The fluorescent lights of Ravi & Son General Provisions didn't just shine; they flickered with a rhythmic, migraine-inducing buzz that sounded like a swarm of angry mechanical bees. Harish, draped in a staff vest that smelled faintly of lemon bleach and ancient dust, was currently wrestling with a pyramid of "Cosmic Curry" powder. His eyes—those same eyes that had once witnessed the collapse of entire star systems in the Seventh Dimension—were currently watering. He'd rubbed them after handling a crate of dry red chilies, and now he felt like a common mortal who had just lost a fight with a spicy ghost.
"Harish! If I see one more dented can of condensed milk, I am deducting the cost from your weekend allowance! Do you think we are running a charity for clumsy boys?" Ravi's voice boomed from the back office, punctuated by the aggressive clack-clack of a 1990s keyboard. The old man was currently in a blood feud with a barcode scanner he insisted was possessed by a vengeful spirit, completely unaware that his son was the very entity the world's secret organizations had dubbed the "Demon King."
In the next aisle, Aris Thorne—known to the shop as "Priya"—was fastidiously organizing the detergent. She moved with a practiced, carefree grace, her S-Rank instincts buried deep under a layer of retail boredom. She glanced at Harish, watching him struggle to keep a single sticker straight on a jar of mango pickle. To her, he was a "Level 5 Commoner," a snack-obsessed liability whose greatest threat was his own lack of coordination. She felt a strange, quiet peace here, away from the blood and thunder of the rifts.
Forty miles away, the industrial sector of New Delhi was a scar on the earth. Takeo Kusanagi, the youngest S-Rank Sword Saint of the Human Alliance, stood in the center of a grassy lot that hadn't existed yesterday. His charcoal-colored hair was pulled into a warrior's knot so tight it looked painful, and his hand rested habitually on the white-jade hilt of Kusanagi-Zero.
The Alliance investigators were looking for scorch marks and mana residues, but Takeo saw something they didn't. He knelt, pressing two fingers into the dirt. It wasn't just soft; it was pure. The soil had been refined at a molecular level.
"This isn't destruction," Takeo whispered, his amber eyes vibrating with a mix of terror and religious ecstasy. "This is correction. Someone didn't just kill the assassins; they removed the very concept of their existence from this timeline. They edited the world."
He stood up and walked toward the center of the erasure. There, snagged on a lone, surviving blade of grass, was a tiny plastic price tag. It was the kind that held labels to cheap shirts—barbed at one end, a small rectangle at the other. Takeo picked it up as if it were a holy relic. On the back, in faded thermal ink, was an address: Ravi & Son, Sector 3, xxxxxxxxxxx.
"He protected this," Takeo breathed, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. "In the middle of a dimensional overwrite, he chose to preserve a piece of plastic because it belonged to his home. Heavens above heavens... I have been a fool."
He remembered his late master's words: "Don't be shackled by the opinions of those who cannot see the wind. Follow your heart to the source."
Takeo's heart wasn't just following; it was racing.
The bell at Ravi & Son didn't just chime the next morning; it rang with a sharp, metallic clarity, a sound that sliced through the mundane hum of the refrigerator units. Takeo Kusanagi stepped inside. The air in the shop instantly dropped ten degrees, the humidity freezing into invisible frost.
Harish was currently crouched in Aisle 4, his face buried in his hands. He had just knocked over the "Cosmic Curry" display, and a cloud of yellow turmeric was settling over his hair like divine pollen. Aris, at the register, felt her heart lurch into her throat. She recognized that silhouette. That was the Heavenly Blade. The man who had once cut a falling skyscraper in half to save a kitten.
'Takeo? Why is he here?' Aris gripped the counter, her knuckles turning white. 'Is there an Abyss-rank threat in the frozen peas? Did I miss a rift signature?'
