60, 59, 58, 57...
The morning breeze had drunk its fill of ale—warm and soft, brushing against their faces, carrying the scent of the golden wheat fields stretching for miles below the mountain. Mechamaru and the others stood on ginkgo-covered steps, watching Nanami Kira stand there with lowered eyelids, exchanging bewildered glances.
A few frogs croaked and fell silent. A few white clouds drifted past. They stood frozen in place, staring blankly at each other. The silence was deeply awkward.
"Um, Kira-senpai..." Miwa gathered her courage and whispered, "Has it been a minute yet?"
"Twenty-nine seconds left."
Kira read the second hand, answering without looking up.
"Right... Is there a point to doing this?"
"I follow my schedule to the letter every single day. Even if lunch has to be delayed for some reason, I still have to stick to the schedule." Kira looked up, meeting Miwa's pretty blue eyes, and said with absolute sincerity,
"I nearly killed someone trying to get here on time."
Miwa's gaze flickered. She pouted playfully. "You're so funny, Kira."
Dependable, keeps his promises, strict about his schedule—he has the reassuring presence of a mature man with the humor and spirit of a young one. Truly worthy of being her idol!
Her admiration for Nanami Kira climbed even higher!
...Three, two, one.
Kira lowered his watch, straightened his lapels one final time, and nodded to the group. "Let's go."
Past the wide torii gate, through the wooden doors, across the sunlit courtyard—then one more door. This was the side entrance. Beyond it lay the genkan, where tradition dictated visitors change into wooden clogs. Kira followed every custom flawlessly.
Past the genkan, the interior of the shrine opened up. A long corridor stretched end to end. At the very far end, where the sunlight was strongest, sat a small room. There, Kyoto's principal and leader of the conservative faction—Yoshinobu Gakuganji—was waiting.
At the last door, Miwa moved to open it for him.
"Allow me." Kira stopped her. Under her puzzled gaze, he smiled, slid the door open with his right hand, and gestured for her to enter.
Such a gentleman, so considerate... Miwa's heart was melting.
Where she couldn't see, a faint trace of red dissipated from Kira's fingertips. His smile grew even calmer.
Killer Queen had already touched this door.
Section 4
It wasn't excessive caution—he didn't actually believe Gakuganji would throw a cup as a signal, at which point eight hundred hidden swordsmen would burst from behind the curtains to seize him.
Just insurance. On someone else's territory, this was the only way to feel secure.
He closed the door and walked calmly into the room.
The room was small—nothing could be hidden. Only one exit: the front door. Without knowing about the bomb, anyone entering or leaving would use this door.
Control this one door and you controlled the life and death of everyone inside. Nanami Kira loved the feeling of being in total control. It gave him peace and genuine happiness.
"Good day, Kira."
The old man nodded to him—long beard, long brows, sharp and spirited.
"Principal Gakuganji. A pleasure."
Kira executed a flawless bow, his manner humble and warm. With the old man's permission, he knelt on the tatami. His impeccable etiquette never failed to leave a favorable impression—the image of a reliable, responsible adult who respected his elders and was kind to the young.
"Are you familiar with Sukuna?"
"Yes. The King of Curses. A monster among monsters. Even after death, he endured. Even after dissolution, he persisted—using his fingers as vessels for his soul."
The old man nodded approvingly. From a drawer in the partition, he produced an ancient box, carefully undid layer after layer of binding seals. What lay inside was revealed as cursed energy flooded the room—five fingers. Pale purple, mottled with death spots, each one resembling an ugly, writhing worm.
Gakuganji quickly replaced the lid, and the tidal wave of malice receded. He looked Kira in the eyes. "What do you think?"
"Long fingertips, prominent knuckles, fine palm lines. One word: exquisite."
"But there are shortcomings. It's been dead too long—the color has faded, and the nails have gone dull. Those are marks against it. If judged by the standards of a human woman's hand, this would be a beautiful corpse."
"And I despise rotting fingers—I replace mine regularly. But what disgusts me most is that these are a man's fingers..." Once in his area of expertise, professional hand connoisseur Nanami Kira waxed eloquent, speaking with great passion.
"Kira." Gakuganji cut him off. "I'm asking about how dangerous you think these fingers are."
