Knock, knock, knock.
Not long after Yasui stepped out of the bathroom, his hair still half-damp, he leaned against the edge of the bed clad in a black sleep shirt, plotting in his head how to use his newly bought ability.
The sudden knocking interrupted his train of thought.
In no particular rush, he stood up leisurely, casually tossed the boning knife onto his nightstand, and walked to the door in his slippers.
When he pulled the door open, hallway light spilled through the crack, making his eyes narrow slightly.
Standing outside was Suguru Geto.
The guy stood straight as a board—a good student whose family had clearly taught him proper posture from a young age.
In his hand, he held a printed mission sheet, folded neatly with every corner aligned meticulously.
He wasn’t wearing the dark Jujutsu High uniform; those were still in production and hadn’t been completed yet.
So Geto wore a casual jacket in a black-and-white color scheme, zipped up to his chest, revealing a light-colored undershirt, while that strange bang firmly claimed its spot right in the center of his forehead.
Seeing the door open, he offered a smile.
“Grade 2 Cursed Spirit, located over in Minato Ward.”
He extended the mission sheet slightly toward Yasui.
“Want to go together?”
To hang out together.
Rather than an invitation to go on a mission, it sounded like a kid inviting a playmate to somewhere fun.
“Over toward Minato?”
Yasui leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed, water droplets dripping down from the tips of his wet hair to soak into the shoulders of his black sleep shirt, spreading a small dark water stain.
Having just bathed, his whole body carried the fragrance of body wash—a fresh herbal scent, worlds apart from how he looked coming back soaked in blood after a fight.
Tilting his head to recall the geographic direction, he suddenly asked, “Odaiba?”
Geto maintained his gentle demeanor, the curve of his lips unmoving as he nodded: “Very close to Odaiba.”
This answer was sufficient to explain everything.
Close meant stopping by on the way after finishing the mission—logical, natural, requiring zero extra discussion.
A quiet understanding had formed between the two of them.
Geto couldn’t say precisely when it started, but it was probably during their third or fourth joint mission.
That time, the Cursed Spirit was near Akihabara.
After finishing the fight, Yasui said “since we’re already here,” then dragged him through Electric Town for an entire afternoon, buying a pile of useless knick-knacks.
Afterward, it became a routine.
Locations on mission sheets were no longer mere combat coordinates, but came with an invisible tag reading “Recommended Nearby Attractions.”
“Sure.”
Yasui turned back into the room, letting out a yawn as he walked.
“Hold on, let me change.”
He didn’t close the door, so Geto didn’t stand on ceremony either, stepping half a foot into the room and leaning against the inside of the doorframe to wait.
Yasui’s dorm room was just as he had imagined.
Order in chaos.
Or rather, orderly to Yasui, but plain chaotic to a normal person.
To the extent that anyone’s mother would scold it as a pigsty.
The bedsheets were unmade, bundled into an irregular shape piled in the corner.
The pillow rested lopsidedly against the headboard, and half the fitted sheet had been yanked out from beneath the mattress—god knew how he slept.
On the nightstand sat an empty pudding container, beside which lay a knife whose tip still seemed to bear a trace of something.
A few items were piled on the desk: a roll of breathable gauze, half a bottle of iodine, a pair of scissors, and a Tokyo travel guide flipped open to a few pages.
That knife.
Geto’s gaze lingered on it for a moment.
That very boning knife—the one he had seen on the rooftop, appearing out of nowhere and vanishing into thin air.
He didn’t understand how it appeared and vanished, so he simply chalked it up as part of Yasui’s Cursed Technique.
For some reason, it was now casually tossed onto the nightstand, as if its owner paid it zero mind.
He didn’t ask.
“Not going to dry your hair?”
Geto watched Yasui casually grab a black windbreaker.
That long black hair was still dripping, soaking a patch of dark moisture onto the back of the jacket.
“Troublesome.”
Yasui scooped his hair out from the collar of his T-shirt and tossed it backward.
The ends swept a curve through the air, flinging a few droplets onto Geto’s clothes.
