Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu Technical College, infirmary.
The cicadas outside the window were irritatingly loud.
Makoto leaned against the hospital bed with his left hand wrapped in a heavy cast, while his right hand held a cup of expensive matcha warmed to the perfect temperature.
Beside his bed, several copies of Detailed Human Anatomy and a neat stack of brand-new blank drawing paper sat in tidy piles.
“Makoto-kun, this is your ‘compensation for emotional distress,’ along with the school’s additional payout for the intelligence error that caused you to accidentally run into a damn Special Grade.” Gojo Satoru was sprawled across the swivel chair beside him, his sunglasses sliding down his nose to reveal blue eyes that clearly screamed, ‘I am extremely pissed off.’ He had just returned from Jujutsu Headquarters, and his whole body still carried the arrogant air of someone who had just flipped a table.
“Since that Special Grade was mistakenly classified as a Grade 2, I squeezed quite a few benefits out of those old geezers for you,” Gojo gritted out, his voice sounding like he was grinding his teeth.
“Of course, if we can catch the bastard who wrote ‘A Bitter Summer’, I’m willing to double the amount and hand it straight to you.” Makoto’s heart skipped a hard beat, but the smile on his face turned fresher than the fakest act imaginable.
With his uninjured right hand, he quickly unlocked his phone, glanced at it once, then reverently shoved it right under his pillow.
“Gojo-sensei, money really isn’t important.
Being able to share your burdens is my honor.
I’ve heard of that ‘A Bitter Summer’ book too.
The author is truly deranged!
To think he would write a lofty, ‘i’m alone is the honored one’ personality like yours as some kind of…
uh, lovesick idiot?
Truly delightful—no, I mean, truly deranged!
I’ll definitely help you keep an eye out for clues.” Gojo stared at him for three seconds, then suddenly spoke in a faint, eerie tone.
“Then why the hell is there a rough sketch inside that practice book in your arms of a white-haired beauty wearing a Jujutsu High uniform, looking heartbroken in the rain?” “That is artistic creation!” Makoto argued with a dead-serious expression.
“Sensei, that is genderbend art created to capture one ten-thousandth of the ‘loneliness’ within your essence.
How can you call that drawing doujin material?” …
“Makoto, congratulations on getting discharged!
And congrats on officially becoming a Grade 2 sorcerer!” On the streets of Shinjuku, Panda’s thick paw landed heavily on Makoto’s shoulder, shaking his wheelchair so hard it nearly fell apart on the spot.
“Sure, you nearly died and barely dragged your ass back alive during that mission, but you still managed to pry a promotion slot and this ‘acute stress observation grant’ out of those rotten higher up.
At this point, your net worth is almost closing in on a Grade 1 sorcerer’s, isn’t it?” Zenin Maki walked beside them with a long sword wrapped in cloth, teasing him in her usual crisp, straightforward way.
“And to celebrate this era-defining victory, a pre-meal ceremony is necessary, right?” Panda flashed a smile so honest it was unsettling, his eyes fixed on the thick cast around Makoto’s left hand.
“How are you supposed to fight for meat while wearing that thing?
Come on, I’ll help you ‘release the seal.'” “W-Wait!
Panda!
That’s imported cast material I paid for myself—hey!” Crack—!
Panda’s precise strength erupted in an instant.
Makoto only felt a chill around his arm before the cast that had accompanied him for half a month, covered in “get well soon” messages from his classmates, was shattered into fine white powder by Panda’s focused strike and scattered into the wind!
Makoto felt his newly freed left hand and hadn’t even had time to flex it before he saw Panda take out a handkerchief and wipe his paw, speaking in a deep, solemn voice, “There.
Seal released.
The current you now possesses the perfect physique to squander that massive payout!” …
Inside the yakiniku restaurant, charcoal crackled and popped.
“Um…
waiter, is the zero at the end of this ‘premium Japanese Black Wagyu platter’ printed by mistake?” Makoto pinched the menu with trembling fingers, his face even paler than when Panda had just demolished his cast.
His normally calm eyes were fixed tightly on the price column, as though he were staring into some terrifying abyss that couldn’t be looked at directly.
“It’s not a mistake, Makoto.” Maki took the menu from him with complete naturalness, her fingertip elegantly sliding over several of the most expensive choices.
“We’re celebrating your survival after a near-death experience.
If we eat something too cheap, it’d be disrespectful to that compensation money.
Right, Yuta?” “Huh?
Ah…
if Maki-san says so…” Yuta showed his signature troubled smile.
“Bonito flakes.
(Order everything,)” Inumaki Toge added with a solemn expression.
He even thoughtfully flipped the menu to the most expensive page of the drinks section for Makoto and pointed at a bottle of long-aged daiginjo.
“Wait!
That one…” Makoto’s eyes widened as if he had grabbed his final lifeline, and he hurriedly shouted.
“We’re still minors, right?
