape of springs dotted with bamboo poles and, in the distance, a weathered wooden cabin. The terrain was treacherous, with little room to run without tripping, but for someone like Ranma, trained in the “anything goes” style, a slip would be an unforgivable embarrassment.

Suddenly, he stopped dead. In the middle of the path stood… a panda. Not just any bear, but an actual panda, standing on two legs, looking around with a mix of confusion and anger. It was almost comical, and Ranma would’ve laughed if he weren’t so worried about Genma. The panda spotted him and, without warning, charged with a growl.

“What the hell!” Ranma exclaimed, leaping to dodge the attack. “Now a panda’s coming after me?”

With a swift move, he struck the animal’s head, sending it bouncing off the ground. He used the momentum to leap to the other side of the nearest spring, landing with agility.

“No time to play, buddy,” he said, dusting off his hands. “Find someone else!”

He ran toward the cabin but couldn’t help glancing back. The panda, back on its feet, was growling and hopping furiously, snorting as if offended. Do pandas do that? Ranma had no idea, but something about those movements felt strangely familiar. He shook his head, thinking it was nonsense and that he needed answers, fast.

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A burst of laughter, almost hysterical, erupted from Ranma’s throat, echoing through the cabin like an uncontrollable reverberation. He clutched his stomach with one hand, unable to contain the convulsions of laughter shaking him, while tears, born of effort and disbelief, gathered at the edges of his eyes, threatening to spill over. The situation was so absurd, so ridiculously surreal, that he had no choice but to surrender to the laughter.

“Old man, old man, just look at yourself!” he exclaimed between laughs, barely able to articulate the words as he pointed at Genma with a trembling finger. “You’re a ball of fur! Finally, your outside matches what’s inside! Not even a million bucks could’ve picked a better animal to represent you. And look on the bright side—at least now you’ve got some hair!”

Ranma’s laughter filled the cabin, bouncing off the wooden walls. Just minutes earlier, to his utter dismay, a panda had followed him inside. He was about to shoo it away with a sharp gesture when the guide stopped him with a calm motion and explained the situation. Apparently, Genma had fallen into a cursed spring, one where, who knows how many centuries ago, a poor panda had drowned. Now, his father was doomed to transform into that animal. The curse could be undone with hot water, but a splash of cold water would bring it back. Without a doubt, it was one of the most hilarious and bizarre things Ranma had ever encountered in his life.

The whistle of the kettle interrupted the moment. The water had reached the perfect boiling point, and the guide, with a careful motion, took it and poured a steaming stream over Genma’s head. The transformation was instantaneous, as if the water unraveled a spell in the blink of an eye. Ranma watched, fascinated, as the panda reverted to his father, with his familiar face and sturdy build. Thinking about it, he should’ve suspected that animal was Genma. Without knowing about the curse, it was true, it was nearly impossible to guess. But now, reflecting calmly, something didn’t add up. Animals didn’t naturally possess ki. At least, not like trained humans. Generally, animals, like ordinary civilians, emanated cursed energy, not pure ki. Ranma had never sensed ki in an animal, and he knew a sorcerer, by their nature, couldn’t detect that energy. So, in hindsight, a panda with no trace of cursed energy was, in itself, deeply suspicious.

Back in the present, as soon as Genma regained his human form, Ranma noticed the scowl crossing his face. Immediately after, his father patted his body with evident relief, as if ensuring everything was in place, then glanced at a dusty mirror hanging on the wall, exhaling a sigh that seemed to release all his pent-up tension. Ranma, for his part, furrowed his brow and turned to the guide, a mix of curiosity and suspicion in his eyes.

“Hey, actually, I fell into a spring too,” he said, tilting his head slightly, as if trying to solve a puzzle. “But nothing happened to me.”

“Nothing?” the guide replied, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “That’s odd. I’ve heard of some springs that are still empty, without curses. But they’re very recent and usually deep in the valley, at least an hour’s walk away. Maybe you fell into the spring of the drowned man. If so, you got incredibly lucky. Still, you should pay attention. If you feel anything strange, anything different, let me know.”

“Hmm… now that you mention it…” Ranma murmured, closing his eyes and sinking into introspective silence. Meditation, a practice that, ironically, Genma had drilled into him, was an essential tool for self-understanding. For Ranma, it was especially useful for exploring his cursed energy, the force that defined him as a sorcerer. He tried to sense every corner of his being, every flow of energy within him. And then… he felt it. It wasn’t exactly something new, but something different. A sensation hard to pinpoint, like an echo resonating strangely within him. His cursed energy was still there, swirling in the center of his chest, as always. But now it felt… more natural, more fluid. Before, he had to focus to channel it to his limbs, reinforcing his body for combat. Now, he had to make an effort not to do so, as if reinforcement had became his default state, as instinctive as breathing.

But it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something deeply unsettling. It wasn’t his cursed energy itself; that felt right, in harmony. What was wrong was… himself? No, that didn’t make sense. His body was his body, and his cursed energy was a separate entity. Yet the feeling persisted, as if his energy was trying to adapt to a familiar form, one it was used to, but encountered something incongruous, something that didn’t fit. It was as if his energy didn’t recognize the place it resided in, yet knew it was home. The contradiction wrapped him in a visceral discomfort, as if he were an impostor inhabiting his own skin, a wax statue molded in someone’s image but so imperfectly that it ended up being similar yet profoundly different.

He clenched his fist tightly, feeling his knuckles crack under the pressure. The cabin was calm now, the situation clarified, just the three of them there. But something was still wrong, terribly wrong. Where was this feeling coming from? Was it the echo of a curse? A real one? Emotions swirled within him, hidden beneath layers of control, deep breaths, and meditation. But they were there, present, pulsating. He could feel an anger unlike the fleeting irritation Genma usually provoked with his recklessness. This was darker, rawer, more… vile. It was an aggressive, almost feral rage that threatened to sweep everything away if unleashed. Ranma could get angry, truly angry, but never to the point of losing control, of attacking without reason. This emotion, however, was discordant, alien to his essence. It didn’t belong to him.

It was as if this wasn’t his body.

“Bah, if that’s all it is, let it stay that way!” Genma exclaimed, suddenly cheerful, as if the idea that had just crossed his mind was a stroke of genius. “It’s not like it’s much use anyway! Or better yet!” He turned to the guide with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hey, is there a spring where I could toss the kid? Or, even better, one that’d give him the ability to use ki?”

Genma seemed to have completely forgotten that, just minutes earlier, he himself had been a cursed ball of fur, trapped in the form of a panda. The possibility of spending the rest of his life under that curse didn’t seem to faze him now, as if his carefree optimism erased any trace of worry.

The guide, with a mix of patience and caution, shook his head.

“Actually, sir, the springs don’t work that way,” he replied, his tone serious, almost admonishing. “I’d strongly advise against acting rashly. They’re far more dangerous than they seem. Things don’t always turn out well. You could’ve fallen into the spring of the drowned lizard, or worse, the drowned piglet.”

Genma shuddered at those words, as if the mere mention of those possibilities had snapped him out of his momentary euphoria.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the cabin, Ranma remained silent, but his body spoke for him. A vein pulsed on his forehead, and his teeth ground with contained fury. He tried to breathe deeply, desperately wishing to stay calm. He didn’t want to explode, not now. But the anger grew, rising like a searing torrent in his throat, bubbling in his blood, heating every corner of his being. His breathing became deeper, heavier, but instead of quelling the feeling, it seemed to fuel it. It was an oppressive, visceral emotion, urging him to scream, to break something, to let everything erupt. His skin seemed to prickle under the pressure, and he feared that if he clenched his teeth any harder, he’d end up breaking them.

For the first time, the anger he felt wasn’t his usual annoyance toward his father. It wasn’t the fleeting irritation Genma’s thoughtless comments typically provoked. This was different. In Ranma’s eyes, now tinged with an intense red, there was no mere frustration. It was pure hatred, a raw, searing feeling that consumed him as he watched Genma, who continued arguing with the guide, oblivious to the storm brewing behind him.

“How… dare you?” Ranma whispered, his voice barely a trembling murmur, restrained by the effort not to explode. He knew that if he raised his voice even a single decibel, he’d start screaming uncontrollably.

Genma, as if sensing an electric current brush his back, shuddered and turned toward his son. Ranma was leaning over the wooden table, his hands pressing so hard that his nails—strangely longer and sharper than before—had dug into the surface, leaving deep grooves. His body seemed to emit a faint vapor, as if the heat of his fury was manifesting physically. His eyes, fixed on Genma, burned with an intensity that chilled the blood.

“So… the first thing that comes to mind when you learn about springs that curse and transform people… is to change me?” His voice, raspy and broken, trembled with contained emotion. “Do I disgust you that much? Do you want a different son that badly?”

The pain of betrayal intertwined with the anger and hatred, fueling an emotional whirlwind that tore him apart inside. Every word he spoke was an effort, a desperate attempt not to let that fury consume him entirely.

“Why, of course, I can’t be the perfect son, right?” he continued, the words coming in forced pauses, as if he needed space to contain the explosion. “I’m not like you. You never tried to make me a better person or the best version of myself. You just want me to be a reflection of you, but stronger, completely ignoring my own nature.”

It wasn’t the first time Genma had belittled his condition as a sorcerer, but this time was different. His words didn’t just hurt; it was as if they’d trampled his very existence, as if they’d spat on what he was. The mere idea of being forcibly transformed, of being made into something he wasn’t, churned his stomach with a mix of disgust and repulsion. It was an insult to his being, his essence, and that feeling made him feel as if the ground beneath his feet was crumbling, leaving him adrift in a body he suddenly wasn’t sure he recognized.

Genma watched him with a mix of caution and disdain, like someone looking at a child throwing a tantrum. His judgmental gaze pierced Ranma like a needle, further stoking the emotions raging within him, desperate to break free.

“I’m training you to be the best of men, kid,” Genma said, his voice tinged with a condescension that cut like a blade. “Don’t you get it, after all this time? I only want what’s best for you. Your nature as a sorcerer isn’t your fault, I know, but it’s something we can fix. As your father, you need to understand that in martial arts, cheating advantages aren’t honorable. They only prove you’re not smart enough, not skilled enough. Ki is nature, it’s life, it’s birth, it’s pure and free energy. Cursed energy, on the other hand, is death, destruction, dishonor, and disgrace. Until you understand that, son… you’ll remain weak.”

Genma’s words fell on Ranma like a bucket of ice water, freezing every part of his being, from the soles of his feet to his scalp. The anger, hatred, betrayal, and whirlwind of emotions roaring in his chest stopped abruptly, leaving behind a cold, disconcerting stillness. It was as if his lungs had forgotten how to breathe, as if the slightest movement could shatter a fragile membrane holding his essence together. In his mind, a single word began to dominate in those moments: “weak.” It repeated over and over, a word so simple yet now sparking flashes of violence that assaulted him: he wanted to hit Genma, break his teeth, cut him until he screamed, see his blood run down his torso, watch him kneel, sink his teeth into his flesh until…

No. Ranma straightened suddenly, looking away from his father. Without a word, he headed toward the cabin door. His trembling hand closed around the doorknob with such force that the metal yielded slightly, molding to the shape of his fingers. He opened the door with a controlled motion, stepped out into the cool night air, and closed it behind him with a gentleness that contrasted with the chaos consuming him inside.

He walked away from the cabin, each step an effort to maintain control. He raised a hand to his eyes and, under the faint moonlight, noticed blood seeping from beneath his nails. At some point, while his fingers tore into the wooden table, he must’ve hurt himself. But what unnerved him most was the trembling of his hand, a shudder that seemed to cry out for release, to let out the fury eating away at him. Ranma refused. He had never felt like this, so close to losing himself, so near to succumbing to thoughts that, at any other time, would’ve seemed alien, monstrous.

And yet… there was something disturbingly familiar about that anger. It wasn’t new; it was like an old friend returning after years of absence, a comforting echo that wrapped him in deceptive warmth. Something was happening to him, something deep and unknown twisting inside. He had to find out what it was, and he had to do it soon, before that force consumed him entirely… or, worse, harmed those around him.

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“Human… curse… what’s the difference?” whispered a voice, sudden and ethereal, breaking the silence with a tone that seemed to echo from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Ranma’s head snapped up, his heart pounding as he scanned his surroundings. The fog that had previously enveloped the landscape had completely dissipated, revealing an open field dotted with springs, bathed in daylight. There was no one in sight, not a soul, not an enemy. Yet a chill ran down his spine, rising like an icy current that prickled his skin. This wasn’t normal. Ranma knew it. His entire life had been spent coexisting with curses, an innate ability of sorcerers like him. He’d faced some strong enough to be memorable, though he never learned to classify them precisely. He’d heard of the categories, those designations that measured a curse’s danger, but only one had stuck with him: special-grade curses. Those weren’t just seen; they were felt. Their mere presence was enough for the body to instinctively know it was facing something that defied logic, something beyond human. And now, though his eyes saw nothing, his body was screaming. He felt it all.

“So much training, a life of conflict, and yet you’re still pathetically weak!” the voice boomed again, this time so close it seemed to whisper right at his nape, sending another electric shiver through him.

Ranma spun on his heels, desperately searching for the source of those words. But there was nothing, just the vast field and, in the distance, the cabin, now no larger than his thumb when he extended his hand. When had he walked so far? The question barely crossed his mind when a surge of energy hit him, intense and overwhelming, emanating from the ground directly beneath his feet. His eyes instinctively dropped to the spring he’d fallen into earlier. The water’s surface was calm but retained that same murky, almost putrid appearance he’d noticed before. The cursed energy radiating from it was immense, dense, like a weight compressing the air around him. And then he felt it: a pull, a magnetic attraction that seemed to call to him, as if the spring wanted to claim him. It lasted only seconds, but it was enough to draw Ranma to the edge, hypnotized, staring at his reflection in the water.

What he saw took his breath away. It wasn’t him… or not entirely. The figure reflected shared his pink hair, but duller, drained, as if life had been sapped from it. Unfamiliar tattoos crisscrossed its face, intricate lines that seemed to pulse with hidden purpose. A grayish armor covered a quarter of its face, like a broken mask, and atop it, two strange, misaligned eyes—one beneath the other—stared back with a disturbing intensity. They were identical to those of the shadow he’d glimpsed in the fog when he fell into the spring. Was this a curse? Was it because he’d fallen into that place? What was really happening?

His body acted before his mind could process, as if guided by an ancestral instinct. With a slow, almost reverent motion, he brought his palm to the water. He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding, before resting it just on the surface, without breaking the tension. Then, he channeled his cursed energy into the water, expecting… something. Anything. The seconds stretched, heavy, until a sudden jolt shook him, as if the entire world spun in a dizzying whirl, like the sensation of an unwanted somersault. When the world stabilized again, Ranma blinked, disoriented. He was still in the same place… or so it seemed. But something was wrong. The daylight had vanished, replaced by a dense, pitch-black night. The spring was still there, but his reflection… his reflection was gone. Except for her.

In the water’s reflection, he’d only seen his face, but now, before him, the figure was an impossible spectacle. She sat on the ground, her right leg arched upward, her left extended, her foot slipping under the arch of the other leg. She wore simple white pants, reminiscent of a gi, and on her torso, only bandages wrapped as a makeshift top. A tattered cape draped from her shoulders, swaying slightly in the breeze. But what struck him most were the two additional arms sprouting beneath the first, moving with a naturalness that defied all logic. It was monstrous, impossible, and yet there was a familiarity in her that chilled him to the bone.

“You don’t impress me,” the woman said, her voice sharp, her eyes piercing Ranma with an intensity that seemed to cut through him.

Who was she? What did she want? Her words carried a tone that hinted at some expectation, as if she knew him, as if she expected something from him. But what? Ranma had no time to process more questions. She extended one of her arms—one of the normal ones, if anything about her could be called that—and placed two fingers on his forehead. Ranma blinked, confused, and then she pushed him. The vertigo returned, a whirlwind enveloping him as if the entire world collapsed around him. When he opened his eyes, gasping, the sun shone high again. His breath, which had been held, escaped in a ragged sigh. He stood, stumbling, and looked at the spring. The reflection was now his own, mirroring his every move, as if nothing had happened. But he knew something, something profoundly disturbing, had changed.

Ranma let out a trembling sigh, his mind clouded by the confusion of what he’d just experienced. There was no resolution, no clarity. Instead, a deep unease settled in his chest, as if what had just happened wasn’t the end of something but merely the beginning of a much larger enigma. Something inside him whispered that this strange presence, this figure in the spring, wouldn’t be the last time their paths crossed.

