Archive of Our Own

There’s something to be said for how obvious the whole process is. Glowing lights, magical portal, ominous chanting in a language that sounds like heavily bastardised latin; at least Sǐ Chényào wasn’t visited by the mythical ‘Truck-kun.’ He’s currently on a twenty nine year streak of having never been hit by a motor vehicle of any sort and he very much does not want to break it. 

Even better than not dying via aggressive truck, Chényào’s managed to keep a hold of his groceries during the transportation. That’d always annoyed him ﹘ the groceries rolling across empty streets, the lone shoe, school books or a hat or some sign that something out of the ordinary had happened. Though, Chényào supposes that there's a certain charm in those ubiquitous illustrations. A nice way of rounding out a person’s life, before a smash cut to somewhere bigger, better ﹘ 

Chényào might be somewhere bigger﹘better is very debatable﹘but he’s got a tight grip on his two canvas grocery bags. He’s halfway curled around them where he sits in the centre of a magical painted array of some sort. He paid more than five hundred yuan for these groceries﹘not a fucking chance is he letting go of them just because of some magical bullshit. His good quality fish is probably uncomfortably warm, the heat of the transportation portal acting as the world’s most ill timed microwave. The soft, sparkling light of the portal fades completely away, revealing several hooded figures loitering around the outside of the array. Chényào wants to ask if they even realise how high the cost of living is right now﹘are they going to reimburse him for his likely ruined groceries? Huh? Yeah, he didn’t think so.

Judging from the not at all quiet sounds of shock and discontent, he’s not what they were expecting. The pale robes and the white chamber and the bright red array﹘he hopes it’s not supposed to be blood. If so, not only is it tacky but it’s so incredibly fake. Too bright, and not a single drop of it’s turned the rust brown of dry blood underneath the portal’s heat﹘none of it gives him any clues as to who they’d been hoping to steal. Someone plucky yet innocent; cheerful, certainly. Everyone wants a cheerful protagonist; everyone wants to isekai a teenager, really. Not for nefarious reasons, though he’s certainly read about such things before, but, well…

Simply put, teenagers are idiots. Gullible. Easily won over by a passionate speech and the idea of saving people; of being special, one of a kind, a hero.

Chényào’s worked overtime every day this week and what he wants is a good dinner and then as much consecutive sleep as his stupid body will allow him. A realistic five to six hours, where hopefully he doesn’t wake up at all. Seven hours in a row would honestly be a miracle and he’d gladly throttle anyone in this room to get it.

“Welcome, hero!” One of the figures finally says, as though Chényào somehow couldn’t hear the dismay which had swept through the room as they caught sight of him in his green, too large sweater and comfortable black sweatpants. What he wouldn’t give for the man in front of him to clap his hands together and say, terribly sorry, our mistake, we’ll be sending you back immediately. Instead, the man pushes off his hood to reveal a white person in their late middle age, once brown hair now mostly grey. He has a kind smile on his face, as though the sight of it could make Chényào ignore the way his eyes were tight and unhappy at the corners. 

He extends one hand down towards Chényào, clearly expecting to help him up. Chényào ignores him, rummaging through his groceries until he finds the packet of hard candy he’d impulse bought on his way to the register. He opens the packet just as the man starts to talk, his pleasantly bland voice faltering at the plasticy noise. The sound is quiet enough to be spoken over, easily. The man doesn’t attempt to talk over it. He waits; what an asshole. Chényào can feel eyes lingering on him as he shoves his hand into the packet, taking his time as he searches for a particular flavour. He makes sure his fingers bump against the pastic, creating continuous, if quiet, noise.

Chényào never said he wasn't an asshole, too. After a minute or so of searching, he finally decides on a flavour and pops the rough, sugar coated ball into his mouth. He waits for the man to open his mouth before he bites down. Realistically, the crunching sound is quieter than the plasic wrapping. The man hesitates, pausing with his mouth partly open as he waits to see if more noise will be forthcoming. Chényào sighs, deep and heartfelt, and resolves to keep quiet. He doesn't want to be stuck at the introduction speech for hours just because he's contrary by nature.

He turns his attention to… well, that’s a lie. He turns his face up to look at the man, who takes it for attention and launches into the probably rehearsed spiel. Chényào lets his mind wander as the man talks. He really wishes this was the sort of situation where there was a language barrier. Either the man didn’t speak Mandarin or there was something wrong with the translation spell, Chényào isn’t picky; just so long as he could delay actually talking to these people. It’s not like they’re going to have any information he actually cares about. 

He can’t think of a single situation where the person who’s been isekai’d is offered the chance to leave immediately. Unless they’ve been drop kicked between worlds via death, that is. They usually get the option; unsurprisingly, no one ever takes the ‘fresh corpse’ option. 

He should’ve caught the bus home, no matter how short the trip. They wouldn't have taken him if he were on a bus. …Probably. Even if they had, there would’ve been someone more suited to being an isekai protagonist in the crowd and these people would’ve chosen them. Chényào could’ve fucked right back off to his world, happily leaving behind whatever quest he’s inevitably going to be saddled with. Alternatively, the bus itself would’ve crushed all these… magicians? Wizards? Sorcerers? The hooded robes are certainly giving them a particular image that Chényào doesn’t quite know how to categorise. Not that it would’ve mattered, crushed beneath twenty plus tonnes of public transportation. The chances of anyone going home after that would probably be somewhere in the negatives. 

There’s a pause in the man’s speech, for breath rather than waiting for a reply, and Chényào takes the opportunity to interrupt. He knows very well it’s going to be futile, even as he says it, but hope springs eternal.

“No worries about my receipt, you can return me right away. Faulty model, you know how it is.”

Silence through the chamber for a few brief, awkward seconds. Chényào sighs again and grabs another piece of candy, quickly crunching through what he already has in his mouth. If he’d known this is how his night was going to end up, he’d have spent his grocery money on alcohol. Maybe if he cracked open a bottle of baiju and downed the entire thing without pause, they’d put their heads together and figure out a way to get him back home ASAP.

The man starts to talk again, “Apologies, dear hero﹘” is as far as he gets before Chényào cuts him off without regret or hesitation.

“If you were that sorry, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

Another silence. The man’s hazel eyes slide to the side, clearly seeking backup from one of his contemporaries. No one steps forward to take over the interaction and the silence lingers. Turns uncomfortable and excruciatingly awkward ﹘ for them. Chényào just chews his hard candy. It serves the dual purpose of making everything worse and hiding the grin that's trying to stretch across his face. Eventually, the man clears his throat. The sudden sound feels overly loud in the silence of the room, seeming to echo slightly in the vaulted chamber. The man’s genial smile falters, just for a moment.

Wow. Either these people don’t do the whole ‘snatching sentients’ shtick very often or this guy’s new at his job. Maybe there's some huge moral quandry weighing down the man's heart about what is, essentially, kidnapping and he usually assauges himself with the sheer enthusiasm of his victims. A balm for his conflicted soul that Chényào's unenthusiastic self is so obviously not going to provide.

Or maybe they’re just used to dealing with people who are less… Chényào.

“...Well, I am unsure about how to convey our sincerities to you, Mr…?”

Chényào wonders what he’d do if Chényào refused to give his name. This guy seems like the type to get frustrated, rather than panicked or frantic. Of course, Chényào won’t know for sure unless he pushes. Finding someone’s breaking point and then kicking them over it isn’t exactly a recommended exercise, but this wouldn’t be the first time Chényào’s made an inadvisable decision. Fortunately for the man still waiting for an answer, Chényào doesn’t want to chance getting stuck with the nickname ‘hero.’ He’d start throwing things within the hour, without a doubt.

“Sǐ Chényào. You need the characters for your records or does the writing system in this world not work like that?”

“Characters?” One of the still hooded, loitering figures asks, curious. Chényào answers them with a vague hand wave of dismissal. They’re probably talking through a translation spell, in that case, though it’s possible they’re speaking Mandarin and using a different language system. Chényào’s not a scholar or a linguist, and he’s certainly no authority on the development of languages in weird alternate dimensions or universes or wherever he is at the moment.

“Convey your sincerity by sending me home.” 

The slight wince on the man’s face tells him everything he needs to know. He’s been enough of a pain in the ass that they probably would try and exchange him for an easier to work with model, if they could. Chényào sighs loud enough to interrupt the man as he talks, again. He runs one hand through his thick, black hair and wonders if he should’ve gone to the barber three weeks ago instead of spending the day playing video games. His bangs aren’t quite brushing his eyebrows yet but who knows how long he’ll be here? What’s he supposed to do, let someone else other than Lǎo Wén cut his hair? The old man’s been cutting Chényào’s hair for two decades, give or take a few years when he was a teenager; the man’ll be devastated if Chényào finds a different barber. Better to let it grow, no matter how annoying it is.

Then again, maybe he’ll be home before it becomes a problem!! 

…Yeah, the optimism isn’t working for him, either.

