When she was fourteen, a man came to her door.

Her hand was on her sketchpad, practicing and practicing. She'd quickly outpaced her tutors' expectations. The listless young lady of the family couldn't explain why she felt so strongly about art—only that it brought her great happiness. She brushed her one uniquely-colored lock of hair out of her eyes, and stared out into the sky. Light clouds, a blue sky- it was a picturesque day that, some days, she might opt to explore on a walk.

She had, however, just recently recovered from a minor fever, so her parents' orders had been to ensure she stayed inside. So, again, the listless young lady of the family sighed, and dreamed of high school.

—But what was this quaking anticipation in her heart? What was it about her first day of high school, so imminently approaching, that shook her?

"Milady," said the maid through the manor's intercom. "There... is someone here to see you."

"To see me?" the young lady asked. "Who would want to see me?"

"He's declined to give his name," the maid responded. "He asked for you specifically. That said, Milady—"

Perhaps some new tutor in the runup to her high school debut? The young lady had naught little else to do at the moment, so she left her room and climbed down the stairs despite her maid's protests. The great doors opened under her arms, and revealed—

that in front of them stood a cloaked man, with thin hair on an odd line between pink and brown. His face was covered by an oblong white mask with seven dots on it, and a few steel chains hung on the man's cloak, as though he were a prisoner in his own clothing. "Excuse my impertinence," he said. "Are you the young lady of the family?"

"Yes, sir," said the young lady, who couldn't help but blink in surprise at the sight of this man. "You... asked for me? Who are you?"

That second question would not go answered. "We've met once before," he said. "I confirmed something then, and I need to confirm something else now."

"We have?" the young lady asked. "I don't... well, if you took off your cloak, I might recognize you?"

The man shook his head. "No, you wouldn't."

It was hard to block a man whose body structure was so unclear under all that cloak, and so he stepped inside, unfettered by protests of workers in the home. "Do you have a table nearby?" the man asked.

The nearest was a table in her parents' parlor. Under all the fine lights, the young lady sat across from the cloaked man. "So, what are you 'confirming', sir?" the young lady asked. "Are you... a census officer?"

"It would be difficult for me to explain, and I've agreed not to try," the man said. In his chair, he pulled forth one hand, wrapped in bandages, and placed it on the table. "Your people—they call this 'arm wrestling'."

There was a moment of deathly silence. "You want me to arm wrestle you?" The young lady's face scrunched up in confusion, but the man nodded. "Um... alright. Are you from the high school?"

"No," the man said. The young lady placed her elbow on the table, and their hands met.

—She'd never arm wrestled before, so the sudden display of force from the man's arm against hers was a surprise. Though she was not an athletic person herself, though, she did her best to push back. In all, the contest lasted roughly thirty seconds—after an initial burst, the young lady pushed back against the man and was able to handily defeat him in the contest.

The young lady let out a breath, and wiped that one oddly-colored lock of hair out of her eyes. "Alright," she said, admittedly a little proud of herself. "Was that sufficient?"

The cloaked man looked down at his own arm, still on the table, before making a noise that sounded vaguely like a chuckle under his breath. "To think," he said to himself, "it would happen like this." He stood up. "I must go now. It was sufficient. You've confirmed all I needed to know."

"Will you ever tell me what it was you were doing here?" the young lady asked.

The man said, "No. You will never see me again. Enjoy your life, young lady of the Inomiko family."

—He walked out the door,

and she never saw the cloaked man again.

And for years, she'd wonder what it was he needed to know,

until the year 2020, on the planet Earth,

when a young woman of the Inomiko family, and an otaku of the Akaneno family, and a swift girl who loved cats and games, and a hitchhiker from foreign lands, and a hermit with fire in her mind, and a haggard woman with fists of steel united

as Unit 13 of the Japanese government agency Murakumo.

------------------------------

When he was fourteen, a man came to his door.

The farmhand was busy, hard at work dealing with the cows. "Alright, Bessie, you just gotta... ugh, you just... mrrrrgh! C'mooon, tomorrow's my birthday!" His one lock of uniquely-colored hair got in his eyes and made his vision all messy. "Pleaaaase?" He leaned over and sighed, and tied his hair back—his ponytail was coming undone. "Awww... Mom and Dad are gonna be sad with me..."

He ran his hands through his hair again once he'd washed them, heading out from the barn back to the house—and the Hillshead family lived very well out in the country, so he wasn't expecting to see anyone at their door this time of day, especially with his parents out in town.

At the door was a cloaked man, with thin hair on an odd line between pink and brown. His face was covered by an oblong white mask with seven dots on it, and a few steel chains hung on the man's cloak, as though he were a prisoner in his own clothing. He turned his head to see the farmhand, and though he did not make a noise or... well, the farmhand couldn't see his face, but he'd obviously noticed him.

"You," the cloaked man said. "Are you their son? The one whose birthday is tomorrow?"

"Um???" The farmhand blinked, looking around to see if his parents were around. Unfortunately, they were in the house. "Yes????"

After a moment's pause, the cloaked man said, "Excuse my impertinence. I had reason to speak with a son of the Hillshead family. Might I come in?"

"Well, sir, might I... have your name?" the farmhand said.

