Chapter 3: In the Wake of Chaos

  Dust and debris churned through the air; the acrid scent of scorched stone clung to every breath. Smoke curled in heavy tendrils, wrapping the battlefield in a suffocating embrace. The jagged remains of the wall crumbled in slow, defeated groans, sending small cascades of rubble tumbling to the fractured earth below.

  Rekka lay outside the shop, embedded in the fractured earth, his body partially buried beneath scattered rubble where the impact had left its mark. His breath came in ragged bursts, a low groan slipping past clenched teeth as he struggled to shift.

  Pain pulsed through his limbs, the raw heat of battle still searing his nerves. His fingers twitched against the cracked stone, grasping at nothing as he forced his body to respond.

  Ranma’s breath came sharp through his nose, jaw locked so tight his teeth ached, the fading heat of battle clinging to his skin like the last traces of a dying fire. The acrid bite of charred stone and scorched flesh clings to the back of his throat, turning each breath into an effort.

  His fingers curl into a fist, slow and deliberate, tension coiling through his knuckles. Every instinct in his body is telling him to move again—to hit Rekka harder, to hit him until the words stop echoing, until the weight in his chest lets go.

  ‘Why would I waste time counting?’

  Ranma felt the memory coil around his thoughts before he could stop it. ‘No. No, that’s not just something you say. That’s not just a line. He didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t blink. Didn’t think about it at all.’

  How many? How many people had he burned alive? How many times did they scream, did they beg—how many mothers, fathers, kids did he leave choking on their own flames while he just walked away!?

  Ranma’s breath hitched, a raw, burning tightness coiling in his chest. ‘And he doesn’t even know. He never cared enough to know.’ Ranma’s fists clenched at his sides.

  That’s what this was. That’s what he did. That’s what he’s done over and over again. And he would’ve done it again today. Ranma swallowed, the taste of smoke bitter on his tongue.

  His body still thrummed with the fight, muscles tight, ready to move. But the battle wasn’t just in his limbs—it was in his bones, in the weight pressing against his ribs. This wasn’t just another bastard throwing punches. This was someone who had taken too much, too many times, and would have done it again.

  ‘Minor sacrifices, my ass.'

  Rekka groaned, fingers digging into the dirt as he pushed himself onto one knee, breath ragged and uneven. The flames around his hands sputtered, weak but alive—licking at the ground like embers refusing to die. His star-shaped pupils still burned, locked onto Ranma with something worse than rage—conviction.

  "You think this is over?" Rekka rasped, coughing as he staggered to his feet. His stance was unsteady, his body swaying from the accumulated damage, but his expression remained twisted with fanatic determination. Flames coiled once more around his fists, weaker yet still dangerous.

  From a safe distance, Tamaki stood with the civilians. She watched the scene unfold with narrowed eyes, her fingers curling into fists. She had never seen anyone fight like Ranma before, never seen someone take on a Fire Soldier and dismantle them so effortlessly.

  Ranma let out a sharp breath, his teeth grinding together. "How the hell are you still moving?" His fists clenched so tight his knuckles ached, tension burning through his forearms.

  He took a step forward, slow and deliberate, his voice dropping lower. "After everything, after all the people you’ve burned, you still think you deserve to stand?"

  Rekka let out a strained chuckle, his flames flaring for a brief moment before sputtering. His body barely held itself together, but his zeal refused to fade. "The flames of salvation… will never die."

  Ranma’s breath locks in his throat, chest tightening—hotter than fire, heavier than any punch he’s ever taken. He knows what it is to be dismissed, to be an afterthought. But this? This is worse.

  This isn’t carelessness. It isn’t recklessness. This is a man who looked at people—at lives, at families, at children—and decided they weren’t even worth a second of hesitation.

  And now he wants to talk about righteousness? Thinks he gets to talk about truth?

  Rekka’s flames intensified. Their instability caused them to lash out unpredictably, scorching the ground and sending waves of heat radiating outward. The air thickened with smoke, every breath dragging heat and ash into the lungs, leaving a dry, bitter aftertaste.

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  The battlefield lay in ruins, the ground scarred and broken beneath the weight of the fight. Smoke curled in slow, lazy tendrils, a lingering reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. Heat still clung to the air, but it felt different now—no longer wild and consuming, but something subdued, something settled. No, not a battle. A dismantling.

  Tamaki’s gaze flickered to the mother and her children, still huddled behind the broken wall. The woman held them close, breath tight but steady.

  No fire came for them now. No heat, no chasing flames. The danger had passed, but the fear lingered. She exhaled, sharp and controlled, and forced herself to turn back to the fight.

  Rekka surged forward, flames flaring violently, heat rippling off his body in unstable waves. The fractured ground crunched beneath each step. He lunged—fist wreathed in fire, eyes burning with fanatic conviction. A trail of flame licked the air behind him as he swung in a wide arc, the heat warping the space between them.

  Ranma slipped outside the strike zone. A sharp pivot, a flash of motion, and before Rekka could adjust, Ranma had already closed the distance.

  Tamaki barely registered the shift—one moment, Rekka's fist was cutting through the air, the next, Ranma was already inside his guard, a seamless transition so fluid it felt predestined. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement—just a sharp shift, his fist driving forward into Rekka’s sternum with the certainty of a hammer striking its mark.

  The impact rippled through the Fire Soldier’s core, forcing the air from his lungs in a choked gasp as he staggered back a half-step, his balance momentarily unraveling.

  Ranma never broke rhythm, slipping through Rekka’s defenses with a quiet certainty. In that moment, she realized it was more than just speed. It was a perfect read on the opening, an execution that left Rekka no chance to recover.

  Ranma was already moving before Rekka could reset, twisting inside his reach and driving a brutal elbow into his exposed ribs. The force folded the Fire Soldier’s body inward, the breath leaving his lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp.

  Tamaki felt a shiver crawl up her spine. It wasn’t just skill—it was something else, something beyond what she could define.

  Ranma didn’t react. He just moved—like he already knew where the flames would be, sliding between them with an eerie certainty.

  'How?' The thought lodged itself in her mind, irritating and undeniable. Every step, every strike felt natural, like he was always a beat faster than Rekka, always in control before the battle could catch up to him.

  Ranma’s movements weren’t just fast—they were unstoppable, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next, leaving no space for doubt.

  'How is he doing this so effortlessly?' Her pulse pounded in her ears, her fingers clenching unconsciously. She hated how small this made her feel.

  Rekka’s stance wavered, but he refused to fall. With a desperate surge, he swung again, flames flaring around his fists. But Ranma had already moved. He twisted low in an instant, slipping beneath the strike before launching himself forward.

  Tamaki barely had time to register his movement before his knee connected with Rekka’s gut—fast, precise, and brutal. The impact sent a rippling force outward, cracking the air with its sheer power.

  Not stopping for even a second, he kicked off the ground, springing into the air as he twisted. His leg snapped upward in a brutal rising arc, the force lifting Rekka off his feet and sending him rocketing skyward, his body spiraling as flames scattered like sparks from an explosion.