As he turned his head to locate the cabin, something caught his attention, stopping him dead. A strand of pink hair, duller than he remembered, invaded the corner of his vision. His ponytail, always neatly tied, had it come undone? With an instinctive flick of his neck, more hair—far longer than it should’ve been—slipped forward, cascading over his shoulders. A chill ran through his body, prickling his skin from his nape to his ankles. He brought his hands to his face, feeling it with trembling fingers. Everything seemed… normal, or almost. But his vision, now partially obscured by loose strands, warned him something was deeply wrong. Then, his gaze drifted downward, to his chest.

“Uh… boobs?” he murmured, blinking once, twice, three times, as if needing to confirm what his eyes saw.

The reality hit him like a hammer. His body, which until that moment hadn’t registered the change, began flooding him with strange sensations, like an internal alarm screaming: Something very bad and very weird is happening! His gi, previously perfectly fitted, now felt ridiculously small. His ankles were exposed, the sleeves barely covered the lower part of his arms, and the belt struggled desperately to keep the garment closed. The top of the gi, unable to contain the pressure, burst open, revealing two generous masses now occupying his chest, pressing against the fabric in what had suddenly become a plunging neckline. Ranma instinctively adjusted his posture, noticing how his center of gravity had shifted upward, throwing him off balance. When he tried to square his shoulders, he felt the gi’s seams protest, squeezing his chest uncomfortably and opening even further. And then he noticed: he was taller. Not just a couple of centimeters, but at least twenty centimeters taller than before.

At that moment, there was only one possible reaction. A high-pitched scream, far shriller than Ranma would ever admit, escaped his throat. As if still unable to believe it, he yanked open the gi with a sharp motion, only to slam it shut immediately upon confirming what he saw was real. The gi, now absurdly small, constricted him unbearably, but that was the least of his concerns. This had to be the fault of the cursed spring, right? There was no other explanation. Though, unlike Genma, whose transformation had been instantaneous, his came later… after that, whatever it was. Without wasting a second, he ran toward the cabin, awkwardly leaping over the springs dotting the path. More than once, he nearly slipped, unbalanced by his new weight, his altered center of gravity, his longer legs, and, damn it, these things bounced too much! He made it in one piece, bursting through the door with a slam.

Genma, sitting with a teacup in front of him, turned his head at the commotion. His eyes widened like saucers, and without changing his expression, he spat out all the tea in his mouth, spraying the table before him. Ranma, however, didn’t stop.

“What the hell happened to me?!” he shouted, his frantic voice echoing through the cabin. “I didn’t fall into any other spring but the first one, and now I’m like this! Hot water, now!”

His eyes scanned the room and spotted something unsettling: everything seemed smaller. No, that wasn’t it. He was seeing everything from higher up, literally. His new height made him feel like a stranger in a space that had once been familiar. Finally, he saw the kettle on the fire. Without a second thought, he grabbed it, ignoring the searing heat of the metal, and poured the steaming water over his head. The liquid scalded his skin, but Ranma waited, holding his breath, longing to feel the return to normalcy. But nothing changed.

“It’s… strange,” the guide said, scratching his chin with a mix of curiosity and bewilderment. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Normally, the curse’s effect is instantaneous. A delayed transformation like yours is… unusual. It seems you did fall into the spring of the drowned girl.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Though this place has its rules, it’s still a mystical, capricious site. Curses are strange things, with their own logic. Hot water usually works, but… who knows.”

“Who knows?” Ranma repeated, his voice trembling with disbelief and desperation. “That’s all you’ve got? A who knows? You said there was a spring of the drowned man, right? I can use it! I jump in, transform, and go back to normal!”

The guide raised his hands, alarmed.

“No, no, that’s a terrible idea!” he replied urgently. “Curses don’t mix well. Entering another spring while in your cursed form could have catastrophic consequences. It’s not advisable at all. Besides…” He lowered his gaze, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I tried to warn you, but you took an unusual path and missed all the warning signs I put up. I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, people usually adapt well when their cursed forms are human. As I told your father, it could’ve been much worse.”

The guide kept talking, but his words faded into a distant murmur for Ranma. His back slid slowly down the cabin wall until he was sitting on the floor, overwhelmed. Like this? Forever? Disbelief consumed him, a spark of anger threatening to ignite again, but he smothered it before it could grow. His long hair, now a pink cascade falling down his back and partially covering his face, seemed to mock him. In the distance, Genma finally reacted, leaping to his feet, shouting and shaking the guide like a blender. But the sounds barely reached Ranma, trapped in a stupor that isolated him from the world.

Inside, his cursed energy kept swirling, a whirlwind clashing against his mind and logic. Everything in him screamed that this was wrong, that it shouldn’t be this way. Yet, at the same time, his body and energy seemed to whisper the opposite: that this was right, a step toward something more, toward an unknown perfection. The discord between his cursed energy and his body was still there, but now it was lighter, as if slowly aligning with this new form. Ranma didn’t know what this meant, not for him nor for his future.

Notes:

Just like the previous chapter, I don't have any beta readers and my primary language isn't English, so if you see any mistakes or something that doesn't make sense, please let me know! I also welcome any criticism so I can improve my writing style and storytelling.

Chapter 3: the Amazon village

Summary:

Ranma or Genma arrive at a village where women seem to be the dominant gender, there are more problems than they seem, and for some reason there is a clothing parade.

Notes:

I tried to make this chapter a little calmer compared to the others, but it still didn't escape the action, intrigue, and introspection!

In the cold, silent night, the only sound was the soft echo of footsteps on the stone floor. The alabaster walls, worn by time, faintly reflected the flickering light of a candle Nodoka held in her hand, casting dancing shadows that seemed to whisper secrets. She had awaited this moment with a mix of patience and anxiety, knowing that, at last, she had found a clear clue about what was happening. Logistics prevented her from abandoning her position in the clan, a privileged post she couldn’t afford to waste. She needed to confirm her deductions, now that they were possibly beyond the reach of the counterintelligence that had thwarted her efforts for years. This cat-and-mouse game had been exhausting, far more than it should have been. Over a decade had passed, and every time she seemed close to a lead, something unraveled at the other end. She soon realized that someone—or several people—likely tied to a sorcerer clan or influential in the jujutsu world, was determined to foil her plans. Was it Genma? Had he bribed someone, manipulated the pieces in his favor? Nodoka doubted it; he might surprise her, but not to this extent. Somehow, she knew Tengen was involved, but this game had dragged on too long.

She entered a room steeped in a dense, almost oppressive air. The walls were covered with intricate, ancient containment seals that pulsed with barely perceptible energy. The door, designed to open only upon recognizing her cursed energy, slid open with a soft creak, and Nodoka chose to leave it ajar. She had prepared this place meticulously, anticipating the moment things would reach this point. She couldn’t trust her agents once she uncovered the targets’ location; that’s why her plan had taken an unexpected detour. She never imagined that, after all this time, these measures would prove useful now.

That’s when he arrived, just as Nodoka had foreseen. The man, cloaked in black garments that seemed to absorb the light, knelt in the center of the room, his face hidden behind a mask that lent him an air of impenetrable mystery. Without moving, he spoke in a firm, monotonous voice:

“Both targets were sighted in China. A notebook was recovered, documenting their stay at a mountain called Jusenkyo. The last known information is that they left the area heading east.”

Nodoka tilted her head, lost in thought. “Jusenkyo?” she murmured to herself, her voice barely a whisper as she pondered the name. “A mere coincidence?”

Her eyes narrowed, a glint of speculation crossing her face. “Or has the universe decided that the plans must move forward?” she continued, speaking more to herself than to the kneeling man. “Either way, I’ll have to find out. You’ve served well, but I have a new mission for you. Listen closely.”

She snapped her fingers, and the air in the room seemed to vibrate with an unsettling energy. The man let out a muffled groan, his body convulsing in an unnatural movement, as if invisible strings were lifting him from the floor. A crack echoed from his joints, drawing a cry of pain as he stood, moving like a puppet controlled by sharp threads. With clumsy steps, he reached the center of the room, where the seals seemed to glow more intensely, as if responding to his presence.

“Open your mouth wide,” Nodoka ordered, her voice cold and precise. “I have a little surprise for you.”

With a deliberate motion, she opened a metal bottle in her hand. The liquid inside, dark and viscous, seemed to pulse with a life of its own. She dipped her fingers in and extracted something that made the air heavier: an object resembling a small, grotesque fetus, faintly pulsating.

“I originally considered using Shoso or Tanso,” she said, her tone almost clinical as she observed the trembling man before her. “But I ultimately chose the one who likely has the greatest sense of responsibility. He’ll be far more useful, even if he’s not the strongest of the brothers.”

Without giving him time to react, she inserted the fetus into his open, trembling mouth. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the muffled sounds of his body struggling against the inevitable.

Several minutes passed, a time Nodoka waited through with patience, knowing the fusion and domination needed to stabilize. Finally, the man, who had collapsed to the floor, began to move. Slowly, he stood, removing the mask and black hood that covered him. His shoulder-length hair fell in disheveled strands, his skin pale as alabaster, and deep dark circles framed eyes that seemed not to have seen light in years. Distinctive marks crossed his face: a horizontal line ran across his nose, while two vertical ones descended from his eyebrows to meet it, forming a pattern that seemed deliberately etched. The man looked around, disoriented, before his gaze settled on Nodoka, filled with a mix of confusion and suspicion.

“Hello, Choso,” Nodoka said, her voice soft but laden with authority. “How about a walk? We have a beautiful full moon tonight.”

Without waiting for a response, she headed toward the exit, her confident steps echoing in the room. Choso hesitated for a moment but finally began to follow her, keeping a cautious distance.

“How do you know my name? Who are you?” he asked, his voice tinged with distrust, his eyes narrowed as he watched her from behind.

Nodoka offered a serene smile, not turning around. “Naturally, because I’m the one who created you.”

Choso stopped dead, his expression hardening. His brow furrowed, and his posture shifted slightly, as if bracing for a confrontation. But Nodoka kept walking, unperturbed, approaching him with calm steps, her smile intact.

“You don’t have to worry,” she said, her tone almost maternal but with an undercurrent that chilled the blood. “Wouldn’t you trust your progenitor? This is, technically, our first meeting, since you’ve only just been born.”

Choso remained still, his eyes fixed on her, caught between disbelief and a spark of something deeper, something he couldn’t yet name. As they emerged from the hallway, the full moon shone high above, bathing the path in silver light, while Nodoka pressed forward, certain that with each step, her plan drew closer to fruition.

“Even if I’ve only just gained a body, my brothers and I have always been together, connected, feeling each other from the beginning. What makes you think I’d consider someone who never showed interest in us until now?” Choso said, his voice laced with resentment. His deeply furrowed brow softened slightly, but his eyes narrowed, exuding a mix of distrust and defiance.

Nodoka tilted her head, her lips curving into a serene smile that contrasted with the tension in the air. “Ara, that stung, you know?” she replied, her tone sweet, almost melodic, but with a strange undertone, like a distant echo of something darker. “You make me sound like a neglectful mother. Though, in a way, you’re right. There are many things you and your brothers don’t know. You were taken from me, confiscated, and I was forbidden from seeing you again. If you’re angry about living trapped, blame the jujutsu society. But I think that’s not why we’re here. There’s something you’re right about, and it’s something that matters to both of us.”

Her voice was warm, enveloping, but there was an unsettling note in its cadence, as if every word was carefully measured. Choso’s rigid posture relaxed just a fraction, his shoulders lowering slightly as he regarded her warily.

“I managed to recover all of you,” Nodoka continued, her tone taking on a seriousness that seemed to carry an unspoken promise. “And I swear I’ll free you all from your cages. But right now, I’m not able. We need something… very special.” She paused, sitting gracefully on the grass bathed in the silver light of the full moon. She patted the space beside her, inviting Choso to join. He hesitated, his eyes searching her face for hidden intentions, but finally complied, sitting beside her with stiff movements.

“I had a son a few years ago,” Nodoka said, and with those words, Choso’s eyes widened, his attention fully captured. “His name is Ranma Saotome. He’s your half-brother.” Her voice tinged with theatrical sadness, drawing out the words as if each carried the weight of a tragedy. “There was an unfortunate accident. His father, a clumsy, unfit man named Genma Saotome, someone I trusted to build a family with, took him away. It wasn’t just a trip. He’s turning him into a weapon.”

Choso’s brow furrowed, but this time it wasn’t suspicion burning in his eyes—it was genuine fury, a spark of indignation igniting at the thought of an unknown brother in danger. Nodoka observed him, satisfied, before continuing.

“My duties and position bind me. I can’t be absent for long. That’s why I turned to you.” Her voice softened further, taking on an almost pleading tone. “My informants finally discovered where your brother Ranma is. Could you, Choso, rescue him from his terrible father’s clutches?” Her hand sought Choso’s, taking it gently between hers in a seemingly warm gesture. “I know I wasn’t there for you, that I failed you. But I don’t want to repeat past mistakes. I’ve always done everything alone, but… I’m not alone anymore, am I? This isn’t for me. It’s for him, for all of you. Because we’re family, aren’t we?”

Choso stared at her, his eyes scouring her face for any crack in her facade. For a few seconds, the silence between them was thick, charged with conflicting emotions. Then, his expression softened, and with a resolute motion, he stood. Nodoka followed, rising with the same grace she’d shown before.

“For our family,” Choso said, his voice resonating with unyielding conviction as he looked at the redhead before him. “I promise I’ll rescue my brother. I won’t let them keep us apart like this.”

Nodoka extended a hand and gently caressed Choso’s cheek. He tensed at first, his body reacting instinctively, but gradually relaxed under her touch, as if something in him recognized that connection, however reluctantly.

“You’re a good boy,” she said, her voice laden with a tenderness that seemed genuine but concealed a calculated undertone. “Truly a great brother. Genma is a crude, clumsy man, but he’s not a fool. He’s managed to stay elusive for a long time, so we can’t waste a second. He’s likely already filled Ranma’s head with strange ideas. You’ll have to save him not only from his father but from himself. The most important thing is to bring him here, to finally reunite the whole family.”

“I’ll go find him immediately,” Choso said, his voice vibrating with determination. “Just tell me where he is.”

Nodoka raised a hand, stopping him with a calm gesture. “I’m glad for your enthusiasm, but first, we must ensure you’re ready. We’ll review your physical condition, just as a precaution. We’ll go over your techniques and I’ll teach you the fundamentals of combat. As I said, neither your brother nor his father are people to underestimate.” She paused, turning her back to Choso. A cold, satisfied smile spread across her face, hidden from his view. “Once you’re prepared, I’ll arrange the most direct route possible to China. Let’s begin immediately.”

As she walked, her silhouette framed against the moonlight, Nodoka knew that every word, every gesture, had been a step closer to her goal. The game was in motion, and soon, everything would fall into place.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The guide, who promised to investigate the spring Ranma had fallen into, gave them precise directions on where to head next. It was a place where they might find help: a village where various esoteric arts were practiced, and where some people were familiar with Jusenkyo’s curses. Though it was widely known that there was no cure for these curses, there might be temporary remedies. Moreover, given Ranma’s unusual case, perhaps they could do something more for him. Genma and Ranma had followed the indicated direction, but, of course—because things always had to get complicated—they got lost. Ranma admitted his mood wasn’t the best at the moment, and Genma didn’t seem exactly brimming with joy either, especially under the relentless rain pouring down.

The cold water cascaded over their heads, a constant deluge soaking everything in its path. It didn’t bother Ranma too much, beyond the general discomfort and a lingering sense that the rain was like wallowing in his own filth, leaving him feeling dirtier and more exhausted with every drop. For Genma, however, it was a spectacle of its own. The panda beside him trudged on all fours, having discovered, after hours of awkwardly walking on two legs, that this form was far more effective and stable.

The journey had been silent between them. They’d had disputes, to put it mildly—Genma, being who he was, accusing Ranma of being too feminine when he hadn’t chosen this! They even bickered again because Ranma was fed up with these massive things bouncing every two steps, so he’d wrapped them in bandages as a result.

That’s when they spotted, in the distance, towering walls rising like imposing guardians. The terrain was still somewhat far and slightly elevated, giving them a panoramic view of the interior. The walls, built of sturdy, likely reinforced wood, stretched several meters into the sky, enclosing a vast territory. It wasn’t like a compact, bustling city; for some strange reason, it seemed they’d tried to encompass their entire domain, spreading into a scattered village that gave way to open fields of crops and, beyond, horizons that faded into the distance. Even with his sharpened senses, Ranma couldn’t clearly discern the end, and the rain clouding the air didn’t help at all.

