"Have you ever been to Aomori Prefecture, Akiya?"
Beneath the covers, the French beauty wrapped both arms around Asou Akiya's shoulders and back.
By now, Asou Akiya had come to fully appreciate the consequences of Randou joining the Port Mafia. After undergoing the Port Mafia's physical combat training, Randou's once-overflowing energy had been cut in half. On top of that, he now carried the debuff known as work. The boyfriend who once required two whole hours of coaxing and affection before he would be satisfied could now be somewhat fed and appeased in just one.
The contented French cat no longer teased him with an imaginary cat tail, instead reveling in the simple pleasure of cuddling close to him.
Every man knew just how wonderful this period of warmth and intimacy was.
Ah.
At least his lower back wasn't quite as sore anymore.
Asou Akiya glanced at Randou. The man's muscle definition had become noticeably more pronounced, and the strength in his legs had grown considerably. Fortunately, his ultraviolet protection measures had been effective enough that they hadn't damaged the pampered skin that had clearly never known hardship.
"I traveled there once six years ago," Asou Akiya said. "I met a lonely yet brilliant child."
"How old were you at the time, Akiya?"
"Sixteen."
Asou Akiya allowed Randou to continue stroking his back. Just as he soothed his lover, his lover would in turn soothe his soul.
It felt as though he were soaking in a hot spring.
Weightless. Relaxed. Every pore in his body seemed to open.
In a gentle voice, Asou Akiya continued, "He was kept safely behind the protection of his family's servants. When trouble came his way, he smiled. After I caught him secretly smiling to himself, he looked over at me. Those dark amber eyes were like tender peach blossoms just beginning to bloom, confined within a tiny world of his own."
At first, Randou thought he sounded like a second Ranpo. But as he listened further, he realized there was a difference. Ranpo had always been free-spirited and unconstrained. What enclosed Ranpo had been the love of his family, not the circumstances of his home environment.
"Was he very cute?" Randou asked, his fingers counting the vertebrae along Akiya's spine one by one.
"He was like a cat, like a fish, and also like a puppy."
Asou Akiya's comparison was utterly bizarre.
"..."
Randou was completely baffled.
"What kind of animal is that supposed to be?"
"At the time, I was sixteen, and he was around four years old. I happened to be feeling rather lost back then, so I left Yokohama and traveled around Japan for a while. The only unexpected thing that happened during that trip was being mistaken for a son of the Tsushima family. He didn't want the servants to take him home, so he suddenly pointed in my direction and called out, 'Big Brother.'"
Asou Akiya let out a laugh as he reached this part of the story, pointing at his own face.
"The servants were completely fooled. They actually thought I was his older brother."
"I wasn't anyone's brother, of course, but I wasn't a bad person either. So I took him around the area for a bit and showed him around before escorting him back to the Tsushima family. Afterwards, I was even scolded by his family."
"There's no need to get angry, Randou..."
Asou Akiya rubbed his cheek against him, extinguishing the spark of irritation rising within his lover.
"I wasn't hurt by it."
Of course, he recognized Dazai Osamu's face. The slight resemblance between the two of them was perhaps a kind of fate.
When he had first transmigrated into this world, he had gone to Aomori Prefecture specifically to confirm the origins of Bungou Stray Dogs' Dazai Osamu. The instant he laid eyes upon that beautiful child, his resolve to keep living had become even stronger.
He wanted to see the day when Double Black would appear at the age of fifteen.
Standing within history itself, he gazed toward the future, doing everything he could to avoid being swallowed by the tides of the era.
The emotion brought by that twist of fate had sustained him all this time.
He never spoke of it aloud.
It was a secret.
A private delight.
A grand celebration that belonged to him alone.
"The people capable of making me sad in this world do not include them," he said softly. "They're merely strangers."
Randou's eyes remained fixed on Akiya.
Akiya's soul was light and elusive, impossible to fully grasp. At times he seemed lonely; at times he seemed lost. Randou could always see traces of himself reflected in the other man. Perhaps they had both lost many things along the way, and those losses had shaped them into the people they were today.
Holding Akiya close, Randou rested the head leaning against his neck more securely in his embrace and said gently,
"Don't worry. I will remember. I will remember that past we shared together."
