Disclaimer: Ranma ½ characters property of Rumiko Takahashi, Shogakukan, Kitty, and Viz Video.

Book II: The Eight Phases

Chapter Five: The Flames of Fate

The rubber seals smacked wetly as Shigurei pushed the door open, one hand pressed flat against the cold steel panel. A gust of icy air blasted into his face, heavy with the bitter, sterile scent of antibiotic cleansers as he stepped into the morgue. The room was dark, the fluorescent lights dimmed to a low glow, one tube flickering with high frequency amidst the ceiling panels. It was as dull and lifeless as its guests demanded; white walls and floor, the only colour coming from the crisp clean cloths that lay over the corpses on the cold slabs. The furniture was all shining stainless steel, the observation tables, the cabinets and shelves, the gleaming blades of the autopsy tools all dead and artificial, and motor of the cooling system whined like a low dirge.

Hearing the clicking of heels echoing through the room, Shigurei moved towards them, buttoning his green lab coat closed over his dark pullover. The room branched into an L-shape, a door left ajar by the corner revealing part of a comfortable office. A plush leather office chair sat empty, facing at a haphazard angle away from the computer screen where a digital cat pranced and mewed across a field of pixels. It was a stark change from the inhuman room around him, but then that was people did, left pieces of their souls in their room.

It was what made them human.

He passed the office, rubbing at his eyes as a wave of early morning fatigue washed over him. Ahead he watched Mizuki move around the far observation table, bent over a prone corpse as she poked at its still form with latex covered fingers, speaking softly into a small Dictaphone held by her lips. She glanced up at him as he drew closer and turned the recorder off with a loud click.

"Good morning, Shigurei," she said.

"Morning," he tried to reply, his voice muffled by the yawn that fought it way up from his lungs.

Mizuki quirked an eyebrow behind her spectacles. "Not a morning person, are we?"

Shigurei blinked and lowered his hand from where it covered his mouth. "Why do you think I work the graveyard shift?" he muttered dryly. "So what made you drag me from my warm bed?"

"I've got some more info on your serial killing."

Shigurei frowned. "What serial killing? There's only been one killing." As soon as he asked the question, he wanted to snatch it back from the air, knowing what her response would be.

Mizuki's full red lips curved into a knowing smirk, as she adjusted her glasses.

"Not anymore," she sing-songed. She patted the body that lay limp on the table between them, the rubber of her gloves making a slapping noise as they met the pallid skin over the corpse's once firm abdominal muscles. Around the man's navel the dead flesh was stained with red and black inks, the image of a growling oni dressed in a ragged and torn kimono and hefting a blood-red katana. "This unlucky fellow is — was — Shinji Kitagawa."

"Kitagawa," Shigurei repeated softly, brow furrowing. He glanced back at the tattoo, noticing that the oni's face was deformed by a long slash that scored the corpse's flank. The details snapped together in his head and he felt his eyes widen. "Of the Kitagawa family?"

"Ding-ding, we have a winner," she said with a wide grin. "Apparently Shinji here was the nephew of Mutsumi Kitagawa, the benevolent — if the yakuza can be called that — head of the Kitagawa family."

"Whoever did this must be either very brave or suicidal, unless it was a rival gang."

Mizuki shrugged, "That would make sense. However, judging by the extent and manner of the victim's wounds, I would guess that whoever roughed up Shinji were also the ones who derailed your 'Mr Tank', which is why I called you."

"Well, Detective Izumi did say that Tetsuo Matsuhara had a bad reputation with the yakuza, and so it is possible that they are connected," Shigurei said, wiggling his hands into his own pair of white gloves.

"Well, the actual cause of death is different, but like the earlier victim this guy has suffered a rather severe beating." She gestured at the man's face. It was pale-skinned and gaunt, with angular cheekbones; however, several angry purple bruises lined the right half of the face. The once-thin nose was now a mangled mess, the flesh seeming plastered across the centre of face and the bone flattened. "On the face, he has some harsh bruising and lacerations, a nose broken upwards from the philtrum, and a dislocated mandible." Now that Shigurei looked closer, he could see the asymmetry of the face; the jaw protruded to the left, the chin lopsided and the lips distorted by the injury. Mizuki's hand passed across his field of view as she pried back the dead man's eyelid with a latex-covered thumb, a glassy and pale grey eye stared vacantly upwards, the iris swimming in a pink film. "The bloodshot eyes suggest internal haemorrhaging caused by a powerful blow to the head."

She leaned across the corpse and gingerly lifted the arm closest to Shigurei, holding the limb as if handling delicate porcelain. Shigurei could see why, the entire joint of the elbow had been wretched apart, the bones swaying limply, part of one protruding from a hole in the flesh along with several broken tendons. "Like Tetsuo, this guy's arm has been snapped, as has his ankle. However, there are a few defensive wounds on his right hand which means that unlike 'the Tank', he was able to get a few digs in himself."

Shigurei glanced at Shinji's hand and noted the cuts that covered the three lower knuckles. However, he also saw that the line of the fist had been warped, the middle and third knuckles pushed from alignment. "It's broken," he said.

Mizuki nodded. "Whatever he hit it was hard. I pulled some fragments from there, but I'm waiting for them to get done at the scene so I can compare. However, my guess would be that he missed and hit a wall."

"What about these calluses?" Shigurei asked, tracing his finger over several ridges of hardened skin present beneath the cuts across his knuckles. Mizuki blinked and leant closer, pushing her spectacles further on her nose as she frowned,

"Didn't notice those," she admitted. "They look old, though. Probably a sports injury." She leant back and flicked a bang of bright yellow hair from where it dangled over her eyes, loose from the queue where she had bound the rest of her long blonde locks. "It's probably nothing," she said with a sniff.

"Or it could be everything," Shigurei replied with a frown.

"You watch far too many of those Sherlock Holmes specials, Shigurei," Mizuki said with a sigh.

"I don't have a TV," he replied absently, as he ran his eyes over the other bruises and cuts that covered the corpse, running his eyes along the gash that ran from the red and black oni and across the bruised and, he guessed ,broken ribs.

"Okay, so you're just plain weird," she muttered and followed his gaze to the wound. "It looked like a wound from a sword or machete. However, the blade must have been much thicker. Judging by the angle of the cut and the damage to the ribs underneath, I would say it was used at close range, not so much a slice as a smash with something sharp which then cut on withdrawal. Whatever the weapon, its wielder is also our murderer." She pointed a finger at the man's neck.

A large rend had torn Shinji's collarbone midway across the shoulder. The flesh had been parted in a thin wedge, a flap of skin hanging from one side. The splintered end of the bone was visible through the wound above the cut muscular tissue. Mizuki ran a gloved finger along the deep mark. "This is what killed him," she pronounced. "A very strong downward strike, like an axe chop, severed several arteries, but more importantly snapped the clavicle quite violently. The blow drove one end of the bone down at a sharp angle where it punctured the victim's left lung. He then drowned on his own blood."

"Nasty," Shigurei said as his brows knit. "I take it then, it wasn't an axe?"

"I can find no traces of any metal in this or any other wound. I would expect as least a few flakes, especially from where the weapon smashed through the clavicle." Mizuki shrugged as she adjusted the buttons of her lab coat. "If it was an axe, it was a very good one," she added.

"Any strange stab wounds like the other victim?" he asked scanning his eyes over the corpse.

"No, but on the subject, I finished Tetsuo's autopsy late last night." Mizuki wove her way around the table and marched across the morgue, heels clicking loudly against the hard floor. Shigurei followed, pulling his gloves off as he watched the coroner do the same, lips twisting as the clammy rubber slid across his skin. "As I thought, it was the blow to the back of the head that killed him. However, he would have died anyway, as the strange stab wound intersected his abdominal aorta. Combined with his other wounds, he would have probably bled to death in about eight more minutes. No sign of metal or any other fragments found in any of his injuries, just like Shinji." She sighed loudly, and her eyes were hidden behind her bangs as her head bowed.

She jerked upright a second later, and moved to where a large screen was poised on the wall, a sheet of murky plastic set in a steel frame. "I did take some X-rays of his damaged joints, though," she said as she slapped her hand against a button on the screen's flank. The was a small pop, and the screen flared to life, bright white light pouring from within and illuminating the hazy images of bones printed on glossy black film.

Mizuki pointed at the photo on the far left, the long translucent shapes forming what Shigurei recognised as a knee joint, yet instead of standing straight the join between the femur and the tibia was jarred inwards at an obtuse angle. The knee cap protruded two fingers apart from the bones, the smaller of which was snapped into sharp ended splinters while a dark crack wound across the larger like a termite trail.

"As you can see, the patella has been displaced by a powerful blow at a sharp downwards angle from the outside to the inside of the leg." She ran her finger along the ghostly prints of the misplaced bones. "My guess would be that someone either stamped on or struck his leg after he was forced to the ground."

Shigurei's lips pursed and he shook his head, running the memories of the crime scene back in his head like a hazy silent movie, the prone corpse and dark alley flashing through his mind in fast forward. "His leg was broken when he was slammed into the dumpster and stabbed," the image of folded metal, blood welling in the crease blazed past his mind's eye. "If they already had him pinned, why drag him up just to stab him?"

Mizuki snorted. "This is why you're the investigator and I just pick up the dead bits, Shigurei," she said with a glare that was belied by the curving smirk of her lips. She turned back to the screen gesturing towards the second photo with a wave of her hand. "This is of Tetsuo's right shoulder. Notice the… Shigurei?"

Shigurei's gloves fell from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft slap that barely registered. He stepped forwards and leant closer to the screen, squinting his eyes against the harsh glow from the light box. His nose was now a finger's length from the glossy surface of the film, his brow furrowing as he focussed on the fuzzy picture of arm pushed forwards from the socket of the shoulder. "Curious," he said on a soft breath.

