Chapter 34: "Ren.exe Has Unlocked: Ninja, Wizard, and Arcade Fighter"
In which I cast illusion magic, punch the air so hard it bleeds, and finally hit a Meteor Dive like a legend.
Success is a dangerous drug.
The moment I nailed that illusion spell, something inside me just clicked. It wasn't a huge moment—there were no fireworks, no theme music, tragically—but it was enough.
So naturally, I went all in. No breaks, no snacks—okay, maybe one rice ball—and absolutely no chill.
First on the list? Face restoration.
Because walking around as Kaito was awkward. Not because I disliked the guy—he was chill. But looking in the mirror and seeing not-me? That was a daily jump scare I didn't sign up for.
So, I aimed my newly sharpened illusion skills inward. I restructured the light around me to project my real face—messy red hair, sharp eyes, familiar features, the whole deal. Even when I looked in the mirror, I saw me.
The illusion held. Solid. Steady.
I even tried flickering it—off, on, off, on. It was like being a Ninja-shaped lightbulb.
"Damn, I'm handsome," I told my reflection.
It agreed.
Next? Combat practice. With flair.
I kept the illusion spell active and added spiritual body enhancement. The boost wasn't massive, but it pushed me farther than before, enough to start doing the kind of ridiculous stunts I'd been missing.
Like double-jumping.
Or—wait for it—triple-jumping.
Yeah, I created tiny spiritual-energy platforms beneath my feet and kicked off them in midair like I was inside one of those ridiculous arcade fighting games where gravity was apparently considered optional.
I couldn't even hear gravity crying over the disrespect.
Then came the fun part: energy claws.
I coated my hands in spiritual energy until my fingers extended into razor-sharp blades of light. Not gonna lie, I looked like some kind of magical assassin beast.
Slashes? Clean. Control? Decent. Effect? Glorious.
I swung once and a nearby tree got a haircut. I swung again and unleashed a freaking energy wave that sliced through a rock like a hot knife through a beginner Ninja's hopes and dreams.
And if that wasn't enough—
I finally landed it.
Mira Vale's. Freaking. Meteor Dive.
You don't understand. I'd been trying to get that move right ever since I first saw it in the arcade.
Mira Vale was one of the fastest characters in Battle Crown, an absurdly popular fighting game where people settled international disputes by uppercutting one another through buildings. Her signature attack, the Meteor Dive, involved jumping high, twisting in midair, and coming down heel-first in a spiraling strike.
The motion, the twist, the dive—it was like poetry delivered directly through somebody's kneecap.
I jumped, spun midair, twisted into a perfect dive, and—BOOM—my heel struck the ground with a spiraling shockwave of spiritual energy.
The air literally quivered.
Birds flew away. A tree dropped half its leaves out of fear. I'm pretty sure somewhere in the distance, Sora sneezed.
I stood up from the crater I'd made and brushed imaginary dust from my shoulders.
"I am a magical Ninja arcade fighter," I said out loud.
And for once?
No one argued.
So here's the thing: when you're a magical, soul-powered, street-fighting Ninja in somebody else's body, you have to get creative.
That's just basic multiverse science.
And Ren Kisaragi—me—was nothing if not creative, especially after spending weeks cooking up a combat style that could only be described as:
"What if Veiled Moon assassination Arts, MMA, and arcade games had a baby?"
First, the foundation.
I'd been grinding. Physically, at the dojo and in the park; technically, through every martial-arts video, manual, and sparring partner I could get my hands on; and in the dream world, where Kaito and I could beat the life out of each other without having to explain the bruises afterward.
Between my old Veiled Moon hand-to-hand training, everything I'd picked up through dream sparring, and what Earth had thrown at me, I'd been cross-training in karate, taekwondo, Muay Thai, judo, boxing, grappling, and whatever else looked useful enough to steal.
Then came the game nights.
Battle Crown and Fist Dominion.
Two fighting games with enough ridiculous martial-arts moves to keep me occupied for months.
There was Riku Zen, the painfully serious wandering fighter whose solution to every life problem was apparently punching harder.
Kaien Blaze, who believed normal uppercuts weren't dramatic enough unless you added fire and screamed while doing them.
Mira Vale, queen of aerial kicks and sworn enemy of gravity.
And then there was Rex Halden, whose fighting philosophy seemed to consist entirely of asking whether his opponent was ready before creating an explosion large enough to answer the question himself.
Even in my sleep, I was training.
Which was either dedication or a medical condition.
Now, it was show time.
I found an abandoned warehouse near the edge of town. The kind with rusty girders, flickering lights, and a giant CONDEMNED sign that practically begged teenage idiots with supernatural powers to stay away.
In other words?
Perfect.
And then?
I let loose.
I started with the spirit cloak, wrapping spiritual energy around my body until it shimmered like blue fire. Extra arms stretched from the cloak behind me, moving according to my thoughts, and when I punched toward the floor, the giant energy limbs slammed downward hard enough to crack the concrete.