Hell, maybe they’ll give him a makeover before they send him off to conquer evil or die trying. Not that whatever they do will help, really. He’s almost thirty, his statistically average height of five foot six appears to be so far underwhelming according to this room of hooded figures who are all probably at least an inch or three taller than him. The only thing he’s got going for him is the martial arts training he’s been doing his entire life, and even that’s left him slim enough that he probably looks like a NEET, given his current clothes. In fact, throw a pair of glasses over his dark brown eyes and he’d be﹘

Oh no.

Chényào doesn’t bother to keep his swearing internal, a long stream of fuck your mother’s and worse cutting off the older man. At least no one watching gasps in shock and/or horror. The only thing that would’ve achieved would’ve been to encourage him. All the small crowd does is shift from foot to foot, exchanging glances; Chényào is so very clearly not what they wanted, or expected. This entire situation has clearly gone so far off track that they’re cross country in the Gobi somewhere. Maybe they should’ve thought of that before stealing a man and his groceries on a Friday evening. 

He trails off, eventually. He could keep going but… who has the energy, really. He’s stuck right in the middle of a ‘fish out of water’ type isekai. His refusal to play along really does nothing but cement this, unfortunately. He can’t even subvert the trope, either, short of defecting to the enemy. He’s seen an equal number of protagonist ‘eagerly tries to participate, despite being ill suited’ as he has ‘does their best to wash their hands’ tales. Of course, if he really wanted to subvert the fish out of water trope, he could, but…

God, Chényào is so tired. The bags under his eyes have set up their own postcode. Why couldn’t this happen on a Sunday night, a Monday morning? Making him miss his weekend is a special type of cruelty. Why don’t those magical portals come with a complimentary bottle of something with a high enough alcohol content so that he could forget all this? Oh, all the teenagers, right. 

“I forgot your name already,” Chényào says, mostly to be a dick but also because he wasn’t really paying close attention, “What was it?”

Oh, he is dancing on this man’s last nerve, Chényào can almost feel it. Truly beautiful. Maybe the man’s the sort of person to develop a visible eye twitch.

“That’s understandable, you’ve just received a lot of very surprising information. I am Kedisilo, the High Mage of XXXX, Chényào.”

“Oh, hold up. I don’t know you that well, use my full name.”

Kedisilo takes a deep, tempering breath through his nose. Frustration is clearly bubbling under his forcibly placid exterior; how much would it take to make that boil over? Kedisilo should thank his lucky stars that he didn’t manage to grab Chényào when he was a teenager. Fifteen year old him would’ve kept pushing. Now him just wants to fry his fish, eat his dinner, go to sleep ﹘ Ah. To be truthful… Well, he’d play video games for a couple hours instead of sleeping because it’s the weekend, after all. He’d probably sneak in a game or sixteen after dinner and then pass out; his willpower’s pretty weak, all things considered. Yet another reason why he simply shouldn’t be here. 

“Of course, my apologies. Now, as I was trying to say before, to the north there’s﹘”

“Yeah, about that.” Chényào wonders if an isekai victim’s ever been murdered in the receiving chamber; that’d have to be some sort of new record, right? Unfortunately for Chényào’s enjoyment, but fortunately for Kedisilo’s blood pressure, Chényào’s sick of sitting on his ass and sulking. The sooner he gets this done, the quicker he can get home. His fish might be a lost cause but his ranking on Apex Legends can still be saved.

“This devil you mentioned﹘what is that, a subcategory of demon? Some distinct species local to this world? Literally just a descriptor and you weren’t being literal?” Chényào levers himself to his feet, grocery bags still in hand. Kedisilo seems caught off guard; Chényào barely restrains himself from snapping his fingers condescendingly and telling the man to keep up, both literally and metaphorically. Sure, he wasn’t actively paying attention, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t listening﹘he caught the important phrases, at least. Besides, these things usually flow in the same way. Someone or thing is evil; a huge threat which can only be solved by a stolen hero. Save us, save us, Chényào, we can’t do anything on our own for plot reasons.

“Ah﹘yes, yes! He is certainly a type of demon, how astute of you!” Well, that inflection sure isn’t suspicious at all. 

Chényào… doesn’t really care, to be honest. He’s got a goal and entangling himself further in this plot than is absolutely needed is not something he’s going to do. Kedisilo trots after him as he heads towards the door. The rest of the magic users ﹘ clearly just mob characters, seeing as how not a single one of them has taken off their hoods or said anything louder than a quiet murmur﹘move out of their way without hesitation. Chényào goes out of his way to avoid looking at them. If he catches sight of some identifiable feature, it’ll be more likely that he’ll run into that person later. A distinctive feature glimpsed here means a stupid sub-plot later that Chényào does not need. 

“His name is Whiro. The destruction he's already caused is catastrophic. He's... he's truly the worst sort of demon, absolutely inhuman﹘”

This better not be one of those stories where the bad guy is just misguided, or turned evil due to outside machinations or deep societal flaws which mean they’re a sympathetic villain worthy of redemption. Those are the sorts of villains best kept for young people. Chényào turns thirty in two months; he doesn’t have the energy or the faith in humanity to pull off a Naruto-type power of friendship speech. With Chényào’s luck, that’s exactly the sort of world he’s been pulled into. If he didn’t think it’d jinx him further, he’d cross his fingers and hope for a regular evil villain who has zero complexity apart from wanting to kill and bathe in blood and entrails.

Some real black and white, for eight year old’s hero’s journey type bullshit. The sort of thing which would have him steering well clear of the manhwa. What does it matter that it’s narratively unfulfilling? Chényào isn’t here for narrative fulfilment, he’s here to get back to his memory foam mattress and his computer.

By the time Chényào discovers the type of ‘hero’ the city’s mages had been trying to summon, he’s hours past the capacity to think about it critically, or even give a shit. They don’t let him sleep, is the problem. They have a schedule to keep, an agenda, a hundred important fucking things that Chényào could not care less about. He worked all day before they stole him but still they bustle him back and forth across the﹘palace? Manor house? Estate? Whatever it is, it’s separated from the city sprawl he’s glimpsed through windows by a high fence and gardens.

He met a goddamn king with radish patterned grocery bags in hand. 

By that time, he’d already been forced to stay awake through three separate meetings about the potential fate of the world; a brief but somehow dragging overview on etiquette and cultural faux pas; and the scholarly, martial and magical education schedule being drawn up for him. Maybe they were wearing him down on purpose so that he wouldn’t have the energy to needle the king. Kedisilo probably realised that there was no chance of Chényào having an intrinsic respect for royalty. The only way to keep Chényào from being jailed or executed due to his sheer irreverence was to make sure he was barely conscious the entire time. 

Smart move. Annoying, but smart. 

That was hours ago, now, and still Chényào is awake. They’re moving. Walking, talking, on their way to yet another meeting﹘with the tailor, this time. Why Chényào can’t simply do everything in his sweatpants remains a mystery. At some point between the first meeting and standing in front of a king, he and Kedisilo had picked up a third member of their party﹘almost painfully nondescript, taking notes with a fountain pen at a speed which hurts Chényào’s wrists just to witness. Kedisilo’s aide, briefly introduced as they walked from one appointment to the next. Chényào forgot his name instantly, though not by design which makes him suspect some magical fuckery.

He does not care enough to bring it up.

It’s been long enough since he woke up for work this morning, that it definitely actually happened yesterday morning in his native timezone. For a brief moment, Kedisilo had mentioned an entire suite of rooms that would be Chényào’s for the duration of his (hopefully short) stay. They had not visited it, not even so Chényào could place his groceries down. He wishes he were experiencing all this through a montage; that way, he could skip ahead and avoid all of it, instead of trudging along on his way to being measured for new clothes for some unknown fucking reason. It’s not like he sticks out that much, really, considering Chényào’s yet to see four people wearing clothes from the same time and place.

The few maids he’s seen look to be wearing someone’s vague, idealised notion of what a Victorian maid would be wearing. Chényào’s new history teacher had apparently come to meet them in the library directly from the Mughal Empire. The king had been wearing some Baroque monstrosity that had almost burnt Chényào’s tired eyes. The few noble ladies he’s seen have been wearing everything from Italian Renaissance finery to summer dresses that could’ve come out of some fifties Autumn/Winter collection. Kedisilo himself, underneath the mage robes, appears to be wearing a nice, dark blue yukata.

They’re skirting the edges of some great, green space﹘not quite the gardens buffering the edge of this land from the rest of the city. No decorative flower bushes or hedges, just a wide grassy space dotted with the occasional tree. There’s a patch of dappled grass under the nearest tree that Chényào eyes with no small amount of longing; it looks perfect for napping. His already slow walking speed drops to a crawl. Kedisilo notices immediately, dropping his pace to match. He’s been doing that all day, though Chényào isn’t quite sure if it’s vigilance or an attempt at camaraderie. It doesn’t matter to him either way, when both result in Chényào unable to slink away and find an out of the way place to sleep in. 

Chényào thinks about saying﹘again, for the umpteenth time﹘that he needs some fucking sleep or else. Decides against it. Sooner or… well, very soon, Kedisilo’s going to discover that Chényào’s ‘or else’ isn’t an empty threat. Kedisilo doesn’t say anything either, simply smiles. The only noise is the sound of wood against wood; two men on the green, sparring with wooden weapons. 

