The black sedan’s engine let out a low, steady growl as it pulled smoothly into the flow of traffic.
Uchiha Ayato settled into the back seat, adjusting himself until he was comfortably sunk into it.
His gaze drifted past the window — past classmates laughing and jostling their way toward the train station — watching the noise and familiar triviality of it all blur into vague shapes behind him.
“Uchiha-san, I’d like to walk you through the process before we get there.” “After all…
Gojo-san’s arrangements tend to be a little, ah, free-spirited.” Ijichi kept his eyes rigidly on the road, both hands on the wheel.
“Go ahead, Ijichi-san.” “I’m curious what kind of back door that demanding teacher has pushed me through.” Ayato smiled, his voice carrying none of the tension you’d expect from someone about to face actual danger — more like a young lord doing a leisurely inspection of his territory.
Ijichi pushed his glasses back up his nose and cleared his throat.
“Under the standard promotion model, you need a joint recommendation from two or more Grade 1 sorcerers.” “The candidate then performs multiple missions alongside a current Grade 1 sorcerer or someone of equivalent ability.
If they’re judged to have the aptitude, they’re promoted to Quasi-Grade 1.” “After that, the Quasi-Grade 1 is assigned solo Grade 1 missions, and based on their performance, a final decision is made on whether they officially become a Grade 1 Sorcerer.” He paused slightly, and his tone took on a faintly delicate edge.
“But given your very particular circumstances, and the fact that Gojo-san slammed his fist on the table at the Supervisory Division and personally vouched for you…” “All the intermediate steps have been skipped.” “You’ll need to independently complete three Grade 1 or above specific missions.
Complete all three, and you’ll be directly recognized as a Grade 1 Sorcerer.” “Solo Grade 1 missions, huh…” “Sounds dangerous~” He said it like it sounded dangerous, but his body language was pure relaxation.
At the same time, the system chimed in — [Combat Mission: Complete three Grade A Missions (0/3).] [Rewards: Chakra capacity x2 (Stage 1 complete); Multiple Shadow Clone Jutsu (Stage 2 complete); Lightning Style Chakra Mode (Stage 3 complete).] Uchiha Ayato: …
Chakra capacity doubled?
You’re telling me all the years Uncle Ayato spent grinding daily missions and training his chakra from scratch are worth less than taking out one Grade 1 cursed spirit?
Oh come on.
Uncle Ayato is actually a little mad.
What was the point of all those other cursed spirits I exorcised?
Did those not count because I wasn’t in the main cast yet?
Right at that moment, the quiet of the car was broken by a surge of music.
A violin full of power, layered with an energetic drumbeat — the whole thing bristling with the feeling of something alive and fighting its way upward.
Morfonica’s flame of hope.
Ayato raised an eyebrow, glancing from the window to the center console.
“flame of hope?
The band from Tsukinomori’s girls?” Ijichi’s hands jerked on the wheel.
The car gave a small wobble.
The man in the black suit who looked like he hadn’t seen sunlight in a decade — an expression of mortified red was now creeping up his face.
“Ah…
that, sorry, I forgot to turn it off…” “I’ll change it right away—” “Don’t bother.
This song’s got something to it.
Fits the mood right now.” Ayato propped his chin on one hand and studied the flustered man.
“Honestly, Ijichi-san…” “Looking at your face — a face that has clearly been thoroughly destroyed by life — and listening to this absolutely energetic girl-band rock…
the contrast is something else.” “Please don’t tell me you’re the type who secretly practices their call-and-response moves alone at 3 AM in front of a performance video.” Ijichi’s head sank lower.
“Actually…” “It’s just that, in a world where you could die at any moment, listening to something that feels so…
alive…
makes me a little less scared.” “And honestly, the fact that you even recognized it as Morfonica — I’m already having a pretty good day.” He snuck a glance at Ayato in the rearview mirror, a trace of something almost like finding a kindred spirit lighting up his face.
