He and I (I)

(I)

We had seen artificial, electronic stars glittering over the sea, and the undying crimson heat of a volcano.

In that unexpected stretch of leisure, we suddenly found enlightenment, like old monks deep in meditation.

The goals we had pursued so eagerly were answered one by one through happy accidents, when everything fell into place.

And the moment we found those answers was also the moment our vacation began running out.

On our fifth day in Hawaii, my family and I saw the Kudos off at the airport.

When the airport announced boarding for the third time, Yusaku Kudo, who had been striding ahead, suddenly turned back and gave Toji a one-armed hug.

It was a courtesy, and also a friendship I had never known.

After the hug, Yusaku Kudo patted Toji on the back.

He patted him hard, as though trying to drive his reluctance to part, or some lesson, into Toji's body.

Toji had his back to Megumi and me, so I could not see his expression.

But he did not turn around until the Kudos disappeared from sight.

For some inexplicable reason, it made me think of Princess Tsukuyomi and Yuanyin.

I could not understand. I just could not.

What did friendship feel like? Could it leave a deeper mark than family?

Or was it merely a new kind of hollow longing?

Like what Toji and Yusaku Kudo felt now.

By the time we left the airport, the plane was already in the sky, as small as a model, as though I could reach out and tuck it into my pocket.

I thought Toji would stop and look up again, but he did not.

It was as though that farewell had been a single-use outpouring of emotion, discarded once spent.

Yuanyin and Princess Tsukuyomi were like that too. One moment, they were talking as though they wished they had met years earlier; the next, they could freely wave goodbye amid the mountains and rivers.

Perhaps that was all there was to friendship?

I did not understand, nor did I want to spend time figuring it out.

My life this time around was already happy enough. Any unexpected relationship made me deeply afraid of ruining everything I had.

After watching our last sunset in Hawaii, we decided to return to Japan.

We stored the fishing boat and tackle we had bought at our new property, then took the same car we had arrived in back to the airport.

Only this time, our driver was not the tight-lipped hotel employee, but Mr. Furuya.

Whenever Toji and I were not doing things together, he spent most of his time with Yusaku Kudo and Furuya Sō.

I had once seen them from a distance.

Three men in Hawaiian shirts sat drinking together at an open-air bar to the lively rhythms of Babatty Music.

Open-air beach bars were one of Hawaii's signature attractions, so voices mingled and people bustled about.

But I could still see Toji smiling.

It was a small smile, happy, comfortable, and relaxed.

He spoke the least of the three. Whenever I glanced over, I would see him leaning on one arm, listening to the other two with a smile.

Yusaku Kudo talked the most. Even from far away, I could hear him chatting about amusing writing anecdotes and things he had seen and heard.

And Furuya Sō was the best at keeping the conversation going. He always knew how to get Yusaku Kudo talking.

The listener, the storyteller, the encourager.

Through one conversation after another, the three of them must have become very good friends.

Otherwise, Furuya Sō would not have been so sad when he said goodbye to us.

Another airport, another farewell.

Only our positions had reversed. This time, we were the ones boarding the plane.

When the first boarding announcement played, Furuya Sō was still talking to Toji, and Megumi looked up at the timetable on the wall.

When the second announcement played, Furuya Sō handed Toji a package. Megumi began to worry about missing our flight and turned to look at me.

When the third announcement played, Megumi wanted to go over and remind Toji, but I stopped him. Because Toji was awkwardly giving Furuya Sō a one-armed hug, just as Yusaku Kudo had done.

After that brief hug, he took us by the hand and strode away.

Toji really seemed to have changed.

He had become more human, with more people to care about.

His world was no longer confined. The days when he gazed at the moon like a frog from the bottom of a well were behind him.

The boundless sea had broadened his heart, and the steaming volcano had rekindled the warmth in his blood.

Human connections were like an unbroken rope, pulling him back into the world.

Making every breath he took vibrant and strong.

Truly, he was wonderful like this.

I felt as though my reason had run away from home.

Otherwise, why would simply watching him stride forward bring me to tears again and again?

(II)

After returning to Kanagawa and renewing the lease on our old house, we were moving again.

This time, we were moving to Tokyo for Megumi Fushiguro.

On the night we moved to Tokyo, he knocked on my bedroom door and talked with me for a long time.

Rather than talking, it was more a matter of helping him recall every detail.

Reality was truth.

And the truth was that he was an ordinary person, at least when it came to his memory.