Chényào focuses on the weapons because he is officially Not Thinking About the sartorial inconsistencies in this world. A man has his limits, and apparently Chényào’s is whatever the fuck is happening with this world’s fashion.

(Perhaps the most frustrating thing is that, so far, not a single piece of fashion has matched the architecture. This place is a weird mix of art deco and art nouveau, as if some artist had gotten it mixed up halfway through and never bothered to correct themself﹘together, that’s a good forty year period, at least.

And no one matches. 

But it’s fine. 

Chényào’s here to defeat a demon, not pick their worldbuilding to pieces.)

“Kedisilo~!” The shorter man sing-songs, pairing his words with an extravagant twirl. His long, thick braid swings around as he moves, his faded green hanfu fluttering as though someone’s lurking just out of sight with a wind machine to make sure the shot’s perfect. His grin’s a slash of white on his light brown face and the fucking huge double headed axe he manouvers effortlessly means that he’s definitely going to be part of the main cast. The fact that it’s a wooden sparring weapon doesn’t tone down the intimidation factor at all. 

It’s hard to puzzle out whether he really is as tiny as he looks, or if Chényào’s perspective is just thrown off by the large weapon and the huge Māori man standing next to him. Said man is wearing braes and a bright red T-tunic that look like they came straight off a viking, leather belt with seax included. He’s got some sort of fighting staff in hand and he doesn’t chase his opponent, simply swings the staff up to rest against his shoulder and tilts his head to the side, observing. Whatever expression he’s making, it’s too subtle for Chényào to be able to see through the lines of the dark, traditional tattoos which cover half his face. 

If either one of the men is of regular height, then the other is very short or very tall. Any possible calculation is thrown even further off by the considerable bun the Māori man has pulled his hair up into, giving him an extra couple of inches on top of everything else. Instead of attempting to figure it out, Chényào gives the pair of them a slow blink and stops walking. Kedisilo stops walking as well, though he doesn’t turn his attention to the man currently bouncing up and down, swinging the double headed axe back and forth without any apparent care. 

“Are you alright? The tailor’s not too far from here.” Kedisilo gives Chényào a bland smile. Over his shoulder, Chényào watches the slow raise of the Māori man’s eyebrow, the movement accentuated by the fine lines of the tattoos that arch over both his eyebrows and part of his forehead. 

“Don’t ignore me, aah, so rude. Where’s that﹘”

A moment of dissonance; the translation spell pauses. Chényào notices only due to the lack, the sudden absence of pressure behind his ears that he hadn’t even noticed. It gives him the space to hear the man’s actual voice; half an octave deeper than what the translation spell slides directly into Chényào’s ears, but otherwise the same.

Mèimei, the man says, perfectly understandable, and then the pressure reasserts itself forcefully enough that Chényào barely stops himself from teetering over, despite standing still. He really, really hates when things mess with his inner ear.

“﹘little sister you promised us, ah?”

The words come all at once, as though racing to catch up with what’s being said in real time. It takes Chényào half a moment to untangle it, thrown by the pressure and the speed and the ‘mèimei’ said in accented if understandable Mandarin. 

The man in the hanfu is smirking, staring at Kedisilo’s back with an intensity that spells trouble for someone who cares. The Māori man, his warm brown eyes locking with Chényào’s over Kedisilo’s shoulder, grins. His tattoos arch over his eyebrows and then down along his broad nose, surrounding his mouth before ending in swirls over his chin. When he grins, all of it shifts with his amusement. He’s clearly figured it out before his friend has.

At least he seems to be inviting Chényào in on the joke, rather than laughing at him. 

Chényào doesn’t bother to sigh, though he feels the urge. The hero was clearly supposed to be some plucky lass﹘probably ‘destined’ to fall in love with one of the members of her demon hunting party… or a prince; or an enemy she saves or is saved by, depending on the angst content of the storyline. The who doesn’t matter; the fact that it’s probably reduced the likelihood of Chényào getting home does. Why would there need to be a working way out, when clearly the heroine is supposed to stay forever with whatever fool she fell in love with.

The only positive thing about this revelation is that at least Chényào can cross a romance subplot off his list of worries. It’s not like the romantic interests lined up for a teen-ish girl would be of any interest to him﹘or be interested in him, for that matter. No assortment of -dere’s, no older brother figure; Chényào will likely be the older brother figure, considering. 

Chényào raises a hand in a vaguely sarcastic greeting. He debates trying to do something cute with his voice for half a minute before dismissing the idea. Who knows what his voice sounds like to them, anyway. No need to confuse the matter further. 

“You can still call me mèimei, if you really want.”

The shorter man’s borderline mean smile freezes, his eyes widening in sudden, unwanted comprehension. His face turns faintly ruddy with embarrassment, something clearly not helped by his companion’s boisterous laughter. 

“Good timing, little sister!” The Māori man says, the tattoos on his brown face shifting even further as his grin widens even more. “We’re just preparing your lessons, though we’ll have to get a new practice kit. You’re a fair sight taller than expected.”

Kedisilo’s smile tightens at the corners; after spending all day with Chényào, the man clearly doesn’t have many nerves left to dance on. 

“Sǐ Chényào, these are two of your teachers. They’re good at fighting and not much else.”

“Wow, rude much? We’re also real good at﹘” Whatever they’re both apparently good at, Chényào will never know. The Māori man covers his friend’s mouth with a broad hand, winking at Chényào as he does so. 

“Teaching! We’re excellent teachers, glad to be teaching you. I’m Kahurangi Te Awa, you can call me Rangi, and this little rascal is Xú Ān, courtesy Zhēnyè.” 

“Grateful as I am to know that nothing’s on fire﹘yet﹘we have an appointment to get to.” Kedisilo hasn’t turned to look at either man since they stopped walking. He doesn’t start now, either, which is certainly interesting. Chényào would have to be dead to miss the thick undercurrent of tension currently weighing down the air. Xú Zhēnyè’s sharp phoenix eyes are dangerously narrowed over his apparently carefree grin, lending his entire demeanour an added air of menace. The tattoos on Kahurangi Te Awa’s face make it hard to discern whether his eyes are half closed from his broad grin, or from an equal amount of animosity. 

The fine lines around Kedisilo’s eyes deepen for just a moment; a muscle in his jaw jumps. For the space of a single heartbeat, his eyes flicker down, away. And then his smile is perfectly placid again, one hand coming up to hover near Chényào’s arm, intent on shuffling him on to their tailor’s appointment. 

“Old man, what’s the time table? We gotta get started training﹘” 

It’s harder to catch this time, the translation spell obviously adaptive enough that it’s actively working to correct whatever happened before. Chényào barely hears it when Xú Zhēnyè calls him Yào-mèi without hesitation, the little brat.

“Sǐ Chényào!” 

What an interesting translation. How much of their speech is edited without anyone’s knowledge at all﹘ and if Chényào has noticed it, is he really the only person to realise? He doubts that it’s something intrinsic about him that’s caused such understanding. He’s no genius, he’s not even above average. Unfortunately, the puzzle’s intriguing enough that he’s curious, even through the thick fog of sleep deprivation. 

“Whatever meeting you’ve got can wait!” Xú Zhēnyè is clearly the brash party member, though his exact subtype has yet to be determined. Kahurangi Te Awa’s probably the cheerful, friendly one. All that’s missing is the strong silent type, and maybe an angry tsundere. Unless Xú Zhēnyè’s pulling double duty on that last one. So at least one more member of their adventuring party, to round it out. Of course, just because they’re his martial teachers, it doesn’t automatically mean they’re included in his adventuring party. Then again, given Xú Zhēnyè’s easily identifiable axe and the overall word count, it’s fairly unlikely that three to four entirely new characters would be introduced at this point. Maybe if Chényào had noticed anyone in the introductory magical portal sequence, but he most definitively had not.

So, Xú Zhēnyè and Kahurangi Te Awa are to quest with him. It’s simply logical.

Chényào doesn’t care about the obvious problems between these men; he especially doesn’t care about the power dynamics between them. However, his mere presence will likely tip whatever status quo they have and Chényào isn’t exactly about to let himself get unwillingly embroiled in a scheme. Best to make sure it happens on his own terms. Better than that; Chényào’s going to make sure he’s getting something out of it. 

“Weren’t you just saying it’s better to figure out if I’m more inclined to magical or martial means of fighting, High Mage?” Chényào takes a step to the side, around Kedisilo’s ushering hand, and the heartfelt sigh Kedisilo gives is almost drowned out by Xú Zhēnyè’s loud, pleased laugh. 

“I suppose it is a worthwhile use of the rest of your afternoon. Someone will collect you when it’s time for dinner and I will see you for magic lessons in the morning, if I don’t see you before. Rangi, keep Zhēnyè in line or I swear to the Mother﹘”

“No worries, Ked. We’re on our best behaviour, remember?”

Somehow, Chényào doubts it. Kedisilo obviously does as well, but he clearly knows how to pick his battles. Chényào walks past him, off the pavers and onto the firm grass. He’d been hoping for something softer, but needs must. Chényào lifts one hand in farewell, his grocery bag thwacking against his hip as he does so.