Takeo ignored the staring grandmothers and the smell of spices. He marched straight to Aisle 4 and stopped behind the yellow-dusted boy. Through his Blade-Soul Sense, he didn't see a clerk. He saw a man whose slouched, defeated posture was so perfectly balanced that no opening existed in the fabric of his soul. It was the Ultimate Void.
Takeo dropped to one knee, his jade sword clattering on the tiles as he performed a deep, traditional dogeza.
"Master! I have spent ten years seeking the 'Edge of Nothingness.' I saw your work at the warehouse. Please... accept me as your student!"
The supermarket went deathly quiet. A customer dropped a carton of eggs, the yellow yolks spreading like a metaphor for Harish's crumbling secret life.
"Harish! Who is this fancy boy blocking the curry aisle?" Ravi yelled from the back. "Is he a debt collector? Tell him we paid the electric bill yesterday! And tell him to get off the floor, I just mopped that!"
Harish turned around, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated panic.
"I... I don't know him, Pa! He just... he just fell over! Sir, please, the hospital is three blocks away. You're clearly having a heatstroke!"
"I did not fall!" Takeo shouted, his voice echoing with the authority of a man who could split clouds. "I have recognized the Sovereign! Master, even now, you hide your presence so perfectly that the commoners see only a fool. The way you hold that price gun... it is the grip of a man who has mastered the 'Sword of the Spirit'!"
Harish looked at the price gun in his hand. The trigger was jammed, and he was holding it with a white-knuckled grip of pure frustration.
"It's a broken price gun, Takeo! It's not a spiritual weapon! It's an Avery-Dennison Mark III and it's leaking ink!"
Takeo's eyes filled with tears of awe.
"The 'Leaking Ink of Fate'! You allow yourself to be stained by the mundane to remind yourself of the fluidity of reality! Truly, your wisdom is as deep as the ocean!"
"Takeo, listen to me," Harish hissed, leaning in close, his voice a frantic whisper. "I'm a 5. My mana score is a 5! I struggle to open bags of chips! I'm currently covered in curry powder! Look at my socks—they don't even match! One is navy blue, the other has a cartoon duck on it! Does a Sovereign wear duck socks?"
Takeo didn't even blink. He whipped out a silk-bound notebook.
"Lesson 5: The Duck of Duality. The Master wears mismatched socks to signify that he stands in two worlds at once—the mundane and the divine. He chooses the duck, a creature that traverses water, land, and air, symbolizing total dimensional mastery. Magnificent. I must acquire duck socks immediately."
"They were a gift from my aunt! There is no symbolism!" Harish yelled, his social anxiety reaching critical mass.
Takeo ignored the protest, his amber eyes tracking a fly that was buzzing near Harish's head. Harish swiped at it lazily, missing by a mile.
"Did you see that?" Takeo whispered to a bewildered Aris. "He intentionally missed the fly to show mercy to a lesser sentient being. The 'Strike of Infinite Compassion.' My heart is moved!"
"I missed because I have terrible depth perception!" Harish countered. "And because my glasses are foggy! Takeo, go away! Go back to Japan! Go fight a dragon! Do something S-Rank!"
"I am doing something S-Rank, Master," Takeo said with terrifying solemnity. "I am beginning my true education. Tell me, the way you arranged these lentils... is the spiral pattern a map of the Third Galaxy, or a seal to keep the Old Gods at bay?"
"It's a spiral because the shelf is slightly slanted and they keep rolling off!" Harish grabbed a bag of lentils and brandished it like a weapon. "See? Lentils! Fiber! $2.99! Not a seal! Not a map!"
Takeo grabbed the bag from Harish's hand as if it were a sacred relic.
"Lentils... small, hard, numerous. Like the stars in the sky. Like the souls of the fallen. I shall study the geometry of these pulses until I understand the flow of your Qi! Master, you are testing my discernment!"
Aris stepped in, her "Priya" persona cracking at the edges.