"...My name is in a tongue foreign to yours," the cloaked man said, "and I have yet to figure out how to translate it. You would find it difficult to say and further difficult to understand. I would rather not waste your time with such needless burdens."

"Oh, well, that's awfully polite of you," the farmhand said. "I... suppose you can come in?"

When the cloaked man entered the humble home of the Hillshead family, the farmhand asked. "Are you an agent of some foreign government...? Or—are you from Iorys?"

"No," the cloaked man said. "I am..." He paused, as he considered how to word his statement. "You may think of me as a gardener."

"Oh!" The farmhand lit up, and clapped his hands. "That's easy to understand. But what does a gardener want with me, sir?"

"You are planning to take a trip soon, are you not?" The cloaked man turned his head to the farmhand, and the farmhand's cheeks lit up. "You wish to prove yourself—at that great tree."

Pause.

"Yes, sir," the farmhand said, bowing. "I'm planning on leaving in about a week...why do you ask?"

"An ally of mine," the cloaked man said, "resides in that land."

"Oh, does he?" The farmhand tilted his head. "If I see him, should I tell him that the gardener with the unpronouncable name says hello?"

"He isn't much for conversation," the cloaked man said. "You will likely have little luck."

"Ah," the farmhand said, "well, I had heard that Celestrians can often be a bit prickly because of the weather in Sidonia."

Pause. "You may interpret it that way if you wish," the cloaked man said. "Young man—I am unfamiliar with the traditions of your area. Is there a test of strength about that would make sense to you?"

"Huh?" The farmhand sat down on their modest sofa and looked down at the table. The cloaked man sat down on a chair on the other side. "Well... my dad always says that you can resolve your problems with a good arm wrestle. Does that count?"

"'Arm wrestle'?" The cloaked man mirrored the farmhand's earlier head tilt.

"Well, you see, you..." The farmhand had never been great at explaining things, so he stumbled through an explanation of the practice. "...and we just push against each other until one of us goes down."

"I see," the cloaked man said. "Fascinating." He placed his arm on the table. "Permit me a round."

"Uhh, okay," the farmhand said. The cloaked man's gloved hand curled around his—

The amount of force present in the cloaked man's arm was far past what his wispy build would imply. The farmhand pushed back, and quickly it became obvious that the two were roughly a match for each other. For a straight minute, the two pushed and pushed against each other, neither giving an inch. The farmhand found himself rather surprised he could keep up with a man this strong, even if he was at least a little wiry from all the farm work.

After that minute, though, the farmhand began to be pushed back. The cloaked man's force began to break through the farmhand's strength. And, call it a bit of teenage emotion, but that got the farmhand's emotions stirring. He didn't want to lose—he didn't know what this man wanted, but he felt as though this was a momentous turning point, to mark another step on the stairway to maturity.

So—"HrrrgggghhhHHH!"

With a redoubled burst of power, the farmhand began to push back, and the cloaked man audibly gasped under his mask. The farmhand pushed through, gritting his teeth, and eventually just barely managed to push the cloaked man to the side. "H-how's... that...?!" The farmhand panted, having become winded from the exertion.

The cloaked man looked down at his own arm, still on the table, before making a noise that sounded vaguely like a chuckle under his breath. "Ah, I see," he said. He stood up. "Thank you. I have confirmed what I needed to know."

"H-huh?" The farmhand blinked. "How did that prove anything?"

"You need not ponder that," the cloaked man said. "You have performed admirably. If you persist in that sort of spirit, it is not impossible that we would meet again. Young man of the Hillshead family... I wish you luck on your trip."

"Um... if you do, will you ever tell me what it is you're measuring?" the farmhand asked.

"No," the cloaked man said. He walked to the door, and opened it. "And thank you for educating me. It was an enjoyable bout."

—When the farmhand ran to the door to follow him,

the cloaked man was already gone.

He had vanished with the wind, it seemed.

Then, in a carriage up the hill, he saw his parents returning home. Though he was lost in his own thoughts, they called his name.

"Raven! We're home!"

And a week after that, when he was fifteen, the farmhand would set out from home to a great nation called Iorys, to make a name for himself,

and as he did, from the sky would fall an otaku,

and together they would meet a pair of dotty merchants, a beautiful necromancer, a blademaster magician, a fatherly musician, a haughty warlock, a harried healer, a swift prince, a forceful princess, an old hunter,

and a noble with culinary dreams, and an armored fisher, and an excitable innkeeper, and a chirpy shopkeep, and a motherly bartender,

and a rough and tumble bodyguard the farmhand admired, and her charge, a strong girl tasked with the burden of an entire race,

and even a girl from beyond the stars themselves,

on a journey up a tall, tall tree that stretched to the stars.

And when the farmhand saw the cloaked man again, it would not be in this world,

and the farmhand would not learn of the cloaked man's intentions

until the year 2020, on the planet Earth,

when a young woman of the Inomiko family, and an otaku of the Akaneno family, and a swift girl who loved cats and games, and a hitchhiker from foreign lands, and a hermit with fire in her mind, and a haggard woman with fists of steel united

as Unit 13 of the Japanese government agency Murakumo.

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