“See you,” he agrees. A few seconds later, he hears two pairs of footsteps retreating. Chényào doesn’t change his pace, no more excited to be walking towards Xú Zhēnyè and Kahurangi Te Awa than he’d been walking with Kedisilo and his aide. The same can’t be said for the men in front of him. Neither say a word while Kedisilo’s footsteps are still audible, but Xú Zhēnyè is excited enough that he’s almost vibrating. He appears to be restrained only by Kahurangi Te Awa’s gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. Finally, the hard sound of Kedisilo’s too modern boots fades away. 

Kahurangi Te Awa’s large brown hand disappears and for a second, Chényào honestly thinks that Xú Zhēnyè teleports. He chose the exact wrong moment to blink, needing to turn his head in order to find where the younger man had disappeared to. There’s a handful of wooden training weapons spread out on the grass, Xú Zhēnyè crouched in between them, muttering to himself as he sorts through them. Chényào keeps walking but he’s obstructed from his target by Kahurangi Te Awa shifting slightly. Given the breadth of his broad shoudlers and how he's more or less that same width all the way down his large body, the small movement is more than enough to put him directly in Chényào's path.

Before Chényào can figure out the easiest way to get around Kahurangi Te Awa, Xú Zhēnyè springs to his feet. He rushes towards Chényào, jiàn in one hand and his two headed axe in the other. He stops on a dime, scant inches away from Chényào. The grin splitting his face exudes youthful excitement instead of the focused menace from before.

He is also, unfortunately, nose to nose with Chényào. If Chényào straightened from his tired slump, he’d probably be about an inch taller. Chényào pauses. His eyes slide up, and up. Kahurangi Te Awa stands a full foot above him; above them both. Somewhere, deep inside, Chényào’s sixteen year old self is having a meltdown. All Chényào’s regular self is thinking is﹘ 

If Chényào sat between Kahurangi Te Awa and a tree, no one would be able to see him napping. 

And then, a moment later,

If Xú Zhēnyè is the same height, then there's no question about it: Kahurangi Te Awa had been aiming at Kedisilo, when he'd said he'd been expecting someone smaller. Aimed and hit very successfully, if Chényào's any judge.

“Right, Sǐ Chényào﹘”

Yào-mèi, says the slightly deeper echo of Xú Zhēnyè’s real voice. Chényào tilts the problem back and forth in his mind but can’t figure it out. ‘Yào-mèi’ and Chényào’s name were layered, that time. Subtle enough that Chényào wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t known to look. Annoying in the way that feels like a faint, unscratchable itch on the back of his skull.

“At least call me jiě,” Chényào says in vague protest. Xú Zhēnyè’s mouth drops open, his eyes widen and on his next bounce he stumbles forward. Xú Zhēnyè recovers himself before Kahurangi Te Awa’s concerned hand has to catch him. The man’s sharp black eyes flicker around, snapping between the walkway and the windows, before finally settling back on Chényào. 

Well now, isn’t that interesting. Xú Zhēnyè’s noticed it, too. He doesn’t mention it. Plasters that wide grin back on his face and says, 

“Sure thing, Chényào!”

Yào-jiě, he chirps with a wink. Brat. 

“Chényào﹘wait, just checking that’s your first name, the way Yèye’s is.” Kahurangi Te Awa bounces his staff against his shoulder a few times before he snaps it forward with a deft twist of his wrist. The crack of wood against wood. Kahurangi Te Awa’s staff bats away a stray sweep of Xú Zhēnyè’s jiàn; air from the swift movement hits Chényào’s face. Neither man acknowledges the near miss. An intimidation tactic, clumsiness or something more sinister - something left over from the translation spell breaking. Impossible to say. Chényào wants to stop thinking and sleep.

“Yes,” Chényào says, after staring at both of them for a few long seconds. “Chényào is my given name. Am I to assume that you have the opposite name order?”

“Ah, yeah, sorry I should’ve said that first. Kahurangi is my given name, Te Awa’s my father’s name. Nice to meet you. Do you handshake? Hug? Hongi?” Kahurangi Te Awa’s voice changes for the last word. Softly spoken, warm; slightly higher than Chényào had expected. It’s accompanied by yet more pressure, sparks of not quite pain flickering along the base of his skull. Uncomfortable pressure, the threat of potentially more pain; the sort of warning that would discourage further investigation. 

Kahurangi Te Awa’s translated voice doesn’t overwrite his regular one, no translation is attempted at all. Instead, the man’s fake voice simply continues in time with his lips as he says, “Don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, just welcome.”

“I sleep,” Chényào replies, ignoring the mystery in favour of staring up into Kahurangi’s dark brown eyes. One tattooed eyebrow raises in reply, a sly smirk tugging up one side of his lips before Chényào clarifies, “Literally. I’m going to sleep.”

“We haven’t done any training yet,” Kahurangi gives a mild protest, though it doesn’t sound like he plans to stop Chényào from doing as he likes. Either he’s an extremely indulgent teacher or he’s simply the only person in this entire world who’s seen and cared about the dark bags beneath his eyes.

“Chényào, which do you wanna try first?” Xú Zhēnyè brandishes the weapons in both hands, silently showing the two options and ignoring Chényào's very firm assertion. Before Chényào can reiterate that he wants to sleep, Xú Zhēnyè continues.

“Right, right, how would you know? Well, my personal favourite is this baby here﹘” Xú Zhēnyè hefts the double headed axe with a fond expression. “Well. Not this one specifically, though she’s a beaut. My actual baby’s so beautiful it’s gonna make you weep.”

Chényào cannot overstate how unlikely that is to happen.

“I’ll train for as long as you want, so long as I get seven﹘no, eight. Eight full hours sleep and I’m all yours.” 

“...It’s barely three in the afternoon,” Xú Zhēnyè is translated as saying. Wèizhèng, he actually says, which… eh, Chényào’ll think about it later.

“I’ll use the jiàn. Later.” Neither man try to stop him as he approaches the dappled patch of grass beneath the tree, though they certainly trail him the entire way.

“You know, Rangi, this really wasn’t what I expected.” Ran-gē, Chényào barely hears. He wonders if Kahurangi has ever heard the weird double speak; wonders if it’s a common phenomenon or localised. Given how surprised Xú Zhēnyè had looked, his immediate paranoia… 

“Man looks like he doesn’t know what sleep is, Yèye, give him a break.”

It might take some work, but Chényào’s sure he can sleep, even if the two of them talk loudly over his supine body the entire time. 

“You really planning on sleeping on the hard ground? For eight hours?”

“I’ve slept in worse places,” Chényào says, which is unfortunately true. 

“Didn’t they give you a room? Wait, did they give you a room? Chényào, don’t let them treat you bad! We’ll find you a room!” Xú Zhēnyè sounds honestly offended on his behalf and more than willing to do something about it.

For half a second, Chényào really thinks that it’ll be that easy. Xú Zhēnyè will fuck off into the winding hallways and Kahurangi Te Awa will likely chase him to keep him from trouble. Chényào doesn’t hear a single footstep, though he does hear the swish of cloth. He slits one eye open to find that one of Kahurangi’s thick arms is thrown around the other man’s shoulders. It keeps Xú Zhēnyè in place rather effortlessly, though whether that’s because of the sheer difference in size between the two men or because Xú Zhēnyè doesn’t bother to squirm away, Chényào doesn’t know. 

“Aiiii, Yèye, use that brain of yours. Of course they gave him a room. But, what’s the only reason Ked stopped dragging him here and there all over this place?”

“Because he was gonna train with us.”

“So…”

“So if he goes back to his room, Kedisilo will find out that he’s not training and then it’s back to running around. Shit, the ground does look appealing, when that’s the other option.”

Chényào can’t quite get a fix on what sort of character Xú Zhēnyè is supposed to be. Brash and cheerful characters usually swear less. Assuming this isn’t a story aimed at adults, at least. Foolish and obsessive? About weapons, maybe; isn’t there a character subtype about weapons? Probably. Maybe if Chényào hadn’t been awake for more than twenty eight or so hours, he’d be able to think of it. 

Not that he’s supposed to be thinking of these people as characters or archetypes, now that he’s here. It’s all fine and good to pick apart the narrative and the plot structure and the character lineup after, when he’s back in his own apartment and filing a report. Doing it while he’s here is just crass, despite how much easier it makes things. There’s no weight to the decisions he makes, his successes and failures, if this is just a storybook world populated by characters who run on their predestined tracks. 

But they’re real, they’re all real, and the dangers they face are real. The cataclysm that threatens them and the people of this country (or maybe the whole world ﹘ is there a difference? Kedisilo talked a lot and Chényào had tuned him back out fairly quickly) is real. Capable of terrible and horrific destruction. It’s not a game, there aren’t any save points. No prewritten plot point, no predestination that Chényào can’t fuck up. 

If you die in isekai, you die in real life, isn’t that what the kids are always saying?

Not that it matters, much. Chényào’s not going to die, he’s not going to fuck up this mission. He’s going to do his assigned quest and go home, and Kahurangi Te Awa and Xú Zhēnyè and Kedisilo will all be happy and healthy at the end of it. 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Rangi?”

