Myths with a grain of rice

The walk back to the twins' home was a chaotic mess of Andimi trying to get the adults to listen to him and Orwen telling him to shut up. Dazai found himself enjoying the view. Andimi skipped ahead, his voice a constant, high-pitched stream of words about the "gold boat" and the "tomato-man," while Orwen trailed slightly behind.

Dazai noted the way Orwen’s hand never left Andimi’s. It wasn't just a gesture of comfort; it was a grip—tight, possessive, and unwavering. Orwen’s eyes darted toward the treeline every few seconds, his posture rigid, as if he were the only thing standing between his brother and a world that wanted to swallow him whole. Dazai smiled to himself. The level of codependency was exquisite.

Their house was a weathered, salt-sprayed cottage that looked as though it were being held together by sheer willpower and a few layers of peeling white paint. As they stepped inside, Dazai’s mind immediately began cataloging the interior. It was a hoard. Stacks of yellowed newspapers, bundles of dried herbs, and piles of mismatched fabrics cluttered every available surface. It was a fire hazard's dream, and the air smelled of brine and old dust.

As they settled in, the truth emerged not through a confession, but through the quiet gaps in the boys' conversation. Dazai watched Orwen meticulously arrange a few meager belongings for their guests, noting the absence of any adult presence. There were no photos of parents on the walls—only a single, faded sketch of two adults tucked away in a drawer, half-hidden by a stack of brass coins.

Orphans, Dazai concluded. Completely alone on a rock in the middle of the ocean.

He leaned against a cluttered table, watching the twins. He felt a flicker of something—not pity, for Dazai didn't do pity well—but a profound sense of amusement. These two were a fascinating study, two kids somehow surviving with no sort of support or guidance. He decided, right then, that he wasn't finished with them. They were far too interesting to leave behind; they were like a puzzle he wanted to see unfold.

Beside him, Chuuya was unusually quiet. He stared at the boys, his expression unreadable, but the aggressive tension in his shoulders had vanished. Dazai knew that look. Chuuya had always been a sucker for the discarded—a remnant of the street rat he had once been. He wouldn't admit it, and he’d probably kick Dazai in the ribs if he brought it up, but the sight of two thirteen-year-olds surviving on brass coins and sheer desperation had triggered that stubborn, protective streak of his.

"Right," Chuuya cleared his throat, his voice returning to its usual abrasive volume. "What's for dinner?"

"Stew!" Andimi cheered, leaping toward the hearth. "And bread! Orwen makes da best stuff in da whole world!" Dazai watched as the "kitchen"—which was essentially just a large stone hearth with an open fire—became the center of operations. Andimi began "helping" by tossing handfuls of random, unidentified herbs into a pot of simmering water, while Orwen tried to reheat some stale bread over the flames. Dazai’s eyes wandered to the surroundings. Dry paper, old curtains, and several gallons of lamp oil sitting precariously close to the heat. He could almost smell the smoke already.

"Are you kidding me?" Chuuya barked, stepping forward. "You're cooking over an open flame in a room that's basically a giant matchbox! Move over, you idiots, before you burn the whole island down!"

Chuuya shoved his way into the cooking space, his movements efficient and commanding. He began moving the flammables away from the fire, his voice a constant stream of corrections. "Andimi, stop putting those weeds in the pot! Orwen, don't hold the bread directly in the fire, you're just charring the outside!"

Andimi pouted, leaning his head on Orwen’s shoulder. "But da weeds make it taste like da forest!"

"It makes it taste like dirt!" Chuuya snapped, though Dazai noticed he gently nudged Andimi aside to stir the pot. Seeing Chuuya actually attempting to be helpful was far too boring for Dazai's taste. He drifted over, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Oh, Chuuya, you're being so strict. I think the stew needs a little… flair." Before Chuuya could react, Dazai reached over and dumped a generous amount of an unidentified powder from a nearby jar into the pot.

"What was that?!" Chuuya yelled, spinning around.

"I don't know! It looked spicy!" Dazai chirped, his expression one of fake innocence. Orwen started screeching incoherent words and Andimi just shrugged.

"You moron! You'll ruin it!" Chuuya lunged for the pot, but in his haste, he bumped into Andimi, who was trying to "help" by adding more water. The pot tilted, splashing hot liquid across the hearth, which immediately ignited a small pile of old newspapers.

