Several Anime Girls Appeared in my World

Chapter 50: The Puppeteer's Interlude and a Recurring Nightmare

The hooded figure lingered for only a moment after Boa Hancock and Erza Scarlet succumbed to the unnatural slumber. The silence he commanded in the dusty Cine Theatro Esperança was absolute, the two unconscious warrior queens.

Then, with a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, hidden deep within the cowl, he turned his attention to a seemingly empty corner of the decaying auditorium, near a crumbling pillar draped in cobwebs.

"No need to hide, little one," his voice was a soft murmur, yet it carried an undeniable authority that resonated in the stillness. "Your attempts at stealth are… commendable, but ultimately transparent to certain eyes."

A faint shimmer distorted the air, like heat rising from asphalt on a summer day. Slowly, the outline of Julie, the enigmatic entity Kael had previously observed, coalesced. She was no longer radiating the playful, almost childlike aura she had when interacting with Boa Hancock or Erza Scarlet.

Now, she appeared small, almost translucent, her usual vibrant colors muted, her form hunched as if bracing against an unseen wind. Fear, or something very much like it, emanated from her.

"Can I know why you chose those two for your… particular brand of amusement?" the hooded man continued, his tone conversational, yet with an underlying edge of steel. He gestured vaguely towards the unconscious forms of Hancock and Erza.

"I confess, I found your initial premise quite… stimulating. A delightful little spark of chaos in an otherwise predictable sequence. But," and here his voice dropped, losing its playful lilt, "it could ruin my far more intricate plans if one of them, or indeed both, were to perish from such… exuberant interactions. These pieces are rather important, you see."

Julie visibly flinched. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was a mere whisper, a stark contrast to the confident, reality-bending entity she had seemed before. "They… they were so… loud. So full of… story. I just… wanted to see… what would happen if their stories… touched."

Her explanation was fragmented, childlike in its simplicity, yet hinting at a perception of existence as narratives to be played with. "It was… just a joke."

The hooded man tilted his head. "A joke that nearly brought down a city block and could have extinguished two rather unique flames. Your power is undeniable, little shaper, but your foresight… it needs refinement."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "Consider this a gentle admonition. Continue your… 'jokes,' if you must. But ensure they do not unravel threads that are not yours to pull so forcefully. Some narratives are more delicate, more pivotal, than others."

Julie nodded mutely, her form flickering slightly. She offered no further defense, no argument. The power dynamic was crushingly clear.

"Good." The hooded man's smile seemed to return, though it remained unseen. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few… stage preparations to make."

With that, he didn't so much move as simply… cease to be there. One moment he was a commanding presence before Julie, the next, only the swirling dust motes remained. Julie, too, shimmered and faded, vanishing completely, leaving no trace she had ever been there, save perhaps for a lingering scent of ozone and bewildered starlight.

High in the rafters, Kael meticulously recorded everything. The appearance of the second, more subdued entity. The dialogue. The hooded figure's clear dominance and his reference to "plans." This was no mere accidental convergence of anomalies. This was orchestrated, managed. The hooded figure was not just a powerful individual; he was a director.

Miles away, Joey looked up from the console in Himeko's probe. "Did you see that? It was like he was talking to empty air… and then the air… answered."

Himeko's brow was furrowed in deep concentration. "The energy signature we briefly attributed to 'Julie' reappeared, albeit suppressed, during that exchange. It seems this new individual can perceive and interact with her on a level we cannot.

And his own energy… it's like he can switch it on and off at will. Almost undetectable, then capable of overwhelming force."

Mirajane, ever perceptive, added, "He mentioned 'his plans' and seemed to warn Julie about interfering. This hooded man isn't just reacting to events; he's trying to guide them."

Meanwhile, the hooded figure reappeared not in the cinema, but on the quiet, moonlit main street of Healdsburg. He moved with an unhurried grace, a shadow gliding through shadows.

He stopped before a small, upscale boutique, its windows dark. With a gesture Kael, had he been able to track him this far, would have found impossible to analyze, the locked door clicked open.

Inside, he selected several items of simple, comfortable clothing – soft cotton shirts, loose-fitting trousers. He moved with a detached efficiency, his choices practical rather than aesthetic.

On the counter, he placed a neat stack of US currency, more than enough to cover the cost, alongside a small, elegantly scripted note: "Apologies for the unorthodox procurement. A necessity of circumstance."

