The three of them stumbled out into the night, the darkened streets of Mushashinoyamato alive with the hum of distant traffic and the occasional shout from a passing car. Their limbs were heavy, their minds thick with beer and the raw taste of anger, loss, and absurdity. Shotaro led the way with a swagger that bordered on reckless, Hiroki following with a quiet, pained expression, and Bird clinging to a fleeting sense of mirth that hardly concealed his own inner chaos.
They moved through the empty streets as if in a drunken parade—a trio of teenagers burdened with too many regrets and too few options. The neon signs of convenience stores flickered overhead, casting lurid reflections on wet pavement as they argued and laughed, sometimes bitterly, sometimes hysterically, about the events that had just transpired.
"Man, we really did it tonight, huh?" Shotaro slurred, glancing sideways at Hiroki with a crooked grin, as if their misadventures were a badge of honor.
Hiroki's eyes, still haunted by his mother's fury, held a mixture of anger and sorrow. "I just... I just wish things were different," he mumbled, his voice cracking in the chill of the night.
Bird, ever the instigator even in his drunken stupor, piped up with a laugh, "Different? We did what needed to be done! At least now no one will dare mess with us." His words rang out, half in triumph, half in desperation.
They wandered past shuttered storefronts and dim alleyways, each step punctuating the weight of their newfound legacy. The night, raw and unforgiving, seemed to echo their internal disarray—an episodic, brutal lullaby of broken promises and fleeting victories.
Every so often, Shotaro would pause to adjust his disheveled hair or wipe a bead of sweat from his brow, as if trying to rid himself of the madness. Hiroki would stare blankly at the passing lights, his mind replaying the terror of his mother's words and the violent end to their chaotic evening. And Bird, with a smirk that never quite reached his eyes, kept muttering cryptic, drunken observations about fate and loyalty.
In that surreal, midnight moment, they were raw, unfiltered—a ragtag band of misfits carving out their own legend on the cracked sidewalks. They might have been drunk; they might have been broken, but they were alive, and for now, that was enough.
Hiroki hiccupped and slurred, "I want to pee."
Bird cocked his head, squinting in confusion. "Huh?"
"I want to pee," Hiroki repeated, his voice low and earnest despite the drunken haze.
"Huh?" Bird echoed, his tone blank as if the word held no meaning.
"I said, I want to pee!" Hiroki insisted, frustration edging his words.
Shotaro, trailing behind with a half-lidded glare, finally spoke up, "He's saying he wants to pee."
Bird blinked again. "Huh?"
Shotaro sighed, shaking his head. "I think this radio is broken."
At that, Hiroki, desperate to break the loop of confusion and his own urgent need, stormed ahead and smacked the already-drunken Bird across the face, snapping him back into a semblance of sense.
The street fell quiet for a split second as Bird rubbed his aching cheek, blinking in disbelief, while Hiroki dashed off, every step driven by a desperate need that only nature could command.
Shotaro lingered for a moment, a bitter laugh escaping his lips as he watched the absurdity of it all settle into the cool night air. He muttered to himself, "You should have pissed before pissing your mom off."
Not long after, Hiroki slowed down, his voice raw with frustration. "Damn it, I can't control it anymore. Those 12 beer bottles are finally getting to me."
Then, in a moment that was as ridiculous as it was inevitable, all three of them simultaneously reached down in a drunken haze. "Wait—now I'm feeling it too," one of them slurred.
They exchanged confused glances, the effects of the alcohol turning every moment into an absurd parade of bodily needs. "Where do we empty our tanks?" Shotaro asked, his voice a mix of desperation and hilarity.
For a long, awkward moment, the three idiots stood there on the cracked pavement, swaying, eyes bloodshot, caught between laughter and the unforgiving grip of twelve beers waging war on their bladders. A night of raw, unfiltered chaos—stupid, reckless, and somehow sacred in its absurdity.
Then Hiroki's drunken mind sparked with a stroke of pure, unhinged genius. He lifted a shaking hand and pointed across the street. "Principal Sakura's mansion!!!"
Bird and Shotaro turned their heads like malfunctioning animatronics. The grand, well-kept house stood there in all its oppressive glory, the nameplate by the gate gleaming under the streetlights.
The three looked at each other.
And then they ran.
Inside the mansion, Principal Sakura was in the middle of a glorious dream—one of her greatest masterpieces.
"Hehe… damn brat…" she muttered in her sleep, a wicked smile twitching on her lips. In her mind, Shotaro Mugyiwara was tied to a spinning circus wheel, arms and legs spread out, completely vulnerable. She stood before him, surrounded by an arsenal of throwing knives.
Thwack!
A blade landed right next to his face.
Another, just past his ribs.
She cackled. "Dance, you little shit!"
Just as she was about to throw a serrated kunai at his forehead, reality rudely dragged her back. A faint noise—something just barely registering in her subconscious.
Still half-asleep, she groggily reached for her phone and opened the camera app linked to the security feed.
And there, in black-and-white night vision, stood the three biggest degenerates she had ever had the misfortune of dealing with.
Shotaro Mugyiwara.
Zenkichi "Bird" Gojo.
Hiroki Mazino.
All lined up.
Pissing.
On her mansion's nameplate.
With the most devious fucking grins she had ever seen.
For three seconds, her brain refused to process the information.
Then—
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"
A scream of pure rage cut through the night like a banshee's wail, echoing across the neighborhood.
The three morons turned their heads mid-stream to see the front door SLAM open.
There she stood.
Principal Sakura.
The night air was cool, but the scene unfolding was anything but.
Principal Sakura stood there in her long silk nightgown, the fabric billowing slightly in the night breeze. Her normally pristine hair was a chaotic mess, strands falling over her furious, sleep-deprived eyes—eyes that glowed with a hatred so raw it could peel flesh from bone.
Her body trembled with pure, unfiltered rage. Veins bulged from her forehead, pulsing like they were about to burst.
"YOU!!!" she shrieked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Hiroki, still mid-piss, froze. His face went pale, and in the smallest whisper, he muttered, "Oh, we're so fucked."
Shotaro, on the other hand—drunk, fearless, and way past the point of redemption—took one look at her, saw her veins bulging like she was about to transform into some final boss, and just fucking lost it. He doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly fell into his own puddle of crime.
Bird, still peeing, was stuck in the worst situation of his life. His whole body tensed, but his bladder had no intention of stopping. In a weak, helpless mumble, he said, "I can't stop peeing. I'm too scared to stop peeing."
And that was the last straw.
"YOU FILTHY LITTLE COCKROACHES!!!" Principal Sakura bellowed, her voice cracking with the kind of rage only an educator who has dealt with Mugyiwara-level bullshit could muster.
