A sudden, unexplained surge of force wrenched Sister Qiuluo’s bear hug off me and sent her plopping onto the floor.

“Wah, what was that?!” she complained.

The thin long-sleeved shirt she’d grabbed turned into a black, uncanny substance across my body—spreading, multiplying, reshaping and fixing itself into a full suit of armor. The sleek, jet-black plating hugged my form closely; it didn’t really interfere with my hold on Senior, and it was so light you’d think it was plastic.

Qiuluo muttered, “Where did you get Venom from?”

Even though the armor had been formed from my idea, the breastplate was weirdly soft—like glossy black rubber — reflective and hardly protective-looking. Clearly the notebook had gone off and done things its own way again.

Nine, ten.

Ten seconds were up.

A fan-shaped stigma finally bloomed on Senior’s back, glowing faintly red.

“Phew, that’s done.” I sighed.

Who knew an outfit I’d never actually seen could manifest from imagination… If the notebook keeps expanding like this, could it make me an Iron Man suit next?

Qiuluo rubbed her sore butt and stared, still surprised. “Girlie… are you secretly some city-saving superhero or what?”

Huh — she didn’t even call me “brat” this time.

I felt more like a black-clad antihero than a savior — a cliché black knight. Stick a helmet on and I could call myself Berserker.

“It’s impossible that I’m a hero — even in armor I’m still weak. It just gives some protection,” I hedged.

Qiuluo tapped the vambrace on my arm; it made a solid bonk sound. “Then where’d that shove that sent me flying come from?”

That shove was probably the recoil when the notebook’s outfit material burst into place. I shrugged: “Think of it as the invincibility-frame during a transformation?”

“No—explain how you got this armor, first. And that red mark on my sister’s back… you kissing her half the day has something to do with it, right?” she demanded.

“Half the day? It was only ten seconds.”

“You remember so clearly? So it’s related, right!?”

I turned her around and jabbed at the stigma on her back with my gauntleted finger.

“This is a stigma — it means the god has granted autonomous-transform permissions. The seven fan-ribs equal seven uses. With this, Senior won’t need to ask Xiao Lei to transform her every day.”

“A convenient feature all of a sudden?” Senior said, astonished, craning to see her own back. Of course, you can’t see your own back without a mirror. “I can’t see that spot myself!”

Qiuluo volunteered immediately: “Doesn’t matter if you can’t see it — I’ll check for you! No problem!” (her drool filled grin betrayed she’d happily nosy over anything related to her sister).

Senior just smiled wryly and asked, “So how do I use the autonomous transform function?”

“You think ‘untransform’ in your head; to transform you have to shout ‘Henshin’ out loud.”

“Eh? Why Japanese?”

“…That’s just how the setting works.”

“…”

Qiuluo: “And why did you have to kiss for ten seconds to grant the permission?”

“…That’s a setting too.”

Qiuluo’s hand clipped my forehead in a comical smack.

I hurriedly cobbled together an explanation. “…Actually I’m also a divine emissary now. This armor is a life-saving artifact the god gave me.”

“Huh? Being a divine emissary is that easy?”

“Maybe it’s because I’m good-looking.”

“Who’d buy that?”

Unconvinced, Qiuluo ignored the fact my body was clad in armor and flung herself at my neck, her hard muscles clanging against the plates with a loud thunk.

She was about to ask more when a flash of white light erupted: Senior had turned back male again — and he was wearing my clothes… and my underwear.

(Maybe I'll just give him that set? … On second thought, it might be better to throw it.)

Li Jianlian’s pallid, thin frame folded back into place; the dress didn’t cling too tightly, and compared to some other cross-dressings this actually looked… decent.

Qiuluo poked and teased her brother. “Female clothes suit you — you inherited Mom’s good genes.”

“Don’t joke around, sis…” Senior spluttered. “I’m changing back then… Henshin.”

Nothing happened.

“Say it out loud and with spirit,” I prompted.

“…HENSHIN!”

Success.

“This whole transformation is mortifying!”

I followed up and explained: “The autonomous-transform permission gives you seven uses. Once they’re used up you’ll need the ritual again. If you only use it at work, one authorization a week should be enough.”

Senior blushed and murmured, “… So… does that mean I have to be kissed by you ten seconds every week?”

“Pretty much. Is that a problem?”

“I have a problem! My sister’s so pure — you can’t just kiss her whenever!”

“I’m your brother…” He protested.

Qiuluo waved that off and continued teasing: “Or just don’t change back, Lingmeng — take my lil’ sis as your wife and you can kiss her all the time!”

“You’re out of your mind, no way!” I snapped, then steered the conversation back. “Senior, you’ve been working at the manga café for quite a while. About college — have you decided whether to enroll in university as a woman?”

She paused, sighed, and sat on my bed, thinking. “I’m thinking of discussing it with my Mom about it. Going to college as a woman means lying to the family for years. If possible I still want to try for a normal admission.”

This was serious, so Sis Qiuluo put on her big-sibling voice and sat down beside Senior. “Don’t worry. Whether it’s convincing Mom or applying as a woman, I’ll back you. But—”

Her serious tone cracked immediately; Qiuluo pounced and knocked Senior onto the bed. “I still prefer having lots of little sisters! Might as well ask the god to turn Xingman and Qiye into sisters too — then I’d have six sisters and endless motivation!”

This woman is hopelessly a sis-obsessed type.

Senior pushed Qiuluo off and sat up, glancing at my intact right leg. “After transforming, do wounds really heal?”

“Non-fatal wounds, yes. The original body heals over time too.”

“And diseases?”

“Diseases? What type?” My tone dropped — this was the real issue.

“ALS — that progressive paralysis.” Qiuluo supplied: “Last year our father suddenly couldn’t get out of bed. At the hospital they diagnosed ALS; and they informed us that even with treatment, most patients rarely survive five years.”

ALS is a grim disease, more common in middle to old aged men; the five-year estimate is already assuming intensive treatment, which the Li family simply can’t afford.

Feeding seven kids is already a struggle — sending a son to work after high school was a desperate choice. I could understand their mother’s decision: it wasn’t short-sightedness, it was necessity.

The notebook could probably cure the father of the Li family, but would that be defying the Heavenly Principles?

“I get it. I’ll pass this to the god. If there’s news, I’ll tell you…” I started to say.

Before I could finish, the notebook-armor swelled like an overinflated balloon and pop — it burst apart, collapsing into a scatter of black fabric on the floor.