  Tamaki braced herself for the moment’s pause that always came—the breath between action and follow-through. But it never came. Ranma was already in pursuit, launching himself with a sharp burst of momentum, his body cutting through the air like a blade as he closed the distance.

  He moved like gravity was a suggestion, not a rule, twisting through the air as if it bent to him rather than the other way around. His speed wasn’t just impressive—it was inescapable.

  In the air, Ranma twisted, his hands a blur as he struck. Each movement flowed into the next with ruthless efficiency, fists hammering into Rekka’s guard faster than the eye could track.

  A sharp crack rang out as one blow slipped through, then another—his defenses buckling under the relentless assault. Rekka barely had time to process the hits before another slammed into his ribs, then his jaw, then his shoulder—each impact layering over the last like a cascading collapse. His wild, desperate flailing couldn’t keep up.

  Ranma didn’t let up. His hands rained down like a storm, each strike a precise execution of dominance, every motion cutting through Rekka’s defense like it was already decided.

  Ranma drove the final blow with a powerful axe kick, his leg arcing downward like a guillotine, the force striking with the precision of a master sculptor cleaving stone.

  The impact tore through him, sending his body rocketing toward the ground, his limbs flailing as the air whistled past him.

  He hit hard, the impact detonating through the ground, sending a shockwave rippling outward as fractured stone and dust burst into the air. Cracks raced outward, steam rising from the scorched earth as the battlefield groaned under the strain.

  Tamaki’s breath hitched as she watched the battlefield shift, the sheer force of Ranma’s strike leaving an imprint not just on the ground, but on her understanding of what she was truly witnessing.

  She had thought she understood strength, thought she had seen fighters push themselves beyond their limits—but this was something else entirely. It wasn’t just overwhelming—it was effortless, a level of refinement that made everything she knew feel clumsy by comparison.

  This wasn’t about overpowering the opponent. It was about understanding the fight on a level beyond brute force. She had believed winning came from sheer intensity, from pushing harder than the opponent—but Ranma fought differently.

  His movements were calculated, seamless. He wasn’t just stronger—he dictated the entire exchange before it even began.

  'That’s not luck. That’s not instinct. That’s something else.' And the realization made her stomach twist. 'This is what real skill looks like, isn’t it?'

  A deafening crack echoed as the force radiated outward, sending tremors rippling through the shattered terrain. For a moment, everything stilled—the weight of the impact settling over the scarred ground like a held breath—before the ground gave a final, fractured groan, dust rising in slow, curling plumes. Shrouding the war-torn expanse in a choking haze. The sound echoed like a distant thunderclap, leaving the air heavy with silence as the chaos momentarily stilled.

  Rekka coughed, blood speckling the fractured ground beneath him. His flames sputtered, weakened—but not gone. His breath rattled in his chest, sharp and uneven, but the fire in his eyes never wavered. He should have been broken. His body barely held together, his strength shattered, but still—he forced himself to stand.

  Tamaki felt something crawl up her spine, something colder than the fading heat of the battlefield. He wasn’t fighting to win anymore. He wasn’t even fighting to survive. He was fighting because he still believed.

  Tamaki’s fists clenched. She knew what desperation looked like. She had felt it before—fighting battles where every move was made out of fear, scrambling to keep up.

  But this? Watching Rekka now, she saw it for what it was: someone who had never truly understood the fight he was in. She had seen warriors throw themselves into battle, clinging to the belief that sheer will alone could shift the tide.

  She had believed in that once, believed that burning brighter meant never losing. But as she watched Rekka, his flames spiraling wildly out of control, she saw something else—futility. 'This isn’t resilience. This is desperation.'

  Ranma watched, his expression calm but edged with disdain. The settling haze of dust curled around him, mixing with the glow of dying flames. The battlefield lay in ruins, silent except for the distant crackling of embers and the wind whispering through the fractured landscape.

  Tamaki swallowed hard. She had thought she understood power—force, intensity, the sheer will to push forward—but watching Ranma now, she realized she had never seen it wielded like this before.

  Rekka had burned fiercely, throwing everything he had into his flames, but it had never been enough. His strength had been loud, desperate, a declaration rather than a certainty.

  Ranma, by contrast, moved with an ease that made his movements feel second nature, woven into every motion—like it wasn’t something he reached for, but something that had always been part of him.

  As she observed Ranma, something inside her shifted, an uncomfortable realization taking root.

  'I've been looking at it all wrong. I've been doing it all wrong.' Ranma fought like someone who had already won, like someone who didn’t need to prove anything.

  'Then what the hell have I been chasing?'

  The thought gnawed at her, sharp and insistent. She had followed strength before—had believed in it, trusted it. She had looked at Rekka and thought she understood power. But now, watching him flail, watching his desperation consume him, she saw the truth.

  Rekka had never been strong. He had only ever burned brightly, wild and reckless, convinced his flames would carry him forward. But they didn’t. They couldn’t.

  She didn’t know what to make of Ranma, but she knew what she saw—someone who fought without hesitation, without waste. Someone who didn’t just react but dictated the fight like it was second nature.

  It wasn’t just instinct or raw power. It was something sharper, something she still couldn’t define—and that unsettled her.

  Tamaki clenched her jaw. 'He’s not just fighting. He’s declaring something,' she thought, a faint pang of recognition tugging at her resolve.

  'Is that what it really means? To let your fists speak when words are never enough?’ Her fingers tightened slightly, as if grasping at something just out of reach.

  She watched as Ranma shifted into position, an odd stillness settling around him. Rekka staggered, flames sputtering, his breath ragged—but still, he tried. His lips parted, another declaration, another desperate grasp for control—“Enough!” Ranma exhaled sharply. And vanished.

  A flash of blue. A crack in the air.

  Before Rekka could react, Ranma was already there, his fist blazing with energy as he drove a crushing fist into Rekka’s jaw. The impact detonated through his guard, sending embers and heat scattering in his wake.

  Sparks flared and scattered; their heat consumed by the sheer force of his strike. Rekka’s flames sputtered, shrinking back like dying embers before an unstoppable force.

  The force sent Rekka hurtling through the air like a ragdoll, his body skipping violently across the ground like a stone skimming over water. Each impact came in rapid succession, a series of sharp, jarring collisions that cracked the earth and sent dust exploding into the air.

  His momentum sent shockwaves tearing through the battlefield, each bounce compounding the destruction, scattering debris and ash in chaotic bursts before he slammed, hard and final, into the crumbling stone wall that enclosed the clearing.

  A deep, jagged crater yawned where he fell, the earth torn open by the sheer force of his collapse. His flames flickered weakly, a final, desperate gasp before vanishing into the abyss, leaving only silence in their wake.

  The wall collapsed under the force, detonating in a cascading eruption of shattered debris, the impact ringing through the battlefield like a thunderclap. Chunks of debris launched skyward, spinning wildly before crashing down in a relentless downpour of destruction.

  A tidal wave of shrapnel and wreckage exploded outward, sweeping through the battlefield as dying embers flickered and choked in the swirling chaos, their glow swallowed by the storm of destruction.

  Dust and ash swirled through the battlefield, carried by the heat and turbulence of the fight, clinging to every surface before finally settling over the fractured earth in the aftermath.

