The Jade Dragon: A Shop Full of Stories
There was a certain stillness to mornings like this, where the aroma of steeping jasmine leaves curled gently through the air, and the golden sunlight filtering through the lattice windows bathed the Jade Dragon in warmth. In that silence, time seemed to move slower, more deliberately, as if the world itself paused to take a breath before continuing its endless dance. The dust motes floating in the sunbeams reminded me of tiny spirits, drifting peacefully through our humble domain.
I found comfort in these quiet moments. The teacups on the polished counter, arranged in perfect symmetry, reflected a kind of order I had grown to treasure after years of chaos and conflict. Each porcelain vessel held its own story, much like the people who would soon come to fill this space. The world outside our walls may have been chaotic—bursting with quirks and costumed heroes—but within this small shop, peace reigned sovereign. Conversations were slower, more intentional, carrying weight without burden. And the tea… the tea reminded us that simplicity still had power, that transformation could come from the most basic elements: leaves, water, and patience.
The soft chime of the front bell stirred me from my meditative state. I turned, half-expecting one of our usual guests—an elderly couple seeking refuge from their noisy grandchildren, perhaps, or a young hero in need of respite from the weight of expectations. Instead, I was greeted by something... unexpected, something that made my eyebrows rise with genuine curiosity.
He was small, barely reaching the height of our counter. White fur with black patches, intelligent eyes that seemed to calculate and observe everything simultaneously, and an aura that defied the boundaries of species or title. He walked upright, his steps measured and purposeful, as if each movement had been carefully considered beforehand. A strange hybrid of rodent and bear, yet his demeanor suggested neither. There was something otherworldly about him—something deliberate and ancient despite his diminutive size.
"Ah… a most curious visitor," I said, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I set down the teapot I'd been polishing. "Tell me, friend—are you a spirit from the old stories, come to test an old man's hospitality, or merely a very polite animal with a taste for good tea? Either way, you are most welcome here."
He chuckled, the sound surprisingly rich for such a small creature, and to my mild surprise, responded in crisp, articulate tones that carried both education and wisdom. "Neither, though I've been mistaken for both on numerous occasions. My name is Nezu. I've heard whispers of your shop throughout the city, and of its legendary proprietor with hands that seem to coax secrets from tea leaves. I couldn't resist the temptation to experience it for myself."
I gave a short, respectful bow, genuine pleasure warming my chest. "Then welcome, Nezu. Any soul drawn to tea and conversation is a friend in my book. The Jade Dragon opens its doors to all who seek warmth, wisdom, or simply a moment of peace."
He made his way to one of the cushioned seats with a kind of effortless grace, climbing up without awkwardness despite his small frame. There was a sharpness to his movements that immediately intrigued me—the precision of someone who has learned to navigate a world not built for them. I began preparing a pot of jasmine—my personal favorite for first-time guests, delicate yet memorable—while Nezu took in the room. His eyes, though small and seemingly gentle, missed nothing. I could feel his assessment, methodical and thorough.
Those perceptive eyes eventually landed on a corner of the shop where four older gentlemen sat hunched over a circular board, their quiet laughter punctuated by the click of carved tiles as they shifted strategies and fortunes with each move.
"What game is that?" he asked, his head tilting with genuine curiosity.
"Pai Sho," I said, setting the lacquered tray between us with a pot of steaming tea and two cups, each painted with delicate chrysanthemums. "A game of balance and harmony that has followed me through many chapters of my life. It's less about conquest, more about understanding the flow of energy between opposites. Each piece has its counterpart, its natural ally and nemesis."
He tilted his head, ears perking up with interest. "And would you teach me? I find myself drawn to games that reveal more about the player than they might intend."
"I would be honored," I replied, recognizing a kindred spirit in his philosophical approach. "The best conversations often happen over a game board, when hands are busy and minds are free to wander."