Like a cat shaking water off its fur.
The two left the dormitory, and Geto released a flying Cursed Spirit to carry them over.
That Cursed Spirit didn’t look too hideous.
In Geto’s Cursed Spirit collection, it easily stood at the peak of aesthetics.
Although expanding its wings was still a bit eerie, at least ordinary humans wouldn’t have nightmares upon seeing it.
When Yasui first saw it, his evaluation had been “looks like a burnt duck,” and every time he rode it afterward, he called it the “Duck Express.”
Geto had corrected him twice, explaining that it had its own designation: “Flying Type No.
3.” Yasui had responded at the time, “Alright, Duck No.
3.”
Geto never bothered correcting him again.
The wind whistled past their ears.
The late March air in Tokyo still carried a chill, but the sunlight had spread wide.
Below, the streets and buildings of Minato Ward gradually shrank and expanded in their vision.
Yasui sat cross-legged on the Cursed Spirit’s back, elbows propped on his knees and chin resting on his palms as he looked down at the scenery.
His hair was blown into a messy tangle by the wind, but he ignored it, occasionally reaching out to pluck at the feather-like structures flaring at the edge of the Cursed Spirit’s wings, causing it to shake twice in discontent.
“Geto, this dead duck of yours has quite a temper.”
Hearing something off in those words, Geto glanced at Yasui, deciding to ignore the secondary meaning.
“It’s a miracle it has a good temper when you’re plucking its feathers.”
“Who’s plucking its feathers?
This is friendly physical contact.
Duck, wouldn’t you say so?”
He patted the Cursed Spirit’s back.
The Cursed Spirit let out a strange noise; it was impossible to tell whether it was seconding the motion or filing a complaint.
Geto offered no translation, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing.
A Grade 2 Cursed Spirit wasn’t hard to fight.
Hiding in the underground parking lot of a construction site in Minato Ward, it was a rather large creature shaped like a flattened and re-kneaded myriapod.
A turbid eye grew at the tip of every single leg, causing physical discomfort if stared at for too long.
It was truly beyond comprehension why Cursed Spirits had to grow so many eyes—gross to death.
Made one want to gouge them out.
Yasui and Geto coordinated with tacit synergy.
Yasui chopped in front while Geto dealt ranged damage from the side, occasionally releasing a few Cursed Spirits to restrain the target’s movement.
To their current selves, a Grade 2 Cursed Spirit merely took a few extra minutes of play.
The boning knife’s trait of bypassing Cursed Energy defense was practically a cheat code in this kind of fight; every slash precisely severed the Cursed Spirit’s vital points, splashing black residue all over the ground.
Battle over, job done.
Yasui flicked the black blood off the blade, stowed the boning knife into his System Space, dusted off his clothes, and turned to look at Geto: “Let’s go, off to Odaiba to have fun~”
His tone was supremely definitive, completely devoid of any intention to consult, as if announcing an established fact.
Geto recalled the low-grade Cursed Spirits released earlier to assist in combat, clapped his hands, and nodded.
He didn’t even say “alright,” because in this context, “alright” was already a superfluous word.
Odaiba was an artificial island in Tokyo Bay, and the late March sea breeze blowing across their faces carried a slight salty chill.
In the distance, the white body of the Rainbow Bridge spanned the ocean surface, the view so wide it made one want to take a deep breath and absorb the vast expanse.
On a weekday daytime, there weren’t many people in Odaiba.
Tourists strolled along the walkway in twos and threes, and occasionally bicyclists rang their bells as they passed by.
The two walked along the waterfront promenade.
Yasui walked ahead with his hands shoved in his pockets, his stride so lazy he looked like a retired old man out for a stroll.
Geto walked half a step beside him with a steady pace, occasionally turning his head to admire the ocean view.
The sea breeze blew Yasui’s long hair backward, slapping Geto several times.
“Can you tie your hair up?”
Geto raised a hand to block it, but missed; the hair had already swished across the tip of his nose.
“Didn’t bring a hair tie,” Yasui stated with absolute confidence.
