"Me?!" Ranma squawked.
Then the wall exploded.
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.
"Alright, you old coot," Ranma said. "You've never seen this move. Kaze no Oshiri! "
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.
Some curses, he decided, were better left uncursed. Especially the ones with diapers.
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.
