Ranma landed in a crouch, boots pressing into the uneven pavement, a lazy gust of dust curling out from under him. The drop hadn’t been silent—he’d timed it just loud enough to make a point, not a threat.
He rose slowly, hands slipping into his pockets like drawing his arms would be a waste of energy on this alley.
Nyx leapt from his shoulder and landed atop a stack of crates with the easy grace of something bred for rooftops. Her golden eyes locked onto the three thugs like she was already bored of them.
Ranma flicked his pigtail off his shoulder. "Man, rough way to make a living, huh?” he said, casual. “Bet you guys pull in a decent haul, though."
The thugs turned. Confused, irritated. One of them—a tall guy with a knife already half-drawn—twitched like he expected to recognize Ranma. The leader, Scarface, glared. The big one just blinked slow.
“If you’re gonna shake a guy down,” Ranma continued, “at least do it with some style.”
Scarface grunted. "The hell are you supposed to be?"
Ranma smiled. “Saotome Securities—certified in street-level taxation.”
Ranma didn’t move. Not yet. He just let the line hang in the air, like the alley itself was waiting for the punchline.
Nyx remained perfectly still on the crate behind him, ears pricked, tail low.
In the distance, a vendor called out a discount, his voice blending with the mundane sounds of the market.
The three thugs didn’t answer. Not right away.
The leader—stocky, scar on his cheek, and the kind of smug grin that usually came with a glass jaw—let go of the shopkeeper’s collar. The old man slumped back, coughing, his eyes wide.
The other two shifted. One was wiry and twitchy, already flipping a knife between his fingers like he wanted someone to notice. The third was broad-shouldered bruiser, the kind of muscle that moved when told and didn’t stop until it hit something.
Scarface’s lip curled. He shoved the shopkeeper aside with a short, irritated grunt. “You think you’re funny?” he asked, stepping forward. His voice tried to bite, but didn’t quite reach it.
The old man scrambled backward, barely catching his balance before turning and bolting down the alley's far end.
Ranma tilted his head like he hadn’t quite caught the question. “Not really,” he said. “But this? Definitely pathetic.”
The knife guy flicked the blade in his hand. It immediately slipped. It clattered to the ground with a dull, anticlimactic clink.
Ranma tilted his head, unimpressed. “You sure you’re licensed for that? You’re gonna sprain your ego.”
Scarface’s posture tightened, his jaw twitching with the effort not to act first. His eyes darted to the bruiser, then snapped back to Ranma, like he was hoping for backup that never came.
“Guy thinks he’s clever,” he muttered under his breath, low but loud enough to be heard.
The bruiser squared up, bracing like he was waiting for someone else to make the first move.
The twitchy one shifted beside him, eyes flicking to the ground where the knife had landed. One of them started to speak but stopped himself with a grunt.
Nyx blinked once. Slowly. Like even she was disappointed in the setup. She hopped down from the crate with a quiet thump and slipped behind a stack of broken barrels, her body low and eyes sharp as she watched the chaos unfold.
“You gonna bend over for that knife?” Ranma clicked his tongue and gave a lazy nod toward the twitchy one. “Because you dropping it was the smartest thing you’ve done all day.”
The twitchy guy lunged, scooping the blade off the ground mid-motion, and drove forward with a clumsy thrust.
He didn’t block—just stepped into the man’s blind spot and spun with the motion, his shoulder driving low and sharp into the thug’s back. It wasn’t a brutal hit, but it redirected every ounce of the man’s forward momentum—turned it against him like a lever thrown hard.
As the thug stumbled past, Ranma’s hand brushed lightly against his coat—nothing urgent, nothing rushed. Two fingers closed around a worn leather wallet, and by the time the guy hit the crate. Ranma’s hand had vanished into his pocket again, casual as a yawn.
Nyx didn’t blink. She adjusted her stance with lazy precision, like even this outcome bored her.
The thug pitched forward, driven harder and faster by the hit. His body folded hard over the waist-high crate with a thump that knocked the air out of him.
