That son of a bitch panda has done it to them again, goddammit.

Not enough that he uprooted their life, dragged them halfway around the world in pursuit of some nebulous “training” as an excuse for ducking an endless series of petty creditors, not enough that he dunked them both into those cursed hot springs (though admittedly that wasn’t without its benefits, they’ll grudgingly admit), not enough that he brokered marriage after marriage to a series of increasingly combative fiancées and fiancés, no. Now he’s entered them both in a wood-turning competition and wagered their share of the school on victory, and three guesses who has to carry it off or get kicked out onto the street again.

“Good training,” he writes. “Easy easy!”

“What the hell do I know about wood-turning, old man?” They could strangle him, if they could get their hands around the girth of their neck; on bad nights they suspect him of staying a panda for just that reason.

“I’ve found you a teacher!” he writes. “You’ll like them!” Then, ominously, adds, “They’re just your type!”

“Oh no,” says Ranma, the cursed, the magnetic, desperately longing for any stability whatsoever, as he hears the whirr of a lathe starting up. “Not again!”