Chapter 9: "Magical Girl Radar Activated"
(Featuring one overly affectionate sister and one poor boy who doesn't know what's coming.)
If there was one thing Serafall Leviathan loved more than sparkles, magical girl transformations, and dramatic hand gestures, it was her adorable little sister.
Currently, Sona Shitori—student council president, strategic genius, and part-time long-suffering sibling—was being subjected to the most intense cuddle barrage the Underworld had ever known. Serafall had gone full koala mode, arms and legs latched on like she was trying to become a living backpack.
"Sister, please," Sona muttered, clearly using every ounce of willpower not to sigh. "I have three council meetings, two summoning contracts, and a debate with Sairaorg in the next five hours. I need to go."
"But So-tan," Serafall whined, nuzzling her cheek against Sona's like an affectionate marshmallow. "I'm running low on Sona-energy! Do you want me to collapse in the middle of my Magical Girl Leviathan episode?!"
Sona gave her a flat stare that could kill lesser beings. "Is this really about another anime?"
Serafall paused.
"Well… no. This time, it's about a boy."
"…Excuse me?"
"Not like that, So-tan! Geez, I'm not trying to seduce him. He's, like, twelve."
Sona narrowed her eyes. "Go on."
Serafall twirled in the air (after finally letting go of her sister) and pointed an elegant finger toward the ceiling like she was about to shout 'Transformation!'.
"I sensed something strange in the human world. A massive aura, just for a second—strong, ancient, and heavy, like the boss level of a JRPG dungeon. When I went to check it out, poof! Gone. And instead... I found him."
Sona raised a brow. "A child."
Serafall nodded, now perched upside down on the ceiling because, apparently, gravity was optional for magic nerds.
"Yep! Totally human. Average build, kinda scruffy, but his eyes? Not average. They've seen stuff, So-tan. Real stuff. I'm talking tragedy arc levels of emotional damage. But the weirdest part?"
"I'm afraid to ask."
"He wasn't broken. Not completely, anyway. Like… he'd been shattered, but glued back together with stubbornness and duct tape. There's something big about him. Something fated."
"Or," Sona deadpanned, "you were drawn in by your tragic anime boy obsession again."
Serafall gasped, clutching her chest like she'd been stabbed. "So-tan! I'll have you know that my anime radar is never wrong. And besides, I wasn't the only one who noticed. Something powerful was watching him. Something I didn't even want to poke with a magic stick."
That got Sona's attention. Her brows twitched in quiet concern.
"You're sure?"
Serafall flipped off the ceiling and landed with her usual magical twirl. "Sure as magical girl uniforms defying physics."
"And this boy… is he in Kuoh?"
"Not yet," she said, poking Sona's cheek. "But I have a feeling he'll end up here. Or maybe we'll end up near him. You know how fate works—always dramatic, rarely punctual."
Sona's eyes narrowed. She didn't believe in fate. She believed in data. But even she couldn't ignore Serafall's instincts when they flared like this.
"I'll look into it when I go next week."
"Yay!" Serafall cheered, sparkles practically popping around her. "And if he turns out to be evil, we can blast him with rainbows together!"
Sona sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
But secretly, deep in her pragmatic heart, she was curious too. A mysterious aura. A boy marked by tragedy. And a force even her sister feared.
Whoever this kid was, he might just be the newest variable in the already ridiculous equation that was her life.
And if Serafall was right?
Well… that meant trouble.
Which, in the world of devils, meant interesting.
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You know that awkward moment when you're eating breakfast, pretending to be a completely normal Japanese teenager… while secretly being a dimension-hopping ninja legend stuck inside said teen's body?
Yeah. That's been my life for the past week.
Now, to be fair, Issei's family was pretty great. His dad, Gorou, made killer miso soup, and his mom was always smiling, even though I knew I kept acting a little "off" for her precious pervy son.
Which brings us to today's breakfast—steamed rice, grilled fish, and the kind of nervous energy only a former shinobi-turned-teenage-martial-arts-newbie could produce.
I cleared my throat. "Father, I want to join a dojo and learn Karate."
I pulled out the colorful flyer I'd nabbed yesterday. It was bright, bold, and screaming 'BECOME STRONG!' like a video game pop-up. Totally my vibe.
Gorou paused mid-chew. His eyebrows did this little hop of surprise, like he couldn't believe Issei—yes, me—wanted to do anything more physical than flipping through a swimsuit catalog.
He wiped his hands and took the poster, examining it like it might bite him.
"Karate, huh? Well… it's nearby, so that's good." He looked at me—or, you know, Issei's face—with suspicion that was only half-joking. "You know, you've never really been the sporty type. Are you sure about this?"
I sat up straighter. Time to sell it like a boss. "I'm serious about it. I want to be a strong martial artist."
Which was true. But also, like... I really needed to train this body. I'd tried shadow boxing yesterday and pulled something in my shoulder. My shoulder, dattebayo! Not exactly future-Hokage material.
