There was a fire.
Not metaphorically. An actual fire.
Again.
"THE FIRE IS FOR THE EGGS, NOT THE CEILING!" someone screamed—probably Mom. Probably too late.
Dad was in the kitchen, proudly wielding a frying pan like a roasted Excalibur. Smoke billowed from the stove. A chunk of toast spontaneously combusted. Butter exploded.
Just another Tuesday in the Swift household.
Mom entered mid-crisis, breezing through the smoke in a clean apron, her hair somehow still flawless. She kissed Dad on the forehead like he hadn't just committed arson, and with one graceful flick of the wrist, the chaos surrendered. Eggs flipped. Smoke dispersed. Kitchen restored to "mostly edible."
She was terrifying. In a good way.
Grandpa sat silently in the corner, sipping tea with the thousand-yard stare of a man who'd fought in seven wars, outlived three dogs, and once babysat a two-year-old Lyra during her feral phase. He didn't even flinch when the frying pan hit the wall behind him.
Then came the hurricane herself.
"SHINY ROCK! CATCH!"
Lyra zoomed past the table wearing a tablecloth like a cape. She launched me—her favorite dice-shaped "pendant" and apparently now a projectile—into the air with the grace of a caffeinated raccoon.
I was still reminiscing about my first orbital yeeting with her. Pretty sure I'm now the world record holder for aerial motion sickness.
I bounced across the table, skidded off a cup, and landed in Grandpa's tea with a defeated plop—The surface rippled. I sank like a soggy blessing into Grandpa's tea. It was warm. Too warm. Suspiciously warm. Not bad, though—guess this counts as a hot spring.
FMDL.
#DiceRights, please.
Before I could finish contemplating mortality-by-brewed-herbs, the front door creaked open.
As Lyra grew, so did I.
Not just emotionally—though I'm still recovering from the whole tea-bath incident—but perceptually.
Something had changed.
I'd felt it earlier that day—when she nearly tripped. A pulse in the air. A ripple of presence. Like someone clapping with magic.
I could now sense things around me—vaguely, but clearly enough.
Shapes. Movement. Flashes of mana. Not quite vision, but… awareness.
Like I'd developed a six-meter sixth sense. A built-in spiritual radar.
Not bad for a dice, right?
It's proven very handy—especially when I'm being yeeted through the air like a lucky charm with trust issues.
Now Enter Levin Frei.
Hmph.
The neighborhood's golden boy entered, practically glowing.
Twin wooden swords strapped to his back.
Hair windswept like he walked through a constant dramatic breeze.
Blush baked into his cheeks like a discount romance lead.
He was a walking shōjo manga panel, and the universe loved him for it.
"MORNING, MRS. SWIFT!" he called out, sunshine in human form.
Cheery. Polite.
Absolutely ready to get his soul bodied by a seven-year-old.
"Oh, Levin!" Mom beamed. "Lyra's in the back—probably terrorizing the squirrels again."
"Awesome!"
He hadn't even made it past the kitchen before—
CRASH.
Lyra exploded through the hallway like a sugar-fueled spell gone wrong.
"You brought weapons?!" she gasped, eyes gleaming.
"BEST. DAY. EVER."
Levin, being Levin, offered her a flower.
She accepted it…
…and immediately whacked him with a sword.
"I accept your flower of surrender! PREPARE TO DIE!"
Mic drop.
Romance is dead. Murder lives on.
The backyard became a battlefield.
Wooden blades clacked. Dirt flew.
Levin accidentally called her cute mid-swing.
Lyra froze.
Levin realized what he said.
His blush deepened.
And then—WHACK.
This is exactly the kind of moment that defines an entire romance arc. I refuse to be part of this romcom. Burn it. Delete the genre.
Eventually, peace returned… sort of.
Lyra flopped back into the house, victorious and grass-stained.
Levin limped after her, bruised but smiling like a lovesick idiot.
From outside, his mother's voice boomed across the village:
"Levin! Get home this instant! Homework! Now!"
The boy flinched. "Yes ma'am!Bye Lyra Gotta go!"
He bolted with the reflexes of a trained soldier retreating from a losing war.
Lyra groaned.
"Ughhh, I just warmed up…"
She crossed her arms, pouting. Her head turned. Her eyes scanned.
Uh-oh.
Her menace was brewing.
She needed a new victim. Ahem—playmate.
And then—
She stopped.
As if remembering something very important.
Her eyes lit up. Her pupils locked on target.
Me.
No. No. I am retired. I am soaking in jasmine. Let me steep in peace.
Too late.
She sprinted at full turbo.
"Dad!!" she yelled mid-run. "Ready for the market run?"
James, now only mildly singed and miraculously holding a non-burning pan, poked his head out from the kitchen.
"Let's go, cabbage crusader," he said, offering a thumbs-up.
She snatched the woven basket.
And—OF COURSE—she found me.
Dragged me out of the tea. Dripping. Dignity eroded.
Then tossed me in—again—with the casual disrespect of an accessory and the accuracy of an Olympic shot put.
I DEMAND DAYOFF *crying internally*
And just like that—we were off.
The village market was its usual brand of chaos—dogs weaving between stalls, kids shrieking about apples, and at least three merchants yelling over who had the "freshest fish caught with bare hands."
Lyra bounced down the cobblestone path beside her dad, swinging a woven basket. I, unfortunately, was wedged inside that basket between a bunch of onions and a very resentful turnip. The smell was war-crime adjacent.
"Cradled by onions, suffocating beside a depressed turnip. This is how legends die."
