They need entertainment. Real entertainment.
The idea hit him in the middle of a particularly boring stretch of grassland.
I have light magic. I have sound magic. I have illusion magic. I have a lifetime of cartoons and anime stored in my brain. And with my parallel minds at full power, I can recall nearly all of it, perfectly.
I can make a TV.
He worked on it for a full day.
The physical component was simple — a small glass pyramid, about the size of his fist, crafted from sand melted and shaped with fire and earth magic. The glass was flawless, clear, with faceted sides that would project light in multiple directions.
The enchantment was not simple.
He needed three layers working in concert. Light magic — to produce detailed, moving images projected above the pyramid's surface. Sound magic — to generate audio, synchronised with the visuals. And illusion magic — to add depth, colour fidelity, and the ambient quality that made flat images feel real.
Then the content.
He couldn't just cast the spells live — that would require his active concentration for the entire runtime. Instead, he needed to record the spells into the mana stone embedded in the pyramid's base. Pre-built light constructs, frame by frame, synced with pre-built audio, stored and playable on command.
He tasked four parallel mind threads with the project. Each one working on a different show, translating his memories into light-and-sound spell patterns and writing them into the stone.
Tom and Jerry first. Simple. Visual. No dialogue needed — perfect for kids. The slapstick translated perfectly into light constructs.
Then anime. He picked a fantasy adventure show he'd loved — bright colours, clear action, a hero's journey with enough heart to hook anyone regardless of world of origin. Four parallel threads handled it, each one working on a different episode simultaneously.
He even composed the music. Or rather, recreated it — humming the melodies into mana patterns, layering instruments through sound magic, building theme songs note by note from memory.
By evening, the pyramid held six episodes. Three Tom and Jerry, three of the fantasy anime. Plus capacity for dozens more — the mana stone had space; he just needed time to fill it.
He pressed the top facet. The pyramid hummed. A rectangle of light appeared above it — sharp, vivid, moving. Tom chased Jerry across a kitchen.
Perfect.
That night. His tent. Snacks from dimensional storage — dried fruit, nuts, starberry juice. The three girls arranged around the glass pyramid.
"What is it?" Kana asked, poking the pyramid.
"Something I made. Just watch."
He pressed the top facet.
Light bloomed. Sound filled the tent. The fantasy anime's opening sequence played — a sweeping orchestral theme, vivid colours, a young hero drawing a sword against a dramatic sky.
Three jaws dropped simultaneously.
Kana's eyes went wide as plates. Her ears stood so straight they trembled. Hana — quiet, reserved, barely-responsive Hana — sat bolt upright, her black ears rotating like satellite dishes, her dark eyes reflecting the light of the projection.
Even Lira leaned forward. The green-gold eyes caught the glow. Her expression shifted from curiosity to fascination to complete absorption within thirty seconds.
The first episode played. Except for two wagging tails, nobody moved. Nobody breathed loudly. The tent was a pocket of colour and sound in the dark grassland, four faces lit by projected light, completely entranced.
When the first episode ended, Kana jumped up.
"AGAIN."
"There's a next episode."
"NEXT EPISODE."
He played it. Halfway through, Hana crawled into his lap. By the end of the second episode, Kana was bouncing. By the end of the third, both girls were humming the theme song — Kana loudly and off-key, Hana quietly and almost perfectly on pitch. But she was making noise, improving nonetheless.
It was likely the first time either of them had heard music. The melody hit them like a physical thing — they swayed, hummed, tapped their feet. Kana tried to sing the words and invented her own when she couldn't remember.
He reached for the pyramid to turn it off.
"ONE MORE."
Kana grabbed his sleeve. Even Hana — pulling at his arm, dark eyes enormous, ears forward, tail swishing.
"Please?" Kana begged. "Just one more?"
He looked at Lira for support. She was curled up on her side, the blue stone glowing at her throat, watching the blank projection space where the show had been.
"One more wouldn't hurt," she said.
"It's late. It's not good for children to watch more than an hour of — this — a night."
"What's it called?" Kana asked.
His eyebrow twitched. "It's... the principle is called TV. Television."
"What's teh-leh-vision?"
"It's—" He stopped. In his old world, explaining TV was like explaining air. Here, the concept didn't exist. "It's a way of showing stories with light and sound. Like a play, but captured and replayed."
"I love teh-leh-vision," Kana declared.
"Regardless. It's time for bed. And if you don't settle down, there won't be a next episode tomorrow night."
Kana's mouth snapped shut, tears watering in her eyes, her ears flat and tail arched down. Yuki was dealt another critical hit but held firm. She was under her blanket in three seconds. Hana was beside her in four.
Yuki looked at Lira. She was still giving him the eyes.
"That includes you."
"I'm an adult."
"Doesn't matter."
She held the look for another two seconds, then sighed dramatically and pulled her blanket up. "Fine. But tomorrow I want to see the cat-and-mouse one Kana mentioned."
The tent was dark. Hana was asleep — deep, peaceful sleep, the kind she hadn't managed since before the goblin camp. Lira's breathing had evened out.
Kana was still awake.
Yuki could tell by her ears — they were up, rotating slightly, tracking sounds in the night. She was lying on her side, facing Hana, one small hand resting on her sister's blanket. Checking. Making sure it was covering her completely. Tucking the edge under Hana's chin where it had slipped.
She'd been doing this every night. The last thing she did before sleep — checking on Hana. Making sure she was warm, covered, safe. A six-year-old performing a duty she'd taken on when no one else was left to do it.
"Hey," Yuki said quietly.
Kana's ears turned toward him.
"You did a good job. Protecting her this far. All those days — keeping her safe, keeping her going."
Silence. Then a small, unsteady breath.
"She stopped talking," Kana whispered. "After the bad things happened. She used to talk all the time. She used to sing."
"She'll talk again. When she's ready."
"Promise?"
"Promise. She just needs time. And safety. And people who care about her." He paused. "She has all of that now."
Kana was quiet for a moment. Then:
"Can we stay with you? And Lira? Forever?"
The word forever landed different from a child. Adults said it knowing it was aspirational. Children said it meaning it — the whole, literal, infinite weight of the word.
Yuki looked at the tent ceiling. At the two fox-kin girls. At Lira's sleeping form.
A week ago, he'd been a solo adventurer with a guild tag and a crush. Now he had two orphaned beastkin children asking to stay with him forever.
He was seventeen. He was from another world. He had power that scared him and secrets he hadn't fully shared and a war coming that he didn't understand yet.
Could he handle this?
"You can stay with me for as long as you want," he said. "Both of you. For as long as you want."
Kana's tail curled around Hana's legs. Her ears relaxed. Her breathing slowed.
"Thank you, Yuki," she murmured. And then she was asleep.
He lay in the dark. Lira on one side. Two fox-kin children on the other. The grassland quiet around them. Stars he was slowly learning the names of overhead.
I came to this world alone. I spent months alone. I built a home alone.
And now I have... this.
A merchant's daughter who teased him and fought beside him and kissed him on rooftops. A silver-eared girl who was braver than anyone he'd ever met. A silent little fox who communicated through tail wags and puppy eyes and had claimed his lap as sovereign territory.
A family. Messy, unplanned, assembled from broken pieces on a grassland road. But a family.
Can I handle this?
He looked at Hana's face — peaceful, warm, the first safe sleep she'd had in who knew how long.
I don't have a choice. They need me. And maybe I need them.
He closed his eyes. For the first time since the homestead, he slept deeply.
Tomorrow, the road continued west. The capital waited. The world was vast and dangerous and full of things he didn't understand.
But tonight, the tent was warm. And that was enough.