The black sedan’s engine let out a muffled growl as it slid smoothly into the flow of traffic.
Uchiha Ayato sat in the back seat, shifting into a comfortable position that let him sink deep into the cushions.
His gaze swept over the classmates outside the window, laughing and roughhousing their way toward the train station; the clamor and the trivialities were rapidly blurring into smudges of color behind him.
“Mr.
Uchiha, regarding the journey ahead, I’d like to walk you through the procedure first.” “After all…
Mr.
Gojo Satoru’s arrangements tend to be rather ‘freewheeling.'” Ijichi Kiyotaka gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed dead ahead.
“Go right ahead, Mr.
Ijichi.” “I’m rather curious myself—where exactly does that ‘back door’ my pushy teacher opened for me actually lead?” Ayato smiled; there wasn’t a trace in his voice of the tension you’d expect from someone about to face danger—if anything, he sounded like a young aristocrat out inspecting his domain.
Ijichi pushed up the glasses that had slid down the bridge of his nose and gave a dry cough: “Under the normal promotion track, you’d be jointly recommended by two or more Grade 1 Sorcerers.” “The recommended candidate then has to carry out multiple missions alongside an active Grade 1 Sorcerer—or a sorcerer of Grade 1 caliber—and if they’re judged to have the qualifications, they’re promoted to semi-Grade 1.” “After that, the semi-Grade 1 is assigned to complete a Grade 1 mission solo, and based on the outcome, it’s decided whether they officially become a Grade 1 Sorcerer.” He paused for a moment, his tone turning somewhat delicate: “But because your situation is highly unusual—and on top of that, Mr.
Gojo Satoru slammed the table at the Directorate and personally vouched for you…” “So your assessment skips every intermediate step.” “You’ll need to complete three specific missions of Grade 1 or higher entirely on your own—accomplish all of them, and you’ll be recognized as a Grade 1 Sorcerer outright.” “Carrying out three Grade 1 missions solo, huh…” “Sounds awfully dangerous~” Though he spoke of danger, Ayato’s demeanor was unusually relaxed.
At the same time, the System reacted as well—— [Combat Mission: Complete three A-Rank missions (0/3).] [Rewards: Total Chakra x2 (Phase One complete); Multi Shadow Clone Technique (Phase Two complete); Lightning Release Chakra Mode (Phase Three complete).] Uchiha Ayato: …
Doubling my total Chakra?
Are you telling me that all the Chakra your Uncle Ayato painstakingly built up over years of grueling training and daily missions isn’t even worth as much as killing a single Grade 1 Cursed Spirit?
Aminooos!
Uncle Ayato’s actually getting a little ticked off here—so what were all those Cursed Spirits I killed before, chopped liver?
Do I really have to join the protagonist squad before I get any screen time?
Just then, the previously quiet atmosphere inside the car was shattered by a stirring melody.
It was a powerful violin threaded through with rousing drumbeats, brimming with an upward-striving sense of hope.
Morfonica’s “flame of hope.” Ayato raised an eyebrow, shifting his gaze from the window to the center console: “‘flame of hope’?
That band the young ladies from Tsukinomori put together?” Ijichi’s hands jerked on the steering wheel, and the car gave a slight wobble along with it.
This corporate drone in a black suit, who looked like he spent every day buried under stacks of paperwork, actually flushed a faint, embarrassed red: “Ah…
um, sorry, I forgot to turn it off…” “I’ll—right away…” “No need to turn it off.
It’s an interesting piece—it suits the mood right now.” Ayato propped his chin on one hand, sizing up the flustered man: “To be honest, Mr.
Ijichi…” “Looking at that face of yours, written all over with the wear and tear of life, and then listening to this kind of bursting-with-energy girls’ rock—the contrast is really something…” “Don’t tell me you’re one of those hardcore fans who secretly practices his idol cheer-calls at home at three in the morning in front of concert videos?” Ijichi buried his head even lower: “Actually…” “It’s just—in a world where you could lose your life at any moment, listening to something so full of the feeling of being ‘alive’ makes me a little less afraid.” “The fact that you could tell this was Morfonica already makes me feel today’s been quite lucky.” He stole a glance at Ayato, a delight almost like that of finding a kindred spirit spreading across his face: “Do you like this style too, Mr.