She stomped forward, the ground trembling beneath her sheer fury.
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE!? I'M GOING TO FUCKING SKIN YOU ALIVE!!!"
Principal Sakura's scream tore through the night, shaking windows, waking up stray cats, and probably alerting the gods themselves.
Hiroki barely had time to zip up before instinct kicked in.
Shotaro, still laughing like a madman, turned on his heel and bolted.
Bird, still in post-pee trauma, took a second longer, his brain buffering—until Sakura took a single step forward, and suddenly, he discovered untapped reserves of speed.
And then, as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times in a past life, the three of them shouted in perfect sync—
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
And they fucking ran.
Ran like their lives depended on it.
Because, in this moment, they absolutely did.
The morning sun hadn't even fully risen when a stray dog, hungry and curious, trotted through the trash-strewn alley. Its nose twitched, sniffing through the wreckage of last night's sins—discarded beer cans, cigarette butts, and the unmistakable stench of three dumbasses who had collapsed in a heap, too drunk to make it home.
The dog sniffed again, its wet nose pressing against something soft. A boot.
It bit down and gave it a tug.
The boot groaned.
A bloodshot red eye cracked open beneath a pile of newspapers.
The dog tilted its head.
The boot shifted again, revealing Zenkichi "Bird" Gojo, still half-comatose, drooling on himself. The dog, undeterred, gave the boot another tug.
And then—
"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"
Bird shot up like he'd been struck by lightning, arms flailing, his drunken brain still catching up to the fact that his attacker was a fucking dog.
The dog, startled, did what any self-respecting stray would do.
It bit the nearest thing in reach.
Which just so happened to be Bird's leg.
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Bird screamed even louder, kicking wildly, which only pissed the dog off more.
Hiroki groggily sat up from a pile of discarded cardboard, hair a mess, reeking of stale alcohol. "What the fuck is going on?"
Shotaro, lying facedown in a garbage bag like a corpse, lifted his head just enough to witness the chaos. He blinked once. Twice. Then slowly let his head drop back down.
"Not my problem."
And just like that, the morning began.
A slow, painful realization settled in.
"WAIT. A MINUTE."
Three pairs of bloodshot eyes snapped open. Three brains, still drowning in last night's alcohol, clicked into place. Three voices screamed in unison—
"WE'RE LATE FOR SCHOOL!!!"
Panic hit like a truck. They scrambled to their feet, stumbling over trash, their bodies betraying them with sore muscles and pounding headaches.
"SHIT, WE GOTTA GET READY FIRST!" Hiroki shouted, already running in the wrong direction before doubling back.
Bird, still hopping on one foot from the dog bite, hissed, "Wait—Shotaro! You can teleport, right?"
"YEAH?" Shotaro blinked.
"THEN WHY THE FUCK ARE WE RUNNING?!"
Shotaro opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I… I don't know how to use Spatial Step with more people. It gets more… complex."
"DAMN IT, WE'RE FUCKED!" Hiroki yelled. "Principal Sakura's gonna MURK us, especially after what we did!"
Shotaro frowned. "What did we do?"
A brief silence.
Bird and Hiroki slowly turned their heads toward him, faces pale.
"We peed on her nameplate."
Shotaro froze mid-sprint. The events of last night flashed in his mind like a goddamn war flashback. The laughter. The sprinting. The glowing eyes of a sleep-deprived demon woman in a silk nightgown.
"FUCK."
He grabbed his head. "HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO STOP ME WHEN I'M DRUNK?!"
Hiroki and Bird exchanged a look.
"Well," Hiroki said, "I was drunk too."
"Same," Bird muttered.
The three slowed to a jog, then stopped entirely, standing there in the middle of the empty street, completely and utterly doomed.
A breeze passed. Somewhere, a crow cawed.
Then—
"…We're gonna die."
Shotaro let out a slow whistle, the sound cutting through the morning silence like a blade through flesh.
And then—
Tokioni Muramasa came screaming through the sky.
It spun like a goddamn predator, slicing through the air before landing perfectly in his outstretched hand. The second his fingers wrapped around the hilt, something in the world shifted.
"Here we go," he muttered, a wild grin stretching across his face.
With one smooth motion, he slashed through the air—
Reality itself split open.
Space cracked. Time bled. The universe itself shuddered as the sword tore through existence, carving out a path straight to their destination. A jagged, pulsating tear in the world hovered in front of them, leading directly to the academy.
Bird and Hiroki stared, jaws slack.
Shotaro rested the blade on his shoulder, smirking.
"After you, gentlemen."
Bird squinted at the swirling rift in space. "…That's literally the same shit Vergil does in DMC5."
Hiroki folded his arms. "Yeah, I was just thinking that. Straight-up Judgment Cut End type beat."
Shotaro, still holding Tokioni Muramasa like a goddamn legendary samurai, clicked his tongue. "Pfft. I wish I had his swag."
Bird snorted. "Alright, Mr. Edgelord, chill out. Anyway, I wonder when DMC6 is dropping."
Hiroki scoffed. "It'll drop when Capcom stops milking Resident Evil."
A moment of silence.
Then they all sighed in unison.
"Yeah, we're never getting that game."
The rift crackled. The school was waiting. And they were still three dumbasses in yesterday's clothes, reeking of alcohol, sweat, and bad decisions.
Shotaro took a step forward, his hand hovering near the tear in space. "Well, gentlemen. Shall we?"
They landed.
Not at the academy.
Not even close.
The three dumbasses crashed straight into a public park, surrounded by confused joggers, old folks doing tai chi, and a bunch of middle schoolers who were way too awake for this hour.
Shotaro dusted himself off. "…Yeah, that potal making still needs work."
Bird groaned. "Fuck's sake, man. You cut through space and time, and you couldn't even aim for a goddamn locker room?"
Hiroki ignored them, sniffing his own armpit. His face contorted in pure disgust. "Holy shit. We reek."
A heavy silence. Then all three turned their heads toward the giant stone fountain in the middle of the park.
Shotaro cracked his knuckles. "Hey, y'all afraid of bathing in public?"
Hiroki scoffed. "After last night? I fear nothing."
Bird shrugged. "Yeah, at this point, I think dignity's just a suggestion."
And just like that, these absolute degenerates grabbed whatever soap and shampoo they had in their bags, stripped down to their boxers, and leapt into the fountain like battle-hardened warriors embracing their fate.
Water splashed everywhere.
A mother screamed.
A little kid pointed. "Mommy, look! Homeless people are playing!"
An old man cackled. "Back in my day, we called that a war bath!"
Meanwhile, Shotaro dunked his head underwater, came back up, and ran his hands through his silver hair like some kind of shampoo commercial model. "Damn. We should do this more often."
