The night by the ocean shore turned out to be heavy and stifling, filled with the ringing whispers of girls drifting through the thin wooden ceilings of the second floor. Arthur did not listen to their conversations. He had no concern for girls' tears, fears, or belated accusations. Besides, when the girls switched to fast, emotional Japanese or teenage slang, their speech turned into absolute white noise to him. With his basic level of Japanese, he could only catch certain familiar kanji and simple everyday markers. But he did not need to understand them completely. They were distributed across the rooms, isolated from external threats, and locked within a safe perimeter. That was enough.
The true morning arrived grey and foggy. A whitish shroud crawled in from the ocean, obscuring the horizon and turning the coastal cliffs into blurry, dark silhouettes. Along with the first rays of the cold sun, barely breaking through the clouds, the nocturnal adrenaline began to evaporate from the rooms. It was replaced by the mundane, sticky routine of the apocalypse.
In the hallways of the second floor, chaos quickly ensued. Twenty-three girls in a single house devoid of the usual comforts of civilization—this was an element that old social norms could not handle.
The line for the only working bathroom stretched down the entire staircase. The water in the tap barely dripped in a thin, rusty stream, and there was a catastrophic lack of it.
"Hey! How much longer can you sit in there?!" Nino Nakano struck the wooden bathroom door angrily with her fist. Her butterfly hairpins were slightly askew, and dark shadows from sleeplessness lay under her eyes. "We have people waiting out here, you know! Half the girls can't even wash their faces!"
"Shut up, Nakano," Ayané Shirakawa's sharp, prickly voice rang out from the depth of the hallway. She stood leaning against the doorframe, methodically tying her brown hair into a tight, high ponytail. "Your shouting won't make the water run any faster. If you don't know how to endure—go wash in the ocean. There's plenty of water there."
"What did you say?!" Nino spun around toward her sharply, her eyes narrowing angrily. "How dare you even speak to me like that? We are all in the same position here, and if your little sister took over the shower..."
"Kotone is sleeping on the floor in the room," Ayané interrupted her lazily and completely calmly, without even turning her head. "So save your venom for someone else."
In the first-floor kitchen, the situation was no better. Itsuki Nakano stood before the open doors of an old kitchen cabinet, her fingers trembling, and the prominent ahoge on the crown of her head drooping miserably. She was counting the remaining cans of food, her face turning paler by the second.
"This... this won't be enough," she muttered blankly, adjusting her glasses. "There are twenty-six of us. If we divide these supplies for at least three days... we will be getting less than five hundred calories a day. Yuriya-san, what should we do?"
Yuriya Komiya, standing by the stove and trying to heat a kettle on the remains of a gas cylinder, let out a heavy sigh. She smoothed the folds of her tight house dress, attempting to maintain her usual posture of a wise mother, but her authority as an exemplary housewife was now cracking at the seams under the weight of the general panic.
"Itsuki-chan, dear, calm down," Yuriya said softly, but with obvious effort. "The main thing is not to panic. We will gather everything there is..."
"What kind of soup?! Out of rusty water and two cans of beans?!" Rina Komiya shrieked capriciously, slamming a dirty towel onto the table in anger. "Why should we even sit here and wait until this sullen foreigner decides whether we live or die?!"
In the furthest corner of the kitchen, curled up and hugging her knees on the windowsill, sat Marin Kitagawa. She was pale, disheveled, without her usual bright pink lenses and heavy makeup. Her once-fashionable school blouse was covered in brown stains of Wakana's dried blood. The news that her kind, pure friend was dead had hollowed her out from the inside. She did not participate in the collective shouting, did not argue for a spot in the line, and did not ask for food. In her eyes reflected a ringing, frightening emptiness. The world around her was collapsing, making noise, and arguing, but for Marin, it had shrunk into a single icy phrase from Arthur: "Yes, I killed him." Inside her, there was no room left for rebellion—only a paralyzing, hypnotic horror.
Meanwhile, in the backyard of Rika's house, hidden from prying eyes by a high board fence and dense coastal fog, dead silence reigned. Here, it smelled of salt, dampness, and iron.
Arthur stepped onto the grass at exactly six in the morning. Behind him, stepping noiselessly over the damp earth, followed the men: Hirano with his invariable shotgun, the silent Tanaka, and old man Fujimoto. But besides them, Arthur ordered the three girls who had already held weapons and shed blood to come out: Saeko Busujima, Rei Miyamoto, and Ayané Shirakawa.
Arthur stopped in the center of the yard, holding an ordinary wooden staff. For him, the concepts of "schoolgirls" or the "weaker sex" did not exist. In his coordinate system, before him stood units of potential combat resource. Which either had to be made to work, or written off.