Asou Akiya sank deeper into happiness.
"Yes," he replied softly.
"You will remember."
When the dream finally ends—
Will you be as moved by it as I am?
A week passed in the blink of an eye.
The two children finally returned home. The moment they entered the villa's main hall, they began playing around, turning the carpet into a complete mess.
However, they had not brought along the third little tagalong.
Asou Akiya deliberately looked behind them.
Huh.
It seemed Chuuya's charm wasn't strong enough after all. He hadn't managed to reel in that mackerel.
Edogawa Ranpo's expression changed instantly.
"Akiya!"
Before Ranpo could expose all of his embarrassing secrets, Asou Akiya unleashed his ultimate move. He scooped up the black-haired boy, tossed him into the air, and lifted him high above his head.
The Edogawa Ranpo whose mental age was currently "three years old" immediately became delighted.
"Hahaha—!"
Meanwhile, the genuinely three-year-old Nakahara Chuuya looked completely dead inside. Even through his colored contact lenses, the light seemed to have vanished from his eyes.
He muttered under his breath,
"Seriously... which one of us is actually younger?"
Afterward, Asou Akiya set down Ranpo, who had not enjoyed being lifted high into the air since the deaths of his parents, and, determined to treat both children equally, picked Chuuya up as well.
Two rosy patches immediately bloomed on Nakahara Chuuya's cheeks.
Awkwardly, he said,
"My ability can make me fly on my own—ah—!"
Before he could finish, Asou Akiya hurled him upward.
With surprising force.
It was honestly beyond his normal performance.
Fortunately, this was a two-dimensional world where everyone's physical abilities were absurdly good.
"Randou! Catch him!"
Standing on the second floor, Randou leaned over the railing to look at the little orange cat that had been tossed skyward.
Fortunately, his temperament was excellent.
He immediately activated Illuminations, using the golden cube created by his ability to catch the airborne little orange cat before transporting him safely to his side.
Randou caught Nakahara Chuuya in his arms.
For the first time, the ability user and the humanoid manifestation of an ability made direct skin-to-skin contact.
Thump.
For an instant, it felt as though their heartbeats had overlapped.
Three years later, the amnesiac French intelligence agent had once again come into contact with his "mission target."
"Huh...?"
Randou let out a faint sound of surprise.
Gently wiping at Chuuya's cheek, he asked, "Why are you wearing makeup?"
Nakahara Chuuya froze for a moment before hurriedly reaching up to touch his face.
"I—I—I...!"
From downstairs, Asou Akiya called out, "Chuuya wanted to look more like me. Randou, don't expose him. Children always like imitating adults."
"Is that so?"
Randou pursed his lips into a smile, and whatever lingering reservations he had felt toward Chuuya instantly vanished.
Nakahara Chuuya was so embarrassed that he wanted to disappear on the spot.
What kind of excuse was that?!
Randou pinched Chuuya's cheek lightly before setting him back on the floor.
The moment his feet touched the ground, Chuuya felt dizzy and weak-kneed.
He had actually been held by Mr. Randou.
Mr. Randou's embrace...
It wasn't cold at all.
It was warm.
Even his scarf was soft and fluffy.
Edogawa Ranpo came running upstairs with rapid footsteps and dragged the dazed Chuuya away.
"Chuuya, let's go settle the score with Akiya."
"Hah? Settle the score?"
"He tricked us into going to Aomori Prefecture because he wanted us to meet someone else. Fortunately, Ranpo-sama is a genius and saw through Akiya's true intentions. That's why he didn't get his way."
"Who?"
"A member of the Tsushima family!"
The target of Edogawa Ranpo's crusade—Asou Akiya—remained perfectly calm.
After getting off work, he leisurely went to brew himself a cup of coffee, completely unafraid of Ranpo's complaints.
That was because Chuuya would absolutely never side with Ranpo.
The kid was a genuinely good kid.
Asou Akiya said,
"Ranpo, have you forgotten something?"
—You little brat who ruined your parents' nightlife. Just wait until Randou deals with you.
"I didn't forget! It's in the photo album!"
