Chapter 10: Showdown — Allen vs. Protag-kun

The market’s chatter still lingered in Allen’s ears as he stepped onto the café’s upper deck. Late-afternoon light slanted across the worn wooden boards, catching on a chair left slightly askew—like someone had stood up mid-thought and never returned.

From the street below, a piper’s tune drifted upward, one note just sharp enough to feel deliberate.

Mei stood at the railing, one hand curled around the crumpled wrapper of the crepe they’d shared earlier. She didn’t turn when he approached, but Allen caught the faint scent of spiced batter—and something in his chest twisted.

Inside, the café clinked with quiet motion. Monica’s voice floated out, low and pointed, like she was speaking to someone who wasn’t supposed to hear. Protag-kun looked up from his seat, brow lifting. Monica paused mid-reach for the teapot, her eyes flicking between Allen and Mei.

"Welcome back."

At the table, Miyu’s chewing slowed. Cinnamon’s ears twitched, catching something the rest of them missed.

“Well,” Monica said, recovering first, “I’ll make something for you two. You must be starving after—”

Mei’s smile was polite, but distant. “Thank you. But… I’m not hungry.” She glanced toward the stairs. “It’s been a long day.”

Allen half-turned to follow, but she was already slipping through the door. Her footsteps faded down the stairwell, muffled by the walls.

Miyu set down her fork. “Pardon me,” she said softly, sliding from her seat. Cinnamon chirped and bounded after her, tail a neat banner behind him.

That left Allen with Monica and Protag-kun—and the silence Mei had left behind.

Monica busied herself with plates, but her questions came out in the soft clink of ceramic. “Everything okay?”

Allen shrugged, eyes on the grain of the table. “She’s just tired.”

Protag-kun leaned back, watching him too long. His expression was unreadable, but something in it felt off—like he was trying to solve a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

“I haven't seen her like that since the Orc Lord,” he said. “And you...”

Allen didn’t respond.

Protag-kun stood, tilting his head toward the back door. “Come on.”

Allen hesitated, then followed.

The back door eased shut behind them with a muted click. The yard lay in that in-between light—amber sunset pooling along the fence-top, shadows creeping into corners. The faint hiss of the street mingled with the dry rasp of crickets.

Allen kept his eyes on the packed dirt. Protag-kun paced a slow half-circle, the boards under the porch groaning beneath his weight. The café’s signboard creaked overhead, swaying gently in the breeze.

“You’re not gonna talk about it?” Protag-kun said finally.

Allen didn’t answer.

“She looked wrecked, man. Like she’d been crying. And you—you won’t even look at her.”

Allen’s jaw tightened. “It’s complicated.”

Protag-kun scoffed. “Complicated? She’s been holding this group together while you were laid up. She kept us sane. And now you’re sneaking off with her like the rest of us don’t matter.”

Allen lifted his head, eyes narrowing, but said nothing.

Silence stretched again. The light drained a little more from the yard.

“You’re hiding something,” Protag-kun said, stepping closer. “You and Mei—whatever you’re planning—it doesn’t include us, does it?”

Allen blinked. “What?”

His silence was answer enough.

The light drained a little more from the yard.

“Fine,” Protag-kun said, straightening. “If you won’t talk, we’ll settle it another way. Fight me.”

Allen exhaled. “Not interested.”

He turned toward the door.

A sharp whump and crackle split the quiet; heat brushed his calves. He looked down to see a charred patch of earth at his feet, tendrils of smoke curling upward.

Protag-kun lowered an outstretched hand, fingers twitching with residual sparks. “Don’t forget—I’ve been practicing while you were resting. Firebolt’s just the start.”

Allen’s brow furrowed. “What are you—”

“I know, Allen.” Protag-kun’s voice sharpened. “The locket. It won’t let you transform, will it?”

Allen’s silence was answer enough.