“Usually I would say, not a fucking chance, Yèye. But right now?”

Chényào almost jumps out of his skin, feeling two sets of hands picking him up off the ground. His eyes shoot open, glaring at both men. Xú Zhēnyè lets him go with a cheeky smile, but Kahurangi just shifts his grip and then ﹘ 

“Put me down, Kahurangi Te Awa or I swear to fuck﹘” From his place dangling over one broad shoulder, Chényào’s threat has very little effect. One of Kahurangi’s large hands has settled across the back of Chényào’s thighs, the warmth of his body heat almost scalding through the thin material of his sweats. 

“Shh, shhhh, you’ve passed out from exhaustion. Terrible business.” The gentle sway of Kahurangi’s steps isn’t jarring, at least. This is honestly probably more uncomfortable for the Māori man than it is for Chényào, given that Chényào’s hip bones and and ribs are fairly sharp, whereas Kahurangi’s shoulder is broad and the thick muscle is covered with a nice, plush layer of fat.

…Actually, Chényào’s fairly sure he’d be able to fall asleep like this. 

“Hefted my baby and keeled right over! I thought you’d passed away from the stress; I nearly cried, big sister,” Xú Zhēnyè says, which just sounds wrong. If Chényào has to listen to another faint but distracting echo of jiějie before he’s had any sleep he’s going to claw his way down from Kahurangi Te Awa’s shoulder in order to staple Xú Zhēnyè’s mouth closed. At least the brat thought to pick up Chényào’s groceries, the brightly patterned canvas swinging jauntily from the hand the younger man isn't holding his axe in.

“Don’t call me jiějie.”

Xú Zhēnyè doesn’t falter this time, though he visibly winces. Clearly the translation spell has to calibrate itself for each individual person, rather than as a borg-like monolith.

“Yào-jiě?”

“No.”

“Chén-jiě!”

“Xú Zhēnyè, do I know you? Do you know me? Shut your mouth.” Chényào pushes himself up with one hand on Kahurangi Te Awa’s broad back, unable to crane his head around to glare at Xú Zhēnyè before Kahurangi shrugs his shoulders and displaces Chényào’s handhold.

“Oof,” Chényào breathes more than says, as his lungs are suddenly compressed by the impact. 

“Passed out, remember? Exhausted, unconscious people don’t rise to bait.” How Kahurangi knows what was happening, despite hearing Xú Zhēnyè chirp nothing but Chényào’s name without any apparent change through the spell, he doesn’t know. Chényào sighs and doesn’t bother to struggle, acquiescing. He’s known Xú Zhēnyè for about ten minutes and he can already imagine the grin on his face. 

“Yeah, you can’t be that much older than me anyway, Chényào,” Yào-gē, this time. The overlapping words are still giving him a headache but he can see the wisdom in Kahurangi’s reminder. He’s unconscious, he’s as responsive as a rock, and he will be sleeping in the immediate future even if it’s right here on Kahurangi’s shoulder. Unfortunately for his resolve, Xú Zhēnyè keeps talking. 

“You’re what, twenty…three? Rangi’s twenty five and there’s no way you’re older than him, even with those old man eyebags.”

“I’m almost thirty, brat. Respect your elders.”

“Huh. Old man﹘” Lǎo Sǐ, he muses, like he wants to get his ass beat, “does have a nice ring to it.”

Kahurangi must be able to feel the way Chényào sighs because his shoulders shake with laughter, even if nothing more than a huff of breath escapes him. Chényào isn’t going to jeopardise the plan but he will remember this. For now, he lets himself go completely lax, nothing more than deadweight over Kahurangi’s shoulders. The man notices, the fingers curled around the outside of Chényào’s thigh giving an approving little pat. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” It’s a mumble, barely audible. Chényào doesn’t particularly care if Kahurangi or Xú Zhēnyè hears him, which must be fairly obvious considering Kahurangi’s equally quiet reply is,

“Does it matter?”

“Wake me when we get there.”

Kahurangi actually laughs, this time. Loud and warm; Chényào can feel it through his entire body. Xú Zhēnyè asks a question, and Kahurangi replies. Chényào drifts off to their… okay, calling their conversation ‘gentle’ or ‘quiet’ would be a straight up lie, considering Xú Zhēnyè’s apparent lack of volume control, but it’s pleasant. Better than a white noise machine, because Chényào barely gets two minutes of listening to them before he’s dead to the world.

Chényào is completely unphased when he shows no signs of magical aptitude; he’s the only one in the room so unaffected. Kedisilo’s aide sags, where he’s hovering nearby. His frantic note taking falters, fountain pen paused on the page, before he regains his composure. Kedisilo sighs, taking one hand off the desk in front of them in order to rub at his face. The array on his side of the desk starts to fade, the dull silver light representing the man’s magic slowly seeping away. Chényào’s hands are still in the required position; not even the near invisible glimmer of a three day old, heartily snapped glowstick had raised itself under his relentlessly mundane touch.

Kedisilo must be very disappointed, to find out the hero he’d pulled from another world was apparently completely fucking useless. No magic, and by breakfast this morning the entire expansive building had been buzzing with the knowledge that Sǐ Chényào had been so ill-suited to weapons training that he’d fainted clean away. Given that Chényào had somehow managed to sleep for a truly astonishing fifteen hours, he has no idea whether Xú Zhēnyè had spread the rumour purposefully or whether it was merely a side effect of his loud voice. Chényào hadn't known to ask, when he'd been blearily stumbling around the suite of rooms that the two men shared. He'd been more interested in the shower they'd shown him, and the communal breakfast hall they'd lead him to after he was clean and dressed in one of Xú Zhēnyè's hanfu.

...Dressed in a more or less appropriately sized hanfu only after the little bastard had handed him one of Kahurangi Te Awa's tunics. Chényào had been tempted to put it on anyway, but even as he'd thought it he'd realised the multitude of flags that would pop up the moment he stepped outside with the tunic doing its best to slide off his damn shoulders. Instead, he shouted through the door until an unrepentant Xú Zhēnyè left to go get him something else. Kahurangi Te Awa had filled what could have been an uncomfortable silence by asking about Chényào's home. Chényào had obliged him, realising later that it would've been a quaint team building moment - if only he hadn't been naked and starting to shiver in the chill of the tiled bathroom.

“Awkward,” Chényào deadpans, instead of attempting an insincere apology. Kedisilo shakes his head, getting up from his seat at the other side of the table. Chényào had told them at the start that he had no magical aptitude, so the past few hours of increasing despair and frustration really aren’t on him at all. Kedisilo decided that Chényào didn’t know what he was talking about, simply because his home world lacked magic. And now, hours later, after multiple different tests, and after an excruciatingly detailed explanation of the different types of magic in this world and their colour correspondence, the only thing that can be said is that Chényào was right.

Not that he’s expecting Kedisilo to acknowledge that.

After Chényào’s repeated disinterest in… this entire world, it’s probably reasonable that Kedisilo hadn’t listened to him. But﹘look, Chényào’s a lot of things, but he wouldn’t have tried to squirm out of magical training if he honestly thought there was a chance that he could learn. Who doesn’t want to shoot fireballs or enchant objects or become the Avatar or something cool like that? Isn't that the dream isekai plot? Congratulations, the microwave that cooked your fish also gave you magical powers! Zap zap, motherfucker.

...Okay, that just sounds like some sort of radiation damage. Chényào has never thought to worry about potential radiation damage received through portal exposure; has anyone? Is this a minefield of scientific research waiting to happen? Either way, Chényào won't be involved. He's as much a scientist as he is a magician.

“It can’t be helped,” Kedisilo says, tone somewhere in the vicinity of consoling. 

“What now?” Chényào asks, resting his elbow against the edge of the desk, chin in hand. 

“Without even the barest spark of magic within you, there’s… there’s really nothing that can be taught. If there was something there, anything, we could﹘” Kedisilo cuts himself off, his frustration carried more in the tone of his voice than his face. 

“But there’s nothing. I am, in essence, as magically inclined as a rock.”

Kedisilo rolls his shoulders in something that’s not quite a shrug, but close enough. His eyes squint slightly in discomfort. 

“Actually, rocks﹘”

“Earth magic, yeah, I remember,” Chényào cuts the man off before he is subject to another lecture about how magic works, here. Despite its length, the lecture had been interesting and overflowing with things that will probably come in handy later, but Chényào's attention span is pathetically low at all times. He just wanted to make a joke, not subject himself to further educational bullshit.

“I am sorry, Sǐ Chényào. The pressure you're under is immense and, so far, I’ve been nothing but useless to you.”

“I could say the same.” The olive branch is slight, but Chényào’s not a completely heartless bastard. Kedisilo gives a faint smile, barely more than a shadow; it’s more sincere than every smile he wore yesterday. Chényào resists the urge to start digging; he does not care about what's happening in this man's life or how it impacts the plot. He is here to kill a demon and then leave. Everything else is window dressing and Chényào is walking around with his eyes closed, thank you very much.

“I know you feel ill-suited to combat but that, at least, can be trained. Kahurangi Te Awa and Xú Zhēnyè are both… they’ve experienced much and lost much, these past years. Whatever their personalities, they will help you to the best of their abilities. And their abilities are truly formidable. And whatever else, they're loyal."