I retrieved a fresh board from beneath the counter, one with mother-of-pearl inlays that caught the light as I set it gently before him. His small hands moved with surprising precision as I explained the rules, the placement of tiles, the philosophy behind each strategy. Pai Sho was not something one mastered through cleverness alone—it required intuition, rhythm, restraint, and most importantly, the ability to see beyond immediate advantage. Yet Nezu grasped its essence swiftly, asking questions that revealed depths of understanding most newcomers missed entirely. His mind was like a blade honed over years of scrutiny, cutting directly to the heart of matters.
We played in companionable silence for several turns, exchanging glances instead of words, the language of the game building bridges between us. The steam from our cups rose and mingled above the board, creating ephemeral patterns that seemed to mirror our strategies. Then, without looking up from a particularly thoughtful move, he spoke.
"What are your thoughts on the Hero Society as it stands today? A system built on individual power, yet claiming collective protection as its goal."
I paused, my hand hovering over a tile. It wasn't an uncommon question in these times, but few asked it so directly—or with such gravity, as if my answer might shape something beyond our conversation.
"It is built on noble ideals," I said carefully, adjusting a tile to create a defensive formation. "But ideals alone are not foundations. They must be supported… by community, by empathy, by humility. Too often, heroes are burdened by expectation rather than uplifted by it. They become symbols first, humans second—and that transformation exacts a terrible price, one paid in private moments of doubt and loneliness."
Nezu nodded, his ears twitching in thought as he countered my move with unexpected boldness. "And All Might? The Symbol of Peace himself? Some say he carries the entire system on his shoulders."
I smiled faintly, pouring more tea for both of us, the amber liquid catching the light. "All Might is a symbol, yes. An anchor in turbulent waters. But even the strongest pillar cannot bear the weight of an entire roof forever. There must be more—many pillars, all rising together, sharing the weight. A society that depends on one man's smile to feel secure has already begun to crumble at its foundation."
"A shared burden is lighter," Nezu murmured, his paw hesitating over a white lotus tile.
"Precisely. And a shared vision, stronger," I added, watching his strategy unfold with appreciation. "The true strength of any society lies not in its heroes, but in what they inspire others to become."
Our match continued, a subtle war of philosophies disguised as a game, each move revealing something of our worldviews. The clack of tiles created a rhythm, almost like music, as we danced around the board's center. And in the final moments, as I placed my White Lotus tile at the board's heart, completing a pattern of harmony, Nezu exhaled softly—not in defeat, but recognition.
"A perfect harmony," I said, gesturing to the completed pattern. "Not victory, but balance."
"You're more than a tea shop owner, Iroh," he said, his eyes meeting mine with newfound respect and perhaps a hint of suspicion.
"And you, I suspect, are more than you appear as well," I replied, refilling his cup one final time. "But perhaps that is true of all of us, when given the right circumstances to bloom."
He chuckled, a sound both childlike and ancient. "Perhaps we're both exactly who we need to be, in a world that often demands we be something else entirely."
The bell rang again—this time louder, jubilant, breaking our philosophical moment with welcome vibrancy. A small blur of energy darted into the room, laughter trailing behind like ribbons in the wind. Raiden, my nephew in spirit if not blood, his eyes bright with the day's adventures. His presence was like firelight—warm, flickering with untamed joy, illuminating corners of my heart I'd thought long darkened. He ran straight to me, and I caught him easily, his small arms wrapping around my waist in that wordless language children speak so fluently, the purest form of affection.
"Uncle! I found a turtle-duck in the park! It had the strangest markings—like little stars on its shell!" he exclaimed, words tumbling out in excited disorder.
Behind him, Tamayo entered with a smile that could calm tempests. Her presence was soft, rooted—like moonlight over still water, gentle but unyielding in her quiet strength. She carried a small basket of fresh herbs, likely for our evening meal, and gave a polite nod to Nezu, whose eyes widened faintly at the sight of them both together.
"Forgive the interruption," she said, her voice melodic yet reserved. "We didn't realize you had a distinguished guest."
There was a moment—brief, but heavy with meaning—as Nezu took in the scene. A family. Not born of blood alone, but forged through purpose, through care, through the promise of something better than what came before. I saw understanding flicker in his gaze… and perhaps something rarer still: admiration, tinged with a wistfulness that spoke of personal history.
