Chapter 7: Plum Blossoms in March

While Kyle lay in curated silence, trying to remember who he was without a sword in his hand, something was beginning to brew in a smaller neighborhood of Tokyo.

The kitchen breathed warmth. Steam curled from the earthenware pot, rising in soft spirals like incense.

Kotomi Doka, just shy of eleven, stirred the miso broth with practiced, precise care. The ladle tapped a gentle, consistent rhythm against the ceramic—a low, familiar sound that was half lullaby, half clock, the sound of a small, fragile world being held together by routine and care.

The scent of fermenting beans wrapped around her like an old, salty-sweet memory. Grounding.

“Hmm ♩, hmm ♩, hmm ♩.”

She hummed a tune—one her mother, Kotori, used to sing while setting the table.

Above the counter, the small shrine flickered in the lamplight. A photo of her mother smiled back—framed by fresh plum blossoms wearing her silver hairclip nestled beside the incense tray.

Kotomi’s fingers brushed the same clip, now tucked neatly into her bangs. She always checked it was there—a small, cool weight of silver against her skin, a quiet reminder that her mother was always present.

The soup simmered. The house held its breath.

Then—clunk.

The keyhole in the front door unlocked.

“I’m home.”

The voice was deep, tired, frayed at the edges.

Kotomi’s face lit up instantly. The tension in her small shoulders melted away.

“Welcome home, Papa!” she called, dropping the ladle to run to the door.

Detective Kenji Doka looked like he’d been scraped off the pavement. He didn't hug her—he never did after his wife passed away. The air around him smelled of stale police precinct coffee and old paperwork, cutting sharply through the sweet miso steam. He just slumped onto the stool with a grunt, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he could physically press the day out of his skull.

Kotomi set the steaming bowl in front of him, hands steady despite the quiet, familiar hope blooming in her chest.

He took a slow, deep sip of the miso. For a fleeting moment, the tight weight in his shoulders eased.

“How was work?” she asked, voice soft.

Kenji exhaled.

“Just one of those days. The brass called it an ‘artistic performance.’ Made a mess of Shinjuku.”

He shook his head before going to slurp the soup.

“They wore shimmering outfits—like next-level cosplay.”

Kotomi leaned in, her young eyes wide with curiosity and wonder. To her, it wasn't a case file; it was a shojo manga cover.

“Were they magical girls?”

Kenji frowned, the memory turning the broth bitter in his mouth.

“That’s the strange part. One of them was definitely a boy. Seemed like a nice lad, but—” He stopped himself, catching her gaze. “I really hope you don’t fall for someone like him.”

Kotomi giggled, but the sound didn’t last. Something in his voice had shifted—brittle, serious. The safe warmth of the kitchen seemed to retreat just slightly.

The soup cooled between them as silence settled in.

Kotomi was just asking about the flavor of the daikon when the world cracked open.

A low hum.

Not static, but a vibration felt deep in the teeth. Detective Kenji Doka's exhaustion vanished. He froze, his head cocking instantly, recognizing a signal far outside police jurisdiction.

"Hold on," he murmured, his cop's instinct twitching.

Something was wrong.

Then—

A deafening, flat explosion that tore through the quiet. The kitchen door didn't just break; it vanished in a shower of pulverized wood and blinding glass dust. The action caused the soup bowl to tip, spilling the nurturing broth. The shrine trembled while the plum blossoms scattered like tiny casualties, symbolizing the death of their fragile peace.

The Men in White immediately flooded the room. Each wore the same identical, featureless, stark-white professional business suits. Silent, professional movements as their guns were raised and leveled.

Kenji was on his feet in an instant. He didn't think; he simply shoved Kotomi behind him, his body a shield. When he saw their mechanical, inhuman precision, his years of training dissolved into a primal, desperate instinct: Protection.

“This is the home of a Tokyo Police official!” he roared, his voice thick with outrage and confusion. “Who the hell are you?!”

One of the men stepped forward.

“Kotomi Doka,” his voice flat, unbothered. “You are ordered to come with us.”

Kenji’s eyes locked on the guns.

“Run away!” he shouted, lunging forward with a desperate, untrained surge of power.

He tackled the nearest man, but the agents were too fast, too precise. The fight was brief. Brutal. A third assailant slammed Kenji’s arm against the edge of the stone counter, pinning him with mechanical, inhuman precision.

