"And the ritual is incomplete," Herb snarled. "To reverse it, the vessel of the Matriarch's mind—that baby—must be truly terrified by the person she respects most. Then the fear triggers the reversal. She respects only two things: the Musk Royal Scepter and… you, Ranma Saotome."
The old woman on the ground cackled. "Foolish boy. This is not about you. It is about her ." She pointed a gnarled finger at the floating baby. "That is the Great Matriarch Jusenkyo, Kima of the Seven Spices. And I am…" the baby burbled, and a surprisingly deep voice echoed from its tiny mouth, "…now merely Mousse's unfortunate great-aunt, twice removed."
Ranma stared at the infant. The infant stared back with ancient, calculating eyes. Then it burped up a glob of purple slime that sizzled on the dojo floor.
He lunged. The Unfastening Gale—a sharp, spiraling chop—snapped the diaper tapes. The baby shrieked—not in fear, but in indignation. The Wipe of a Thousand Leaves followed, a blur of motion so fast it created a small, localized tornado of clean linen. The baby’s eyes widened. This was wrong . This was new .
The Cradle Will Fall
Not with the usual fiery entrance of a rival, but with a shimmering, pastel-colored vortex. From it tumbled three figures: a wizened old woman no taller than a loaf of bread, swaddled in ancient, dusty silks; a massive, fur-clad man with a boar-tusk necklace, weeping openly; and a baby. The baby was floating on a silk cushion, drooling with an air of imperial authority.
"You defeated me. You out-cooked the Matriarch's legendary dragon-noodle chef. She keeps a wax effigy of you in her meditation chamber. You must frighten that baby into screaming."
When a stray Amazon ritual curse swaps the minds of a newborn baby and the elderly Matriarch of the Musk Dynasty, Ranma must master the forbidden "Art of Diaper-Changing Combat" to prevent a marriage proposal that would doom him to fatherhood before breakfast. The morning at the Tendo Dojo was, by their standards, peaceful. Akane was chasing Ranma with a table leg. Ranma was bouncing off the koi pond, laughing. Kasumi was humming while preparing tea. Nabiki was already planning how to monetize the inevitable explosion.
The vortex reopened. Light flashed. When it cleared, the baby was cooing normally, and the old woman blinked with the wisdom of her true age. The reversal was complete.
And Ranma, despite everything, found himself smiling back.
The final confrontation took place at sunset. Baby Kima had constructed a fortress out of dojo cushions, armed with chopsticks and a jar of wasabi. The Matriarch's ancient body (with baby Puchi's mind inside) was gumming a ceremonial sword in the corner, cooing.
The second attempt involved Akane. Her "terrifying" cooking. Baby Kima sniffed the burnt offering, looked Akane dead in the eye, and signed a complex critique using baby sign language that somehow conveyed "too much ash, not enough spite." Akane burst into tears of frustration.
Baby Puchi, now in his own body, chose that moment to demonstrate his new, un-cursed personality. He projectile-vomited a perfect arc of formula directly into Ranma's open mouth.
And then, a wail. Not of pain. Of pure, existential, I-have-never-been-so-humiliated-in-ten-centuries terror.