"Jinkies, Velma, have we found a clue?" Mizuki said dryly, leaning with her elbow propped against the wall.

"One of these days, you'll do that and I won't tell you anything," Shigurei grunted.

Mizuki grinned widely and one of her shadowed eyes flashed in a wink. "One day, but not today, right?"

Shigurei sighed and rolled his eyes. "I've seen this kind of injury before," he said, tapping the photo with his index finger, the thunk of the plastic screen punctuating his words. "Back at university," he added with a moment's thought.

"Strict on students turning their papers in on time, were they?"

"Well, yes, but I'm referring to something that happened while I was part of the Aikido club."

Mizuki blinked. "Aikido? I never had you down as the martial arts type, Shigurei."

"I only took it for the first three years, until the demands of my classes became too much," he remarked with a shrug, pulling away from the screen and rubbing at his eyes to remove the multicoloured blots that danced through his vision.

"It was in my third year, about halfway through the first semester. We were practising the Shiho Nage, a manoeuvre that uses the limited axis of motion of the shoulder to subdue the enemy and send him to the ground. I remember practising with a higher grade. As he was helping me with some of the finer points of the move, a sudden cry rang through the dojo. The tatami had slipped beneath the feet of another student as he applied the technique and caused him to lose his balance and stumble. The sudden motion made him pop his partner's shoulder out of place." Shigurei paused, lost in the recalled smells and sounds of the dojo, remember how the young lad had kicked and screamed at the pain, bare heels thudding against the mats. "Since I was the only student whose course was in any way related to medicine, Sensei Ohta asked me to accompany the boy to the hospital, where I managed to get a look at his X-rays."

He tapped the screen once again, this time running his finger across the blurred ball of the ulna. "This is the same kind of injury, but much more severe, much more violent, and yet…" he felt his eyes narrow beneath his furrowed brows, "…much more precise. The angle of the wound, the position to which he displaced the joint. Whoever did this wanted to do this sort of damage, and knew exactly how to do it."

"So what are you saying, Shigurei? One of our killers is a martial artist?"

The crime scene unfolded in his head once again, sliding through his memory as he recalled his own movements, spraying a stream of luminol in his path. Then in a flash of mental light he was at the end of the alley, reaching an inquisitive hand to lightly touch the brick wall, only to have it crumble and fall at the slightest pressure. The sound of his own voice echoed like a bad recording. "If it wasn't impossible, I would say that this man was thrown clean across this alley."

Shiho Nage. Four-corner throw.

"No, Mizuki, I'm saying that the killer was a martial artist." And a very dangerous one, he added silently.

A shrill beeping pierced the film of silence that had condensed over the morgue in the wake of his words. He grabbed at his phone and flipped the cover, pressing the button and not looking at the tiny screen until he had brought it to his eyes. He saw the name Izumi and instantly jabbed his thumb at the OK button.

Shigurei,
Got another for you. Some people like to keep us busy.
Izumi

"Ranma's not here anymore, Akane," Ukyo said in that quaint, but slightly condescending tone of friendly advice that Akane found so hard to swallow, even forgoing the pain of her throat.

"Who cares?" she growled, pain rippling through her neck as the muscles tensed beneath rare skin. "This is probably his fault."

"Yeah, Akane," Ukyo said dryly. "Ranma arranged for Kodachi to go nuts and try to kill you. Sounds like his style. I bet he even saved your life all those times just to lull you into a false sense of security." As the sarcasm slipped from her tone, the chef's voice began to sound hollow.

It made sense, a small part of Akane acknowledged briefly before the greater parts of her mind crushed it, choosing to cling to her indignant rage. She needed the anger around her like a suit of armour; making sense would get in the way.

They walked in silence, moving from the street that wound past the canal into the maze of narrow paths and alleys while Akane seethed quietly with her fist quivering at her sides. Ukyo had fallen into the same rut that had consumed her in the recent weeks; the grace had vanished from her, making her steps stiff and wooden as she walked at Akane's side. The chef's arms were folded tightly across her chest as if she were hugging herself and she gazed at her feet as she walked, eyes hidden behind a veil of chestnut locks. The only sound from the other girl was the metallic beating of her battle spatula against her back, the giant pole-arm swaying in its holster.

A mottled ginger tabby cat skittered across their path as they walked in the shadows of the Tendo family compound's wall. A metallic rattling made Akane's gaze dart up to glance ahead where her oldest sister was throwing a Hefty garbage bag into a metal trash can, splinters of broken wood poking through the thin plastic. Covering the trash with a thin lid, Kasumi glanced up, the kindly smile forming on her lips lighting up her face.

"Hello, Akane; and Ukyo, so nice to see you again. It's been some time," the older girl greeted them.

"Hi, Kasumi," Ukyo said slowly, her smile thin and crooked.

Kasumi began speaking cordially to the chef, but Akane could not understand her sister's words. The sounds around her were slurred and distorted, as if the noise had slowed to a smeared blur of sounds. Then she watched as Kasumi twisted and rippled. The world became liquid, a spiralling stream of deformed images and fluid shapes, like bubbles of colour caught in a whirlpool. She was moving yet staying still, spinning vertically but horizontally about every axis. Gravity seemed to pull at her from all sides, then her vision was filled with grey as her sister and the dojo dropped away like pictures from the bottom of a frame. The clouds danced rapidly overhead.

Suddenly the world snapped back into focus, as if a pane of tinted glass had fallen away and allowed her to see without the ripples and bending of the light. She was staring at the sky, awash with dark clouds. The sloped top of the Tendo wall was a pale line at the bottom of her vision. Faces appeared, Kasumi looking down at her as if she were a giant, her eyes wide with her fingers touching her mouth. Ukyo was there too, looming over her, a worried frown knotting her brow.

"Akane," Kasumi said, the warmth of her voice replaced by a harsh gasp. "Akane, are you all right?"

"Hey, sugar, say something."

Akane noticed that the chef's face seemed very close, too close. She registered something warm pressing into her side, and two strong arms wrapped beneath her; one around her shoulders and one hugging her waist cradling her form on her unsteady legs.

"I'm fine," she snapped, nudging the taller girl back with her elbow and shrugging out of Ukyo's grip, stumbling to the side as she caught her balance. Ukyo scowled, lips compressing to a tight line.

"Are you sure, Akane?" Kasumi asked, laying her hand on Akane's forehead softly. "I'll give Doctor Saeba a call," she turned back to the house, but Akane lunged, almost falling on her face, and grabbed her sister's shoulder.

"No, I'm okay," she yelled.

"Akane," Ukyo cried, "that psycho almost killed you."

Kasumi's shoulder quivered under her hand as the older woman inhaled a loud gasp of air, her eyes flying wide open. Akane shot the chef a dark look as if willing fire to blast from her eyes, her free hand clenching as her teeth ground. Ukyo stared back calmly, arms folded beneath her breasts and saying nothing.

"Who tried to hurt you, Akane? Are you sure you're okay?" Kasumi asked, her eyes darting across Akane's form, she inhaled sharply as her gaze passed over her sister's neck.

"I'm fine," Akane growled. Then she closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, her throat stung as air rushed in through the sore pipe and as she released it with a shudder. She forced herself to let go of her anger; it was like extracting a sweet from the fist of a greedy child, but slowly it dissipated.

"Really, Kasumi, I'm okay," she said in a calmer tone. "I'm a bit dizzy, but I just need to sit down."

"Oh, of course, how silly of me," Kasumi said. Taking Akane's hand, she pulled her towards the house. "Let's get you inside and I'll make some hot tea." With a gentle yet insistent pull, the elder Tendo led her sister into her home. Akane wiggled her fingers in Kasumi's hand, noticing how tightly the older woman held her. The muscles on Kasumi's forearm bunched with a strong tension that was hardly felt in the gentle grip. She scowled as she realised that the extra effort was for the same reason that Ukyo ghosted behind her closely, her arms hovering in front of her like a fielder waiting for the ball to be knocked his way. Waiting to catch her when she fell.

She felt her nails break the skin of her palms as she clenched her fist tighter.

The sound of voices, one of them clearly Akane's, told Nabiki that her youngest sister had returned. She kept her eyes down, running her gaze across the neat line of text in the speech bubble, stuffing down a small flutter as Kensuke declared his love for Yuki as a shadowed pool of cross-hatched ink simulated the effect of moonlight playing across his ridiculously exaggerated 'pretty boy' profile.

She blew her brown hair from her eyes with an upward sigh and shuffled herself on the floor. Sometimes she wondered why she read these girly manga. The plots and the characters were always the same, the sweet words always contained the same promises. All that ever changed was the hair and the location, sometimes the girl had long waves or short tousles; sometimes the site a bridge at sunset, sometimes a park at moonlight — anywhere, so long as there was shadows to shimmer across the characters.

Profit, she told herself with a small shrug. Furinkan high school was a boiling soup of hormones, where the loving and loathing of the students churned the entire campus into a frenzy. Love was always in the air at school, and was often being fought over. The girls of Furinkan swooned over the many battles that were fought for the attentions and affections of a few 'lucky' individuals. They too, longed to be made to feel special and yearned for grandiose, manga-style gestures of romance. And if you knew how to set up such gestures, you could earn a pretty penny.

Of course, that gold mine had been drying up since Ranma had departed, the boys and girls returning to the more traditional methods of conversation and secret smiles. And yet you are still reading, a voice said from within. Nabiki scowled and turned her attention to the voices drifting through the room.

"What took you so long, girl?" Genma's gruff voice burst in sternly. "I had hoped to do some training before dinner, but apparently my student would rather shirk her lesson."

Nabiki rolled her eyes. Uncle Saotome seemed to be taking the training stuff pretty seriously. Something that would normally have surprised Nabiki as she had doubted Genma's ability to be concerned about anything that did not relate directly to his stomach. However, with his wife around, virtually everything could be part of saving his belly.

"Cram it up your furry butt, Mr. Saotome."