Old man Fujimoto took a step forward, his fists clenching. The old morality and pride of a martial arts master demanded putting this arrogant youngster in his place. He spoke rapidly, ornately, using complex, archaic Japanese expressions and concepts of honor and discipline:
"You are forcing the girls to swing sticks after they didn't sleep all night from fear! They need rest, not your games of soldiers! They don't have proper training, their spirit is broken, and you..."
Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly, listening to this tirade. He simply let half of Fujimoto's complex words pass by his ears—his level of Japanese was not enough to parse the old man's grumbling. Arthur did not delve in, argue, or explain anything. He simply cut the old man off with one of the few short, clipped phrases he knew by heart:
"They have no time," his voice sliced through the fog like a knife. "The world has changed. Those who cannot kill without noise—become food. Miyamoto, step forward."
Rei flinched. Her stubborn face sharpened, she gripped her spear more comfortably, and stepped into the center of the circle. In her eyes burned fury—for the ruined world, for the fact that this stranger was commanding them like things.
"Attack," Arthur threw out shortly in basic Japanese.
Rei made a sharp, furious thrust forward, aiming the point of the spear at Arthur's chest. Her movements were fast, but there was too much blind anger in them. Arthur did not even shift off the line of attack—he simply guided her spear aside with a barely noticeable movement of his staff, slid his body forward, and delivered a short, hard strike with the reverse end of the staff right under her breath.
Rei bent in half, gasping for the cold air, and fell to her knees.
"Too much garbage in the head," Arthur said coldly, using the simplest grammatical structures so that she would definitely understand. "You are angry. That is bad. Control the distance. Pick up the weapon. Get in line."
Rei, choking on a cough, silently picked up her spear. Her pride was trampled in a single second, leaving behind only a deep fear.
"Shirakawa. Forward."
Ayané stepped out slowly. She had built herself up as the "strong older sister" protecting Kotone for so long that the thought of weakness was unbearable to her. She tried to flank Arthur and deliver a quick stabbing strike with a metal spike.
But Arthur read her movements like an open book. As soon as Ayané shifted her body weight, he sharply took a step forward, closing the distance. His palm locked immovably around her wrist, twisting the joint. Ayané shrieked in pain, the metal clattering to the ground. Arthur gave her a slight push in the shoulder, forcing her to step back.
"Your defense is weak," he pronounced in his short, clipped command-phrases. "You panic like a child. Want to protect your sister—remove emotions. Learn to listen to orders."
Ayané cradled her bruised hand anxiously, her lips trembling from resentment and humiliation. But deep within her brown eyes, behind her broken pride, settled a distinct, profound trepidation before his absolute superiority.
"Now you, Busujima."
Saeko stepped forward smoothly. Unlike Rei and Ayané, there was not a drop of panic in her posture. She slowly raised her bokken. Her eyes, usually calm, were now clouded with that very dark haze she always tried to hide in peaceful life. She was not angry. She was enjoying the moment.
The sparring began without warning. The clatter of wooden weapon against wood echoed through the yard in a frequent, dry drumbeat. Saeko attacked at the limit of her capabilities, her strikes calculated and heavy. She was letting out her hidden bloodlust. Arthur accepted this pace. He moved economically, blocking her thrusts and forcing her to maneuver with precise counterattacks. It was a technical, dry dance of two predators who understood each other completely without words. In the third minute, Arthur slid under her arm, blocked her forearm, and forced her to lose her balance with a short trip.
Saeko fell softly onto the grass, but a strange, mesmerized smile played on her pale face. She looked up at Arthur from below with absolute, hypnotic respect. He had defeated her on her own turf, yet he had accepted her dark nature.
"Good technique," Arthur said, extending his hand to her. Saeko accepted it, rising and bowing ceremoniously. "You are the leader over the girl fighters. Miyamoto and Shirakawa are your assistants. Hirano, Tanaka—hold the perimeter together with them. Is the task clear?"
"Yes, Arthur-san," Saeko answered in a low but absolutely submissive voice. Rei and Ayané, still pale from the lesson they had experienced, silently stood behind her back.
When Arthur returned to the house, accompanied by the sweat-drenched Saeko, Rei, and Ayané, the entire girl hen-house in the kitchen fell silent instantly, as if at the flick of a switch. The air became thick and heavy. Hana Uzaki shrank instantly at the sight of him in person, her snaggletooth hiding behind her tucked lips, her face flooding with a deep blush of embarrassment, and she hastily hid behind the broad back of her mother, Tsuki.
Arthur walked to the table. His language barrier made his image even more terrifying: he did not engage in arguments, did not read lectures, and did not try to explain anything to anyone. He spoke in short, primitive phrases from a textbook that sounded like hammer blows—inevitable and with no options for discussion.
"Food—little," he said dryly, looking at Itsuki and Saya. "Canned food—strictly under accounting. Takagi writes the list. Who does not work—does not eat."
