[Open Plains]
[Tshamkhul (Qinghai Province), Bod Kyi Ngul Gyi Dzig]
[Greater Indochina Region, Southeastern Asia]
The scorching midday sun hung low over the arid plains of Tshamkhul, casting an unforgiving light on the jagged stones.
Young Saotome Ranma sprinted across the terrain, his chestnut hair sticking to his forehead, sweat-soaked clothes clinging to his wiry, muscular frame.
Dirt, remnants of hours spent training, dusted his skin, a testament to his relentless schedule.
Behind him, his father, Saotome Genma, puffed with exertion, a bamboo stick in hand.
With every breath, he called out commands that echoed off the cliffs.
"Keep that form tighter, boy!" Genma bellowed, the sound carrying over the vast Tibetan landscape.
"If your stances aren't flawless, you're just asking for punishment!"
Ranma pressed on, his feet dodging stones with practiced ease.
He knew the drill: keep running to avoid both the sting of the bamboo in his back and the ire of his father.
This wasn't exactly the nurturing father-son dynamic he'd envisioned as a child.
"Like you can talk! Maybe you'd train better if you weren't stuffed with dumplings! I can still see the grease dripping off your face, Pops!" Ranma shouted, his voice a mocking challenge as he weaved around another obstacle.
Genma grunted in annoyance, his beady eyes sparkling with a mix of irritation and pride.
"A man of my experience doesn't need to train as hard as you! Besides," he gestured grandly, "this is the legacy of Musabetsu Kakutō Ryū! Think of your ancestors—think of your future!"
Above, the cerulean sky stretched infinitely, marred only by dusty trails crisscrossing the barren land.
The air held a cool bite, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the plains—a land far removed from the Japanese islands Ranma had once called home.
Here he was, a six-year-old boy, navigating a life defined by unyielding training under the watchful—if not exhausting—eye of Saotome Genma.
Somewhere high above, a hawk cried out, its lonely call resonating with Ranma's growing sense of isolation.
This was his existence.
Step forward, punch, block, repeat.
No friends, no roots—only dust, fleeting faces, and nights spent shivering under the stars while his father improvised meals from whatever generosity they could wrangle from locals.
After completing yet another exhausting kata, Ranma took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow.
He stood with his patched-up Huárén martial arts gi, a worn testament to their travels.
Despite its ragged edges, he held himself with a dignity rare for someone thrust into hardship so early in life.
But as the stillness settled, frustration welled within him.
He turned toward Genma, who lounged beneath the sole shade of a gnarled tree, sprawled on a torn straw mat.
His father sipped greedily from a canteen likely stolen from the local monks, crumbs of something unidentifiable clinging to his mouth.
Ranma's fists clenched, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Oy, old man!" he called, his voice strained but sharp.
"Don't 'old man' me, boy," Genma replied, a full mouth barely able to hide his irritation.
He sat up slightly, but his body was still relaxed. "That's Master Genma to you, and you better show some respect! Integrity's the foundation of a martial artist's discipline!"
Ranma's incredulity creased his brow. "Integrity? You stole that canteen from the monks last night! Don't play the master card. All you do is lounge while I do all the training."
Genma slammed the empty canteen onto his thigh, his gaze narrowing. "First off, what do you know about survival, eh? You think food grows on trees? You'd be nothing without me teaching you Anything Goes Martial Arts, the greatest art known to man!"
Exhaling heavily, Ranma shook his head.
This dialogue was a well-worn script.
While other kids back in Japan learned arithmetic and science, he had traveled the countryside, his education nothing but martial arts, survival skills, and his father's questionable cooking.
Kicking at the loose dirt beneath his feet, he began to pace in frustration.
"Is stealing part of the art?" he muttered, just loud enough for Genma to hear.
Genma slammed a hand onto his thigh, mock offense rising in his voice. "You think you're better than me? Respect your elders! My generation survived wars—do you know what that taught us?"
"That civility's optional for you?" Ranma shot back, unable to hold his tongue.