That's Ukyo's voice. Nabiki realised, forcing her eyes to stay upon the pages of her manga, frowning as she listened closer.

"Oh, Ukyo, I didn't notice you there." Soun said, his flat voice clashing with the politeness of his words. "What brings you here?"

"That is a good question, Soun," Nodoka Saotome said as she came down the hallway. Her steps were small and precise from the restrictive binding of her pale green kimono, yet somehow they seemed to resound with the pride of a marching army. Nabiki saw a bowl of corn chips appear beside her from her peripheral vision, but did not take her eyes from her comic, instead letting her legs kick the air to emphasise her disinterested role.

"Miss Kuonji, as I'm sure you are aware, my son is not here right now and we don't expect him back soon." Her voice dropped for a brief moment, as if suddenly burdened by a great weight, but she cleared her throat and continued swiftly but still as poised as before. "Therefore I am at a loss to see why you are here."

"If that's so, then why, Mrs. Saotome, are you still carrying that sword? Your son is not around for you to decapitate," Ukyo hissed.

Nabiki winced internally at the venom in Ukyo's tone, and she risked a darting glance from the corner of her eyes. Nobody noticed as all their attention was fixed on the two women who glared at each other, Nodoka's back jerking straight as if struck by lightning and her hands balling into fists against her lap.

Nabiki flicked her eyes back to the printed pages that lay open on the floor, the words and pictures blurring as her brows knit, her gaze passing straight through the comic and into the beyond.

Ukyo and Nodoka seemed ready to kill each other, a development not in her predictions. Her complex simulations and predictions of life in Nerima, all those possible events and outcomes like the numbers on a roulette wheel had not accounted for this. She had expected this of Shampoo — the Amazon culture and attitudes were too contrary to the prim matriarch of the Saotome family — but not of Ukyo. She chewed on her lip and cursed the butterfly effect.

She was aware of the argument the two had whilst Ranma had been recovering, yet harsh words and glares were exchanged every hour in Nerima and then forgotten. After all, Nodoka was the mother of the chef's beloved Ranchan and — to her, at least — a future in-law. Nodoka had also been ecstatic to spend time with one of her 'manly son's' cadre of admirers. Now the two glared at each other like hungry, female cats locked in the same cage.

Her fingers rapping a tuneless staccato against the tatami as her jaw tightened, Nabiki resigned her self to another night of frustrated musings. She thought of the bills and repairs of the Tendo home, and how that walkman had seemed to sing to her from the store window. This building was held together by bricks and mortar, but also by a tangled web of love and hate, emotional threads of the complex weave of relationships in this town. This news would leave ripples in the pattern, and much depended on her being able to stay two steps ahead of the fates' weavings.

"Akane," Nodoka cried. "What happened to your neck?"

Those words were like gunshot, the heads of the two fathers shooting up from their game board like startled birds. There was a rustle of papers as Nabiki tossed her comic aside and scrabbled to her knees, casting her pretence aside as her ears locked on the fearful quiver hidden beneath Nodoka's outburst. The older woman had stood up in a flash.

Now, she was in front of Akane and appraising the wounds so fast that it seemed like she had not even moved but had simply appeared in another place. Gentle fingers touched Akane's chin and tilted her face up as Nodoka peered at the sore flesh covering her throat, her bottom lip clamped between her front teeth.

Nabiki moved so that she could peer over the auburn haired woman's shoulder, clamping her mouth tightly to prevent her jaw shuddering as she saw the bands of swollen flesh that coiled around her sister's neck.

Nodoka trailed a gentle touch across the reddened skin before poking at it probingly. Akane winced in response.

The older woman staggered to the side with a small squeak as her father shouldered her out of the way seizing on his daughter's shoulders with a scream of "Oh, Akane!"

Tears ran in clear streams down his tanned cheeks like a waterfall over the cracked stone of a mountain. His bent his legs slightly, lowering his height until he could peer upward at the red stripes under her chin. "Oh, my little girl," he whispered brokenly.

He scooped Akane up and crushed her to his slender frame until Nabiki could hear the air whoosh out of her sister's chest, and still her father clutched her tighter, lifting her from the ground and spinning her around in a flurry before he rounded upon the young chef.

"Did you do this to my daughter?" he roared at the girl, who started in shock.

Nabiki winced at Soun's outcry. Not now, you idiot, she cursed silently.

"Wha… wha…" Ukyo stammered.

"Did you try to harm my baby?" he spat again.

"Knock it off, Daddy," she let her cool voice sweep through the room and her father's rage like the rush of a winter wind. She stood stiffly, arms folded beneath her breasts imperiously as she frowned with almost maternal disapproval at her father, the same pose she remembered her mother using when she had admonished her family. A pang struck through her gut, but she forced it aside and turned towards Ukyo.

"I know that Ukyo is as stupid and thickheaded as anyone else obsessed with Ranma Saotome," she said, ignoring the glare the other girl shot her, "but even she is not so stupid as to come to your home if she had attempted to kill your daughter."

Soun blinked and he stood up straight, his posture relaxing. He studied the treaded surface of the tatami mats as he scratched at the corner of his moustache with one finger. "You have a point," he said after a while.

"Damn right she has a point," Ukyo snapped. "I'm the one who saved your precious Akane's butt."

Nabiki recognised the truth of that statement as Akane's face twisted under its lash. Her sister hid behind her twilight blue bangs as her head drooped and shoulder slumped, as if she were trying to shrink into herself.

Her father lifted clasped hands towards the okonomiyaki chef as tears streamed down his cheeks. "Thank you, thank you," he wept

"Is this true, Akane?" Nodoka asked; her tone larded with scepticism.

She saw her sister's white-knuckled fists twitch at her sides and knew that this latest event was making Akane's attitude curdle like sour milk.

"Kind of," the girl finally murmured.

A sour grimace flickered across Ukyo's face at Akane's sullen response, but she said nothing as Soun rushed across and grasped her hands, frenzied words of gratitude pouring from him like the tears on his face.

Kasumi cleared her throat quietly, but it was like a clap of thunder that stopped the Tendo patriarch's weeping instantly.

"I think we're forgetting what's important," she said sweetly, but with steel hidden beneath the sugar of her tone.

"I agree," Genma said with a stiff nod. "If it was not Ukyo, then who did attack you, Akane? I had not expected the Amazon to wait this long before acting."

Nabiki's lips tightened, but she was not surprised. The plump man was being as insensitive as ever, but she could not begrudge him that; at least he was thinking.

Ukyo snorted, "I would not put anything past that hussy and her great-grandmother." She inhaled deeply through her nose and her lips twisted, as if some foul taste had risen in her throat. "However, as much as I can't believe I'm saying this, Shampoo did not attack Akane."

"Obviously not," Nabiki sniffed, knocking the ridiculous accusation aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Shampoo rarely acts without Cologne's approval, and this just isn't the old gal's style." Ukyo sniffed sharply, but Nabiki just shrugged. "Besides," she continued, "we all know that if Shampoo had wanted Akane dead we would already be planning the funeral."

Kasumi and Nodoka gasped in stereo, and Soun barked her name though his chin trembled as his eyes continued to fill with wet tears.

"Glad to know my own sister has such confidence in me," Akane hissed. Her nails bit into her palms, but she did not wince. "Is this a spontaneous guess, or have you been running this poll for a while?"

Nabiki fought the urge to sigh and kept her mask tight as she returned her sister's glare coolly. The truth hurts. Deal with it, little sister. Her eyes widened as Akane took a furious step closer, heel thudding upon the floor. She relaxed when the advance wavered, Akane pausing mid-step, but the fires in her eyes burning all the brighter.

"Don't hold back, Nabiki. Would you also like to insult my cooking and call me a macho chick too?" she growled. "I noticed how you never batted an eyelash when you mentioned my funeral. Why not? Didn't you realise you would have to pay for it?"

"Akane," she heard Nodoka say sharply.

Nabiki inhaled deeply, her teeth grinding together at her sister's barbed words, but she forced herself calm. That was harsh. She must be mad. Anger suits you better, Akane. If you're angry you can't be scared, and you need that strength. The words were true, but she knew also knew that though fury might give her sister strength, it would keep also her from it. I'll deal with that later, she told herself again with a small frown, there's no time now.

"Akane, remember yourself," Genma snapped, breaking the tense silence that clung to the air around the two sisters. His eyes were hidden behind the glare on his spectacles but the sudden tension in her posture showed Akane could feel the heat of his gaze.

"The true martial artist accepts her limits so that she might surpass them someday," he said in that hushed voice she had heard him use when he and Akane were training in the dojo.

"Saotome!" her father said firmly.

"Pfft!" Ukyo spat. "Quit trying to sound sagacious, old man. You're not fooling anyone."

Normally Nabiki would be inclined to agree, but the martial artist's words were too close to her own thoughts. She would have to keep a closer eye on Genma. Something strange seemed to be happening within that lethargic exterior, and she did not need any more ripples in her pond.

Genma frowned and muttered something about respect whilst his wife glared at the chef with renewed animosity

"Excuse me," Kasumi said softly, the tiniest of frowns barely curved the oldest Tendo sister's lips however combined with her polite, but firm tone it commanded attention like the words of a god. "I had thought that perhaps letting Akane sit down, recover and have a cup of tea might be more important than this heated discussion."

There was no outwards sign of the kind woman's disappointment, her words were polite and deferring and a smile soon found it way back to her lips. However, Nabiki could feel it in the air, in her sister's aura, in the bricks and wood of the room, as if the house itself resonated its mistress' sentiments.

The conversation ended, her father stood and ushered Akane to her customary place at the table. Ukyo was invited to sit next to her, where Ranma had always been, the other girl seemed to know this as her expression crumpled and rebuilt itself in a flicker as she sat down. The smaller table and the shogi board were packed away; the pieces scattered and then gathered again in Genma's rush. Tea was brewed and served in small, white cups, filling the room with sweet-smelling steam. Akane seemed to have locked herself in silence, but was drawn to speak as soon as Ukyo said: "It was Kodachi."