He stood from his seat, adjusting the lapels of his tiny suit with dignified precision. "You have a remarkable family, Iroh. One built on choice rather than circumstance—the strongest kind, in my experience."
I inclined my head, one hand still resting on Raiden's shoulder. "They are my greatest joy… and my greatest purpose. The universe has strange ways of bringing together souls that need each other."
"I'll be returning," he said with quiet certainty. "Not just for the tea, though it was exceptional, but for the wisdom that comes with it. Both are rare commodities in our current age."
"And next time," I said with a playful gleam in my eye, "I won't hold back during Pai Sho. A true master only reveals his skill gradually, like good tea unfolds its flavors with patience."
He grinned, that rare blend of intelligence and mischief evident in his expression, and with a respectful nod to Tamayo and a gentle pat on Raiden's head, took his leave. The door shut behind him, the bell chime fading into the distance like the final notes of a song.
I turned back to the warmth of the hearth, to the boy now tugging at my sleeve with questions about our unusual visitor, and the woman setting out fresh dumplings with a knowing smile that spoke volumes of shared understanding. Raiden's excited chatter filled the room, bringing life to corners that had been quiet for too long.
"Was that really an animal with a quirk, Uncle? He seemed so smart! Smarter than my teachers, even!"
"Intelligence comes in many forms, young one," I said, guiding him to a seat. "And wisdom often hides in unexpected packages."
And in the quiet that followed, as Tamayo prepared a fresh pot of oolong and Raiden arranged the Pai Sho tiles into patterns of his own invention, I breathed deeply, letting the aroma of jasmine and home fill my lungs. The familiar weight of purpose settled comfortably on my shoulders.
The world outside might still tremble beneath the weight of expectation and conflict.
But in here, there was balance. There was peace. There was the family I had found rather than been given.
And that, I believed with every fiber of my being, was worth protecting above all else.
Nezu pov
It was subtle at first—barely a flicker of awareness, like a breeze brushing past the fur on the back of my neck. But I had long since learned to trust such signals. Instincts, after all, had kept me alive far longer than reason ever had. When you've been experimented on, tortured, and hunted, you develop a sixth sense for the extraordinary hiding in plain sight.
The air in the Jade Dragon, warm and fragrant only moments earlier, now felt laced with something sharper. Not unpleasant... but primal. A distinct shift in the atmospheric pressure made my whiskers twitch involuntarily. I paused, porcelain teacup cradled between my paws, and let my senses stretch outward like invisible tendrils searching for the source of my unease.
There.
A laugh—high and unrestrained—echoed from the rear of the shop. It cascaded through the ambient chatter, cutting through conversations like a silver bell. It was the kind of laughter that didn't belong in polite company but wasn't out of place here. Not in Iroh's haven of peace, where all manner of souls found respite. And yet, something about the sound sent ripples through the still water of my mind, disturbing thoughts I preferred to keep undisturbed.
The boy who entered was small, perhaps seven or eight years old, but his presence was anything but diminutive. It surged ahead of him like heat rising off sun-baked stone, filling the room before his physical form could catch up. His dark hair bounced with every energetic step, eyes wide and bright with a mischief only children—or foxes—could wear so naturally. There was something almost luminous about him, as though he existed in sharper focus than everything around him.
And then I caught it.
A scent.
Faint. Elusive. But impossible to ignore once noticed—like trying to unsee a hidden pattern.
Fox.
Not an ordinary one—there was no musk, no wildness. Just a trace. A whisper of something ancient wearing the skin of a child. Something that reminded me of moonlight on snow and power older than human memory.
My fur bristled beneath my impeccable suit. I didn't show it. Years of maintaining composure in the face of danger had taught me the value of an unreadable expression, even when every instinct screamed for caution.
The source of the scent paused in front of Iroh, barreling into his embrace with the complete trust that only comes from familial love. The stocky man caught the child with practiced ease, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection. The warmth of the moment clashed oddly with the primal warning still humming in the back of my mind like distant thunder.
