Nabiki smiled. "A 21st-century diaper change." The plan was forged in desperation. Ranma would have to learn the lost art of Oshiri no Kamae —the Diaper-Changing Stance—a technique so humiliating that the Jusenkyo Amazon elders had buried it beneath a scroll labeled "Only for the Truly Doomed."

The final confrontation took place at sunset. Baby Kima had constructed a fortress out of dojo cushions, armed with chopsticks and a jar of wasabi. The Matriarch's ancient body (with baby Puchi's mind inside) was gumming a ceremonial sword in the corner, cooing.

The third attempt, Ranma got desperate. He tried the old "octopus in the bath" trick. Baby Kima summoned a swarm of garden koi to form a living raft, floated past the octopus, and used a wet diaper as a slingshot to fire a marble directly into Ranma's forehead.

"You defeated me. You out-cooked the Matriarch's legendary dragon-noodle chef. She keeps a wax effigy of you in her meditation chamber. You must frighten that baby into screaming."

"What's unknown to a 104-year-old martial arts ghost-baby?" Ranma asked.

Then came the Talc of Tranquility. Ranma produced a giant shaker of baby powder. With a final, dramatic flourish, he dumped the entire thing over the baby’s head. The infant Matriarch, ancient mind in a tiny body, was suddenly buried in a white, fragrant, fluffy avalanche.

The old woman on the ground cackled. "Foolish boy. This is not about you. It is about her ." She pointed a gnarled finger at the floating baby. "That is the Great Matriarch Jusenkyo, Kima of the Seven Spices. And I am…" the baby burbled, and a surprisingly deep voice echoed from its tiny mouth, "…now merely Mousse's unfortunate great-aunt, twice removed."

"It's a hundred-and-four-year-old tyrant in a diaper! That's different!" The first attempt was a disaster. Ranma, transformed into his girl form (a stray splash from the pond), loomed over baby Kima, making his best "fierce face." The baby yawned. Then, with a flick of its chubby wrist, it executed a pressure-point strike on Ranma's shin. Ranma collapsed, howling. The baby began to crawl—no, slither —toward the kitchen.

And Ranma, despite everything, found himself smiling back.

"The Matriarch is heading for the knife drawer!" Kasumi called out cheerfully.

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.

The Cradle Will Fall