The next day rolled in quietly, the kind that felt calm before something stupid or dangerous happened.
Touko had taken the twins into town, stopping in front of an arts and crafts store that looked far too cheerful for her liking. Bright signs. Too many colors. A bell that jingled when the door opened.
She already regretted this.
"This," Touko muttered, pushing the door open, "is my life now."
Inside, Ritsuka made a beeline for the stationery aisle like he'd been magnetized. Notebooks. Thick ones. Thin ones. Grid paper. Lined paper. Blank sketchbooks.
Gudako, meanwhile, vanished in the opposite direction.
Touko watched them split and sighed. "Of course."
Ritsuka carefully picked up a notebook, flipping through the pages, checking the binding. 'Good paper. Doesn't bleed. Durable.'
Touko raised an eyebrow. "You're seven."
"Yes," he said calmly, placing it into the basket, "but this one won't fall apart if I write every day."
She stared at him. "…You know most adults don't think like that."
Ritsuka shrugged. "Most adults forget things."
That earned him a look. Not annoyed. Not amused.
Interested.
Meanwhile—
Gudako had reappeared holding pipe cleaners, glitter glue, colored string, beads, foam sheets, and something that might have been tiny bells.
Touko squinted. "What are you making?"
Gudako hugged the pile to her chest. "I don't know yet."
Touko closed her eyes. "That's worse."
At the checkout counter, the basket was split cleanly down the middle.
One side: notebooks, pencils, rulers, dividers, sticky tabs.
The other: chaos.
Touko paid, feeling the universe mock her.
As they stepped outside, she glanced at Ritsuka again. "You know, most kids ask for toys."
He adjusted the notebooks under his arm. "I already have enough things."
Gudako laughed. "Yeah! His brain needs upgrades!"
Touko paused mid-step.
'That… is not wrong.'
She exhaled slowly. "You two are going to be a problem."
Ritsuka smiled, polite and unreadable.
Gudako grinned like she'd just won something she didn't know the rules to.
Touko looked at the two kids walking ahead of her and finally realized it.
'…Don't tell me I became an aunt by taking this job.'
The thought hit harder than any spell backlash.
She slowed her steps, letting the twins move a little farther ahead, their voices blending into background noise as her mind drifted—against her will—back through the last two years.
Training them.
Correcting their stances.
Stopping Gudako from overcooking herself with raw output.
Stopping Ritsuka from thinking himself into paralysis.
Living in the Fujimaru household.
Eating their food.
Arguing with Masaru about efficiency.
Listening to Tomiko calmly dismantle mage logic with common sense.
Working on her puppet late into the night, tools spread across the table like a crime scene, while simultaneously firing off passive-aggressive letters to her sister.
No, Aoko, I am not "playing house."
Yes, they're talented.
No, you can't have them.
And now—
Touko glanced at the tickets in her coat pocket.
She was going on a family trip with them.
A family trip.
She exhaled slowly. "Unbelievable."
Gudako spun around mid-walk. "What's unbelievable?"
Touko pointed at her. "You."
Gudako beamed. "I get that a lot."
Ritsuka looked back too, calm as ever. "Sensei, are you tired?"
Touko scoffed. "Kid, I stopped being tired two decades ago. This is something worse."
"What?"
"Attachment."
Ritsuka blinked once. Then nodded. "That's inefficient."
Touko stopped dead.
"…Don't quote me at me."
Gudako laughed, skipping ahead again. "See? You're basically family now!"
Touko watched them for a second longer than she meant to.
Then she muttered, barely audible, "Yeah… that's the problem."
And for the first time in years—
The thought didn't piss her off nearly as much as it should have.
Later, once everything was bought, they all returned home.
The bags were set down near the entrance, shoes kicked aside in the usual controlled chaos that followed the twins everywhere.
Tomiko noticed it almost immediately.
Touko was… off.
Not distracted.
Not irritated.
Just quietly staring into space like someone who had realized something deeply inconvenient.
Tomiko tilted her head as she looked at her. "Is something wrong?"
Touko glanced at her, then away. Then back again.
"I think," she said slowly, carefully, "I might have been added to your family by accident."
