Although Minamoto Chisaki's blood pressure was soaring, with grievances piling up and the air thick with the helplessness of "taking a tour group of bratty kids on a trip," at least the situation remained under control. A desolate beach, a Hummer, champagne being guzzled like water, nonsensical conversation—absurd as it was, it could still barely be classified as an "infuriating hosting mishap."
If he could spare a moment to glimpse the scene unfolding along the other "reception line," he would probably instantly find the tour group of high schoolers, repeaters, and prep students before him as adorable as Angels.
He would sincerely feel that even if the specialists sent by headquarters really were a bunch of middle schoolers, elementary schoolers, or even snot-nosed toddlers dragged straight out of kindergarten, that wouldn't be so damn bad!
At least toddlers would not look at you as though you were meat on a chopping board, would not send chills down your spine while chatting and laughing, and would not give you the terrifying illusion that you were being watched by a higher-order predator.
Elsewhere—
Inuyama He stood at the edge of an abandoned dock.
He wore a dark navy Houmongi—a formal kimono one rank below the official Kuro Montsuki. The Haori, dyed with dim patterns of distant mountains and misty clouds, did not stir in the sea breeze. Only its edges rose and fell slightly, revealing the ivory-white Juban beneath. The hem of the Haori fell to his calves, forming clean, straight lines with the Sendaihira Hakama of matching material and giving him an air of stern, murderous precision.
Even the wind seemed tactful enough to avoid him. Only a few frost-silver strands at his temples had escaped from his meticulously combed topknot, brushing against his deeply carved cheeks. His chin was slightly