"FIRE!" Andimi screamed, though he sounded more excited than scared.

"GET BACK!" Orwen yelled, instinctively throwing himself in front of Andimi to shield him from the sparks, his arms wrapping around his brother with a sudden, fierce intensity.

Chaos erupted. Chuuya was frantically stomping out the fire with his boots, Dazai was laughing hysterically while trying to "help" by throwing a wet rag on the flames—which only succeeded in hitting Chuuya square in the face—and the twins were caught in the middle, a whirlwind of white hair and shouting.

Andimi was cheering, Orwen was panicking, and Chuuya was screaming every curse word in the book. Dazai found the entire scene delightful; it was the most life he'd felt in weeks.

When the smoke finally cleared and the fire was extinguished, the four of them stood in a panting, soot-covered circle. The kitchen was a disaster; the curtains were singed, the floor was damp, and Dazai had somehow managed to get flour in his hair.

Slowly, Chuuya looked down at the pot.

Despite the splashing, the mysterious powder, and the near-arson, the stew was still simmering. He dipped a spoon in and tasted it. His eyes widened. "It's… actually good?"

"I told ya da weeds worked!" Andimi beamed, clutching Orwen’s arm.

Dazai grinned, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. "See, Chuuya? My 'flair' was the missing ingredient."

"Shut up, Dazai," Chuuya muttered, but he didn't move to kick him. Instead, he reached over and handed a piece of slightly charred bread to Orwen. "Eat up, brats. Tomorrow, we're cleaning this death trap of a house."

They moved to a small wooden table that was clearly made for the twins, but they managed to cram around it. The air was still thick with the scent of singed curtains and smoky broth, but the tension had shifted from the frantic energy of a fight to the calming feeling of a meal. Dazai leaned back in a chair that creaked ominously under his weight, watching the twins. Andimi was vibrating in his seat, eating with a gusto that suggested he hadn't had a proper meal in days. Between mouthfuls of stew, he began to chatter, his voice filling the small room.

"It's so great ta finally have guests!" Andimi exclaimed, waving a piece of charred bread for emphasis. "Usually, da only people who come over are da ones trying to sell us things we don't want, or Zula!" Chuuya, who was currently trying to figure out how to eat stew without getting it on his pristine clothes, paused. "Zula? Who the hell is Zula?"

Andimi beamed, a look of genuine pride crossing his face. "She's a friend! She lives up in da richer part of town—da section with da big houses and the gardens dat actually have flowers in them. She brings me books sometimes, and she knows all da best places to find sea glass!"

"A friend, huh?" Dazai murmured, his eyes twinkling. A small smirk slid onto Orwens face as he said, “His crush.”

Everything stopped for a moment, the only sounds coming from the creaking of the floor. Andimi froze, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. Slowly, a deep crimson began to spread across his pale cheeks. He froze up, his energy from before evaporating. He simply stared at his brother with an expression of utter betrayal, his mouth hanging open.

"Orwen!" Andimi finally shrieked, his voice cracking. “Why would ya—? Shut up! Just—shut up!" He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, though whether from embarrassment or a desire to scream, Dazai couldn't tell.

Chuuya let out a short, barking laugh. "Hah! Looks like the little brat's got a crush. Who knew?"

Dazai laughed along, but slowly stopped. His gaze drifted away from the table. He looked at the peeling wallpaper, the holes in the floorboards that had been haphazardly covered with rags, and the whole state of the cottage.

Then, he thought about the "uptown section" Andimi had mentioned. This wasn't a hidden sanctuary. The house was visible from the main path; it wasn't tucked away in some secret valley. It was right there, on the edge of a town that had a "richer section" with gardens and books. Dazai’s mind began to piece together the silence of the island. Two albino children, orphaned young, living in a fire-trap of a house, surviving on scavenged brass and "weeds," yet they spoke of the town as if it were a place they merely visited, not a place they belonged to.

The town was just as bad as the underworld in Yokohama, the specific kind of cruelty in that—not the loud, violent kind that Chuuya fought against, but a quiet, systemic neglect. The town had looked at these two strange, pale boys and decided they simply didn't exist, leaving them to rot in a salt-sprayed shack while the "uptown" people tended to their gardens.

Dazai looked back at Andimi, who was still trying to hide his face, and at Orwen, who was calmly eating his stew, completely unfazed by the chaos he'd caused.