It was time to plan carefully. Normally, entering cities or villages was simple: no one asked questions, and you could move freely, unless someone—like Genma—decided to do something utterly illogical, forcing them to flee in a hurry. In this case, with a walled village like this, that wasn’t a viable option. They weren’t strangers to deception; for a long time, Genma had forced him to pull off countless tricks to get money or shelter. Now, they needed to seem at least minimally convincing. Initially, Ranma considered posing as some kind of witch, but he quickly realized how absurd that sounded. He had no idea how sorcerers were treated in this place or if they even knew of their existence. He’d heard that, outside Japan, few were aware of the jujutsu world. He could play that card to his advantage. As for Genma… well, he could say he was a pet. That sounded convincing enough. Or better yet, present him as a shikigami. That could work in his favor, especially if the village dealt with esoteric and magical matters, as the guide had mentioned. Maybe there were even sorcerers there who could help them.

It’s worth noting that Genma didn’t like the plan at all. But that wasn’t a major issue. Ranma convinced him in the most civilized way possible, and when that failed, he used him as a 300-kilogram basketball. It’s not like he had another choice. And it definitely wasn’t to get back at him for what he’d said the other day in Jusenkyo; only a petty person would think that. Nor would he admit it felt pretty good to give the old man a bit of his own medicine. But we’re getting off track.

Now, Ranma was perched atop Genma, and in appearance, they might even impress anyone who saw them. With everything that had happened—too quickly, with emotions swirling inside—his mind focused on the next goal, refusing to pause. He felt a strange irritation, as if the mere need to justify himself was absurd nonsense, but he brushed it aside, ignoring the feeling gnawing at him from within.

From the outside, the scene was, at the very least, unforgettable, an image that would sear itself into the memory of anyone who witnessed it. Genma, in his panda form, defied any notion of these bears as cute, docile creatures. Under the relentless rain, his appearance was more akin to a wild beast, with soaked fur highlighting his savagery. His expression, far from friendly, exuded irritation, and a black eye—which Ranma would swear he didn’t cause—made him look even more intimidating, as if one step away from growling at anyone who dared approach. It was enough to make anyone think twice before trying to pet him.

Atop Genma, sitting with a carefree posture, was Ranma. His legs were crossed, one elbow propped on a knee while his fist rested against his cheek, projecting a mix of indifference and defiance. His hair, loose and drenched by the rain, was a spectacle in itself. Naturally pink, though he often dyed it black to conceal it, it now showed a strange inversion: the roots were a deep black, while the rest, long and flowing, had turned a dark pink, contrasting with the bubblegum shade it had before. The rain helped keep it in place, swept back and tucked behind his ears, though a few rebellious strands slipped over his face, giving him a wild yet strangely elegant air.

The tattoos now marking his body were, without a doubt, the most striking feature. Ranma had first noticed them when examining himself after the transformation, but he couldn’t fully appreciate them until descending Jusenkyo and looking into a lake. Intricate black lines, like ink, traced complex patterns across his skin, covering not just his face but his arms, chest, and back. At the sorcery school, he’d seen other sorcerers with similar, though much simpler, marks—often just a few discreet lines. His, however, were numerous and bold, crisscrossing in angles that seemed to follow their own logic. He didn’t know their purpose, but something inside whispered they weren’t mere decorations.

Then there was his height, another change that baffled him. As a man, at 165 centimeters, he’d always been slightly below average, especially compared to Genma’s 172. But now, he estimated he’d grown at least 20 centimeters, a staggering difference. Genma’s bald spot, which used to barely clear his line of sight, now sat at nose level. He was taller than most, and this new height made him feel like a stranger in his own body—not to mention the fact that he was now a girl.

His clothing, on the other hand, was the best he could manage under the circumstances. The gi and tang shirt he used to wear were discarded without hesitation; they were ridiculously small, not just because of his new height but due to the presence of his chest, which, in his opinion, was absurdly large and frankly inconvenient. He’d quickly learned, descending the mountain, that moving without support for them was unbearable. Genma had the audacity to scold him for trying to use something akin to a bra, but Ranma, with a mix of exasperation and defiance, had told him, as politely as possible, to shut his damn mouth. It wasn’t him dealing with a pair of heavy melons bouncing every step.

Now he wore loose zubon-style pants with elastic at the ankles, designed for ease of movement in combat—the same ones he’d worn with his tang shirt. On top, white bandages wrapped as a makeshift bra covered his chest, leaving a toned abdomen exposed, sculpted by years of training he was glad to have maintained. To shield himself from the sun and rain, he’d crafted a gray cape during the journey. He’d hunted a boar—partly to feed Genma’s and his own insatiable appetites—and, after using its meat, fashioned the hide into a rustic but functional garment, putting all his sewing skills to the test. The cape, large enough to hang to his knees, rested over his shoulders, partially covering his arms when relaxed. It was a crude piece, but effective.

Altogether, his appearance was a paradox in itself. On one hand, his new refined features—the long, glossy hair, the delicate yet familiar facial structure, his new height—gave him an almost aristocratic air, as if he belonged to an ancient caste. On the other, his makeshift clothing, bandages, and tattoos made him look like a wild figure, torn from a barbarian’s tale. He had no idea if this combination would be an advantage or a hindrance in the village they were heading to, but given the place’s reputation for the esoteric, he figured he’d fit in… or at least not stand out too much.

The guards were already waiting for them, and it was no surprise: they weren’t exactly discreet. Ranma didn’t consider himself an official sorcerer; his education in the jujutsu world had been fragmented at best. Everything he knew came from Yoshinobu, and the brief time he spent at the sorcery school had barely shown him how that world worked. They hadn’t placed him in regular classes with students his age; instead, they put him with a group of kids just starting out or living at the school. It had been humiliating to be in a sorcery class surrounded by peers nearly a decade younger than him. The second oldest in the group was a seven-year-old named Yaga, always accompanied by stuffed animals that, in Ranma’s opinion, were more terrifying than charming, with their sewn-on eyes and unsettling shapes.

Ranma shook his head, pushing aside those memories to focus on the present. Before them, two guards—curiously, both women—blocked the way. They didn’t seem particularly strong; Ranma could sense their cursed energy, but it was barely at the level of a civilian, meaning they were neither sorcerers nor ki users. Knocking down the gate wasn’t a viable option, not if they wanted to avoid trouble. Fortunately, they had prepared a small story for the occasion. Yes, Ranma was now a woman, but his appearance—with the tattoos, long hair, and new height—gave him an intimidating air that could work in his favor.

“Hey, you!” shouted the guard on the left, her voice sharp. A scar ran across one eye, clearly blind, giving her a hardened look. “We’re not taking foreigners. What’s your business here?”

Ranma squared his shoulders, projecting confidence. “My name is Saotome Ranma, I’m a sorcerer,” he said, his tone firm but calm. “I’m traveling for matters related to my work. I’ve come to trade resources, resupply, and speak with the sorcerers of this place.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. They were traveling, and their supplies were nearly depleted, so they needed food. Plus, they wanted to find the sorcerers the guide had mentioned, hoping they could help reverse his transformation. The women exchanged a few words in Mandarin, simple enough for Ranma to understand and respond to basic queries. “What I have here is a shikigami,” he added, gesturing casually at Genma. “It’s docile, so you don’t have to worry.”

To emphasize his point, he dropped a foot onto Genma’s head with a soft but firm thud. The panda squinted one eye, clearly annoyed, but only let out a muffled grunt, not daring to do more.

The guards glanced at each other, whispering for a few seconds that felt like an eternity. Finally, the woman with the scar lowered her spear from the path. “Alright, sorcerer,” she said dryly. “But if you don’t want trouble, you’ll need to report to a superior immediately. Near the town hall is the Amazon headquarters of the Black Order; they practice sorcery.”

Ranma nodded quickly, and Genma moved forward as the heavy wooden gates began to open with a deep creak. The guide had mentioned that the Amazons were a tribe of warrior women, a concept Ranma found… odd. He knew strong women existed, of course, but an entire village of them? In his experience, it was normal for women to manage the household while men took on heavy work. That’s how it had always been, everywhere, and how it should be. That’s why he needed to become a man again; how could he be the man among men if he wasn’t one? The sight before him, however, challenged everything he considered natural, and that discord unsettled him.

The village, in a word, was dirty but not neglected. It seemed they’d held a celebration recently, perhaps the previous night. The ground was littered with confetti, overturned tables, and empty mugs, and the smell of alcohol permeated the air, mingling with the dampness of the rain. What caught Ranma’s attention most was the number of robust, strong-looking women, some sprawled on the ground, others slumped over tables, clearly drunk. But what left him speechless was seeing scrawny, frail-looking men approach to pick them up, presumably their husbands. In a particularly hilarious moment, Ranma saw a man in an apron grab a particularly drunk woman by the ear, dragging her with precise movements as she mumbled what seemed like drunken apologies. Similar scenes played out around him, and Ranma had to stifle a laugh.

“Damn, this place is upside down,” he muttered, his voice wavering between amusement and disbelief. “This isn’t right.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or lament the scene, but his priority was clear: reach the sorcery headquarters, find a solution to his curse, and continue their journey. That’s when he felt a prick in his senses, an internal alarm that made him stop dead. It was as if his body had detected something his mind couldn’t yet process. He spun quickly, searching for the source, only to find… what? What exactly was that thing?

“It seems you’ve arrived at quite a chaotic time,” said an elderly woman, her brittle voice ringing with a mix of amusement and reproach. “Yesterday was our grand annual celebration, as it is every year. If you intended to participate in the tournament, you’re late. The official matches are over, and the banquets have already been served.”

The elderly woman, frail in appearance, was someone Ranma was convinced would disintegrate in the wind if he sent a bit of cursed energy her way. Yet she balanced with surprising agility on a disproportionately large staff, sparing Ranma the need to crane his neck to look at her due to her exaggeratedly short stature. Her eyes, small but piercing, scrutinized him with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

No one could’ve blamed Ranma for what he was about to say. Well, maybe they could, but since Jusenkyo, Ranma wasn’t exactly known for holding back. He liked being direct, and since the incident at Jusenkyo, he felt a strange urge to blurt out whatever came to mind without a filter. Why should he justify himself to anyone? The very idea seemed absurd.

“Wow, I didn’t know the sorcerers here had learned to resurrect mummified monkeys and teach them to talk,” he quipped, a mocking smile on his face.

The next sound was a resounding crack as the elderly woman’s staff struck his head, a blow as comical as it was painful. Did he deserve it? Absolutely. Did he like being treated like that? Definitely not.

“Hey, hey!” he protested, rubbing his head where a bump was already forming. “I didn’t mean it, no need to get like that!”

The surprise hit him harder than the staff. His body was tough, forged by years of training with a natural resilience far beyond most people’s, and this elderly woman, who looked like she might crumble, had struck him with a force and speed that caused a bump. Who was she, and what the hell was that staff made of?

“Today’s youth,” the elderly woman sighed, shaking her head as if dealing with a naughty child. “Is a little basic courtesy too much to ask? I’ll let this slide only because you’re a guest, but know there’s more where that came from.” Despite her words, she didn’t seem truly offended. Her tone had a playful edge, as if the blow was more a prank than a serious reprimand.

Ranma frowned, still rubbing his head, as the elderly woman continued. “There are plenty of places you can go here. Over there’s the market; considering how light you’re traveling, I assume you need supplies. There’s also the town hall if you have business with our government. We’re famous for our training grounds, and our blacksmiths and artisans craft the finest weapons in all of China. But, judging by your level of cursed energy, I’d say you’re interested in the jujutsu sorcery institution, which is in the same direction as the town hall. Though, first things first…” She paused, sniffing the air and waving a hand in front of her face with a grimace of distaste. “I’d recommend the public baths. We have excellent ones where you can clean up and relax.”

Did she just call them smelly? Ranma pressed his lips together, holding back a retort. To be honest, he couldn’t deny it. They hadn’t bathed properly in days. Genma, in his panda form, was basically a wet animal, and Ranma had been soaked first in Jusenkyo and now in the rain, which, though starting to ease, had left him feeling like he’d rolled in a muddy puddle. He probably didn’t smell like roses. He still had some spare clothes: the pants from his gi, and his cape could be dried. The bandages, on the other hand, could be easily replaced.

“Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I guess we’ll head there first. Thanks, old lady, we’ll manage from here.”

“Heh, as you wish,” she replied with a dry chuckle. “Enjoy your stay.”

And with that, the elderly woman simply… vanished. Ranma blinked, bewildered, staring at the spot where she’d been. “Weirdo,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head before turning toward the public baths.

He couldn’t resist stopping at a skewer stall, its aroma hooking him like a lure. They still had some money, so he decided to buy a few. Genma, meanwhile, was obsessed with finding hot water to undo his curse, so they split up. As Ranma paid for the skewers, his mind wandered. Did pandas have thumbs? How the hell was Genma going to turn on a faucet in that form? Would they even let him into the baths? His questions were answered faster than expected. Genma appeared suddenly, already in human form, a towel over his head and a smug expression.

“Huh? You already bathed?” Ranma asked, astonished.

Before he could react, one of the skewers vanished from his hand, snatched by Genma’s mouth. “Too slow, kid!” he said with a mocking laugh. “I still need to scout around. This place doesn’t sit right with me—it’s all upside down. I’ll do some reconnaissance. You’ll be cured before nightfall, I guarantee it! We’ll meet up later, so don’t get into trouble.”

Ranma watched him walk off in the opposite direction, muttering to himself: Seriously? Don’t get into trouble? What a hypocrite. He shook his head and headed to the baths. Once inside, the relief was immediate. Soaking in the hot water, with steam filling the air, was like shedding a layer of accumulated grime and exhaustion, though not before washing off first, of course. Between Jusenkyo and the rain, he’d felt miserable, trapped in damp clothes and dirt. The place was enveloped in a cloud of steam, just as it should be, and to his luck, it was empty. He would’ve preferred a private bath, but with their limited budget, this would have to do. He’d try not to linger too long.

He closed his eyes, letting the hot water relax his muscles, and sighed deeply, lost in thought. That’s why he didn’t immediately notice what was happening at the entrance, where a barely perceptible presence began to disrupt the tranquil atmosphere of the bath.

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Life seemed to be smiling on Xian Pu lately, as if fate had decided to reward every drop of sweat shed in her training. Since childhood, the stories of the Amazon warriors had captivated her, filling her imagination with visions of honor, strength, and bravery. She wanted to emulate them, fight like them, carry the title of Amazon with the pride it deserved, and become the greatest of them all. So, when she was told at five years old that she was special, that she had the potential to join the elite of the Amazons, the Black Order, no one could contain her boundless enthusiasm. Not even a straitjacket could have restrained the vibrant energy coursing through her.

In the Black Order, they taught her far more than combat techniques. They showed her how to control her cursed energy, for yes, she was what they called a sorceress, and how to mold it to become stronger than any other Amazon. She learned that her father had also been a member of the Order, and at first, his guidance was invaluable. But what truly shaped her was when they revealed that her cursed energy was unique, infused with an electric property that set her apart from everyone else. She was, in her own words, a chosen one, one in a million. She wasn’t just going to be strong; she was destined to be the strongest among the strong.

However, over time, she came to understand the true cost of being a sorceress of the Black Order. It wasn’t just about strength and honor; it was about moving in the shadows, keeping secrets, committing dishonorable acts for a supposed greater good. She understood why they did it: the Order protected the Amazons, ensured their survival. But Xian Pu refused to accept those methods. She didn’t want to be a shadow, didn’t want to sacrifice lives or die silently for a system that justified the lesser evil. Her abilities, her electric gift, weren’t meant to perpetuate a selfish cycle of sacrifices. So, she swore by all the gods that she would never use her innate technique. Not because she wanted to be weak or hated it, but because she was determined to prove she could make a difference without betraying her values. She wanted to elevate the Amazon name, their traditions, and their honor without compromising anything in the process. That was her essence, and it would always be.

Her grandmother, though not a sorceress, knew the secrets of jujutsu and took charge of her training. Under her tutelage, Xian Pu became an expert in non-innate techniques, mastering everything a girl her age could learn. That’s why the recent tournament had been so important. She didn’t just win; she dominated completely, leaving everyone speechless. It was proof that her path, one of uncompromising strength, was the right one. And after the exhausting, laughter-filled celebration, she deserved a bath to relax, a moment to shed the fatigue and recharge her energy.