Note to self: do not try this indoors again.
I followed it with an eye-beam test. Focused the energy, narrowed my eyes, and—
Zap!
A steel beam exploded.
Then came the mouth blast.
Very giant-monster.
Very satisfying.
Next came the arcade phase.
Riku's Pulse Cannon — Clean. Compact. Glowing. I thrust both hands forward and launched a compressed sphere of energy that slammed through a wall and scared the life out of a family of raccoons I hadn't known lived there.
Sorry, raccoons.
Crescent Cutter — Frisbee of doom. A rotating disc of spiritual energy sliced through a parked forklift like butter.
Back Boosters — I released bursts of energy from behind my shoulders and launched myself forward like a human missile. Worked brilliantly for sudden acceleration. Worked considerably less brilliantly when I remembered that acceleration eventually required stopping.
Kaien's Rising Inferno — I drove an uppercut upward while spiraling spiritual energy around my fist, launching myself straight through part of the ceiling.
Ten out of ten.
No notes.
Rex's Groundbreaker — Yeah, I shouted, "YOU READY?!" before punching the floor and watching an eruption of spiritual energy explode beneath a rusted truck.
I was not ashamed.
Wolfbreaker Rush — A short-range burst where I launched myself forward behind a concentrated fist strike.
A steel support pillar volunteered as the test subject.
The pillar did not survive.
Mira's Spiral Lance — I threw myself horizontally into a twisting kick and drilled through an entire stack of crates like a very dangerous ballerina.
Titan Drop — I practiced the grappling finisher on a reinforced training dummy.
Said dummy was now approximately two-dimensional.
Conclusion?
I invented a fighting style.
It was somewhere between Veiled Moon close combat, spiritual-energy attacks, martial arts from half of Earth, and one extremely irresponsible arcade power trip.
And yes, I wrote it down.
I even gave it a name.
"Ninja Arcade-ryu: Battle Art Style Number One."
Working title.
I was still brainstorming.
By the time I finished, the warehouse looked like a giant had attempted yoga inside it. The floor was cracked, several walls had holes, part of the ceiling was missing, and one section looked suspiciously melted.
I cleaned up.
Well…
As much as you can clean up after a Groundbreaker ruptures a pipe.
You'd think that with energy beams, Ninja training, and enough martial arts to qualify for somebody's tournament arc, Ren would take a break.
Nope.
He had goals.
Big ones.
Clean up the gangs in the city? Check.
Take over the delinquent underworld?
…Well, he hadn't planned on it.
But the idea was kind of growing on him.
Ren was making his way toward Red Dawn headquarters, formerly known as Predator's suspiciously comfortable abandoned construction project near the river and current capital of Cat Territory. It was now under new management, otherwise known as him.
He figured it was a solid gang headquarters: lots of space, plenty of room to train, enough concrete to survive most bad ideas, and no expensive café chain in sight.
As he walked, mentally reviewing his Gang Clean-Up Bingo Card, somebody decided to make a cool entrance.
Cue:
Revving engine.
Slow-motion bike slide.
Designer sunglasses despite the fact that it was cloudy.
"Yo," said Hermes.
Also known as Kazuki Saejima: heir to a wealthy family, information addict, weapon enthusiast, and a guy who probably had smug listed as a personality trait on his résumé.
He parked his absurdly expensive sports bike sideways and leaned against it like the cover model for Tokyo Delinquents Monthly.
"You still planning to crush Hephaestus and Athena?" Hermes asked, tossing his helmet between his hands like it was a ball.
Ren shrugged. "That's the idea."
Hermes grinned. "Good. I like a man with ambition."
Translation:
I'm absolutely going to exploit your rapidly increasing influence for mutual gain, and I'm going to look fabulous while doing it.
They'd made a deal before—Ren would prove that his little organization had the potential to become something serious, and Hermes would throw his resources behind him.
Not because Hermes had suddenly discovered justice, friendship, and the power of helping your fellow teenager.
Nah.
He saw Ren—or Kaito, as far as Hermes knew—as a walking investment.
A stock that punched people.
And now?
That stock was rising.
Ren wasn't just strong. He was charismatic, strategic, and slightly reckless in that hero of an overdramatic teenage fighting series kind of way.
Hermes loved that vibe.
"Once you take those two out," Hermes said, pushing up his sunglasses like a professional schemer, "we could run this entire city. Maybe even expand."
"Expand?" Ren asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The delinquent underworld, my friend," Hermes said with the sparkle of a man who had clearly made business projections for a gang. "We absorb the smaller groups. Organize them. Use their strengths properly. Nemesis and Predator were step one. Hephaestus and Combat Sumo? Step two. Athena and the Amazons? Step three. Then—"
He paused dramatically.
"—total domination."
Ren blinked.
"You've thought way too much about this."