Hiroki spat out water. "We absolutely should not."
Bird, lathering his arms like a man with no regrets, muttered, "We kinda have to. if we gonna have those wild nights again."
The morning sun bathed the park in a soft golden glow, birds chirping, joggers jogging, and society functioning as it should.
And then there was this shit.
Three dumbasses, half-naked, scrubbing themselves down in a public fountain like they were reenacting a prison bath scene.
Officer Akira Shinnkai—a man whose face looked like it belonged on a Qing Dynasty scroll, all sharp angles and solemn wisdom—was simply enjoying his routine patrol, hands in his pockets, when he happened to glance toward the fountain.
And froze.
His sharp, trained eyes locked onto Shotaro Mugyiwara—the very same Shotaro Mugyiwara his son Kenshiro practically worshiped. The same bastard Kenshiro clung to like a baby chick to a mother hen.
Bathing. In public.
With two other degenerates.
Like absolute menaces to civilized society.
A vein popped on Akira's forehead.
"What…the…actual…fuck," he muttered under his breath.
Shotaro, blissfully unaware, poured an entire bottle of shampoo over his head, scrubbing like a man whose last two brain cells had declared war on personal hygiene.
Bird sighed contentedly, massaging soap into his arms. "This is kinda nice, not gonna lie."
Hiroki, eyes closed as he rinsed his face, said, "We should do this every time we get too drunk to go home."
A single, horrified gasp broke through the morning air.
Akira took a slow, deep breath through his nose. His fingers twitched. His Wuxia-protagonist-looking ass wanted to unsheath a sword that wasn't even there.
He pulled out his police whistle.
And blew that shit like he was summoning divine judgment.
Shotaro scrubbed the shampoo deeper into his scalp, completely unbothered by the scandalized parkgoers watching three teenage morons bathe in a public fountain like it was some sacred hot spring.
"So anyway," Hiroki said, rinsing the soap off his arms, "RDR3 should be Jack Marston's story after RDR1—him dealing with the fallout, you know? Maybe going full outlaw or something."
Bird, lazily splashing water on himself, scoffed. "Nah, it should be about the early days of the Van der Linde gang—Dutch, Hosea, young Arthur. That's the real story people wanna see."
Shotaro, eyes still shut from the shampoo, yawned. "Both are fine, but if they don't let us rob a train in the first ten minutes, it's a bad game."
"Yeah, fair."
A sharp piercing whistle shredded through the peaceful morning air.
Shotaro's ears twitched.
Hiroki blinked. "Hey, Aniki, the police lieutenant is whistling at us."
Bird wiped soap from his face and turned. "The what?"
The three of them looked up at the fountain's edge.
There stood Akira Shinnkai.
Face carved from stone.
Eyes sharper than a drawn blade.
His police whistle still between his lips.
Shotaro blinked. "Oh."
Bird nodded. "Oh."
Hiroki wiped the water from his mouth. "Oh."
Akira lowered the whistle.
Then, in a voice colder than the grave, he said:
"Get. The fuck. Out of that fountain."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, actually—we're running late, so can you let us go just this once?"
Shotaro didn't even wait for a response. One flick of his wrist, and a rush of heat blasted through the air.
FWOOOSH.
Instant Dry.
In a blink, the water vanished from their bodies, their hair fluffing up like they had just walked out of a high-end salon. Their uniforms, previously crumpled and wet, now looked crisp—fresh off the ironing board.
Bird ran a hand through his newly-dried hair. "Damn. Feels like I just stepped out of a blow dryer."
Hiroki stretched his arms, inspecting his now-pristine uniform. "Bro, you should charge money for this."
Shotaro smirked. "Maybe I should."
Meanwhile, Akira Shinnkai stood there. Silent.
Not blinking. Not breathing.
Just staring.
Like he was watching the most bullshit thing he had ever seen in his life.
Like he was trying to comprehend how the fuck three delinquents just treated a public fountain like their personal goddamn onsen, dried off with actual supernatural powers, and then had the audacity to ask him for a free pass.
Shotaro clapped his hands together. "Welp! It was nice catching up, Officer, but we really gotta—"
Akira took a step forward.
Shotaro took a step back.
Bird gulped.
Hiroki whispered, "We are so fucked."
Shotaro's eyes darted around. No openings. No excuses. No getting out of this shit clean.
Unless—
His gaze snapped back to Akira Shinnkai. The officer stood firm, hands on his hips, his wuxia-protagonist-ass face looking way too serious for this situation.
Shotaro grinned. "Actually, now that I think about it..."
Before anyone could react, he grabbed Akira by the collar.
"You smell weird too. Let's fix that."
SPLASH.
A full-grown police lieutenant was now thrashing inside the public fountain like a drunk uncle at a wedding.
For a moment, the entire park froze.
Bird's jaw dropped. Hiroki's soul left his body.
And then—
"FUCKING RUN!!!"
All three of them launched into the sky, their laughter echoing through the city as they flew off like wanted men.
Akira Shinnkai sat up, drenched, seething, and blinking water out of his eyes.
A passing old man on a morning walk nodded approvingly. "Good to see the youth respecting their elders."
As they soared over the city, Hiroki suddenly frowned. Something wasn't adding up.
"Wait." His buzzed brain clicked into place. "Why the fuck didn't we just fly away in the first place!?"
Bird blinked. "Yeah… Why the hell did we run like dumbasses!?"
Both turned to Shotaro, who kept his gaze locked straight ahead, dead serious.
"DO NOT ABUSE THE MANTRA." His voice carried the weight of a thousand battle-hardened monks. "It strips the meaning behind it."
For a moment, silence.
Then Hiroki squinted. "…That sounds like some bullshit."
Shotaro nodded solemnly. "It is."
Bird slapped his own forehead mid-flight. "Bro, we are actually fucking stupid."
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
Laughter erupted through the early morning sky as the three idiots crash-landed onto the academy roof—only to be struck by a sudden bolt of purple lightning that sent them sprawling to the ground in a tangled heap. Amid the chaos, a feminine voice, cool and almost amused, rang out from below.
"Fufu, so these are the Red-Eye Ronnins."
They looked up to see a striking girl standing there. She had long, flowing purple hair that cascaded down her back like liquid amethyst, and a sleek eyepatch covering her right eye that gave her an air of dangerous mystery. Her attire was a mix of rebellion and style—a short, plaid skirt paired with a snug, dark sweater that hinted at both toughness and a peculiar sense of fashion. The color palette was a riot of purples and blacks, with a few hints of silver that caught the light whenever she moved. Most shockingly, her ample chest seemed comically disproportionate to her slender lower half, an absurd detail that somehow only added to her fierce aura.
