Two days later, the Speedwagon Foundation's chartered private jet had come to rest on a stretch of open ground near Morioh Port.
It was here to take Inori to Italy. SPW had already handled all the paperwork. All she had to do was load her luggage and board—a few hours later, the plane would land somewhere on a private airstrip in Rome.
"This plane... looks really old."
Inori watched it make its final descent with a murmur, and something inexplicable crept up her spine.
"Don't worry, young lady."
Someone behind her cleared their throat reassuringly.
"This old man has ridden this plane many times. And the pilot is a retired air force officer. There won't be a single problem."
"Huh??"
He wasn't helping. Hearing that made Inori genuinely, legitimately afraid—not the joking kind.
"You—you've ridden this one? Personally?"
"Hmm? Is that a problem?"
The old man on the cane raised a face etched deep with wrinkles and peered at her, puzzled.
His name was Joseph Joestar, age seventy-nine. Owner of Joestar Real Estate. The second JoJo. He commanded both the Ripple and a Stand, with a highlights reel that included defeating the Pillar Men and the Ultimate Life Form Kars—and assisting Jotaro in the defeat of DIO.
But the reason Inori was afraid had nothing to do with any of that.
He had an infamous nickname: the Vehicle Killer. Whatever vehicle he rode in—or even touched—would be destroyed by some force beyond reckoning. Wreckage and casualties followed.
"...Yare yare daze."
Jotaro witnessed Inori's rare expression of genuine panic and tugged the brim of his hat with a weary exhale.
"...Jotaro-san, could we possibly switch to a different plane?"
Inori was truly frightened. She knew it was technically just a running gag—but what if this time the universe decided it wasn't?
"There's nothing else available right now." Jotaro sighed. "And SPW has already filed the transit paperwork. Switching at this point would be a mess."
"Then—then I guess it can't be helped!"
Nothing to do but accept it. All Inori could do was pray her own extraordinary luck was stronger than the Second JoJo's curse.
"Sis! You're really leaving, aren't you? You're coming back, right?!"
It was Josuke, flanked by Okuyasu and Koichi. Rohan Kishibe was there too, and Reimi Sugimoto beside him—she'd had to come, since Inori was heading to Italy partly for her sake. Which also, conveniently, gave Rohan a perfectly legitimate excuse to be there for the farewell.
—I'm here because of Reimi. Not because I can't stand to watch Inori leave. Absolutely not.
"Of course I will. Very soon."
Inori smiled.
"If she doesn't come back, I'll have a serious problem." Rohan sighed and pulled a bubble from his pocket, his expression entirely serious as he gave his instructions. "Being kept inside this is no walk in the park. Move quickly when you're looking for your brother."
"Yes, yes, I know."
Inori gave a vague, noncommittal wave of her hand.
Just a trip to Italy. Did they really need to mobilize this many people for a send-off? In hindsight she never should have told Josuke she was leaving—he'd apparently rounded up everyone he knew. If Tonio hadn't needed to keep the restaurant open, he'd probably have been dragged along too.
"Inori-san... we'll all really miss you if you don't come back..."
Koichi stepped forward to add his own concern.
He couldn't explain what had been happening to him lately. His mother and Ayana-nee were both home, and yet he felt hollow—the house too quiet, something important missing that he couldn't name no matter how hard he tried.
"Don't worry, Koichi-kun."
By this point in the story, Inori knew, Yukako Yamagishi had already made contact with their group. Before long she and Koichi would become real lovers through the Cinderella incident. The emptiness Yasuho's absence had left was only temporary.
"You have a girl who's completely head-over-heels for you right now, don't you?"
"W-WHAT!?" Koichi yelped. "How do you know about—Josuke! Okuyasu! I told you both not to say anything about Yukako-san to anyone!"
"I didn't say a word!" Josuke threw his hands up. "Okuyasu, it has to be you—I've always said you can't keep a secret to save your life!"
"It wasn't me! Why is everyone—why are you pinning this on me out of nowhere?!"
Okuyasu—the self-styled Big Genius—stood there blinking, genuinely unable to work out why this was suddenly his fault.
"It wasn't either of them—I already knew." Inori cut in quickly. "You three—there's an elderly person present. Lower your voices."
"...Sorry."
"Inori-nee! You have to come visit Jolyne in New York sometime!"
The little girl who'd been following Joseph stepped forward, looking up with the most pitiable expression imaginable.
"I will~"
Inori crouched down and ruffled her hair.
"I'll definitely come see you."
—Once I've dealt with the Boss, I'll go to America and help you smash that rotten priest into the ground.
Preparations complete. It wasn't a long farewell. And so Inori boarded the SPW jet and, while everyone watched from below—left. She left Morioh behind after less than a month, in yet another departure. But this time, at least, she'd gotten to say goodbye properly: to Yasuho, who she might never see again, and to Josuke and the rest of them—a story with a real beginning and a real end.
All the same—the ones from the last world. Hare Menjou, and the companions of Funeral Parlor. Not a single last word. She'd simply fallen asleep in the back of a truck and vanished.
If fate truly meant for her to keep wandering like this... then please. Let her find her way back there someday. Let her see them one more time.
—Yes. The Guilty Crown world... that's where Inori came from. That's her home. That's where she was born.
"Miss, your juice."
"Thank you."
She'd almost asked for coffee—but caffeine would have kept her wired, and the last thing she wanted was to spend this flight staring at clouds. Better to sleep straight through to Rome.
The attendant retreated. And Inori reached into her shoulder bag and drew out the tattered bundle of cloth.
—Now. Finally, a proper look.
She was nervous, though she couldn't quite account for why.
She unwrapped the strips layer by layer. The Saint's Corpse inside gradually emerged in full—a finger bone, a few scraps of tissue still clinging to it, looking less like any kind of sacred relic and more like a convincing prop.
"So this is... the Saint's Corpse."
Maybe it was just curiosity. Maybe it was the sealed cabin of a private jet—everything about this flight had been arranged by Jotaro himself. No enemy could be here. She couldn't think of a single threat that would come for her now.
So she didn't use Epitaph.
She thought: I'm only touching it for a moment. What could possibly happen?
—She was wrong.
Completely. Catastrophically. Wrong.
The instant she made contact, a surge like high-voltage current tore through her entire body. Visions detonated—a reel of blurred, fragmented images crashed into her mind all at once. An avalanche of flashes, all arriving simultaneously. Her whole body seized. Her eyes went blank. The glass of juice overturned and shattered on the floor.
The Saint's Corpse was burrowing, of its own accord, into her snow-white wrist.
...What... is...
A red curtain fell across her vision. She couldn't take any more.
She lost consciousness.
"Miss! Miss!"
The attendant heard the disturbance from the cabin and immediately left his seat to investigate. He pulled the door open and charged inside.
He found a demon, drenched in blood.
...
...
April 30th, 1999.
The Speedwagon Foundation's private jet went down in the waters not far from Japan's coast—taking all four aboard with it. The sole passenger, the pilot, the co-pilot, and the attendant.
Jotaro and the others received the news that same evening. He immediately chartered a boat, and working alongside an SPW search-and-rescue team and local maritime authorities, spent a full week combing the area—before finally locating the wreckage.
In the wreckage, they found three bodies. The three SPW personnel.
The bodies had been badly ravaged by marine life. But the forensic examination confirmed: the bones of all three bore the marks of severe trauma from a sharp implement—injuries that predated the crash. They had been killed before the plane ever hit the water.