Akane sighed and threw out the story in a simple statement like a press address. Who, what, where and how; she kept to the basics, rushing through the tale like it was a race that she was determined to win… or a battle she was determined to flee.

She did not get her wish, as Genma Saotome was a merciless inquisitor. He prodded, poked and probed her with questions, bent on extracting all details and forcing her to relive the event. What angle had Kodachi attacked from? Did she announce herself first or just attack? Did she think the razor-rimmed gymnastic hoop had been intended to kill her? Where has she concealed the tear gas? On and on, he kept asking questions in that same flat tone whilst her father wept, Nodoka and Kasumi gasped and Ukyo listened silently, fist clenched and her jaw tight. Nabiki said nothing, sculpting a mask of ice with familiar ease to cover the churning of her belly as her stomach tied itself in knots at Akane's telling. It was a small relief when Ukyo took over the narrative.

"I'd just changed into my work clothes and come down to open the restaurant," Ukyo said, pausing to raise her cup to her lips. "When I got to the kitchen I saw Konatsu, and knew something was wrong."

"Why? What was wrong with him?" Akane asked.

Ukyo blinked. "Nothing was wrong with him. It's just rare that I see him; he usually skulks about in his hush-hush ninja way. It helps against the competition, with Shampoo's chopstick balancing act and Mousse pulling tables from his sleeves. Having the plates vanish with no signs of the waitress is quite a trick."

"Who is this Konatsu gentleman, Miss Kuonji?" Nodoka asked with her brow knitted. "The only other worker I've seen at your restaurant is that polite, well-mannered waitress."

"That is Konatsu, Auntie," Kasumi said as she reached over to gather the teapot and refill her father's cup to the brim. He smiled his thanks absently.

"He's the first male kunoichi," Nabiki clarified in a dry voice. It was a typically stupid concept.

"He's a little confused, you might say," Ukyo said with a small smile.

"You mean he… he…." Nodoka trailed off as she scowled, her face creasing as if she had eaten something rotten. She gave herself a sudden shake. "How awful," she said after a moment, disgust dripped from her tone. "There is something just so unseemly about cross-dressing," she added almost absently never lifting her eyes from the green depths in her cup. Ukyo flinched.

"Are he and Ranma friends?" Nodoka inquired.

"Not really," Nabiki replied and, after a moments thought, shrugged. "They exchange pleasantries when they see each other, but never more than that. However, since most of Ranma's male friends also want to kill him, and considering Konatsu's skill at ninjitsu, that's probably a good thing."

"He's that good?" the auburn haired woman asked.

Genma nodded. "Very good." He jerked as if he heard his own words. "For a ninja," he added gruffly.

"That's why he sniffed out that psycho's little dwarf, Sasuke," Ukyo said. She folded her arms across her breasts as her shoulders squared.

Akane grunted her agreement. "I used to think the guy was pretty sneaky. An irritating pervert, but sneaky. Then I met Konatsu."

Ukyo lips curled into a smirk. "Yeah. Little miss rich bitch didn't take that into account. I guess she expected we plebeians couldn't have ninjas of our own. But Konatsu sniffed the rat out, and made him tell all." The chef trailed off staring at the table as she tucked a stray lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, and for a moment Nabiki thought she saw the other girls' shoulders shudder.

"What aren't you telling us, Ukyo?" Nabiki asked levelly.

Ukyo squirmed where she sat under the older girl's sudden and unwavering attention. Finally, she sighed and shrugged. "It's nothing, really. It's just I've never seen Konatsu like that before. It was unsettling. When I came down I saw Konatsu looming — that's all I can call it — over the little freak, asking him what he was doing there."

"So what did he do, threaten Sasuke or something?" Akane said with a bemused frown.

"No, that's what's weird. Konatsu was asking the questions using the same polite words. He even said please. But it wasn't what he said, but how he said it. Something about the words was… off."

"Off?" Nabiki repeated in a deadpan tone. That could mean a million different things, you idiot, she berated silently.

"I don't know what else to say," Ukyo snapped back, before exhaling into a slump. "I know Konatsu. He's worked with me week after week for nearly a year. There is something about the way he talks, something that makes me both annoyed and sorry for him. His words, his pronunciation, voice, they're all like some sort of verbal doormat. Something that cheerfully says, "Welcome," while at the same time inviting to you walk all over him.

"When he spoke to Sasuke, something was different. It was the same words and friendly phrases, but there was an edge to them. Something guarded and dangerous. Like the welcome mat was still there, but the door was bolted shut and the doormat had been replaced by barbed wire. It got worse as he asked Sasuke the same question over and over. Each repetition, his voice slipped a little and he would flick at the point of his kunai."

"Kunai?" Akane gasped.

"Yeah, I thought that was odd too," Ukyo agreed with a nod. "I had thought that he had gotten rid of all his ninja weapons."

"Such interesting people you associate with, Miss Kuonji," Nodoka said in a frosted voice. "That boy must come in useful. After all, ninja are known to be quite proficient at torture. It must have been easy for him to 'extract' Miss Kuno's plans from her servant."

Ukyo slammed the cup down with enough force to make the table judder. "It's not like that," she growled. "First of all, ninja were never involved with torture. That's just another myth for samurai families who liked to act as if they were too honourable to hire an assassin's service, or steal a girl's dowry." The last words came out in an acidic hiss.

"How dare you?" Nodoka spat, the whitened knuckles on her fists standing bright against the dark, blue material covering her sword.

Ukyo carried on regardless.

"Secondly, Sasuke practically fell over himself to tell us. He said he hated what Kodachi had planned, but could not do anything about it. The psycho has him terrified; he was already bruised like a rotten peach before without us even touching him."

"You think she beats her own servant?" Kasumi gasped.

Ukyo nodded grimly, "Sasuke said she's been in a rage ever since he told her that Ranchan was gone, and that he had been the first person she took it out on.”

She fixed Akane with a stern gaze from the corners of her eyes. "She blames us, Akane. Me, you, Shampoo, all three of us. Claims that we banded together to banish Ranchan with dark magic, because we realised that he would never betray her love."

"That's ridiculous," Akane spluttered.

"She's a Kuno, remember," Nabiki reminded her with a tired sigh.

"And to think, I thought she was slightly less deluded than her brother," Ukyo griped. "She thinks the two of us would pair up with that Chinese bimbo? Apparently Shampoo is currently out delivering several steaming bowls of ramen to nobody all over town."

"She prank-called the Nekohanten, placing some fake orders?" Nabiki said flatly, her eyes hooded as she raised one eyebrow. "Not exactly the diabolical act of vengeance I would expect from a crazed martial artist. Don't you guys usually go for less subtlety and more property damage?"

A scowl broke across the faces of the assembled martial artists and Nodoka rolled her eyes. Nabiki ignored them, sipping at her cup to cover a small smile.

"It was a diversion to get at Akane," Ukyo said gravely. "Shampoo was sent on a wild noodle chase, while Sasuke was sent to spy on me and distract me if necessary. Of course, the pompous lunatic did not expect us commoners to have better ninja than the 'nobility', so that didn't work. However, from what her little minion told Konatsu, it's you she hates most, Akane. She might have waited for us two, but you she wanted dead as quickly and unpleasantly as possible."

"So what else is new?" Akane growled, but Nabiki could see her hand trembling around her cup, sending green ripples running across the steaming tea.

"This cannot be allowed," Soun roared. "Not to my baby girl. We must inform the police at once."

"Daddy," Akane snapped. She scowled as she saw Kasumi and Nodoka nod in agreement to his statement.

"Sure, daddy, let's call the police," Nabiki drawled, stifling the urge to slap her forehead and settled for rolling her eyes in a slow circle. "It wouldn't do us any good, but it would be nice to give them an opportunity to fill their pockets."

"What are you implying, Nabiki?" Nodoka asked with an arched brow.

"Surely you don't mean that the police would take bribes to ignore this?" Kasumi asked with a small frown. "Kodachi is obviously dangerous and in need of help."

Nabiki shrugged. "So are most people in this town," she glanced sidelong at Ukyo who snorted indignantly, eyes narrowing. "However, Kodachi has somewhat of an advantage as she is very, very rich."

"But surely they are honourable men," Nodoka protested. From the corner of her eyes she watched Genma shuffle on his futon, tugging at the collar of his gi with one crooked finger.

"Auntie, have you never wondered how with all of the damage to buildings, lampposts and everything else in this place, we don't have an armoured car trying to barge down the door?" she spoke to the auburn-haired woman, but fixed each person around the table in turn, asking them all the same question without speaking. The blank looks she received almost made her scowl. Am I the only person in this town who uses their brain for something other than romantic fantasy or plotting a rival's demise? she asked herself, and not for the first time.

"You bribe the police, Nabiki?" Kasumi gasped, hand fluttering to her lips

The bitter snort erupted from her before she could control it. Calm down, it's Kasumi. She has to think the best of people, she admonished herself.

"Like I've got the money for that," Nabiki shook her head, and forced her tone flat once again. "That's not how it works. The Kunos bribe the police; I have evidence of that bribery, so they leave us alone. They're probably just too damned scared of what Cologne could do to bother the Nekohanten."

"How unseemly," Nodoka muttered. "It's hard to believe that the police would go along with this."

Nabiki gnawed at the inside of her lip to stop herself scowling at the older woman. And promising to kill your son is the height of cultured behaviour, is it, you damned nut? She would have to check her father's story that Nodoka was once her mother's best friend; it seemed more unlikely every time the woman spoke.

"Of course they do," she sighed and raked a hand through her hair, the feel of her silky locks running over her fingers calming her. "They have no interest in getting rid of the martial artists in this town, as it makes their jobs beyond cushy. People like Ranma do their job for them. There's nothing for them to do but sit around and look attentive whilst eating fast food, and they get paid to do it.