Chényào blinks, thrown by Kedisilo's last, vehement statement. He resolutely ignores it, opting to lean back in his chair and idly trace his eyes along the bookshelves.

“Hopefully I'll learn before the demon Whiro wipes this entire city off the map, and maybe the country with it.”

“We have time,” Kedisilo lies. Chényào doesn’t call him on it, as it won’t matter either way. In a week or so, once Chényào’s knocked the rust off his skills, his two teachers will report back to Kedisilo and that’ll be that. Off to find and fight a demon, all for the slim chance that completing the quest will send him home.

God, Chényào hopes there isn’t too much walking involved. He doesn’t have the advantage of a montage to cut down the time, he’d have to experience every single step. And he doesn’t even have his phone to entertain him, no music to distract him; it gave up the ghost at some point yesterday, battery completely dead. Chényào didn’t exactly bring his charger with him to the shops, and even if he had, this place doesn’t seem to have electricity. Candles and oil lamps and luminescent magic crystals dotted around, instead. 

Chényào makes a mental note to pack some games before they leave. This place probably has a weird assortment of boardgames, and it definitely has cards﹘even if he has to learn new faces and rules, it’ll keep him entertained. Hell, he’d even take a tangram or a damn rubix cube over nothing at all.

Maybe his quest for entertainment will lead him to the last member or members of the party. Hmm, singular additional party member, Chényào decides. Brings it up to four, a nice round number. With the overburdened education timetable that Kedisilo and his aide are currently blocking out, Chényào will be lucky to get enough sleep, let alone meet new people. He can’t even self-study. The translation spell doesn’t work on written language and though there are some basic literacy classes which will be sprinkled in, they don’t exactly have time to wait for him to gain any sort of fluency. So, lectures. Hours and hours of face to face learning, all of which is with people who he’s already met. None of them have stood out, apart from Kedisilo and the king. Chényào’s fairly certain that he’s not going to be travelling with either man. 

If they’re going to fit any slice of life into this plot, there’s really not time for more than one new person to be introduced, at this point. 

God, Chényào hopes there’s some slice of life. A fun cooking montage; reading peacefully under the warm sun; finding someone’s lost pet; walking together in silence, content with﹘

No, scratch the walking. There’s probably going to be too much of that on the quest. Napping together, yeah. Soft grass, their heads laying near each other. His messy hair mixing with Xú Zhēnyè's plait and Kahurangi Te Awa’s thick waves, the sound of their snores; maybe some cloud watching. Chényào's an absolute fiend for cloud watching.

Kahurangi Te Awa and Xú Zhēnyè don’t appear to have assigned training grounds. Or, if they do, they rarely use them. Instead, the two of them walk through the corridors and gardens until they find a place that suits whatever whim they have that day. There’s probably some sort of rhyme or reason to it ﹘ something magical, given the deep blue glow that flickers at Kahurangi Te Awa’s fingertips for a brief second as he and Xú Zhēnyè peek their heads through doorways and around trees. 

Something secret, too, given the way Kahurangi Te Awa always positions his hands just so. Impossible to see the tell-tale magical glow from any sort of distance, with his fingers tucked into his palms and Xú Zhēnyè’s boisterous self drawing all the attention. 

Chényào wonders if he’s being allowed to see these things intentionally, or whether they don’t think he’s a threat - to them, at least. A nice but bewildering show of trust, if true. 

It’s Day Five of Chényào’s unwilling vacation and both of his martial trainers are well aware that he’s deadly with a sword in hand. He’s trained in the jiàn  before, extensively. He knows how to hold it, how to move; if Chényào ever forgot his forms, he’s sure his old master would claw her way back from the watery grave of the Deep Ocean just to kick his ass. All he needs is time to regain muscle memory, until swinging a sword is as easy as breathing again. Both men had been able to recognise his skill from the first real training session, held in a clearly disused room in a corner of the third level of the north wing. 

Neither had asked, though they'd both been surprised and then - not quite pleased. An odd look on both their faces, easy enough to miss between Chényào's focus on his forms and how quickly each man had removed the expression from their face. As Chényào Does Not Care, he hadn't chased it. Hadn't wondered at the sorrow that lingered around the tattooed corners of Kahurangi Te Awa's mouth, the frustration poorly hidden in the clench of Xú Zhēnyè's jaw. But, at the end, they'd both smiled at him. Kahurangi Te Awa had given him an approving pat on the back, Xú Zhēnyè had nodded, and Chényào had contented himself with the knowledge that this entire fucking farce would be kicking off properly, soon.

And then Kahurangi Te Awa had placed one large finger against his lips in an obvious request for Chényào before saying,

“Ah, don’t worry, Chényào! As long as you work hard, you’ll get there in the end.”

They sparred with him next, wooden weapon against wooden weapon. And they had smiled and nodded and approved of him with their gestures and their intent in the spars and the heaviness of their hits - and every word which had left their mouths had been the sort of encouragement you give to someone who can barely tell a sword's hilt from its blade. They broke for lunch, and walked with him in companionable silence to the dining hall and only once they were within earshot of another person did Xú Zhēnyè break the silence. He said, loudly, obviously,

“Wow, you really have no stamina at all, huh? We’ve only been training since breakfast and look at you, you can barely walk! Maybe we should just bring dinner to you.”

“Little by little, Chényào. Don’t fret. Yèye, don’t be a prick.” Kahurangi Te Awa answered, one large hand hovering near Chényào’s back, as though to catch him if he fell. Whatever con they're running, they should count themselves lucky that Chényào doesn't care what people think of him and has no great sense of self pinned to his martial ability. He doesn't know anyone here well enough to desire their good opinion, otherwise he might be inclined to call their bullshit. But he knows no one, and cares for no one, and it has been a long time since pride made him reckless. So instead of bristling at the constant - and odd - belittlement, Chényào plays along. He let his legs wobble on the next step, swaying into the warmth of Kahurangi Te Awa’s hand, and shot his most wan smile at a passing courtier. Chényào figures he'll either find out their machinations eventually - or he'll be back home before anything comes of it. He continues to play along, each day, as the two men talk up how weak and untrained he is, in their own way. Lets himself wobble and waver, dabs water at his temples and upper lip and runs a wet hand through his hair to really sell the image of a sweaty man with little stamina.

It’s been four days of this; sparring with each man in an out of the way place, re-sharpening his skills, receiving gestures of approval but not a single word. Of pretending to be the fish out of water protagonist that he’s not. Chényào wonders how much longer this can last, this state where he doesn’t ask them questions and they do him the same favour. It’s not that Chényào’s ashamed of his past experience, or how he learnt the jiàn, but… it didn’t end well. Perhaps it’s the same for Kahurangi Te Awa and Xú Zhēnyè; memories best left in the past, rather than stirred by careless questions.

Chényào wonders how many heroes have been ‘called’, before him. Did these two men train them, too? Is there a trail of plucky young heroes behind him, their corpses left scattered before the demon and their memories weighing on his trainers? Or is such straightforward reasoning not sinister enough? How many layers of plot are there - how many layers of plot can Chényào avoid, is the better question.

He does his best not to let it impact on him too much. Chényào's receptive to whatever Kahurangi Te Awa and Xú Zhēnyè have to teach him but, even though it's been years since he's needed to utilise his knowledge, Chényào is not an inexperienced warrior so their training days are filled with sparring. Mostly. Every second day, Chényào is absconded with to listen to lecture after lecture until it's late in the evening. So every other day, Kahurangi Te Awa and Xú Zhēnyè let him nap after lunch if he needs it. He mightn't be physically exhausted, but mentally? His brain feels like it's turning to mush. Sometimes he simply lays there with his eye closed and doesn't sleep, just listens to the two men sparring and talking. Sometimes, Kahurangi Te Awa ropes both Chényào and Xú Zhēnyè into a game of knucklebones. It's fun, even if both men are unrepentant cheats - Chényào wouldn't even know, except they give each other away, their games turning into wrestling matches about half the time. They manage to draw Chényào in, too, despite him barely knowing the game well enough to play it, let alone cheat.

They’re on their way back from lunch, now. No more free for all spar until tomorrow and Chényào is… 

It’s easy enough to pretend that he’s unmoved by the sparring. That he’d prefer to nap, or play on his phone ﹘ neither of Kahurangi Te Awa or Xú Zhēnyè know what a phone is, so his complaints have become mostly explanations about a mobile’s various functions and what he could be doing with one right now. Neither man knows him well enough to tell that he actually likes sparring with them. One on ones are good but the free for all spar is great. Each man for himself but subject to shifting alliances and sudden but inevitable betrayals. 

Chényào can’t actually remember the last time he had fun like this. It’d been a sinking realisation, staring at his ceiling last night, that he’s spent the last several years unconsciously chasing that high. Playing video games and pretending that the simulated battles give him the same adrenaline rush; imagining that there’s the true weight of camaraderie between himself and the online players he’ll meet once and then never again. Thinking about how long it’s been since he’s had this makes him feel too old, so he’s done his best to firmly push it out of his mind.