Then he turned to the windowsill, approached Marin Kitagawa, and tossed a coarse grey work jumpsuit onto her lap.
"Put this on," he commanded. No beautiful words. "Your uniform—dirty. Go outside. There is water. Wash the blood off your clothes. Work. Movement removes fear."
Marin slowly shifted her gaze to the jumpsuit. In this pressing, simplified strength, her broken mind found a point of support. She no longer had to think. She was given a clear command. Marin obediently slid off the windowsill and, pressing the jumpsuit to her chest, trudged toward the exit.
Arthur turned to the corner of the kitchen where Mens Sanguinea sat. The former priestess looked pitiful and lost. Deprived of the mental rhythm of the Great Brain, she did not know how to speak for herself; she had never possessed her own "I". She looked helplessly at Arthur as her only salvation, for he had consumed the essence of her deity.
Mens began to quickly, confusedly, and fanatically whisper something in complex, archaic Japanese, getting tangled in the religious terms of her cult and begging for a sign. Arthur listened to her with a stone face. He didn't understand even a third of these twisted words. He didn't care. He caught the main point—she was empty and waiting to be moved.
"Mens," he cut her off, using the simplest, most primitive verbal constructions. "Your God is dead. Now you work for me. You—my eyes in this house. Watch them. If someone does not work—tell me. That is all."
The fact that Arthur spoke to her like a soldier-recruit—with short, hacking commands—Mens, in her madness, took as the "highest pragmatism of a deity" to whom long human speeches are alien. Her existential vacuum was instantly filled by the new will of the Master. Her gaze became cold and fanatical.
"Your will is my truth, Master," she said softly, bowing in a deep prostration. She turned to the quieted schoolgirls, and from her insane gaze, Itsuki and Nino involuntarily stepped back a pace. Discipline within the house was ensured.
When evening came, Rika's house plunged into darkness—electricity was being saved, and only dim candles illuminated the corridors. Arthur understood that his level of Japanese was a vulnerability. To effectively manage this crowd and flawlessly read any signs of sabotage, he needed to eliminate this gap in the shortest possible time. And he decided to use the resources of the group itself.
After dinner, Arthur went down to the living room, where the surviving students were trying to keep warm. He cast his eyes over them and spoke in English—harshly, confidently, checking who among them was capable of keeping up with the mental pace.
"Who speaks fluent English here? Step forward," his voice echoed under the dark vaults.
A commotion occurred among the girls. Saya Takagi snorted haughtily but remained seated, adjusting her glasses. On the other hand, Anna Komiya stepped forward timidly, adjusting her strict schoolgirl skirt. Along with her rose Megumi—her tall, voluptuous body was literally trembling with embarrassment, her thick eyebrows flying up in fright, and a deep blush flooding her cheeks. Beside them, Hinata stirred, her face maintaining a pragmatic calmness.
Arthur looked them over. His gaze stopped on Megumi and Hinata.
"Takagi, Komiya—you are busy with logistics and accounting," Arthur switched to his basic Japanese, cutting off their possible objections. Then he pointed his finger at the quieted Megumi and the calm Hinata. "You two. Every evening. Will teach me the Japanese language. Fast. We need a result."
Megumi almost fainted from embarrassment at such a direct order, her fleshy body literally shrinking, and her fingers clutching frantically at the edge of her cardigan.
"I... I... of course, Arthur-san..." she stammered in English with an average school accent, mixing up tenses out of fear and anxiety. "I will... try."
Hinata merely nodded calmly, calculating the benefit: being the personal tutor of the Master was a direct guarantee of safety and an automatic rise in the camp's hierarchy.
The first lesson took place right in the office on the first floor, by the light of a single candle. Arthur sat at the desk, an old notebook lying before him. Megumi and Hinata sat opposite. The atmosphere was electrified to the limit. Megumi blushed to the tips of her ears time and again whenever Arthur caught her gaze or when her soft thigh accidentally brushed the desk in the tight space. She explained to him timidly, stuttering, the complex rules of polite suffixes and kanji used by Tokyo youth. Hinata, on the contrary, acted like a cold automaton: she gave Arthur lists of military, medical, and household terms that he would need first and foremost, clearly and without extra emotion.
Arthur learned with a frightening, unnatural speed. His brain, remodeled by the energy of the portals, absorbed information like a sponge. He made them repeat words a dozen times, instantly correcting his pronunciation and building a clear matrix of the new language in his head. The girls watched with horror and admiration as this man mastered a week's course of a language school in a single evening.
When the lesson ended, Arthur closed the notebook and looked at the tired girls.
"Enough. Tomorrow we continue," he pronounced already much more clearly, without his former harsh accent.
Megumi, barely breathing from overexertion and a strange, stirring excitement, bowed hastily and ran out of the office. Hinata followed her out, leaving Arthur alone.