The moment he spoke, regret washed over him as he saw Genma's expression shift.
An unsettling darkness flared in his father's eyes before vanishing.
Slowly, Genma rose, stretching his stocky frame and cracking his knuckles in preparation for a response. "Run your mouth? Fine then. Let's add this lesson to your training. If you're so eager to lecture, let's see how well you dodge punches."
Ranma rolled his eyes, fully aware of what lay ahead.
The Bitter Lessons
Each day of running, sparring, and exhausting drills blurred into a monotonous sameness that clawed at Ranma's growing frustrations.
Every city and remote village they visited on their "training journey" in China began to blend together, marked only by the fleeting hosts they imposed upon.
Whereas Ranma admired the fierce martial artists they encountered, it didn't take long for him to realize why Genma never stayed more than a week or two in one place.
"Can't we just pay for stuff like normal people?!" Ranma asked one evening, voice tinged with exasperation, as they sat on the edges of a merchant wagon just outside Zhōngwéi.
Genma, without shame, chewed on a chewed pork bun that clearly wasn't his.
"What's the point of money?" Genma gave a shrug, adjusting his increasingly frayed traveling scarf.
"The world's full of idiots just itching to give it away. Let the rich fools waste theirs—we'll live off our wits."
"No, you live off their wits!" Ranma retorted, glaring at his father.
"Even I know that sitting around while other people feed us ain't training. Real strength comes from earning it."
Genma bopped him lightly on the head with his bamboo stick.
"Less talk, more chewing! You think enemies care whether or not you have honor while you're eating dust on the battlefield? Your only job is to become strong, son. School? Bah, overrated. Friends? Distractions. That's what it means to carry on the Saotome legacy!"
Ranma didn't respond immediately.
He stared at the stars overhead, his fingers idly toying with the loose threads of a travel-worn sleeve.
He didn't share Genma's cynicism, but he had developed an astute awareness of his father's tendency to scam and con everyone they met.
The worst was seeing how Genma avoided children his age.
Anytime Ranma grew close to the son or daughter of a shopkeeper or another traveling martial artist family, his father insisted they move on under the flimsiest excuses.
Those small glimpses of normalcy were torn away too soon, leaving a void filled only by painful repetition of martial drills and scams wrapped in fatherly lectures.
Nightmares of the Future
The visions had begun only a month ago.
Each night, they invaded Ranma's dreams—vivid, unsettling, yet oddly familiar.
He found himself back in Japan, standing on the brink of an endless horizon, the weight of the world pressing down on him.
Initially, the dreams were blurred shadows and whispered echoes, a voice he vaguely recognized, older and burdened.
As the nights passed, they sharpened, revealing a stark reality.
In these dreams, teenage Ranma was no longer free.
Invisible chains wrapped tightly around him, and the familiar gi he wore felt like lead, stained not with dirt but with the burdens of his father, Genma.
He stood in a bustling dōjō, the laughter of young students buzzing around him, oblivious to the seriousness of their practice.
Above, portraits of Genma loomed—rotund and complacent—watching as Ranma struggled beneath the weight of expectation.
His throat tightened as the dream shifted to chaos: faces flickering in and out of focus.
Ukyō, with her spatula gripped like a weapon, radiated fierce determination.
The purple-haired Méi, tall with innocent purple eyes, clad in pink combat gear, emanated a strength that belied her appearance, her laughter echoing with the charm of a warrior Amazon.
He caught a glimpse of the brown-haired, brown eyed tall, slender and buxom oldest daughter and heiress of the Tendō clan, which along with the Saotomes were the only two groups allowed to teach the main styles of Musabetsu Kakutō Ryū, Kasumi, serene and nurturing, a child resting on her hip as she sat quietly, her nurturing gaze softening the tumult of the scene, as she served tea to the screaming children—some of whom, in a twisted irony, looked strikingly familiar.