Gorou gave me a slow nod. "Alright. But here's the deal—you don't quit before a month is up. Even if you start hating it by day two, you finish that month. Got it?"
I nodded. "Got it."
In my head, I added: Unless I get pulled into a magical death tournament or the dojo turns out to be run by an evil ninja cult. You know. Normal stuff.
Across the table, his wife gave a small nod too, a soft smile on her face. I think she liked seeing this new determination. Maybe she thought Issei finally had a passion.
Gorou smiled too, shaking his head with the kind of look dads give when they're both proud and confused. "Alright then. Finish your rice and I'll take you there after we're done."
I grinned and shoveled more food into my mouth, trying not to look like a wild animal. That didn't go well.
Behind his smile, I could tell Gorou was wondering what in the world brought this change on.
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You know those moments when you walk into a place and instantly know: Yeah. I'm gonna get punched in the face here?
That was me, standing at the threshold of the Iron Defense Style Karate Dojo, feeling very small and very un-punched… for now.
It was only a thirty-minute jog from our place—ten if you let your dad drive and ignore speed limits—and it looked surprisingly normal from the outside. Like a regular building, no flaming dragons or spooky mist or ancient scrolls about forbidden techniques.
But inside?
Inside was another story.
The ka-POW! of fists slamming into pads, the rhythmic HUP! of disciplined breathing, the sound of people suffering through sit-ups in complete unison… It was oddly comforting. Like home.
The air was full of sweat and spirit. And pain. Don't forget pain.
Dad—I mean, Issei's dad, Gorou—walked beside me, arms folded as he took in the scene. He looked impressed, though he tried to hide it behind that classic "concerned parent" look.
Students were doing push-ups with their feet on each other's backs. A pair of burly dudes were sparring like they had a grudge dating back to preschool. One girl was repeating a front kick so fast I thought her leg was a blur.
And then there was him.
Gonzui Kumatori.
Master of Iron Defense Style Karate.
Wielder of Kabuki Face Paint and Fear.
He was over two meters tall (translation: tall enough to dunk me into the Earth's core), and so wide I wondered how doorways survived him. His hair was an explosion of gel and madness, like a samurai and a rock star had a very loud baby. And the face paint—kabuki-style with thick lines—made him look like he was always mid-battle cry.
I did not want to fight this man.
I also really, really wanted to fight this man.
Before I could ask if I was dreaming, the very mountain of a person thundered his way toward us. His smile was bright, which was impressive considering how many people probably peed themselves just looking at him.
"Hahaha! You got some spirit, boy! Of course you can start now!" Gonzui boomed, his voice somewhere between a lion's roar and a festival announcer.
Gorou blinked. "Well, that's settled then."
"Can I start now?" I asked again, not because I was being pushy (okay, maybe a little), but because I was staring at the sparring session like a hungry fox at a ramen buffet.
Gorou gave me a wary glance. "Issei, take care. I'll handle the paperwork. You walk home later, got it?"
"Thanks, Father!" I said with my best "I am totally your responsible son" voice, and gave a polite bow.
Inside, I was like YESSSSS, TRAINING ARC START! 🎉
He nodded once and headed out, leaving me alone in the lair of kabuki martial madness.
Gonzui clapped his huge hands together, the sound echoing like thunderclaps across the dojo.
"Well then, Issei, time to see what your guts are made of! This isn't just about looking cool and throwing punches—this is Iron Defense Style! You'll bleed, you'll sweat, you'll cry for your mother—"
I saluted like I'd seen in cartoons. "I've done all that before breakfast!"
He paused.
Then he laughed like I'd just told the best joke ever.
"Oh, I like you, brat! Let's begin!"
And so I entered the dojo.
Armed with courage.
Fueled by fruit juice.
"Will I learn from you?" I asked, locking eyes with Gonzui-sensei, channeling the purest energy I could muster: Respectfully intense teen who refuses to be intimidated by a wall of muscle and face paint.
For a second, I thought he'd laugh.
But instead, he tilted his head like a curious lion and gave me a once-over. His eyes weren't just seeing me—they were measuring me. Like he was peeling away layers of ego, experience, and childhood trauma just to find out what kind of soul was underneath.
"You've been in plenty of street fights," Gonzui said at last, voice low, gravelly, but not unkind. "But don't let that trick you into thinking you've learned the art of war."
I didn't flinch. I didn't puff my chest out either. Instead, I just nodded once and said, "Yes."
That earned a grin. One of those terrifying but satisfied grins. You know, the kind where you can't tell if someone wants to train you or eat you.
"Good. Forget your pride. Be humble. That's how you grow." He turned to his assistant, a lean man with a clipboard and the eternal deadpan face of someone who has seen too many people vomit during leg day. "Get him dressed."
"Follow me," said Deadpan-senpai, and I trailed after him into the changing room.
The gi was deep blue, fresh and stiff like it hadn't been used for anything more intense than light stretching. The white belt felt strange around my waist—kind of like a lie.
Not because I thought I deserved more.
But because I'd worn titles like Genin, Jinchūriki, Hokage's son... and now I was back to square one.
