The air outside the mansion felt sharper, more vibrant, and undeniably unscripted. The transition from the "God-managed" sanctuary to the streets of Kanda was jarring; the sky wasn't a perfect, pre-rendered blue, but a shifting, cloud-streaked canopy that felt vast and indifferent.
Rin gave a quick, energetic wave, her grin as bright as ever. "Promise, right? The *good* kind, with extra bamboo shoots and a perfect soft-boiled egg!" She hooked her arms through Honoka's and Hanayo's, already turning back toward the direction of their own lives. "We've got our own 'home base' to look after, but we'll be rooting for you. Don't go 'marshmallow-melting' too early, Agung-papa!"
Honoka gave a sharp, thumbs-up salute, her usual cheerfulness tempered by a newfound, serious focus. "Good luck, you guys. If Kanata tries to hit you, just take it—you deserve it!"
Kotori stood slightly apart, her hand still tingling from the impact of her own slap. She looked at Agung, her expression one of quiet, simmering resolve. She didn't offer a hug or a sweet word; instead, she nodded toward the train station. "That slap wasn't just for her, Agung. It was for you, too. Don't ever forget what it feels like to be held accountable. It's the first step to being a real person."
With those final words, the three of them—Rin, Honoka, and Hanayo—turned and headed into the bustling rhythm of the city, their figures quickly blending into the crowd of commuters. They were walking away from the "script" entirely, choosing to live their own lives outside of Agung's direct orbit, leaving him with the core group of wives committed to the journey to Odaiba.
Agung stood on the sidewalk for a moment, feeling the weight of his duffel bag against his shoulder. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of ozone, exhaust, and street-side cooking. It was messy, it was loud, and it was glorious.
But the silence between the remaining group was short-lived.
"Okay," Umi said, checking her watch with a brisk, business-like efficiency. "If we are going to act like normal civilians, we need to move like them. We aren't taking a private limo to the station. We're taking the local line."
She gestured toward the station entrance, where a sea of people was pushing toward the turnstiles.
Agung stepped forward, but before he could reach the gates, a loud, shrill screech of metal-on-metal erupted from the street. A delivery truck had swerved to avoid a cyclist, slamming into a utility pole just a few yards away. The impact knocked a power line down, causing a shower of sparks to rain onto the pavement, directly in front of the station entrance.
The crowd surged backward, a wave of confusion and panic rippling through the commuters. A child, separated from their parent, froze in the center of the debris field, staring at the live wire hissing on the ground.
Agung's instinct—the "God-tier" reflex—flared. He felt the golden mana surging in his veins, ready to reach out, pause time, and whisk the child to safety with a thought.
He stopped. His hand, already twitching with the urge to snap his fingers, curled into a fist
.
"Agung, don't," Maki said, her voice low and firm. Her hand gripped his arm, a reminder that the world was now governed by physics, not his desires. "You intervene with magic, you're back to being a 'God.' If you want to be a man, you save that kid the hard way."
Agung looked at the live wire, then at the terrified child. He dropped his bag.
"Stay here," he told his wives.
He didn't manifest a shield. He didn't blink out of existence. He ran toward the truck, his "marshmallow" frame heavy and ungainly compared to the lean athlete he used to be. He ducked under the sparks, feeling the heat singe his hair, and reached out with his own, mortal hands.
This was the first obstacle. No system-assisted perfection, no scripted safety. Just the raw, terrifying reality of a world where things could go wrong, and where he was now responsible for fixing them the only way that mattered.