That’s when, upon entering the public baths, her eyes fell on an unfamiliar figure. Leaning against the edge of the large tub, the woman was imposing. At 1.55 meters, Xian Pu felt small compared to the stranger, who easily surpassed 1.80 meters. Her hair, a hypnotic blend of black roots and dark pink strands, fell in wet waves, framing a face covered in tattoos that, though aggressive, held a strange beauty. Her strong, defined neck spoke of years of rigorous training. Her arms, relaxed on the tub’s edge, revealed a voluminous chest that, given her height, must have exceeded 100 centimeters—nothing to envy, Xian Pu thought, though a sudden heat rose to her face as she stared, her appearance from the outside akin to a boiling teapot. Below, where the water reached, a chiseled abdomen—you could wash clothes on that, she thought—completed the image of a powerful, dedicated, and determined warrior. She was, without a doubt, someone formidable, and Xian Pu couldn’t help but stare, entranced, a trickle of drool escaping the corner of her lips. She shook her head, trying to compose herself, and let her towel drop to the floor as she approached the water with light steps.

What would her voice sound like? Would it be deep and harsh, matching her appearance? Or perhaps sweet, contrasting her imposing presence? Xian Pu wanted to know everything about her. Foreigners were rare, but this woman was even more so. If she was civilized, Xian Pu could offer to show her the village… whether she wanted to or not.

She dipped her legs into the warm water, which barely reached below her waist, designed mainly for sitting. She didn’t care. She approached the stranger, who seemed lost in deep relaxation, eyes closed. Xian Pu smiled to herself; her grandmother had taught her to move with impeccable stealth, and now she put it into practice. Not even the water rippled at her approach, and her cursed energy was completely suppressed. She’d learned that lesson the hard way: the last time she entered the baths without controlling her energy, the result was an electrocution disaster she still recalled with embarrassment.

“NI HAO!” she shouted enthusiastically, raising a hand, breaking the silence.

“HOLY SHIT!” the stranger replied, leaping so high she nearly crashed into the ceiling.

To put it mildly, the reaction wasn’t what Xian Pu expected. She couldn’t help but laugh internally. The jump was impressive, and the resilience of the girl’s skull, showing no sign of pain after hitting the ceiling at that speed, was admirable. Now, both stared at each other, the pink-haired girl clearly stunned, while Xian Pu maintained a radiant smile, waiting for a response.

“Ni… ni hao?” the stranger said cautiously, her voice tinged with confusion.

Standing face-to-face, Xian Pu could better appreciate her height: she must have been 25 to 35 centimeters taller than her. The girl seemed at a loss for what to do, as if completely out of her element. A wild one, Xian Pu thought, amused. But no problem; she could civilize her. Though, if she was honest, the sight of that imposing figure, standing with nothing covering her, made the greetings feel unnecessarily prolonged. She wouldn’t mind extending them a bit longer.

The pink-haired girl, Ranma, seemed to relax slightly in Xian Pu’s presence, slowly sinking back to her previous position, sitting with the water covering up to her chest, to Xian Pu’s mild disappointment, who couldn’t help but notice how the foreigner’s imposing figure blurred beneath the water’s surface.

“Uh, well… hello,” Ranma said, her voice cutting through the bath’s steam. “My name’s Saotome Ranma, what’s yours?”

She spoke in Mandarin with a strange accent, clearly foreign, likely Japanese, which wasn’t too surprising. Though her pronunciation wasn’t perfect, it was acceptable, and Xian Pu understood her without issue.

“My name is Xian Pu, and I’ll be a future warrior in the ranks of the Amazons, of course!” she replied with pride, squaring her shoulders and letting her enthusiasm fill the air.

Her words seemed to catch Ranma’s attention, who looked at her with renewed interest, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh? Shampoo?” she said, mispronouncing her name with a naturalness that irritated Xian Pu for a moment. “Does that mean you’re strong, then?” She paused, as if a sudden thought crossed her mind, and frowned. “Wait, are you a sorceress?”

Xian Pu blinked, first at the awful pronunciation of her name—and the apparent lack of intent to correct it—which sparked a brief pang of annoyance. But what she said next threw her off even more. “Wait, how did you know I was a sorceress?” she asked, her voice tinged with surprise. “I suppressed my cursed energy as best I could!”

Ranma tilted her head, placing her fingers on her chin as if deep in thought, though a touch of theatrics in her gesture suggested she was enjoying the situation a bit. “Well, it’s not normal for someone to have such low levels of cursed energy,” she explained. “I can sense a trace in you, even if it’s minimal. I didn’t know you could suppress it like that. Either you used a ton of cursed energy recently, or you’re doing it on purpose. But you don’t look tired, and my teacher told me if a sorcerer draws too much cursed energy, they’d pass out. So, that leaves the second option.”

Xian Pu looked at her with a mix of awe and caution. Ranma’s logic was sound, and that unsettled her. She hadn’t expected someone to read her so easily, especially a foreigner. She sat across from her, the water barely covering above her stomach, and frowned, assessing her. She knew sorcerers, especially those of the Black Order, weren’t always trustworthy. What was a stranger like her doing in a place like this? “Well, you got that right,” she admitted, maintaining her smile, though now there was a more calculated edge to her gaze. “It’s rare to find another sorcerer around here, especially one not from the village. We’re not known for having many sorcerers; in fact, it’s the opposite. Japan has a much bigger sorcery world. Sure, we have things for all kinds of warriors, but nothing you haven’t seen if you’re looking for jujutsu-related stuff. So… mind telling me why you’re here?”

The air between them shifted slightly, as if an invisible current had tightened. Ranma noticed the subtle change in Xian Pu’s demeanor, now defensive, evaluating her cautiously. “No, no,” Ranma replied, raising a hand to calm her. “I actually came because I had a problem not far from here, in a place in China. I thought the sorcerers in this village might help me with it. Though, of course, that weird old lady with her staff insisted I take a bath first.”

Xian Pu blinked, processing her words. “You met Grandmother? And she personally greeted you?” The tension between them snapped like a cut thread. “Wow, if you put it that way… Grandmother is wise and smart. Her name’s Cologne, and she’s one of the most respected elders in the village. If she helped you directly, it means she holds you in high regard, or at least finds you interesting! So, you’re good.”

Xian Pu’s smile widened, now more genuine, and her enthusiasm shone again. “And as her granddaughter, it’s my duty to follow her example. I’ll show you the rest of the village if needed! But first, we need to get you some decent clothes.”

“Hey! What’s wrong with my clothes?” Ranma protested, though deep down she knew exactly what was wrong with her makeshift outfit.

Xian Pu ignored her complaint with a giggle, listing the issues on her fingers as if giving a lesson. “Where do I start… First off, since you’re the only one here, I saw your clothes when I came in. Those pants are practical for fighting, but not for traveling or daily life. Going shirtless looks good, but if you walk around like that everywhere, you’ll catch a cold. Plus, many places have something called basic decency. Those bandages aren’t a practical bra,” she paused, looking directly at Ranma’s chest. “I know because it’s the only thing I saw, and not only must they be uncomfortable, but they’ll cause problems long-term, especially since, well, they’re… heavy. Lastly, the cape is cool, works for travel, but it seems cumbersome for fighting. And wearing it in a civilized place isn’t the best idea.”

Ranma raised a hand, stopping her. “Look, it’s not a bad idea, but money doesn’t grow on trees. We’re a bit tight, and we need it for supplies.”

Xian Pu waved a hand, dismissing the concern. “Don’t worry about that, I’ve got it covered! It’s not common to find another sorceress around here, so I’d also like to ask you a couple of things along the way.”

Ranma tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. It sounded like an excuse, but she couldn’t deny she needed new clothes. Plus, if Genma had taught her anything, it was to seize opportunities. Though, thinking about it, something inside told her this conversation wouldn’t have been the same if she were a man. She looked at the ceiling, lost in thought. This feels… strangely natural. Like I’m in the men’s bath. She shook her head, pushing those thoughts aside. Better not overthink it.

“Alright, if you insist, I guess I’ll follow,” she said finally, standing up.

She waited for a response, but when none came, she raised an eyebrow and looked at Xian Pu. The girl’s face was bright red, her eyes practically bulging, staring Ranma up and down with an intensity that made her step back. “Shampoo? You okay? Are you sick or something?”

Xian Pu shot up, and before Ranma could process it, slapped herself so hard the sound echoed through the bath, making the water ripple. Ranma stepped back in shock, swearing the blow was so forceful she almost felt the vibration in the air. “Nothing at all! Thanks for worrying!” Xian Pu said with an exaggerated smile, raising a hand. Her cheek now sported a bright red mark, and she hurried to the changing area, leaving a trail of water on the floor.

Ranma stared at her retreating back, stunned. For a moment, she thought she saw a purple flash, like lightning, streak through Xian Pu’s hair, her face still flushed. “Why do I always run into the weirdos?” she muttered to herself, shaking her head before following her to the changing area.

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The first stop was quick, mostly because Ranma wanted it that way. The sensation of trying on underwear—or lingerie, as Xian Pu insisted on calling it—was, at the very least, profoundly unnatural for him. He opted for the most basic option he could find, determined not to dwell on the matter. But, of course, even that wasn’t enough for Xian Pu, the girl he’d known for barely half an hour and who, for some reason, wouldn’t stop complaining about his choices.

“Huh? Where are you going with something so boring?” Xian Pu said, crossing her arms and looking at him with a mix of disbelief and disapproval.

Ranma shot her a confused look, furrowing his brow. What did she expect? It wasn’t like he needed anything fancier. The argument that followed was brief but intense, and Xian Pu ended up winning, as if her enthusiasm was an unstoppable force. Ranma felt like a doll being molded to her whims, and though her generosity puzzled him, it also intrigued him. Why was she doing this? He couldn’t shake her off until, exhausted, he gave in to her suggestions… except for some options that, no matter what, he’d never wear in his life. Not because they were too feminine, no; they were an affront to anyone’s dignity, man or woman.

As they walked to the next shop, Ranma couldn’t contain his curiosity. “So, how did you suppress your cursed energy so much?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with interest.

He hadn’t met many sorcerers in his life, and his experience with official sorcery schools was, at best, limited. Yet, his passion for jujutsu and martial arts was undeniable. He wanted to push his skills to the limit, and that didn’t just mean hitting harder—it meant understanding the true nature of cursed energy.

“Huh? Oh, that,” Xian Pu replied, her smile radiating pride. “It’s a trick Grandmother Cologne taught me. While a sorcerer can suppress their cursed energy, it’s usually not very effective because the difference is minimal, so it’s considered unnecessary. But my cursed energy is special. It has a unique aspect, less… dense, so to speak. That lets me compress it far more than the average sorcerer, making me almost invisible unless someone’s actively looking for me. Plus, it helps with other things.”

Ranma frowned, intrigued. “Wait, different cursed energy? Unique?” he repeated, trying to picture it. “That’s the first I’ve heard of something like that. How can cursed energy be… unique? Is it faster? What does less dense mean? And how does that affect your innate technique, or barriers, or non-innate techniques?”

Xian Pu fell silent for a moment, her eyes glinting with mischief. Then, she raised a finger and placed it on her lips with a sly smile. “A sorcerer never reveals all their cards, ever heard that one?” she said, her tone playful but firm. “Let’s just say I’d rather not explain exactly how it works.”

Ranma was left hanging, his furrowed brow reflecting a mix of frustration and curiosity. “If you’re not gonna tell me…” he started, crossing his arms with a challenging grin. “You said you’re a warrior and won a tournament, right? Then you won’t mind fighting me, will you? Unless, of course, you’re scared.”

Xian Pu raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. “Ooh? Think you can intimidate me?” she shot back, her voice brimming with defiance. “Careful what you say, then. If you want to find out what I’ve got, you’ll have to figure it out yourself. And I won’t lose. After all, Xian Pu is very strong!”

Ranma felt a spark of excitement. A good fight was exactly what he needed to shake off the foul mood lingering since Jusenkyo. His lips curved into a defiant smile, and he was about to respond when Xian Pu cut him off.

“Here we are!” she announced, stopping in front of a shop buzzing with activity. “This place is the best. They’ve got tons of stuff, all way more decent than what you’re wearing now.”

Ranma looked her up and down, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t want to judge, but Xian Pu was only wearing a simple pink Chinese dress with a pair of hair bows. She wasn’t exactly a fashion expert, was she? He’d never been a fan of clothes; as long as they were functional, they worked for him. Still, the infectious glint in Xian Pu’s eyes made him give in. Plus, it was free, right? No reason to say no.

The moment he stepped into the shop, he felt like he’d triggered an invisible alarm. The women working there were… intense, to say the least. Their movements were quick, precise, and they all seemed to share a manic energy, as if one screw away from coming loose. A woman appeared at his side out of nowhere, scrutinizing him from head to toe like she was dissecting him. Her eyes scanned his current outfit—the loose pants, the bandages, the boar-hide cape—and she furrowed her brow deeply.

“Tall, busty but not voluptuous, fit,” she muttered to herself, as if Ranma wasn’t there. “Black leggings, maybe. Waist belts, definitely, to highlight what stands out. I can work with those tattoos.” She grabbed the edge of his bandages and pulled them down slightly to inspect the tattoos across his chest, completely ignoring the “Hey!” that escaped Ranma. “Crop tops, haoris, jackets, turtlenecks…”

Ranma froze, caught between shock and discomfort, as the woman darted to the shelves, still muttering and piling up a mountain of clothes. “You sure she’s not putting a spell on me or something?” he whispered to Xian Pu, who rolled her eyes, clearly amused.

“Nope, she just takes her job very seriously,” she replied, stifling a giggle. “She saw potential and got to work.”

“Wait, isn’t the point of this for me to pick my clothes?” Ranma protested, crossing his arms. “What’s the use if someone else decides for me?”

Xian Pu looked at him, her smile sharpening. “Well, considering what you’re wearing now… I wouldn’t trust you with total freedom in this shop.”

“…Touché,” Ranma admitted with a sigh, resigned.

He turned to look ahead, only to see the woman returning with a mountain of clothes that looked ready to collapse. “Oh, shit…” he muttered to himself. “This is gonna be a long day.”

Ranma had always known clothes could enhance one’s appearance, but he’d never cared much. As a man—the man among men, Ranma Saotome—he’d always thought he looked good without needing to overcomplicate things. But now, locked in a fitting room with a mirror in front of him, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. His reflection showed an image he barely recognized, despite having seen it before. Some features remained: the shape of his face, the sharp nose, the hair that, though darker, still held that pinkish hue that defined him. But everything else—his height, his body, those tattoos that seemed to tell a story he didn’t understand—felt foreign. On the outside, he projected confidence, but inside, doubts swirled like a storm. Was this worth it? Even if it was free? What was left of him? Who was he now?

The pile of clothes in the corner of the fitting room stared at him defiantly, intensifying his inner conflict. The most unsettling part was that he didn’t feel anything special about it. A few days ago, if someone had suggested trying on something like this, he would’ve laughed in their face. But now… the idea of wearing these clothes didn’t repulse him. It didn’t thrill him either, but it didn’t push him away. Was that good or bad? It went against everything he was, everything he’d always believed. Yet, at the same time, he didn’t feel like he was actively seeking this. He shook his head, trying to clear the confusion. Let’s get this over with before Shampoo starts asking questions.

He blinked once, twice, three times, staring at his reflection. He was dressed, fully, though the word “dressed” felt odd when he wasn’t wearing pants but something like a sweater shaped like a long-sleeved dress. It was simple, a dark cream color, slightly loose at the shoulders with a modest neckline. A black belt cinched it at the waist, and the hem reached mid-thigh. It was… strange. Seeing it, feeling it. It was unlike anything he’d worn before, and though he tried to ignore it, a faint blush tinged his cheeks, as if his body betrayed his thoughts.

The next outfit was different, more to his liking. A white tunic with loose sleeves, secured at the wrists with elastic, paired with a black belt that accentuated his figure. Flowy black pants, partially covered by the tunic, and black combat boots completed the look. It was practical, simple, and, in his opinion, looked good. It felt functional, like something he could wear in a fight without sacrificing mobility.

Then came something more… curious. Black shorts and a matching sports bra formed the base, but what stood out were sheer black leggings covering his legs. Over it, a translucent black garment with floral patterns sewn into the fabric mimicked a shirt. It was bold, too much for his taste. He couldn’t imagine going out in something like that, not because it didn’t fit well, but because it just wasn’t him. Or so he wanted to believe.