Uchiha?” “I wouldn’t say I like it, but I know it well.” “Comparatively, I prefer Roselia.” Ayato closed his eyes, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee in time with the rhythm.
The car passed through a long tunnel, the melody reverberating in the enclosed space with a vitality that seemed about to burst straight through the sheet metal.
The harsh light at the end of the tunnel spilled down onto Ayato’s black hair, outlining his silhouette like a long blade about to be drawn from its sheath.
“Since luck’s on your side, then keep it that way.” Uchiha Ayato opened his eyes, crimson abruptly bursting open from their depths: “Alright, Mr.
Ijichi, the small talk ends here.” “Now—you can brief me on the details of the first mission.” ……
“I’m home.” Wakaba Mutsumi pushed open the door and stepped into the entryway.
As expected, there was no light and no sound; her cool, clear voice stirred not the faintest ripple in the empty hall.
Minami-chan was probably on some film set right now, keeping up the illusion before the cameras that her charm was as undiminished as in her younger years, while Aron was probably still at some exclusive members’ club, trading clumsy jokes for that pitiful little scrap of regard.
She had long since grown used to this loneliness and emptiness.
Wakaba Mutsumi made her way with practiced steps to the end of the corridor and pushed open the heavy soundproof door leading down to the basement.
Only here, before that pink guitar, did she feel that she existed at all.
Sitting on the cold folding chair, Mutsumi took up the guitar and ran her fingertips across the strings.
Hsssss—— The tremor struck from the clashing metal crawled up through the body of the guitar and into her ribs, quieting her dully aching heart a little.
This heavy, grating roar was utterly at odds with the elegance and dogma she was supposed to uphold.
But in this place—in this coffin-like basement where no one else could hear—that roar was her only outlet to breathe.
The band—was it ever any fun?
If she hadn’t put it that way, Sakiko wouldn’t have been able to sever her lingering attachment completely, would she?
I’m…
A sinner.
Wakaba Mutsumi’s fingers danced wildly across the fretboard, and a shrill, mournful screech erupted from the amp.
If she didn’t make a sound, if she didn’t let this vibration course through her whole body, she feared she’d turn into an insensate stone statue, just like this house.
Her fingers wore raw and bled, but the stinging pain instead lent her a brief moment of clarity.
This sound…
Could it really reach anyone at all?
Wakaba Mutsumi practiced for a long time, and only when the clock’s hands had sunk heavily into the dead of night did she mechanically set the guitar back down and slowly climb the steps.
By the time she returned to the living room, the night had completely swallowed the garden, and that model couple of the entertainment world still hadn’t come home.
She didn’t turn on the lights; the darkness felt safer to her.
Just as she went upstairs and got back to her room, an extremely abrupt sound pierced through the superbly soundproofed floor-to-ceiling window.
“Scrrt, scrrt.” It was as if a giant, rusted pair of iron scissors were slowly dragging across the stone bricks of the outer courtyard.
Wakaba Mutsumi went rigid in the very center of the room.
She could sense the “thickness” in the air better than ordinary people, and those shadows—reeking and viscous—were now gathering right at her front door.
That kind of thing again.
She edged cautiously toward one corner of the bedroom, held her breath, and with trembling fingers lifted a corner of the heavy curtain.
Beyond the courtyard wall, the dim yellow streetlight dragged out a long, thin shadow.
It was a woman in a beige trench coat, her long black hair spilling loose over her shoulders, her back to the villa, her figure somewhat warped in the darkness.
She just stood there, motionless, as if waiting for something.
Don’t look.
As long as you don’t look, they won’t notice you.
Wakaba Mutsumi warned herself deep down.
But an irrepressible fear and curiosity made her unable to keep from staring at that figure’s back.
In the next second, that figure turned its head without the slightest warning, aligning squarely with the gap where Mutsumi stood.
Mutsumi saw clearly the white medical mask, and above the mask, that pair of bloodshot eyes brimming with an eerie smile.
“Am I…” The woman’s vocal cords seemed to have been sliced open by a sharp blade; the air-leaking syllables bored through the window glass and into Mutsumi’s mind: “…pretty?”