His head struck the crate with a loud thud, then snapped back as he rebounded. He collapsed backward in a dazed heap, his knife spinning away with a clatter.
Ranma didn’t interfere—just stood nearby, the picture of patience, like he was waiting for gravity to finish the job.
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The bruiser hadn’t moved—just watched it all unfold, big arms crossed like he wasn’t sure if this counted as his problem yet.
The twitchy guy groaned and rolled onto his side, blinking up at the alley wall like he wasn’t sure which direction was up.
For a moment he stayed there, dazed and unmoving, until he finally managed to push himself upright with a grunt.
Still off-balance, he staggered forward—more reflex than choice—and slammed into the bruiser’s chest.
The bruiser grunted, shifting his weight instinctively before shoving him off with one thick arm.
The twitchy guy barely had time to recover before he stumbled backwards into a makeshift drying rack jutting from a nearby window. It cracked against the back of his skull with a hollow smack.
Ranma gave the bruiser a nod, like they’d just coordinated a stunt. “Thanks for the assist.”
The big guy blinked, confused, like he wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty or proud.
“It’s like interpretive dance,” Ranma added, grinning. “But dumber and with less rhythm.”
No one laughed. Nyx blinked once. The bruiser looked like he was trying to decide if running still counted as dignity.
Scarface swore and grabbed a nearby pipe, rushing in with a snarl. He swung in a wide arc, aiming for Ranma’s ribs. All muscle and no measure—like he thought noise could make up for aim.
Ranma pivoted out of range, letting the swing cut through empty air before the pipe slammed into the crate with a crack that echoed off the alley walls. Wood exploded in every direction, scattering splinters across the alley.
The twitchy guy hadn’t moved. Just groaned faintly as Ranma shifted forward, casual and unbothered—a subtle pressure test, like nudging a stack of dominoes just to see who’d fall next. It wasn’t a challenge—just a step. But it was enough to stir the next one into motion.
The big one didn’t wait for a signal. He just lowered his head and ran, like momentum was the only plan he’d ever trusted.
Ranma leapt—straight up—kicked off the side of the shed, twisted over him, and landed behind the bruiser with both hands still in his pockets.
The bruiser barreled forward, unable to correct his path. He slammed into the rusted shed with a bone-deep crash, the corner catching hard enough to drop him like scaffolding in an earthquake.
As he stumbled forward, Ranma’s hand dipped low, fingers brushing briefly against the man’s back pocket.
By the time he hit the shed, the man’s wallet was already in Ranma’s hand—folded and forgotten like it had never been there. He slipped his hands into his pockets without ceremony.
The impact knocked dust from the siding and sent a metal shudder down the alley. The crash echoed down the alley like a warning bell, cutting through the market’s murmur. Somewhere nearby, a hawker stopped mid-call, voice clipped short like he’d bitten his tongue.
The big guy dropped with a grunt. A thin streak of blood followed, dripping into the dirt beside him.
He watched the bruiser drop like a sack of bricks. At this point, it wasn’t even a fight—it was gravity with an audience.
"This is getting sad." Ranma exhaled, shaking his head like he was witnessing a tragedy. Burns played chess. These guys were still learning how to hold the pieces without choking on them.
“You guys ever considered a different hobby? Knitting’s safer. Fewer concussions.”
Scarface hadn’t budged. The pipe hung loose in his grip now, no longer part of a threat—just something to hold because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.
Ranma turned toward him—not fast, not sharp, just steady. There was no threat in his posture, no tension in his shoulders. He didn’t need it.
The alley was quiet now, even the vendors in the market seemed farther away, their voices dulled by something no one wanted to speak over.
He walked up to Scarface like they had all the time in the world.
Scarface tensed, tightening his grip on the pipe like it could still make sense of what just happened. His shoulder twitched like he might raise the pipe again. He didn’t.
Ranma didn’t say anything right away. He just stood there in front of him, calm, easy, eyes clear. No smile this time. No quip.