The next outfit surprised him with its comfort. A thin white kimono with wide, flowing sleeves, cinched by a blue obi, fit like a glove. It was easy to move in, and it looked good. More than that, it felt good, though he didn’t understand why. Not only did he think it suited him; there was something about the garment that made him feel… in harmony, as if he didn’t have to try to fit into it. He took note of it, though he wasn’t sure what it meant.

He swore he’d kill someone—either Shampoo or the shop assistant—when he held it in his hands. It didn’t seem that bad at first, he swore it didn’t, but once he put it on, only one word could describe it: ridiculous. Light pink, overtly feminine, with puffed sleeves and a bow at the center of the neckline, ending at his thighs. If he could, he’d have ripped it off, thrown it in a trash pile, burned it, and scattered the ashes in the deepest ocean trench he could find. It provoked nothing but absolute rejection.

Finally, they left the shop. Since when was buying clothes so exhausting? Ranma wasn’t sure if it was physical or mental fatigue, but this wasn’t his thing at all. Though, if he was honest, he did like some of the outfits. He ended up wearing one they’d insisted on: a fitted leotard, a light gray jacket, and black pants with gray accents. It wasn’t much, but it did the job and didn’t draw too much attention. At least, not as much as some of the extravagant fashions he’d seen in the village, where everyone seemed to follow their own style without rules.

“Now that we’re done…” Ranma said, flashing a sharp smile, “I guess I’ve been here long enough. Those sorcerers can wait a bit, right? You really got me itching to test you out.”

Xian Pu raised an eyebrow, matching his challenging smile, though a faint blush colored her cheeks. “Ooh? Moving to second base so fast?” she teased, her tone playful but with a competitive edge. “If you really want to test all of me, you’ll have to prove you’re strong enough to keep up.”

They were clearly talking about completely different things. But, at the end of the day, a fight was inevitable.

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Ranma had chosen to wear the white kimono with the blue obi, not because it was the most practical—the black outfit was clearly superior for combat—but because, for some inexplicable reason, it felt more comfortable. The flowing, lightweight fabric seemed to mold to his body, as if he didn’t have to try to fit into it. The thrill of facing a sorcerer for the first time in a long while bubbled inside him, fueled by Xian Pu’s almost arrogant confidence. Reading between the lines, her self-assurance was evident, perhaps too much, which could be a mistake. But Ranma wouldn’t underestimate her; if she was as special as she claimed, that confidence might be justified.

He didn’t want to prolong the wait. He watched Xian Pu stretch with a smile brimming with assurance, her body relaxed yet ready for action. Ranma mirrored the gesture, feeling his own body tense, primed for combat. Xian Pu did small hops, warming up her muscles, and picked up a rock from the ground. “The fight starts the moment this rock hits the ground,” she announced, tossing it into the sky with a graceful motion.

Time seemed to freeze as the rock ascended. The seconds stretched, heavy with tension. Xian Pu took a deep breath, her lungs filling with air, and an electric aura began to crackle around her. Her hair, especially the buns, sparked with purple flashes, like miniature lightning bolts. She carried no weapons, but her presence suggested she didn’t need them. Her feet sank slightly into the earth, anchoring her to the ground, while Ranma adopted a defensive stance, his eyes locked on her. He could feel Xian Pu’s cursed energy surging massively, a promise that she’d come out swinging with something powerful from the start. The rock began its descent, as if in slow motion, until it finally struck the ground with a dull thud, mingling with the crunch of surrounding stones.

Then, Xian Pu moved. Her body became a blur, a flash of explosive speed that left Ranma momentarily stunned. He tried to counter, extending an arm to unleash a pair of slashing attacks through the air, designed to force her back or at least catch her off guard. But, to his astonishment, Xian Pu seemed to anticipate them, altering her trajectory at the last instant with agility that defied logic. In a blink, she was in front of him, her fist charged with electric energy aimed straight at his face.

Ranma’s cursed energy roared through his veins, amplifying a body that was already extraordinarily strong. His reflexes, his strength—everything was heightened, and yet he barely managed to intercept the blow, grabbing Xian Pu’s arm and stepping back to absorb the impact. But something stopped him: a numbing sensation coursed through his arm, like tiny needles piercing his skin, spreading slowly through his body. It was a mix of instinct and experience that saved him. His other hand rose almost reflexively, deflecting a second punch aimed at his face. Still, it wasn’t enough; the blow connected sideways, snapping his head with an impact that echoed in his skull.

Seizing the fact that he still held Xian Pu’s arm, Ranma counterattacked. With a swift motion, he unleashed another slashing attack at point-blank range, aiming for her legs. The cutting force tore through Xian Pu’s loose pants, leaving shallow cuts on her skin. Almost simultaneously, both attempted to kick each other, their feet colliding with a burst of force that pushed them back. They skidded across the ground, separating by a few meters, the disturbed earth marking the spot where their bodies had clashed.

Ranma touched his eye, checking for blood. “This is gonna leave a mark tomorrow,” he muttered to himself, narrowing his eyes as he assessed his opponent. She’s insanely fast. I’ve never met anyone faster than me going all out, even with my strength combined with cursed energy. Xian Pu’s strategy seemed clear: hit hard from the start, aiming to end the fight quickly. That suggested she wasn’t prepared for a prolonged battle. Plus, her martial style was direct, effective for quick exchanges, but she likely couldn’t sustain a longer fight, which would force her to retreat. And then there was that sensation… that tingling still lingering on his face and arm. Numbing properties? Not quite. The electricity crackling around Xian Pu made it clear: she was trying to electrocute him. If I didn’t have my natural resilience, that punch would’ve knocked me out cold right in the face. Alright, let’s see what else she’s got.

This time, Ranma took the initiative. With a fluid motion, he lunged forward, his kimono fluttering like a white flag in the wind. Xian Pu wasn’t about to be an easy target. She responded with a counteroffensive, leaping forward into the air. Ranma grinned, a spark of excitement glinting in his eyes. Perfect. Aerial combat is my specialty.

With that confidence in mind, Ranma launched himself into the sky, aware that tactically, he was at a disadvantage against Xian Pu since he’d be below her. But it didn’t matter. Both prepared for the clash, their bodies tense and ready for the midair encounter. Ranma struck first. As he closed in on Xian Pu, he felt a sudden tingling, as if his hair stood on end under an invisible current. With a swift move, he grabbed her leg, pulling her toward him with force. Xian Pu tried to counter with a punch, but Ranma spun his body in the air, ending up face-up, and trapped her arm between his legs. With both hands, he held her firmly and, extending his legs with an explosive thrust, executed a flip that spun Xian Pu in the air like a whirlwind.

The move threw off his own center of gravity, which he still wasn’t fully accustomed to in this body. It took a fraction of a second longer than usual to right himself, but he managed, raising a leg to deliver a direct kick aimed at sending Xian Pu crashing to the ground. However, she reacted with astonishing agility, dodging the impact and causing both to wobble in the air, driven by their mutual momentum.

“Ever have so much energy inside you feel like dancing?” Xian Pu said, her voice laced with almost mocking confidence, a radiant smile lighting up her face. The electricity around her intensified, transforming into a crackling aura that filled the air with the sound of sparks and discharges. “Let me teach you some electrifying moves!”

Suddenly, an invisible field spread around her, ionizing the air with an ominous hum. Ranma felt electric shocks course through his body, not coming directly from Xian Pu but emerging from the area enveloping them. His skin vibrated, heating under a perpetual shiver that made his muscles contract uncontrollably. It lasted only a couple of seconds, but each moment felt eternal, as if time had stopped to torment him. With a titanic effort, Ranma focused his cursed energy on his head and arms, reinforcing them against the numbness. In a desperate move, he grabbed Xian Pu by her shirt and delivered a brutal elbow to the center of her face. The impact sent her plummeting to the ground, raising a cloud of dust upon landing.

Ranma descended too, landing on his feet a few meters away. His body still trembled slightly, the echoes of the electricity reverberating in his muscles. He wasn’t used to this kind of damage, but he figured it was cumulative. Two or three more shocks like that, and he’d be in serious trouble. When the dust settled, Xian Pu stood, brushing her hands off casually. Her clothes were dirty, but the most noticeable damage was two thin streams of blood running from her nose to her chin. Yet, she seemed unbothered. She stuck out her tongue, licking the blood from her lips with an almost defiant expression. “That hurt,” she admitted, her voice steady but tinged with admiration. “Not many have pulled that off. Well done, but this is just the start.”

Ranma let out a low laugh, acknowledging the challenge. He spread his legs, adopting a combat stance, ready for the next move. Xian Pu, meanwhile, raised a hand, pointing directly at him. Ranma felt her cursed energy skyrocket to dizzying levels, as if she were about to unleash something devastating. Her stance suggested a ranged attack, and though Ranma tried to prepare, the attack was nearly instantaneous. His cursed energy reacted faster than his mind, abandoning his limbs to concentrate on a 15-centimeter point on his chest. In that instant, a blinding bolt shot from Xian Pu’s fingers, striking Ranma’s chest directly.

The pain was indescribable, like an anvil fired from a cannon. The cursed energy he’d concentrated on his chest mitigated the impact, but he was still thrown backward, sliding across the dirt on his back. The ringing in his ears and the numbing sensation left him dazed. He didn’t know how he’d defended against that; any other sorcerer would’ve been knocked unconscious, and a normal person likely would’ve died. It took a couple of seconds to pull himself together, standing with effort. “So that’s what it was, huh?” he said, forcing a smile despite the pain. “Obvious and redundant, but… you’re a damn walking power plant.”

Xian Pu looked at him with a crooked smile, a mix of arrogance and defiant confidence. Her arched brows and relaxed face contrasted with the intensity of her gaze. “A simple deduction, but not a bad one,” she replied, her voice laced with amusement. “So, what’re you gonna do about it?”

Ranma laughed, his smile sharp despite the pain throbbing in his chest. “Haha… what else could I do? I’ll take that pretty face and rub it in the dirt when I beat you.”

Xian Pu flinched, as if she’d hiccupped, and her face flushed a deep red. “Pretty?” she squeaked, her voice higher-pitched. But before they could continue, an unexpected interruption broke the moment.

From the nearby forest, a red liquid, like a floating tide, emerged from the trees, moving with supernatural speed. It positioned itself above Xian Pu, coagulating into sharp lances that rained down on her. Xian Pu reacted with impeccable skill, using agile footwork to dodge and shatter the lances in midair, maneuvering with precision. Seizing an opening, she leaped out of the attack’s range. The red liquid then condensed into a small sphere, and a figure descended from the tree branches, landing on both feet. The floating sphere dropped in front of him, and with a clap, he caught it between his hands.

“I won’t let you keep hurting my brother!” the man shouted. His skin was so pale it resembled a corpse, and his aura made it clear he was a sorcerer.

Ranma and Xian Pu, caught in the confusion of the moment, exchanged a glance and exclaimed in unison a word filled with intent, shared intelligence, and a perfect description of their thoughts on the current situation: “Huh?”

Notes:

Just like the previous chapter, I don't have any beta readers and my primary language isn't English, so if you see any mistakes or something that doesn't make sense, please let me know! I also welcome any criticism so I can improve my writing style and storytelling.

Chapter 4: saved at the last minute

Summary:

After an interruption, a new fighter appears, but proves to be more competent than they believed.

Notes:

Thanks to the readers who are reading this, I tried my best to finish this and bring the highest quality possible, and I'm sorry if I disappear for the next 2 weeks, but silksong is going to swallow up all my free time and it's not debatable.

Ranma stared intently at the guy in front of him, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. The young man had a solid build, slightly bulkier than Ranma’s, with a yellow bandana tied around his head. But what really caught his attention was the white puppy nestled in his hair, as if the messy locks were its personal nest. The little animal seemed perfectly comfortable, legs crossed and eyes half-closed, as if about to take a nap. “You look like Kiba with Akamaru,” Ranma blurted, unable to hold back the comparison, a mocking smile curling his lips.

“Hey, who do you think you’re making fun of?” the guy shot back, furrowing his brow and raising a fist in a gesture more theatrical than threatening.

Ranma let out a laugh, raising his hands in surrender. “Chill, chill, man! It was just a joke!”

The polished wooden floor of the hallway creaked slightly under their feet, reflecting the natural light filtering through the open windows. The place had a serene air, with a breeze drifting in from outside and the distant murmur of a few students echoing through the building. Ranma scratched the back of his neck, still disoriented. “Wait, I’m a bit lost here. I just wanted to ask for some help, you know?”

The bandana guy sighed, crossing his arms and sizing Ranma up with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. “Whatever, but don’t let it happen again,” he said, softening his tone. “You new or something? It’s weird they’d accept students who start at that age. Why’d you show up so late?”

Ranma shrugged, flashing a carefree smile. “Basically, I got recommended. Or so I think. Someone approached me and my dad while we were traveling to get stronger and learn. They said they saw potential in me and offered me a spot at the school. Then, when they looked up my name, apparently someone had already recommended me a while back, so they accepted me right away. And, well, my dad, the second he heard ‘training’ and ‘free,’ practically threw me in here.” He paused, extending his hand. “Oh, I’m Ranma, by the way.”

The bandana guy stared at Ranma’s hand for a few seconds, as if assessing whether it was trustworthy. Then, with a deliberate motion, he picked up the puppy from his head and held it in front of Ranma’s hand, letting it sniff. The puppy barked once, a high-pitched, playful sound, and the guy nodded with his eyes closed, as if he’d received a divine signal. Finally, he shook Ranma’s hand. “My name’s Hibiki Ryoga, and this here’s Shiro,” he said, petting the puppy’s head as it returned to its nest in his owner’s hair. Ranma noticed, for the first time, three small dots on the puppy’s forehead, forming a perfect triangle.

“Uh… what was that about?” Ranma asked, tilting his head, a question mark practically visible beside him.

Ryoga looked at him like the question was absurd. “What? Oh, Shiro’s got good intuition. If she accepts you, then I do too,” he explained, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. He turned and started walking down the hallway. “Well, if you were recommended, I guess you’ve got some jujutsu experience. They’ll put you in the same classes as us, but don’t expect us to slow down if you can’t keep up.”

Ranma raised an eyebrow, following him. “Wait, this school’s for sorcery?”

Ryoga stopped dead, turning with a look of disbelief. The puppy on his head tilted its own, mirroring its owner’s confusion. “Hold on, you didn’t know?” he exclaimed, jumping and pointing an accusing finger. “How the hell did you get recommended if you didn’t even know about sorcery schools? This is ridiculous! Come with me, I’ll show you around, but I’m not promising anything.”

Ranma, amused by Ryoga’s outburst, followed without protest. Ryoga announced they’d head to the cafeteria first, but something in his tone made Ranma start to doubt. They turned left at a corner, then another, and another, only to end up back in the same hallway they started in. Ranma frowned, feeling growing exasperation. They kept going until the end of the corridor, emerging into an open area with training fields and a forest in the background. Ranma glanced back, pretty sure the cafeteria should be inside the main building, not outdoors.

“Hey, just out of curiosity… you know where we’re going, right?” Ranma asked, his voice laced with suspicion as he stared at Ryoga’s back.

“Of course I do!” Ryoga replied with absolute confidence. “We’ll get there sooner or later. At least soon enough for dinner.”

“Huh?” Ranma stopped, incredulous. “How far is it? It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes!” He pointed toward the school facilities, visibly exasperated. “I’m pretty sure the cafeteria’s inside the building, and we’re heading outside!”

Ryoga narrowed his eyes, scanning the surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. “I think you’re right,” he admitted reluctantly. “We should head that way.”

Ranma sighed, relieved, and started walking toward the school. But when he turned, he saw Ryoga heading in the opposite direction. A vein pulsed in his forehead. “Are you screwing with me?” he growled, barely holding back the urge to yell.

“No, but I think you’re screwing with me!” Ryoga shot back, turning with an indignant expression. “You keep talking and talking when I’m just trying to guide you! I think you’re the one trying to mess with me!”

“Hey, that makes no sense!” Ranma snapped, his patience wearing thin. “You trying to pick a fight or what? You wanna go?”

Ryoga took a step forward, his eyes blazing. “Ha! If I fought you, I’d destroy you. Some guy who barely seems to know jujutsu, come here if you’ve really got the guts!”