  The remains of the collapsed wall lay in a jagged heap, stone and debris piled high over the crater where Rekka had fallen, sealing him beneath an unyielding tomb of rubble.

  The air hung thick and choking, carrying the bitter tang of scorched wood and stone. Jagged shards of rubble jutted unevenly from the ground, the remnants of the enclosing wall now nothing more than scattered wreckage.

  The battlefield stood in eerie silence, the dust-laden air thick with finality, as if the land itself had entombed the fallen warrior.

  Standing a few paces away, Ranma’s gaze lingered on the pile of rubble where Rekka lay buried. The air was thick with settling dust, tiny fragments of stone clicking softly against the debris. Embers still flickered in the wreckage, their glow fading, swallowed by the quiet finality of the moment.

  His voice was cold, but not empty. “Your flames were never enough to burn truth into the world.”

  Tamaki swallowed. There was no triumph in his words, no gloating. It was something else—something heavier. He spoke like someone who had lived that truth, who had been shaped by battles that had nothing to do with fire and everything to do with survival.

  And yet, he stood here, untouched, unwavering, while Rekka’s conviction had crumbled into dust.

  She thought she knew what strength was. She had believed in it, chased it, lived by it. But now, watching the battlefield settle, she wondered—was that ever really strength at all?

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  The air was thick with heat and ash, the battlefield a crumbling wasteland of scorched earth and fractured stone. The scent of burning metal clung to the air, each breath laced with the acrid bite of smoke.

  Shinra’s limbs felt heavy, his body aching from the relentless assault. Every muscle screamed at him to stop, to collapse, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  The Infernal wavered, its body flickering between cohesion and collapse. Its form twisted violently, charred limbs spasming as if it were being pulled apart from the inside. Its flames pulsed erratically, surging and then sputtering, unable to hold steady.

  A wave of blistering heat and distortion exploded outward. The air rippled with unnatural pressure, heat clawing at Shinra’s skin like invisible embers. His vision warped, the battlefield bending at the edges as if reality itself was wavering under an unseen force.

  For a brief, disorienting moment, it felt as though everything was bending, stretching into an impossible distortion.

  Shinra’s vision fractured violently, as if something had seized his mind and wrenched it into another plane of existence. The force of it sent a sharp spike of pressure through his skull, like a vise tightening around his brain. His breath hitched, his stomach flipping as the world around him spiraled out of control.

  He didn’t just see the vision—he felt it, crashing into his senses like a wave he couldn’t escape. His skull throbbed with an unbearable pressure, like his brain was being forced to expand beyond the confines of his body.

  A deafening static roared in his ears, drowning out the battlefield, drowning out everything except the overwhelming force pulling him into something vast and unknowable.

  His stomach twisted, his sense of direction shredded, as if gravity itself had been replaced by something chaotic, something wrong. The battlefield disintegrated around him, dissolving into a chaotic surge of alien imagery, a tide of endless conflict crashing through his consciousness.

  The battlefield was replaced by an endless stream of figures, charging forward, attacking relentlessly. Their movements were chaotic, erratic, but also desperate—a struggle for survival, a battle without end.

  At the center of the tumult, one lone figure moved with a purpose that defied the chaos. Their form was indistinct, their features blurred by the haze of battle. They didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. Every step was measured, every attack placed with an almost unnatural certainty.

  Shinra’s breath caught as he tried to follow them. The way they moved—each dodge, each strike, executed with a precision that seemed beyond human. Controlled. Yet utterly relentless.

  The enemies never stopped coming. And yet, the lone figure never slowed, never fell. Shinra didn’t recognize them—but he felt like he should.

  ‘Who… what are you? No one should be able to move like that.’ The thought surfaced unbidden, his mind straining to make sense of the vision. Where the others fought with raw instinct and desperation, this one fought with something else entirely—something undeniable.

  But something else bled into Shinra’s awareness. Exhaustion. The kind that ran deep. The kind that wasn’t just physical but etched into a person’s very existence. This fighter wasn’t just strong—they were burdened. Worn.

  They fought not because they wanted to, but because they had to. A feeling pulsed through Shinra’s mind—not pain, not fear—but determination. Defiance. An absolute will that refused to break.

  ‘How many battles have you survived? How many more will there be before it’s finally over?’ The thought surfaced, raw and unshakable. But before he could chase it further—before he could make sense of what he was seeing—everything shattered.

  The battlefield returned in a violent snap, heat rushing back into his lungs as if he had been drowning without realizing it. Shinra staggered, the sensation still clinging to his mind like an afterimage burned into his skull. What the hell was that? The weight of it lingered, unfamiliar yet undeniable. His head throbbed as he tried to regain his bearings.

  His balance wavered as his body reacted instinctively, a surge of heat erupting from his feet, raw and unfocused. The explosion of flame launched him backward, his body twisting midair as he collided shoulder-first into the cracked earth.

  The impact shattered the ground beneath him, sending jagged fragments of rock skidding outward. His breath hitched, ragged and uneven, as the thick smoke coiled into his throat like a living thing, burning from the inside out.

  The heat from the blast crushed against his ribs, suffocating every attempt to pull in air, as though the battlefield itself sought to bury him. He gasped for air, trying to reorient himself. The acrid scent of burning stone and scorched earth filled his lungs, thick smoke clinging to his skin like a second layer.

  ‘What the hell was that?’

  The Infernal didn’t hesitate. It sensed the opening and surged forward with an inhuman, stuttering burst of motion. Its charred limbs twisted unnaturally, convulsing as if its own body was rejecting itself, as though something inside was trying to tear free.

  Shinra barely had time to process the way it moved—wrong, unstable—before it was already closing the distance. Its entire form snapped and spasmed, moving like a marionette with its strings yanked too hard.

  His legs felt sluggish, his body heavy—too slow. ‘Damn it, move!’ Shinra’s body obeyed. He rolled just in time to avoid the first strike, the Infernal’s molten claws gouging deep furrows into the ground where he had been seconds before.

  The impact sent chunks of molten debris scattering, the air hissing as the heat from the blow melted the surrounding terrain.

  Shinra planted a hand against the ground, his fingers digging into the cracked earth as he forced his body to respond. His legs coiled beneath him, heat surging through his core as he fired a jet of flame from his feet, the force rocketing him upright in a tight, controlled flip.

  But he was too slow. The Infernal intercepted, gripping Shinra’s leg mid-air with a hand like searing iron. “Shit!” he snarled, struggling against the Infernal’s iron grip.

  A sickening heat bloomed instantly against Shinra’s skin, pain lancing through his nerves as the Infernal’s grip tightened, locking him in place for a fraction of a second before it drove him down, slamming him into the ground with brutal force.

  The impact detonated through his ribs, the cracked earth beneath him groaning under the strain as the force rippled outward.

  Before the shock had even fully settled, before his lungs could even drag in a breath, the Infernal twisted, wrenching him free of the fractured stone and hurling him like a ragdoll. His body spun through the air, momentum unchecked, the world tilting violently before he crashed hard into the ground once more.

