The violent discord of the battle had long since faded, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic ticking of a thousand gears. After leaving the dazed Utaha Kasumigaoka behind in the cooling night air, Rin Kuga moved through the labyrinthine streets with a predator's easy grace. He eventually stopped before a modest storefront.
The sign above the door read 9 to 5堂—the Kujigojido Watch Shop.
The bell chimed a lonely note as he stepped inside. It was a place of ghosts and brass, filled with the scent of machine oil and aged wood. Yet, unlike the history he remembered, there was no kindly old uncle waiting behind the counter to repair the world's broken clocks. This sanctuary was his alone.
Rin shed his school blazer, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair before collapsing onto the large bed at the back of the shop. He stared up at the ceiling, the silence of the room amplifying the whirlwind of his thoughts.
So, that really was Utaha Kasumigaoka.
The realization finally took root. Since waking up in this reality, he had been navigating a surreal tapestry of overlapping worlds. He had seen the headlines; he had even glimpsed a broadcast featuring the "Bunny Girl" sensation, Mai Sakurajima—an idol who lived in the dreams of millions. Yet, part of him had remained detached, treating the world like a vivid, high-definition simulation.
Tonight, however, the metallic tang of Amazon blood and the feel of Utaha's presence had shattered that detachment. This was no simulation. It was a volatile fusion of universes.
And it was dangerous. This world harbored "Monsters"—entities that rendered modern human weaponry obsolete.
Fortunately, the cosmic irony of his arrival had come with a gift. Like the protagonists of the webnovels he once read, a "Singularity Interface" had flickered to life the moment he arrived. It had bestowed upon him the ultimate prize: the Ohma Zi-O Driver. Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the system had vanished, leaving him with the power of a god and no further instructions.
Rin let out a dry, short laugh. Most would be terrified to be left stranded by their benefactor, but he was different. As a connoisseur of the Tokusatsu arts, he knew exactly what he held. The Ohma Zi-O power wasn't just a weapon; it was the apex. It was the convergence of every Heisei Rider's history, a crown of absolute causality. There was a fundamental law to this power: no matter how strong the enemy, Ohma Zi-O would always stand a tier above them.
He reached into the void of his sub-space and pulled out the Driver. The gold was heavy, opulent, and radiated a faint, sovereign warmth. He turned it over in his hands, admiring the intricate clockwork design.
"That fight was... underwhelming," he murmured to the empty room. "Then again, is there anyone in this entire multiverse who can truly stand toe-to-toe with the King of Time?"
He sighed, the thrill of his first Henshin already fading into a dull ennui. The power was too absolute. There was no struggle, no "clash of wills." He hadn't experienced the burning passion of a Kamen Rider; he had simply performed a divine execution.
On the other side of the city, Utaha Kasumigaoka limped into her apartment, her breath still hitching from the night's ordeal. She collapsed onto her bed, the expensive silk sheets a sharp contrast to the gritty asphalt she had been pressed against moments before.
"A chubby girl..." she whispered into the dark, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with a burgeoning, incandescent rage. "Hmph. That is a first. In my entire life, no one has ever dared to describe me like that."
Aside from her sharp wit and her literary acclaim, Utaha's physique was her most silent, lethal weapon. She was well aware of her silhouette; the joke among her peers was that she couldn't see her own high heels when she looked down. Her curves were a masterpiece of proportion, a siren's call that most men couldn't help but answer with stuttering breath and wandering eyes.
Yet, that man—that golden shadow—had dismissed her as if she were a bloated nuisance.
The insult ignited a fierce, competitive fire in her chest. She didn't just want to thank him; she wanted to destroy his composure. She wanted to see that arrogant, calm voice break as he realized exactly what kind of woman he had insulted. She would make him crawl to her. She would make him retract every syllable of that "chubby" remark.
"I didn't see your face," she muttered, her fingers tightening around her pillow as she recalled the dark-gold armor and the chilling resonance of his voice. "But you were wearing a school uniform. Our school uniform. I'd recognize that cut and that voice anywhere."
She bared her teeth in a smile that was both terrifying and breathtakingly beautiful.
"Just you wait, little King," she hissed, her silver eyes shimmering with a predatory intent of her own. "The next time we meet, the game begins."