Kanazawa used to be a historical town.
It still is, technically. The old districts are still here. The shrines and wooden facades and stone paths still exist.
They've just been repurposed.
Traditional architecture has since been converted into practical modern structures, with the "classic" look preserved solely for branding and tourism. The effect is not subtle. It's like someone insisted the past needed to be profitable to deserve survival.
…for some reason I'm thinking about this, even though I'm on my hands and knees in the ring at the Hatsune Dome.
I'm trying not to pass out on live television.
The lights above are so bright they erase the edges of things. The audience noise is constant. Not loud in bursts—constant. Like the stadium itself is alive, as trite as that might be to say. It's different when you actually experience it for yourself.
Blood is running from my mouth. Sweat is dripping off my chin and onto the mat.
My ears are still ringing from the last hit.
I don't understand how I'm still conscious. I can feel my body failing in specific places, like systems shutting down in sequence. My right side hurts when I inhale. My left forearm won't stop trembling.
I shift my weight and nearly collapse again.
I shouldn't still be here.
I'm not using it.
I glance at my right hand.
The Charm Ring is on my finger, as always. Plain band. Clean finish. Nothing about it looks dramatic. Which is the point. The most important object in my life is designed to look like jewelry you'd buy as a gift and forget in a drawer.
I've worn it into every fight.
I've never activated it.
It's the source of my problems.
It's also the obvious solution.
If I used it, I would be able to compete. That's not even a question. It's the entire premise of this world: you either have a Ring and use it, or you accept that you're not part of the serious equation.
I already know what people say about me for refusing.
Pride. Stupidity. "Performative principles." I've heard variations.
I lift my eyes.
My opponent is posing against the ropes, one leg propped up, smiling at the crowd like this is a victory lap.
She's small. Lime-green pigtails. Tight purple wrestling leotard. She's doing the kind of exaggerated, cocky gestures that audiences love.
She calls herself "The Anklebreaker."
And she is destroying me.
Before the match I did research, like I always do.
New up-and-comerF Rank at Kanazawa AcademyFighting style: wrestling holdsWin condition: forces surrender by breaking the opponent's ankle
All accurate.
All useless to me at this moment.
Because the data doesn't matter once you're in the ring and you realize the gap between you and your opponent is not "skill" or "strategy."
It's access.
It's whether you're fighting as a regular human or as a Ring user.
Anklebreaker may look like a little girl, but I'm not fighting a little girl. I'm fighting a person whose body is currently enhanced by their Charm Ring. Someone who can take hits without consequence.
Which means I'm the only one paying for every mistake.
"Give it up, Strangelove!" she shouts. Her voice comes through the stadium speakers sharp and cheerful, like an advertisement. "You're embarrassing yourself!"
The audience reacts instantly. They love it when someone says the quiet part out loud.
Anklebreaker climbs onto the ropes.
I feel cold. My stomach drops.
No.
Not that.
She crouches and launches herself into the air.
The movement is clean and controlled. Too controlled for someone "small." She lands on me with an elbow that knocks the breath out of me so hard my vision blanks.
My mouth opens on reflex and more blood comes out.
The crowd screams like it's a fireworks show.
Anklebreaker shifts her weight, pins me down, and threads my leg into position. Her grip is precise. She adjusts my ankle like she's setting a tool into place.
It would be impressive if it wasn't happening to me.
"Don't make me do this," she threatens.
I don't answer because I can't. My throat won't cooperate and I'm trying not to inhale blood.
But she's right.
This is humiliating. It's degrading.
I'm getting dominated in front of a packed stadium by someone who looks like they belong in a kindergarten class photo.
Not for the first time.
It isn't even a new kind of humiliation. It's just one with better cameras.
And the worst part is, the audience doesn't see it.
They see this as fun.
Because in this world, "little girl beats up teenage boy" is not a serious headline. It's entertainment.
The ref hovers. The announcers are stoking the flames. A sponsor banner scrolls along the side of the ring. I catch a glimpse of a smiling mascot in a frilly outfit advertising protein shakes.
I'm pinned. I can't breathe properly. My ankle is one movement away from breaking.
I pound my fist against the mat anyway.
I can't forfeit.
Not here. Not like this.
Not when I'm one loss away from disqualification.
I already have two Crown Cup Battle wins. If I win this match, I get lifted out of F Rank. I get the rank increase. I get access to actual combat missions instead of deskwork and support roles.
If I lose, I start over again.
