Chapter 1: First Day Back (And We Are In Jail)

Light fractured. The sound screamed.

Then—impact.

The portal spat them out like broken relics, limbs tangled, breath stolen. Kyle hit the pavement hard, the back of his head bouncing off wet asphalt. The world didn’t welcome them. It rejected them.

Fluorescent streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting a sterile white glare that felt too clean, too sharp. The air was thick with exhaust fumes and the metallic tang of city rain. It smelled like chemicals and concrete—nothing like the grave-rot and ozone of the Demon Lord’s Domain.

“We’re back,” he rasped, his voice lost. “The real world.”

Kyle gasped, trying to draw breath. His fingers scraped pavement, searching for something familiar. Beside him, the shattered half of Sunbreaker clattered, its once-radiant blade now dull, reflecting the sickly yellow haze of neon signage.

He reached inward.

No Chi. No divine torrent. Just silence.

His chest tightened. Not from injury—but from absence.

Around him, the others lay scattered across a zebra crossing like discarded props from a forgotten myth. Torn robes. Bloodied armor. Dirt-streaked faces. They were breathing. Alive. But utterly disoriented.

Renji and Luna’s shared body twitched violently. “Did we… die again?” Renji’s voice cracked, half-joking, half-hollow.

A crowd was already forming—not with terror, but with bored curiosity. Cell phones rose like weapons. Flashbulbs popped like hostile fireflies.

“Is this a promo?” someone asked.

“She’s so beautiful,” another whispered, filming.

It was a Monday evening. Students leaving cram school. Drivers honking. Restaurants prepping for rush hour. Viral cosplay stunts weren’t uncommon here—but this? This was a spectacle.

Luna surged forward, shrieking in archaic dialect. “Unhand me, you unwashed peasants! This is not the way to treat a princess as well as a saint!”

The crowd flinched, then laughed. This is one of the busiest street in Tokyo. Crowded streets and narrow streets were a common occurrence. Unfortunately the occasional grope and purse snatching happened in this situation.

The noise, the lights, the press of bodies—it triggered something deep in her. She saw torches. Verdicts. The mob.

“Please father. Don’t let them execute me,” her voice was much like the sound of a scared little girl.

She began recalling the hordes of people that wished for her execution. The trauma of being trapped inside in the swarm was slowly taking hold.

Kotaro and Kokoro huddled by the curb, wrapped in each other like a frayed thread. Kotaro whispered the invocation for his blessing, voice trembling, but the only response was the cold sweat on his brow. Kokoro’s eyes widened—reflected in them, a massive tour bus barreled toward them, horn blaring, tires shrieking.

“Kyle!” she screamed, arms raised instinctively.

Kyle tried to move, but his legs were still lead. His fingers twitched toward the broken blade beside him. Too slow.

Masayuki reacted first.

He didn't recognize the threat, but he recognized danger.

The air was wrong—thick, corrosive, laced with invisible toxins. The towering glass monoliths shimmered like cursed obelisks. The steel boxes on wheels roared like siege beasts.

This world was built of defensive barriers, he realized. But none of them were magical.

“You dare charge at children, unclean beast! Begone!”

He saw the bus as a monstrous siege engine. His child-sized frame shot forward, presence absolute. He drew his katana—not a weapon now, but a memory—and roared.

The blade arced downward in a perfect, disciplined stroke—aimed at the front axle. A shower of blinding sparks erupted as steel kissed steel. The bus’s steering column shrieked, tearing metal on metal. The vehicle slammed sideways into the median.

Then: crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Three cars collided in a chain reaction, metal folding like paper. Alarms blared. People screamed. The hero party went from costumed curiosities to public menace.

Kyle staggered upright, just in time to see the crowd retreating—not in awe, but in fear. Phones still raised. Eyes wide. Not with wonder. With accusation.

A police car pulled up, lights flashing an aggressive red-blue rhythm. Two officers emerged, sleek uniforms and cautious posture. They were armed, but not hostile. Not yet.

“Hands up,” one said, voice clipped. “Now.”

“Raise your hands up,” the police demanded as they drew out their firearms.

