Chapter 12

Before enrolling at Jujutsu High, the cosplayer asked Gennai Tsuneyoshi to investigate his identity.

He claimed that he had accidentally lost his identification documents.

Whether Gennai Tsuneyoshi believed this half-hearted excuse was something only he knew. The other person present, however, Gennai Hiroshi, was deeply suspicious.

Gennai Tsuneyoshi stepped outside to make a phone call. When he returned, he said that he had asked a friend to look into the cosplayer’s identity information. The documents had already been reported lost, and he merely needed to go have them reissued.

Before that, the cosplayer had entertained two possibilities.

The first was that he had no identity at all—in other words, that he was an undocumented outsider. That would not be a problem. With a silver tongue and the right incentives, he could still persuade Gennai Tsuneyoshi to tie himself to the same ship.

The second was that the world had automatically repaired the discrepancy and supplied him with a fabricated identity.

If the latter proved true, he could use it to work backward and determine exactly what he had become after crossing into this world.

As for what Gennai Hiroshi thought, the cosplayer did not care. Otherwise, he would never have asked Gennai Tsuneyoshi to investigate his identity right in front of him.

The cosplayer was not worried that Gennai Hiroshi would cause trouble. By examining Hiroshi’s thoughts, he had already seen what sort of person he was. Even if Hiroshi was wary of him and believed him to be a bad man, so long as he did nothing illegal—or, more precisely, nothing Hiroshi could catch him doing—Hiroshi would not take action.

Of course, there was nothing he could do anyway.

After all, even if he wanted to call the police, he would need evidence, wouldn’t he?

The cosplayer was confident that Gennai Hiroshi would never catch him by the scruff of the neck...

Good grief, what was he thinking? He was a law-abiding, upstanding citizen.

Still, if the opportunity arose, the cosplayer hoped to win Gennai Hiroshi over.

Unlike the original, he did not have a gifted best friend—or assistant—at his side. Although Hiroshi was not as powerful as the original’s friend, he was useful enough.

Gennai Tsuneyoshi was in such a good mood that he insisted on driving the cosplayer himself to have his identity documents reissued.

The offer was too gracious to refuse, and the cosplayer sincerely thanked him.

Gennai Tsuneyoshi beamed. “Why thank me? That sounds so formal. I’m the one who should be thanking you, young sir! Come to think of it, I was hoping you might look after my boy a little. This world is far too dangerous...”

Gennai Hiroshi sat rigidly by the window on the opposite side, maintaining a clear, unmistakable distance between himself and the cosplayer.

This time, no one had asked him to come. He had climbed into the car of his own accord. Gennai Tsuneyoshi had been so startled that he looked strangely at his son, then at the cosplayer, his expression complicated.

While his wife had still been alive, his son had had a few friends around him. After her death, however, the boy had become like a block of ice that never thawed. Anyone who approached him would eventually be frozen away.

He had never expected his son to take the initiative to interact with someone.

Gennai Tsuneyoshi knew his own limitations. Even though his son had called him “Dad” just an hour ago, that did not mean the two of them could truly return to the way things had been. His son had boarded the car only because of the young gentleman.

Still, knowing that his son had a place for him in his heart was enough.

Heh heh.

If his son could get along with the young gentleman, then all the better. He was more than happy to see it happen.

...

The cosplayer received his replacement passport. It bore his photograph, name, nationality, date of issue, expiration date, and other details.

His violet eyes—elegant and mysterious as violets, radiating a noble air—remained fixed on the line bearing his name.

Fyodor D.

As expected, it was the same name as the original.

In a daze, different voices echoed in the cosplayer’s ears. Some belonged to men, others to women; some were old, others young.

“Fedya.”

“Fedyaika.”

“Fedunyushka!”

“Fedoka”...

His parents, his grandmother, childhood friends, classmates...

Each had called him by a different nickname. Yet all of them had been derived from the same given name:

Fyodor.

...

So he was called Fyodor, too.

*

A spacious, dignified room.

The overall decor was warm in tone. The carpet was soft and thick, muffling footsteps almost completely, as though reminding everyone within that silence ought to be maintained. In the upper-right corner of the redwood desk stood a potted green plant, its emerald leaves stretching upward with vigorous energy. It brought a touch of life and vitality to the room, softening its overly solemn atmosphere.

A short old man stood before the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed outside.

Knock, knock.

Someone suddenly rapped on the door.

“Come in,” the old man said, turning to face the entrance.

The visitor received permission, pressed down on the handle, and pushed the door open. He entered the room, then closed it behind him. With respectful composure, he addressed the old man.

“Principal.”

The kindly old man smiled broadly and stroked his beard. In a warm yet vigorous voice, he said, “Yaga, how have things been lately?”

The man was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with healthy bronze skin and a full beard. Wearing sunglasses and a black teacher’s uniform, he replied in a deep, resonant voice, “The students are all working very hard...”

“That isn’t what I meant,” the old man interrupted.

The man fell silent.

The old man sighed. “How is Ryoko?”

“...She has about five months left.”

Masamichi Yaga’s voice was hoarse, and the eyes concealed behind his sunglasses had turned red.

After marrying Masamichi Yaga, Ryoko had taken his surname. A year earlier, she had been diagnosed with cancer. Even before that, however, she had already been suffering from a mental illness.

Two years ago, one of their three children had accidentally drowned, while the other two had been brutalized by curse users. From that point onward, Ryoko had never recovered from her grief.

One day, when Masamichi Yaga returned home, he saw his wife cooking. He felt a surge of joy, believing that she had finally begun to recover.

Then she said, “Darling, you’re home. Good, you’re just in time. Hurry and call the children to dinner. The food is already prepared.”

It turned out that she had not recovered from her overwhelming grief at all. She had developed schizophrenia and was stubbornly convinced that her children were still alive.

As her condition worsened, she began harming herself. Eventually, she would seize other people’s children and insist that they were her own. Masamichi Yaga had no choice but to place her in a hospital for treatment.

He had never imagined that, a year later, her condition would not only fail to improve but would worsen further with the discovery of her cancer.

Watching his wife waste away until she was little more than skin and bone, staring blankly at the sky each day, filled Masamichi Yaga with unbearable pain. Yet there was nothing he could do.

“Masamichi...”

The principal’s voice, heavy with concern and worry, pulled Masamichi Yaga back from his thoughts.

Yaga silently drew a deep breath and forced his emotions back down. Adopting a businesslike tone, he asked, “Was there something you wanted to see me about?”

The principal opened and closed his mouth several times, hesitating. In the end, he swallowed the words he had been about to say and changed course.

“...A young man contacted the school of his own accord. He says he wants to enroll at Jujutsu High. I’d like you to go and take a look.”

The school had few students, and naturally, few teachers.

The other teachers were all occupied. Yaga was the only one available, which was why the principal had summoned him.

“I understand.”