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Ryosuke nodded with a mischievous smile, then stretched, his arms rising above his head.
"Rest assured, I'm far more aware of it than you could imagine. However, I can't picture myself losing."
He let out a small yawn, easing the tension in his shoulders, and leaned toward the device, his tone softening.
"Anyway… I'm sorry you're still caught up in all this. You could be living a peaceful life with Kasumi, yet you keep helping me. Why?"
The voice answered after a brief silence: "It's my decision."
Ryosuke stayed quiet for a while, watching the shifting shadows on the desk. Finally, he stood up.
"In that case, thank you. It's a stroke of luck they're here right now. What if I paid them a visit?"
Ryosuke stood motionless. Excitement pulsed through his veins, adrenaline spiking at the thought of what awaited him.
Himi Shiori. Daiki Isamu. Two names. Two targets.
His smile widened as he imagined the possibilities, his fingers fidgeting at the edge of the desk.
A millennial genius, huh?
The thought felt surreal, almost laughable. Daiki Isamu, the seemingly ordinary old exorcist, was in truth far more than just a man. An ancient entity dwelled within him, a spirit as wise as it was terrifying. Ryosuke knew all too well that if he wasn't careful, he'd be nothing more than a toy for that supernatural force.
An unpleasant shiver ran down his spine.
But that restraint, that instinctive caution, was quickly swept away by a bolder thought.
Wasn't that exactly what made this so interesting?
The danger, the unpredictability, the chance to face an enemy beyond anything he had encountered before? A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes as a sly smile crept across his lips.
Millennial genius or not, I know exactly what to expect.
He drew a deep breath, his hand clenching into a firm fist before slowly relaxing.
I've got two deadly weapons, after all.
His intimate knowledge of the manga — a goldmine of information on the past, events, and even his opponents' weaknesses — and above all, his own mastery of Jujutsu, a near-divine ability. These advantages made him far more than just a fighter: he was an anomaly, a force no one could predict.
He ran a hand through his hair.
The idea of charging in headfirst filled him with a burning fever, but a small voice deep inside whispered warnings. He couldn't underestimate Daiki Isamu — more precisely, the entity hidden within the man.
Ryosuke gave a slight shake of his head, brushing those cautious thoughts aside.
Risks only make things spicier.
A faint laugh rose in his throat, but he swallowed it. His smile broadened, betraying his growing excitement.
At last, he turned to the device on the desk. In a calm, almost casual tone, he said:
"Mechamaru, I'm going hunting for a genius and a chef."
---
The cinema looked as if time had forgotten it. The walls, once adorned with dazzling frescoes, were now cracked, covered in mold and graffiti faded by the years. The rancid smell of dust hung in the air, mingled with the sharper, sour scent of rain seeping in through a broken window somewhere. Rows of velvet seats, now torn and dulled, stood like ghostly spectators, staring at the silent scenes of a screen that, curiously enough, still worked.
In this strange setting, two figures sat in the front row.
An old man, with brown hair slicked back, watched the projection with almost religious intensity. A broad, sinister scar wound around his forehead, like the mark of an ancient duel or a sentence branded by history. He wore a long, worn dark coat draped over his angular shoulders. At his side sat a young woman with a nearly expressionless face, her gaze fixed not on the film but on the old man. Her simple monk's robe, its folds neatly aligned, added to her androgynous, enigmatic aura. Beneath her arched brows, her sharp eyes never left her companion.
At last, she broke the silence. "So? What do you intend to do here in Tokyo?"
The old man didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed on the screen. Then, with a slow motion, he turned his head slightly toward the young woman. He gave her an almost imperceptible smile, tinged with calm irony.
"Uraume, you're far too impatient. Almost amusing, coming from someone as old as I am."
He lingered on the word "impatient," as if savoring the paradox. The word made the young woman flinch, her furrowed brows betraying sudden irritation. Yet she didn't lash out, only pressed her lips together before replying in a nearly dry tone: "And yet, I still tolerate you."
The old man let out a low, deep laugh.
"That's true. But…"
He folded his fingers together over his knees.
"You know, Uraume, you wouldn't even be here if I hadn't lent you my aid years ago. Never forget how much you owe me."
At those words, the temperature dropped abruptly. A chilling mist spread through the theater. The young woman's short hair lifted slightly under the force of an invisible power.
Her eyes, usually impassive, now gleamed with a threatening light. "There's only one master and benefactor in my life, and it isn't you. Don't get comfortable, Kenjaku."
The old man raised his eyebrows slightly, but instead of anger, he lifted his hands with an air of nonchalance.
"All right, all right. Let's calm down. This isn't the place to lose our tempers."
Uraume scowled but drew back a little, though her icy aura hadn't fully vanished. She crossed her arms and sighed. "So why did you summon me, then? I hope it wasn't just to keep an old man company in his nostalgia."
Kenjaku chuckled softly. "Believe me, I'm far too busy to waste time, even with you."