“So here’s the deal,” Protag-kun said, flexing his fingers. “No magic. Just fists. Unless you’d rather I start tossing explosion spells in our nice, flammable backyard.”

Allen glanced at the scorched patch of dirt, then back at him. “…Fine.”

Protag-kun’s grin was quick and a little too pleased. “Good. Let’s see what you’ve got left.”

He curled one hand into a fist, murmured under his breath. Orange light licked around his knuckles — Ignite — and the scent of singed cloth bled into the cooling air.

The first step forward kicked a puff of dust between them.

They circled once in the narrow yard, boots grinding the dirt into darker patches where the dew hadn’t yet settled. The café windows glowed above them, casting long slants of light that barely reached the fence-line. Somewhere beyond the alley, a dog barked twice and fell silent.

Allen moved without thinking—stance balanced, shoulders loose, eyes steady. He didn’t raise a guard. This wasn’t supposed to be serious.

But Protag-kun stood like a fuse waiting to be lit. His lips moved soundlessly.

“Ignite,” he whispered again.

Flame rolled over his knuckles, flickering up his wrist in fitful tongues. The heat hit Allen’s face, tinged with the acrid scent of burning thread. Protag-kun’s grin was tight, eager—like someone who needed this more than he wanted it.

“I thought this was fists,” Allen said, scoffing.

"You're so annoyingly persistent," Protag-kun muttered before he charged.

The first rush was fast but wild. Allen sidestepped, felt the heat graze his sleeve, and shoved Protag-kun back a step. The grin didn’t falter. He came in again, leading with his unlit hand before snapping the flaming one toward Allen’s ribs.

They traded blows—Allen’s reach and control against Protag-kun’s raw, scrappy aggression. Each time those flaming fists connected, both of them hissed: Protag-kun from the self-inflicted burn, Allen from the sting and singe. The smell of scorched fabric began to hang low in the cooling air.

“Not bad,” Protag-kun said between breaths, shaking out his hand as the fire guttered, then sparked again. “For someone who’s already made his choice.”

Allen’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“You and Mei,” Protag-kun said, voice rising. “You disappear for hours, come back all quiet. And the rest of us? We’re just background noise now.”

Allen caught his shoulder, turned him, and sent him stumbling toward the fence. “You’re going to set the place on fire.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Protag-kun snapped, swinging again. “Maybe it’s better than watching you drift away.”

The rhythm settled into something hypnotic: crunch of boots, snap of punches, the faint crackle of flame. Overhead, the café’s signboard groaned on its chain, rocking with each thud against the ground. Sweat prickled at Allen’s spine. Protag-kun’s breathing had gone ragged, each exhale a puff of steam in the night air.

Neither noticed the scuff of shoes on the porch steps, or the way the back‑door latch clicked open. The fight narrowed to the space between them — two stubborn silhouettes trading blows in the flicker of firelight.

Allen didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Every movement said what he wouldn’t.

Protag-kun pressed harder, frustration bleeding into every swing. He wasn’t just fighting—he was trying to shake something loose. An answer. A confession. A reason not to feel left behind.

“You think you’re the only one who matters to her?” he spat. “You think she didn’t care about the rest of us?”

Allen’s fist connected—clean, sharp, not cruel. Protag-kun staggered, blinking.

Neither of them noticed the scuff of shoes on the porch steps, or the way the back-door latch clicked open.

The fight had narrowed to the space between them—two silhouettes trading blows in the flicker of firelight, each trying to land something that wasn’t just physical.

Then the door swung wide, and light spilled across the yard.

Monica stepped out first, Miyu just behind her, Cinnamon tucked under one arm like a loaf of bread. Mei followed a heartbeat later, apron strings trailing, eyes wide.

Both fighters froze mid-step. Protag-kun’s latest Ignite flickered weakly in his palm. Allen’s shirt cuff smoked where a near-miss had singed it.

“Is this what I think it is?” she asked, voice dry.