“You said the exact same thing last time.”
“Then that shows I’m a very consistent person.”
Geto pulled a black hair tie out from his pocket and handed it over.
“You carry this around with you?”
“I also need to tie my hair.” Geto pointed to his own topknot.
Yasui curved his eyes, bit the hair tie in his mouth, reached his hands behind his head to gather his hair, and casually tied a low ponytail.
Once finished, he tilted his head to look at Geto: “How is it?”
“Crooked.”
“Then go ahead and help me straighten it.”
Geto let out a sigh, reaching out his hand to help him adjust the ponytail.
Like a mother looking at a troublesome child.
Yasui’s eyebrows arched slightly.
Mother Geto’s other, even more troublesome child would be coming to school in a few days.
The white-haired guy who claimed Throughout Heaven and Earth, I Alone Am The Honored One.
Just thinking about it was fun.
Geto’s movements were very light, his fingers weaving through the black strands to readjust the position of the crooked hair tie.
He noticed a faint red mark exposed on the skin of Yasui’s nape that was slowly fading, looking like a newly added injury.
His fingers paused briefly, but he said nothing, withdrawing his hand.
“Fixed.”
“Thanks, Mother Geto.”
Geto selectively ignored that title.
The two first took a stroll around the Fuji TV Building.
That building itself was a landmark, a giant silver sphere embedded right in the middle of the structure, looking from a distance like a metallic egg half-swallowed by the building.
Yasui stood at the foot of the building looking up for a long time, his expression so serious that Geto thought he was about to deliver a high-minded lecture on architectural aesthetics.
“Looks like a flattened piece of takoyaki.”
“…Are you serious?”
“Look at that sphere,” Yasui drew a circle in the air with his finger, gesturing at the iconic spherical observation deck in the middle of the building.
“Doesn’t it look just like a takoyaki squeezed between two chopsticks?
One on top, one on bottom, squeezed so hard the filling is almost bursting out!
It’s about to explode with juice, hey.”
Geto looked up at the Fuji TV Building and fell silent for three seconds.
He would never be able to look at this building directly again.
“I think the person who designed it would cry if they heard you.”
“Cry for what?
Takoyaki is a magnificent food—this is a compliment.” Yasui waved his hand unconcernedly, stepping toward the building’s entrance, then turning back after two steps: “Since we’re already here, let’s go up and take a look.”
The view from the observation floor was indeed lovely.
There weren’t many people when they went up, with only a few scattered tourists inside the observation hall.
Yasui leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, his purple eyes reflecting Tokyo Bay outside.
From this angle, one could see the entire coastline of Odaiba and the distant Rainbow Bridge.
A few sightseeing boats glided leisurely across the ocean, trailing light-colored wakes across the sea.
“Geto, look at that boat,” he pointed to a moving tiny dot on the water, “Doesn’t it look like a water strider?”
“…Your choice of metaphors is always unexpected.”
“Just tell me if it looks like one or not.”
Geto looked at the boat on the sea, then thought of a water strider’s appearance, and had to admit it really did look somewhat like one.
Resisting the urge to nod, he pulled his phone out from his pocket and snapped a picture of the view outside the window.
Coming down from the observation floor, Yasui lingered in the souvenir shop for quite a while.
He exhibited an abnormal level of interest in those keychains, postcards, and mascot merchandise, picking them up one by one to inspect, offer a few comments, and put back.
Geto followed behind him, feeling as though he were taking a child half his actual age on a shopping trip.
Haha, he’ll have to take two around in the future.
Yasui picked up a mascot charm shaped like the spherical building, squeezed its belly, and stuffed it into Geto’s hand: “This is for you.”
“Why an octopus?”
“To commemorate the first time you were shocked by takoyaki architecture.”
Geto flipped the tag to check the price, then looked at the crudely made octopus plushie in his hand.
The corners of his mouth twitched, and in the end, he stuffed it into his pocket anyway.
“Hey, we haven’t paid yet!
Don’t be in such a rush to pocket it, or you’ll get beaten up by the shopkeeper, hey!”