  The Infernal’s flames pulsed erratically, its unnatural energy surging outward in jagged, unpredictable bursts. Every motion left behind searing aftershocks, warping reality in its wake. Shinra’s head swam as he struggled to recover, his muscles protesting with every move.

  The ground beneath him was hot, the very earth radiating the energy of the Infernal’s assault, as if the battlefield itself had turned against him. The dust and ash around him thickened, momentarily obscuring his vision.

  A vicious, searing otherworldly strike tore into Shinra, sending pain ripping through his entire being. His muscles seized, his nerves screaming as the energy seared into him, leaving a wound that burned deeper than the flesh. The force of the attack rippled outward, sending shockwaves through the ground, rattling Shinra’s bones.

  The intense heat seared the air, leaving his lungs feeling like they were inhaling fire. His suit, built to withstand the flames, strained under the pressure, fabric crisping at the edges as the wave of destructive energy threatened to consume everything in its path.

  The sheer force behind it made Shinra’s vision blur, the world tilting under the weight of its destructive presence.

  “Not again—not like this.” His breath was ragged, his body screaming for reprieve. He shot into the air, trying to gain some distance.

  The Infernal gave him no chance to escape, launching after him with unnatural ferocity. Its charred limbs flailed wildly, hammering at him in rapid succession with sheer, uncontrolled violence. Each strike landed with devastating force, battering Shinra relentlessly as they plummeted toward the earth.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  His stomach lurched. His head tilted, but there was no up, no down, just motion. ‘Everything is spinning. No—I’m spinning.’

  The sky and ground twisted together, his vision swimming as freefall consumed him, leaving him weightless and spiraling toward the inevitable crash.

  A flicker—something in the haze, something just outside his reach.

  A presence. ‘Arthur…? No—that’s not right. Someone’s there...’ The ground rushed up to meet them, and with a final crushing blow, the Infernal slammed Shinra into the earth with explosive force.

  Dust and rock exploded from the crater, the reverberating shockwave shaking the battlefield. His breath caught in his throat, his body screaming in protest as pain flooded every nerve.

  Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he coughed, the sharp metallic tang coating his tongue. His body convulsed with the effort, ribs grinding against each other with every breath, a raw, searing ache that refused to fade.

  His arms trembled against the rubble, fingers clawing for purchase, but there was no strength left to lift himself. Everything hurt. His limbs felt heavy, and for a moment, the battlefield tilted in a sickening spiral.

  “Move! Move, damn it!” But his body wasn’t listening. Every muscle sluggish, every breath a fight to keep going. The heat around him pressed down like a weight he couldn’t escape.

  ‘I just need a second. Just a breath. Then I’ll…’

  The Infernal shifted, flames roaring to life around its limbs, surging like a living inferno. Its form pulsed erratically, heatwaves distorting the air around it as cracks of molten energy spiderwebbed across its charred skin. The ground beneath it blackened and smoldered, the battlefield itself recoiling from its sheer intensity.

  It lurched, its charred frame spasming as if fighting against itself. Flames guttered and flared wildly along its limbs. It convulsed, its entire frame shuddering like a puppet with its strings tangled, flames sputtering as if caught between collapse and detonation.

  Without warning, it tore forward—unstable, unrelenting.

  Shinra tried to react, but his body refused. His muscles were leaden, burning with exhaustion. His limbs sluggish and unresponsive.

  Every breath was a struggle, his lungs aching as though they were inhaling fire. The battlefield tilted beneath him, his vision narrowing to a tunnel of heat and chaos.

  ‘No—'

  The Infernal’s foot slammed into Shinra’s chest like a battering ram, the concussive force detonating through his ribs. His body whipped backward, the air splitting with the force of his flight, a shockwave rippling outward from the impact.

  The sheer momentum hurled him like a ragdoll, a blazing comet streaking toward destruction.

  He crashed through a stone wall, the brutal impact rupturing it outward in an explosion of shattered brick and pulverized rock. Chunks of stone hurtled through the air, dust and smoke rising in thick plumes that momentarily swallowed his form.

  The tremor from the impact sent cracks splitting across the ground, jagged fractures racing outward like veins of destruction. The battlefield trembled under the sheer force.

  The force of the impact didn’t release him. It seized him, hurling him like a broken projectile, his body weightless and helpless against the unrelenting momentum. his body slamming into a nearby building, blasting through its exterior in an eruption of shattered brick and dust.

  The structure groaned, weakened from the force, smoke and fire billowing from its ruined shell, the edges flickering with embers.

  Shinra’s body slammed into the ground, carving a deep crater into the scorched battlefield. The force reverberated outward, loose debris cascading around him as smoke rose from his battered jump suit. For a moment, everything was still—only the soft hiss of burning embers breaking the silence.

  The battlefield held its breath, the scorched air pressing down like a living thing. His breath hitched. Deep inside, a tremor, deep and primal, coiling inside him like embers catching fire. A low, guttural breath rattled from Shinra’s throat.

  His fingers twitched against the rubble beneath him. His body protested, every nerve ablaze with pain, but the fire in his chest—his fire—burned hotter. A slow, seething growl built in his throat as embers flickered to life around his body.

  The air around him trembled, warping as raw heat coiled within him. His vision sharpened, cutting through the haze of devastation. The weight pressing down on him no longer felt oppressive—it fueled him.

  The ground beneath him cracked as the temperature spiked, the very air around him igniting in a trembling heat mirage. It wasn’t just heat—it was pressure, sinking into his skin, pressing against his ribs like an unseen force.

  His breath came shallow, his body caught between collapse and something else, something deeper, something clawing to the surface.

  Every breath clawed at his throat like molten glass, his muscles tightening as if the heat itself had burrowed inside him. His skin prickled, sweat evaporating before it could form, leaving behind nothing but the raw, blistering sensation of fire threading through his veins.

  His breath came heavy, controlled, as the embers grew into roaring flames licking at his limbs. His mind narrowed to a singular point—He let the fire take him.

  The searing heat clung to him, sinking into his bones like a brand. His skin prickled from the suffocating, ash-filled air. The battlefield felt smaller now, its edges blurred by the haze of destruction, the world itself pressing in—crushing, oppressive, inescapable.

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  The battlefield was a wasteland of burning rubble, the heat radiating from shattered stone and twisted metal. The acrid scent of smoke clung to the air, mixing with the distant crackle of embers still gnawing at the wreckage. But Arthur barely registered the destruction.

  His eyes were locked on the fight, his mind weaving a narrative of heroism and destiny. To him, Shinra was the valiant warrior standing against the beast, his flames a divine blessing, his fall merely a test of will.

  Arthur’s fingers curled around Excalibur, knuckles whitening as he watched from his vantage point. "Ah, the Devil is learning humility! The flames of justice do not bow so easily!"

  A true knight does not falter in the presence of overwhelming odds, and Arthur’s heart swelled with pride at the spectacle before him. This was the moment—Shinra, the hero, would rise against the odds and prove his worth.

  Yet, as Shinra was battered through the sky, Arthur’s grip loosened. His expectation of a glorious counterattack was shattered when the Infernal smashed into Shinra mid-air, hammering him relentlessly all the way to the ground. The fantasy wavered. This wasn’t a duel of honor. This was brutality.