“I like these two! Can we keep them?” Dazai turned back to Chuuya and stared at him with best puppy dog eyes he could make.

Chuuya’s face turned an interesting shade of red as he shoved Dazai’s face away with a palm to the forehead. "We are not 'keeping' them, mackerel! They're children, not stray cats!"

"Such a lack of generosity, Chuuya. Truly tragic," Dazai sighed. Chuuya groaned, glancing at the twins. "Whatever. We can't stay on a porch. We need a real roof and a way to figure out how the hell we're getting off this rock. Come on. Let's go into town and find a place to crash."

The town was a quaint, salt-crusted little place that felt as though it had been forgotten by time itself. As they walked, Dazai kept a careful distance, though he found himself instinctively stepping to the side to block a sudden gust of wind and salt spray from hitting Chuuya’s hat. Chuuya didn't thank him. He didn't even look at him. He just shifted his shoulder away, his voice a low growl. "I can handle a breeze, Dazai. Stop hovering."

"My, my, so aggressive," Dazai hummed, though he noted how Chuuya’s steps matched his own, an old habit they never broke. They found a motel that looked like it was being held together by little more than habit and rust. The lobby smelled of damp wool and old tobacco, a scent Dazai found appropriately depressing. Chuuya stepped up to the counter, leaning on it with a tired sigh. "Two rooms. For the night. How much?"

The clerk, a man whose skin resembled a piece of moldy jerky, didn't even look up from his ledger. "Five coins per night." Dazai tilted his head. Coins? How quaint. Chuuya reached into his pocket and slid a crisp stack of Japanese Yen across the counter. "Right. Whatever. Here."

The clerk stopped writing. He looked at the colorful paper, then at Chuuya, then back at the paper. He didn't take it. Instead, he poked one of the bills with a calloused finger.

"What is this?" the man asked.

"Money," Chuuya snapped. "Yen. You know, the currency of the country that actually has a functioning economy?" The clerk pushed the bills back with a look of utter confusion.

"I don't know what a 'Yen' is, son. This is paper. I can't buy bread with paper. I take brass. Coins. Real metal."

Dazai froze for a split second before the absurdity hit him. He looked at Chuuya—whose face was a mask of pure, bewildered shock. It was a look Dazai had seen a thousand times over the years: the moment Chuuya realized he had been completely outplayed by something he couldn't punch. Dazai collapsed with laughter. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, his laughter coming in silent, shaking gasps. He pointed a finger at Chuuya’s face, his eyes watering.

“Oh, this is perfect! The great Port Mafia executive, defeated by a piece of brass! I can still hear the sound of your pride shattering from here, Chuuya!"

"Shut up! Just shut the hell up!" Chuuya roared, a dangerous red glow beginning to flicker around his shoulders. "Who the hell uses brass coins in this day and age?!" By the time they trudged back toward the twins, Chuuya was in a state of near-catatonic rage, muttering about "backwater islands" and "useless mackerels." As they approached, Orwen looked at Chuuya’s face and immediately sighed. He didn't even have to ask. "You didn't have the right money, did you?"

Chuuya stopped dead. "How did you—"

"Everyone in town uses the brass," Orwen explained, his voice sounding far too tired for someone his age.

"Then ya can stay with us!" Andimi shouted, practically vibrating with excitement. He stepped forward, his eyes wide and welcoming. "Our house is way better than a motel anyway! I can show ya my rock collection! And da attic! And—"

"No," Orwen interrupted sharply, stepping in front of his brother. He looked at them—at Chuuya’s simmering anger and Dazai’s amused curiosity—with a protective, wary gaze. "We can't just invite strangers into our home, Andimi. We don't know who they are."

Andimi stopped mid-sentence, his posture snapping straight. He didn't argue or pout; he simply stepped back, his eyes fixed on Orwen, waiting.

Dazai gave Orwen a small, enigmatic smile. Orwen saw the exhaustion in Chuuya's posture and the sheer absurdity of their situation.

Orwen sighed, his shoulders dropping. "Fine. Just for tonight. But if anything breaks, Andimi is the one fixing it.”

“YAY!” Andimi cheered, his face lighting up instantly. He grabbed Chuuya’s sleeve and tried to pull him toward their house. "Come on! Hurry up!"

As he pulled Chuuya away, Andimi cast a quick, searching glance back at Orwen, as if checking to make sure the permission still held.