Next to her stood Kasumi's younger sister and the second daughter of the Tendō clan, who like Kasumi had brown hair and brown eyes but had her hair cut short, Nabiki, clever and possessive, a knowing smirk creasing her lips as she stacked wads of cash on a desk, while also collecting bets on their next sparring match, her businesslike demeanor unwavering.
The blackish-blue-haired, red-eyed, short, slender and petite youngest daughter of the Tendō clan and thus the shared younger sister of both Kasumi and Nabiki, Akane, the smallest of the sisters, flared with fury, shouting reasons that were lost to him, her fiery spirit barely contained, and softened only slightly when she looked upon her equally stubborn children.
And always, lurking in the shadows, was Genma—lazy and smug, a grotesque figure of indulgence.
He tossed coins into his pocket, a greasy smirk spreading across his face as he reveled in the chaos.
Wherever Ranma turned, family responsibilities loomed, mingling with fleeting moments of joy whose bright edges dulled in Genma's heavy shadow.
In the background, that shadow dealt ominously with shady figures—criminals and hitmen—trading on Ranma's reputation in Japan's martial arts underworld.
It felt like a nightmare tinged with prophecy.
In the dreams, Ranma juggled multiple children from his many wives, guest lectures, and complex family dynamics, tirelessly teaching the aerial techniques his father had drilled into him.
Yet, despite his relentless efforts, he couldn't escape the figure at the edges of his dreamscape: Genma, thriving off Ranma's hard work.
"You're doing great!" Dream-Genma bellowed, slapping Ranma on the back with a laugh that chilled him. "Pop deserves a rest while you take care of everything! How about some tea?"
In those dream-spun scenes, Genma had entrenched himself as a kingpin, thriving on greed and wielding control over the martial arts community in Nerima.
The dōjō felt like a prison, with Ranma as its unwilling captive—an ox pulling a heavy plow while Genma lounged on a throne built from his son's labor.
This can't be my future… can it? Real Ranma often wondered, battling the suffocating grip of the nightmare's remnants as he returned to the waking world.
The final image lingered with him—his own shadow, distorted and blood-red—before he jolted awake, drenched in sweat.
His heart raced as if he had run a marathon, and the oppressive déjà vu clung to him, unshakeable.
No amount of punches or kicks could banish the specter haunting the corners of his mind.
Breaking Away
The nightmares lingered as Ranma trained, an echo of restless shadows inflicting his focus.
His body moved through the motions, but Genma's incessant orders sliced through the air, amplifying the frustration boiling in his chest.
Everywhere he turned, the stark contrast of his father's teachings and the reality of Genma's opportunistic laziness spread like a chasm between them.
In every village they visited, it was Ranma who endured grueling hours of training, exhausting himself in a relentless cycle of drills while Genma relaxed at camp, enticing villagers with charm, coaxing meals and free favors from innocent merchants.
"Why don't you ever stick around to help those who feed us? Or pay the ones we borrow from?" Ranma finally growled one evening, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of their campfire, avoiding his father's eyes.
"You've got skills. You could get us real money, y'know."
Genma merely shrugged, the corners of his lips twitching into a dismissive smile.
That night, as the dim embers glowed against the distant peaks of Qinghai, the boy felt something shift within him.
For the first time, he started to see his father clearly—not as a mentor, but as someone smaller, flawed, and ultimately dangerous.
The fracture in their relationship reached a breaking point when Genma shattered the last remnants of trust Ranma had held onto.
Claiming it was "the next evolution" of his strength, Genma tricked Ranma into trying the Mūn Kīl [4], better known by its Nihongo name, Nekoken.
He spun the tale like embroidered gold, promising an awakening of superhuman agility and speed through the forbidden Manchurian fighting style.
"Imagine being so fast that not even a cat can escape you!" he had said, enthusiasm lighting his eyes.
On the surface, it appeared brilliant—except for one small detail.
Genma failed to mention the crippling fear of cats that would grip Ranma if executed improperly.
With a blindfold tightly wrapped around his head and his body swathed in raw fish, Genma shoved him into a pit teeming with half-starved feral cats.
Ranma felt the sharp claws tearing into his skin, felt the panic rising as the frightened animals surged towards him.