"I have presentation slides," Hermes said seriously.
Of course he did.
Still, Ren wasn't entirely against it.
He didn't want to rule the criminal world or anything, but cleaning up the chaos, building a group that protected people, and keeping idiots from graduating from schoolyard fights into actual crime?
That was basically community service.
With extra punching.
And if they had to deal with Athena's Amazons—hyper-disciplined female fighters with weapons and excellent coordination—or Hephaestus's Combat Sumo, which was less sumo club and more a collection of human refrigerators capable of body-slamming people through vending machines—
then so be it.
Ren lived for the chaos.
When you hear the words gang hideout, you probably imagine something gritty, shady, and full of suspicious crates labeled DEFINITELY NOT STOLEN. Maybe a flickering lightbulb or two.
And rats.
Lots of rats.
Not this place.
Nope.
This was more like a teenage martial-arts clubhouse designed by people who desperately needed adult supervision.
Ren—still in Kaito's body, but now juiced up on spiritual energy and illusion magic—stood near the edge of the old construction-site headquarters, a place that screamed DIY with slightly unhinged enthusiasm.
There was a fully functional gym built from welded scrap and proper equipment, a kitchen stocked with noodles and energy drinks, a workshop that looked one irresponsible afternoon away from constructing a rocket, a comfortable game area with a television and a NovaBox console, and an arcade corner containing an ancient Battle Crown II cabinet that everyone insisted occasionally blinked at them.
And, of course, the crown jewel:
The Fight Pit™.
Which was basically a sand-covered training area surrounded by barriers, lights, and an extremely optimistic interpretation of safety regulations.
Because these kids believed in vibes over insurance.
These guys weren't hardened criminals or future warlords. They were teenagers who screamed instead of talking, punched instead of texting, and possessed the emotional control of soda bottles that somebody had been shaking for ten straight minutes.
Honestly?
Ren felt right at home.
He might have grown up in the Veiled Moon Sect, where children learned combat techniques before most Earth kids were trusted to cross busy roads alone, but at his core he understood these people—lost, angry, desperate for recognition, and badly in need of somebody willing to say:
Hey, maybe don't get arrested today.
So yeah.
He wanted to help.
But first?
He needed to establish authority.
The former Predator members had accepted him, sure. He'd beaten Reina and her three strongest fighters—with only moderate property damage—and now they respected him.
Well…
Respected might be pushing it.
Their attitude was closer to:
"We think you're cool, but if all of us jump you at once, maybe we win."
That needed to change.
Especially with Hermes hanging around like a wealthy hyena in designer clothing, looking at everything as though Red Dawn were three successful quarters away from becoming an actual corporation. Ren liked the guy, but Hermes was shady with a capital suspicious.
If Ren wanted Red Dawn to remain something that actually helped people instead of slowly becoming a criminal organization with excellent bookkeeping, Kazuki needed to understand exactly what sort of leader he had chosen to support.
So Ren did what any reasonable teenager attempting to establish authority would do.
He flew.
Like, literally.
Ren soared over the five-story skeleton of the unfinished building like a caffeinated superhero in ordinary training clothes, his body wrapped in bright blue spiritual energy that shimmered around him like someone had taken the concept of dramatic entrances and weaponized it.
Then he dropped.
Hard.
He landed in the middle of the Fight Pit with the impact of a meteor, sending dust outward and cracking the ground beneath his feet. Several nearby arcade machines briefly appeared to reconsider their purpose in life, cats scattered in every direction, and one unfortunate guy stumbled backward directly into the noodle station.
Cue stunned silence.
Reina Tachibana was the first to speak, blinking at him like someone had just performed a superhero origin story directly in front of her.
"Wait…" She pointed at Ren. "Were you holding back yesterday when we fought, or did you just awaken some secret ultimate power this morning?"
Ren smirked as the glow around his body faded with all the dignity of the world's most unnecessary mic drop.
"Just this morning," he said with a shrug. "I was enlightened."
That did it.
Shōgo, the resident Berserker with an unhealthy appreciation for dangerous opponents and enough muscle to deserve his own postal code, broke into a huge grin. The guy practically bounced on his heels, his eyes lighting up like somebody had just unlocked the secret boss level.
Haruki and Hana, currently helping around the gym area, exchanged excited looks.
"Called it!" Hana whispered.
"He's been talking about unlocking supernatural stuff for weeks," Haruki said.
Hermes, for his part, raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow, stepped away from his bike, and began clapping slowly.
"I suppose this means I'm investing in a superhuman now."
Ren looked around at the group—fighters, weirdos, rebels, lonely kids, troublemakers, and teenagers simply trying to survive lives that had given them too much anger and nowhere useful to put it—and felt something unexpectedly warm settle inside his chest.
This wasn't just a gang anymore.
It was becoming a family.
A really loud, occasionally punch-happy, deeply chaotic family.
And now, they were his.