"Baiken from Guilty Gear?!" one of them blurted out in a mix of disbelief and drunken awe.
"No," Bird replied with a dismissive shake of his head. "She is Kudoka Kaminari, leader of Purple Lightning—a big delinquent gang with flags all over Mushashi no Yamato." He added, his tone laced with a kind of rough nostalgia, "I knew it because I used to be friends with some delinquents who got washed out by her."
Shotaro squinted at her, then smirked with incredulity. "No way, your tits are bigger than your head? That's just too unratioed with your lower half," he said, the absurdity of it all evident in his slurred words.
Kudoka's gaze was cool and unyielding as she regarded them. The mix of defiance and amusement in her eyes promised that she wasn't about to let these drunken fools off lightly. The air around her seemed to vibrate with authority, as if every step she took carried the weight of a thousand fallen gangsters.
The moment was raw, chaotic, and utterly unforgettable—a snapshot of a night where legends clashed in the most ludicrous fashion possible, and where every line between mockery and genuine respect blurred into a haze of purple lightning and whiskey-soaked dreams.
Shotaro's crimson eyes flickered as he focused, scanning her presence with sharp precision. His instincts, honed through countless battles, dissected her very essence in an instant.
Sadashiva chakra main.
Lightning-based mantra.
The revelation settled in his mind like a thunderclap. This wasn't just some random delinquent with an over-the-top fashion sense—this was a walking, breathing storm.
Kudoka Kaminari stood with an effortless kind of dominance, her posture exuding the confidence of someone who had never lost a fight worth remembering. Her long, violet hair shimmered under the dull morning light, strands of it crackling faintly with residual static as if her body naturally rejected stillness. The eyepatch covering her right eye only added to her untouchable aura, giving her the look of someone who had lived through wars that would break lesser men.
She wore a dark, oversized sweater that clung just enough to remind you she was built for both power and chaos, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the countless scars streaking her forearms like lightning bolts carved into flesh. A short plaid skirt, dyed in deep shades of indigo and black, completed the look—her toned legs wrapped in mismatched thigh-high stockings, one bearing the jagged insignia of her gang, Purple Lightning. A metal-studded belt cinched her waist, and just beneath her sweater, a faint glimpse of ink peeked out—a tattoo of kanji, bold and defiant.
Her aura wasn't just for show. The air around her carried a faint hum, the telltale sign of high-voltage energy coiled just beneath her skin, ready to be unleashed. Even her breathing seemed controlled, measured, as if she knew exactly how much power to hold back to keep from frying everything around her.
Shotaro tilted his head, staring her down, his mind still turning over the details.
Lightning-based Sadashiva mantra user. Destruction incarnate.
Kudoka's single visible eye locked onto him, a spark of amusement flickering within its violet depths.
Yeah. This was gonna be fun.
"Look, we're already late as fuck—Principal Sakura's got the cross ready, nails in hand. If we don't get there in the next ten min—"
Shotaro never finished his sentence.
Because Kudoka Kaminari shut his ass up with a single bolt of pure, unrelenting electricity.
A deafening CRACK split the air as a purple-white flash engulfed him, searing the rooftop tiles beneath his feet. The sheer force sent him sprawling—limbs twitching, silver hair standing on end, eyes rolled back like a fried motherboard. Smoke curled from his body. For the first time in forever, Shotaro Mugyiwara wasn't moving.
Hiroki? He fucking tweaked.
"Aniki… got one-shotted?!" His voice cracked in horror, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. That wasn't normal. That wasn't okay.
Even Bird, who usually stayed cool under pressure, was dead silent, eyes darting between Kudoka and Shotaro's smoking corpse.
Kudoka Kaminari stood over them, unfazed.
Her violet hair, thick and slightly wild, cascaded past her shoulders, tips flickering with static like live wires ready to ignite. The eyepatch over her right eye wasn't for show—it was battle-worn, the faded edges suggesting it had been ripped off and re-tied a hundred times over.
Her dark indigo sweater was loose but cropped just enough to reveal the black, jagged tattoo inked into her toned abdomen—kanji that read "雷狼" (Lightning Wolf). The sleeves were rolled up to expose her forearms, where faint scorch marks told the story of a woman who had been playing with lightning long before she learned how to speak.
Her plaid skirt, dyed in streaks of deep purple and black, barely covered the tops of her mismatched thigh-highs—one plain, the other emblazoned with the jagged Purple Lightning insignia. A studded belt hung loose at her waist, and her boots? Heavy steel-toed kickers made for breaking ribs.
She didn't just look like a problem. She was the problem.
And right now, Shotaro looked like a dead problem.
Bird swallowed hard. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This was not how the morning was supposed to go.
He stepped forward, hands raised, voice measured but urgent.
"Look," he started, heart hammering against his ribs. "I get it. I really do. You don't want some new gang waltzing in and taking charge. You want to stomp out competition before it even starts." His voice wavered, but he pushed through it. "I'm not gonna act like we're equals—I know your rep. I know you could fry us right now and go back to your day like it was nothing.
"But not now." His breath hitched. "Let us go. We've got school, and our principal already wants us crucified. I promise you a fight—**somewhere remote, somewhere where we can go all-out. Just—just let us go. Please."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Please.
Shotaro twitched.
Bird felt his stomach sink as he looked down.
Even half-conscious, he wasn't letting that slide.
A trembling hand reached out, fingers weakly grasping at air. Smoke curled from his twitching frame. His crimson eyes, dulled but still burning with that impossible, unbreakable will, locked onto Bird's.
"Do. Not. Beg."
His voice was a whisper—raw, scorched, barely hanging on. But it still hit like a gunshot.
Then, he fell back, body limp.
Bird clenched his jaw.
Kudoka Kaminari tilted her head, arms crossed, watching with an expression that was impossible to read.
Her violet hair still crackled with static, the deep, electric glow fading in and out like a flickering neon sign. The eyepatch sat snug over her right eye, but the left—that single, piercing amethyst orb—held nothing but raw calculation.
Her cropped indigo sweater clung just enough to her frame, her toned stomach exposed beneath the fabric, tattoo inked in jagged strokes—雷狼 (Lightning Wolf). The plaid skirt, dyed in uneven streaks of black and purple, barely covered the tops of her mismatched thigh-highs.
One was simple. The other? Marked with the Purple Lightning insignia, jagged and sharp.
Her boots—heavy steel-toed rib-breakers—tapped against the ground as she shifted her weight.
Finally, she exhaled.
"Fine."
She looked at Shotaro one last time—scanning him, reading him, sizing him up for later.
"Take him wherever you want," she said. "You've got one day."
Her hand sparked, space bending around her fingers.