It wasn't just his body that suffered—the trauma clawed at his tender mind.
Hours later, he crawled from the pit, trembling.
Blood trickled from fresh scratches that marred his arms and legs, each mark a testament to his father's recklessness.
Genma laughed uneasily nearby, waving dismissively as Ranma lunged at him, rage bubbling beneath his surface.
"You've lost your mind," Ranma spat, fists clenched and heart racing. "This is insane, even for you."
Memories of Dream-Genma, lazy and gluttonous, burned into his frustration.
"Eh?! You didn't finish the training! You'll get over it!" Genma shouted as if the words alone could erase the torment Ranma had endured.
But something within Ranma blazed hotter than the anger.
Amidst the shards of rage, fear, and adrenaline, resolve ignited in his gut.
"Nope. Screw this. I'm out," he declared, voice steady even as his heart raced.
Days later, after careful planning and a deliberately botched training assignment in the shadow of Zhòuquánxiāng, Ranma made his move.
His bruised, wiry frame slipped through foothills and jagged valleys like a serpent through tall grass.
Genma, too caught up in devouring plundered bread and beer at their camp, didn't even notice his absence until hours later.
By the time Genma called his name in a drunken rage, his son was long gone—free.
Escaping Zhòuquánxiāng was just the first hurdle.
As he ventured deeper across China, Ranma found himself challenging his father's warped wisdom at every turn.
In Xi'an, he sat amongst wǔshù practitioners, absorbing their fluid movements like a sponge, watching the rhythm of their exercises.
The roadside xiūxiānzhě practicing mystical arts captivated him, guiding his mind to ideas of balance and grace that felt foreign yet intoxicating.
Under the moonlight, he trained alone on the vast, open plains, seeking to mirror the elegant aerial techniques he glimpsed from the flowing forms of Chāquán practitioners.
The teachings of wind, stance, and harmony seeped into his body, intermingling slowly with the fragmented instincts Genma had drilled into him.
Yet, the chilling shadow of Genma remained, a constant echo in his mind.
Standing at the mountainous boundaries between Tshamkhul and the rest of Tibet, Ranma tightened his fists against the sharp wind, a silent vow forming in his heart.
Through the lessons of Chāquán, the haunted memories of dreams, and the fierce spirit of Umi-Sen Ken, he swore he would not remain shackled—not to Genma, nor to anyone else.
Ranma was free—or was he?
That very dawn, he set his journey into Tibet in motion, leaving behind a past that threatened to ensnare him.
Eleven Years Later...
[Majima Gakuen Kōkō]
[Kuoh, Chūbu Chihou]
[Nihon Hondo, Dai Nihon Teikoku]
Majima Gakuen Kōkō buzzed with excitement as lunchtime approached, a cascading wave of whispers carrying through the hallways and into the teacher's lounge.
The talk of the school was the showdown in Classroom 2-B, and each retelling seemed more fantastical than the last.
"He fought off a samurai assassin!" one student claimed, eyes wide.
"No way! He's the strongest martial artist in Japan!" another chimed in.
In truth, Hyōdō Issei was far from a mythical fighter, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted in the air since that day.
He had planned for an unremarkable afternoon, maintaining his carefully crafted image as the "idiotic pervert" while dodging pursuit from Matsuda and Motohama, who always seemed eager to sneak peeks at the girls' locker room.
But now, as he stepped into the bustling hallway, everything had changed.
Classmates didn't just glance sideways anymore; they turned to stare, eyes wide with curiosity. Murmurs followed his every step, a tide of attention he had never encountered before.
"Is that… the guy from Class 2-B?" A brunette's voice floated over, her hands cupped around her mouth as she leaned towards her friends.
"Yeah! I heard he took down that crazy transfer student in, like, five moves!"
"And he's kind of… dreamy, right? Those eyes, that hair…"
Issei blinked in surprise, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
Confusion prickled at his instincts.
"Must be talking about Kiba," he muttered, shaking his head. "That pretty boy is always up to something weird."