It's not just ego. It's not just a number. It's my entire career trajectory.
I can't stand the idea of being told, again, that my "desire to help" is valid but my "role" is limited.
I gather what I have left.
There's no careful plan left. There's just the decision to keep going.
I twist my torso, brace against her weight, and force space where there isn't any. My body screams at me in specific ways. My ribs feel wrong. My ankle is already half gone.
I swing anyway.
"This is it," I think, and the fact that my brain narrates it like that is embarrassing, but that's how I am. I can't help it. I'm always dramatic in my own head.
"Screw you, bitch!" I yell, because subtlety is gone.
The crowd roars.
My fist connects with her face.
It's a clean hit. It's the strongest punch I can throw.
And she does not react.
No flinch. No blink.
No movement at all as she just looks at me.
The silence inside my head lasts half a second.
Then her expression changes into something flat and annoyed, like if I had just interrupted her.
I realize I have made a mistake.
There's a brief crunch.
Then: pain so sharp it makes the whole world narrow.
I can't breathe.
I can't think.
I hear my own voice make a sound that I do not want replayed on television.
The referee calls it. The crowd cheers. People love a finish.
Anklebreaker releases me and stands, raising her arms as the announcers shout her name.
I'm still on the mat trying not to black out.
I stare at my right hand again.
The Charm Ring.
Still there, always there. Still unused.
That fight was two days ago.
Today I'm in a hospital bed watching the highlights on an LZU monitor mounted to the wall.
The footage loops. The camera angles change. The announcers add dramatic commentary over and over. A slow-motion replay shows my punch connecting with her face and doing nothing.
I don't know why they keep replaying that moment specifically.
Actually, I do know.
It's funny.
In a humiliating way.
My ankle is wrapped. My ribs ache. Most of the bruising is already fading thanks to medical gel patches and accelerated regeneration treatment. Physical healing is fast now. They can fix almost anything in a week.
They can't fix embarrassment.
My opponent is sitting in the chair beside my bed.
Not as Anklebreaker.
Not as a little girl.
As a guy.
Roughly my age. Thin. Dark hair. Academy jacket. He has the kind of polite expression that makes you feel worse, not better.
It should be easier to hate him in this form.
It isn't.
Because he's… normal.
He looks like someone you'd see at a convenience store at 1 a.m. buying an energy drink and instant noodles.
Which makes it harder to hold onto the anger.
He's here "to make sure I'm okay," which I still think is a bizarre choice.
"I'm sorry," I say, because I can't let it sit. "For what I called you."
He waves it off immediately.
"It's fine," he says. "You were desperate. I said stuff too. No big deal."
I stare at him.
He's being genuine. I can tell. There's no audience here. No cameras. No sponsor banners. No reason to perform.
That should be comforting.
It isn't.
It feels like being pitied. And I'd honestly rather be mocked than pitied, even if that makes me immature.
I try to sit up anyway.
My body refuses.
I make a noise that I pretend is a cough.
The guy sighs, then leans forward slightly.
"Bro," he says, "you can't keep doing this. If you keep fighting without your Charm Ring, you're going to get yourself seriously hurt. And you could get someone else hurt too."
"Someone else?" I repeat, because my instinct is to argue.
He looks at me like I'm not thinking.
"You're fighting people who can take hits and keep going," he says. "You're the only one in there with real limits. Eventually you'll overcompensate. You'll panic. You'll do something reckless. That's how people get hurt."
I want to say I'm not reckless.
But: I did call a stranger a little bitch on live TV, and then tried to punch my way out of a submission hold, as if I were the protagonist of something.
So.
I swallow.
"I beat two opponents," I say anyway, because I'm stubborn.
He raises his eyebrows.
I keep my face neutral, but I feel my ears getting hot.
"…Technically," I add.
One opponent had been too drunk to activate their ring properly. The other didn't show up because they wanted a challenge and had decided the "Legendary Z Rank Loser" wasn't worth their time.
I hate that those two incidents can be considered an integral part of my life.
The guy doesn't laugh, which is considerate.
He just nods slightly, like he's generously trying to let me save face.
I hate that too.
He glances at the monitor as the replay loops again.
"Why won't you use it?" he asks, not harshly. Honestly curious.
I almost answer.
However, the real answer is complicated.
Part of it is moral. Part of it is personal. Part of it is disgust. Part of it is fear. Part of it is something I can't name without sounding insane.
And part of it is simple:
I hate the way Charming Forms look.