The heroes were surrounded. Not by monsters. By protocol.

The officers didn’t threaten violence. They threatened paperwork. It felt less like arrest—and more like being processed. Like lost luggage.

From the quiet edge of the intersection, Minami watched.

Her posture was impeccable. Her battlefield robes discarded. Her expression unreadable. She inhaled the exhaust-heavy air. Her mind already calculating.

“Hmm... A multi-car accident. Vandalism. Assault with a deadly weapon.”

She inhaled the exhaust-heavy air.

The battle against the demon lord was over.

Now the battle to manage ¥22,500,000 in property damage.

***

Kyle blinked against the sickly, relentless fluorescent glare.

The precinct doors had slammed shut behind him like a verdict. Not loud. Final.

“Please take a seat over there.”

Though no formal charges were filed, the officers had separated the party for questioning—standard procedure, they said. But the room felt less like a formality and more like a holding cell for something unclassifiable.

The integration room hummed with vending machines and the scent of reheated coffee. The air was sterile, still. Kyle sat alone in a plastic chair, stripped of armor, his bracers tagged and bagged on a shelf labeled “Bizarre Film Props.” The scorch marks from dragon fire were ignored.

His hands felt light. Wrong.

He reached inward, searching for the torrent of Chi. Nothing. Not dormant—absent. He tried again. Just a flicker. A whisper. Then nausea.

Across the table, the detective flipped through a manila folder with the bored precision of someone who’d seen too many viral stunts. Kyle watched his fingers move—efficient, indifferent. The same rhythm as a bureaucrat processing a lost pet.

“Name?”

Kyle hesitated, the word felt alien in his throat, stripped of its title.

“Kyle,” he said.

“Full name?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

The detective raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know your own name?”

Kyle gripped the edge of the table. His vision blurred. His stomach turned. He was unraveling—not from injury, but from absence. No Chi. No sword. No prophecy. Just a form he couldn’t fill.

The silence stretched.

“Detective Doka,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I’m telling you… we’re just… cosplayers.”

The detective scribbled something down. Then, without looking up:

“Right. And I’m a magical girl.”

***

In another room, Renji and Luna sat across from a steaming bowl of katsudon.

The detective leaned forward, polite but weary. “Madam, can you understand Japanese?”

Renji stiffened. He’d already pleaded with Luna—multiple times—to play coy. Tilt her head slightly. Let her silence imply ignorance. Anything to avoid her usual theatrics.

With Luna’s Western European features and regal bearing, the officers weren’t sure if she spoke English, let alone Japanese. But her posture—elegant, composed, vaguely threatening—made them hesitate. No one wanted to spark an international incident.

It was decided that they call a few foreign embassies before processing the next steps.

After a long silence, the detective sighed and changed tactics. He heard her stomach rumble—soft, almost adorable. He nodded to himself, then ordered the katsudon.

The bowl arrived with practiced ease, slid across the table like a peace offering.

Steam curled upward. Sweet and savory. Renji’s breath caught.

It smelled like home.

Not the fantasy world. Not the battlefield. But his old life—late nights, cheap convenience, the quiet comfort of being nobody.

He didn’t hesitate.

He shoved his face into the bowl, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“So that was why I was brought back to Japan,” he sobbed, voice muffled by rice. “This is what I died for!”

His horrified partner, the venerable Saint Luna, shrieked, fighting for control. “Stop! You tell me to play coy and then you break—” But then the power of the katsudon began to also take hold. “Oh my, this is good!”

It was then after gorging nonstop something was wrong. Their body began choking on the food after forgetting to chew and swallow. An officer had to rush over to give the Heimlich maneuver. Standing behind, he quickly gave upward thrusts above their belly and forced them to regurgitate the katsudon back out.

“Eek.... Your boorish manners have caused a staining to the Saint’s Gown!” Luna screamed livid as she saw her dress.

Their body twitched violently, alternating between blissful consumption and aristocratic outrage. One hand clutched the bowl. The other tried to smooth the stained Saint’s Gown.