But ignoring the attention wasn't an option anymore.
Everywhere he went, groups of girls lingered in corners of the hallways, peeking out from behind lockers and craning their necks to glimpse him as he passed.
Even at the Jūdō Club's training halls, he felt the weight of their gazes, an awareness that he had become the subject of speculation and intrigue.
Unbeknownst to him, the chaotic events of the fight hadn't just left a trail of destruction in Classroom 2-B—they'd planted a seed of fascination and admiration that was beginning to grow, drawing Issei into the spotlight he never sought.
Lunchtime at the Majima Courtyard
Issei pinched the bridge of his nose as he sat alone beneath the shade of a sakura tree, trying to drown out the low hum of excited voices all around him.
Nearby, two first-year girls passing by not-so-subtly glanced in his direction, giggling and hiding their faces as they walked farther away.
"This is bad, this is so bad…" he muttered to himself, shoving rice into his mouth with a pair of chopsticks.
Across the courtyard, Matsuda and Motohama were both nursing bruised egos (and literal bruises) after their latest failed peeping attempt.
As always, they came to Issei to regroup and strategize.
"Issei, WHAT the hell, man?!" Matsuda squawked, slapping both palms onto Issei's table as he leaned in aggressively.
"Yeah, you've been holding out on us!" Motohama added, his glasses flashing dramatically in the sunlight.
"All those stupid punches I've seen you throw at practice? Totally fake! You were sandbagging everyone! That fight with that 'ninja chick'? It was something straight out of a martial arts anime!"
Issei groaned, wishing for once that the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
"Guys, seriously, just drop it already!" He leaned back against the trunk of the tree, exhaling slowly. "I'm not... whatever you think I am. It wasn't even that impressive."
"Not impressive? NOT IMPRESSIVE?!" Matsuda nearly shouted before catching himself.
He glanced around the courtyard, where students nearby were quietly murmuring about Issei as they observed him... from a respectable distance.
Matsuda dropped his voice to a loud whisper. "Dude, you BLOCKED A KATANA with a freaking chair! People SAY you can throw someone with, like, one finger! There's already a betting pool going on in the Jūdō Club about whether or not you can take down their SHIHAN—and don't even get me started on the girls."
Issei blinked, confused. "...Wait, girls? What does that have to do with anything?"
Motohama's expression was both sympathetic and scornful. "You really have no idea, do you?" he asked, shaking his head.
"Hyōdō, there are girls"—he leaned in conspiratorially, eyeing Issei fiercely—"watching you right now."
Issei frowned. "What?!"
Matsuda gestured wildly across the courtyard, where several clusters of unrelated girls—first-years, second-years, and even several third-years—sat in their own groups but kept sneaking glances toward their spot.
"That's your fan club, bro. Didn't you notice?! It started after yesterday's throwdown with that ninja girl freak—uh, whatever her name was. People saw you flip desks to evade a blitz! You practically glow Bishōnen energy right now!"
"Fan club." Issei repeated flatly, staring at Matsuda like he'd grown three heads.
"Yes, Issei!" shouted Motohama—perhaps a little louder than he meant to.
"THAT kind of fan club. We're living in unprecedented times! YOU'RE POPULAR NOW." His voice cracked toward the end.
But as much as Matsuda and Motohama gleefully exaggerated every little thing, much of what they were saying wasn't far off.
In fact, Hyōdō Issei's perception was slowly shifting among the women of Majima.
Already, his once mocking nickname as "the biggest perv in Kuoh" had begun to melt against the relentless tide of murmurs painting him as some mysterious martial artist hiding in plain sight.
It wasn't long before Issei found himself swallowed by the tidal wave of rumors as both the Jūdō Club and Karate Club took active steps in roping him into their ranks.
Despite his years of effort keeping a low profile, a strange flicker of rebellion burned in Issei's chest.
If Genma had used Musabetsu Kakutō Ryū to ruin lives and wreak havoc across the world, maybe... just maybe he, Hyōdō Issei, could turn it into something brighter.