"Even though Nerima has the highest insurance rates and property damage reports in Tokyo, it also has the lowest figures for nearly every other major crime. Murder, arson, sexual abuse. They don't exist here, and the only thefts are of women's underwear. Even the yakuza have left town. The only reason the police would interfere is if someone complained, and a few yen or a sensitive photo usually dissuades them from following up on that."

"This is because of Ranma?" Genma asked, eyes blinking behind his spectacles. Nabiki could guess at the cause of his surprise. I bet it never occurred to him to use martial arts to stop crime. However, she saw his eyes dart to glance at his wife, and upon seeing the small smile of pride that curved her lips he puffed out his chest. "Well, of course. He is my son after all."

The air seemed to snap as Ukyo, Akane and Nabiki all snorted in perfect, synchronised gestures of womanly disapproval. She felt a spark of satisfaction as he flinched.

"It's not just Ranma," Ukyo said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and lifting her chin. "Some gang was trying to run a protection racket among the other shops on our street. Konatsu caught them and we pounded them flat and delivered them to the cops." A grin spread across her face as she tossed a wave of chestnut hair back over her shoulder like a preening bird.

Nabiki smiled. "That same gang apparently tried the same trick with the Nekohanten. They were found bloodied and bruised, and dangling by steel chains from a lamp post with a copy of the takeout menu stuffed in their mouths." She remembered charging them quite a hefty sum for getting them down, right before she called the cops, and she felt her smile widen slightly.

"It's the same all over Nerima," she continued after banishing the grin away. "Just ask around, and you'll hear a tale like how a group of thieves who had been stealing wallets and jewellery from the lockers at the swimming pool were flung into the deep end by a girl with a red pigtail, or how the road works on Mikawa street last month were caused by some guy with a bandana, who had stopped a bunch of car thieves by making the road explode in front of them as they tried to make their getaway."

"Unfortunately, the Kunos, stupid and insane as they are, have been known to help out from time to time, and often compensate the victims out of their own pockets and out of 'the duty of a noble house to aid the lower castes for the betterment of society'. Noblesse oblige, I think Kuno-baby calls it."

"Is that a bad thing?" Kasumi asked in her soft voice. "It sounds awfully nice of them."

"Oh, it isn't," Nabiki grunted. "However it has made them so damned popular that the police aren't going to do anything to them except collect their bribes."

"We don't need them anyway," Akane said with a huff. "I can take care of this myself."

"Akane, did that blow to the head addle your wits?" Ukyo cried waving her hand in front of Akane's eyes as if she had passed out. "This isn't a challenge match. Kodachi is seriously trying to kill us."

Akane's neck seemed to inflate as she ground her teeth together. "Then why aren't you running to the police, Ukyo, if you're that worried?"

"I can take care of myself, Akane. You…."

"And I can't? Is that it?" Akane burst in. "Why is everyone against me? Why won't you give me a chance to take care of my own problems?" Her fingers whitened as they dug into the surface of the table.

"Well, there's only one thing for it," Genma said suddenly, and in a tone that pulled Akane's downcast eyes towards him. "We will have to pull Akane out of school."

"Saotome," Soun snapped, his moustache pinching as he frowned, "that is utterly out of the question. Her education might suffer."

A short grunt from his throat was all Genma needed to portray his feelings about that matter. However, he flinched when his wife cleared her throat curtly. He slipped a finger under his head-wrap to rub across his forehead. "That is a shame, Tendo, but surely her life is more important? At school she is open and vulnerable to Kodachi's attacks. Today's attack occurred when she was on her way back from school, and proves that she is a prime target then. Without the police, we are the only ones who can protect her, and we can do that best here, on our own turf."

"Oh, how nice of you, sensei," Akane spat the title out like venom. "So nice that even with your great training, you still think I should be kept safe. Perhaps you would also like to wrap me up in cotton so that I don't get hurt. You're such a hypocrite. I can't believe I trusted you." Her voice began to break towards the end of her speech, and Nabiki knew that her sister was on the verge of breaking down or throwing a tantrum. She hoped it was the latter.

"Akane!" Nodoka snapped. The harsh reproof in her voice was echoed in Kasumi's stern frown.

"Oh, I never said you'd be safe." Genma's voice floated on a soft, almost absent lilt that sent a shiver down Nabiki's spine. A crooked smirk ran across his dark face, the white teeth visible between his curved lips. His eyes had narrowed, a predatory gleam shining beneath the hooded lids as she regarded his pupil.

"Kodachi won't get to you," he continued, still seeming to smile even though his lips shifted and moved to form his words, "but you won't be safe and you will be hurt. I know this because every day that you are not at school, you will train. You will train with me and you will train alone. You will train in pain and you will train through that pain. You will train until you cannot stand, and then you will train lying down. You will train until your knuckles are bruised, and then you will train until your bruises are bruised. You will train while you eat and you will train while you bathe, and when you sleep you will dream of training.

"The little I have taught you so far was enough to keep you alive today. After six more months of my training, you will be good enough to beat Kodachi and Shampoo together, if you are not lazy, and even then your training will not be finished. It will never be finished."

His smile dropped from his face as he crossed his arms across his broad chest, his posture seemed to swell until his gut sagged over the knot of his belt. His aura, though invisible, filled the room with an intangible pressure. The girls gathered around the table stared at Saotome Genma as if seeing him for the first time. In many ways they were.

Ukyo's bottom lip was clamped beneath her front teeth as she watched him from the corners of her eyes as a leopard might watch a lion. Kasumi covered her mouth with her hand, hiding her thoughts. Nodoka's eyes seemed to shine with a rediscovered spark and Nabiki thought she saw her shiver as she gazed at him.

Nabiki's eyes narrowed at this change in the large man, her brain tingling as she wondered how long such a personality shift would last, and how it would affect things. Realising that other might look her way to see her reaction, she attempted to simulate their numb shock, covering the workings of her mind by opening her eyes wide and letting her jaw drop in vacant shock.

"When you are good enough, when you beat Kodachi," Genma continued softly. "I will give you your life back." His eyebrow rose and his smirk crawled higher. "If you still want it."

Nabiki saw Akane's hands shake against the tabletop.

"Saotome, how dare you?" Soun barked. "Not only do you threaten to hurt my daughter and push her to dangerous limits, you want her to fight that monster again. No, I say, not my little girl."

Tears streamed down his face, flexing and unflexing his fists at his sides as he stood over his long time friend, his chest pumping like bellows beneath the black folds of his gi.

Nabiki leant forward to watch the scene closer, seeing the birth of her predictions start to unfold before her. She had known that friction would start to create emotional sparks between her father and his old friend. Genma Saotome had done many stupid things where his son was concerned, yet when these past event returned like sprouting weeds, Soun's anger was always directed towards the boy rather than on the panda upon whose shoulders the real responsibility always fell. With Ranma gone, it was easy, for Nabiki, to see that the elder Saotome would soon have to face up to the past. The odds had risen to a dead certainty when Genma had taken over the training of Soun's too beloved youngest child.

"Tendo, old friend," Genma said softly rising to his feet and standing square with the taller man. His large hand rose and clapped down upon his old companion's shoulder, the coarse fabric under his thick fingers creasing as he gave a quick but firm squeeze. A small, wistful smile played across his lips "She's not your little girl anymore." Genma's voice hardened, small but emphatic fraction. "She is my student, and a martial artist."

Genma released her father's shoulder and turned, locking Akane with a raptor gaze enhanced by the eerie light that flickered across the lenses of his spectacles. "If she wants to be."

Voiced like a thrown gauntlet, the Saotome master's words were more like a horse's reins, tugging Akane in a direction she already wanted to go. He even added the claim of defeating her rivals, a holy grail to Akane, and in just six months it was just as unobtainable. Nabiki had been using such verbal puppet-strings for years, and swallowed as she heard the message hidden in his voice.

Genma Saotome would definitely need to be watched closely.

Akane grunted as she hit the floor with a thump, her hand failing to find purchase as the mattress slipped from the bed. Her brain struggled and floundered from the ocean of sleep and she felt the rough texture of the carpet pressing against her cheek. With a small groan, she rolled onto her back, tangling her legs in her bedsheets and flipping the pillow from atop her head. She squinted into the light and blinked rapidly, hoping the white and brown blur in front of her would resolve into a clear image.

When she refocused her eyes, she found herself staring at Genma Saotome as he glared down at her through his spectacles, one hand still lifting the corner of her bed that he had used to tip her unceremoniously to the floor.

"Time to train," he said in a gruff voice.

Akane rubbed at her eyes with her thumb and index finger before craning her neck to glance behind her. The last two glowing digits of the bedside clock were obscured behind a class of water, filling the remaining liquid with fluorescent red light; but she could still see the first number, an angular six proclaiming the time as the early morning. Her eyes turned to the sky through the gap in her curtains, the sky still washed a dark blue.

"Why so early? We've got all day," she said before adding, "thanks to you," beneath her breath.

"This is not a vacation, girl," he barked. "You need to train harder then ever now. Ranma's not here anymore."

"But why so early?" she grumbled. "You never woke Ranma up this early." Because you always wanted to sleep in too, lazy panda.

Genma did not reply, but let go of the bed. It fell back to the floor with a bang that Akane felt beneath her. He stepped to the side and grabbed her mirror from the wall by her desk. He paused to examine it, frowning at his own reflection before turning his glare on her, his eyes narrowed, and tossing the frame into her lap.

"That's why," her sensei said, gesturing at the mirror with a flick of his hand. He readjusted his glasses before pivoting on his heel.

"Dojo. Ten minutes," he barked before pulling the door closed behind him

Akane frowned as she pushed herself up into a sitting position and grabbed the mirror before it slid off her lap. She knew what Genma had meant when he had given it to her, but as she raised it to her eyes, she could not stop the gasp that came on her harshly drawn breath.