"Get ready."
And with that, she vanished, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of ozone and burnt rooftop tiles.
They grabbed Shotaro's twitching, half-charred body and fucking ran.
They ran like hell itself was on their heels.
Because, in a way, it was.
Principal Sakura was waiting for them.
And they were so, so fucked.
The worst part? She wasn't even mad about them showing up late.
No. She was still pissed about what they did last night.
They skidded to a stop just as she crossed her arms, tapping her heeled foot against the pavement with the kind of unwavering menace only a woman in a perfectly pressed suit could radiate.
Her purple eyes narrowed behind thin, rectangular glasses.
"You little shits."
Her long, silken violet hair, tied into a mercilessly perfect ponytail, swayed as she took a deep breath—one that promised nothing but suffering.
"You think I wouldn't find out?" she seethed.
Hiroki and Bird exchanged glances, clutching onto Shotaro's barely-breathing body.
"We—"
"You pissed on my nameplate."
Hiroki sucked in a breath.
"Technically, it was just Bird."
"You all pissed on my nameplate."
Bird's eye twitched. "Okay, yeah, that's fair."
Shotaro twitched in their arms, barely conscious, smelling like burnt ozone and regret.
But Principal Sakura wasn't looking at him. She wasn't even noticing the fact that they were carrying a half-dead teenager.
Because she was too busy tearing into them.
"A public nameplate—a sign of authority, of respect, of **dignity—**and you absolute degenerates treated it like a urinal!"
Bird clenched his teeth. "Listen, we really need to—"
"I work hard for this school! I dedicate my soul to this place! And this is how I get treated? By a bunch of mongrels with no impulse control?!"
Hiroki shot Bird a desperate look.
Bird tried again. "Principal, please, we're—"
"Do you even know how much it cost to have it cleaned?!"
Bird groaned.
Hiroki begged with his eyes.
They had to go.
But Principal Sakura just kept fucking ranting.
They could be standing here for another forty minutes.
And Shotaro was still unconscious, barely breathing, possibly dead, definitely smoking, and they needed to fix that.
As Principal Sakura continued ranting, her voice rising higher with every syllable, Bird's eye twitched.
He tried to be patient.
Tried to listen.
Tried to pretend that they weren't carrying a half-dead Shotaro, that they weren't on the verge of getting murked by the teachers, that their lives weren't in immediate, urgent, school-related danger.
But she just wouldn't shut the fuck up.
"HOW SOCIETY IS CRUMBLING THANKS TO ABSOLUTE LITTLE SHITS LIKE YOU—"
Bird stepped forward.
And slapped the teeth out of her bitch ass.
The world stopped.
Hiroki stopped breathing.
Shotaro's burnt body twitched in his arms.
The entire courtyard went silent.
Even the trees seemed to still, as if nature itself had turned to witness the act of absolute fucking heresy Bird had just committed.
Sakura's head was tilted at a sharp angle, her rectangular glasses slightly cracked, one lens knocked loose. Her black ponytail, normally perfect, had a stray strand hanging down.
The sheer disrespect.
Bird stood there, breathing heavily, before growling:
"I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP."
And they fucking ran.
They didn't wait to see her reaction.
Didn't wait to see if she'd kill them on the spot.
Didn't wait to witness their own funerals.
They just bolted inside, Shotaro's half-dead body bouncing in their arms, leaving behind the absolute, irredeemable crime against academia they had just committed.
And for the another time in her entire career, Principal Sakura was silent.
Maria Shinkai sat in her clinic, legs crossed, tapping a pen against her lip.
"Kenshiro is growing," she murmured to herself, a small smirk curling on her lips.
She knew.
That coddled little shit thought she didn't notice. Peeking through the door. Watching. Holding his breath, thinking he was slick.
But she knew.
And that just made it more exciting.
She giggled, rolling her shoulders as she stretched, the pale blue uniform of her nurse's attire slightly shifting with the motion. Maria was effortlessly beautiful, her long, silky dark brown hair flowing down her back like ink spilling across porcelain. A tight white coat hugged her figure, barely covering the low-cut neckline of the blouse underneath. Thigh-high stockings clung to her toned legs, leading down to polished black heels that clicked whenever she walked.
Her violet eyes were sharp, cunning, and full of amusement. She wasn't just a nurse. She was the devil in heels.
And then, the doors burst open.
"NURSE!!"
Two voices, loud as hell, rang through the clinic as Hiroki and Bird fucking stormed in, dragging a burned, half-dead Shotaro between them.
Maria's smirk dropped.
"Mazino-kun? Gojo-kun?" she said, blinking in confusion before her gaze traveled downward.
And froze.
Her eyes widened.
"Mugyiwara-kun?"
Shotaro, fucked up beyond belief, twitched in their arms, burned to all hell.
Maria's stomach twisted.
Shotaro.
Mugyiwara Shotaro.
That stupid little brat who was practically a fourth Shinkai at this point. The one her precious Kenshiro clung to like a baby chick to a mother hen.
That same Kenshiro who cried into her lap about getting bullied…
That same Kenshiro who found solace in that silver-haired menace…
And now he was here, barely breathing, looking like a damn corpse.
Maria's jaw clenched.
Her hands twitched.
And then—
"NURSE!!!"
Hiroki and Bird screamed again.
Maria snapped out of it, her violet eyes narrowing.
"GET HIM ON THE BED—NOW."
Her heels clicked against the floor as she rushed forward, already barking orders to the other nurses.
Maria slammed her hands down on Shotaro's burned chest, violet eyes flashing with unshaken focus.
And then—power surged.
The air cracked. The clinic trembled.
From her fingertips, a warm golden glow erupted, spreading over his body like liquid sunlight. Her Parvati chakra ignited, the mantra roaring to life, radiating raw, unfiltered power.
Shotaro's skin began to mend. The charred, broken flesh peeled away, replaced with smooth, unblemished skin as the mantra worked its magic. Burned tissue rewove itself. Melted nerves reconnected. Broken cells rebuilt.
Maria didn't even flinch. Her heels dug into the tile, her fingers digging into his skin as if she were commanding his very life to return.
"Breathe, Mugiwara."
The glow intensified.
"Breathe, damn it."
And then—Shotaro's body arched violently.
His lungs inflated all at once, like a drowning man taking his first breath. His crimson eyes snapped open—glowing, wild, alive.
A sharp gasp tore from his throat.
Then—he coughed.
Then—he blinked.
Then—he groaned.
He was alive.
Hiroki and Bird collapsed onto the floor, panting, watching in disbelief.
Maria straightened up, brushing her long brown hair back, her expression unreadable. But her hands were still shaking.
She looked down at Shotaro.