Something for himself.
"Yes," he decided aloud as he thumbed his chin, looking defiantly as students whispered about the resurgence of Anything Goes. "…Time to stick it to that panda-sellout bastard for good."
Later that Day – Majima's Jūdō Dōjō
The sharp thud of bodies hitting the mat echoed through the spacious training hall, punctuated by the occasional bark of exertion.
The Majima Jūdō team slogan, "Chōwa Niyoru Chikara" [1] was painted boldly across the far wall.
Issei stood at the center of the ring, relaxed yet alert as two upperclassmen circled him cautiously.
His newfound (and entirely unwanted) notoriety had earned him an impromptu "invitation" to demonstrate his skills in front of the club.
At first, he'd declined the challenge.
After all, he didn't need this kind of attention.
But fate—or more accurately, peer pressure from the adoring group of fangirls—had forced his hand.
And so, here he was, facing off against two of Majima's senior Jūdō champions.
The first attacker lunged in, attempting a shoulder throw.
Issei fluidly sidestepped, redirecting the boy's momentum with a well-timed sweep.
The upperclassman hit the mat in a rolling tumble, his form impeccable even in defeat.
The second fighter, bolder and more aggressive, followed up with a low tackle aimed at Issei's center of mass.
Issei sidestepped again, this time employing a flash of Umi-Sen Ken.
To the untrained observer, he appeared to vanish for a brief moment, reappearing just behind his opponent, who stumbled forward as if trying to catch a ghost.
Issei seized the opportunity, locking the boy's arm and flipping him clean over his shoulder.
There was a collective gasp from the spectators, particularly from a small crowd of female students gathered by the dōjō entrance.
One particularly enthusiastic girl clutched her hands to her chest, whispering, "Kakkoii...!" (So cool…!).
Not Too Far Away – Hidden in the Shadows
From the edge of the dōjō roof, a diminutive figure hunched low, his beady eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint as he puffed on an ornate pipe, the smoke curling lazily into the air.
Happōsai, the original grandmaster of Musabetsu Kakutō Ryū, was nearly bald, save for wisps of hair on either side of his head, and sported an almost nonexistent mustache that barely adorned his upper lip.
He couldn't help but chuckle under his breath as he surveyed the scene below.
"Oh ho ho, so this is the boy," he muttered, his raspy voice mingling with the fragrant smoke that enveloped him.
He squinted, watching the younger martial artist perform a series of moves.
"Not bad. That move just now—Umi-Sen Ken. Genma's technique, alright. But it lacks finesse. Sloppy."
For a fleeting moment, his gaze darkened, contemplating the boy's potential.
A predatory grin returned when he noticed the crowd of young women nearby, their eyes bright with encouragement.
"Of course, the boy has plenty of time to work on it. And with so many delightful beauties cheering him on? Oh, he'll surpass that lout Genma both in martial arts and in securing a harem.", he chuckled, leaning back against the roof's edge.
Having roamed Japan and beyond for two centuries, Happōsai knew chaos well.
His reputation as a notorious pervert had earned him a ban from noble estates and imperial grounds all across Japan, much to the chagrin of the many women he'd encountered over the centuries.
Yet, within the shadows of Kyoto, he watched over his so-called "disciples," often sowing mischief under the guise of mentorship.
"Ah, Ranma—no, Issei," he whispered, nostalgia creeping into his raspy voice. "You've grown."
True, part of him still felt a low heat of satisfaction over the seed he'd planted in the aimless young Ranma years ago when he'd wandered through Kuoh—all alone, right after being adopted by Gorou and Miki.
Ah, yes... that fateful encounter.
Happōsai's grin stretched wickedly as he remembered the look on the clueless boy's face when he'd handed him that book—a lovingly detailed masterpiece on the so-called "wonders of the female form."
"You'll never truly master Musabetsu Kakutō Ryū without a refined appreciation for beauty, my boy!" he'd said then, cackling as young Ranma held the book at arm's length, his expression oscillating between fascination, horror, and curiosity.
