Yuuta walked away from Fiona's house with his head down and his hand pressed against his swelling eye.
He could have fought back.
Could have defended himself.
Could have—maybe—landed a punch of his own.
But what would be the point?
Loid was right. Not about everything—Yuuta still didn't understand half of what had been said. But about the core of it? About Fiona being hurt because of him?
That was true.
He was guilty.
And guilty people didn't get to throw punches.
So he walked.
Down the street. Past the familiar shops. Past the neighbors who waved and then did double-takes at his bruised face. His left eye was nearly swollen shut now, the skin around it purple and tight. It hurt to blink. It hurt to see. It hurt to exist.
But he kept walking.
One foot in front of the other.
Home, he told himself. Just get home. Elena will make it better. Elena always makes it better.
---
Behind him, Loid stood at the window.
Watching.
Waiting.
His fists were still clenched. His jaw was still tight. His heart was still raging against the man who had hurt the girl he loved.
Then his phone rang.
He pulled it from his pocket.
Glanced at the screen.
His expression changed instantly—fury replaced by focus, emotion replaced by duty.
"Yes, Chief."
He listened.
Nodded.
Listened some more.
"Understood. I'll be there. Roger."
He ended the call.
Stared at the phone for a long moment.
Then he looked out the window again—at the empty street where Yuuta had disappeared—and his eyes hardened.
Duty calls.
He grabbed his jacket.
Left the house.
And vanished into the city.
---
Yuuta climbed the stairs to his apartment.
Each step was harder than the last.
His breath came in warm, ragged gasps. His legs felt like lead. His vision—already compromised by the swelling eye—began to blur at the edges.
What's wrong with me?
He'd taken worse hits before. Gotten into worse fights. Survived worse injuries.
But this felt different.
This felt like something inside was wrong.
He shook it off.
Probably just exhaustion. Stress. Not enough sleep. I'll rest when I get inside.
Third floor.
His door.
He pushed it open.
"Elena?"
Silence.
"Elena, I'm home!"
Nothing.
He stepped inside.
The living room was empty. The kitchen was empty. The bedroom—he checked—was empty. The bathroom. Empty.
"Erza?"
His voice cracked on the name.
It still felt strange to say it.
Strange and warm and terrifying all at once.
No response.
Panic began to creep up his spine.
Where are they?
Did something happen?
Did they leave?
Did she finally decide—
His eyes caught something.
A piece of paper on the sofa.
Neatly folded.
Waiting.
He grabbed it.
Opened it with trembling hands.
The handwriting was perfect. Elegant. Each letter formed with the kind of precision that came from centuries of practice. Erza had mastered human language faster than any mortal could dream of—another reminder that she was not, would never be, ordinary.
The note read:
---
I have taken Elena to the bookshop.
Make something for dinner.
Do not bother searching for me. I am not like you—I will not get lost. I have already memorized the map of this entire country.
Bye, pathetic mortal.
—E
---
Yuuta read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
A smile spread across his face.
It hurt—his bruised cheek protested—but he couldn't stop it.
She left a note.
She told me where she was going.
She didn't just disappear.
She... she didn't want me to worry.
The warmth that flooded his chest had nothing to do with fever.
She's still cold. Still ruthless. Still calls me pathetic.
But she left a note.
For me.
He pressed the paper to his chest.
Closed his eyes.
And for the first time since leaving Fiona's house, he felt something other than pain.
Hope.
---
He opened his eyes.
Looked at the kitchen.
At the stove.
At the ingredients waiting to become something delicious.
"Okay," he said to the empty apartment. "She gave me a chance. She let me call her by her name. The least I can do is make her a thank-you dish."
He rolled up his sleeves.
Ignored the throbbing in his eye.
Ignored the weakness in his legs.
Ignored everything except the task ahead.
Something special, he thought. Something that says 'thank you for staying.' Something that says 'I'm trying.' Something that says—
He didn't finish the thought.
Didn't need to.
The kitchen waited.
And so did he.
Yuuta rolled up his sleeves, ready to begin his culinary masterpiece.
Then he stopped.
Froze.
A thought crept into his mind like a thief in the night.
Wait a second.
How did Erza get money to buy books?