"You're not allowed to die, you little shit. You hear me?"
Her voice was steady. But her heart was still pounding.
.
Seven years ago, on a rainy afternoon in a park, she had found little Kenshiro—only nine years old—sobbing uncontrollably on a swing. His maroon hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes, already big with tears, met hers as he scrambled over to her, as if drawn by some unspoken need for comfort. At first, she assumed he had simply been hurt during play. But the truth was far darker.
A group of kids, all around his age, surrounded him. Leading them was a girl named Yumeko—a sociopathic sadist with a twisted motto: "I want to be the world's biggest villain." Yumeko's cruel laughter filled the air as she tormented Kenshiro relentlessly, molding him into the whiny, soft boy he would eventually become. Every taunt and shove chipped away at his innocence, leaving him scarred in ways that only a child's tears could tell.
Then, one day, she witnessed something that would forever change the course of their lives. In the same park, high above, suspended in mid-air, Yumeko was being dangled by a kid—a kid with silver hair, piercing red eyes, and olive-tanned skin. In his one hand, he held one of Yumeko's legs, a grotesque display of his power. It was Mugyiwara Shotaro, just nine years old, but already exuding a wild, untamed fury that defied his age. With a flash of heat vision that shattered a kid's spine and a forceful kick that splintered another's kneecap, Shotaro had taken control of the moment in a burst of childlike, brutal justice. He had dangled Yumeko, their self-proclaimed leader, high in the air—a savage act that sent a shockwave through every kid watching.
That moment became a turning point. Kenshiro, whose life had been defined by pain and humiliation, finally opened up about the terror he'd endured. And in that same moment, Shotaro cemented his place in their lives. He wasn't a bully; he was a force who would, for better or worse, change the trajectory of everyone around him. He became a part of Kenshiro's life, of hers, and of Akira Shinnkai's—the respected patriarch of the Shinnkai family—binding them together in a way that no one could ever unwrite.
It was raw, it was brutal—a history written in tears and violence that, despite all its scars, had forged an unbreakable bond between them. In that chaotic tapestry of pain and redemption, she had silently named him "the child who changes life." Shotaro, steadily healing before her eyes, embodied that very promise.
As the last vestiges of the battle faded, Bird let out a long, relieved sigh. Then, in a moment of drunken clarity, he turned to her with a half-grin and asked, "Say, Ms. Shinkkai, why do you care about Mugyiwara that much?"
Her eyes, tired yet unwavering, flickered with memories of all that had transpired. The weight of their shared history, the unspoken promises of protection, and the raw, burning need for justice all mingled behind her gaze. The answer lingered unspoken between them, heavy with emotion and fraught with the kind of truth that only a lifetime of struggle could reveal.
She fixed her gaze on Bird, her eyes softening with a mixture of sorrow and determination as she began to speak. "You see," she said slowly, "it all began years ago in that park. I found Kenshiro—just a little boy, broken and crying—after Yumeko and her gang tormented him until he was nothing but a frightened shell of himself. I watched him shrink under their cruelty, his spirit nearly crushed by every harsh word and every act of violence. And then, that day, when young Shotaro appeared, unleashing a fury so raw it shattered their tyranny... that was the turning point. That child, that monster of anger and unyielding strength, changed everything."
Her voice trembled slightly as she continued, "I call him 'the child who changes life' because he forced the world to see that even in our darkest moments, one person can spark a revolution of hope and strength. He pulled Kenshiro from the abyss and gave him a reason to fight, to stand tall. And in doing so, he became a part of all of us—of my heart, of our family, of everything that matters."
She paused, glancing away for a moment as memories swirled behind her eyes—memories of pain, of loss, and ultimately of redemption. Then she looked back, her voice gaining strength. "I care about Mugyiwara because he is more than a delinquent or a bully. He is the catalyst for change. Even if his methods are rough and his heart scarred by the violence of his past, he has shown us that sometimes, it takes a storm to wash away the filth, to forge something unbreakable out of broken pieces."
Bird stood there, absorbing every heavy word Maria had spoken. It wasn't just a story—it was a whole damn war buried under the surface, a history of pain, blood, and one wild kid who refused to let the world break the people around him. The air felt dense, thick with something unspoken.
Then—
"You're welcome."
The voice cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Bird and Maria snapped their heads toward the clinic bed, where Shotaro, now completely healed, was sitting up like nothing happened. His crimson eyes flickered with sharp annoyance, his silver hair slightly ruffled from lying down. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out as if shaking off the electrocution like it was a minor inconvenience.
Then, with a face full of pure fucking irritation, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up.
"Now," he said, cracking his knuckles, his voice low and simmering with fury. "Where the hell is that lightning bitch?".
"She... is waiting in some remote location, Aniki," Hiroki muttered, his eyes narrowing as he focused. The air around him subtly tensed, his mantra stretching outward like invisible threads tracing an unseen force. "I can feel her mantra. She's on an island... some miles off the coast."
Shotaro's lips curled into a smirk, the kind that wasn't playful—just sharp, edged with the kind of excitement that only an idiot looking forward to a fight would have.
"Never knew delinquent gang wars could get this real," Bird mused, rubbing the back of his neck. His tone was casual, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—respect? Fear? Maybe both.
Shotaro cracked his neck, his crimson eyes gleaming under the fluorescent lights of the clinic.
"Let's go," he said, voice low and steady, filled with absolute certainty. "This is our first fight. We need to win this." He tightened his fists, already envisioning what came next—chaos, fists, electricity crackling through the air.
"And when we do," he continued, his voice dark with promise, "we'll burn every single Purple Lightning banner to the ground."
Bird and Hiroki felt it. That raw, unshaken confidence. That absolute belief.
Shotaro didn't just want to win.
He wanted to own this city.
Not for power. Not because it was cool.
The whole reason he formed the Red-Eyed Ronins wasn't for some bullshit about pride or status—it was for the kids who couldn't fight back. The ones who got shaken down on their way home. The shop owners who paid "protection money" just so their stores wouldn't get trashed. The people too scared to step outside after dark because of them.
Purple Lightning didn't just run the streets. They suffocated them. Extortion, destruction, fear—it was their currency. And Shotaro had seen enough.
"We're gonna burn that gang to the fucking ground," he said, voice low but carrying the weight of an unshakable truth.
His fingers wrapped around Tokioni Muramasa, the air itself tensing around him as if the sword's presence alone could command the atmosphere. The crimson gleam in his eyes sharpened, his mantra stirring like a fire just waiting to be unleashed.
Hiroki and Bird exchanged a glance.
They didn't say anything.
They just knew.
Tonight, the streets of Musashinoyamato were going to change.