“Do you like this kind of music too, Uchiha-san?” “I wouldn’t say like, but I know it well.” “If I had to pick, I’d go with Roselia.” Ayato closed his eyes, fingers tapping along with the rhythm on his knee.
The car passed through a long tunnel.
The melody bounced around the enclosed space, carrying enough life force to rattle the tin walls.
As the tunnel opened up, the burst of light coming in from the other end landed on Ayato’s black hair, carving out a silhouette sharp as an unsheathed blade.
“Since today’s looking like a good day — let’s keep it that way.” Uchiha Ayato opened his eyes.
Crimson ignited suddenly at the bottom of his gaze.
“Alright, Ijichi-san.
Enough small talk.” “Now — give me the briefing on the first mission.” Meanwhile, in a house with a garden.
“I’m home.” Wakaba Mutsumi pushed open the door and stepped into the entryway.
No lights.
No sound.
Her flat voice bounced off the wide entryway and vanished without an echo.
Minamicha was probably on some set somewhere, keeping up the illusion that her star hadn’t dimmed, while Aa-ron was probably at some high-end members-only club, trading cheap punchlines for a sad little crumb of popularity.
She was used to the emptiness and the hollow feeling by now.
Mutsumi moved on autopilot down the hallway to the far end, pushed open the heavy soundproofed door that led to the basement.
Only here.
Only in front of that pink guitar.
Only then did she feel like she existed.
She sat down on the cold folding chair, picked up the guitar, ran her fingers across the strings.
Hiss—— The metal vibration crawled up through the body of the guitar and into her ribs, quieting the dull ache in her chest by just a little.
This heavy, grating roar was completely at odds with the elegance and propriety she was supposed to uphold.
But in this place — in this coffin of a basement where no one else could hear — it was her only way to breathe.
Did you enjoy the band?
If she hadn’t said it like that, Sakiko wouldn’t have been able to fully cut herself off.
I…
Am a sinner.
Mutsumi’s fingers flew wild across the neck of the guitar.
The amp shrieked with a thin, bleak wail.
If she didn’t make noise, if she didn’t let this vibration shake through her entire body, she was afraid she’d become as numb as this house — a stone statue with no sense of feeling left.
Her fingers played until they bled.
The sting actually brought her a moment of clarity.
This sound…
Can it reach anyone?
Mutsumi played for a long time, until the clock hands fell heavy into the depths of the night, and only then did she mechanically set the guitar back down and climb the stairs.
When she returned to the living room, the garden had been fully swallowed by the dark.
That picture-perfect celebrity couple was still not home.
She didn’t turn on the lights.
The dark felt safer.
Just as she headed upstairs toward her room, a sudden sound cut clean through the excellent soundproofing of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Like an enormous pair of rusted iron shears slowly dragging across the stone tiles in the outer courtyard.
Wakaba Mutsumi froze in the middle of the room.
She was more attuned to the “density” of the air than most people.
That foul, sticky shadow of dread — she could feel it now, massing at her front door.
Those things again.
She edged carefully toward the corner of the room, held her breath, and with trembling fingers lifted one corner of the heavy curtain.
Past the garden wall, under the weak yellow glow of a streetlamp, a thin shadow stretched long across the pavement.
A woman in a cream-colored long trench coat.
Black hair loose over her shoulders.
Back to the house.
Her figure looked slightly warped in the darkness.
She just stood there.
Not moving.
Like she was waiting for something.
Don’t look.
If you don’t look at them, they won’t notice you.
Mutsumi told herself that in the back of her mind.
But uncontrollable fear and curiosity made her keep staring at that silhouette.
The next second, that figure turned its head without any warning — pointing directly at the gap in the curtain where Mutsumi stood.
Mutsumi clearly saw the white surgical mask.
And above the mask, two bloodshot eyes, stretched too wide, carrying a grotesque smiling quality.
“Am I…” The woman’s voice box sounded like it had been sliced open with something sharp, the words leaking through the cuts, somehow seeping through the glass and straight into Mutsumi’s skull — “…beautiful?” To be continued…