Every officer in the precinct just looked at the scene unfolding. It was as though a raccoon in a ballgown fought itself over a trash can. They immediately lost their appetite soon after.

The detective leaned back, expression unreadable. Then quietly marked the file:

MENTALLY UNSTABLE.

***

Masayuki and the twins were escorted to the precinct’s quietest corner—the children’s area.

The walls were lined with faded posters of cartoon mascots offering safety tips. A vending machine blinked in the corner, its hum steady and indifferent. The officer assigned to them looked exhausted.

Masayuki sat cross-legged, hands folded, eyes closed. Katana-less, but not powerless.

“I refuse to speak,” he said calmly, “until I am granted an audience with the Daimyo of this era.”

The officer offered him a juice box. Masayuki bowed in solemn refusal.

Kotaro and Kokoro curled together in the corner, wrapped in a thin blanket.

Though the officers offered to call their parents to pick them up, they hadn’t spoken since the arrest. Kokoro’s eyes were red, fixed on the floor. Kotaro stared at the vending machine, watching the blinking lights.

***

Just as the precinct began to settle into its usual, grinding rhythm—forms filed, suspects categorized, stale coffee reheated—then the atmosphere didn’t shift. It snapped.

A group of men in black suits entered the lobby. Immaculate. Silent. Their movements were synchronized, deliberate, and possessed a quiet menace that made even the officers instinctively straighten. No badges. No hesitation.

These weren’t police.

They were Kurogane fixers—the kind of men who didn’t ask. They collected.

The lead agent approached the sergeant’s desk and dropped a folder with a sharp, expensive thud. His voice was precise, practiced, and utterly unyielding. Never asked, only obeyed.

“We are here for our clients involved in the Shinjuku incident. Authorization has been granted. We will collect them now.”

The sergeant hesitated, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. A legal standoff loomed—until a voice, cutting through the tension like silk over steel, delivered the final word.

“Please, everyone. There’s no need for second-act drama.”

Minami glided in.

She didn’t walk. She arrived.

Her battlefield robes were gone, replaced by a tailored ensemble that whispered generational wealth and screamed control. Her heels clicked like punctuation. Her presence didn’t demand attention—it rewrote the room’s hierarchy.

The fixers bowed instantly. Deep. Wordless.

The sergeant blinked twice. Then once more, just to be sure.

Minami dismissed the entire arrest with an effortless gesture, handing over a thick manila envelope—cash, notarized documents, and a pre-written statement describing the party’s destructive actions as “experimental performance art.”

Her smile was dazzling. Practiced. Dangerous.

“These individuals are my guests,” she said. “They are essential to my family’s philanthropic initiatives. The debt has been paid.”

The sergeant opened the envelope, skimmed the contents. His shoulders sagged—not in agreement, but in surrender. The fixers moved quickly, retrieving the party with quiet precision.

In the interrogation room, Kyle looked up as the door opened.

Minami stood there, framed by fluorescent light. Her silhouette was sharp, her expression unreadable. She was the only warmth in the sterile room—and the only danger.

“Come now, Kyle,” she said. “The episode’s over. Time to go home.”

Kyle rose, not because he believed her—but because he had nowhere else to go.

His chair creaked behind him, empty and cold.

***

In the lobby, the others were already gathering.

Renji/Luna twitched violently, Luna shrieking about decorum and the humiliation of the katsudon incident. Renji muttered something about pork and redemption. Their body jerked like a marionette caught between two scripts.

Masayuki bowed to the fixers, mistaking them for high-ranking samurai. His dignity remained intact, even if his context didn’t.

Kotaro and Kokoro clung to each other, eyes wide and silent. Kokoro’s fingers clutched the blanket tighter. They looked less like heroes and more like children lost in a world that had moved on.

None of them spoke.

They were free—not by sword, spell, or prophecy.

But by money, paperwork, and Minami’s terrifying, calculated grace.

Outside, Tokyo pulsed with impossible noise—neon, engines, voices. Inside, the party followed Minami out of the precinct and into a waiting black car.

The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.

Kyle stared out the window as the city blurred past.

He didn’t feel rescued.

He felt claimed.