Tomiko blinked.
Once.
Then she smiled.
"Oh."
That was it. Just oh.
Touko frowned. "That's it? No denial? No panic?"
Tomiko shrugged gently. "You live with us. You teach the kids. You worry about them. You're coming on the trip."
She thought for a moment, then added, "You argue with my husband like a relative, too."
Touko opened her mouth, closed it, then ran a hand through her hair. "That's… incredibly unfair logic."
Tomiko laughed softly. "Maybe. But families aren't built on logic."
From the living room, Gudako yelled, "AUNT TOUKO, CAN I USE THE GLITTER—"
"No," Touko snapped instantly.
A pause.
"…Why is it glitter again?"
Ritsuka peeked around the corner. "For research."
Touko stared at him. "You learned that word too fast."
Tomiko watched the exchange, amused, warm, and very certain.
"Yes," she said lightly. "You're definitely family now."
Touko sighed.
"…Damn it."
Back with Ritsuka, he had learned something important.
Regression didn't mean a full reset.
He had his past-life memories. The experience. The awareness. That made him sharper, calmer, more mature than he should be at his age.
But his body—and more importantly, his brain—was still that of a child.
Which meant discipline came and went.
Impulse still won.
And sometimes, planning could wait.
That was how he ended up laughing as a pillow smacked into his face.
"Hey—!" Ritsuka grabbed one and threw it back.
Gudako dodged, barely, then fired two in return. "Too slow!"
He reacted on instinct, not thought, tackling her onto the futon as feathers exploded everywhere.
For a moment, there were no memories of Chaldea.
No strategies.
No futures to worry about.
Just two kids, breathless and laughing, doing what kids did best.
Back with the Outer Gods—
Yang clapped her hands once, proud. "Okay! So I may have tried to bring over a god who was romantically involved with Ritsuka so they could see how adorable he is now."
Oei blinked. "…We are Elder Gods."
Yang waved that away. "Yes, and we still have to synchronize emotional wavelength links if we want their memories to unlock properly."
Void Shiki added calmly, "And retrieve them from the Throne of Heroes without destabilizing causality."
Abigail nodded. "We contacted Kukulkan first. Since she's a Foreigner, she can cross easier—but she's currently on the opposite side of the universe."
Oei sighed. "So… she's late."
"Fashionably cosmic," Yang said cheerfully. "Which is why we brought the sister first."
She snapped her fingers.
Reality folded.
A portal tore open in the Void, dumping two figures unceremoniously onto the unseen floor.
One floated instinctively, already bristling with divine irritation—long black twin-tails swaying, crimson eyes sharp, golden ornaments gleaming. Her boat-shaped Maanna hovered beside her like a loyal weapon.
[Insert image of Ishtar]
The other landed more stiffly, skirts settling as if gravity itself respected her—blonde twin-tails tied with black ribbons, red eyes cautious, hands clenched at her sides.
[Insert image of Ereskigal]
They both looked identical.
They both looked like Rin Tohsaka.
Ishtar spun in place. "Where are we?!"
Flick.
Ereshkigal barely had time to inhale—
Flick.
Both goddesses froze.
Then—
Memory slammed back into them.
Chaldea.
Summoning circles.
Christmas lights.
A boy with tired eyes and a stupidly kind smile.
Ritsuka Fujimaru.
Ishtar staggered, clutching her forehead. "W–Wait—no—hold on—!"
Ereshkigal's breath hitched. Her eyes widened, glowing faintly. "Those memories… I—I remember…"
Silence fell over the Void.
Ishtar slowly straightened, teeth clenched. "You—" she pointed at Yang "—you forced synchronization?!"
Yang smiled sweetly. "Forehead flicks are very efficient."
Oei leaned closer, squinting. "So? Emotional link restored?"
Ereshkigal looked down at her hands, trembling slightly. "'He's… small.'"
Ishtar froze.
"…He's a kid."
Void Shiki nodded once. "Regression confirmed."
Ishtar's expression cracked between rage, disbelief, and something dangerously protective. "He fought Goetia."
Ereshkigal whispered, voice shaking, "'He carried the weight of humanity.'"