He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, his finger tracing the swollen skin around his eye. The question nagged at him, growing louder with each passing second.
She doesn't have a job. She doesn't have human currency. She doesn't have—
His eyes went wide.
"No."
He spun around.
Rushed to the corner of the living room where a small box sat beside the TV. His gaming console fund. Money he'd been saving for months—years, really—to finally buy that new system he'd been dreaming about.
The box was there.
But the money?
The money was gone.
In its place sat another piece of paper.
Neatly folded.
Mockingly patient.
Yuuta snatched it up.
Unfolded it with trembling hands.
One sentence.
Three words.
Perfect handwriting.
"Idiot mortal."
---
Yuuta's eye twitched.
His grip tightened on the paper.
His face—already bruised and swollen—twisted into an expression of pure, helpless fury.
"THAT—THAT—THAT LIZARD QUEEN!" He crumpled the note in his fist. ** "SHE STOLE MY GAMING MONEY! MY ENTIRE GAMING MONEY! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY SHIFTS I WORKED FOR THAT?!"**
He shook the crumpled paper at the ceiling.
"DO YOU?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT TAKES TO SAVE UP IN THIS ECONOMY?!"
Silence.
The apartment did not respond.
Yuuta deflated.
His shoulders sagged.
His arm dropped.
"What am I supposed to do?" he muttered to the empty room. "She's a dragon. I'm a human with a swollen eye and zero combat skills. I can't fight her. I can't reason with her. I can't do anything."
He slumped against the wall.
Stared at the ceiling.
Felt the weight of his own powerlessness pressing down on him.
Then—
Wait.
A thought.
A dangerous thought.
I can't fight her. I can't reason with her.
But I can cook.
He straightened.
A slow smile spread across his bruised face.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I can."
He pushed off the wall.
Walked toward the kitchen with renewed purpose.
"I'll make the most delicious, most incredible, most mouth-watering dish this world has ever seen." He grabbed ingredients from the fridge, from the cabinets, from every corner of his small kitchen. "And when she comes home, starving and expecting to be served..."
He paused.
His eyes gleamed.
"I won't give her a single bite until she gets on her knees and apologizes."
In his mind, the scene played out like a movie.
Erza, kneeling before him.
Erza, begging for food.
Erza, admitting that he—Yuuta, the pathetic mortal—had won.
He laughed.
An evil laugh.
The kind of laugh villains laughed right before their plans went horribly wrong.
"Revenge," he declared to the empty kitchen, "is a dish best served cold. And also with noodles."
He cracked an egg with dramatic flair.
"Tonight, we make RAMEN."
He stopped.
Imagined the scene.
Himself as king, seated on a throne made of pots and pans. Erza below him, kneeling, reaching for the food, begging—
"Yeah, that's not happening." He shook the fantasy away. "She'd freeze me solid before I finished the sentence."
But a man could dream.
And dream he did.
---
RAMEN.
The word echoed in his mind like a battle cry.
Not ordinary ramen.
Not the cheap instant kind he survived on during college.
Real ramen.
The kind that took hours to make. The kind with broth so rich it coated your soul. The kind with noodles perfectly chewy, toppings perfectly arranged, everything perfectly perfect.
"This," Yuuta announced to the empty kitchen, "will be my masterpiece."
He surveyed his ingredients.
Pork bones? Not enough.
Vegetables? Limited.
Noodles? He'd have to make them from scratch.
"I need help."
He grabbed his keys.
Walked next door.
---
Mrs. Hayashi was in her seventies, had lived in the building for forty years, and ran her apartment like a combination of a grandmother's house and a black-market ingredient exchange. If anyone had what Yuuta needed, it was her.
He knocked.
She opened the door.
Took one look at his bruised face.
"Yuuta! What happened to your—"
"Long story." He held up a hand. "Do you have pork bones?"
"...What?"
"Pork bones. For ramen broth. Also maybe some kombu? Dried mushrooms? Bonito flakes?"
Mrs. Hayashi stared at him.
"Are you cooking for an army?"
"Worse." Yuuta's expression was deadly serious. "I'm cooking for a Freaking dragon."
Mrs. Hayashi blinked, Impressed by Yuuta imagination power.
Then shrugged.