"Sir... Takeo? This is Harish. He's... he's just a clerk. He spent five years in a rift and came back with nothing. You are a hero of the Alliance. This is... inappropriate."
Takeo looked at Aris with a pity that felt like a slap.
"Guardian, you see with your eyes, not your spirit. Look at his feet. Notice how his weight is shifted toward his heels? He is prepared to move backward into the Void at any second. It is the 'Receding Tide' footwork! He is literally walking on the edge of existence!"
"I have a blister on my big toe!" Harish screamed. "I'm leaning back because my shoes are too tight!"
Takeo scribbled furiously.
"Lesson 6: The Asceticism of the Tight Shoe. The Master invites physical pain to sharpen his focus. He denies himself comfort to maintain the edge of his blade-soul. I shall buy shoes two sizes too small this afternoon!"
"No! Buy shoes that fit! Just buy anything and leave!"
The bell chimed again, but this time, the sound was muffled by a heavy, greasy thud. The door was kicked open by a man wearing a bespoke silk suit that cost more than the entire inventory of the shop. Young Master Verma walked in, flanked by six bodyguards who looked like they'd been grown in a vat of steroids and bad intentions.
Verma adjusted his gold cufflinks, his eyes scanning the shop with the disgust of a man who accidentally stepped in dog toffee.
"Where is the old man Ravi?" Verma sneered, slamming a hand onto the counter, narrowly missing a display of chocolate bars. "My cleaners didn't report back after the hit on your family. I don't like losing assets, and I especially don't like losing to a shopkeeper."
Ravi stepped out, his face hardening, the frozen chickens in his hands looking strangely like clubs.
"I told you before, Mr. Verma. We don't sell to your clan. And we don't pay protection money. Now get out before I show you the 'Slipper of Justice'!"
"The police?" Verma laughed, a toxic, pea-green mana beginning to swirl around his palms. "I own the precinct. I own the mayor. And right now, I'm going to own this plot of land once I've burned it to ash with you and your pathetic son inside."
Harish, crouched behind a stack of toilet paper, felt a familiar, cold itch in his palm. He looked at Verma's throat. He could liquefy the air inside the man's lungs in a millisecond. He could turn the silk of that suit into razor wire.
But then, he felt Takeo shift.
"Master," Takeo whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made the jars of pickles rattle on their shelves. "Allow me to demonstrate what I have learned from your Lentil-geometry. I shall not sully this sanctuary with my blade."
Takeo stepped forward, holding the 5kg bag of red lentils like a votive offering.
"Takeo?" Verma stammered, his toxic mana flickering. "What is an S-Rank hero doing in this dump?"
"I am a humble apprentice," Takeo said, bowing slightly toward the toilet paper aisle. "And you have committed the ultimate transgression. You have interrupted the Master's shelf-stocking."
The lead bodyguard, a B-rank brute with reinforced brass knuckles, lunged. He swung a heavy hook aimed at Takeo's jaw. Takeo didn't draw a sword. He moved with a burst of speed that turned him into a silver blur. He swung the bag of lentils in a short, brutal arc.
THWACK. The bag didn't break. Takeo had infused the plastic with a micro-thin layer of Qi, turning the 5kg of grain into the density of a neutron star. The bag caught the bodyguard in the solar plexus. The man didn't just fall; he was launched backward, his feet leaving the floor as he crashed through the front window, a spray of glass following him like a tail.
Two more bodyguards drew tactical mana-daggers, the blades glowing with a jagged purple light. They moved in tandem, a pincer maneuver. Takeo performed a "Void Step"—the very move he claimed to have learned from watching Harish avoid a spill. He appeared behind the left bodyguard, the bag of lentils moving in a fluid, circular motion.
He tapped the man's wrist with the corner of the bag. Crack. The bone shattered instantly. Before the man could scream, Takeo used the momentum to pivot, slamming the flat of the bag into the second attacker's temple. The man's eyes rolled back, and he hit the floor like a sack of wet cement.