That had worked well enough to go to sleep. Not so much, in the midst of the spar. Not when he flicks an eyebrow up at Kahurangi, and the man grins his instant agreeance, both of them turning towards Xú Zhēnyè with intent. Not so much during lunch, sharing food and conversation. Shoulder knocking against shoulder, feet tangled beneath the table. Zhēnyè had placed more meat in Kahurangi’s bowl and half a second later, he’d done the same for Chényào. Kahurangi had mentioned that he thinks Chényào will really like the desert on the menu for tonight. Kahurangi isn't a fan of overly sweet things, but he's already planning on getting dessert just so Chényào can have two servings.

This is the fourth day he’s spent with them ﹘ are they really getting along this well, or has Chényào simply been desperately lonely for years without even realising it?

…Yeah, Chényào’s gonna pass on any further introspection, thanks. 

“You cooked this?” Chényào asks, unable to keep his surprise hidden. Zhēnyè pouts, spinning in the wheely chair that exists for some godforsaken reason. Fountain pens instead of biro’s, the moko on Kahurangi’s face has been chiselled and the man himself has no idea what a tattoo gun is, though the concept had intrigued him enough that Chényào’s answers on the subject had been exhausted long before the man’s questions had been. All that, yet there’s a fucking wheelie chair that spins a full three hundred and sixty degrees in their shared loungeroom. Receiving room, whatever. The space between Zhēnyè and Kahurangi’s personal rooms. 

It has a wheelie chair across from a bamboo luohan, a desk that looks like it’d been stolen directly from some British period drama, and half the textiles covering the soft furnishings look like they came straight from somewhere in West Africa. The small wood carvings dotting the room at least make sense, given that the designs carved into them are evocative of the lines and swirls and ferns carved into Kahurangi’s own face. 

Chényào has got to stop thinking about this. It’s been two and a half weeks and he’s made no progress in letting it go. Or figuring it out, which is the real sticking point.

“I can cook! Why are you so surprised? All you did the first time Ran-gē cooked lunch was thank him and compliment the food. This is discrimination, Yào-gē.”

Chényào eats more of the congee, ignoring Zhēnyè’s continuing grumbles. 

“I just wanted to give you some familiar food, do something nice, but nooooo, it’s all ‘wow Zhēn-dì, I can’t believe you can cook!’ and ‘huh, is the kitchen still standing?’ I get no respect around here.”

Not once has Chényào called him ‘Zhēn-di’ but the man apparently lives in hope.

“To be fair, Yèye, you’re the only one who’s said that.” Kahurangi’s taking up most of the room on the luohan, sharpening the latest in a long line up of knives and blades. Despite his constant parade of different sharp objects, his main weapon is that staff of his, the taiaha. What’s more, he claims his real specialty is hand to hand. Chényào’s fairly sure there’s not a single person who wouldn’t baulk in the face of a serious fistfight with the mountain of a man. Despite his height and weight, he’s just as quick on his feet as Zhēnyè is. Despite his height and weight, he's just as much of a mischevious little punk as Zhēnyè is, though he hides it better. Or maybe people just see his tattoos and his size and never look further; maybe Zhēnyè draws the eye on purpose.

“To be fair,” Chényào says, mimicking Kahurangi’s words though he’s unsure if either man realise it, given the limitations Chényào’s discovered in the translation spell. Maybe Kahurangi’s hearing the exact same thing, Mandarin translated back into Te Reo Māori along the exact same lines that it was translated for Chényào. Chényào’s unwilling to put that much faith in it, however. The longer he thinks about it, the more sinister it seems. Except he's not thinking about it, not working at the discrepancies that lurk around every corner, cause he doesn't care at all and is focused soley on returning to his own world. So he's just... being paranoid. Sure. Translation is a hard business, the meaning of every word shifting depending on who’s interpreting. An innocuous flaw in a system that's otherwise fairly good, considering it lets him speak with the people in this world. Even if Chényào’s only ever hearing an approximation of what they’re saying, the best fit from their language into his own. 

Of course, Chényào’d be able to understand Zhēnyè well enough, if only the spell gave him a chance.

“﹘ You do not look like the sort of young man who can cook.” Chényào takes another bite of honestly delicious congee to cover his smile as Zhēnyè shouts in overexaggerated offence, shooting to his feet quickly enough that the wheelie chair slams into the desk. Thankfully the thing is hardwood; it’d have to be, to put up with the hard wear both men put it through. Zhēnyè’s baby ﹘ the real thing, not the wooden facsimile he’s been trying to convince Chényào to use when they train ﹘ is currently laying across its surface, uncaring of the unfinished paperwork that lay beneath it.

Why paperwork is such a constant across worlds, Chényào cannot fathom. Multi-universal cruelty, perhaps. 

Of course, it’s much crueller on whoever is waiting on reports that will either never be finished, or perhaps be turned in a month or seven late by an unrepentant Kahurangi who’s filled it out for both of them. Chényào can imagine Kahurangi's smile as he turns them in, oh so sincere and apologetic. He'll probably say something about how he tried to wrangle Yèye, really he did. Next time for sure! And some poor paper pusher will be bowled over by the grin and the soft eyes and only realise later that Kahurangi's equally to blame and is in fact an enabler. It didn't take Chényào long to realise that the relationship between the two men wasn't 'one sensible man and one chaos gremlin.' Instead it's 'one fall guy and one straight man and, together, they can achieve amazing feats of chaos and still be trusted with responsibility somehow.'

Chényào refuses all blame in the fireworks escapade of four days ago. He's tired and grumpy and he clearly doesn't have the patience to teach either of these chucklefucks how to make gunpowder.

However, he's more than willing to capitalise on Kahurangi's inclination to encourage any sort of plot. If Chényào gets the ball rolling, he can count on Kahurangi to back him up. Between the two of them Chényào knows they can trick Zhēnyè into making them at least a three course meal, if not more.

“I am a great cook! Ran-gē, tell him. No, that’s not enough ﹘ Sǐ Chényào, I challenge you! You and me, the kitchens, tomorrow. Zòngzi verse﹘.”

Xú Zhēnyè looks so intense, Chényào can’t wait to﹘

Chényào drops the spoon, unable to keep his grip with the pain searing through his skull. Zòngzi echoes through his skull, untranslated. Zhēnyè’s real voice vibrating through his inner ear in a way that’s reminiscent of standing too close to a speaker at a loud concert. Pain but not pain, but the only way his brain can interpret it is pain and he’s left gasping for breath and close to tumbling out of his seat by the time it’s over.

The only reason he’s not sprawled on the floor is Kahurangi; one hand curled around his shoulder, the other cupping the back of his neck and supporting his head. He’s crouched next to Chényào’s chair, making himself small so as to not crowd Chényào. Like this, his hair almost appears to be the biggest part of him. The light from the oil lamp is almost hypnotic in the way it spills over Kahurangi's dark hair, freed from its habitual bun. Easy enough to focus on, as his brain slowly stops being a little bit on fire. Chényào has the vauge notion to be grateful that it hasn't rendered him light sensitive.

Kahurangi’s thumb traces soothing circles at the base of Chényào’s skull. After a few minutes, when his eyes feel less prone to melting from his sockets, Chényào slides his gaze away from Kahurangi’s comforting bulk and the repetitive, familiar lines of his moko in favour of looking for Xú Zhēnyè. Kid’s been too silent; Chényào would’ve guessed he’d be making a racket. Hovering, wailing, clinging to Kahurangi’s shoulders, something like that. 

Instead, he’s standing in front of the door, his axe held in a ready position. His face is set into hard lines and he looks far too vigilant to be standing within his own home. 

“I figured it out,” Chényào rasps, unsurprised when Kahurangi slides his hand around so that his thumb’s pressed to Chényào’s lips in warning. Chényào nods, waving his hand halfheartedly, then continues, “Xú Zhēnyè, you got Kahurangi Te Awa to cook this for you and tried to pass it off as your own.”

“Aah, Yào-gē, you’re so mean to me.” Zhēnyè’s voice is completely inflectionless but his muscles slowly start to untense from their ready position. He walks away from the door, shifting his axe to a one handed grip as he skirts the edges of the room. Kahurangi moves out of the way, hands lingering against Chényào until he’s sure that Chényào won’t collapse without his support. Chényào manages to stay upright, equillibrium returning, and Kahurangi approaches the door. His hands spark that deep, sea blue; brighter in this room than Chényào’s ever seen outside of it. 

Zhēnyè walks to each of the hand carved figurines, moving which shelf they rest on, which direction they face. Chényào tries to figure out why - more than just 'because magic' - but doesn't get there. After the confirmation that he's as mundane as can be, none of his education had focued on magic expect for how to get around it. No in depth magical theory, no lecture on the placement of pretty little wood carvings. Chényào picks up his bowl and starts to stir it, more for something to do than out of any lingering hunger. It doesn’t take long for Kahurangi to follow Zhēnyè’s circuit around the room. All of the carvings are different; people, animals, fish hooks, canoes, flowers. Kahurangi runs a gentle finger along each one of them in sequence, a blue glow sparking under his touch and flowing out to fill the carved designs. Dust motes being highlighted in faded blue, when they drift across otherwise invisible lines springing to live between the carved statuettes.