  Shinra crashed down with a force that sent a tremor rippling through Arthur’s boots. The ground convulsed beneath him, cracks splintering outward as dust surged into the air in thick, suffocating clouds.

  Heat pulsed from the impact, distorting the air with shimmering waves, while the vibrations rumbled through the charred battlefield like an unrelenting drumbeat.

  Dust and flame spiraled from the crater, swallowing Shinra’s body in a haze of ruin. Arthur’s heartbeat thumped in his ears, a slow, heavy rhythm that clashed against the roaring inferno around him.

  He expected the moment when Shinra would rise, when the hero would ascend from the wreckage with renewed vigor. ‘He must rise. The story isn’t over yet.’

  “...Wait. That was no feint. The Devil... he falters?” His usual unwavering belief wavered. Was this not a trial of courage? Was this... an end?

  Shinra wasn’t moving. Arthur’s brow furrowed, his grip on Excalibur tightening slightly. This was merely the prelude to a greater clash, was it not? A test of will, a knight’s trial before the final charge?

  His mind raced, searching for the grand turn in the tale. But the scene before him refused to bend to the shape of legend. It was raw, unbalanced, and real.

  The Infernal loomed over the fallen form, waves of heat rolling off its unstable body in oppressive bursts, distorting the air like a shifting mirage. The flickering light from its flames cast jagged shadows across the battlefield, stretching and twisting like writhing phantoms.

  It wasn’t gloating. It was readying the final blow. Arthur felt his fingers tighten around Excalibur once more.

  “Rise, villain! Surely your dark power has not abandoned you so easily?”

  The moment stretched, the battlefield silent save for the crackle of fire and the hollow groan of collapsing debris.

  Arthur inhaled sharply. “No. No, no—stand, warrior! You do not fall here!”

  His perception was no longer clouded by the grandeur of legend. This wasn’t about knightly trials or fated battles. Shinra was about to die. “This is no duel. This is slaughter.”

  The weight of that realization crashed down on him harder than any strike. He had stood still too long, believing in a moment that wasn’t coming.

  The Infernal moved. A single, decisive strike. Arthur barely had time to process it before Shinra was sent hurtling away, his body a streak of destruction through the battlefield. He crashed through shattered stone and collapsing debris, the force of the impact shaking the very ground beneath Arthur’s feet.

  Then, a tremor. Small at first. Almost imperceptible.

  Arthur’s breath hitched as heat coiled through the air like a pressure wave. From the depths of the ruin, embers flickered—faint at first, then swelling into a surging inferno.

  The wreckage trembled, fragments of stone lifting—hesitating—as if gravity itself had begun to waver, as if the battlefield was bracing.

  A wave of fire engulfed the battlefield as Shinra shot from the ruins, his form silhouetted in roaring flames. Heat radiated outward in pulsing waves, searing the air as the flames illuminated the debris-strewn ground, casting wild, flickering shadows across the shattered remains of the battlefield.

  The weight that had dragged him down moments ago was gone—this was not a man who had accepted defeat. Arthur’s fingers twitched. This wasn’t strength. This was fury.

  The Infernal barely had time to react before Shinra struck like a shooting star, his flames surging into a cataclysmic explosion of heat and force. The impact detonated with a violent eruption, sending a shockwave rippling outward in a fiery cascade.

  The shockwave tore through the battlefield like a thunderclap, shaking the earth to its core. Cracks spiderwebbed across the scorched ground, debris launching skyward as fire and embers raged in the wake of Shinra’s fury.

  Arthur stood frozen, his grip tightening on Excalibur as a wall of heat surged past him. The sheer force of Shinra’s retaliation made the battlefield itself tremble, a moment so raw, so furious, that even Arthur’s endless narration failed him.

  The Infernal collapsed, flames sputtering out as its form shattered under the weight of Shinra’s final attack. The battlefield held its breath, the air thick with the acrid stench of scorched metal and charred flesh.

  Embers drifted through the settling haze, their dim glow flickering like dying stars in the oppressive heat. The ground itself seemed to smolder, cracks hissing as they exhaled the remnants of lingering fire.

  Silence followed, the battlefield settling beneath a haze of heat and drifting embers. Arthur exhaled.

  Shinra stood amidst the ruin, his body trembling from exertion, his suit scorched and torn, revealing charred skin beneath. Blood ran from a gash at his brow, tracing crimson paths down his face. Smoke curled from his burned flesh, each breath labored, rattling in his chest.

  He took a shaky step forward—his knee buckled. He swayed, his legs nearly buckling beneath him, pain wracking his every movement—but he did not fall.

  Arthur moved forward. His usual bravado felt out of place. Shinra looked like he should have collapsed minutes ago. “You look like hell, devil.”

  Shinra gave a half-smirk, but it faltered as he exhaled sharply, a flicker of pain stealing across his face. He took a shaky step forward—his knee buckled. "Then do something useful." His voice was hoarse, raw, barely above a whisper.

  Arthur hesitated only a moment before offering his hand. Shinra gripped it, but his strength was gone. The second their hands locked, Arthur felt the weight shift—too fast, too much. Shinra wasn’t just leaning—he was collapsing.

  Arthur barely had time to steady him before the weight pulled harder, forcing him to brace. A sharp inhale, a barely audible curse—Shinra’s body was giving in before his will ever would.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of their breathing, the crackle of dying embers, the battlefield settling around them.

  Arthur adjusted his grip, shifting his stance. "Tch. You’re heavier than you look."

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  Tamaki knelt among the rescued children, the weight of inaction pressing against her chest like a phantom ache. The battlefield still crackled with fading embers, but her mind was trapped in the moments before the chaos settled. Her breaths came unevenly, the echoes of battle still threading through her lungs.

  She glanced at the mother clutching her children as if afraid they might vanish, the tremor in her hands betraying the relief she couldn’t yet voice. They were safe—not because of her, but because of him. That truth gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, a stark contrast to the hesitation that had held her back.

  She remained frozen in place, the weight of the battle’s aftermath pressing down on her like a lingering shadow. The echoes of destruction still clung to the air, the acrid scent of smoke mixing with the distant crackle of dying flames. Shock lingered at the edges of her mind, but beneath it, something deeper was beginning to take hold.

  Ranma hadn’t just fought Rekka—he had intervened with absolute purpose, stepping between them and certain death as if it were the simplest choice in the world.

  For the first time, she saw him not just as a fighter, but as something more—someone who wielded power with unwavering intent, as if burdened by a responsibility only he understood.

  Ranma moved forward with an easy, unhurried grace, his stance loose yet measured, hands resting idly in his pockets as if the battle had never touched him. Smoke coiled thickly around the battlefield, the acrid stench of scorched earth clinging to every breath, seeping into skin and fabric alike.

  Scattered embers pulsed dimly in the wreckage, flickering like dying stars as pockets of flame sputtered and hissed against smoldering ruin.

  The slow groan of shifting rubble cut through the silence, the oppressive heat still radiating from fractured stone, distorting the air in shimmering waves.