"I have some things. Come in."
---
Twenty minutes later, Yuuta returned to his apartment with arms full of ingredients.
Pork bones—check.
Kombu—check.
Dried mushrooms—check.
Bonito flakes—courtesy of Mr. Yamamoto from 2B, who had apparently been saving them for a "special occasion."
Various vegetables—from three different neighbors who were now extremely curious about what Yuuta was cooking.
And a bag of flour that Mrs. Hayashi had pressed into his hands with the words: "Make enough for me too, or I'll tell everyone about the time you accidentally set your kitchen on fire."
Yuuta had agreed immediately.
---
The kitchen became a war zone.
Not a messy one—Yuuta was too skilled for that. But a focused one. A determined one.
He started with the broth.
Pork bones went into a massive pot, covered with water, brought to a boil. The scum rose to the surface—he skimmed it carefully, obsessively, until the water ran clear.
Then he lowered the heat.
Added the kombu.
The dried mushrooms.
The bonito flakes wrapped in cheesecloth.
"Simmer," he murmured, like a prayer. "Simmer for hours. Become beautiful."
The broth would take time.
Hours.
But that was okay.
He had other things to do.
---
The noodles came next.
Flour on the counter. A well in the center. Eggs—fresh from Mrs. Hayashi's secret stash—cracked and poured in. A splash of water. A pinch of salt.
He mixed.
Kneaded.
Worked.
The dough came together under his hands—smooth, elastic, alive. He wrapped it in plastic and set it aside to rest.
"Two hours," he told it. "Be ready."
The dough, naturally, did not respond.
---
While the broth simmered and the dough rested, Yuuta prepared the toppings.
Chashu pork—rolled, tied, seared until golden, then simmered in soy, mirin, and sake until it was tender enough to fall apart at a glance.
Soft-boiled eggs—cooked exactly seven minutes, shocked in ice water, peeled carefully, then marinated in the leftover chashu liquid.
Menma—bamboo shoots, sautéed with sesame oil and a touch of chili.
Negi—green onions, sliced thinly on a bias because that's how professionals did it.
Nori—toasted until crisp, then cut into perfect rectangles.
He worked in a state of flow.
The world outside the kitchen disappeared.
There was only the food.
Only the process.
Only the love he was pouring into every single element.
---
MEANWHILE:- ERZA IN BOOK STORE
The bookstore was warm.
Not the temperature—that was perfectly controlled by the air conditioning humming quietly in the corner. But the atmosphere was warm. Soft lighting. Wooden shelves packed with colorful spines. The gentle rustle of pages turning. The occasional cough of someone lost in a story.
Erza stood in the center of it all like a painting that had come to life.
She wore one of the dresses Yuuta had bought her—a flowing white garment with delicate violet embroidery along the edges, the fabric light and elegant against her skin. It was the first time she'd worn something that was truly hers in this world.
The first time she'd worn something he had chosen for her.
She should have felt strange about that.
Should have felt... something.
But all she felt was right.
The dress fit perfectly. Moved perfectly. Felt perfect against her skin. It was as if Yuuta had reached into her mind, pulled out her exact preferences, and brought them into existence.
She pushed the thought away.
Concentrated on the books.
---
She moved through the aisles slowly, deliberately, her violet eyes scanning each spine with the intensity of a general studying a battlefield. But this battlefield was made of knowledge—and knowledge, Erza had learned long ago, was the most powerful weapon of all.
She pulled a book from the shelf.
Read the description.
Replaced it.
Pulled another.
Her collection grew in her arms—history books, economics texts, technology manuals, novels from authors she'd never heard of. Every genre. Every subject. Everything that might help her understand this strange world and the people who inhabited it.
Other customers noticed her.
How could they not?
She moved like royalty, even in a bookstore. Her silver hair caught the light and scattered it like diamonds. Her face was untouched by time—flawless, ageless, inhumanly beautiful. People stared. Whispered. Wondered if she was a model, an actress, someone famous.
Erza ignored them.
She was used to being watched.
But one thing was different today.
One thing had changed.
He bought me this dress.
The thought kept returning, unbidden, unwelcome, impossible to banish.
He chose it for me. Thought about what I would like. Spent his money—money he barely has—on something for me.