Then, as easily as he had left, he was back in the Cine Theatro Esperança, the newly acquired clothes in hand. He approached the unconscious forms of Boa Hancock and Erza Scarlet. What followed was an act of almost clinical detachment.

He carefully, and with a surprising gentleness that belied his immense power, removed Erza's battered Purgatory Armor, which dematerialized upon her complete unconsciousness, leaving her in her simple underlayers.

He then dressed her in one of the soft shirts and trousers. He did the same for Hancock, whose elaborate dress, though still beautiful, was torn and stained.

There was no leering, no impropriety in his actions. It was as if he were tending to mannequins, preparing them for a new display.

Once they were clad in the plain, unremarkable garments, he positioned them a slight distance apart on the dusty floor, then settled himself on the edge of the dilapidated stage, a silent, patient sentinel waiting for his principal actors to awaken.

The dream. It was always the dream.

Erza Scarlet found herself standing again in that same horrifyingly bright, sterile white room. And again, she was clad only in her simple, practical underwear. The humiliation, the sheer impropriety of it, crashed over her with renewed force, mixed with a phantom exhaustion from a battle she vaguely felt she'd just been fighting. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Not again!" she hissed, her hands instinctively trying to cover herself, a futile gesture. Her scarlet hair felt like a banner of her shame in this exposed state.

A short distance away, Boa Hancock materialized into the same nightmare. She too was in her undergarments, the very fabric a perceived defilement against her perfect skin. Her eyes, when they snapped open, burned with a furious, incredulous rage that made the oppressive white of the dream-room seem to dim.

"This… this indignity! Again?!" Her voice was a low, dangerous growl. The memory of the armored woman, the near-kiss, the subsequent brutal fight – it all swirled in her mind like a poisonous miasma, yet the reality of this recurring dream was the immediate, intolerable offense. She felt a phantom ache in her arm, a burning exhaustion in her limbs.

Then they saw it. Or rather, him.

Suspended in the air between them, looking utterly bewildered and, if possible, even more scantily clad than they were in a ridiculously tiny, heart-patterned loincloth, was a figure that vaguely resembled her Luffy… but not. It was as if a child had tried to draw him from a confused memory, all exaggerated features and a look of utter, gormless panic.

He was flailing slightly, as if treading water in an invisible pool.

This was new. The previous dream had involved only the two of them, the horrifying proximity. This… this was a different level of absurdity and insult.

Hancock's first instinct was a surge of revulsion. "What is that… that abomination?!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger. "Is this another of your vulgar tricks, armored harlot?!" Despite the shared dream, her ire immediately fixed on Erza as the source of all unpleasantness.

Erza, equally appalled and confused by the flailing, Luffy-esque caricature, shot back, "My tricks?! This is your doing, you arrogant…!" She trailed off, words failing her in the face of such utter, surreal horror. Who would conjure such a… a thing? And why was it looking at them with such wide, terrified eyes?

The caricature squeaked. It was a high-pitched, undignified sound. "W-whoa! Ladies! Easy now! I don't know how I got here! Or why I'm… dressed like this!" His voice was a bizarrely high-pitched version of Luffy's, further grating on Hancock's nerves.

Hancock's Mero Mero Mellow, her ability to turn those who lusted after her to stone, was useless here. This pathetic creature inspired no lust, only a profound sense of aesthetic offense and bewildered rage. If anything, she felt a desperate urge to petrify it simply to remove it from her sight.

"You dare… you dare impersonate my beloved Luffy in such a grotesque fashion?!" she seethed, her fists clenching. "Even in a dream, such sacrilege will not be tolerated!"

Erza, meanwhile, was trying to make sense of it. The dream was clearly being manipulated. The hooded figure from the cinema… had he done this? Was this the "continuation" he spoke of? It was more humiliating, more bizarre than before. The sense of being a puppet, her dignity stripped away in this luminous white prison, was infuriating.

"This is a mockery!" Erza declared, her voice tight with fury, despite her lack of armor and weaponry. "Someone is playing a cruel game with us!"

The Luffy-caricature yelped as Hancock took a menacing step towards it, radiating pure killing intent. "Hey! I didn't ask for this! I was just… dreaming of meat!"

The dream had indeed continued, but it had taken a turn for the utterly, embarrassingly bizarre, plunging two of the multiverse's most formidable women into a scenario that attacked not their bodies, but their very sense of self and decorum, all while a silent puppeteer waited patiently in the wings of the real world for the next act to begin.

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