Ranma didn’t need more provocation. With a swift move, he lunged at Ryoga, his fist slicing through the air with precision toward his face. Maybe Ryoga didn’t expect him to take the bait, or maybe he didn’t think Ranma would actually hit him, but either way, he didn’t defend himself. The impact sent him staggering back, his head snapping from the force. Shiro, the white puppy resting in his hair, hung in the air for a moment, flailing its little legs as if just realizing its platform had vanished. Ranma caught it with one hand, grabbing it by the scruff, and waved it in front of Ryoga with a mocking grin.

Ryoga steadied himself moments later, wiping a trickle of blood dripping from his nose. He looked at the blood on his hand, clenched his fist until the drops seeped between his fingers, and flashed a sharp smile. “It’s been a while since anyone hit me that hard,” he said, his voice laced with a mix of respect and defiance. To Ranma’s dismay, the puppy in his hand suddenly turned dark, like viscous shadow, slipping through his fingers and falling to the ground like a puddle, quickly slithering to merge beneath Ryoga’s feet.

Ryoga’s next attack was a high kick aimed at Ranma’s face. Ranma leaned back, watching the foot pass mere centimeters from his eyes with complete calm. Ryoga followed with a thrust from an umbrella that… where the hell had that come from? No time to question it. Ranma dodged with a sidestep, then evaded a second, third, and fourth thrust, moving with agile footwork as Ryoga tried to land a hit with the weapon. Finally, with a shout, Ryoga swung the umbrella horizontally. Ranma dodged with a leap, landing on the tip of the umbrella with feline grace. With a quick gesture, he formed a pincer with his fingers and struck Ryoga’s nose with his index finger, his mocking grin widening.

With a grunt, Ryoga spun the umbrella, trying to throw Ranma off balance, but Ranma decided to end the exchange. As the umbrella rose again, he grabbed it with both hands, intending to stop it and counter with a kick. But the weapon didn’t stop. It kept moving with relentless force, bending Ranma’s body backward. He tried to break away, but it was futile. The impact slammed him into the ground, the air escaping his lungs with a loud puff! A crater formed beneath him, and a dull pain spread through his chest, promising a bruise he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

“That’ll teach you,” Ryoga said, stepping back two paces, though his expression shifted when he saw Ranma stand with unsettling ease.

Ryoga raised both eyebrows, stunned. Even the teachers struggle to recover from my hits. How’s he doing it? He didn’t sense significant cursed energy reinforcement from Ranma, beyond the basics. His physical resilience must be extraordinary. “What the hell are you made of?” he asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and admiration.

“I could say the same, jerk,” Ranma replied, spitting on the ground with a defiant smile. “You hit like a truck, but trust me, it won’t happen again.”

He got into position, ready to continue, while Ryoga let out a low laugh and adopted his own combat stance. “I was just warming up,” he said, his eyes gleaming with determination.

The sun beat down on the training fields of the Kyoto Jujutsu High, casting a golden glow over the air. The dust kicked up by the fight hung in the atmosphere, mingling with the sound of panting and the crunch of earth beneath their feet. Ranma couldn’t remember feeling this exhausted in a long time. No one, not even his father—who, he had to admit, was a skilled fighter—could keep up with him in prolonged battles. His stamina had always surpassed most people’s, and what he sometimes lacked in skill, he made up for with innately superior brute strength. But now, facing Ryoga, he found a rival who not only matched him but made him doubt whether he’d come out completely victorious. The ground around them was littered with craters and fissures, evidence of the intensity of their clash. Ryoga’s umbrella lay forgotten somewhere, lost in the chaos.

Neither had used sorcery, as if they’d reached a tacit agreement. They didn’t need it. Ranma had met other sorcerers, but they all relied on their techniques and cursed energy to fight. In pure physical combat, few could’ve lasted against him. Ryoga, however, was different. With just basic cursed energy reinforcement, he was pushing Ranma to his limit.

Ranma took a deep breath, ready to end the fight, determined to leave only one standing. But before he could move, a bucket of cold water snapped him out of his trance, soaking them both completely.

“Alright, alright, what enthusiasm!” came a female voice, dripping with sarcasm. “Your first day, and you’re already wrecking the place! Ryoga, you were supposed to be at the cafeteria two hours ago. And you, why are you playing along with this idiot?”

Ranma blinked, shaking the water from his face, and saw a girl with long, dark hair tied in a thick braid. She wore a black uniform: a fitted shirt and loose pants, a combination Ranma found unusual. Her wristbands and arms, covered in scars, gave her a hardened air, and she seemed a couple of years older than him. “Nice to meet you, by the way,” she continued, crossing her arms. “I’m Hisako. The idiot over there is Ryoga, as you’ve probably noticed. He’s a musclehead with brains to match. I heard you’re joining the sorcery school. We were supposed to meet in the cafeteria to introduce ourselves, but I guess that doesn’t matter now.” She shot them both a stern look. “And please, take a shower. If you two are fighting, make peace or something. I don’t want more tension around here—this place is already a pressure cooker when the higher-ups are around.”

Ryoga scratched the back of his head, muttering something about the anticlimactic moment, but ended up laughing. Ranma looked at him, and soon they were both laughing, the tension from the fight dissipating.

They walked together toward the facilities, though Ryoga kept veering off, as if his sense of direction was completely broken. Ranma, exasperated, ended up grabbing his hand to guide him. They used the spacious showers for a quick rinse, as instructed, and headed to the cafeteria. Even then, Ranma could feel Ryoga pulling in the wrong directions, only to reluctantly correct himself and follow, like a lost child.

The moment he crossed the cafeteria’s threshold, the warm, tantalizing aroma of food made Ranma’s stomach growl with an intensity that caught him off guard. The place was buzzing with life, with several tables occupied by students chatting animatedly. Hisako, noticing their arrival, turned her head and raised a hand in a casual wave. Beside her were two others, and Ranma couldn’t help but observe them curiously as he approached, with Ryoga trailing close behind, still wearing a slightly annoyed expression.

The first to stand out was a boy with short brown hair, dressed in a hakama and kimono that screamed “swordsman” from a mile away. Ranma found the outfit a bit outdated; there were far more practical options for wielding a sword, but he figured the guy’s budget might not allow for more. There wasn’t anything particularly distinctive about him, except for his upright posture and the calm aura he exuded, as if he was used to keeping his composure.

The second person was a girl, and her appearance immediately caught Ranma’s attention. She wore a choker-like tattoo around her neck, with a design that seemed to spill like thick liquid over her shoulders, extending into intricate bracelets on her arms. Ranma wasn’t sure if it was part of her technique or just an aesthetic choice, but he had to admit it looked really cool. She wore a short black crop top that, at first glance, seemed like an exaggeratedly cut jacket, revealing a slightly defined abdomen. Her jogger-style pants, oddly common around here, hung low on her hips, and Ranma noticed with unease a pair of elastics peeking above, circling her waist and disappearing behind. Is that… underwear? he thought, feeling a sudden shiver he tried to suppress for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. Her outfit ended with high boots, giving her a rebellious yet controlled vibe.

“Shirogane Lupin, pleasure to meet you,” said the boy in traditional attire, his voice deep but kind, carrying a confidence free of arrogance. Ranma thought it was a good first impression; he didn’t seem like a pompous jerk, which was already a point in his favor.

The girl, meanwhile, propped a foot on the table in a carefree pose and waved lazily, her smile more like a wink. “Makoto Hoshino. Let’s get along, alright, handsome?” she said, her tone playful but with a hint of challenge.

“And as I said before, I’m Hisako,” the braided girl interjected, taking the floor naturally. “We’re all first-years here. Our superiors left a while ago; you might meet them later. The teachers aren’t around either, except for the principal, of course.” She paused, and suddenly, an object flew through the air toward Ranma.

He caught it instinctively. It was a plush toy, something like a frog, though not quite. A yōkai, maybe? Ranma frowned, trying to recall the legends he’d never been good at. “Oh, and this is Yaga,” Hisako continued, pointing to the kid watching them from the table, his brow perpetually furrowed.

Yaga, a boy who couldn’t be older than seven, nodded with a seriousness that clashed with his age, as if all the pieces of an invisible puzzle were clicking into place in his mind. Ranma, confused, didn’t have time to process what that look meant before a sudden blow to his chin forced him to stare at the ceiling. The plush toy in his hands leaped abruptly, returning to Yaga’s arms with a supernatural movement.

“Ow! What was that for?” Ranma protested, rubbing his chin while glaring at the kid.

Yaga stared back, his small but intense eyes unwavering. “This cursed corpse is programmed to act as a sensor,” he explained in a voice surprisingly clear for his age. “Whenever it detects what I programmed it for, it takes action.”

Ranma, still rubbing his chin, raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what’s it supposed to detect?”

Yaga didn’t hesitate, his gaze steady and unblinking. “Trouble.”

Ranma blinked, baffled, while Ryoga beside him let out a stifled laugh. The cafeteria, with its bustle and the tempting aroma of food, suddenly felt far more complicated than Ranma had anticipated.

The day had been exhausting for Ranma. They’d arrived in Kyoto without high expectations, aware it was a big, touristy city, which made earning money tough. Well, tough for Genma. Ranma, on the other hand, could strum a guitar in a busy plaza and collect a decent handful of coins in an afternoon. Most of the students in the cafeteria had already said their goodbyes, and it seemed they’d only been waiting for his arrival. That made him feel a bit uneasy; he didn’t like the idea of keeping anyone waiting, especially since he hadn’t anticipated the day dragging on so long, let alone ending up in a fight the moment he set foot in the school. And, to top it off, he’d been invited to this sorcery institution on someone’s recommendation. Was it Yoshinobu? With everything he’d said, he didn’t seem like the rule-following type, but still… Ranma couldn’t imagine who else might have recommended him.

He walked through the school’s entrance, which resembled a traditional temple, with red arches and a stone path winding through cherry blossom trees. The sunset painted the sky a warm orange, tinting the bare branches—still not in bloom—with a glow that was, in its own way, beautiful. Inspiring, even. Ranma thought he might try composing something when he got back… Wait. How am I supposed to find the old man now?

“Wait!” A shout snapped him out of his thoughts. It was Ryoga, running toward him with Shiro the puppy bouncing on his head. “Good thing I caught you before you left. I went out fifteen minutes ago just to catch up.”

Ranma blinked, puzzled. “Huh? But the cafeteria’s like thirty steps from here. How bad is your sense of direction?”

Ryoga scratched the back of his neck, visibly embarrassed. “Ha, yeah, speaking of that… I’m really not great at finding my way on my own. I always end up lost somewhere.” He paused, looking at the ground as if the ants were the most fascinating thing in the world. “I’m working on it. I’m training Shiro to guide me, but… she’s still got some kinks. I’ve been told I need to raise them better, make them grow into proper shikigami. A lot of people think I’m a disgrace to my technique, but, hey, I don’t like the idea of sending them to the front lines to get hurt or, worse, exorcised. They’re like family to me. That’s why I train, to stand by their side if they have to fight. They’ll grow soon, I know it. I just need to be more prepared.” He looked at Shiro, who let out a faint bark, as if in agreement. “Shiro’s still got trouble picking up the scent of my home or giving precise directions, but she can guide me to the school. I’m sure in a couple of days she’ll manage to get me back home. So… uh… do you think you could help me?” he asked, scratching his cheek and avoiding eye contact. “I know it’s weird since we just met, but Shiro trusted you. And, well, that fight we had was pretty good. We still need to finish it. But for now, I think I can trust you. Could you guide me to my house? I live nearby, and I’ll give you the address—it’s just a twenty-minute walk.”

Ranma studied him for a moment, his expression softening before he let out a sigh and nodded. “Alright, come here. I’ll help you. At least this way I’ll get to see a bit more of Kyoto,” he said, grabbing Ryoga’s hand to ensure he didn’t wander off again.

At that moment, a figure moved from the shadows. Ranma hadn’t noticed her before, though he’d sensed a presence nearby. It was Makoto, leaning against one of the red pillars flanking the school’s entrance. She walked toward them with an enigmatic smile. “Quite a thing, huh?” she said, looking at Ranma. “You’re like a broken egg someone glued back together with industrial adhesive.” Then she turned to Ryoga. “And you’ve already exploded and don’t even realize it.”

With that, as if she’d said something perfectly clear, she walked past them and down the stone path, leaving a trail of mystery in her wake.

Ranma and Ryoga exchanged looks, equally confused. “Was she speaking in code? Did you get any of that?” Ranma asked, tilting his head.

Ryoga shrugged, frowning. “She’s always been a bit weird, but that was especially weird.”

With nothing more to gain by standing there, they resumed their conversation and started walking toward Ryoga’s house. Ranma kept a firm grip on his new companion’s hand, knowing that otherwise, they’d likely end up lost in some forgotten corner of Kyoto.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

A triangle of positions had formed in the clearing, the tension crackling in the air like a lightning bolt about to strike. Ranma, in one corner, watched both Xian Pu and the intruder who had disrupted their fight with keen attention. His white kimono, now stained with dirt from his earlier fall, fluttered slightly in the breeze, a detail he barely noticed amidst the adrenaline. Xian Pu, for her part, had stepped back after the exchange and was gripping a metallic combat staff, its end wrapped with wires that gave it the appearance of an improvised coil, humming with contained electric energy. And then there was the intruder, the pale man who had halted the fight with his sudden arrival.

His skin was sickly white, not supernatural, but as if a tan pigment had been washed out, leaving traces of its original color beneath a dull, worn layer. His messy hair was tied into two uneven buns, with chaotic bangs falling over his forehead. He was tall, taller than Ranma, which surprised him since few people surpassed his height since his transformation. He wore a beige long-sleeve shirt covered by a purple sweater that gave him an eccentric air, paired with loose light-colored pants and a black scarf that billowed in the wind.

And then there were those words he’d thrown out: brother. What the hell did that mean? Ranma scrutinized him, searching for any resemblance, but found none. Neither in his male form nor his current one was there the slightest trace of similarity. Had he mistaken him for someone else? Yet, the man had spoken with a conviction that unnerved him. “Listen, buddy,” Ranma said, his voice firm but laced with warning. “I don’t know why you attacked Xian Pu, but if you don’t stop now, I won’t go easy on you.”

The pale man glanced at Ranma for a moment, only to fix his gaze back on Xian Pu. “She warned me about this,” he said, his tone deep and certain. “How that man who calls himself your father filled your head with his ideas. But don’t worry, I’ll save you, even if it’s from yourself.”

Ranma frowned, his mind racing. What was he talking about? Clearly, this guy was confused or manipulated, but that didn’t matter now. Though he didn’t like the idea, he could use his current appearance to his advantage. “Listen, lunatic,” he shot back, gesturing at himself from head to toe with a sarcastic smile curling his lips. “I’m an only child. Besides, you’re talking about a brother, right? Not a sister. What, you look at me and automatically think ‘guy’?”

Inside, Ranma couldn’t help but imagine Genma foaming at the mouth if he heard him talk like that. The thought almost made him laugh, but he kept his composure, watching the man’s reaction.

The intruder looked at him again, this time more closely, as if considering his appearance for the first time. His eyes narrowed, assessing him, and Ranma could almost see the gears turning in his head. Is he just now noticing? How did he decide I’m his brother without even looking at me properly? Ranma thought, increasingly convinced this guy was completely unhinged. “You don’t have to worry about that,” the man replied, giving a thumbs-up that only confused Ranma further. “It doesn’t matter if you want to be a boy or a girl. Your brother Choso will accept every part of you. Appearance is just appearance at the end of the day.”

Ranma blinked, stunned, feeling emotions he couldn’t quite decipher—was he… confused? The man’s words hit him, piercing through his defenses as if speaking directly to something deep inside him. Or perhaps not piercing them, but resonating within him instead. Genma had always said the opposite: he was the man among men, Ranma Saotome, destined to be the best version of himself through training and the legacy of the “Anything Goes” style. This form, this curse, was nothing but an obstacle, a mistake to overcome. He’d accepted his condition with a naturalness that sometimes unnerved him—too quickly, too easily—but he chalked it up to the curse itself, not something he truly wanted. Right?

He wanted to selectively forget, fix this, and get out of here as soon as possible, return to his main mission: making Genma proud, despite everything. Genma could be an idiot sometimes, spouting things even he didn’t fully understand, but Ranma knew he wanted to be the best version of himself, and Genma wanted that too. At the end of the day, he couldn’t deny the results.

So what was this man saying? That he didn’t need to be anything more than what he was? That he just needed to be the man among men, keep training, carry on the “Anything Goes” legacy in his own way? That’s what his life had always been, what he wanted to keep being. This form… it was just a hindrance. He admitted strong women existed, but this simply wasn’t him, not what he was supposed to be. Any feelings of ease or naturalness in accepting his condition were just a result of the curse, nothing more. Right?