Chuuya looked down at the small hand on his arm, then up at the twins. He let out a long, suffering groan.

"Fine. But if there are any bugs in the bed, I'm blowing up the house."

"I'll make sure to put da bugs in Dazai's bed then!" Andimi yelled, already sprinting ahead. Dazai followed behind, humming a little tune. He knew exactly how much Chuuya hated bugs—a detail he had spent years using to his advantage.

After a couple minutes, both of them realized that this wasn’t an interview. It was Andimi shoving a notebook and questions in their faces, not giving them any time to answer.

“Hey, back off for a moment! We’re not gonna answer anything if you don’t give us time!” Chuuya finally snapped at the kid, causing him to cross his arms and pout. 

“Ugh, ya're just as grumpy as my brother! He's always telling me to 'be patient' or 'don't hit people with charcoal sticks.' He's so boring!”

Dazai’s eyes lit up instantly. He leaned in, fascinated as if  the boy had just revealed a government secret.

“A brother, how interesting! Tell my Andimi-kun, is this brother of yours the ‘straight man’ to your passion? The exhausted guardian that spends his days sighing and restraining you from your true self?” Andimi nodded excitedly, frantically scribbling down notes.. 

“Oh I can see it now… the sheer suffering of a responsible sibling. It’s absolutely poetic! I must meet him. I want to see the exact moment his spirit breaks when you do something reckless.” Dazai baited the child while figuring this as the perfect chance to get more information. 

It was his mission after all.

Chuuya stopped choking Dazai for a moment as his expression turned from anger to profound sympathy. He looked at Andimi, then looked off into the distance, probably imagining the brother’s pain.

“Tch, poor bastard. I feel sorry for him. Dealing with a brat who uses force to get what he wants is a nightmare. Does he have a support group? Does he get paid for this? Because if I had to deal with a tiny albino Dazai– which is basically what you are– all my life, I’d have jumped off a building years ago.” Chuuya reached for a coat that wasn’t there then winced when his hand closed on nothing.

“Me? I’m not a nightmare, I’m a journalist! And my brother isn’t boring, he’s just slow!” Dazai smirked at the kid’s comment, then continued baiting him. 

“Slow, you say? Perfect. If he's the slow, responsible type, he'll be the perfect target for a prank. Imagine it, Andimi! We could coordinate a massive, city-wide distraction, and your brother will be the only one trying to follow the rules while we rewrite them! We could call it 'The Sibling Sabotage Project.' Are you in?” Andimi frantically took notes as Dazai performed, hanging onto every word. Chuuya slammed a hand on Dazai’s shoulder before he could continue. 

“Stop recruiting the kid into your madness, you overgrown coat hanger. And you– brat– go home and apologize to your brother. Anyone who puts up with your ‘little kid’ personality deserves a medal and a very long nap.” He pointed to Andimi, who was already distracted sketching an image of Chuuya choking Dazai. He looked up, tapping his pencil against his chin.

“Maybe… if he gives me his dessert for a week. Or if he does all my chores for a week,” the albino boy said thoughtfully. Dazai’s smirk grew wider as Chuuya sighed and said, “See? Absolute nightmare. I'm praying for that kid's sanity.”

“Say Andimi, what’re you doing in the forest in the first place? Were you pursuing your dreams of chaos and power?” Andimi froze up, then frantically flipped through his notebook.

“Ah FIDDLESTICKS! I was supposed to chop da wood!” He started panicking as Dazai thought about what he just said. Chop wood? And with what?

The albino boy frantically ran off, forcing Dazai and Chuuya to chase after him. They found him in a small clearing, where he ‘chops wood.’ Which actually was a game of ‘how many times can a beat a log before I get bored.’ 

“Done!” He pointed to a pile of sticks. Chuuya gawked at it with his jaw open like a dying fish as he said, “That’s it? You call that done? You didn’t even split the logs, you just bruised them! And what do you even need logs for? Don’t you have power or something?” He tried to clean his expensive hat, grumpily putting it back on his head when he couldn't. 

“I did it! It’s a lot of wood! Ya’re just a mean hat-man!” Andimi’s face scrunched up into a very cartoon-y pout. 