Happōsai had followed it up with a wise-smirking declaration: "Turn perversion into a lifestyle, not a vice! Honor the art, and the art will honor you, kid!"
With a lecherous grin, he recalled the influence he'd had on the boy back then, though it was tinged with bitterness. "Don't remember me, do ya? Heh, guess Miki and Gorou did a good job scrubbing poor ol' Happōsai from your memory. But it was me who showed you the value of appreciating the female form!"
His moment of reverie in the present shattered as his gaze drifted to the edge of the schoolyard where a figure loomed beneath a tree.
The unkempt red hair was unmistakable, yet the figure emitted a palpable aura of danger.
"Yūjirō…" he murmured, an uneasy frown creasing his brow. "What's he doing here?"
Before he could delve deeper into his thoughts, his pocket pager vibrated, a relic from another time.
Scowling at the neon green text emblazoned with Section Three's logo, he muttered, "Damn government dogs. Always poking around where they don't belong."
He pocketed the device with haste, relieved they hadn't yet tracked him down.
"Happōsai."
The smooth, chilling voice brought him to a halt.
He turned slowly, instincts flaring, and found a slender figure shrouded in shadow.
Though the sun bathed the area, her black combat bodysuit absorbed the light, giving her an almost spectral presence.
Igawa Asagi stood before him, her piercing gaze like twin daggers.
"Been a while, old man," she remarked, her tone edged with menace.
Happōsai offered a grin, though it lacked its usual bravado. "Ah, Asagi-chan! What a surprise. You look stunning as ever. If only I were forty years younger—"
"Save it," she interrupted, cracking her knuckles. "The Kokkai [2] has a lucrative bounty on your head. I don't care about that. I just want to know why you're lurking around Majima. Don't play dumb; you're not very good at it."
Feigning offense, he clutched his chest dramatically. "Oh, Asagi-chan, you wound me! I'm merely observing the next generation of martial artists—especially…" His expression shifted to grave seriousness. "Especially that boy."
She narrowed her eyes, her hand instinctively drifting toward her weapon. "Hyōdō Issei?" she inquired coldly.
"Saotome Ranma," Happōsai corrected her, his tone turning somber.
"He's more than just a boy. He carries a legacy—one with dangerous potential. And if you're not careful…"
His sly grin returned, but something unsettling flickered behind it. "He's going to break all of you before you even figure out who he is."
Meanwhile...At Majima's Karate Dōjō
"Hyōdō-san?" several nobles muttered incredulously as he stepped into the dōjō.
The club president—a tall third-year girl with sharp brown eyes and tied-back hair—stood at attention, raising an impeccably arched eyebrow at the newcomer.
Students whispered quietly behind her about his recent skirmish.
"I heard he's an actual martial arts prodigy," one first-year murmured. "How'd that even happen?"
"I thought he was, you know… that perverted idiot who runs around with Matsuda and Motohama."
Issei, oblivious to their gossip, bowed clumsily to the president, scratching the back of his head.
"Yo, just wanted to check it out," he said casually, keeping his tone light.
"Figured I'd maybe stretch my legs or whatever, you know—got some old family moves I've been meaning to... polish."
"Old family moves, huh?" the president said, studying him with faint amusement.
Her expression darkened playfully as she stretched out her hand and did a "come hither" motion with her hands. "Alright, big guy. Show us what you've got."
He grinned before getting into a position.
The atmosphere in the dōjō shifted as students moved hurriedly to the edges of the massive floor space.
Whispers hummed like white noise as Issei stepped forward.
Visions of his biological father's training sessions—no, torture sessions—flashed briefly in his mind as he prepared to show his worth.
"Alright," he replied confidently. "Musabetsu Kakutō Ryū: Kōsō no Tatakai—Demo Mode, Lesson One: How Not to Get Kicked in the Face!" [3]
[1] Strength Through Harmony
[2] Japanese National Diet
[3] Anything Goes Martial Arts: Light Sparring
[4] Cat Fist