Then he reached forward and pulled the pipe from Scarface’s hands—not with force, not in a rush. Just took it like it wasn’t even worth holding onto anymore.
He dropped it. It bounced once, settled against the pavement with a metallic clunk, like even the alley didn’t think it was worth noticing.
“I’m not here for a message,” Ranma said, voice low. “I’m not here to teach you something. I’m here because you made yourself a problem for someone who didn’t have the tools to stop you.”
He stepped in a little closer, not enough to crowd him—just enough that Scarface had to tilt his head slightly to keep eye contact.
Scarface didn’t flinch. His fingers hovered like he might raise them, but nothing moved. His jaw twitched once—no words followed.
“You won’t come back here. You won’t send someone else. You won’t think about it like a challenge.”
Scarface didn’t speak. He didn’t breathe right. He just nodded—barely, like a man afraid nodding might be too loud.
Ranma leaned in—closer than comfort allowed. Not to crowd him. Just to let the silence settle behind his words like weight.
“I know your type. You don’t care what happens unless you’re the one who feels it. So, here’s what you need to understand.”
Ranma slipped a hand into Scarface’s coat, lifted the wallet, and smacked him lightly in the forehead with it. Not hard—just enough to press the point. “Now I know where to find you.” The wallet disappeared into weapon space like a coin in a magic trick.
“And if I hear you even looked at this street again—I won’t come back for a fight. I’ll come back and bury your name with you.”
Ranma reached down without ceremony, slipping two fingers into Scarface’s front pocket. He pulled out a folded stack of cash wrapped in a cheap rubber band—greasy, worn, and far too thick to be honest.
He flipped through it once, then tucked it into his pocket without a word. Easy cash. Dirty hands, sure. But he'd sleep fine.
Scarface didn’t move. He just stared, still caught somewhere between fear and confusion, like his body hadn’t received new instructions yet.
He turned without fanfare, holding up the stack of cash just long enough for it to catch the light.
“Saotome Securities thanks you for your contribution,” he said over his shoulder, voice light. He slid his hands back into his pockets like nothing had happened.
Nyx padded forward from the shadows, her steps silent as she fell in beside him.
A breeze stirred the dust behind them, curling around the fallen pipe like it was ashamed to disturb the silence.
“Not bad,” he muttered. "Could’ve done without the grease."
Nyx flicked her tail.
The alley gave no answer, only the faint rustle of market noise returning as if the world had held its breath and finally let it go.
At the mouth of the alley, the market had resumed—but only at the edges. The stillness hadn’t broken entirely. The scent of soy oil and caramelized heat met him at the corner—brighter, louder, a world still pretending nothing had happened.
She leapt to his shoulder without prompting, tail looping once around his neck like punctuation.
A few heads turned when Ranma stepped into the light. A vendor glanced his way, then looked down and started arranging his wares again. A woman who’d paused mid-step let herself move again. Somewhere down the lane, a bell rang over a food cart.
Ranma didn’t slow. He merged with the flow like he’d always belonged in it.
They turned the corner, the market noise folding back around them. Voices called out specials, vendors hawked wares, something spicy sizzled in oil nearby.
Ranma’s stomach growled. “Let’s get some noodles,” he said, already moving.
Burns was still in his head. But for now? Meat first. Questions later. He wasn’t caught yet. Not by Burns. Not by himself. Not today.
Arthur’s Notes
The Chivalric Order of Chapter Formatting
Author’s Notes: Weapon Space; An Impractical Guide to Impractical Weaponry.
A minor but persistent violation of basic physics, common courtesy, and the conservation of mass.
- One suggests it is a localized anomaly in space-time generated by sheer stubbornness and dramatic timing.
- Another, more controversial, claims that weapon space is in fact infinite, but entirely psychological—meaning that if you believe hard enough in your own nonsense, it becomes functionally true.
- A third theory—rejected on moral grounds—proposes that all the weapons are stored in a large warehouse run by a disaffected Time Lord who gave up on causality centuries ago and now just mails things through people's sleeves.
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