Edogawa Ranpo tossed his phone over.
A great detective had no need for a password on his phone, so Asou Akiya directly opened the photo gallery.
Inside, he found a photograph of the gates of the Tsushima family's estate.
Asou Akiya sighed regretfully. "You were only one step away from going inside and taking a look."
Edogawa Ranpo immediately snapped back in annoyance, "We were never going in!"
Akiya had clearly been trying to hook the child of the Tsushima family. Maybe it was another clever cat!
Asou Akiya merely shrugged and turned to look at Nakahara Chuuya, who still seemed confused and somewhat lost. A good child didn't need to know about the little schemes brewing in an adult's mind. Pulling Chuuya over to sit beside him on the sofa, he asked, "Chuuya, how did your homework go? Did you visit the museum dedicated to Arahabaki and see the great god for yourself?"
Chuuya answered gloomily, "...I finished it. And yes, I went."
Asou Akiya then sat down and had a long talk with him, patiently guiding and counseling the boy. One could say that he had successfully resolved a second potential case of chuunibyou.
There was absolutely no evidence in the original story that Nakahara Chuuya was Arahabaki.
But—
This guy had personally inserted himself into the rumors.
Combined with the way Randou had further propagated the Arahabaki rumors in the original work, Chuuya's belief that he was a god had only become more and more deeply rooted, eventually reaching the point where he genuinely regarded himself as the "God of Calamity."
His origins were already suspicious enough to begin with. Adding a self-proclaimed divine identity on top of that was simply asking for trouble.
Human beings were social creatures. They naturally gathered into groups, and they were equally adept at excluding outsiders.
"Do you think your homework is better than Ranpo's?" Asou Akiya asked.
"Yes," Chuuya answered firmly, without the slightest hesitation.
"Hey, hey—!" Ranpo's indignant protest immediately rang out in the background.
Asou Akiya began collecting the homework, intending to bring it over to Randou for grading. However, Randou had already walked over on his own. Taking Nakahara Chuuya's notebook first, he said, "I'll look at Chuuya's homework. You can check Ranpo's instead."
Asou Akiya teased, "Isn't Ranpo the one you're most concerned about, Randou?"
Edogawa Ranpo immediately shot Randou a jealous look.
Caught in an impossible situation, Randou could only set down Chuuya's notebook and, with all the elegance and courtesy expected of him, open Ranpo's workbook instead.
The moment he saw the wildly scrawled Japanese characters sprawled across the page, a headache struck him.
Fortunately, Akiya had been the one tutoring Ranpo all this time, sparing him from taking over this particularly troublesome responsibility. Otherwise, he felt he might have developed the urge to hang Ranpo up and give him a thorough beating.
After studying for so long, the boy still couldn't be bothered to write even the most basic characters properly!
"Ranpo-kun..."
"Mm-hm!"
"If you already know what I'm thinking, would you kindly make some changes and show a little consideration for my eyesight?"
"But Mr. Randou has excellent eyesight!"
"..."
Randou was instantly rendered speechless by Ranpo's natural talent for delivering devastating remarks without realizing it.
He turned and glared at Akiya.
Yes, Akiya.
Asou Akiya felt utterly wronged. Recently, it had been Fukuzawa Yukichi who was responsible for teaching Ranpo!
"Alright, alright." Akiya raised both hands in surrender. "I'll read them out loud for you, so you don't have to strain your eyes. The three of you can sit over there. Whoever gets the better grade on their homework tonight will earn an extra slice of cake made by me."
The villa was large and spacious.
Within that vast, open space, the presence of those four people alone was enough to create the feeling of a home.
...
Meanwhile, Stewed Pigeon Publishing House received a manuscript for a short story.
Ever since the publishing house had changed its name, many of the authors already under contract would involuntarily feel the hairs on the backs of their necks stand up whenever they saw it. Without anyone explaining it to them, they instinctively grasped the deeper meaning behind the name "Stewed Pigeon."
As a result, an amusing problem emerged.
The authors who had originally been delaying their manuscripts became even more resistant to turning them in.
What?
You want to stew the pigeons?
Then believe it or not, we'll "coo coo coo" right back at you!