The stranger’s words, so sincere, so devoid of judgment for reasons he couldn’t fathom, were unlike anything he’d ever heard directed at him in this way. It was different from Yoshinobu, who had been his guide, a friend, but for obvious reasons, this topic had never come up. You don’t need to be anything more than you are. The words swirled in his head, like strumming an unfamiliar melody. Was it a technique? Were they imbued with cursed energy? There was no time to analyze it, but the pressure in his chest grew, a knot he couldn’t ignore. His hand instinctively slid to his chest, gripping the kimono until it wrinkled. His expression remained steady.

Who the hell is this guy? he thought, shaking his head to clear the confusion. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He was an enemy, and Ranma wouldn’t let those words distract him. He took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. His muscles, trembling slightly moments ago, relaxed. His clenched fist loosened, and his mind focused on what was in front of him: an opponent. Whatever had triggered that reaction, it would stop now.

The fight erupted with a ferocity that made the air vibrate. Xian Pu lunged at Choso with explosive speed, her fist charged with electricity aimed straight at his stomach. But the blow never landed. Choso raised a hand, and a barrier of coagulated blood formed above it, absorbing both the force of the punch and the electric current accompanying it. Xian Pu, unfazed, spun her metallic combat staff—its wired end resembling an improvised coil—and executed a frontal sweep with lethal precision. Choso responded instantly, raising an arm where red scales emerged from his skin, hardening like armor. With a firm stance, he not only blocked the attack that should’ve sent him flying but stood unmoved, the impact sending a gust of air that stirred the surrounding earth.

Without giving her a moment’s respite, Choso used his scale-covered arm to strike Xian Pu’s hands, forcing her to drop the staff. With a fluid motion, he landed a punch on her cheek that would’ve sent her reeling if he hadn’t grabbed the edge of her shirt. Without missing a beat, his other arm, free of scales, sank into Xian Pu’s stomach with a sharp blow that made her spit saliva, her face contorting in pain.

That’s when Ranma stepped in. Taking advantage of Choso’s focus on Xian Pu, he launched a flying kick aimed at the black-haired man’s head. Choso ducked with surprising agility, and in the same motion, swept Xian Pu’s legs, knocking her down. The blood scattered on the ground from the earlier lance attack came to life, flowing toward Choso as if it had a will of its own. It wrapped around Xian Pu’s legs, hardening into makeshift shackles that immobilized her. Ranma, spinning in the air, landed in front of Choso, ready for the assault. He threw a high punch, but Choso blocked it, their arms colliding with a force that echoed through the clearing. Undeterred, Ranma planted his feet in the earth and lunged forward, using the momentum to charge. Choso sidestepped, but Ranma, anticipating it, propelled himself off a nearby tree, managing to tackle him. They rolled across the ground, with Ranma ending up on top, throwing a punch at Choso’s face. Choso dodged, twisting his neck to the side, and Ranma’s fist hit the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust. With a swift move, Choso kicked Ranma’s stomach, pushing him off and freeing himself.

Now separated, Choso did something that baffled Ranma. Blood sprouted from his back, as if his skin had torn, though he didn’t seem injured. That’s too much blood. Was he storing it? Ranma thought, unable to fathom how someone could manipulate such a quantity without bleeding out instantly. The blood condensed into spheres that floated around Choso, slowly spinning until they transformed into sharp disks. Ranma reacted instantly, unleashing his Cutting technique. Choso seemed to sense the attack but was too slow to dodge it completely. He raised his scale-covered arm, which absorbed most of the cuts, though some struck his shoulders. Four of the six blood disks exploded upon being hit by the technique, the blood splattering across the ground and trees.

“You have to understand,” Choso said, his voice heavy with a strange mix of determination and pleading. “I’m doing this for your own good. I know you’re confused, but you need to come with me.”

“Now you’re playing the saint?” Ranma snapped, his tone sharp. “You’re the one who attacked us out of nowhere! I don’t care what nonsense comes out of your mouth.”

“I see,” Choso replied, his gaze hardening. “That man’s corruption runs deep in you. In that case, I’ll save you.”

Ranma and Choso launched at each other again. I’m limited, Choso thought as he charged. If I use Piercing Blood, Penetrating Meteor, or Supernova, I could kill him by accident. I’ll have to get creative, considering how fast and slippery he is. Plus, I can’t keep coagulating blood in my arm like this for long, or it could cause a thrombosis. I need to end this now.

Blood began pooling at the soles of Choso’s feet, granting him supernatural speed as he glided across the ground. Ranma met him in hand-to-hand combat, his movements a whirlwind of strength and precision. Ranma was a formidable opponent: his physical strength was immense, amplified by cursed energy reinforcement. But he was also fast, agile, and his martial techniques were unfamiliar to Choso, forcing him to adapt on the fly. If I back off, he can use his innate technique to hit me from a distance, Choso thought. My only real advantage is at long range with Piercing Blood, but that would hurt him badly. It’s not an option.

Choso focused on circling Ranma, dodging each strike with lateral movements that forced him to constantly pivot. He used the blood at his feet to slide with an almost liquid fluidity, maintaining just enough distance to frustrate his opponent. The fight went on like this for a few seconds, long enough for Choso’s plan to take shape. Finally, Ranma, visibly fed up with the evasions, leaped into the air, unleashing a series of aerial kicks. Choso stepped back, blocking the blows with his arms, then ducked to dodge the last one. From that position, he launched a high kick that struck Ranma’s chest directly, sending him reeling with a blow that echoed through the clearing.

“It’s over!” Choso shouted, crossing both arms in an X over his chest. Suddenly, the blood that had been forming circles and spirals around Ranma from Choso’s evasions tightened. It transformed into ultra-dense, resistant threads that enveloped Ranma like a net. His legs were bound together, immobilized; his arms were pinned to his body, trapped by dozens of loops of blood threads. Ranma, brows furrowed and teeth clenched, tried to break free, using his Cutting technique against the ropes, but Choso didn’t allow it. He advanced quickly, raising his arm covered in red scales, now reinforced with blood pooled at the knuckles, and delivered a brutal blow to Ranma’s head.

The impact rang like thunder. Ranma collapsed to the ground, unconscious, as Choso watched, concerned about the force of the strike. He approached, confirming Ranma was still breathing. There didn’t seem to be any internal damage, and given his level of physical resilience, he likely wouldn’t be out for long. My sister, Ranma, has enormous potential, Choso thought, his expression softening for a moment. Despite being an exceptional fighter, surpassing him in martial skill, her sorcery was limited, as if she hadn’t yet unlocked her full power. But that could wait. For now, the priority was getting her to safety, away from the influence of the man who had corrupted her.

Choso had barely begun to savor the victory when he turned to where he’d left Xian Pu, only to find the blood shackles shattered on the ground. “What?” he exclaimed, but before he could react, a brutal blow struck his head, plunging him into momentary darkness. Recognizing the impact on his skull, he tried to turn, but his body didn’t respond with its usual fluidity. An electric current coursed through him, paralyzing his muscles. Damn it, he thought, realizing Xian Pu, far from giving up, was fighting with a tenacity that caught him off guard.

It was only a moment of disorientation, but it was enough. As he fell, his face about to hit the ground, he rolled to cushion the impact and stood, avoiding vulnerability. I was right to block her first attack with blood, he thought, as the red scales on his arm cracked and fell like shards of broken crystal, unable to harden his body further without risking thrombosis. But I can’t use that trick again. He looked at Xian Pu, his gaze hardening. “I don’t know what your intentions are with my sister, you filthy woman, but I won’t let you keep hurting her.”

Xian Pu responded in a language Choso didn’t understand—probably Chinese, explaining the language barrier between them. There was no room for negotiation; only one path remained. He adopted a combat stance, condensing an ultra-dense blood sphere between his hands. I won’t hold back against her, he thought. “Divergence!” he shouted, and as he clapped his hands, he roared, “Piercing Blood!”

The sphere in his hands transformed into a blood beam, fired like a laser toward Xian Pu. She dodged by ducking and sidestepping with a speed that defied perception. Noticing the attack wasn’t momentary but continuous, she ran in an arc, using her agility to reach Choso’s flank in an instant. With a swift move, she struck his hands, spilling the blood sphere onto the ground and disrupting his technique. Choso tried to retreat, but Xian Pu didn’t let him. With a fierce cry, she unleashed a flurry of punches, each charged with positive polarity that further paralyzed Choso. Gritting his teeth, enduring the pain, he muttered, “Supernova.”

Xian Pu, though alert, couldn’t react in time. The blood spheres floating behind her from the Piercing Blood attack exploded in a devastating barrage. The ground was riddled with holes, and Xian Pu’s back took the brunt, wrenching a scream of pain from her. The force of the explosions pushed her forward, destabilizing her. Choso, still trembling from the electricity coursing through him, seized the moment. He grabbed Xian Pu’s head and, with a brutal motion, slammed his knee into her face, breaking her nose. The purple-haired girl, on the verge of unconsciousness, fell back but weakly raised a hand toward Choso.

He, confident in his victory, paid it no mind. But then the air grew charged with electricity, his hair stood on end, and the smell of ozone filled the atmosphere. Xian Pu’s staff, lodged in the ground a few meters behind, now vibrated with energy. Her earlier punches had charged Choso with positive polarity, leaving her with negative polarity, making her a perfect target. A spark was enough to ionize the air between them, and a blinding bolt shot from the staff, piercing Choso’s side.

Choso fell to his knees, one hand pressing the wound. It didn’t hit any vital organs, he quickly assessed, evaluating the damage. He forced his blood to coagulate, using his technique to maintain circulation and avoid collapse. The pain was intense, a possible heart attack looming from the voltage he’d taken, but his blood manipulation kept him standing. “If it had hit an organ, I’d be in trouble,” he murmured, standing with effort. “But it’s finally over. Time to go home, little sister.”

He walked toward Ranma, lying unconscious on the ground, but a sound stopped him: a branch snapping behind him. He spun quickly, expecting a spy or a new enemy, but all he saw was a massive fist hurtling toward his face. The impact was devastating, sending him tumbling several meters across the ground. Ignoring the pain—“the hardest hit I’ve taken since I incarnated”—he stood with a roll, only to see a large rock flying toward him. Alarmed, he used Divergence followed by Meteor, firing hardened blood at high speed, pulverizing the rock in an explosion of dust.

From the cloud of debris, a figure emerged. It was a robust, bald man with a white cap and glasses framing a square face. He wore a simple white gi, his presence imposing despite his plain appearance. “I don’t know who you are or what you want,” the man growled, “but if you think you can mess with the Saotome family and walk away unscathed, you’re dead wrong!”

Choso, until that moment focused, felt a furious rage overtake him. The black line across his nose turned red, blood dripping as his teeth clenched tightly. “Saotome Genma,” he spat, his voice trembling with anger. “The one who dared steal one of my brothers from me!”

The tension in the clearing became palpable, as if the air itself had solidified. Choso, eyes blazing with fury, prepared for a new confrontation, while Genma adopted a combat stance, ready to protect Ranma and the girl on the ground.

A staggering amount of blood began emanating from Choso, not just from his body but from everything he’d used so far: the threads binding Ranma, the shattered shackles, the broken lances, the discarded puddles on the ground. This was joined by a new wave generated by his cursed energy, condensing into a sphere vibrating with violent intensity. “Divergence!” Choso shouted, holding the sphere between his hands as if he could barely control it, his hands expanding under pressure he forced himself to contain. “Triple Piercing Blood!”

Three blood beams shot out at high speed, driven by a twist of his hands that created a deadly vortex, designed to prevent his opponent from simply dodging to the side. The rock in front of him was pulverized, dozens of tree trunks were sliced through, and the air filled with splinters and dust. Genma, amidst the chaos, adjusted his glasses with unsettling calm, nodding to himself as if assessing the situation. Then, with fierce determination, he charged straight into the vortex’s center.

He dodged the cutting attacks with surprising agility for his bulk, sliding across the ground when beams passed overhead, leaping and spinning in the air to avoid two more. When Choso twisted his hands, creating a mosaic of blood with a small gap in the center, Genma leaped feet-first. With a grunt, he dislocated both shoulders to pass through the gap, landing with a fluid motion and popping them back into place as if they were puzzle pieces, showing no sign of pain.

Choso took a step back, narrowing his eyes. It’s fine, he told himself. This man, unlike the others, has no cursed energy. He can move and he’s trained, but he’s at a clear disadvantage. The attack had consumed a quarter of his reserves, and he felt the weight of his injuries: his heart weakened by Xian Pu’s lightning, the blood he had to keep circulating to avoid collapse. If I take more damage, my heart could stop again. If I miscalculate, I could destroy myself or fail to send enough blood in time.

Still, he had no other options. He conjured two blood knives in his hands, functioning like small saws due to the blood circulating at high speed, and lunged at Genma. As Genma closed in, Choso attempted a slash at his side, but Genma deflected the arm with a precise strike to Choso’s wrist. A second attack, a thrust at the neck, was blocked just as easily, with Genma striking Choso’s arm with his other hand to divert it. The position was compromised, and Genma didn’t waste the opportunity. He stepped forward and delivered a headbutt that rang in Choso’s ears, striking his face and making his nose bleed once more.

“Umisen-ken!” Genma shouted. Choso, dazed by the previous blow, instinctively closed his eyes. When he opened them, Genma had vanished. “Damn it, his presence is gone!” he exclaimed, alarmed. Did he flee? No, that can’t be. “Behind!” He spun quickly, raising his blood knives, but found only air. Suddenly, strong arms gripped him by the waist. “Ura Nage Zugaikotsu Kuzushi!” Genma roared.

Choso felt the world spin. The attack’s name, “Back Throw Skull Crusher,” left little to the imagination. The blood around him began to move, preparing to form lances, but Genma was faster. He leaped, arching his back, and Choso, taller and with a longer trajectory, slammed headfirst into the ground with a devastating impact. The concussion broke his focus, and the manipulated blood reverted to its liquid form, spilling uselessly. But Genma didn’t stop. He was on Choso in an instant, raising a palm that began to glow with a golden radiance.

“Shinra Shōha!” he shouted, striking Choso’s chest with force. The impact created a crater in the ground, accompanied by a golden shockwave that transformed the surroundings. The vegetation came alive: trees severed by Choso sprouted new shoots, grass surged with vigor, and the dirt path bloomed with colorful grass and flowers. Choso, eyes rolled back, fell unconscious, his body still under the weight of the attack.

Genma stood, stretching with a sigh as he surveyed the chaos around him. Xian Pu lay bleeding from the mouth, likely with damaged lungs. Ranma, unconscious, had a bump on his head that would last for days. And the pale man, the instigator of it all, lay motionless on the ground. Genma shook his head, disappointed. “Knowing your level, Ranma, you should’ve been able to beat him,” he muttered. “Were you tired from your earlier fight? Or was it something else? Whatever…”

He approached Xian Pu, his palms glowing again with a golden light. “I can’t heal internal injuries; that’s too advanced for me,” he said to himself, kneeling beside her. “But I can at least reduce the swelling so she doesn’t suffocate.” He murmured, “Kishin Shō.” The golden light settled on the purple-haired girl’s chest, stabilizing her breathing.

With a final sigh, Genma hoisted all three—Ranma, Xian Pu, and Choso—over his shoulders like sacks of potatoes and began walking toward the village. He glanced around at the destruction: felled trees, craters in the ground, pools of blood. He spat on the ground with disdain. “Cursed energy,” he grumbled, his voice laced with venom, as he strode off with purpose, silently demanding an explanation for this entire mess.

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His mother’s arms were soft, warm, a refuge where the world seemed to fade away. Resting his head on her chest was like sinking into a dream, a place that felt like home. Her face, blurred by the passage of time, was fading in his memory, but the sensation remained vivid. At his young age, being held by her was like clinging to a skyscraper, yet there was no fear—how could there be when she was the one holding him? Her lullaby, the gentle stroke of her hand through his hair, tightened his small chest with a mix of love and longing. One of his tiny hands gripped her finger, as if trying to hold onto that moment forever. “Mama…” he whispered, his voice pleading, filled with a childish need. But the comfort was fleeting. Darkness, like an unrelenting veil, enveloped him once more, tearing him from that memory.

