Foreword – Format Shift Ahead
Heads up: starting with this chapter, we're changing gears.
The mega-chapter era (R.I.P. 10k monsters) is stepping back for a while. In its place?
Shorter, sharper, self-contained scenes delivered more frequently—like story tapas. Or narrative ambushes. Take your pick.
Still the same tone. Still the same density-per-sentence ratio that makes editors weep. The same reckless use of martial philosophy, unpaid emotional damage, and deeply questionable physics. And the same slow-burn tension and occasional unlicensed absurdity.
Some future chapters will still go long when the moment insists. Because some scenes just show up and demand the entire room. But overall, we're breathing a bit more now.
If you miss the mega-format or want bundles down the line, speak up. I aim to please (and occasionally confuse).
Thanks for sticking with the story.
The Wildfire is just getting started.
Wyrdwyrm
Chapter 7: Street Level Taxation
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.
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.
-o-0-o-O-o-0-o-
Arthur's Notes
The Chivalric Order of Chapter Formatting
The location for today's installment was, as Arthur declared with absolute conviction, "a hall of great literary reverence." In practical terms, it was an alley behind a noodle cart that had recently been abandoned due to what witnesses described as "a blur of limbs, a scream about taxation, and possibly a small god in the shape of a cat." Whether it was holy ground or not remained hotly debated. Mostly by Arthur.
He had dragged in a folding chair, which promptly collapsed, and replaced it with a crate that smelled vaguely of leeks. A second crate had been stacked precariously on top and labeled "throne" in marker. He sat upon this with all the solemn grace of a child who had just discovered upholstery was optional.
Arthur began, as he always did, by addressing the audience he was quite certain existed.
"Welcome, noble readers, to Arthur's Notes," he declared, arms outstretched like a bard announcing the end of the world.
"Today, we embark upon a journey not of fists and flame, but of structure and scroll! For lo! The scribe has broken the longform!"
"Joining me in this chamber of chivalry is none other than the Archmage of Storytime, the Curator of Continuity, the Scribbler Supreme—Sir Wyrdwyrm of the Order of Rewrite!"
To his right sat a man known as Wyrdwyrm—scribe, godling, narrative saboteur, and the unfortunate soul responsible for constructing the very fabric of this tale.
Wyrdwyrm bore the expression of someone who had accepted long ago that control was an illusion and that Arthur was a tax he simply had to pay.
"You're welcome." Wyrdwyrm said mildly. "I brought existential dread and biscuits."
To Arthur's left perched Nyx, who had not agreed to be here. She said nothing, as cats do, but the sheer precision with which she blinked gave the impression that she had already judged this entire endeavor, found it wanting, and was now simply waiting to see how far it would unravel before physics stepped in.
He turned with the theatrical severity of a man expecting a spotlight.
"Wyrdwyrm, son of Rewrite, do you confess to altering the sacred laws of chapter formatting?"
"I confess," Wyrdwyrm replied dryly, sipping from a chipped mug labeled Plot Happens. "To valuing sleep, pacing, and not having to haul entire battle sequences across the span of biblical scrolls."
He added without a blink, "I considered splitting the arc earlier, but you were busy fighting a duck that day."
Arthur gasped as though betrayed by kin. He clutched at his makeshift tabard.
"Then it is true… the Great Division has begun. No more twelve-thousand-word mega scrolls? No more bleeding ink onto the reader's eyeballs with the fury of a thousand consecutive paragraphs?"
"And that duck was a cursed regent from the Kingdom of Quackalonia. A noble duel."
There was a long pause. Somewhere in the distance, a spoon clattered to the ground.
Wyrdwyrm didn't blink. He simply exhaled through his nose, the sound containing generations of exhausted gods.
"There will still be blood," Wyrdwyrm promised. "Just less per serving."
Arthur nodded gravely, processing this as only he could. "A tactical strike. Serialized precision. Chapter skirmishes instead of campaign wars."
Arthur straightened, as though recalling ancient lore passed down through dusty forums and Reddit threads. "I have studied the arcane arts of storytelling—and clearly, this shift aligns with the teachings of...Chekhov's Wallet."
Wyrdwyrm blinked. Slowly. Like a man physically restraining a thousand rebuttals. "That's not a thing."
Arthur jabbed a finger skyward, as though accusing a god of betrayal. "It states that if a rogue collects a wallet in Scene One, he must redistribute its contents by Scene Three. Or face karmic taxation."
"I'm going to start charging you per metaphor." Wyrdwyrm stared into his mug, wondering if the coffee had been spiked with genre tropes.
Nyx blinked once.
Arthur turned to her with reverence. "She understands. The economy of narrative flow must be guarded. Let it not collapse under its own narrative weight."
Wyrdwyrm muttered something about her just being annoyed that he'd made her wear a metaphor.