Dazai chuckled and leaned down to the boy’s level. “I dunno, I think the ‘bruised log’ technique is a bold new statement in forestry.” Andimi giddily laughed and picked up the sticks. He then proceeded to drag the Dazai and Chuuya by their sleeves, treating the two dangerous strangers like new toys he just found. 

Dazai marveled at the boy’s bravery, or stupidity. He had clearly seen their powers worked, or at least Chuuya’s. There was no way the boy wasn’t at least a little cautious of them. 

“Come on! I’ll ya to my house!” Apparently not.

He took them down a winding dirt path to a small modest cottage sitting on the outskirts of a town. There were no power lines, barely even a generator. 

As they approached the house, the front door flew open. A carbon copy of Andimi stood there, only in blue instead of red. He had the same chaotic energy as Andimi, but instead of his twin’s I’ll-do-whatever-the-fuck-I-want energy, he had a stop-doing-whatever-the fuck-you-want energy. He looked like he’d been pacing in an anxiety high for the last hour. 

His eyes widened when he saw the trio. He ran up to Andimi and grabbed him, shaking him by the shoulders as he squawked out, “Andimi! Oh my goodness, where’ve you been!  I’ve been checking the clock every thirty seconds! I had the extra mask and everything already packed just in case the town factory had another gas leak in the valley!” He had a slight accent in his voice, almost British but not quite.

Andimi was grinning, completely ignoring his brother’s panic. 

“It’s fine Orwen, also! I met weirdos! And I did da wood!” He shoved the pile of sticks into Orwen's hands. Orwen made a small strangled noise of distress as he stared at the meager pile. 

“Is…  that it? Andimi, we need actual logs for the stove! We can’t burn toothpicks! At this rate, we’re all gonna be popsicles by November!” Andimi crossed his arms and stuck his tongue out. 

“I’m a journalist! I don’t have time for logs!” Orwen screeched at Andimi for a couple more minutes until he finally noticed them. He let out a small dramatic gasp, stepped back and nearly tripped over his feet.

“Strangers? You brought strangers to the house?! Andimi, I thought you learned your lesson! You can’t just collect people like charcoal sticks! It’s dangerous! It’s improper! It’s… it’s completely against the house rules!” Orwen grabbed Andimi by the shoulders and shook him for a lot longer, forgetting the two adults again.

“Kid, I feel you. I spent my whole life trying to keep an idiot from killing himself daily. You’ve got my full support,” Chuuya said. Dazai watched as he pat the kid’s head with a look of sympathy. Orwen just sighed and reached out for a handshake. Dazai grabbed his hand and said, “Hello! I'm Dazai, a professional nuisance. And this is Chuuya, a very loud hat-lover. We've been adopted by your brother for the afternoon. By the way, your house has a very charming 'isolated-from-civilization' aesthetic. Does it have a sturdy beam in the attic? I'm just curious for… research” Orwen stared at Dazai for a couple moments, looking in what could be facsination or confusion.

“I’m Orwen Hollen. Twin brother of Andimi, who you’ve clearly met. I plan to move to the bigger cities and become a lawyer to make people’s lives difficult. I think we’ll get along famously Mr. Dazai.” He grinned a little too widely at the last two parts. They shook hands for a bit too long, a slight gleam of excitement in Orwen’s eyes.

Chuuya sighed and rubbed his temples. “Welp, they’re bonding. Why is it always the weird ones that bond?” Andimi just shrugged, already busy with causing more chaos. Orwen looked over and immediately returned to his frantic tone from earlier. “Andimi! Stop this instant! You’re ruining the porch! And go finish the wood before I tell everyone about Zula!” Andimi jerked his head up and gasped, “DON’T YA DARE!”

double update, wow.

It whistled through the air, a streak of orange light cutting through the purple and gold haze of the forest. The charcoal slammed directly into the center of the tree's armored trunk.

The obsidian bark, which had shrugged off Chuuya’s gravity-enhanced punches, it shriveled up into a twig. A violent hiss of steam erupted as the intense heat melted the metallic fibers, and the fire spread with unnatural speed, leaping across the trunk like a hungry animal. The tree let out a sound that wasn't a groan this time, but a piercing, high-pitched shriek that made Dazai wince.

The flames raced up the canopy, turning the flower-cannons into torches. The thing shuddered, its roots losing their grip on the earth, and it began to collapse inward, the armored wood turning to ash before it even hit the ground. As the last of the embers flickered out, leaving a blackened skeleton of a tree in the dirt, the boy stood up and dusted the colorful powder off his knees. He turned his head, glancing at the two stunned men.