  His gaze flickered toward her, as unreadable as ever. He let the moment stretch, his voice breaking the haze of smoke with casual ease. "Hey. You good?"

  Tamaki blinked, her breath hitching slightly as the weight of everything that just happened pressed down on her. Her fingers curled against her knees before she forced herself to speak. The words took a second to register.

  “I… yeah. I think so.” It wasn’t fully convincing, and she knew it. He probably did too. She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. Her eyes shifted to the civilians. Rekka was going to kill them. Ranma didn’t just win a fight—

  “You… actually saved us.” The words came out softer than she expected, like she was still convincing herself.

  Ranma didn’t react immediately, just watching her with that same calm, detached expression. “Yeah. Looked like you had your hands full.”

  Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly. “You say that like it was nothing.”

  He smirked slightly, tilting his head. “Should it be something?”

  The ease in his voice unsettled her more than it should have. He wasn’t bragging. He wasn’t brushing it off. He genuinely meant it.

  A pause stretched between them, the heat of the moment fading but not forgotten. Her fingers twitched slightly against the fabric of her sleeve. “…Why did you do that?”

  His brow raised slightly, like the question caught him off guard. “What, save your tails?”

  She hesitated, her grip tightening slightly before she spoke. "No. Not just me." Her fingers curled slightly before she gestured toward the mother and children. “Them.”

  He rolled a shoulder, exhaling through his nose like it wasn’t even worth considering. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

  Tamaki watched him carefully. His answer was so simple. Too simple. But to him, it was obvious. Her grip on her sleeves tightened. There was something about the way he spoke—so certain, so effortless—that made her want to push back. To understand.

  She paused, searching for the right words. The thought had been nagging at her since the fight ended. Her fingers curled against her sleeves, the weight of the realization settling. She swallowed, her throat dry.

  "...Why didn't you end it sooner?" The question left her before she even fully processed it, her voice edged with something between curiosity and frustration.

  Ranma’s expression didn’t change, but there was the slightest shift in his stance. “End what?”

  “The fight.” Her gaze flicked to the smoldering battlefield, then back to him. “You could’ve finished Rekka way earlier, couldn’t you?”

  He considered her for a moment, then shrugged. “Probably.”

  That wasn’t the answer she was expecting. “So why didn’t you?”

  Ranma exhaled through his nose, as if she had asked something obvious. “Wasn’t about finishing him.”

  Tamaki frowned. “Then what was it about?”

  A silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of unspoken realizations. Tamaki’s breath slowed as the words settled in, forcing her to confront what they really meant.

  Ranma’s voice was steady—calm, deliberate, carrying no excess weight, just the certainty of someone who had long since made peace with his choices. He didn’t speak like someone making a point; he spoke like someone who had already lived the answer.

  He met her gaze. “Anyone can throw a punch,” he said, his tone calm but pointed. “Beating someone isn’t hard. Knowing how to break them—that’s the part that takes skill.”

  He shifted slightly, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows over his features. “I wasn’t testing his strength—I was testing his conviction. Some people fight because they have to. Some because they want to. And some?” He exhaled. “They fight because they believe in something.”

  Ranma exhaled sharply, shifting his stance. His eyes flickered, searching for the right words—something solid to hold onto. “I had to know which one he was.” His hands clenched, then relaxed. “I had to know if he could be saved.”

  He turned slightly, glancing toward Rekka’s buried form, his expression unreadable.

  “He never hesitated. Not once. That’s how I knew he wasn’t going to stop.” He exhaled, glancing back at Tamaki. “So, I stopped him.”

  Tamaki's breath caught for a brief moment, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides as she processed the weight of his words. The distinction made her pause, settling into her thoughts like an anchor.

  Had she ever truly considered what it meant to fight beyond the expectations of her uniform? It wasn't just about stopping an enemy—it was about knowing when to strike, when to hold back, and when the battle itself carried a cost greater than victory.

  Ranma had crushed Rekka—but not right away. He had watched, tested, waited. It wasn’t about proving he was stronger. He hadn’t truly dismantled him until he understood what kind of man Rekka was.

  Until he was certain there was no saving him. Tamaki exhaled slowly, the realization sinking in. This wasn’t hesitation—it was integrity.

  “You were holding back.” It wasn’t a question. She could see it now. The precision. The restraint. The way he dictated the fight instead of being consumed by it.

  Ranma’s smirk returned, just a little. “If I wasn’t, you’d know.”

  Tamaki’s breath caught for half a second, her pulse hitching against her will. A chill ran down her spine. There was no bravado in his tone, no arrogance—just absolute certainty.

  The weight of those words settled deep, weighing on the questions already building in her mind. How much was he holding back? And if this wasn’t him fighting seriously... then what did it look like when he did?

  This wasn’t mere confidence—it was something deeper, something unshakable. It made her uneasy, not because she feared him, but because it clashed with everything she had believed about strength. If he could fight with such ease, then what did that say about her own struggles—about the doubts that had always weighed her down?

  He wasn’t boasting. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her. He was simply stating a fact.

  Ranma’s expression hardened as the distant sound of sirens reached his ears. The approaching vehicles cut through the smoke, their flickering lights casting fractured shadows against the haze. He turned toward Tamaki, his tone casual but edged with genuine curiosity. “What’s your name?”

  Tamaki blinked, startled by the question. “Tamaki Kotatsu,” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the distant crackle of flames.

  Ranma nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer, as if weighing something unspoken.

  "You did well protecting them," he added casually, though his tone carried an undertone of sincerity. His gaze shifted toward the approaching trucks.

  "Are you going to be alright with them?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, his curiosity genuine but not pressing.

  Tamaki hesitated, her thoughts swirling with uncertainty. "They’re my Company," she replied, her voice steadying.

  Ranma offered a faint smirk. "Hold your ground, Kitten. Strength isn’t just in a fight." he replied. But then, his expression shifted, the teasing edge giving way to something quieter.

  Then, just as easily, the smirk returned, and he turned to leave.

  "But..." she glanced at the children, then back at Ranma. "How do you do it? Stay so calm? You seemed so... certain," she asked, her tone searching. "It’s like you don’t even hesitate."

  A momentary softness replaced his usual confidence, as though a burden he rarely acknowledged had surfaced for just an instant—a weight carried alone, hidden beneath his quips and smirks.

  He hesitated for just a fraction of a second longer, his gaze flickering downward before settling back on her, shoulders shifting slightly as if considering his words before speaking again.

  "Sometimes you have to act certain even when you’re not." he admitted, his voice low, almost distant, as if he was speaking more to himself than to her.

  "It’s not as easy as it looks," he added, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic weight.

  Without waiting for a response, he glanced back at the ruins one last time, his expression hardening briefly before springing upward in a fluid, almost weightless motion. Smoke coiled and twisted in his wake, shifting like a living thing, curling into the cooling night air.

  "Wait." The word left her before she even realized she was saying it. Her body shifted, a half-step forward, fingers twitching at her sides like she wanted to reach out but didn’t know why. The urgency in her voice surprised even her.