Then she entered.
Tamayo.
Her steps were as quiet as falling snow, yet the shift in atmosphere was immediate and profound. The kind of beauty she possessed wasn't loud or ostentatious. It settled into a room like incense, subtle but persistent, changing the quality of the air itself. I'd heard her name spoken in hushed tones by Recovery Girl only weeks earlier—praise laced with curiosity, admiration, and something bordering on awe regarding her revolutionary healing techniques.
Now I understood why.
There was a grace to her that no quirk or science could fabricate. A kind of stillness that made people lean in without knowing why. Her movements were economical, precise—the hallmark of someone who had lived far longer than her youthful appearance suggested. My analytical mind began cataloging details: the subtle way she scanned the room before fully entering, the careful distance she maintained from strangers, the protective glances toward the boy that spoke volumes.
"I see you've yet to meet my family," Iroh said, his voice as warm as the tea he served, breaking through my observations. He gestured toward me with an open palm. "Come, Nezu. Allow me to introduce you to my sister-in-law, Tamayo, and my nephew, Raiden."
Raiden.
The name settled on me like a prediction I hadn't yet read but somehow knew would change everything. Thunder in a clear sky. Power waiting to be unleashed.
The boy turned to me with a grin too large for his face, revealing a missing tooth that somehow made him appear both more childlike and more mischievous. There was an intensity in his gaze, not the calculated sharpness of an adult but the earnest brightness of a child who hadn't yet learned to dull his light for the comfort of others. And yet, behind that childish exuberance, I detected something else—something watchful and assessing. Something old.
Tamayo dipped her head in greeting, her posture effortlessly composed, hands folded demurely before her elegant kimono. "It's a pleasure, Principal Nezu. I've heard much about U.A. and its innovative approaches to hero education." Her voice carried the gentle cadence of someone who chose words with deliberate care.
"The pleasure is mine," I replied smoothly, setting my teacup down with practiced precision. "Though I expected neither legends nor prodigies to frequent tea shops so quietly tucked away from the main thoroughfares of our city." I allowed a hint of my curiosity to show—a calculated revelation.
"Uncle!" Raiden chimed in, too loud and too eager, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His energy seemed barely contained within his small frame. "Mama got invited to a fancy doctor party—and we're going too! There's gonna be cake and important people and everything!"
Iroh chuckled, raising a bushy brow in amusement. "A party, you say? Then we must prepare for an adventure, mustn't we? Perhaps we should discuss proper etiquette for young gentlemen at formal gatherings." His eyes twinkled with affection as he ruffled the boy's already disheveled hair.
Tamayo's laugh, soft and genuine, seemed to melt whatever remained of the tension. The sound was surprisingly youthful, contrasting with the ancient wisdom that seemed to reside behind her violet eyes. "It's a charity event for the new children's wing at Musutafu General. An opportunity to meet others in the medical field... and perhaps give Raiden a chance to socialize with children his age." Her gaze lingered on her son with a mixture of pride and something that looked remarkably like concern.
Her voice wrapped around the moment like silk—gentle but firm. I observed them with careful interest, noting how easily their roles fell into place. Tamayo the quiet pillar, strength masked by gentleness. Iroh the watchful mentor, wisdom hidden behind jovial smiles. And Raiden, the storm on the horizon still learning how to shape his wind, power disguised as childish enthusiasm.
They were... different. A family unit, certainly, but one composed of extraordinary individuals whose connections ran deeper than mere blood relation. My analytical mind catalogued a dozen small details: the way they positioned themselves unconsciously to protect each other, the shared glances that communicated without words, the subtle tension in their postures that spoke of constant readiness.
"Nezu," Iroh said, interrupting my analysis as he handed me a fresh cup of tea, the aroma of jasmine wafting upward in delicate spirals. "You're welcome to stay a while longer. Tamayo has quite the mind for medicine and unconventional healing approaches, and you—well, I'd say the two of you might enjoy a conversation that goes beyond small talk. Minds like yours rarely find worthy challenges."