The editors at the publishing house were on the verge of tears. What kind of ridiculous excuse was that? It was obviously just another way of saying they wanted to keep delaying their manuscripts.
"This time, we need to lower our standards a little," the president of the publishing house said during a meeting with all the editors, outlining the company's future direction.
"Because we have..." He coughed awkwardly. "Because we have certain investment backers that cannot be mentioned openly, we've received instructions from above. As a result, we're lowering the minimum signing age to fourteen. Anyone who meets the age requirement can submit directly to our publishing house. If their manuscript passes review, we'll receive allocated development funds from our backers and be able to focus on nurturing promising talent."
"Can someone that young really write anything worth reading?" one editor asked skeptically.
"The literary world is in decline already. Can geniuses still emerge in this era? If Japan could produce another mystery novelist on the level of Kudo Yusaku, that would be wonderful." Another editor let out a mournful sigh for the state of Japanese literature.
"That's enough." The president cut off their pessimism. "I've already received a manuscript. The author meets the requirements. If the age wasn't falsified, the writer is only fourteen years old. Take a look for yourselves."
The room quieted immediately.
The manuscript wasn't particularly long. Copies had been made and distributed to every editor present.
Under normal circumstances, only an author with considerable influence would have received this kind of treatment.
But the development funds were simply too tempting.
While other publishing houses looked down on inexperienced young writers, Stewed Pigeon Publishing had boldly taken the lead by announcing a talent development program for young authors. As a result, many students still attending school had begun nurturing dreams of becoming writers.
Fourteen years old and above...
At that age, most kids were probably sitting at home playing video games.
Then the editors opened the first page.
Their eyes froze.
"A prison?!"
This was no small matter.
It was the work of an underage problem child.
...
His glasses had been confiscated.
The reason was simple: Asou Akiya disliked seeing Ranpo turn into a squinty-eyed gremlin.
Feeling wronged, Edogawa Ranpo complained about the matter to Fukuzawa Yukichi. He forced his naturally upturned eyes as wide open as possible, trying to make them resemble a cat's eyes.
"Uncle Fukuzawa, do I really look that bad when I squint?"
Fukuzawa Yukichi found himself in a difficult position.
How was he supposed to answer that?
Looking at Ranpo, who was unconsciously acting cute, Fukuzawa suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to pet a cat.
So he reached out and rubbed Ranpo's head.
"You don't look bad."
"Hehe."
Ranpo immediately brightened.
"Uncle Fukuzawa, let's go to work! We've been away from Yokohama for a whole week. Those idiot uncles at the police stations must be getting desperate by now!"
"Mm. Ranpo, there's something I need to tell you—"
"I already heard about it from Akiya!"
Without his glasses serving as a sealing artifact, Edogawa Ranpo saw the world with perfect clarity. Taking several steps ahead of Fukuzawa, he turned around. Dressed in his ginger-colored detective outfit with its distinctly British style, he flashed a bright smile.
"The red-haired assassin has gone off to write novels!"
"There's no need to look so surprised, Uncle Fukuzawa. Stewed Pigeon Publishing House is funded by Akiya. Those 24-hour Family convenience stores that have been appearing all over Yokohama were also funded by him for people who have to work night shifts. That's just the kind of person he is. He especially enjoys influencing people through ordinary things that can be found everywhere in everyday life."
Ranpo spun around in place and removed his detective cap.
His manners now carried a faint trace of Randou's influence.
Then he proudly declared,
"But this time, I came out on top!"
"Wahahaha—!"
"My rice-with-sugar set meal was amazing! It completely reformed Mr. Assassin and set him on the right path!"
It wasn't the result of novels.
Nor was it the result of other people's advice and persuasion.
It was the success of prison food!
The sweet-tooth faction was the natural nemesis of the spicy-food faction. Oda Sakunosuke—I shall wait for the day you jump willingly into my bowl!
June arrived, and with it came steadily rising temperatures and the unmistakable scent of early summer.
Having spent an entire year traveling abroad, Catherine stood aboard an ocean liner returning to France. Fanning herself with a folding fan, she complained to her bodyguard, "In another month, I'll have to find somewhere else to escape the heat. Paris is far too hot during the summer. I really didn't want to come back in June."