“What da heck were you doing? Don’t ya know dat Treesens and can only be killed with fire?” The boy turned to face Dazai. He had white hair like Atushi, but instead of the diagonal cut the tiger boy had, his hair was messier and he didn’t have a black streak. His eyes were pale blue and he wore red overalls with a black t-shirt inside, just like a cartoon character. 

“Hey! Answer me ya idiots! Why’re ya here? Don’t ya know dis part of da forest is dangerous? Ya ain’t from town; nobody dresses like dat. Are ya from the mainland? Dat would explain a lot.” The boy peppered the duo with questions while guiding them through the forest. 

“First of all, slow down. Second, what’s your name?” Chuuya managed to squeeze in between the boy’s rambling. The boy stopped and said, “My name’s Andimi Hollen! Future journalist and Whaddabout you?” 

Dazai dropped to Andimi's level, then said, “I am a professional wanderer and a connoisseur of beautiful naps. You can call me Dazai. And as for my secret identity…” He leaned in and whispered, "…I’m actually a wizard who specializes in making paperwork disappear!”

Andimi’s eyes lit up, clearly taking the bait. Chuuya rolled his eyes as he caught his breath.

“Tch. Don’t listen to him, kid. He’s not a wizard, he’s just a nuisance. I’m Chuuya. Now where are your parents?”

“Why’s yer hat so small? Did ya find it in a dollhouse?” Andimi pointed at Chuuya, ignoring his question. Dazai clutched his stomach and laughed in genuine maniacal joy. 

“DOLLHOUSE! AHAHA! Oh, I like this kid! They have a lethal tongue! Chuuya, did you hear that? Even the youth of today recognize your 'miniature' aesthetic!” Chuuya’s face turned a shade of red that rivaled his hair and lunged for Dazai, the faint glow of gravity manipulation flickered around his hands. 

“SHUT UP! IT'S A PERFECTLY NORMAL HAT! AND YOU—" He points a finger at the kid, though he's more flustered than actually angry. "—it's a high-end piece! You wouldn't know style if it hit you in the face!”  

“Ya’ll are really loud. Do ya hobos argue like dat on da daily?” Chuuya stares at the kid, then says, “Hobo— Do you know who I am?!” Andimi shakes his head and shrugs in a no. 

Dazai wipes a tear from his eye, a sign of genuine kinship. “Ignore him. He's just sensitive about his height. Tell me, young one, do you have any interest in the philosophy of chaos? Because I think you have a natural talent for it. We could start your training immediately by helping me prank this angry little hat-man.” Andimi immediately perks up, asking, “REALLY!”

Dazai nodded, much to the child’s excitement.

“Can I ask ya a couple questions? Dis is a perfect chance since I already interviewed everyone in town!” Andimi pulled out a notebook and a charcoal pencil. 

It was lush and green, evergreens and flowers growing everywhere. The wind blew through Dazai’s hair, carrying the distant sounds of civilization. They kept walking for a while when he noticed something. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a rotting tree stump. Which wasn’t much of a problem, until he remembered that he saw the same tree stump about five minutes ago. 

“What the hell? We’re going in circles aren’t we.” Chuuya suddenly stopped, causing the Dazai to suddenly bump into him. “Watch where you’re going. Idiot,” the red-head muttered. 

“Oh sorry, I couldn’t see past you, which is impressive considering how short you are.” Dazai glared at him as he turned back and put his hands on his hips.

“Well excuse you–” Chuuya cuts off as the tree stump makes a loud crack. Both heads turned as the insignificant stump turned into a very significant problem. In the form of a giant zombie tree. 

The trunk had grown to be taller than all the surrounding trees, its roots growing large thorns and strange flower-like buds on the ends. 

Chuuya immediately rushes at it, a faint red aura of his ability surrounding him. He kicks it hard in the trunk, crushing the wood into splinters and snapping it in half.

He landed on the ground and brushed off his cloak. He turned to continue on his way when a root shot out and tore his black jacket in half. Chuuya’s eyes widened as he turned around. 

The now broken trunk righted itself up, the fibers twisted together and the bark grew back, looking harder than before. It shot out the thorny roots towards the two, both of them deftly jumping out of contact.