"And yet," Arthur continued, undeterred, "some say this change was foretold. That in the Seventh Scroll, there would come a breaking. A trimming. A reckless departure from tradition! Tell us, O Wyrdwyrm—why now? Why not wait until Chapter Ten, the true number of roundness?"
"Because you keep making me write fake interviews, Arthur." Wyrdwyrm answered.
"And Chapter Six nearly melted my brain."
Arthur took a breath that could only be described as knightly. "A worthy cause."
Wyrdwyrm sighing, then gesturing vaguely at the scrolls strewn around them "Also because readers deserve to breathe between battles. The pace had to flex. That or explode." He gave Arthur a long, sideways look. "Like you in a bakery."
Arthur drew himself up, scandalized. "That was ONE time. And the yeast attacked first."
Wyrdwyrm didn't blink. "There was jam on the ceiling."
Nyx turned her head slowly, delivering a blink so heavy with judgment it could have been classified as a historical event.
Arthur huffed. "It was enchanted! How was I to know the scones were sentient?"
Wyrdwyrm took a measured sip from his mug. "You tried to knight one."
There was a pause. Arthur looked like he might defend himself again, but the words abandoned him. He shook it off with the elegance of a man who'd just tripped on his own title.
"So it was a choice made in the crucible of suffering! A true trial of the Pen-Wielder. Were you visited by a vision? A muse in the shape of a flaming spreadsheet?"
"No," said Wyrdwyrm, "but my wife did suggest that 'maybe you should write shorter chapters if you keep screaming into the void about outlines.'"
"Lady Nyx, you have remained silent throughout. But surely, you sense the cosmic balance shifting. What is your judgment upon this new chapter form?"
Nyx casually knocked over Arthur's inkpot.
Arthur froze, then nodded solemnly. "The Oracle has spoken."
Nyx stares directly at Arthur.
Then slowly knocks his inkpot off the makeshift table.
He turned to the audience (which may or may not have been a noodle stand employee still hiding behind a tarp).
"No," Wyrdwyrm said, "she just hates you."
Arthur stood atop his crate, one foot planted dramatically on a stack of vaguely stolen scrolls (menus from the noodle stand), he lifted his arm and declared.
"And so we have learned that formatting is fate! That shorter chapters are no less noble! That even a rewrite, when done with honor, can forge a new legend!"
He turned to Nyx. "Lady Oracle, have we done justice to the tale?"
Nyx flicked her tail and vanished behind a curtain of steam from the noodle cart.
Arthur placed a hand over his heart. "As I suspected. She approves. May her judgments be ever slightly inconvenient and her paws always warm."
He bowed low to Wyrdwyrm, who had not moved in ten minutes and was now slowly scribbling in the margins of reality.
"Thus concludes our tale! We have heard the wisdom of the Wordsmith Wyrdwyrm! We have witnessed the solemn judgment of Lady Nyx! And I, your humble knight king, have uncovered a truth greater than all dragons combined—"
Arthur, standing tall—his cape caught on a nail—cleared his throat.
"…format changes are not defeats. They are... sidequests."
He held his arms wide to the heavens.
He spun toward the invisible audience, posture regal. "So fear not, noble readers! Whether chapters be long, short, wide, folded, or accidentally written in iambic pentameter—we shall charge forth! Guided by honor, pacing, and the occasional cosmic feline!"
Wyrdwyrm didn't look up. "May the great Sparklemuffin help them."
"To the next tale, noble readers!" Arthur bellowed. "May your swords stay sharp, your chapters stay brisk, and may you never be taxed by alley-dwelling martial accountants!"
And with that, the alley grew quiet again.
Well—until the noodle cart exploded for unrelated reasons involving weapon space, spontaneous combustion, and possibly a ladle.
-o-0-o-O-o-0-o-
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.
Weapon space is a semi-mythical sub-dimensional pocket universe accessible only to martial artists, unlicensed chefs, and dangerously romantic animal handlers, who all appear to draw objects—usually sharp, sometimes sizzling—out of clothing that has no visible seams and even less volume.
While traditional physics suggests that a person cannot store a twenty-foot chain whip, an industrial spatula, or an entire duck in their sleeve, weapon space suggests they not only can but should, preferably in time to make a dramatic point.
There are several competing theories as to how weapon space functions:
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.
Attempts to regulate weapon space have all failed, primarily because by the time enforcement arrives, the weapon has already been used, thrown, retrieved, used again, and politely returned to somewhere beneath a sleeve that still doesn't appear to exist.
In conclusion: weapon space, much like the universe itself, is deeply silly, quietly terrifying, and somehow always on time.
Further research is discouraged, as the last known physicist to investigate weapon space spontaneously combusted into a soup ladle.
Wyrdwyrm