Bands of reddened, angry flesh were wrapped around her neck, and dark purple blotches were woven amongst the livid red lines. Thin lines of flaky scabs were etched on the raw skin from shallow cuts inflicted by the sharpened fabric of Kodachi's ribbon. Akane tentatively touched herself in the nape of her throat and softly trailed her fingers across her neck, shivering as fire blazed in the wake of the light contact.

The old panda was right. She could not afford to lie in bed. Kodachi was out for blood. The gymnast had taken a step into somewhere dark, and it frightened Akane. Nabiki had guessed that the girl hated all of her former rivals for Ranma's affection, but somehow Akane knew that it was her blood that Kodachi wanted most of all.

Ranma's not here anymore. Her hands balled into fists around her bedclothes as she recalled Genma's words, his gruff voice melding with a more concerned feminine tone as she remembered Ukyo saying the exact same thing.

I'm getting tired of hearing that, she thought with a scowl as she threw aside the covers and rose to her feet in an angry rush, diving into her gi and pulling it closed with stiff yanks.

Akane yanked her belt tight as she descended the last steps, the black fabric snapping as it closed about her slim waist. She continued on into the living room, her neck muscles seeming to bunch at her conscious efforts to keep her chin raised, fingers deftly moving with practised ease to tie a firm knot. When she saw the paper laying at her father's table, still crisply folded, the muscles in her body relaxed from their unknown tension and she sighed out a breath she had not realised she had been holding. She had not wanted to confront her father this morning.

Akane had gone to her room after Genma's announcement, her father's wails chasing her up the stairs. She had known that a storm of weeping, tears and furious demon-headed battle auras would have rocked the Tendo living room, and she had seen that show far too many times. She had made up her mind, and leaving with her head held high had seemed the best way to declare her decision. Ukyo had left soon afterwards. Akane had watched her stroll along the road from her bedroom window, giant spatula swaying with each of the chef's steps. It had been a welcome sight. Despite part of her mind chastising her and reminding her to be grateful that Ukyo had shown up when she did, Akane could not help glaring at the taller girl's retreating form, glad to see the back of her that night.

The shogi door jerked in its fittings as it hit an old snag in its tracks, but continued on smoothly, and Akane slid through into the dojo, feeling the coarse, chilling kiss of the tatami on the soles of her feet. A soft rasping noise drew her attention to the far end of the hall where her sensei was entering from the other door.

"You're late," he muttered with a scowl.

"You've just got here yourself," she responded quickly.

Genma bristled. "I'm the teacher."

"Then should you not be setting a good example?" Akane let a smirk curl her lips as a sour look twisted Genma's face. He snorted and a thud rumbled through the wooden panels of the dojo floor. Eyes darting to the source of the sound, she saw a large duffel bag on the floor, the sides deformed by several protrusions that strained the thick fabric. A small clatter rose from within as the contents settled.

"What's in the bag?" Akane asked immediately.

"Training aids," Genma grunted, nudging the large sack aside with the edge of his foot as he stood in front of her, blocking her curious gaze with his broad chest.

"Later," he said gruffly. His large hand rose until it hovered before her eyes, and he pointed with a thick finger to a spot behind her.

"Kata," he barked.

Her breath trailed out of her in a long sigh, but she moved back to the indicated space, and began to bow at the waist as she let the thoughts fade from her mind, growing smaller and fainter as they fell further into the void, until they vanished into the darkness completely. Rising, she brought her hands together, left laying gently over her right. She inhaled, filling her lung with the cold air until it burned her throat as she inscribed a wide circle with her hands and lowered them again. Then she exploded into motion, blowing out her breath in a strong blast as she struck out her knifehand with all of her intensity. The yellow cloth of her gi cracked like thunder, and she flowed like crashing waves through Naihanchi, the kata she had practised arduously since Genma Saotome had taken hold of her training.

It ended swiftly, a short but deadly dance. Her sensei said nothing as he stood like granite statue, arms folded above his bulging paunch, but Akane saw his eyes narrow behind the lenses of his spectacles, and so with another deep breath she began again, and again.

Genma paced around her in wide oval, the callused heels of his feet thudding against the dojo floor, the creak of the wood sounding the halls protest at his powerful steps. He traced a spiralling path around her, keeping out of range of her intense strikes but drawing closer with each orbit.

"Again," he snapped, the voice seemed to come from right behind her, but she forced herself not to flinch, pushing her body through the movements, each one a brutal act of defence. She saw him, a white bulky shape at her flank, moving towards her. She tensed as she slid into the next movement, twisting her hips as she brought her arms around, one arm across her body and poised at the point of her crooked elbow.

"Watch your stance."

The snapped command was the only warning she had, but it was enough. Genma's foot swept up in a fast arc, hacking at Akane's heel as she settled into the low, knockkneed posture.

She flashed her foot up, flicking her heel towards her groin and allowing her sensei's attack to skim furiously across the floor, his toes whispering across the tatami. As fast as she had lifted it, she stamped her foot down, heel pounding against the floor as she dropped back into her stance. Fists still raised, she smirked at her teacher, who stood on one leg, the limb he had tried to trip her with bent at the knee with his heel flat on his trunk-like thigh.

His lip twitched in what might have been a ghost of a smile. "Good," he said shortly. "BUT WHERE'S YOUR COUNTER?" he yelled as he thrust out with his cocked foot. The sole of his foot shot like a piston into her shoulder and sent her reeling from her feet.

She landed hard on her side, her hipbone jarring against the floor as she slapped the ground to lessen her impact.

"Ouch," she hissed, and glared through her dark bangs at the large man.

"Your own fault," he said gruffly. "A dodge or evasion is worthless without a counterattack." He lifted his hand with his finger pointing skyward. "Defence is worthless without offence."

"And offence is wasted effort without defence," Akane finished on a long sigh as she picked herself up, busying her hands with adjusting the knot of her belt so that it would not rub at the sore spot blossoming on her hip.

Genma rubbed at his stubble with his hands, emitting a low and thoughtful hum from his pressed lips. "It's not perfect," he grunted. "Some of your movements are still jerky and robotic, rather than flowing through the full combination. You are over-tensing your muscles, which is slowing you down, wearing you out, and weakening your techniques; yet you still lack conviction in your movements."

Akane continued to fiddle with her belt, suddenly unwilling to look at her the man lecturing her with such a harsh tone.

"But you have come a long way, and I'm sure that you will master it soon. However, with Kodachi's attack, we must increase the pace and build up your arsenal."

"Really?" she gasped as her head snapped up, a grin spread across her face. Her hands stopped their fiddling, but now it felt as if something was squirming beneath her skin. She snapped her fists down in front of her, ready and waiting, feeling as if something was going to burst from inside.

"Let's start, I'm ready for anything," she said, trying to keep the excitement from her voice and knowing she had failed. Finally she would learn the techniques that would make her strong, the moves that would let her wipe that arrogant smirk from Kodachi's face as she drove it into the dirt. It was time to step up onto the stage with her secret weapon, and be noted.

"Are you sure?" Genma asked with a sly, half-smile.

"Definitely," she replied immediately. She wondered what the technique would be called. I hope it's a dragon-something… Wait, that's really more Ranma's animal. That soured her a little. She wanted to strike out on her own, not bond herself tighter to Ranma's trail. Maybe it will be a tiger; Mr Saotome does seem to be fond of that.

Again he pointed to the centre of the dojo. "Naihanchi Nidan," he ordered.

Akane felt something drop into her stomach, and her body jerked, eyes widening as if she had been pulled short by a leash as she had tried to break away. Realising that her mouth was hanging open she closed it with a faint click and swallowed. It took her a moment to find her voice.

"Excuse me," was all she could manage.

"Naihanchi Nidan," he repeated, and then his eyes narrowed. "Is there a problem?" he asked in an iron tone.

"Problem?" she whispered, then yelled, "PROBLEM? I thought you were going to teach me to defeat Kodachi!"

He started, recoiling slightly before he blinked twice and stared at her with his thin eyebrows furrowed deeply. He then drew himself up to his full height, spreading his shoulders as he thrust out his chest. "That's what I am doing," he pronounced loftily.

"You're making me walk like a crab," she spat. "How will that help me against Kodachi and her weapons?"

Genma's face reddened and his jaw swelled as he ground his teeth. "Then tell me, oh wise master," he hissed, voice loaded with poison, "What would you suggest we do?"

Akane felt the muscles in her body go tense at his tone, her fists quivered at her sides so she clamped them against her hips to still them. "Well," she forced the word out through clenched teeth, "I would expect the head of the great Saotome School would know of a technique suited to beating a psychotic gymnast."

"A technique?" He spread his eyes wide as he swept a short bow, made all the more mocking by the crooked smirk that countered the fire in his eyes. "Oh, I am sorry, Akane. I thought you wanted to learn martial arts, when all you want is a quick fix."

"What does that mean?" she growled.

Genma smirked, "You say you're a martial artist. You work it out."

"I am a martial artist." She stepped forwards and lifted herself onto the tips of her toes, flinging the words in his face like a gauntlet.

"Then prove it, girl," he snapped, poking a finger into sternum to indicate the same spot in the dojo. "Naihanchi Nidan," he ordered.

Another protest began to rise inside her, but she smothered it and forced the words back down her throat with an effort that made the ribbon marks on her neck burn. Her feet pounded against the floor as she stomped to the space he had marked.

Akane inhaled to start the kata, trying to let the tension flow out of her, but her anger clung on. She lifted her fists to her chest, fists held straight across her breasts with knuckles facing each other. Slowly she rotated them until her elbow came together, shielding her face with her forearms and her fists pointed skyward. Crossing her left leg in front of her right, she strafed to the side and swung a hammerstrike in a smooth but mighty arc.