Kotomi screamed.

Her father’s grunt of pain rang out—a jagged, living sound that slowly was splitting Kotomi's world in two. It wasn't just noise; it was the sound of her father’s protection failing, raw, agonizing, and wrong.

She didn’t think. She didn’t choose. She only felt the pain of him.

The silver hair clip in her bangs suddenly felt intensely cold and sharp, a tiny, burning anchor against the terror. It pulsed once. Then again.

A fierce, cold clarity surged from her core, chasing the panic away. A low hum bloomed in her ears, like a string being tuned too tight, drowning out the shouting. The kitchen light flickered wildly. The air thickened, heavy with ozone.

The shrine’s incense curled sideways. The photo of her mother, Kotori, trembled in its frame.

Then—

Jade-green light exploded outward, blinding and intensely alive—the unmistakable sight of magic refusing to let trauma win.

The Men in White staggered back, their arms raised against the flare of pure energy. Kenji froze, breath caught in his throat, his pain forgotten as his daughter vanished into the jade glow.

Armor shimmered into place—ivory-laced jade, elegant and impossible. A flowing skirt, boots etched with plum blossom motifs. Her dark hair lifted in the current of her own terrible, urgent awakening.

Kenji stared at the vision before him—his eleven-year-old daughter, towering and radiant. He knew she wasn’t fiction now.

“Let him go!” Kotomi’s voice rang out.

It didn’t belong to a child. Her tone carried a resonance—layered, older, impossibly powerful, a whisper of her mother.

She moved not by memory or training, but guided by raw, desperate instinct. A translucent shield, shaped like a beautiful koto, materialized in her hand, humming with the cool, clean energy she’d been missing from the world. She didn't hesitate; she swung it wide—graceful, furious.

The impact caused two assailants to crash backward, struck by a wave of pure, jade disharmony, tearing through the jagged hole of the shattered window in a spray of glass.

“She’s the target! Capture her alive!” barked the leader, ducking under the broken door frame.

Another man lunged.

Kotomi’s belt buckle—a stylized plectrum—flared with brilliant light. A low-frequency wave pulsed outward, invisible but deafeningly loud to those nearby, a discordant note aimed directly at the brain. The man dropped instantly, clutching his head, his body convulsing in silent pain.

She turned to the agent still gripping her father.

“I said—let him go.”

The leader recovered fast, moving with terrifying composure. He drew a polished blade from his armband and pressed the edge firmly to Kenji’s throat.

“Stop, or we execute the hostage,” the man stated with no hesitation. “We have no interest in your father, Magical Girl. Surrender, and he lives.”

Kenji tried to resist, and the leader twisted his arm. Kotomi heard the sickening, unmistakable pop of his shoulder dislocating, the sound of her father’s protection shattering completely.

“I’ll be okay!” Kenji gasped, his voice ragged. “Kotomi—run. Please.”

It was a plea hiding behind a command.

Her shield flickered.

Her breath caught.

The cold clarity momentarily shattered by guilt and pain.

She couldn't leave him, injured and bleeding. But she couldn't stay, knowing surrender meant capture.

Kotomi looked at her father—broken, defeated, still whispering for his protection. She moved to the photo of Kotori, her mother, now dramatically tilted sideways, plum blossoms scattered like tiny casualties across the counter.

She whispered one name, her voice low and broken: “Papa.”

Then she leapt.

Her body surged upward, propelled by raw, desperate energy. She tore through the drywall and ceiling plaster, the sound of the destruction—the absolute breach of the roof—swallowed by the rush of the cloudy Tokyo night sky.

***

Below, Kenji Doka collapsed to the ruined floor. His body was trembling. His arm was useless. His heart was full of pain.

The leader finished his call. “Understood, Sir.”

He didn't look at Kenji's wound; he only glanced at the jagged ceiling hole, annoyed by the collateral damage. He then directed his men to collect DNA samples and catalog the destruction.

He looked at the pitiful old man, then directed them to drag Kenji toward their white van—the transport vehicle of bureaucracy.

As Kenji looked up at the jagged hole above, he could do nothing. Then, before he was forcefully taken away, he turned his direction on the damaged shrine, where the photo of his wife tilted precariously.

He pressed his good hand to his chest, clutching the remnants of the life that was just destroyed.

“Please, Kotori,” he whispered into the swirling dust and silence.

“Watch over our daughter.”