“Two boys fighting under moonlight,” she continued, fujoshi mode activating. “They realize their love for each other is stronger than fists, and their clothes just keep falling off. If this turns into a confession scene, I’m staying for it.”

Allen groaned. “We were not reenacting a yaoi scene.”

Protag-kun, still panting, snapped, “It’s a fight. Because he—”

Mei stepped forward, braid swinging, hands on her hips. “Because you misunderstood.”

Her voice was sharp, but not angry. Just tired.

“I told Allen about something I wanted to do. Something for all of us. You weren’t excluded. No one was.”

Protag-kun blinked. “Then what was it?”

Mei hesitated. Her gaze flicked to Allen, then to Miyu, then back to Protag-kun.

“I want to start a girl idol group.”

Silence.

“A girl idol group,” Mei repeated, firmer now. “With all of us. Singing. Dancing. Costumes. Sparkle.”

Allen went stone-faced. Monica arched an eyebrow. Miyu tilted her head. Cinnamon chirped.

Protag-kun’s mouth opened, then closed. “You’re serious?”

Mei nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it since we got here. This world is dangerous, yes—but it’s also a chance. A chance to start over. To be something joyful.”

“But…” Protag-kun gestured vaguely at Allen, then himself. “We’re guys.”

“So?” Mei said, eyes bright. “It’s not about gender. It’s about energy. Heart. Unity.”

Monica nodded solemnly. “We could all be like sisters in arms.”

A cool mist, a hush, a heartbeat—the scene unfolded hours ago, when they were back at the fountain.

“When Miyu and I were isekai’d to this world, I thought it was a dream. I didn’t want to wake up. But I knew that was me being selfish.”

Pause. Silence stretching like a held breath.

“After I had Miyu, I thought my idol days were over. No more sparkle. No more stage. But it still mattered. It was the only time I felt like I belonged. Like I could start over.”

“Start over?”

She’d looked at him — not mother, not caretaker, not even idol. Just a seventeen‑year‑old girl with a dream.

The city’s hum, the ivy‑breeze, the fountain’s splash — all fading to nothing.

“I want to relive it. The songs, the costumes, the stage. But not alone. You, Protag‑chan, Monica, Miyu… even Cinnamon. I want us to become a girl idol group. Together.”

The words hung in the air like confetti that hadn’t yet fallen.

“I knew it the moment you and Protag‑chan came back from the forest covered in slime. You were perfect. You just didn’t know it yet,” Mei had said. With all of them. Skirts. Sparkle. Unity.

Allen stood deadpan, the ridiculousness too sincere to mock. Monica arched an eyebrow. Protag-kun frowned like he’d just lost a fight no one had announced.

The silence stretched.

“Everyone goes out in skirts and sings their hearts out as fans scream,” Mei said, her voice gaining momentum. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a boy on the outside. What matters is what’s inside.”

Protag-kun stood motionless, his thoughts a blur of static. Mei looked at him, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with something between madness and hope.

For a moment, the only sounds were crickets and the faint hum from the ward-light above the door.

Then the ground lurched.

The hanging lights swung violently. The fence groaned under an unseen impact.

A second blow split two planks, sending splinters skittering across the dirt.

“Orc attack!” someone shouted from the alley. “Too many to count—they’re pouring out of the sewers!”

From the street came the clatter of overturned carts and a chorus of guttural roars.

Somewhere out front, pottery shattered. A horse screamed. The piper—if he’d survived—hit a note so sharp it cut off mid-wail.

“Please don’t kill me!”

Another voice took it up. Then another. The dull clang of alarm bells rolled over the rooftops, joined by the pounding of boots on cobblestone.

The yard’s lamplight seemed to shrink under the noise. Steel rang against steel. The warm night air turned sharp with the scent of fear.

“There are fires all around…”

A shape slammed against the fence hard enough to bend nails. The air filled with the copper tang of blood and the acrid smoke of something burning.

Mei was already moving. “Inside. Now.”

But the cries outside were getting closer.