The bodyguard immediately seized the opportunity to curry favor with her.
"When you leave again next month, Miss, you can take me with you."
Catherine laughed coquettishly.
"Of course."
In reality, however, she let out a sigh inwardly.
Her family allowed her to remain unmarried until the age of thirty. After that, she would be required to contribute to the family—either through a political marriage or by providing value equivalent to one.
Part of the reason she spent so much time abroad was to breathe more freely. Since she had failed to find a suitable boyfriend in France, she wanted to break away from her familiar social circles and try searching for a suitable man in other countries instead.
If possible, she wouldn't mind getting married.
The problem was that Catherine's standards were extremely high. She was only attracted to men who possessed certain qualities that struck directly at her heart. Unfortunately, such men either turned out to be scoundrels or simply had no interest in her. At most, they might be willing to become a one-night stand.
After a year of searching, her standards had already dropped considerably.
She no longer sought a harmonious marriage.
All she wanted was a husband with whom she could live separate lives after marriage, each enjoying their own freedom without interfering with the other.
After witnessing countless couples wrapped in false affection and empty displays of romance, the person who had left the deepest impression on her was still Mr. Randou, whom she had met in Japan.
The faint smile at the corner of his lips had painted a vivid and genuine picture of what love truly looked like.
It was the kind of expression that made it seem as though he wouldn't care even if he spent the rest of his life in a small nation at the far edge of the East.
Sigh.
She wondered what kind of sweet and blissful life he and his boyfriend were living now.
How enviable.
Please, let a suitable man appear already!
Although Catherine was inwardly anxious and frustrated, outwardly she remained charming and adorable, maintaining the graceful bearing expected of an aristocratic young lady. Her elegant demeanor naturally attracted the attention of the first-class passengers aboard the ocean liner.
The crest of the Potts family adorned her person, a symbol that ensured ordinary people did not dare approach her casually.
Many among France's wealthy elite and political circles had at least heard of the family.
Suddenly, her bodyguard spoke up in a jealous tone.
"Miss, look over there."
Catherine instinctively turned her head.
She quickly noticed that many women were secretly stealing glances in the same direction. Among them were daughters of middle-class and wealthy families alike. They were dressed in fashionable, luxurious clothing despite it being broad daylight, adorned with every piece of jewelry they owned, as though they could not wait to attend a grand evening banquet.
...Or perhaps they were dressing up for something else.
Curious, Catherine made her way across the deck, weaving through the crowd until she could finally see what had attracted so much attention.
Then she saw him.
Against the backdrop of the endless horizon where sea and sky merged into one, a silver-haired man stood upon the deck.
He was romantic and unrestrained, possessing a presence so powerful that it seemed to dominate the entire space around him.
A live band was performing nearby, and he appeared to be listening to their music.
No one ventured within three meters of him.
He simply leaned against the railing, legs crossed, quietly listening to the sea breeze and the melody drifting through the air.
He looked like a lofty god descended from the myths of Northern Europe, listening to the rhythm of mortal music and silently granting his approval to humanity's creation.
One glance was enough to make him unforgettable.
He was transcendent to an almost absurd degree.
Like the other women around her, Catherine found herself pressing a hand against her suddenly racing heart.
This was exactly what operas described as love at first sight.
If he were to smile at her right now, she felt she might dramatically faint on the spot.
This was what it felt like to have one's heart stolen.
This was the irresistible charm of a French playboy with nowhere to direct his overwhelming charisma.
There was no need to doubt it.
A man like this was not someone an ordinary person could ever hope to tame.
If you fell in love with him, he would probably cuckold you countless times without a shred of guilt.
Sensing the fervent gazes of the women around him, Paul Verlaine felt a flicker of irritation.
His thoughts drifted to the French government's repeated attempts to arrange female lovers for him in the hope that he would leave behind descendants.
The whole matter was unbearably annoying.
What did they take him for?
A breeding tool?
If anyone tried to leave him with descendants through such a method...
He would strangle them to death himself.
Abandoning the orchestra that had been performing exclusively for him, Paul Verlaine turned and headed toward the ship's interior.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
His gaze swept toward Catherine Potts.