I hate that sentence because it sounds shallow.
But it's true.
I don't like what it does to people. I don't like what it turns them into. I don't like how everyone acts like it's normal. I don't like how it's marketed. I don't like how it's sexualized. I don't like how it collapses identity into a product.
And I especially don't like the way the world seems to reward people for leaning into it.
But I don't tell him any of that.
Because philosophizing to someone I met by getting my ankle broken feels like it would only make me look more pathetic.
So instead I deflect.
We talk about Gundams.
He lights up immediately, like I flipped a switch.
For ten minutes we're just two guys arguing about design philosophies and timeline continuity and which series had the best fights.
It's almost normal.
Then he checks the time and stands.
"Take it easy," he says. "Seriously."
He points at me like he's warning me not to do something stupid.
Which makes me want to do something stupid out of spite.
Then he leaves.
The room is quiet except for the monitor.
I stare at the ceiling.
I think about my choices.
I think about what I want.
I want to help people in trouble. It's not a hobby. It's not a fantasy. It feels like a responsibility I didn't ask for, but can't put down.
The people who do that work are Vorpal Knights.
Vorpal Knights are ranked by Charm ability and combat record. A low rank like mine means I don't get field missions. I get deskwork and support roles. I get told I'm "contributing."
And the only way to rise is the Crown Cup Battle.
Public matches. Audience voting. Sponsorships. Rankings updated in real time. Your suffering broadcast as content, all sanctioned by the government.
The worst part is that I can't even pretend the system is accidental.
It's a manmade creation. It's a pipeline.
And it's designed around one central reality:
Charming Forms have a "type."
A pattern.
A visual concept.
And for most people—
That concept is a little girl.
In this world, "magical girl" isn't a genre.
It's an infrastructure.
A day later I'm discharged.
My body is fully healed. The clinic staff congratulates me like I recovered from something heroic instead of something avoidable.
They tell me my sister stopped by and left clothes for me.
Blitz.
B Rank. Real Vorpal Knight. Always busy. Always moving.
I'm disappointed that I missed her, even though I understand why.
I go into the restroom to change.
Before I do, I look at myself in the mirror.
My name is Alex. I'm seventeen years old. I live in Japan, or what's left of it, in the decade after the Tea Time virus pandemic wiped out most of humanity before a vaccine could be found.
I look ordinary: Skinny. Clear glasses. Dark hair cut short. Average height. A face that doesn't stand out. Not handsome. Not ugly. I could pass for an "NPC." The clothes Blitz brought don't change anything, either. A hoodie, drawstring shorts. Safe choices. Neutral choices.
I finish changing, leave the clinic, and step out into Kanazawa City.
The city is enclosed—roofed in, clean, controlled. No cars. No streets. People move on foot through layered walkways and courtyards, between outlets, electronics stores, offices, arcades, drugstores, food courts.
Fountains. Plants. Escalators. Glass elevators.
It feels like a shopping mall that got promoted into being a city.
Advertisements are everywhere.
Animated screens show little girls in revealing outfits selling fast food, cosmetic surgery, insurance plans, streaming subscriptions, luxury brands.
It makes me feel sick.
Not because I'm "prudish." Because it's dishonest.
Charm Rings only affect people who have gone through puberty.
Those aren't children.
Those are teens and adults in child bodies, used as marketing.
I know that for certain.
Because I have the ring on my finger.
Because I've been in the ring.
Because I've watched people switch forms like it's nothing.
I keep walking.
And I finally let myself notice what I've been avoiding since I stepped outside:
Most of the people around me are transformed.
Not a few. Not just a noticeable trend.
They are a majority.
At least ninety percent of the people walking the streets of Kanazawa are in little girl bodies.
In business attire tailored to child frames.
In school uniforms.
In combat-ready outfits with polished emblems.
Laughing. Talking. Taking calls. Eating lunch. Being normal.
I pass two "girls" discussing investment rates in exhausted adult voices. I pass another "girl" checking her mission ranking with the seriousness of someone reviewing a medical chart. I pass a group of them taking selfies under a shrine gate like it's a tourist attraction, smiling perfectly for the camera.
And I realize, again, that the strange one isn't them.
It's me.
That's how I earned my designation, "Strangelove."
I am a regular-looking guy in a hoodie, moving through a city of magical girls, with a Charm Ring I refuse to use.
My hand tightens unconsciously.
The ring presses into my skin, cold but unfailingly present.
Waiting for my dignity to finally fully slip.