"I can only say they live up to their reputation as Special Grade cursed objects." Kira's fingers tapped lightly on the table.
The old man nodded, carefully returning the box to its compartment. "Fluctuations from a sixth Sukuna finger have recently been detected in Kyoto. Curse users are involved."
The tapping stopped. Kira looked up, eyes fixed on him.
"That's why we requested your transfer. We're short-handed. The old guard needs to hold down the school, and we need someone with the right skills. We trust your abilities."
Sunset. The crimson corona sank into the sprawling mountain range, and the spreading fire-clouds piled into another mountain on the horizon—a mountain burying the dying sun. Or perhaps the mountains were the sun's grave.
The hour of dusk was also the demon hour.
As the others saw him off, Kira declined Todo's invitation to stay and watch animal videos. He checked the sky and set a mental deadline of eight o'clock to be back at his apartment.
Seven sharp.
The walk from the mountainside to the base took five minutes. Kira refused the school's arranged car. No taxis came through here, so he bought a bus ticket at the stop at the foot of the mountain—another ten minutes.
The bus ride from the outskirts back to the city, plus a taxi transfer, took another thirty minutes total.
He finally reached his apartment building. By now, dusk had fully surrendered to night. Dim light fell across the alley. Every person he passed wore a blank expression—listening to music, staring at their phones—silently drifting past.
Kira bought a can of coffee from the vending machine downstairs. The old machine was partially rusted, and the can took forever to drop.
He gave it a smack. Something groaned inside—a low, mechanical churning, like an ancient ox chewing its cud. It chewed for a long time before finally spitting out a dark-colored can of coffee.
He popped it open and took a sip. It tasted bad.
It was summer. The vending machine ran a cooling unit to keep the drinks cold—even this decrepit relic had one.
But Kira didn't care for the icy taste.
Just as he was about to toss the coffee into a trash can, he noticed a sliver of something dark poking out from inside the machine. He sent his shikigami to touch it. The feedback was sticky. Wet.
He frowned. He had a fair idea of what was going on. To avoid drawing attention, he pulled out every bill on him and fed them all into the machine.
The old ox groaned again. Bottles and cans tumbled out, one after another.
When all the drinks had dropped, the machine let out a few low, mournful groans—then began spitting out chunks of solid matter. Viscous liquid followed, dripping onto the ground one drop at a time.
Pieces of a dismembered corpse.
Mystery of the jammed machine: solved.
Kira kept inserting coins. Slot 5, "Vegetable Juice"—out came a cluster of severed toes. Slot 1, "Lemonade"—half a blackened heart. Slot 3, "Cola"—two round eyeballs.
Someone had been murdered, dismembered, and stashed inside this vending machine. The unit had been decommissioned long ago; its lock wasn't hard to pry. The killer had packed the neatly cut body parts into each drink slot, one piece at a time, methodical and organized.
Then the killer had stacked store-bought drinks in front of the remains. Only after customers purchased all the drinks would the body parts come tumbling out.
And because the vending machine's cooling unit was still running, the time before decomposition and stench became noticeable was greatly extended—buying the killer time.
No trace of residual cursed energy. Just an ordinary murder.
Tch.
Kira reached into the pile of flesh. He didn't find what he was looking for—a complete arm. He frowned in disappointment.
He checked his watch. Already 7:55. According to his schedule, it was time to go home.
He was off the clock now. Kira placed his hand on the remains and activated his shikigami. A mist of blood erupted into the air, but it vanished just as quickly. The body parts had been obliterated without a trace.
He had no intention of playing detective. This wasn't his problem.
But leaving it here would make him a suspect. And filing a police report now meant interrogation, which would blow his eight o'clock deadline. Destroying the evidence was the optimal choice.
Nanami Kira never did anything unnecessary, and he never created enemies or complications that might cost him sleep. That was the secret to his happy life.
He pulled a handkerchief from inside his jacket, wiped his hands clean, folded the handkerchief into a perfect square, and dropped it in the trash. Then he downed the rest of his coffee in one go.
Nanami Kira walked out of the narrow alley, glanced at the city lights blazing to life—bright as fireworks, streets humming with traffic—and turned back toward his apartment.