Mikami's small, secluded courtyard was bathed in the cool night breeze, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine. Perched on the rooftop, he gazed up at the star-dusted sky, a rare, unburdened sense of contentment washing over him. The air was crisp, pleasant. Unthinkingly, a tuneless, off-key hum escaped his lips, morphing into a full-throated, atrocious rendition of a half-remembered song.
"The vast horizon is my love~ The rolling green hills where the flowers bloom~ What kinda rhythm is the grooviest, swinging high and low~?"
His soaring—or more accurately, screeching—howl shattered the neighborhood's peace. Windows rattled. Somewhere, a dog began to howl in sympathetic agony. Yet, no one dared to complain. The memory of the power displayed earlier that day was too fresh, too terrifying. The neighbors could only suffer in silent, spiritually-crushed solidarity.
"I say, Mikami."
Ling'er's voice echoed in his mind. It was still ethereal, but it held a new quality—a faint tremor, a sliver of exasperation that edged it closer to something human.
"What is it?" Mikami grumbled inwardly, his musical trance broken. "I'd just remembered the lyrics for the twenty-eighth time, and now you've made me forget again! You better have a good reason, Ling'er, or I'll make this vessel of yours understand the wrath of a man whose artistic flow has been interrupted!"
He could almost feel a phantom vein throb on his forehead. Remembering anything twenty-eight times only to lose it was its own special kind of torture.
"That…" Ling'er's tone was uncharacteristically hesitant. She had been about to suggest he cease his auditory assault on the village, as the spiritual well-being of his neighbors was reaching critical levels. But, considering his current temperament… it wasn't worth the risk. "Never mind. How is your ninjutsu practice progressing? You will be deployed to the front within the week."
Mikami's mood shifted, the frivolity bleeding away into cool focus. "It's manageable. The so-called Kage-level figures won't make a move at the outset. And even if they do… who lives and who dies remains to be seen. My… permissions are different from Konoha's standard shinobi."
His eyes, reflecting the starlight, were clear and sharp. Most of the current Kage were old men—Ōnoki of Iwagakure, the Third Raikage, Hiruzen Sarutobi himself. Experience was one thing, but decline was another.
"On what basis do you place yourself apart?" Ling'er inquired, her voice light but probing. "Believing yourself to be a special existence seems rather presumptuous. What is the true source of your confidence against such enemies?"
"Because I have the Mangekyō, and the Pika Pika no Mi—" The words left his mouth automatically before he caught himself. He fell silent, thoughtful. The Mangekyō's power was immense, its potential abilities near-absolute, but its toll was dreadful. The powers of the Glint-Glint Fruit were devastating, yet they placed immense strain on the physical vessel.
"What are you implying, Ling'er?" he asked quietly. By now, he understood her nature—she rarely gave direct answers, preferring to guide him to the conclusions himself.
"The Pika Pika no Mi is among the most powerful of the Logia-type fruits. Its future potential is vast and can compensate for other shortcomings…" Ling'er's voice trailed off meaningfully.
A spark of insight ignited in Mikami's mind. "You mean… fusing its abilities with ninjutsu? Creating techniques that are fundamentally my own?"
Excitement, sharp and primal, surged through him. The idea was intoxicating.
"Fusion is not the issue," he murmured, his brow furrowing. "The problem is control. I can become light and manipulate it, but in terms of finesse and sustained mastery… I am still a novice." He had to admit it. A veteran user of such a power would have decades of refined control he currently lacked.
"Try before you speculate," Ling'er suggested simply.
As her voice faded, Mikami raised his hand. A point of golden light coalesced at his fingertip. It was warm, gentle, holding the pure, nurturing essence of sunlight.
He concentrated. Slowly, the orb of light expanded. Its warm halo began to shift, the gentle radiance intensifying into a blazing, violent brilliance that threatened to scorch the very air. Light was a profound element—it could heal, illuminate, or annihilate. Its versatility made its control a task of extreme delicacy.
"Bzzzt—"
The golden sphere in his palm began to vibrate violently, emitting a high-pitched whine. It had reached its limit. The light flared to an impossible peak—
BOOM!
The sphere detonated. A conflagration of pure, incinerating light engulfed Mikami completely. For several seconds, the courtyard was brighter than noon. When the glare subsided, a figure stood amidst swirling smoke.
Mikami stared down at himself. His clothes were singed, his skin darkened with soot. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a man who had just wrestled a blast furnace and lost.
"...I'll be damned," he cursed, his voice a mix of frustration and rueful amusement. Materializing and controlling light energy was far more perilous than chakra. With chakra, there were established pathways, known limits. This raw, elemental forging was like trying to sculpt with sunfire.
"Practice brings mastery. All things proceed step by step. There is no need to rush. You should rest for today," Ling'er's calming voice advised.
"It's fine. I don't feel tired at all," Mikami insisted, shaking his head. His eyes still burned with determined light. He didn't know if other users of such powers felt this way, but he had made a discovery: whenever he expended his light-based energy, simply basking in sunlight seemed to slowly replenish his strength. The process was passive, taking time, but it was constant.
"How peculiar. It's almost like I'm some kind of Ultra-" he mused aloud.
A soft, genuine chuckle resonated in his mind—a rare sound from Ling'er. "An Ultraman who doesn't need a Color Timer and has no intention of returning to the Land of Light? How convenient."