His eyes were like blades.
The sharpness of a veteran intelligence operative still lingered despite the mission having ended. With astonishing sensitivity, he noticed that her expression differed from that of the other women surrounding him.
She wasn't merely captivated.
She was surprised.
Does this woman know me?
Paul Verlaine's gaze shifted to the family crest she wore.
"Oh. A member of the Potts family."
Perhaps she knew a little information about Transcendents.
That was all.
He turned and left.
And in doing so, missed the chance to learn that a mixed-race illegitimate child had seemingly appeared out of nowhere in his life.
...
Catherine swallowed her shock.
The look he had given her just now—like a blade slicing across her skin—had been genuinely terrifying.
Fortunately, he had recognized the Potts family crest.
Still shaken, she patted her chest and said to her bodyguard, "It would be nice if you could beat someone like him."
The bodyguard immediately volunteered, "Would you like me to knock him unconscious for you, Miss?"
The absurdity of the suggestion made Catherine burst into laughter. Her whole body trembled with amusement as she covered her mouth.
"I was joking."
Still...
Perhaps a second trip to Japan was necessary after all.
She could arrange it sometime in the future.
This man...
Was far too dangerous.
...
Outside of France, the soldiers who had spent years wandering abroad in order to survive had temporarily become international mercenaries. Together, they had formed a militarized organization known as Mimic.
Recently, André Gide had been in a particularly foul mood.
As a result, he had dispatched his subordinates to surround a bookstore in Spain.
The bookstore owner looked as though he was about to cry.
"I've already given you every poetry collection I have!"
Hidden beneath a cloak that concealed his white hair, André Gide's expression was unusually gloomy.
"Why," he asked, "don't you have any new works by the French poet Jean Nicolas?"
The bookstore owner immediately launched into a frantic explanation in a rapid stream of words.
"There aren't any!"
"I specifically looked into it last time!"
"This Frenchman—please stop pointing a gun at me! That poet has temporarily stopped writing!"
The Mimic soldiers all exchanged worried looks.
Their commander, André Gide, had once been a military officer and possessed exceptionally refined literary tastes. In his spare time, he enjoyed reading poetry and studying the Bible. The soldiers under his command did not share his level of education, but through his influence they had gradually come to admire that kind-hearted poet as well.
The problem was—
The man had stopped writing.
Beneath his cloak, André Gide's entire body stiffened.
In despair, he murmured, "Why...?"
After being driven from his homeland, the final source of spiritual comfort he possessed had disappeared as well.
And the worst part was that he couldn't simply march back into France.
Clinging to a faint glimmer of hope, André Gide asked, "Is there any way to contact the poet? Letters? A telephone number... anything?"
The bookstore owner first shook his head, then, terrified, nodded again.
"You can try contacting the publishing house."
Go bother your French poet through your French publisher!
Stop causing trouble for me!
What did any of that have to do with Spain?!
After the bookstore owner reported the incident to the police, the Spanish authorities were left speechless. Government officials were thoroughly disgusted by these mercenaries who had drifted into their country.
Every last one of them was a dangerous criminal.
When Spain's ability users heard about the incident afterward, they treated it as a joke.
The world's foremost Transcendent, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, sat among a group of people discussing the matter and found it rather unbelievable.
"They actually came all the way to Spain to buy poetry collections? Then, when they couldn't find any, they kidnapped the bookstore owner?" He shook his head. "Are the French really that obsessed with literature?"
"Is it really that good?" another person asked curiously. "Now I want to buy a copy too. What kind of poetry is it?"
"Your news is out of date," someone immediately replied. "This incident made it onto Spain's evening news. The report said that a group of mercenaries robbed a bookstore in Madrid because the French poet they admired had stopped writing, and they couldn't buy any more of his poetry collections. That very same night, every copy of his books sold out."
"Hiss—!"
Starting a literary trend was never easy.
But sometimes there were people willing to risk their lives to help with the advertising.
As a result, the name Jean Nicolas began spreading throughout the countries surrounding France.
Little by little, he showed signs of becoming famous beyond the borders of his homeland.