The remaining three bodyguards fired mana-pistols. The bolts of energy hissed through the air, aimed at Takeo's chest. Takeo didn't dodge. He began to spin the bag of lentils in a vertical circle.
"Shield of the Grain!" The spinning bag created a centrifugal mana-vortex. The energy bolts didn't explode; they were sucked into the vortex, their kinetic energy absorbed by the thousands of tiny lentils. The bag hummed with a soft, orange light. Takeo then slammed the bag onto the floor.
The shockwave was silent but absolute. It didn't crack the tiles, but it sent a pulse of pure kinetic displacement through the ground. The three shooters were lifted three inches off the floor, their nervous systems rebooted by the vibration. They collapsed in unison, their guns skidding away.
Verma stood alone, his toxic green mana now a pale, sickly yellow. He looked at Takeo, then at the bag of lentils, then at Harish, who was currently trying to blend in with the toilet paper.
"You... you're insane," Verma whispered.
"No," Takeo said, his amber eyes glowing. "I am a student. Now, apologize to the Master's father for the broken window, pay for the lentils I have just used, and leave. Or I shall show you why the Master considers the 'Cabbage-Style' even more lethal."
Verma didn't wait. He scrambled out of the shop, leaving his men behind.
Takeo turned back to Harish, his face shining with sweat and pride. He walked over and offered the bag of lentils back with both hands.
"Master! Did my 'Lentil-Flow' meet your expectations? I felt my weight distribution was slightly off during the third parry."
Harish peeked over the toilet paper, his eyes wide.
"The... the bag didn't even tear. Those are 20-micron plastic bags, Takeo. They tear if you look at them wrong. How did you...?"
Takeo's eyes filled with tears of joy. He fell to his knees again.
"He praised me! He praised my control of the structural integrity of plastic! He is teaching me that the vessel is as important as the blade!" He scribbled furiously: "Lesson 7: The Master values the container. Preservation is the ultimate victory."
Ravi walked over, pocketing Verma's cash.
"Well, Mr. Kusanagi," Ravi said, patting Takeo on the shoulder. "You're a bit violent, but you've got spirit. And you saved me a trip to the police station. Harish! Give this boy a vest. A large one. And show him where we keep the mops."
"Pa, no!" Harish groaned. "You can't hire him! He's an international celebrity!"
"Nonsense," Ravi said. "He's a good boy. He wants to learn the family business. Takeo, you start now. Harish will show you how to rotate the dairy. Everything with the earliest expiration date goes to the front. It's called FIFO: First In, First Out."
Takeo's eyes widened.
"F-I-F-O..." Takeo whispered. "The 'First In, First Out'... the law of the cycle of life and death! The ancient wisdom of the Great Rotation! Truly, Elder Ravi, you are the father of a God!"
"I'm the father of a boy who needs to stop daydreaming and get to work!" Ravi barked.
Aris Thorne stood behind the register, her head resting on the counter. She watched Takeo Kusanagi bowing to a gallon of milk as he moved it to the front of the shelf. She watched Harish trying to hide his face in his vest.
'I am the only sane person left in this city,' Aris thought, reaching for a bottle of aspirin.
Harish looked at Takeo, who was now mopping the floor with the intensity of a man carving a diamond.
"Takeo," Harish said, his voice dripping with exhaustion. "Why are you doing this?"
Takeo stopped mopping and looked up, his face dead serious.
"Because, Master, in that warehouse, you didn't just destroy. You created a world where a grocery store could exist in peace. I want to live in that world. And I want to be the one who mops it."
Harish sighed, a small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Fine. But if you call me 'Master' in front of the Aunties again, I'm making you clean the grease trap in the back."
Takeo's eyes lit up.
"The 'Grease Trap of the Abyss'? A trial of filth and purification! I am ready, Master!"
"I hate my life," Harish muttered, reaching for a mop.