Shotaro landed on the island, his boots digging into the damp soil. The salty breeze from the ocean barely masked the scent of sweat, leather, and bloodlust hanging in the air.
Six hundred.
That's how many stood before him. Purple Lightning. Their army. Their empire. A sea of delinquent warriors clad in violet, their jackets stitched with their insignia—flashes of jagged electricity tearing through black fabric. Some stood with arms crossed, others cracked knuckles, some grinned like they were about to witness a fucking execution.
At the front, Kudoka Kaminari.
Her stance was relaxed, like she had all the time in the world, like this was all just a formality. Her long purple hair billowed in the night breeze, framing her sharp, feline features. The single eye that wasn't covered by her sleek black eyepatch burned with confidence—she owned this island, this gang, this entire moment.
"Long time no see," she smirked, lightning crackling softly around her fingertips. "Mugyiwara."
Shotaro's eyes flicked across the battlefield. Six hundred bodies. He wasn't worried.
He stepped forward, resting Tokioni Muramasa against his shoulder. The weight of the sword wasn't just steel—it was conviction.
"Let's not turn this into a bloodbath," he said, voice steady, eyes sharp. "One-on-one. You and me."
Kudoka's smirk widened. The electricity around her danced, eager, hungry.
"You sure?" she purred. "I wouldn't mind seeing how much red your crew can spill."
Hiroki and Bird stiffened behind him, but Shotaro? He just let out a slow breath.
"Fight me," he said, raising Tokioni Muramasa. "Or I'll start cutting through your army to get to you."
The air cracked with sudden lightning. Kudoka Kaminari laughed.
It was on.
Standing just beside Kudoka, her right hand, Medaka Uzumaki, stepped forward.
She wasn't like her boss—far from it. Where Kudoka was tall, curvy, and carried herself like a walking thunderstorm, Medaka was short, flat, and sharp-eyed. Her green hair was cut unevenly, like she didn't give a shit about appearances. A single lock curled upward, flicking every time she moved. Her jacket, despite the gang's flashy aesthetic, was zipped up to her neck, sleeves rolled up, revealing inked-up arms covered in intricate kanji.
She pushed her glasses up, adjusting them with two fingers as she stepped toward Hiroki.
"Kaminari-sama's lightning—it's been calculated to hit speeds of around 30,000,000,000 meters per second," she stated flatly. No emotion. Just facts.
Hiroki blinked. His brain lagged. "That's..."
Bird's jaw slackened. "a big number!!"
Medaka kept going. "And she' can move & react at speeds of own ligtning."
Silence.
Then Hiroki whispered, voice hollow, "Oh fuck."
Shotaro and Kudoka stood face to face, the wind cutting between them like a blade. The entire island was dead silent—600 gang members holding their breath, waiting for the first move.
Then, Kudoka grinned. Lightning exploded from her body.
It wasn't just light. It wasn't just power. The air itself warped around her as space cracked apart from the sheer force of her Sadashiva chakra. A billion bolts screamed toward Shotaro.
And then—
She was on her knees.
A blur. A single instant.
Shotaro had already moved, already stepped past her, already buried his fist deep into her gut.
Her smirk shattered. The lightning in her veins flickered. She gasped, her body rejecting oxygen.
Her knees hit the ground.
600 gang members freaked the fuck out.
But Kudoka?
She started laughing.
A low chuckle at first—then a giggle, then full-blown hysteria. Her shoulders shook, her body tweaking the fuck out. Lightning cracked off her skin wildly, frying the dirt beneath her hands.
"Haha…HAHAHAHAHAHA! THIS IS THE DAY I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR!" she screamed, eyes wide, pupils shrunk to pinpricks.
She spat blood onto the ground, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist as she grinned like a lunatic.
"I was born in a back-alley slum, Mugyiwara," she began, voice raw, unfiltered, pure hunger. "Where the strong ate the weak, where the cops turned a blind eye, and where we had two choices—be the prey or be the hunter."
She slammed a fist into the ground, electricity exploding from her knuckles.
"My first kill? Seven years old. Some piece of shit tried to drag me into his car. I tore out his fucking throat with a rusty nail I found in the street."
The gang members shuddered. Some had heard this story before. Most hadn't.
"I was just a stray dog back then—no name, no identity, no family. Just another disposable rat scurrying through the cracks."
Her purple eye burned.
"But then...I found something."
She looked up, her lips curling into something almost soft.
"A pack. A purpose. A reason to be alive."
She spread her arms wide, gesturing to the gang behind her. "The world had its rules, and all of them told us we weren't supposed to exist. So we made our own. No more begging. No more hiding. We take what we want. We become the storm."
The ground rumbled beneath them. The air hummed with power.
"And then you come along," she whispered, eyes locking onto Shotaro. "The Red-Eyed Ronin. The child who changes life. The kid who fights for the weak. The kind of idiot I used to be."
Her smirk widened, wild and deranged, as memories of her own bitter past flared up. She remembered how her father—once a ruthless enforcer for a secret crime syndicate—had crushed her spirit until all that remained was a burning need for retribution. That darkness, that unyielding pain, had forged her into the woman she was today.
"I love people like you, Mugyiwara. You're so fucking fun to break," she declared, her voice low and dangerous, both admiring and challenging him all at once.
In the blink of an eye, she was back on her feet, her posture regal and eyes blazing with a challenge. "I dare you," she said, "change my life." With a swift, almost casual motion, she dug her hand into the curve of her cleavage and produced a blade—a weapon that shimmered with an eerie, electric glow.
Hiroki's eyes went wide. "Another Muramasa?" he stuttered.
Bird, ever the quick-witted one, piped up, "Like Shotaro's Tokioni Muramasa, but this one's different—Kaminari Muramasa is forged from pure lightning, imbued with the fury of a storm. It's raw, untamed; a symbol of unbridled chaos, not the controlled power that Tokioni represents."
Shotaro frowned, his curiosity mingled with incredulity. "What the fuck do you mean?"
She laughed, a harsh, beautiful sound filled with defiance and sorrow. "The Tokioni Muramasa is meant to channel power with precision, to protect the weak and restore order. But the Kaminari Muramasa—it's for those who embrace chaos. It's for those who don't just want to change the world, but also themselves. I want that change. I dare you to make me change."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with promise and challenge. In that raw, unfiltered moment, every syllable carried the weight of her past and the fierce hope for a future rewritten by fire and lightning.
"I know that," Shotaro replied, his tone measured despite the charged atmosphere. "I meant the 'change my life' line—what do you mean by that?"
Her eyes, burning with defiant fire, met his. "I want to see," she said, voice low and challenging. "By this battle, can you change my life? Can you burn my gang banners to the ground? Can you pull me out of this...fuckery of life by defeating me?"