The law says we can’t drink alcohol!
We definitely can’t order that!” “That’s a law for humans, isn’t it?” Panda took the drinks menu with a serious face and spoke in his deep, smoky voice.
“Panda isn’t human, so I’m not bound by that rule.
So I’ll take this bottle too.” Makoto opened his mouth and stared at Panda’s round black-and-white face, only to realize he couldn’t find any logical way to argue against an autonomous cursed corpse.
‘My money…
that’s compensation I earned with my own ability…’ When the first plate of Wagyu, its marbling so beautiful it looked like a work of stone art, was brought to the table, Makoto was practically turning the tongs with tears in his eyes.
Every time he heard the meat sizzle against the charcoal, he felt like it was the agonized wail of his dying account balance.
“Makoto-kun, as a cursed corpse, I technically don’t need to eat.” Panda solemnly stuffed a massive piece of pork belly into his mouth and spoke in a muffled smoky voice.
“But what I’m doing right now is helping you share the ‘curse brought by money.’ In order to protect your soul from being corrupted by this unexpected fortune, I’ve decided to order another bottle of the most expensive fresh juice.” “Don’t make that face.” Maki elegantly picked up a piece of meat and popped it in her mouth, narrowing her eyes in satisfaction.
“Your cursed energy fluctuations are very stable right now.
If anything, that feeling of ‘heartache’ is making you look more alive, isn’t it?” Hearing that, Makoto slowly set down his juice, pushed up his monocle, and let a faint, extremely punchable gleam flash across the lens.
“Oh my, Maki-chan~ Aren’t you usually unable to ‘see’ the flow of cursed energy at all?
And yet you’re still trying to comment on my cursed energy fluctuations.
That effort to force yourself into the conversation is so touching it makes my heart ache too.” The air froze for a second.
“Hah?
Who the hell are you calling ‘Maki-chan’?
And what the fuck was that fake-sweet tone just now?” A vein instantly popped on Maki’s forehead.
She shot to her feet, crossed around the table in one step, and before Makoto could even scream, she wrapped a firm, powerful arm around his neck and yanked him against her chest.
Of course, this was definitely not some kind of lucky pervert moment.
It was a hard, muscular chokehold packed with explosive strength!
“Mmgh…
cough!
It’s going to break!
I’m going to suffocate!
Maki…
sama!
I was wrong!” “Who are you calling sama?
Looks like your cursed energy really is stable.
Stable enough that you don’t even need to breathe, right?” Maki sneered and tightened her arm as though she were squeezing a reckless, overripe persimmon.
“Makoto, farewell.” Panda poured wine while calmly roasting him.
“Salmon.
Moment of silence,” Inumaki said, calmly flipping the meat on the grill.
However, while Makoto was flailing around in panic, his cheek accidentally brushed against the side of Maki’s neck.
There was none of that delicate perfume scent there.
Only a faint, clean fragrance mixed with cold metal and some kind of herbal shampoo.
His body stiffened, and he subconsciously took in a breath.
Maki, too, reacted as if she had been shocked, the strength around his neck loosening by a fraction without her realizing it.
Through the thin casual clothes, Makoto could feel the vibrant warmth beneath her skin.
It was the kind of heat that only a sorcerer who had trained her body for years possessed, and it was so hot that it made a frail artist like him a little dizzy.
“…Hey.
Why are you blushing?” Maki noticed something was off.
She lowered her head, and their eyes met at a distance of less than five centimeters.
Makoto’s slightly damp eyes, made that way by lack of oxygen, reflected her face—the face of a girl whose expression clearly said, ‘I’m going to kill you,’ yet had suddenly become unsure of what to do.
“Because…
Maki-chan’s arms are…
a little softer than I expected.” ‘Am I seriously, even on the verge of death, still refusing to abandon this brain-cell-destroying instinct to court disaster?!’ “…Go die!” Maki shoved him away like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
She sat back down, her movements exaggerated enough to look suspiciously like she was trying to cover something up, while the tips of her ears glowed a deeply suspicious red under the restaurant lights.
Taking advantage of the moment when Maki was desperately flipping the meat, Makoto huddled miserably in the corner of his seat, his left hand swiping across his phone screen under the table so fast it nearly left afterimages.
Anonymous forum, latest update for A Bitter Summer: [Pinned by Author] Regarding today’s training insight: The white tower remains arrogant, while today, beneath the afterglow, I tasted the flavor of “sacrifice” (referring to expensive Wagyu).
In addition, while attempting to touch “reality” (referring to mocking Maki), I accidentally encountered a restriction as absolute as iron law.
The suffocating sensation of being deprived of breath reminded me of the spiritual vacuum suffered by the “deity” in that tower after losing his only bond.
This “pain of being unable to touch” shall serve as the emotional tone for the next chapter, Snowy Night.
Thank you for the support.
PS : I am not dead yet.