I sipped the perfectly brewed tea, considering the invitation. "Unconventional approaches often birth the most meaningful progress. That's been my educational philosophy at U.A. as well. Recovery Girl seems quite fond of your work, Tamayo. I imagine I could learn a great deal from someone who approaches healing from such unique perspectives."
Tamayo inclined her head again, humbly. "I'd be honored to share what I can. Though I suspect your knowledge of quirk science far exceeds my own. Perhaps we could find middle ground in discussing the intersection of traditional medicine and modern quirk-based healing."
Conversation flowed. Smooth and unhurried like the tea being poured. We discussed theoretical approaches to healing, the ethics of enhancement quirks, and the future of hero education. But beneath every word exchanged, I kept glancing back at the boy—Raiden—who alternated between fidgeting restlessly and moments of startling stillness where his eyes would track conversations with unnerving comprehension.
That scent still clung to him. Faint. Ancient. A paradox wrapped in childish energy.
Eventually, I stood to leave, smoothing down my suit with practiced paws. I exchanged my final pleasantries with Tamayo and Iroh, but my gaze lingered on the boy longer than courtesy required. He noticed—of course he did—and met my eyes with a directness that few adults could manage.
There are very few things in this world I don't understand. Even fewer that I cannot categorize neatly into my extensive mental taxonomy of quirks, abilities, and phenomena.
Raiden was neither.
He was something else entirely. A question mark in a universe I thought I had mapped completely.
As I stepped into the open air, the scent of jasmine and tea followed me, grounding me in the now. But the boy's presence stayed with me—like a whisper in the wind, like a puzzle waiting to be solved, like a prophecy not yet spoken but already in motion.
And somehow, I knew this was not the end.
Not for me.
Not for them.
Not for the world that was bound to change.
The analytical part of my mind was already formulating contingencies, planning future meetings, considering what role U.A. might play in the development of such a unique child. But beneath that cool calculation was something rarer—a genuine curiosity about what Raiden might become, and what changes he would bring to our carefully balanced world.
Lady Nagant's POV
The city at night had a way of peeling back masks.
Beneath flickering streetlamps and hollow alleyways, silence spread like a thin layer of frost—quiet, indifferent, unyielding. My boots echoed against the pavement, each step punctuated by the weight of thoughts I couldn't seem to outrun. I had been walking for hours. Not toward something, but away from memories, from the Commission, from myself. The purple strands of my hair whipped across my face in the cold breeze, a reminder of my distinctive appearance that had once been my pride as a hero, now just another liability.
Once, I believed in heroes.
I had clung to that word like a lifeline, too naive to understand that faith can be weaponized. The Commission had twisted that ideal into a leash, and I... I had let them. They trained me to kill—not protect, not save—but eliminate, with efficiency that left no room for questions. Villains. Whistleblowers. Children marked as 'potential threats.' I had pulled the trigger on all of them, my right arm transforming seamlessly into the sniper rifle that had become more familiar than my own flesh.
Their faces never left me.
I used to think that the silence following a kill was the sound of peace.
Now I know better. It's grief, waiting for a name. It's the echo of potential extinguished by my own hand, justified by orders I never should have followed.
I don't remember what pulled me from that spiral of thought—perhaps it was instinct, or simply my body craving warmth after hours in the night chill—but I caught it, faint and real: the scent of tea. Not the mass-produced kind that masked bitterness with sugar, but something earthy, ancient… honest. Something that reminded me of a time before my hands were stained with blood.
My steps slowed as I followed it, weaving through narrow streets until I found myself in front of a small shop nestled in the corner of a quieter district. The sign read: The Jade Dragon Tea Shop. The soft glow from within cast amber patterns across the damp pavement.
It felt... out of place. Or maybe I was. A killer standing before a sanctuary, my black and purple bodysuit a stark contrast to the warmth emanating from within.