  The acrid scent clung to Tamaki’s lungs, mixing with the distant metallic tang of blood. A low tremor rolled through the ground beneath her, the distant rumble of another battle reverberating through the wreckage, a stark reminder that this moment of stillness would not last.

  Tamaki's gaze lingered on the fading silhouette, her thoughts tumbling over themselves in a chaotic loop. She replayed the fight, the way Ranma had moved, the way he had spoken—every choice deliberate, every strike with purpose.

  What made him so certain, so unshaken? What did he see that she didn't? She clenched her fists slightly, as if trying to hold onto something intangible, a lingering question she couldn't quite form. Vibrations faintly pulsed through the ground, mingling with the crackle of dying flames.

  The shifting haze distorted his silhouette, warping his outline like a mirage in the heat. Shadows flickered against the smoke, the orange glow of distant fires casting his retreating form in shifting, fractured light.

  Tamaki strained to keep her golden eyes on him, but the night swallowed his presence piece by piece until only the embers remained.

  Her gaze lingering with a mixture of gratitude and curiosity. She wondered what drove him forward, what pushed him to act without hesitation, and whether she would ever understand the conviction behind his confident facade.

  His resolve seemed unshaken, so unlike her own doubts and fears. One day, she wanted to understand that certainty—to feel it for herself.

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  Ranma perched on the edge of a rooftop, the cool night air brushing against his skin as he gazed over the damaged workshop and the walled-in yard below. The faint scent of scorched wood lingered, mixing with the distant aroma of city smoke.

  A soft breeze whispered through the alleys, carrying the distant murmur of voices and the occasional crackle of settling debris.

  From here, he could see the movement below—what looked like a team of firefighters still picking through the wreckage, their voices carrying in the distance. Even from this far, he could tell what the conversation was.

  Questions. Speculation. Debriefing a battle they didn’t understand. His fight was already being broken down and examined like a puzzle missing too many pieces.

  One firefighter paused to take a sip from a battered thermos, his gloves still dusted with soot. The radio on his shoulder crackled—something about another incident nearby. The city never stopped.

  Tamaki stood with the mother and her children, her posture tense but steady. She was already talking to the others, answering the same questions in slightly different ways. Ranma didn’t need to hear it again. He already knew how the story went.

  The battlefield still crackled with dying embers, heat lingering in the air like the ghost of a fight that had already decided its winner. The warmth pressed against his skin, mixing with the acrid scent of burnt wood and scorched stone.

  The air carried the faint remnants of smoke, threading through the silence like the final breath of something that had already passed. The ground bore the scars of the battle—fractured stone, scorched earth—but this wasn’t just destruction.

  It was the shape of a belief breaking under its own weight.

  The heat still clung to the space where flames had raged, but it wasn’t wild anymore. The battlefield didn’t feel like victory. It felt like something had burned out, not just Rekka’s fire, but whatever had kept him standing long after the fight should have ended.

  Ranma exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. His blue grey eyes scanned the destruction—the fractured streets, the shattered windows.

  The thought sat with him, and the longer it stayed, the more it grated. Rekka hadn’t been fighting to win. Winning meant adjusting, reading the flow of battle, knowing when to change tactics and figuring out how to turn the tide.

  Rekka never tried. He just kept throwing himself at the fight like sheer force of will would change the outcome.

  Ranma had seen plenty of stubborn fighters —Ryoga, Mousse, and Herb. They didn’t know how to quit. He had been one himself. But even when he refused to back down, even when he fought until his body couldn’t move, there had always been a reason. A goal. A lesson to take from it.

  Rekka wasn’t fighting for anything real. He wasn’t pushing his limits or proving something. He wasn’t fighting to survive because survival would have required him to change.

  He fought because he refused to be wrong. Even when the truth had already buried him.

  Ranma flicked his pigtail from his shoulder and let out a slow breath, shifting his weight against the rooftop edge. The heat from the battle had faded, but the irritation remained.

  ‘This guy really went and died on his hill, what a waste.’ The thought settled in Ranma’s chest, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

  He let his fingers drum against his leg, gaze moving toward the skyline. The neon hum of Amaterasu pulsed in the distance, too steady, too artificial. The city below would move on like it always did, resetting itself as if the fight had never happened. The world never cared.

  He rested his elbow on one knee, his fingers still idly drumming against his thigh. The stillness pressed against him, thick and unnatural, like the city itself was holding its breath.

  And the way he had used fire—it wasn’t ki, not really, but it wasn’t separate from it either. It moved through him, but it didn’t settle, didn’t anchor itself the way ki did. It was volatile, almost foreign, as if it belonged to something else entirely. That distinction gnawed at him. He wasn’t sure what to make of it yet.

  The dim glow of neon signs flickered intermittently, casting long, jagged shadows across the rooftops. Somewhere below, a loose sheet of metal clattered against the wind, the sudden noise vanishing just as quickly as it came.

  For all the noise of battle and chaos that had filled the day, this quiet felt louder.

  Ranma exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes scanned the destruction—the fractured streets, the shattered windows.

  'Some protector I'd make.' The thought came unbidden, edged with frustration.

  The thought hit harder than he wanted to admit. He shifted his weight, cracking his knuckles as if the sound might shake the unease loose. His foot tapped against the rooftop edge, sending a small chunk of debris tumbling to the street below.

  The weight of the moment settled over him, pressing against his thoughts, stirring something he had tried to leave buried. It wasn’t just the aftermath of the fight—it was the frustration, the feeling of being trapped in something bigger than himself. His mind drifted, unbidden, to a memory.

  Mikado Sanzenin.

  The scene unfolded in his mind as vividly as if it had happened yesterday, the graceful skater’s smug grin, the jeering crowd, and the burning indignity of that stolen kiss. Ranma felt his fists clench at the memory, his jaw tightening as the humiliation resurfaced.

  But it wasn’t just the kiss. It was the helplessness. He’d been caught off guard, pinned in a situation he couldn’t fight his way out of. Mikado had smirked, exuding the kind of arrogance that had always rankled him.

  That feeling of being out of control—it still made Ranma’s teeth grit.

  The broken remnants of the yard below mirrored that memory, a space he couldn’t punch or kick away. For a moment, the weight of it pressed down, heavy and immovable.

  Ranma sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Guess it’s not the first time I’ve felt like this,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely audible over the faint crackle of distant flames.

  His gaze flicked toward the distant glow of Amaterasu, its pulsing light like a heartbeat in the night. “Powerless, huh?”

  The word tasted bitter, but he let it sit for a moment. Then, as if to defy it, he sat up straighter, his expression hardening. “Nothing stays that way. Not for me.”

  Flexing his fingers, he allowed a faint smirk to tug at his lips. “Got out of that one, didn’t I?” he muttered. “Even if it took a little... creativity.”

  The tension in his chest loosened, just a little. He’d faced worse odds before. This? This was just a bigger stage.

  Ranma had been in more fights than he could count. He had seen grudges settle in the space between two people, felt the weight of battles where pride, vengeance, or principle shaped every exchange. Those fights had meaning, even when they were reckless, even when they spiraled out of control.