Yang clasped her hands behind her back, pleased. "And now he throws pillows."
That did it.
Maanna sparked.
Divine pressure rippled outward.
Ishtar snapped, "Oh I am absolutely going to see him."
Void Shiki's eyes gleamed. "You are not."
Ereshkigal looked up slowly. "…Is he safe?"
Abigail answered softly, "Yes."
A pause.
Then Ishtar crossed her arms hard, scowling. "Fine. But if anyone hurts him—"
Yang raised a finger. "Timeline-safe observation only."
Ishtar grumbled. "You Elder Gods are no fun."
Oei smirked. "Welcome to godparent duty."
Ereshkigal swallowed, fingers curling into her skirt. "Does he… need to do it all again?"
Void Shiki didn't hesitate. "Sadly, yes."
The answer landed like a blade.
Ishtar looked down, jaw tight. "Then the moment he summons his first Servant, I'm going down there."
Yang immediately shook her head. "Impossible. Even with our interference, the Throne will respond first. It always matches compatibility before desire."
Abigail spoke quietly, matter-of-fact. "Jeanne d'Arc."
Everyone turned to her.
"She's the highest match without a catalyst," Abigail continued. "Self-sacrifice. Faith in humanity. The instinct to stand between others and despair."
Ishtar scoffed. "He's not that pure."
Void Shiki replied calmly, "He believes in people even when they don't deserve it."
That shut Ishtar up.
Ereshkigal lowered her gaze. "…That's exactly why she'd answer."
Yang tilted her head, smiling faintly. "And why it hurts so much to watch."
Ishtar clenched her fists. "So we just… wait? While he bleeds again?"
"No," Void Shiki said.
All eyes turned to her.
"You prepare," she continued. "You observe. You anchor his existence so he does not break the way he almost did last time."
Abigail nodded. "Subtle corrections. Coincidences. Survivals that shouldn't happen."
Yang brightened. "And emotional reinforcement! Dreams, echoes, familiar warmth—"
Ishtar shot her a look. "You're already on thin ice."
Yang laughed. "Worth it."
Ereshkigal finally looked up, resolve settling in her eyes. "When the time comes… when the rules allow it…"
Ishtar smirked, dangerous and proud. "We're not letting him face the end of the world alone again."
Somewhere across time—
A boy laughed as a pillow hit him square in the face.
And the Throne of Heroes stirred.
Back with Ritsuka
Ritsuka sat on the chair, legs swinging slightly as he watched his family move around the room, bags half-open, clothes and supplies slowly piling up.
Tomiko was double-checking lists.
Masaru was pretending not to forget things and absolutely forgetting things.
Gudako was somehow packing and unpacking the same bag at the same time.
Ritsuka rested his chin in his hands.
'I wonder what my relatives are like,' he thought. 'Mom's side of the family…'
That alone made his stomach twist a little—not fear, just curiosity mixed with the unknown.
Then another thought followed, sharper.
'I wonder how they use Sun Mage Craft.'
His fingers twitched unconsciously, heat flickering faintly around them before fading. His version of Sun Mage Craft was instinctive, flexible—almost gentle when he wanted it to be. His father's was refined, terrifyingly precise.
But his mother?
And her people?
'Different land,' he reasoned. 'Different traditions. Different philosophy.'
He glanced at Gudako, who was now stuffing something into her bag that was definitely not clothes.
'Breathing styles… Sun Mage Craft… ancient temples,' he thought. 'This trip isn't just a visit.'
Somewhere deep down, a quiet certainty settled in his chest.
'Something's waiting for us there.'
Gudako suddenly popped up in front of him. "Why are you making that face?"
Ritsuka blinked. "What face?"
"The thinking-too-hard face," she said confidently. "It's annoying."
He smiled despite himself. "You'll understand when you're older."
Gudako narrowed her eyes. "I'm literally your age."
'And yet,' he thought, watching her storm off dramatically, 'somehow… things are already moving faster than they should.'
Outside, the sun dipped lower.
And far away—older than temples, older than bloodlines—something ancient stirred, just a little, in recognition.
To be continued
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