Inside, a man moved with practiced grace, sweeping the floor as though every motion was a meditation. His presence reminded me of still water—calm on the surface but carrying depth that ran deeper than I could see. Despite his young age, perhaps only twenty, he carried himself with the wisdom of someone who had lived several lifetimes.
He looked up. And smiled.
It wasn't the strained smile of someone trying to sell comfort. It was warm, unguarded. Real. I froze, my hand instinctively twitching toward where a weapon would be if I weren't trying to blend in.
He set the broom aside and walked toward me—not cautiously, not with pity. Just… openly. His stocky frame moved with surprising grace. When he reached me, he didn't ask for a name. Didn't question why I was standing in the doorway like a ghost too afraid to pass over.
Instead, he hugged me.
I didn't know what startled me more—that a stranger would show me kindness, or that I didn't pull away. My body, trained to react to any physical contact as a threat, remained still under his embrace. Something inside me recognized safety before my mind could process it.
The dam inside cracked, and everything I had held back came rushing through. I cried—not the restrained kind I was trained to suppress, but the raw, trembling sobs of a child who had carried too much for too long. My violet eyes, once sharp and calculating, now blurred with tears I'd denied myself for years.
He said nothing.
When my knees buckled, he caught me, his deceptive strength supporting my weight without effort.
When I could no longer speak, he guided me to a seat, the wooden chair creaking softly beneath me.
When I finally breathed, he placed a warm cup of tea in my hands, the steam rising between us like an offering.
"Drink," he said softly, like a whisper wrapped in wind.
The cup was ceramic, smooth and worn from use. The tea inside smelled of jasmine and something older—like distant summers and forgotten peace. I took a sip. It was light, floral, and grounding. With each swallow, it felt like I was being stitched back together—slowly, imperfectly, but deliberately. The warmth spread through my chest, reaching places that had been cold for too long.
"I... I don't know why I came here," I whispered, voice brittle from exhaustion and emotion.
"Sometimes," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "we end up where we're needed, even when we don't know why."
I stared down at the tea, my reflection distorted in its surface—fragments of purple hair and haunted eyes looking back at me. "Kaina Tsutsumi," I said, surprising myself with the honesty. "That's my real name." Not Lady Nagent, the code name they'd given me when they'd weaponized my Quirk.
He nodded, as though he had already known. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Kaina. I am Iroh."
I repeated his name under my breath, letting it settle. "Thank you… Iroh. For this. For not asking questions." My fingers tightened around the cup, seeking its stability.
He smiled, not with his mouth, but with his eyes. "The world asks enough of us. Here, you are allowed to just be."
That was all it took.
I spoke.
I told him everything—the dream of becoming a hero, the gradual corrosion of hope, the Commission's manipulations, and the weight of the lives I'd taken. I spoke of children who once tried to shake my hand, and how I pulled away—not because I didn't care, but because I did. Too much. I described how they'd exploited my Quirk, turning my arm into the perfect assassination tool, and how I'd let them convince me it was for the greater good.
And when I finished, I braced myself for judgment.
But it never came.
He refilled my cup instead, the gentle pour of tea filling the silence between us.
"Balance," he said, "is fragile. Those meant to uphold it often lose themselves trying to define it. But Kaina... you're still here. That means you still have a choice."
"What choice?" I asked, anger and hopelessness tangled in my voice. "I'm a fugitive. A weapon gone rogue. If I try to run, they'll kill me. And even if I escape… what am I supposed to be now?" My hand unconsciously transformed partially, metal glinting beneath the skin before I forced it back to flesh.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "A flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest of all. You've endured poison, yet still carry the roots of something beautiful."
His words were gentle, but they didn't coddle. They cut through my defenses with precision that rivaled my own aim.
"You've honed your skills to kill," he continued. "But what if you honed them to protect? To heal, in your own way—not theirs?"
I looked at my hands. They had trembled before. They were still now. The same hands that had ended lives could perhaps save them. The thought was terrifying in its possibility.
The tears didn't return. But something else did.
A pulse. Quiet. Steady.
Hope.