Why?
She didn't understand.
Didn't want to understand.
But the dress felt different because of it.
Warmer.
---
"Mama! Mama!"
Elena's voice cut through her thoughts.
Erza looked down.
Her daughter stood beside her, clutching a book almost as big as her head—a colorful thing covered in pictures of dinosaurs and stickers and all the things small children loved.
"Mama, look! Dinosaurs! Can we get it? Can we? CAN WE?!"
Erza studied the book.
Dinosaurs.
Large, extinct creatures that once ruled this planet.
Educational.
Acceptable.
"We'll see."
Elena's face fell.
"But MAMA—"
"I said we'll see."
Elena pouted.
But she kept holding the book.
---
Erza approached the counter.
Her arms were full—stack after stack of books, seventy-eight in total, towering so high that she could barely see over them. She set them down with a thud that made the cashier jump.
The young man behind the counter stared.
His eyes went from the pile of books to Erza's face and back again.
"Ma'am..." He swallowed. "Are you sure you want to purchase all of these?"
"Is there a problem?"
Her voice was ice.
The cashier shivered.
"N-no, ma'am! No problem at all! I was just—I was thinking—how will you carry them home? They're very heavy, and—"
He smiled.
A hopeful smile.
The smile of a young man who thought he saw an opportunity.
Erza's eyes narrowed.
"You," she said quietly, "disgust me."
The cashier's smile froze.
"If you are tired of living, You Pathetic disgusting human, I will end you beautifully."
"I—I—no, ma'am, I wasn't—I didn't mean—"
"The total."
He stammered out a number.
"Eight hundred forty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents, ma'am."
Erza paid.
Without blinking.
Without commenting.
Without acknowledging that this was more money than Yuuta made in a week.
---
Then she grabbed the books.
All of them.
Lifted them like they weighed nothing.
Walked toward the exit.
Customers stared.
Jaws dropped.
A woman who looked like a model shouldn't have the strength of a warrior. Shouldn't be able to carry seventy-eight books with one arm. Shouldn't exist.
But Erza did.
And she didn't care what they thought.
"Mama! Mama, wait!"
Elena ran after her, still clutching the dinosaur book.
"Mama, please? Please please please? I'll be good forever! I'll eat all my vegetables! I'll never bother Papa when he's sleeping! PLEASE?"
Erza didn't slow down.
"We don't have money for cartoons, Elena."
"But it's not cartoons! It's DINOSAURS! They're EDUCATIONAL!"
"No."
Elena's face crumpled.
Tears threatened.
"Ma'am!"
The cashier's voice called after them.
Erza turned.
He was holding the dinosaur book.
"You can... you can take it. For free. Since you bought so much."
Erza's eyes narrowed.
"Are you flirting with me again?"
"NO!" The cashier's face went pale. "No, ma'am, I swear! I just—I felt bad for the little girl—and I was inappropriate earlier, and I'm ashamed—I saw your ring—"
He pointed.
At her hand.
At the ring she always wore it's her mother ring.
The ring that marked her as married in this world, although it was misunderstanding but she felt warm.
"You're married, right? I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
Erza froze.
Married.
The word echoed in her mind.
Married.
To Yuuta.
To that pathetic, kind, impossible mortal.
Images flashed through her mind.
Yuuta smiling.
Yuuta calling her "my queen" with warmth in his voice.
Yuuta making food, buying clothes, tending to Elena, standing between her and a lion.
Yuuta looking at her like she mattered.
Her heart beat faster.
Her lips curved.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
"Mama?" Elena tugged her sleeve. "Mama, are you okay? You're making a weird face."
Erza's expression snapped back to cold.
"I'm fine."
She took the dinosaur book.
Handed it to Elena.
"Thank you," she said to the cashier.
It was the closest she'd ever come to politeness.
The cashier gaped.
Erza walked out.
---
Elena bounced beside her, dinosaur book clutched to her chest, stickers and crayons and joy radiating from every pore.
"Mama! Mama! Thank you thank you thank you! This is the BEST DAY EVER!"
Erza said nothing.
But her hand—the one not carrying seventy-eight books—rested on Elena's head.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough.
---
To be continued...