Mezo Shoji Quirk Novels & Stories

Herman asked. “We do grouping to maximize the strength of our Combo Techniques,” Koji explained. “What do you mean?” Alfi asked. “Just like I told you before, Combo Technique is a technique which fuses 2 techniques into a powerful one. Moreover, if the user’s Ribos have the same base color, then their Combo Technique will be more powerful.” Koji explained. “I see, but why does Megumi look like a human? She doesn’t have a base color like Cakra and Kolonel.” Herman asked.

It was as if they all had moved to a dark room and her eyes which stared into your soul was the only light so all you could do is stare back. Ayame exhales. “Aka Manto… Amanojaku… Gashadokuro… Jorogumo… Jubokko, Kappa, Kuchisake Onna, Kyokotsu, Nure Onna, Yuki Onna, Obariyon, Onihitokuchi, Shuten Doji, Tamamo-no-Mae, Yamauba, Sutoku Tenno… If its none of then then nod to this… Obake, Tengu, Tsukumogami, Kinataro, Rokurokubi, Yurei. None of these either huh… Then was it a Zashiki- warashi? Or a Tanuki. Don’t tell me perhaps a Ningyo or Amabie or an Iiju or a Kirin…. I’m getting exhausted now. I can’t find an answer…” says Ayame and starts chewing on her finger nails as her eyes started to get

Nneamaka laughed. “Uwa eju afo (nothing on earth can satisfy)” Ejima added as they returned their attention to the cassava. She was about to pick the third cassava when she suddenly felt a weight on her head. She tried to lift her hand, to make sure she was not imagining things, but her hands would not obey. They had developed minds of their own, causing Ejima's world to spin. The strength in her body had veered into the strength of water, and every attempt to make sense of the situation threatened to mask her world with darkness.

But why let a small detail like that stand in the way? An hour later, she stood in front of her mirror, admiring her makeshift disguise: baggy blue pants, a brown belt with a cobra buckle, a collared shirt tucked under a dark vest, black hat, a fake mustache, and boots that had seen better days. "Not bad," she mused. Her reflection was, at best, unconvincing, but desperate times called for questionable outfits.

“Trollex.” And right then, as if the scene needed an unexpected twist, Jacob appeared in the dining room. None of us had heard him come in, so he had clearly planned to surprise Dad. “Trollex? Interesting choice,” he commented in his calm, serious voice—the one he seemed to reserve for delivering universal truths. “A band that attracts a large alternative crowd, with equally alternative substance use at their concerts, not to mention that their music lacks any real meaning.” Mom frowned at me.