The Port Mafia grunts were nothing more than headless chickens before the boy.Guns barked, knives flashed, but nothing broke through the invisible pressure surrounding him. Bullets ricocheted away; blades twisted in their wielder's hands. One by one, they fell—slammed into the floor as if by the weight of the earth itself.
Chuuya Nakahara's small palm, still rounded with the softness of youth, hovered above the ground. Even at eight years old, his gravity could crush grown men flat.
When the last attacker was down, he straightened, red hair falling into his eyes. The satisfaction of victory lasted barely a heartbeat before he noticed the splintered furniture, the gaping hole in the floorboards.
…Ah. That wasn't supposed to happen.
His expression faltered. This wasn't the sterile, replaceable equipment of the lab — this was a home. Someone's home. His home, for now.
He crouched beside the damage, fingertips brushing the jagged edges as if he could smooth them back into place. But gravity couldn't knit wood together. With a quiet exhale, he gave up the attempt, padded to the porch, and sat.
The sunset bled orange over the rooftops. Chuuya hugged his knees, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the city skyline.
By the time the shadows stretched long and thin, footsteps approached — calm, unhurried.
Zhongli returned, both hands laden with shopping bags of all shapes and sizes. The funds provided by Tiaoye Caiju had been plentiful; inside were not only clothes but also a few educational toys clearly chosen with care. He walked with the steady rhythm of someone who weighed quality over haste, the contents of the bags softly knocking together.
From the porch, Chuuya spotted him instantly. His head lifted; the next moment, he was on his feet, closing the distance in hurried strides. When his boot caught on the edge of the porch, he stumbled—only to use gravity to propel himself the rest of the way in an awkward but determined float.
"Sir!"
He avoided the bags, instead wrapping small arms tightly around Zhongli's waist. The pure joy in his eyes was unguarded, almost startling.
Zhongli's lips curved faintly. "Your walking has improved. Even without me here, you've kept up your practice. Well done."
Chuuya forced a grin, the expression stiff but earnest. "Worked… hard."
"Have you reviewed your lessons on your own?"
"Yeah…"
They were nearly at the door when Zhongli's gaze caught the destroyed gate — and beyond it, a man in a suit sprawled atop a heap of groaning bodies.
Chuuya's steps faltered. His excitement cooled, replaced with a faint, guilty twist in his chest. He looked from the wrecked furniture back to Zhongli, fingers curling into the hem of the man's coat.
"…Sir…"
Zhongli didn't so much as blink at the sight. He had returned earlier than planned precisely because he'd anticipated the Port Mafia might make a move. Setting the bags aside, he rested a hand on Chuuya's head.
"Were you hurt?"
Chuuya shook his head. "…They were weak."
"That's good."
When it became clear Zhongli wasn't angry, Chuuya lifted his gaze, hesitating. "You're… not mad?"
"Why would I be?" Zhongli's tone was steady. "A house is only walls and a roof. What matters are the people inside it." His eyes softened, warm as amber in the fading light. "As far as I'm concerned, you being unharmed is enough."
Chuuya's mouth tightened. He dropped his eyes, muttering, "…I'll remember that."
After a moment, Zhongli retrieved his phone to call the authorities, answering their questions with patient formality as he manipulated the earth beneath the house. One by one, the groaning "corpses" in suits were pulled free of the floorboards and placed by the entrance.
Chuuya watched, a flicker of understanding in his expression. Tentatively, he grabbed the nearest man and tried to fling him out the door with gravity.
The body sailed — face-first — into the ground outside with a heavy thud. The man's half-conscious groan choked off into silence.
Zhongli ended the call, crouching beside him. "You need to control your output," he instructed, guiding Chuuya's wrist. "Think of your power like a river—steady flow, not a flood."
The boy listened intently, though the "teaching aids" suffered for it — flung like javelins or dragged along the ground until they joined the growing pile outside.
The last body was barely settled when Zhongli's gaze shifted toward the street. Several cars approached at speed.
Not police.
The first man out was broad-shouldered, his face a map of deep lines. Behind him, armed subordinates leveled guns at the pair on the porch.
The spike of killing intent made Chuuya's muscles coil. His pupils narrowed; his grip on Zhongli's coat tightened. Gravity answered his call—until a steady hand on his shoulder stilled him.
Across the way, the older man raised a hand to still his own subordinates.
The tension broke, if only slightly.
"I am Ōzawa, senior executive of the Port Mafia," the man said. "Am I speaking to Mr. Zhongli?"
"That's correct."
Ōzawa's eyes flicked to the heap of men in suits. His sigh was almost genuine. "I apologize. This was a personal vendetta by one of our captains, not sanctioned by the organization."
"Oh?"
The single syllable carried an edge sharp enough to make Ōzawa's mouth tighten. He pressed on. "The previous… misunderstandings were unfortunate. The Port Mafia holds no hostility toward you. In fact, if a talent like yours joined us, it would benefit both sides."
Zhongli regarded him in silence, long enough for unease to flicker in the man's eyes. Finally, he spoke. "Curious. Did you truly think that a sniper hidden at a distance would ensure your safety?"
Ōzawa froze. A sharp cry erupted from the communicator in his ear, cut short into static. His expression soured.
The ground rippled underfoot. In an instant, stone thorns erupted, poised at the vital points of every armed subordinate.
Ōzawa's voice dropped. "…So, you refuse reconciliation?"
"Mm. You do have a talent for twisting the truth," Zhongli said calmly. At his side, Chuuya's aura flared crimson.
Before either side moved, an aged voice crackled through Ōzawa's radio. "First time speaking, Mr. Zhongli. I am Jirō Hanamura, boss of the Port Mafia."
Zhongli's gaze lowered to the unremarkable device. "Your control needs refining, Hanamura."
"Mr. Zhongli is correct," Hanamura replied smoothly, then his tone sharpened. "Ōzawa. I told you to invite him. Is this your idea of hospitality?"
The man bowed deeply toward the radio. "My apologies."
"Return and accept your punishment."
"Yes."
Turning back to Zhongli, the old boss's voice regained its courteous veneer. "Even if you choose not to join us, the Mafia will always consider you an ally. Our doors remain open."
"Let me confirm," Zhongli said. "This is your contract with me as leader of the Port Mafia?"
Hanamura hesitated at the wording, but answered, "Yes. It is our agreement."
"Good." The crushing aura vanished, and the Mafia men exhaled relief. "Then I will consider the matter closed. I trust you will honor today's terms."
"Of course."
Within minutes, the Mafia cars were gone.
Inside the lead vehicle, Ōzawa broke the silence. "Boss… you're truly letting this go?"
"Of course not." Hanamura's voice was a low sneer. "That boy Zhongli's taken in — a gifted ability user, and we knew nothing. Spread the word in the black market. Someone will take interest."
Ōzawa's mouth twisted into a humorless smile. "Yes."
That evening, Zhongli sat peeling an apple at the table while Chuuya watched, gaze fixed on the fruit more than the lecture.
"If a man has no faith, he cannot stand," Zhongli said. "If you give your word, you must keep it. Remember this, Chuuya."
"…Got it," the boy murmured, though his eyes tracked the blade more than the lesson.
With the precision of a master craftsman, Zhongli sliced the apple into perfect segments and removed the core. He set the plate in front of Chuuya, a toothpick already in one piece.
"And if someone breaks a contract," Zhongli added, voice quiet but firm, "stone itself will punish them. That, too, you must never forget."