  No matter the outcome, there had always been something behind those fights, something understood even when words weren’t spoken. This wasn’t the same.

  The battle hadn’t belonged to the people who fought it. It reached beyond them, past the battlefield, past the moment where one person walked away and the other didn’t.

  Ranma exhaled and let his gaze drift over the responders. They moved with purpose, clearing debris and assessing damage, treating the battle as something that could be filed away and forgotten. He knew better than to believe it was that simple.

  Everything was settling back into place without him. It was a reminder—he wasn’t meant to linger. That wasn’t the kind of person he was. And that wasn’t going to change now.

  Ranma rose to his feet, his movements smooth and fluid as he stepped to the edge of the rooftop. For a moment, he stood still, the night air cool against his face. “Guess that’s my cue.”

  His fingers flexed slightly as he shifted his stance, adjusting his balance against the rooftop's edge. He didn’t have enough pieces yet—didn’t know enough to make real sense of anything.

  But if there was any chance that his old life was still here, still reachable, there was only one place to start.

  Nerima.

  It wasn’t certainty, just the next logical step. A thread to follow, even if he wasn’t sure what he’d find at the other end.

  With a leap, he propelled himself across the rooftops, his body adjusting seamlessly to the movement. The rush of wind followed, swallowing his presence as he pushed forward. His mind was clear, his focus sharpened. As the shadows shifted around him, a faint smirk tugged at his lips.

  “I miss that cat,” he murmured, the words almost lost to the night.

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  The night hung heavy with the acrid scent of scorched earth, mingling with the lingering embers that pulsed faintly in the darkness. The battlefield still smoldered, wisps of smoke curling lazily upward, twisting like ghosts in the cooling air.

  From their vantage point, the two figures remained motionless, their white-clad forms merging with the gloom as if the night itself sought to conceal them. The faint crackle of dying flames punctuated the stillness, a quiet counterpoint to the distant echoes of battle.

  The air carried the weight of something unprecedented—something neither of them had accounted for.

  Haran exhaled sharply, arms crossed, his fingers drumming against his bicep with impatient, staccato taps. "We should go down there and finish Rekka."

  Arrow didn’t immediately respond, her gaze still locked on the battlefield. "No."

  Haran turned sharply toward her, irritation flashing in his eyes. "No? He’s buried, but we don’t know if he’s dead. If we leave him, the Fire Force might dig him out. And if he’s still breathing, he could talk."

  Arrow's voice remained even, calm. "Rekka is already finished. Look at him. His belief was shattered before his body was. Even if he is alive, what can he offer them? A broken fanatic’s ramblings? No, if anything, letting them recover him feeds their distractions while we focus on what actually matters."

  Haran’s fingers flexed, his muscles coiled with unspent energy. "And that would be?"

  Arrow shifted, her sharp blue eyes cutting through the dim light. "The unknown fighter."

  Haran’s jaw tightened. "You mean the one who tore Rekka apart without breaking a sweat?" His broad shoulders tensed beneath his cloak, the dim light casting sharp angles over his scarred face as his narrowed eyes flicked toward Arrow. His jaw tightened, and his eyes flickered with restrained aggression, as if holding himself back took more effort than action itself.

  "We should take him out now." His voice was edged with frustration. "If he’s this dangerous, leaving him unchecked is a mistake."

  Arrow remained still, her stance rigid, the folds of her white cloak barely shifting in the faint breeze. "Rekka was a liability the moment he lost. The Fire Force will waste time trying to piece together his failure. We, however, need to understand what we just saw."

  Her sharp features were shadowed beneath her hood, her piercing gaze locked on the battlefield, unreadable. "We don’t know enough. Engaging now would be reckless."

  Haran scoffed. "Since when did we start playing it safe? The Evangelist’s will isn’t served by hesitation."

  "The Evangelist’s will is best served by knowing our enemies before we strike," Arrow countered, her tone measured.

  "That one doesn’t fight like a pyrokinetic. He doesn’t fight like the Fire Force. He fights like…" she hesitated, "like someone who doesn’t belong here."

  "What the hell does that even mean?" Haran shot back, irritation flaring in his voice.

  Arrow turned to him, her expression unreadable, though a flicker of something—calculation, maybe even concern—passed behind her sharp blue eyes before vanishing just as quickly.

  "It means he’s an anomaly. He arrived through a distortion, survived its effects, and dismantled Rekka without missing a beat. His combat style doesn’t follow any structure we recognize. He’s unpredictable."

  Haran frowned, his thick brows knitting together. "So what? We’ve put down plenty of unpredictable enemies before." His fingers twitched, as if itching for action.

  "Not like this one," Arrow said. "He didn’t just defeat Rekka—he shattered him. Physically, mentally, ideologically. Rekka’s faith was unshakable, but this fighter crushed it as if it were nothing. That kind of precision isn’t random. It’s controlled. Purposeful. And that makes him dangerous."

  Haran's fingers twitched. "And that’s why we need to kill him now."

  "No." Arrow’s voice was firm. "Not yet."

  Haran’s jaw clenched. "You’re telling me we just let him walk away?"

  Arrow nodded. "For now. We watch. We learn. The Fire Force will investigate him, and when the time is right, we’ll know exactly how to deal with him."

  "And if he becomes an even bigger problem by then?" Haran challenged.

  "Then we let the others do the hard work for us." Arrow’s gaze returned to the battlefield. "Let him move unchecked. Let him reveal his nature before we decide how to act. Either way, he may expose weaknesses we can use."

  Haran exhaled sharply, tension still rolling off him. "I don’t like it."

  "You don’t have to like it," Arrow said. "You just have to follow the plan."

  A long silence stretched between them before Haran finally relented, rolling his shoulders and turning away. "Fine. But don’t expect me to enjoy watching."

  Arrow smirked faintly. "I never do."

  They withdrew like whispers in the wind, their presence dissolving into the night with a practiced grace that left no trace, no disturbance—only the weight of unseen eyes that had bore witness to something beyond understanding. The Fire Force remained oblivious to the eyes that had studied them so carefully.

  Before departing, Arrow lingered for a heartbeat longer, her gaze fixed on the battlefield below.

  Was it curiosity or something deeper? She had seen skilled fighters before, but there was something about him—something that made her question whether he was even bound by the same rules of battle as the rest of them.

  He was an anomaly, and anomalies had a way of unraveling carefully laid plans.

  There was something about him—something deeply wrong, deeply unaccounted for. His movements were too refined, too effortless—too impossible. His skill was precise but unshaped, honed but untamed. It didn’t make sense.

  It wasn’t just his strength that disturbed her. It was the realization that he fit nowhere. No school, no Company, no connection. He moved like someone who had carved his own path in the dark.

  Untethered to any rule, any order—Unbound.

  That made him dangerous.

  With one last glance at the battlefield, she turned and melted into the darkness, the soft rustle of her cloak the only sound as she disappeared. The unanswered questions lingered in the air like the fading embers of a dying fire, as the shadows swallowed her whole. How had he come through the Rift unscathed? Was his presence a coincidence, or was something greater at play? And most importantly—was he a threat, or an opportunity waiting to be understood?