And weirdly, it felt good.
I stepped into the training hall with my new uniform, looking like a discount action figure version of myself. But I didn't care. Today was about starting from scratch.
Unfortunately, that meant being lumped in with literal toddlers.
"Feet shoulder-width apart!"
"Keep your hands up!"
"Don't look at the mirror—look straight!"
We practiced stances.
Then punches.
Then blocking.
Then stances again.
Then more blocking.
And then walking while punching—which sounds cooler than it is.
It was the same techniques I'd learned in the Academy as a kid, the same routines I'd repeated during training with Kakashi and Jiraiya.
But this time, I wasn't trying to win a fight.
I wasn't trying to show off.
I wasn't even trying to be faster.
I was just… learning.
Quietly. Focused. No yelling. No complaining. Just breathing and movement.
It was boring.
It was repetitive.
It was perfect.
The other kids were huffing and sweating, their tiny legs wobbling from all the squats and stances. I stayed with them, did everything at the same pace, followed the teacher's corrections without a single backtalk.
Three hours passed like molasses.
By the end, my arms were numb, my shirt clung to me like regret, and my knees wanted to secede from the rest of my body. The dojo didn't have a shower, so I just pulled on my hoodie over the sweaty gi and began the walk home.
The sun was lower in the sky, casting long shadows along the sidewalk. The street was quiet, peaceful, almost meditative. I smelled like overcooked effort and teenage pride, but I walked like I owned the road.
Not because I was strong.
But because I knew I was getting stronger.
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So there I was, sweaty and sore from my first day at Iron Defense Dojo, trudging home like a noble warrior (with mildly aching everything), when I decided to take a different route.
Bad idea? Definitely.
But also… kind of a great one.
The street I ended up on was way more crowded. There were food stalls, music playing from some old radio, and a group of old ladies gossiping like they were the final bosses of a local RPG. I passed noodle shops, some convenience stores, and an alley that probably led to a horror movie.
After a couple of wrong turns, a dead end, and—no joke—a very territorial cat, I ended up stumbling into that scene.
You know the one.
The classic "cool dudes with terrible fashion sense beating up a nerd" scenario.
Three teens. One victim.
One of the bullies had a mohawk that looked like it lost a fight with a weed whacker. Another had hair so curly it looked like he was trying to cosplay broccoli. And the third one? Big. Just… big. Like if a wardrobe grew arms and got into karate via YouTube tutorials.
The kid getting beat up had glasses, a bloody nose, and the expression of someone who seriously regretted choosing this street over literally any other.
Now, I'm not gonna say I'm a superhero.
But I am a shinobi.
And we don't just walk away from injustice… unless it's, like, really late and ramen is waiting. But this wasn't one of those days.
I jogged forward casually, like I wasn't about to drop-kick somebody's future.
Then I launched myself forward and—
THWACK!
Right boot to the Big Guy's butt.
Sent him crashing into a wall like a flying sofa.
The curly-haired one turned around just in time to meet my fist with his cheek.
Not gonna lie—it made a solid crunch noise.
"Get out of here!" I yelled, grabbing the bullied kid by the wrist and dragging him out of the danger zone like some kind of accidental action movie protagonist.
He didn't argue. Just ran like his life depended on it. (Smart move.)
Then, naturally, Big Guy decided to get back up and show me his "skills."
He came in with a straight punch that screamed, "I watched Karate Kid once and now I think I'm Daniel LaRusso."
I stepped to the side, batted his arm away, and gave him a good ol' chakra-free right hook to the nose.
"Gah, fuck. Who the fuck are you?!" he gasped, blood leaking like a bad faucet.
I didn't answer. (Because cool guys don't explain themselves mid-fight.)
Instead, I dodged the curly guy's wild swing, ducked low, and slammed my elbow into his stomach. He folded like origami.
Before he could recover, I spun behind him and locked him in a chokehold.
(Thank you, Iruka-sensei, for the lesson on surprise grapples. Who knew I'd use it here?)
"You guys seriously need better hobbies," I muttered. "Try knitting. Or birdwatching. Something that doesn't involve being massive tools."
Then I shoved Curly into Big Guy, gave him a kick for good measure, and dusted my hands off like it was chore day at the Uzumaki household.
That should have been the end of it.
But no.
"You shouldn't have messed with us!" Big Karate Wannabe shouted like a cartoon villain trying way too hard. "We're part of the Shadow Gang!"
…
Yup.
He actually said Shadow Gang.
I turned slowly, trying to keep a straight face. I really did.
"Cool name," I said, smiling like I wasn't judging every fiber of their existence. "Call them. I'll beat them up too."
Then I walked away before I could burst out laughing.
Because Shadow Gang? Really?
Somewhere behind me, the goons were groaning and spitting out bits of ego.
But I didn't care.
I had a destination. A goal. A path.
Also, I smelled like sweat and pride, and that combo wasn't gonna fix itself.
What I didn't realize was that someone else had been watching.
Not the noodle vendor.
Not the cat.