James, her dad, smiled so wide it could break clouds. He waved at everyone, earning discounts without even trying. Must've been the muscles. Or the himbo energy. Or maybe just James himself—an honest man everyone in the village trusted. Married to a kind woman. Raising a daughter who had already awakened magic. Not everyone could sense mana, let alone wield it.
Envy followed him like a jealous spirit.
Lyra was humming something about "cabbage knights" and "turnip dragons."
Sunshine incarnate. Chaotic, reckless sunshine—but sunshine nonetheless.
Then it happened.
A sharply dressed noble kid strutted right into her path like he owned the road. Neither saw the other until—bump.
The noble staggered dramatically and landed in the dust with a theatrical "oof," eyes wide like he'd just been mugged by a breeze.
Lyra blinked.
"Oh—sorry! You alright? Didn't see ya—" She giggled. "You fell like a potato!"
She laughed. Not meanly. Just her usual, unfiltered giggle at the absurdity of someone falling flat like a pancake.
But laughter? Fatal. The noble kid's face twisted like he'd just been told his family heirloom was fake.
He started to cry. Loudly. Weaponized crocodile tears engaged.
My POV: "Oh, great. The Drama Engine has been activated.."
Lyra blinked again, then hurried over panicking and reached out her hand. "Wait, I'm sorry! I was just joking! Here, lemme help you up—"
The boy slapped her hand away, climbed up, and shoved her. Hard.
Lyra hit the ground with an oof.
My POV: "Okay. Rude. Super villain origin unlocked."
She sat there, blinking dust out of her eyes. There was a pause.
She sat up slowly, brushing her knees. There was a pause—just long enough for her to let it go.
She looked at the kid.
Looked at her scraped palm.
Looked back at the kid.
And then she shoved him.
Harder.
The boy collapsed again, now red-faced and wailing at a frequency only dogs should hear.
My POV: "Yep. That's my girl. Terrible decision, 10/10 commitment."
Before the crowd could even blink, a voice thundered across the plaza:
"YOU THERE!"
A man strode forward, dressed like his cape had a personal tailor and a superiority complex. Every step practically screamed, "I pay taxes to be above you." His wife followed close behind, arms crossed with enough judgment to curdle milk.
Behind them, their noble son clung to her skirts, still howling like he'd been stabbed instead of gently shoved—like a tragic theater understudy begging for a spotlight.
Before either noble could speak, James stepped forward. Calm. Composed. He gently lowered the basket of cabbages with a soft thump and bowed deeply.
"I'm terribly sorry," he said, voice steady with humility. "They're just kids. It was a misunderstanding. Please… we're sorry. I can compensate for your son's injury."
The nobleman sneered like James had just offered him a wet sock.
"A misunderstanding?" he scoffed. "Look at my son's leg—bleeding! If apologies fixed everything, what's the point of justice? So what now? Shake hands and let mutts run wild?"
He folded his arms with a dramatic scoff.
"Surely you're not expecting to walk away after that... creature laid hands on my precious doll?"
Dice POV:
"Retard alert. Calling his boy a doll? That's a villain speedrun right there."
There was a long pause. James blinked.
Then—so painfully sincere it hurt—he reached down, picked up a cabbage, and held it out with both hands like a peace offering to a war god.
"Fresh-picked," he said softly. "Very green. Please accept this humble gift as a token of apology."
The noblewoman gasped like someone had garnished her wedding cake with a dead rat.
The nobleman stared. Words failed him—for the first time in his privileged life.
"This," he growled, "is what you peasants call honor?"
His boot rose.
With theatrical flair, he kicked the cabbage from James's hands. It sailed off, bounced off a vendor's cart, and vanished into vegetable obscurity.
Then, because this guy needed a villain checklist, he stepped forward and kicked James square in the stomach.
James stumbled—but didn't fall.
He bowed again.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Another kick.
James fell this time. Groaned. But stood back up.
And bowed again. A full ninety degrees. Fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.
Dice POV:
"He's not shaking from fear. He's shaking from restraint. This man is either a saint… or a volcano holding its breath."
The nobleman chuckled. Dark. Ugly.
"No backbone. Coward."
Then—louder—just to make sure the whole market could hear:
"No wonder that mutt turned out so feral. A father like you—spineless. And her mother—hah! Probably some filthy animal in heat. Spat out another beast and called it a blessing."
Dice POV:
"Okay. This isn't just personal anymore. I'm in."
James didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't rise to it.
Which, ironically, seemed to enrage the nobleman more than any retort would've.
He clicked his tongue, stepped past the trampled cabbage… and paused.
For one blessed moment, I thought he was going to call it a day.
Instead, he lined up another kick.
Right at the remaining cabbage.
And launched it.
Straight at Lyra.
"NOOO!" I screamed—not that anyone could hear me.
"RUN! SOMEONE! DO SOMETHING! BLOCK IT—DODGE—ANYTHING—"
Time slowed.
The cabbage spun.
Lyra stood frozen. Wide-eyed.
And then—WHAM.
It struck her square in the forehead.
She dropped like a sack of confused sugar.
Silence.
James moved instantly.
No words.
No panic.
Just instinct.
He sprinted to her side, cupped her head, whispered her name.
She stirred.
Dazed. Conscious.
Relief poured through him.
And then—
SMACK.
A clean, perfect punch.
James didn't swing. He detonated—right into the nobleman's smug jaw
"YOU
DO
NOT
TOUCH
MY
DAUGHTER."
Blood streamed from the noble's nose.
Another swing.
BANG.
The noble stumbled. Stunned. Eyes wide. Disbelief written across every wrinkle.
The villagers gasped.
Not because James had hit him—
But because mana flared.
Blue lightning crackled along the nobleman's arm like a promise of wrath.
An awakened mage.
The outcome of this fight was no longer uncertain.
It was already written.