"Atrocious," Genma said when she had finished the form. A crocodile tear slid down his cheek as he pressed his palm to his chest and gazed with beseeching eyes towards the heavens. "Oh, what will become of the Anything Goes School?" he cried.

Akane seethed, but caught herself as she lifted her foot to take a furious step towards the old man and halt his false lamentation with her fist. He would just take it as proof of what he said, she told herself as she fought to maintain her stance. He's just goading you into following his plans. It made sense, but still brought her no comfort.

She would show him that she was as much martial artist as any Saotome. She threw herself through the kata.

"No," her sensei said bluntly, folding his arms as he shook his head with a sigh. "You've lost everything you gained in the first form. Naihanchi Nidan is but the second part in a greater whole."

"My dad never really used it much," Akane murmured. "He mostly just taught the first Naihanchi kata before he moved on to something more complicated and faster, like Yansu or Noopan."

Genma made a choking sound. "Noopan. I'm surprised he taught that pattern. More so that he kept the name."

A giggle slipped from between her lips before she knew it had formed. "I had always thought some of the kata names were odd. Now that I've met the founder, I can understand."

A sour grimace tightened Genma's lips, "The original training was much more terrifying," he muttered. "The master made us join him in stealing panties off of girls while they were still wearing them."

"Ew," Akane muttered with a shiver, as she realised that the 'us' that Genma spoke of was probably him and her own father. She thought of the kata name, 'no panties', and decided that it made sense in a twisted way. That thought made her shudder harder. She resolved to whack the old pervert good, the next time she saw his wrinkled face.

"However that kata will not help you against Kodachi," the elder Saotome said in a hard voice, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

With the nausea Akane was feeling at that moment, she thought it unlikely that she would ever practise that form again. Knowing the origins of such training made the movements seem tainted. Part of her felt a twinge of loss, as it had been one of her favourite exercises, full of fast palm strikes and deceptive hand motions. Now she knew why, and berated herself as a pervert for ever liking that kata. Her curiosity was undiminished, however, and forced her to inquire about Genma's comment.

"You're too slow," he answered flatly, and for a moment Akane could hear his son's sneer echo his words.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Akane shot back.

"It means exactly what I said: you are too slow," Genma replied in a cold voice. "At least, you are too slow to utilise that technique effectively. It would be like you performing the Kachu Tenshin Amaguriken."

"I could do that. Get me some chestnuts."

The tassels of his bandana swayed as her teacher shook his head. "Not yet, and we don't have time."

"Ranma learnt it in a week. So can I," she protested, but it sounded weak to her own ears. Ranma had been far better than her when he had learnt the chestnut fist.

"No, you could not," her teacher said firmly. "Kodachi is out for blood, and we do not have the time to watch you burn your hands because of your foolish pride." He fixed her with a hawk-like glare. "Now, do you want to defeat your enemy or do you wish to play with hot nuts?" he asked, each word formed in tones of iron.

"Fine," she sighed. "Let's just get on with it."

The head of the Saotome School nodded stiffly, "Good. Now you will perform both of the Naihanchi kata in succession, and repeat until I am satisfied. This way all the intensity and subtle motion you have gained in the first kata will be included in the second. Begin."

Biting back a thousand protests, retorts and expletives, Akane obeyed. She moved to an instinctual rhythm through the first set, yet the second form was jerky and stiff. So she repeated it, and repeated it, her knees ached and her thigh muscles bunched from maintaining the low stance as she moved. She was like a sliding hourglass, knee turned in and her energy trickling away like the sands of time. Her skin began to flush as beads of sweat blossomed on her brow and dripped from her nose to the tatami, but she continued.

She could feel herself improve, her body moving with liquid ease through the kata with such fluidity that the two forms blended and formed one single pattern. Same techniques, same strategy, but new directions and applications were being introduced as her body mastered the art of holding its ground. Energy was beginning to flee her strikes and her breath rang in hollowed pants in her ears—

Until all of the air was forced from her lungs as something ploughed into her gut. Her hands wrapped across her stomach as she felt her legs waver, the strength suddenly leaving her body. Her mouth moved, but she could not breathe, the convulsing of her throat sending waves of burning pain through her. Unable to stand she sagged onto her knee, the tatami blurring as her eyes filled with water.

The large medicine ball gave a hollow ring as it bounced on the floor and into Genma Saotome's waiting hands.

"Why didn't you dodge?" he asked in a casual tone, more suited to asking why there was no milk in the fridge or some other mundane inquiry.

HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO DODGE, YOU MORON? The words formed in her mouth and she tried to push them out in a roar of rage, but all she could manage was a small, breathless croak. She forced her lungs to take in air despite the muscles in her abdomen screaming at her. Finally, she had inhaled enough to force out words with a pained effort.

"What the…?" she trailed off as her body gulped in another strained rush of oxygen.

Genma leant forwards, craning his head and cocking his ear, face twisted with concentration. "What was that, Akane? I couldn't quite make it out."

"Bas—" she gasped. "—tard."

He shrugged. "So many have said. But I did warn you, I'm not going to go easy on you, Akane. You will improve, or you will break."

Akane pushed herself back to her feet, knees wobbling with the strain. She felt weak and beaten, but she was not broken yet.

"Why… the… ball?" she managed to ask between haggard breaths.

"Just a little training aid." He took a step back and seized the large, bulging duffel bag. "Presenting Genma Saotome's bag of tricks," he announced with great ceremony as he upended the sack and dumped its contents on the floor into a heap, the objects clattering loudly on the wooden floor.

Akane's eye widened, first in surprise, and then further as her mind recognised the jumble of instruments in their tangled pile. The brightly coloured fabric of three ribbons were wrapped in chaotic coils around two pairs of gymnastics clubs. Four hoops of shining steel bound with tassels of red and white lay with bundled ropes of smooth, white cord. Balls daubed in bright washes of pinks and green swayed amongst the cluttered equipment, one escaping to roll across the floor until it bumped against Genma's large, callused foot.

"Bag of tricks?" she grunted, her voice still weak and raspy. "This is just the rhythmic gymnastics equipment left over from when I trained with Ryoga."

Genma nodded. "Yes, it is."

He glanced down, and nudged the errant ball back towards the pile with a flick of his toe. "Quite a range, isn't there? Lots of ways for Kodachi to attack you. And if she has started to use spikes and razor blades like you say, you had better learn to avoid them."

The picture of Kodachi hefting a barbed club flashed through her mind, reddened lips curled back to reveal snarling white teeth, and a pair of dead, soulless black eyes. Suppressing a shudder, Akane swallowed and nodded.

Genma held a fine plastic rod between his large fingers and rolled it back and forth, setting the ribbon at its end into a dance of spiralling blue satin.

"Then let's begin. Start the kata again."

The ribbon writhed against the floor with a thunderous snap.

The sun drowned in a sea of pale clouds, hidden from view but filling the sky with a watery wash of meagre light rippled with swirls of dark grey. The wispy shapes slid overhead in a steady flow, forming a fluid canopy of transient cumulus laced with nebulous trails like the crests of ghostly waves that caressed rather than crashed against the misted rocks at Emei's peak.

"Stop staring at the sky, Ranma. It's not going to rain," Ryoga growled amongst the sound of his shuffling.

"I'm telling you, it's going to rain," Ranma insisted, head still craned as he gazed at the massing swarm of clouds. "I can feel it."

Ryoga snorted. "I must have forgotten that you fell into the spring of drowned groundhog."

"You're the only hog around here, P-Chan," Ranma threw back without taking his eyes from the bleak sky.

"Ranma," the other boy snarled. Ranma tensed, ready to move as soon as the sensation of an angry charge tickled his brain, but it never came. Easing back against the wide pillar, he settled the pressure between his shoulder blades, finding his comfort with a small sigh. He flicked at his pigtail idly, making the dark braid sway before it came to rest along the slope of his neck and chest.

A thump came from above, and Ranma glanced up as a shadow flitted across his eyes. A large crow gave a wild cry that trailed into a croon as it leapt from the curving roof and soared into the air. Ranma's eyes traced its path back to the ledge where the cyan tiles of the small shrine met with the thick wooden beams, painted with bright, lucky red. He slid his foot closer until he could prop his hand on his knee, scarlet satin whispering against the rough cotton of his black pants.

"What are we doing here, Ranma?" Ryoga asked.

Ranma sighed again, watching his breath trail out in coils of vapour that caught a flicker of wind and rose above to join the mountain's mists. He turned a hooded gaze on the lost boy who sat upon the worn boards of ancient oak, leaning back against their two bulging packs. He scowled from beneath his tousled black bangs, arms folded across the rough canvas of his yellow jerkin.

"I told you, it's going to rain."

"You said that two hours ago," Ryoga said, glancing around the ruined shrine. "We've yet to see a drop."

"It'll come," Ranma said tightly and turned away, letting his eyes trail down the sloping land that rolled from the steps of the shrine into the dense forest wrapped around the mountain like a cloak of wood and green. The trees swayed in the wind: the twigs groping like gnarled skeletal fingers as the springy fronds of the conifers danced to the rhythm of winter.

"Sure it will," Ryoga drawled with a sneer. "Just like that bridge was going to collapse after it had stood over the stream for a hundred years."

"The wood was rotten," Ranma murmured weakly.

"It's your head that's rotten." The corner of his lips curled upwards into a smirk that bared his left fang. "Or is little Miss Ranma scared of the water?"

Ranma's knuckles whitened as he gripped his pants, his hands tightened reflexively around a fistful of fabric. Experience through many fights should have prepared him for such a remark, as occasionally Ryoga did hit hard to the right target. Since the previous afternoon, the sight of cold, rushing water and its frothing wave crests, or the dark rain-laden clouds that painted the sky black, brought the memory of smug blue eyes. His stomach turned in his belly.

"Maybe I'm just tired of walking around with a perverted pork chop snuggling against me," Ranma growled. Like any martial artist who had suffered a close blow, he struck back swiftly.