Oh, that’s clever. Arrays hidden in the art and made with intent, individual pieces coming together to make a whole. Chényào guesses that it'd probably be incredibly hard to spot what they were, without taking in the whole of them. Yet more subterfuge, more secrecy; another piece to the ever unfurling puzzle. He wonders who carved them, as Chényào hasn’t seen so much as a single scrap of shaved off wood in the entire time he’s known them. No wood waiting to be carved, no tools. Maybe they bought them, instead of making them. Chényào hasn’t yet been allowed to wander the markets down in the city, but he’s heard they’re full of weird stuff. There could be an abundance of these unique little statuettes and whatever array they make. Somehow, he doubts it.

“Probably don’t tell old Ked about this, hey,” Kahurangi says, after he’s done a full circuit of the room. The walls are awash with a subtle blue glow, barely visible; it shifts and fades and brightens and looks hauntingly like an ocean tide. Chényào stares at a patch of otherwise bare wall for a moment, horrified and entranced, before he pulls his eyes away. Kahurangi's seated himself back on the luohan, directly aross from Chényào. Zhēnyè’s returned to his post by the door, shifting his weight between his feet. He looks uncomfortable in a way he very rarely does. Kahurangi just looks tired.

“If I was going to say something, I would have already.” A slight pause, before Chényào double checks, gesturing to the glowing wood carvings, “I presume that’s a privacy measure.”

“Yeah, but it has a time limit which is why I hope you’ll excuse me if I cut right to the chase.” 

“The translation spell is lashing out because Zhēnyè and I speak the exact same language and it throws a tantrum whenever it can’t translate something but I understand without its interference. It did the same when we first met, when it couldn’t translate ‘hongi’ but I already knew the word. Less severe because there was still a language barrier. I don’t know why but I’m guessing you do.”

Kahurangi Te Awa blinks. Over by the door, Xú Zhēnyè scratches his head.

“Uh… I think we were gonna explain about the whole ‘pretending you can’t fight’ thing,” Zhēnyè says, shrugging in a way that really should be impossible with a weapon that big.

“Oh,” Kahurangi says, “I actually was going to ask about the weird and sudden pain, but I guess we probably should talk about that, since you mentioned it.”

“You wanted to wait? We can wait. Seems a waste to use one of the array’s uses on just the language thing, though. Not that it’s not interesting!” Zhēnyè looks over at Chényào, gives him an encouraging smile.

“We’re fairly sure the translation spell records everything spoken, thus the array. I’m very interested in your theories about how it works.” Kahurangi agrees. Chényào looks between the two of them, sighs, and takes a bite of his luke-warm congee.

“I feel like if we go question for question, it’ll be too much of an information dump at once. Where’s the gradual reveal, the clues to be put together? The pacing is atrocious if we do it like this.” Chényào sighs.

“That’s… that’s not how real life works, Yào-gē. Sometimes you get lots of information at once; this isn’t a story.”

Chényào tilts his head back and forth.

“I mean, there are a lot of stories about this type of thing. But mainly, I’m thinking of the report I’ll have to write later. Everyone who gets isekai’d has to file a report with their government and the international oversight committee and you would not believe how many pages they want you to write as a minimum. They also accept visual depictions but I’m not much of an artist.”

“You have to… It’s common, then. For you. Being stolen from your world?” Kahurangi leans forward in his seat, eyes intent on Chényào. Chényào stares back, quirking an eyebrow; Kahurangi seems far too interested for this to be a casual question. 

“Common is a bit of an exaggeration but it’s not exactly unusual. I can't remember what the annual figure is off the top of my head. People don’t usually get taken twice, though. My bad luck, right?”

“So you ﹘ you can get back? You can go home?” Zhēnyè’s voice cracks on the last word. His hands are white knuckled around the haft of his axe. Chényào blinks, tapping his spoon against the side of the bowl as he looks at Kahurangi. The lines of the man's moko always accentuate his expression; Chényào simply hadn’t realised such stark lines could also project hope. His brown eyes are wide, and wet, and his mouth has parted slightly.

“How… how long have you been in this world?” He asks, unsurprised when Kahurangi closes his eyes, tears overflowing to drip down his cheeks, his chin. His full mouth’s a firm line but it trembles. Chényào closes his eyes briefly, as Zhēnyè makes a noise that could only be classified as a laugh if you’re really, really generous. This is exactly the sort of complication that Chényào didn't want. What's he supposed to do, help find their ways home instead of his own? Ridiculous.

“For me, four years. For Ran-gē? Long enough for his brother to swan dive off the deep end.” 

Chényào places his congee back down, keeping the sigh trapped behind his teeth because he's not sighing at them, he's just... sighing. He stands, crossing the short distance between his own chair and the luohan with a scant few steps. He's not exactly grewat at comforting people, which must surely be a shock to discover given the rest of his sunny personality, but he knows sometimes the trying is the most important part. Chényào lays a comforting hand on Kahurangi's head, slowly smoothing his hand across the man's thick hair before he repeats the action. The man doesn't seem opposed to the touch. Ideally, Zhēnyè would be close enough that Chényào could offer the younger man a similar comfort. Zhēnyè's still at the door, now still enough that it seems as though a single touch would break him. Perhaps it would. Perhaps he needs it; what's the popular cultural opinion on men crying, where Zhēnyè comes from? Both his friends probably need a good cry, an afternoon long crying jag after which Chényào can help put them back together; Kahurangi's silent tears don't quite count.

After ao many years here, the both of them probably need to have a nice breakdown. Chényào'll steal some plates from the dining hall for them to smash, maybe some priceless heirloom from somewhere to break or burn. Real rom-com post break up type stuff.

“Your brother’s the demon, Whiro.” Chényào ignores Zhēnyè’s impressed and watery exclamation of, ‘wow, you’re actually really smart, huh!’ As though the trail of crumbs hadn't been there from the very first moment Kedisilo jumped to dehumanise the villain.

“He is no demon.” Kahurangi denies, vehemently. “Whiro is the name he took when he finally understood that these people never meant to help, only to take from us until we’re nothing but husks. Discarding us once we’ve outlived our use. Repeating the cycle, endlessly. All their woes are of their own making and one day I will see them unmade in turn.”

Kahurangi’s eyes are fierce, determined, and Chényào can already see where this is going. He’s… not as opposed to it, as he thought he’d be. He blames the congee; who’s in a bad mood when they’ve had good, homemade congee?

“We’ll save your brother and then I’ll make sure you all get home.” Chényào knows he can game the system enough to make it happen. He's a font of knowledge, and what better use for it could he find than this? Hope and home or whatever. That's almost a nice catchphrase. Maybe he should workshop it and market it to one of those companies that stylises isekai reports for entertainment purposes. Chényào doesn't wonder how many other people have been stolen into this one world, over the years; he doesn't need to. The answer's been staring him in the face this entire time.

After a moment, after his pledge sinks in, Kahurangi grins. He's still crying but his smile is broad and warm as the sun itself. Near the door, Zhēnyè makes a sound that’s definitely a sniffle. Chényào sighs and plops himself into the small space left on the luohan. If he gestures vaguely for Zhēnyè to come closer, no he didn't.

“Do you think we should have a team name? There’s always team names in manhwa.” Chényào wonders what ‘manhwa’ translates to, for the both of them. Whatever it is, it clearly works well enough, as Zhēnyè bounces over ﹘ axe still in hand, being manoeuvred expertly so as to not injure either man on the luohan as he lunges over the back of it and gives them both a rough hug. Chényào only barely tilts his head to avoid being concussed by the haft of that damn axe. His penance for avoiding such a thing is that his forehead thunks gently against Kahurangi's. The man presses into the touch, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Half a second later, there's a third forehead butting up against theirs. A nose wedging itseld in the space between their faces for a brief second, before Zhēnyè's bouncing up again.

Zhēnyè likes to move as he thinks and he only needs a step and a half before he's throwing out suggestion after suggestion for their team name. Chényào regrets bringing it up, rubbing at his face as Zhēnyè slowly paces around the luohan. Team Friendship isn't a name anyone over the age of fifteen should suggest with any seriousness. Neither is The Friend Ship, Kahurangi, please don't insinuate that they're going to have to spend any significant time on a boat. Chényào isn't even sure that pun should work in either of their languages. Zhēnyè has never heard of a portmanteau but he's clearly not letting that stop him as he comes up with increadinly... 'creative'... names.

Whatever other, more serious things they have to discuss will have to wait. The time the array can stay active is short indeed and, soon enough, the illuminating glow starts to dim. Kahurangi's hands spark in response to the statues fading, but he doesn't attempt to keep the array active. Chényào's going to have to research more into arrays, isn't he. Great. Perfect. He loves spending time with Kedisilo. Chényào watches the shadow of the ocean fade from the walls, rubs his fingers together for a brief moment, then says,

“I feel a martial related breakthrough coming on. It's going to be a miracle."

Soon enough, the three of them will be travelling away from the capital, towards Kahurangi's brother.

Maybe Chényào will finally get that fourth party member, after all.