He was running through the grass, the echo of children’s laughter ringing in a forgotten part of the city. He and that brown-haired boy were playing together, their steps light on the turf. They were small, and the memories of those days were blurry fragments. Ranma wore a gi tailored to his size, his bright pink hair fluttering in the wind, with some dull dark strands still clinging, hiding among the rest. It looked like strawberry and a bit of chocolate Neapolitan ice cream, or so the boy said. Suddenly, they stopped. The boy, his long hair tied in a bun, clutched Ranma’s shirt tightly as he stared toward the trees at the city’s edge. “It’s him,” he whispered, his voice tense, pointing at the darkness.

Ranma squinted and caught a serpentine movement. Something white, skeletal, peeked from the shadows, watching them with curiosity. It didn’t seem malevolent. Ranma had always had a knack for distinguishing dangerous creatures, and this one didn’t feel like the others. The other “weird bugs” only he could see gave off an ugly energy, like pure malice. But this creature was different, almost inviting exploration, though no less unsettling for it. Ranma grinned, thumping his chest with confidence. “Don’t worry, the man among men will protect you,” he declared, his voice full of childish bravado.

Seconds passed in tense silence, with no movement or sound. Finally, Ranma took the boy’s hand. “I think they’re calling us!” he said quickly, and they both ran toward where their parents were, unaware it would be the last time they’d see each other for a long, long time.

“Don’t cry,” said a woman with a stern voice, sitting on a bench, knitting with a calm that contrasted with the scene. Genma and Ranma had stopped in a village, and while his father searched for supplies, Ranma, at nine years old, had slipped away, as he often did. He knew Genma would notice halfway through shopping, but he trusted his father wouldn’t start over just to find him. That freedom, however, led him to face something new. It wasn’t a “small bug,” like the ones he sometimes saw. This one was big, creepy, a presence of pure malice. It was black, as if it absorbed all color, with a giant foot and a neck that rose nearly two meters to a hideous head. It stared at him, and Ranma stared back, motionless.

He’d been playing with a girl his age, chasing a ball in a small village. They’d ended up near her house, in an open field. On the way back, he encountered this creature. The girl didn’t seem to notice anything, but an adult woman, likely her mother, was knitting on a nearby bench without looking up. Yet Ranma knew she knew. “If you cry and stare at them, they’ll know you can see them,” she said, her hands never stopping. “If you do, they’ll attack. It’s only a Grade 4, but even those are dangerous for kids.”

Ranma looked at her, confused. “Do you have an innate technique?” she asked. He knew what she meant, though it all felt strange. He could do things others couldn’t, see things others didn’t. He knew there were others like him, but Genma always said sorcerers were bad. He nodded slowly. “Then use it,” she continued. “If you never face your fears, you’ll never achieve anything. If you have a gift, why not use it?”

Ranma stared at the ground, processing her words. Was she right? Genma forbade sorcery, but… He removed the pin he wore, and in less than a minute, his cursed energy began to flow. He imagined it running through his fingers, concentrating at the tips. He pointed both hands at the curse, and suddenly, the creature was sliced into dozens of pieces, vanishing into the air. The woman, about forty, nodded approvingly. “See, it wasn’t that hard. Not bad. You went from zero to enough to exorcise it in a minute. You replenish cursed energy fast, and those cuts… You’ve got potential, but potential’s useless if you don’t develop it.”

Ranma looked at where the curse had been, then at the woman, still knitting. “What’s… what’s your name?” he asked.

“Kugisaki Haruta,” she replied. “I can see whoever’s training you doesn’t mess around. You’re in good shape for a kid, but you need to work on your sorcery. If you want to learn for real, you’ll need a sorcery school. Otherwise, you’ll never grasp the basics.”

Ranma frowned. “My dad says sorcery’s bad… but he also says I have to be a great fighter, someone perfect.”

The woman let out a dry laugh. “Ha! Perfection? Ask yourself, kid, who sets those absurd standards? Everyone’s got their limit, and that’s fine. As long as you keep moving forward, you’ll be the best version of yourself.” For the first time, she looked at him directly, standing and leaning on the bench’s backrest. “In this life, there are only a few empty seats. Not everyone can fill them, but sometimes people show up without asking permission. Surround yourself with people worth keeping around, kid. In a world this cruel, you’ll need them.”

The girl, who’d been standing aside, watching the exchange with confusion, spoke up, holding the ball. “Hey, so you’re not gonna keep playing?”

The woman sighed. “No, he’s not. The kid’s gotta go. Say goodbye.”

“Bye! That was fun, let’s meet again someday!” the girl said, smiling. “And I like your hair! You’re really pretty!”

Ranma blushed furiously, his face as red as a tomato. He stomped the ground, pouting. “I’m a boy!” he protested, but got no response. The woman had already taken her daughter inside, leaving Ranma alone. With a sigh, he started back toward where he’d last seen Genma, but the screen of his mind darkened again.

Footsteps echoed like reverberations on a marble floor, accompanied by a wet sound, as if a thin layer of water covered the ground, impossible to clean. Before him were small pillars, each holding objects he couldn’t quite make out. Only one was within reach. It was strange, almost ethereal, as if not entirely physical. He could see it, touch it, but its existence was defined more by how it felt: a twisted cylinder, wrapped in talismans that seemed to vibrate with peculiar energy. It was like his own cursed energy, but manipulated, programmed somehow. On the ground, talismans reduced to ashes indicated some had already been released, while others, with unknown conditions, remained intact. Everything was confusing, dreamlike, as if nothing made sense, yet it all felt profoundly wrong, as if someone had tried to tamper with his very essence.

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Ranma gasped as he opened his eyes, his breathing ragged as the world came back into focus. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, polished wood with beams crossing in intricate patterns. The bed he lay in was, without a doubt, the most comfortable he’d ever experienced, an unexpected luxury compared to the worn sleeping bags and tattered futons of his travels. But his body didn’t share that comfort: every muscle ached, sore as if he’d been hit by a train. The light filtering through a nearby window was too bright, stabbing his eyes and fueling a sharp pain in his head. And then there was that tightness in his chest, a strange, almost suffocating feeling. Was he injured? Sick? Something worse? He didn’t want to think about it. Every part of him begged to close his eyes and surrender to sleep, but when he looked down, he froze.

There, curled against his chest, was Shampoo, using him as a pillow. Her purple hair fell in messy strands, and her arms wrapped around him with familiarity. So that was the pressure on his chest… though it didn’t explain the other, deeper sensation unsettling him. He tried to move, but Shampoo’s legs were tangled with his, trapping him in an unconscious embrace. The movement caused the blankets to slip, revealing pajamas that definitely weren’t his. They were a deep purple, soft satin, with a short-sleeved shirt and loose pants. Shampoo, meanwhile, wore something similar but in light pink, with short shorts that left her legs bare. Ranma blinked, confused. Who the hell put me in this? he thought, feeling a mix of discomfort and curiosity.

He tried to get up again, ready to wake Shampoo if necessary, but a staff blocked his path, stopping inches from his face. At the other end was Cologne, the tiny elder who had welcomed them to the village, barely over a meter tall, perched on a high stool to be level with the bed. Her gaze was piercing, as if she could see right through him. “I wouldn’t recommend it, child,” she said, her voice firm but tinged with amusement. “My granddaughter sleeps heavily, and you’re quite weak. The battlefield you left behind looked like a war zone. You need to recharge, understood?”

Ranma felt his eyelids grow heavy, though the fog of sleep was slowly lifting. “So that’s what it was…” he murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion. Then something clicked in his mind, and his eyes snapped open. “Wait a second. Child? You mean you…?”

Cologne let out a dry chuckle, pulling the staff back and resting it on the floor with a sharp clack. “Ho ho, no need to worry. Your father already explained everything I needed to know. It must be disorienting for you, isn’t it? But I can see you’ve handled it quite well.”

Ranma frowned, opening and closing his hands as he processed her words. “Well, yeah, it is. But that’s the curse, right? It makes you think and act differently. At least, that’s how it felt to me.”

Cologne stroked her chin, thoughtful, her gaze fixed on him. “That’s not common, little one. The curse alters the body, but it’s never altered the mind, beyond some basic instincts. But you’re still human, so you don’t have those. Maybe, in another body, you’re unconsciously acting how you think you should act. It’s just a theory.” She paused, tilting her head. “Tell me, are you comfortable with your body?”

Ranma blinked, thrown off by the deeply personal question. For a moment, he hesitated to answer. “Uh… I guess?” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not like I feel uncomfortable or anything. It doesn’t bother me, doesn’t disgust me. It’s hard to explain…” He sighed, closing his eyes, memories of the sorcery school flooding back. He glanced around the room, ensuring they were alone. “I feel fine. Not in the sense that I think I was always meant to be like this, or that my original form wasn’t complete. It’s not about that. Beyond the physical changes, this doesn’t bother me at all. It feels… natural, like I was born this way. I could’ve lived my whole life in my original form without issue, and at the same time, I could live in this one. So, if it’s all the same, I want to try going back to my original form. To fulfill my duty.”

Cologne clasped her hands behind her back, her gaze so intense it made Ranma nervous, as if she knew more about him than he understood himself. “You say you have no problem, but do you want to do it? Or do you feel you have to? Those are two very different things.”

Ranma fell silent, the seconds stretching as her words echoed in his mind. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “I really hate when people try to change who I am.”

Cologne nodded, as if she’d expected that answer. “Very well, dear. I’ll look into it, but I’m not promising anything. Your case is exceptional. There are ways to block a curse, but you don’t fit any of them. Your curse was likely already sealed in some way. You see, Jusenkyo curses work like this: its waters hold the natural energy of the creatures that drowned there. Jusenkyo is a convergence point for ley lines, conduits of natural, neutral energy that give life to the planet. Those waters are charged with neutral energy, like a blank canvas. When a creature dies in a spring, its essence imprints on the water, creating a copy of its soul, so to speak. When someone falls into the spring, that copy intertwines with their soul. As the saying goes, the body is the soul, and the soul is the body. Cold water triggers the remnant to take over, changing your body. Hot water lets your original soul dominate, restoring your form.”

Ranma listened, his mind reeling with the explanation. The tightness in his chest persisted, but now, with Cologne’s words, he began to wonder if it was more than Shampoo’s weight. For the first time, he allowed himself to doubt: was the curse making him feel this way, or was it something deeper, something that had always been there?

“I see… So why does that happen? Why cold water and hot water?” Ranma asked, his voice thick with curiosity as he tried to process Cologne’s explanation.

The elder let out a chuckle, closing her eyes with a smile that seemed to hide more than it revealed. “Good question, young one. And the answer is… who knows.”

Ranma rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Uh-huh…” he muttered, settling back into the bed carefully to avoid waking Shampoo, who remained curled against his chest. Without realizing it, his hand instinctively rose, gently stroking her purple hair. The gesture was so natural he didn’t notice until it was too late. “Wait a second…” he said, as if struck by lightning. Memories flooded back, fragments of the fight crashing into his mind. “That guy! The one who controlled blood! Where is he? What happened? I was fighting him, and then… I don’t know what happened!”

“Calm down, calm down, child,” Cologne said, raising a hand in a soothing gesture. “That man is locked up. We’re waiting for him to wake. Your father gave him a beating he won’t forget anytime soon.”

Ranma blinked, his voice softening. “My father, you say? So Pops beat him?”

Cologne nodded, leaning on her staff with an amused air. “All signs point to yes. He arrived at the village carrying Xian Pu, the pale man, and you like sacks of rice. You all use cursed energy, but on the battlefield, I could sense and see the aftermath of a ki attack. It struck me as odd. Sorcerers are relatively common in Japan, or as common as a minority can be. Here in China, though, there are few sorcerers and far more ki users. Seeing a Japanese ki user, and one at such a high level, is a rarity in itself.”

“I see…” Ranma fell thoughtful, his gaze distant for a moment. He shook his head, determined not to overthink it. “And now, where is he? Last I knew, he’d gone for supplies. What’s he supposed to be doing now?”

Cologne let out a dry chuckle, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Ho, well, that’s quite a story. First, we caught him stealing food from some orchards, so the guards went after him.”

Ranma slapped a hand to his forehead, sinking back into the bed with a sigh that screamed why am I not surprised. “Typical,” he muttered.

“But, to everyone’s surprise, he defeated nearly all the guards,” Cologne continued, clearly enjoying the tale. “And not only that, he returned the vegetables to their owner. Either that man knows what he’s doing, or he’s a charismatic braggart. You may not know this, being new, but in our society, there’s a rule: if an Amazon is defeated in combat, she must take the victor as her husband. And, well, considering he beat the guards in the middle of the street, returned the stolen goods, and then got challenged to more fights, your father became a bit of a celebrity. Now there’s a crowd of suitors fighting over him.”

Ranma shot up from the bed, completely ignoring how Shampoo was flung off and hit the floor with a thud from the sudden movement. “What did you just say!?” he exclaimed, eyes wide as saucers. “That old man!? That liar!? That guy doesn’t deserve anyone’s adoration! He’ll take advantage of the situation the first chance he gets! In fact, I’m sure he’s already doing it. I have to stop him before he gets us into more trouble!”

Cologne raised her staff, striking Ranma’s knee with precision. The pain made him buckle, and a simple push from the staff sent him back to the bed. “Such energy, child,” she said, her tone a mix of amusement and sternness. “Remember, you still need to rest. If you get active now, you’ll only worsen your injuries. Besides, don’t exaggerate. He earned it, didn’t he? He’s undeniably strong. Anyone would get cocky with a small army of the opposite sex vying for them. Let him enjoy it.” In her mind, Cologne added, And if he marries one of my girls, both he and the kid will stay here. They’d be great assets to the Joketsuzoku.

“That wasn’t nice!” protested a sleepy voice. A purple head peeked over the edge of the bed, and Xian Pu, still half-asleep, crawled back under the sheets like a caterpillar. She settled next to Ranma again, curling up against him with a naturalness that left him bewildered.

“What’s gotten into her now?” Ranma said, looking at Shampoo as she made herself comfortable, her face relaxed as if nothing had happened.

Cologne rolled her eyes, a wry smile curving her lips. “You’re sharp about some things but really dense about others, aren’t you, child?”

“Be that as it may, you don’t need to worry about that man,” Cologne said, her voice firm but tinged with reassurance as she rested her hands on her staff. “We’ll personally get everything he’s got, and trust me, we’re not kind to those who invade our lands and attack our people. He’s clearly strong and trained. I don’t know how strong you are, but with Genma as a reference, I can assume those muscles aren’t just for show. And my granddaughter, Xian Pu, is no weakling. We have our own protocols for dealing with sorcerers.”

Ranma studied the elder, letting her words sink in. After a few seconds, he sighed and scratched his head, his fingers catching in pink and black strands that wove together in soft waves. He frowned, puzzled. “I could swear my hair wasn’t curly,” he muttered, more to himself than to Cologne.

“Come now, don’t worry about trivialities,” she replied, chuckling as if gently mocking his confusion. “Just try to ignore it. It’s not like it bothers you, right?”

Ranma barely had the energy to let out a small sigh, shrugging. “Fine, but I want to see that man as soon as I get the chance. I’ve got some questions for him and plenty of answers to give.”

Cologne nodded, her shrewd gaze gleaming under the room’s dim light. “You can count on it. For now, rest. You’ve done enough today.” With a nimbleness belying her age, she hopped off the stool, gripping her disproportionately large staff, which seemed to double her tiny stature in an almost comical way. She walked to the door, closing it with a click of the lock, leaving Ranma and Xian Pu in the room’s quiet.

Ranma turned his head to look at Shampoo, still fast asleep, curled against him with a naturalness that felt strange but no longer as jarring as it had at first. He sighed, giving in, and settled under the sheets, turning until he was face-to-face with the purple-haired girl. Her face, relaxed in sleep, seemed almost vulnerable, so different from the fierce warrior he’d faced hours earlier. For a few seconds, Ranma allowed himself to watch her, the soft contours of her face lit by the faint light filtering through the window. To hell with it, he thought, and, yielding to the strange warmth of the moment, he curled up too, their legs intertwining under the sheet. She instinctively drew closer, using his chest as her personal pillow once more.

He closed his eyes, the weight of the day settling over him like an invisible blanket. He hoped, with a mix of resignation and hope, that tomorrow wouldn’t turn into the chaos he was so accustomed to. But deep down, he knew a day without chaos wasn’t a Saotome Ranma day.

Notes:

As a warning, English is not my primary language and I lack any beta readers, so errors in the narration, perspectives, and so on would not be unusual. I accept any constructive criticism. The point of all this is so I can improve as a writer and capture the story just as I have it in my head.