"Who are you calling a pervert?" Ryoga yelled, bolting to his feet.

"Well, I don't know, Ryoga. Perhaps it was one of the other direction-blind jerks on this overcrowded part of the mountain."

Ranma stood, facing the larger youth with one foot still propped on the steps; ready to launch into a back-flip as soon as the charge came.

"I knew that I could feel a fight calling me, brother," a voice whispered, carried on the wind.

"More like a lover's tiff," sneered another.

Ranma's eyes flicked up towards Ryoga as the other boy tensed, glaring over the young Saotome's shoulder with narrowing eyes. Ranma stepped back and spun on the ball of his feet, his pigtail whipping over his shoulder as he turned. His brows lowered as he watched two men emerge from the fridge of clustered trees, and he felt his jaw tighten as he saw a now familiar crest of wild yellow hair. He rolled his hands into fists, the cracking of knuckles echoing in the air like the first volley on a silent battlefield.

Blitz strolled from the forest on his heels, hands buried in the pockets of his dark slacks, each step rolling languidly after the other. The hem of his sleeveless black mantle swirled about his legs as he moved, the twin dragons of sliver and gold rippling across the silken fabric. A wry smirk curved his lips, but did not touch the pale blue eyes behind the single, swaying blade of blond hair that hung to the fine contours of his jaw, which bunched above the folded turtleneck of his woollen sweater.

Ranma's fist twitched at his sides from the urge to slam his knuckles into that smug mouth. He folded his arms, clamping his hands under his armpits as he tore his eyes away to regard Blitz's companion.

This man was taller and more powerfully built than the lithe blond at his side, with broad shoulders that filled the folds of his coat, the flock of embroidered golden hawks soaring across the garment through a cloudless sky of royal blue. Where Blitz strutted, this man prowled, sliding forwards on the balls of his feet with a steady grace, yet his steps seemed to resonate in the grass. His face was stern and forbidding, his jaw squared, lips set in a scowl that looked as if it never left his face. His eyes were orbs of frozen blue steel that contrasted vividly with the waves of fiery red hair, kept short and parted like hot moulded iron.

"What do you creeps want?" Ranma asked, ignoring the feeling of Ryoga's indignant glare boring into his back at his words. The pair stopped before the shrine. He quickly gauged the distance as about five paces, close enough for each party to see the other and spot any attempt to attack from the flanks. These guys are no amateurs.

"You are Ranma Saotome?" the larger one said, his eyes running over Ranma in obvious appraisal.

"That's me. Were you expecting something else?" Ranma felt a spike of satisfaction as he noticed Blitz twitch, but he fought the smile down.

The man's eyes passed to Ryoga. Ranma was sure that he could see flames igniting in those blue irises. "That would make you Ryoga Hibiki?" he said, visibly biting at each word.

"If we're playing twenty questions, perhaps you could answer mine," Ranma said in a dry tone before he hardened his voice. "What do you want?"

"Not what you're offering, queer," Blitz snapped.

"Excuse me?" Ranma's voice sounded like drawn steel to his own ears. He tensed the muscles in his arms to keep his fists still, fingers digging into his flesh like a vice.

Blitz opened his mouth, but his comrade spoke first.

"Since you have apparently met," he hissed. "I will introduce myself. I am Brand of the Divine Order, and I have business with the two of you."

Ranma snorted. "The business most people tend to have with me either involve kisses or fists. I know what your pervert friend here wants. What about you?"

The man turned his blue gaze on Ranma. "So, you are the one rumours say defeated Saffron of the Phoenix." His eyes roved over his form again with an almost clinical glare. "A pity," he said after a while, his shoulders slumping for an instant. "However, I would be willing to match fists with you, if you give me reason."

"Men like us don't need reasons."

Brand nodded, his lips forming the tiniest half-smile that was belied by the heat of his voice. "That is very true, but it is your friend whom I wish to address, unless of course you have an issue with that?"

Ranma blinked. "Ryoga?"

"Me?" Ryoga said vacantly, his eyebrows lifting towards his bandana.

"Yes, you," Brand barked suddenly, advancing a single, enraged step. His hand rose and he thrust his finger at Ryoga as if to drive it through the lost boy's chest despite the distance between them. "Ryoga Hibiki, you are a lecher, and, as a Master of Emei Bagua Zhang, I challenge you to combat."

"Lecher?" Ryoga repeated, his jaw dropping. "What? Why…?" His mouth snapped closed and he bared his fangs. "How dare you?"

The bark of laughter that nearly exploded from Ranma's throat hurt as he swiftly swallowed it, but he could not stop a crooked smirk from curving his lips.

"Ryoga, a lecher? Boy, have you got your facts muddled. He hasn't got the guts or the blood supply to try and seduce anyone."

"Well, he's lucky that you are man-slut enough for both of them," Blitz sneered.

Ranma felt the smile evaporate from his face as if boiled away by the roaring fire that ignited within his chest and suffused his skin with a furious heat.

"I would advise you to take that back before things get rough."

Blitz chuckled, lips forming the wry grin that chilled Ranma's blood with loathing. "Sorry, I'm not gay. You can't seduce me with the weird sex games you and fanged boy play."

"If recall correctly, you hit on me. If any of us is queer, it's you, Blondie"

"You fooled me with that damn curse of yours," Blitz snarled. "I bet it's a dream come true for you; a jiggle of your tits, a few strategic bends, and bang all the naïve straight guys a queer like you could want."

Ranma inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to seek his centre, but found only a maelstrom churning in his stomach and charging his muscles. He forced himself to remain still, concentrating on the sting of his fingers digging into his palm, knuckles turned white. He narrowed his eyes at the man before him,

"I am not a fag," he hissed between gritted teeth.

"Look, I did not hit on your sister." The sound of Ryoga's angry denial broke the deadlock between Ranma and the smirking blond. "Ranma's the lecher, not me."

Ranma barely restrained the urge to slap his head in frustration, "Damn it, P-Chan. Sense the mood. Now is not the time for this."

"See? Your boyfriend agrees with me," Blitz said, one slender eyebrow arching beneath his sharp bang. .

"You really seem to have an urge to be put in traction," Ranma said softly, hiding bladed steel beneath the veil of sound. Ranma tensed as he saw a blue blur flick through his peripheral vision, and his senses screamed the threat. The flame-haired man had taken another step towards Ryoga, who had lifted his hands warily, shifting slightly on the ball of his feet.

"Don't try to pin this on your friend. He may have fought with her, but it was you who tried the shy, innocent foreigner act on Willow. Men in China do not take kindly to Japanese pigs who try to seduce their sisters, and they do not forgive."

Almost wincing when he heard the words spring from Brand's mouth, Ranma turned towards the bandana-wearing youth. Ryoga's lips were curled back to reveal his fangs, green sparks flashing in his narrowed eyes. Then his lids became hooded, as he straightened, spreading his shoulders as he lifted a fist towards the larger Chinaman. "And I don't take kindly to being accused of things I did not do. And I don't forgive people who call me a pig."

"Then you accept our challenge?"

Ranma noticed the change in pronoun; he glanced at Blitz and frowned. Despite the smirk and easy posture, he could now see the flickering of a white-blue battle aura around the slender man.

No matter what I do, it always comes down to this, he thought as he finally released his muscles from restraint. Suddenly they no longer pulled at him, but rather moved with perfect grace like a willing machine as he flexed the fingers of his hand. I doubt I would want it any other way, he conceded with a smirk.

"As heir of the Musabetsu Kakuto Ryu, I say you're damned right we accept."

He stumbled to the side as Ryoga shouldered him aside. "I don't need you to speak for me, Ranma," the other youth muttered. "I can accept my own challenges on behalf of…." he trailed off, his mouth still open but with no words to finish his sentence. Ranma saw the passion is his eyes waver like a candle in a sharp gust.

"…of the 'prepare to die school of martial arts'," Ranma finished the other boy's sentence.

"Yes, the Prepare to… Ranma, now is not the time for jokes."

Ranma winced as Ryoga yelled into his ears. "Who's joking? It suits you. But you're right. Now is not the time for jokes. Now is the time to hand out ass-whoopings and lollypops. And I think we ran out of lollypops."

The grin that grew on his rival's face mirrored his own as the other boy lifted a large hand to give a comradely pat on his shoulder. Ranma's mind was suddenly invaded by a vision of standing before a winged minotaur, Ryoga at his side, heated words fading before the threat ahead. His smile widened a little.

"You've got a point, Ranma," Ryoga said. "It's very rare that I find someone who pisses me off more than you."

Blitz cleared his throats with embellished aplomb. "If you lovebirds have finished with the heroic-rival anime crap, can we please get started so that I can kick your asses?"

The two men backed away, Brand make a grandiose sweeping gesture, like a lord entreating a lady to dance, beckoning the two Japanese youths to join them on the sloping field of swaying grass.

Ranma followed as the group parted, his path parallel to Blitz's as they moved away from Ryoga, who stood facing the large red-haired man, arms folded across his chest. His heart was already beginning to quicken, the hairs rising on his body as if his skin had become charged. A swell of power blossomed in his stomach as he felt his face slip into the proud smirk he always wore. It was his banner, bringing him pride and grace as he rode into battle. He felt the world grow smaller, shrinking around him and his opponent, yet become deeper, more real. Reality shrunk away like a deflated bubble as he felt his soul and senses expand. The wind ran through his hair, trailing his braid across his shoulders, as it hissed through the branches and rattled the screens of the shrine

"Ah, screw this."

The words were his only warning. He flung his hands up, catching the fist with a flash slap against his right palm as his left hooked upwards to knock the attacking arm away from his face. However, a low attack slid past his senses, hacking at his legs as he tried to pivot away, and launching them up from beneath him. He spiralled in the air, feet rising as he torso fell. A yelp began to form in his mouth as he felt himself hang horizontally in the air for a split second, but the sound was sealed away as two palms slammed