We were ordinary people without hyperthymesia. What we remembered was a single bloody scene, or a fragment with no beginning or end.

And memory was the most subjective thing in the world.

"I believe," "I feel," "I remember," "I thought"-openings like those all affected the objectivity of an event.

And the most fatal problem was time.

"Roughly what month and day?"

"March fifth? Or the seventh?"

"Was there a distinctive holiday? Or some event on the street that could help establish the date?"

"I think there was a promotion on Kikufuku that day. When Mr. Gojo came to see me, he was still carrying a bag."

It was all guesswork. There was no way to pin down the date.

Conversations like these were not limited to a single regret. Almost every regret that needed to be undone came with hazy memories of when it had happened.

I did not think there was anything wrong with Megumi's memory. I was more inclined to believe it was an effect of his rebirth.

And while talking to him, I suddenly came up with an unsettling hypothesis.

"What if you aren't the only person who was reborn, or the only person with memories of a previous life? Have you thought about what you would do, Megumi?"

"One more ally, or one more, even deadlier enemy."

That was exactly the problem.

Megumi Fushiguro was not the first, because there was also me.

Once a possibility went beyond one, two, three, four, and five were not far behind.

If they were on our side, that would be fine. If they were in the enemy camp, things would become far more difficult.

Megumi Fushiguro looked dispirited. The speculation was not unfounded, and the blow had left him without any confidence.

"How about this? Tell me what that Demon King looked like in your memories, and what he said. I'll go test whether he was reborn."

A person's tone, patterns of behavior, and even appearance could offer clues to their personality.

I would not claim to be particularly good at psychology, but I had a pair of eyes that were difficult to deceive.

Seeing through someone was not hard for me.

Megumi Fushiguro thought back, then described the Demon King like this:

"His voice was very rich. I heard it once from a distance, but I don't remember what he said. His eyes were small, and there was a line across his forehead. His hairstyle was unusual. He wore his hair loose, but part of it was tied into a bun. He wore a monk's uniform with a six-panel kasaya, but he didn't have the air of a monk. Oh, and he was in Mr. Gojo's year. I think his name was Suguru Geto."

(III)

Suguru Geto.

Su, guru Geto.

No, Geto was his surname, and Suguru was his given name.

On my first night after moving to Tokyo, I dressed in black, put on a mask, and headed for Tokyo Jujutsu High.

This religious vocational school stood within a scenic area, hidden deep in the forested mountains.

The slope leading up the mountain was broad, with lush woods on either side.

If I tilted my head and listened closely, I could hear the clear rush of a mountain spring beneath the moonlight.

In films and countless manga, places like these, seemingly untouched by evil, hardly seemed capable of producing vicious villains.

But reality often worked differently.

Beautiful mountains and clear waters bred troublemakers; poor, remote villages produced saints.

The more unrestrained the surroundings, the more easily evil grew in people's hearts.

After finding out where the great Demon King was, my first instinct was to come kill him.

One shot, and the problem would be gone for good.

The only skill my years in the Mafia had taught me was to kill without hesitation.

I would not allow any threat to my enjoyment of my current life to exist.

Even if it went against Megumi Fushiguro's wishes.

Moonlight washed the ground a ghastly white.

Not far from me, a figure was hurrying up the mountain.

I drew Yuanyin's kinetic sniper rifle, the SPT32 Ice Explosion, out of the void.

Yuanyin had praised this rifle more than once. Against this weapon, there was no such thing as cover.

With a sniper rifle that could shoot through walls, I refused to believe I could not blow the great Demon King's head apart.

I always came prepared, not just with weapons, but with knowledge of Suguru Geto's movements.

I set up the rifle and adjusted the scope.

Through it, I saw the back of a head with its hair tied in a bun.

My hand rested on the trigger. My exceptional hearing picked up someone in the distance calling to the boy.

So what? For Megumi Fushiguro's sake, he had to die.

My finger pulled the trigger. Thanks to the suppressor, the bullet flew soundlessly straight toward the boy-the large tree beside him.

The great Demon King had not teleported, nor had the Strongest in the World appeared to block the shot.

I had missed.

Because the vicious great Demon King from that story had suddenly turned around, revealing a familiar face.

I knew him.

[Yuanyin, you knew him too. Do you remember the boy I mentioned in my letter, the one in the taxi who comforted me just like you did? He was the one who fumbled for some candy and awkwardly but sincerely comforted me as I cried, holding your ashes.]

It was him.

But why did it have to be him?