“Goddamit,” Chuuya growled before going to punch the tree again. Same result again, the tree just binding back together and continued to attack the two. 

“My turn now.” Dazai said. He grabbed one of the roots, grasping for the connection between the user and their ability. His ability closed around nothing, not even a trace of connection. He let go and jumped back before the roots could grab him. 

“Well?! Did that do anything you waste of bandages?!” Chuuya screamed at the detective from across the battlefield.

“Nope! None at all!” Dazai merrily replied, shoving down the panic and confusion. Chuuya rolled his eyes and continued punching the tree. 

Before he could land a hit in, one of the flowers opened up to reveal a machine gun-like structure. It fired with a rat-a-tat-a-tat sound effect, spreading strange airborne seeds everywhere. Every time a seed hit the ground, it would explode in a flurry of colorful powder. 

Dazai decided that he wouldn’t be keen to get hit by the powders. 

He dove behind a thicket of ferns just as the first volley of seeds slammed into the dirt. Each one erupted in a spray of neon pink and electric blue powder, turning the forest floor into a colorful wasteland. The clouds of dust hung heavy in the air, shimmering with an unnatural luminescence that made the sunlight look sickly.

"Get out of the way, you bandage-wasting idiot!" Chuuya screamed, his voice barely audible over the mechanical chatter of the tree's floral cannons. Chuuya didn't dive for cover. Instead, he launched himself into the air, a streak of crimson light. He spiraled upward, his gravity manipulation turning him into a human bullet. He slammed into the canopy of the zombie tree with a force that should have leveled a building, the shockwave clearing a circle of powder around them.

But as Chuuya descended, his expression shifted from triumph to sheer disbelief. The wood he had just pulverized didn't just grow back—it changed. The splinters knit together like living muscle, the bark thickening into a metallic, obsidian sheen that looked more like armor than plant matter.

Dazai watched from the ferns, his eyes narrowed. He wasn't looking at the destruction; he was looking at the way it happened. A cold prickle of genuine unease settled in his gut. When he had touched that root, there had been no cord connecting and ability to its user. It wasn't that the ability was strong; it was that there was nothing to nullify. 

"It's not an ability, Chuuya!" Dazai shouted, though he kept his voice light, masking the flicker of panic. "You're just polishing the bark!"

"Shut up and help me!" Chuuya roared. He landed in a crouch, the ground cracking beneath his boots. He lunged forward, his fist glowing with a concentrated red aura, aiming for the trunk.

The tree reacted in a blink. One of the flower-pods turned, tracking Chuuya’s movement with like a gun. It didn't fire seeds, instead, it let out a blast of the colorful powder directly at him. Chuuya pivoted, twisting his body in mid-air to avoid the direct hit, but the explosion was too wide. A cloud of shimmering gold dust engulfed him, and for a split second, the gravity around him flickered. He stumbled, his footing momentarily unstable as the powder seemed to interfere with his connection to the earth.

"Now's the time to run, Chuuya!" Dazai called out, though he didn't move. He was too busy calculating the trajectory of the next volley.

The tree let out a low, guttural groan that sounded like a mountain splitting in half. The massive trunk began to lean, its thorny roots ripping through the soil, tossing boulders and dirt into the air. Both of them immediately knew that it would be bad

Chuuya recovered his balance, his face contorted in a snarl. He stepped forward, his fist pulled back, the air around him humming with a violent, crushing pressure. He was a fraction of a second away from launching himself into the plant.

“MOVE YA IDIOTS!”

Dazai’s head shot up. A blur of color and limbs was falling sky, straight into the Chuuya’s hit space. Without thinking, Dazai’s hand shot out, gripping Chuuya’s ponytail with a sudden, violent yank. The redhead screeched as he was jerked backward. His punch missed the boy’s face by an inch, flying through empty air instead. 

The boy hit the ground with a heavy thud, rolling through the neon powder and springing up in a crouched position. He didn't look terrified; instead, he had an expression of pure annoyance.

Before Chuuya could even scramble to his feet to scream at the intruder, the boy reached into a weathered leather pouch at his hip. He whipped out a jagged chunk of charcoal the size of a fist. With a practiced, blurring motion, he struck a piece of match against the a small block of charcoal, sending a shower of sparks dancing through the air. A sudden, intense flame caught, clinging to the charcoal and blooming into a roaring, concentrated sphere of heat.

FINALLY DONE