Shotaro's gaze softened, a mixture of curiosity and hardened resolve. "It really depends on what made you do it in the first place," he said, his voice barely above a whisper as if daring her to reveal the truth.
She hesitated. Just for a second. And then, like floodgates breaking, the words spilled out, raw, jagged, and unfiltered.
"My scum of a father," she began, her voice cracking with the weight of old wounds, "he lied to me."
Shotaro watched her, silent. Kudoka's usual smirk was gone. The unhinged confidence, the cocky bravado—it all peeled away, leaving behind something brittle, something sharp-edged and real.
"He told me he had money. Lots of it. That it was hidden somewhere safe, and when I was old enough, he'd give it all to me. I believed him." Her green eyes flickered, distant, like she was staring straight through Shotaro, straight through the present. "And when the time came… when I finally grew up, when I was ready to take what was mine…"
She let out a shaky breath.
"He hung himself. Left me everything." Her jaw clenched, her hands tightening around Kaminari Muramasa. "And by 'everything,' I mean all of his debts."
The air between them felt heavier. Even the gang members listening in—hardened delinquents, killers, men and women who had seen their fair share of shit—stood still, saying nothing.
"My life was never mine to begin with," Kudoka continued, voice turning bitter, jagged. "I never got a chance to stand on my own. The moment he was gone, his debts became mine. Every day, more and more men came knocking. Some just wanted their money. Some wanted more than that." Her expression twisted, a storm behind her eyes. "I ran. I hid. I stole. I did whatever I had to do to survive. Until one day, the sword came to me."
Her gaze snapped back to Shotaro, burning.
"And I stopped running."
A slow exhale.
"I killed them," she said, voice flat. "Every single one of them. Every last debtor, every leech, every parasite that thought they could own me. That night, I made a decision. If the world was going to throw me into the fire, then I'd make sure I was the one holding the torch."
Her grip on Kaminari Muramasa tightened, electricity crackling faintly around the blade.
"I built Purple Lightning so no one could ever put chains on me again. And now you," she gestured to Shotaro, her smirk creeping back, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, "come marching in here talking about change? About pulling me out of this?"
She laughed, hollow and sharp.
"You think one fight is enough to fix a life like mine?"
Shotaro didn't answer right away. He just stared at her, that unreadable look in his crimson eyes.
Then, finally—
"We'll find out."
Shotaro listened, absorbing every word as if each syllable was a piece of a long-forgotten puzzle. He saw not just the defiant fighter before him, but a woman whose entire life had been a relentless struggle against darkness—a struggle that had led her here, daring him to rewrite her fate.
For a long moment, the silence between them was thick with possibility and shared pain. Then Shotaro spoke, his voice steady, "If I can change your life, if I can burn those banners and shatter your past, then I will do it. But know this: it's not about erasing what came before—it's about building something new from the ashes."
Her gaze never wavered, eyes glittering with determination and a desperate hope. "Then prove it," she challenged, her tone both tender and fierce. "Let this battle be the beginning of my rebirth."
"Kaminari Kudoka," Shotaro said, his voice even, unwavering. "If this fight changes you, you will disband the Purple Lightning yourself. That's my first condition."
Kudoka tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "And the second one?"
Shotaro didn't blink. "I need you."
For a second, absolute silence.
Then—
"HUHHHHH?!?!?!"
The entire gang collectively lost their shit.
"The fuck did he just say?!"
"Aniki?!" Hiroki's voice cracked.
"He wants her?" Bird repeated, eyes wide.
"Bro, what?!"
Kudoka herself just stood there, blinking. "...What do you need me for?"
Shotaro crossed his arms. "Your body."
A deafening silence.
Then—
"W H A T ? !"
Chaos erupted.
"NO WAY! THIS IS A TWIST!!"
"HE'S JUST LIKE ME FR!!"
"IS THIS A PROPOSAL OR A FIGHT?!?!"
"ANIKI, YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THAT TO A GIRL IN FRONT OF 600 PEOPLE!!"
Bird fucking keeled over. Hiroki looked like he had aged ten years in the past five seconds. Half of Purple Lightning was either screaming, laughing, or just straight up malfunctioning.
Kudoka, meanwhile, just stared at Shotaro, eyes half-lidded, like she was trying to process the sheer absurdity of what he'd just said. "...Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Shotaro repeated, arms crossed.
Kudoka tilted her head, then shrugged. "Okay."
"...Okay?"
"I mean it. I'm ready to be your bitch if you mean it," she said, dead serious. "You can do whatever with me. Honestly, I always figured my tits' size would get me in a situation like this eventually."
Silence.
Hiroki's soul left his body.
Bird fucking choked on air.
The Purple Lightning members looked at each other like they did NOT sign up for whatever the hell this conversation had turned into.
"The fuck do you mean by 'bitch'?" Shotaro asked, squinting.
Kudoka smirked. "Pet wife."
"What the fuck is a pet wife?"
"Like a normal wife, but cuter. Also, more obedient."
Shotaro's eye twitched. "...I just want you to join my gang."
The moment he said it, he regretted it.
Because Kudoka grinned.
"Hoh? So you wanna make me yours?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Shit, Mugyiwara, you gotta be more specific next time," she teased, leaning in. "Got my hopes up for a second there."
Shotaro sighed so hard his soul almost left his body. He rubbed his temples like he was the one dealing with idiots. "I was just thinking about adding some female power to the gang."
"Ohhh," Hiroki finally breathed out in relief, shoulders sagging.
But Kudoka? She didn't let up.
"You sure? I'd make a good housewife."
Shotaro deadpanned. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Kudoka just laughed. "You tell me, Red-Eyed Ronin."
Meanwhile, Bird was just sitting there in silence, gripping his knees like a man who had seen too much.
The rest of the gang?
They were never going to forget this conversation.
Shotaro grabbed Tokioni Muramasa.
Kudoka grabbed Kaminari Muramasa.
The night itself seemed to hold its breath.
Two swords, two storms of pure, unfiltered mantra. One, a blade that cut through the concept of time itself. The other, a weapon that roared with the fury of endless lightning, its sparks splitting the air like a storm of divine punishment.
Shotaro's red eyes glowed. Kudoka's smirk stretched wider.
This wasn't just a fight.
This was a clash of dominion.
A battle to see who would bend and who would break.
A fight that would carve its name into the streets of Musashinoyamato, leaving scars that would never fade.
The air cracked. The ground shook. The world tilted.
And then—
"NEXT TIME ON DRAGON BALL—"
—wait, no.
"NEXT EPISODE OF MUGYIWARA 7: BATTLE OF CONTROL, PART TWO!"
Thus, the battle began.