Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Iguro Arata loves to cook.

When he was just a toddler, he’d throw a tantrum if he wasn’t allowed to watch people cooking in the kitchen. His large teal eyes would well up, followed by a sniffle—then a piercing, primal scream loud enough to crack a fascist heart.

That’s how he earned his own cooking tower. Little Arata would stand there like a tiny boss, watching and “helping” the adults cook. Sometimes even ordering around.

“Am cooking, am cooking for her,” the two years old Arata babbled to his mom while stirring the okonoyaki mix clumsily.

“For me?”

“No…!”

“For Onee-san?” She mentioned Arata's older sister.

Arata shook his head. “Neechan no no…”

His mother, Asako, looked at his beloved son closely, her lips curled into a playful smile. “I know… You are cooking for grandma, aren't you? Mommy know Tacchan loves grandma so much.”

Arata shook his head again, puffing his chubby cheeks—angy. “Am cooking for my wife, mommy…”

“Your what?!” Asako burst out laughing—wheezing and wiping away tears.

Since that incident, the “cooking for my wife” story had become a recurring tale in Arata’s life. It was mildly annoying, but he didn’t really think about it. He loves cooking—and truthfully, his family loved his cooking too. They fully supported his passion and let him take over the kitchen whenever he wanted.

Arata was lucky to be born into a warm, loving family of five. His father, Iguro Kouta, was a linguistics researcher at a university, while his mother, Igarashi Asako, worked as a graphic design consultant. Arata was the second child, with a caring older sister, Iguro Aika, and a spoiled younger brother, Iguro Aoto—both of whom he adored.

Another important figure in Arata’s life was his paternal grandmother, Iguro Chiyo. Though elderly, she remained active and lived independently. Whenever Arata visited, they would spend hours cooking together in her kitchen. And when she stayed overnight at his house, he would quietly climb into her bed and snuggle against her in the middle of the night.

Arata loved cooking for his family. Seeing their smiles as they tasted his food filled him with pride. He cherished those moments deeply. Yet if someone asked why he loved it so much, he actually wouldn’t know how to answer. It simply fulfilled something quiet and unnameable inside him—something just beyond the reach of his consciousness.

So he just kept learning and training—never needing a reason. From YouTube tutorials to occasional formal classes, Arata had been honing his skills since childhood. He never lost interest, despite what others predicted—that he would get bored or find something else. If anything, he became more focused and skilled.

After years of dedication, he had already mastered many things—like crafting the perfect molten omurice or slicing sashimi with precision. By sixteen, he was already working part-time as a cook assistant in a busy izakaya. Sometimes he prepared meals for his parents’ colleagues or catered small home gatherings too—earning not just money, but valuable experience.

But that wasn’t always the case. Arata often cooked for free—especially for the people he cared about. Like on that sunny Sunday at the end of spring 2013, when 17 years old Arata was preparing lunch for his best friend’s family.

“Hey Iggy, you want some soda?” Sanehiro asked, his head buried in the fridge.

“Yeah, but grab me a straw—my hands are busy,” Arata replied, still focused on slicing meat with absurd precision.

“Onii-san, you’re not offering me anything?” Touko, who was helping Arata with vegetables, teased her older brother.

Sanehiro clicked his tongue. “This is your house. Help yourself and stop being a brat.”

“Ma! Sanehiro’s being mean again!” Touko shouted.

Arata chuckled as Shizuka, Sanehiro’s mother, walked in to scold her son.

“Spoiled brat,” Sanehiro muttered, sticking his tongue out, which only made Touko whinier.

“Enough, both of you,” Shizuka said firmly. “Your father will be here in 30 minutes with Kotaro. We need to get ready.”

“Perfect timing,” Arata said, dropping the meat into the boiling pot. “The meal will be ready in 15.”

The dining room was already decorated with balloons and banners, with a medium size Anpanman cake on the table. It was Shinazugawa Kotaro’s 10th birthday, and despite the divorce, his parents had agreed to throw a small family gathering for him.

Arata was chilling in the living room with Sanehiro and two of Kotaro's friends when his phone buzzed. It was Aika, his older sister.

“What’s up, Sis?”

“Tacchan… Grandma—” Her voice cracked like thunder through the line. He could tell she was crying.

He went pale. “What happened?”

“She’s—critical. Heart attack,” she sniffled. “I already sent a taxi. Get ready…”

In an instant, Arata’s world flipped upside down. Just last night, Grandma had stayed at his house. She was fine. When he came home late from hanging out with friends, she was already asleep. As always, he climbed into her bed and snuggled beside her. Even this morning, they still had breakfast together. And again, she was fine!

The mood in Shizuka’s apartment shifted immediately. Everyone tried to comfort him as he waited for the taxi outside. Sanehiro slung an arm around his shoulder. Shizuka rubbed his back and offered quiet words. Even thirteen-year-old Touko held his hand, with her eyes brimming with tears.

When the taxi arrived, Arata climbed in alone. And there, in the back seat, he finally broke down.

Iguro Chiyo—his 84 years old grandmother—was a woman everyone admired. Small and soft-spoken, yet witty and resilient. She wasn’t just a loving grandmother, she was the one who taught him courage and the importance of family.

Her own family had been far from perfect. She often called them toxic. At only 17, Chiyo left the Iguro household on Hachijo Island, cutting ties with her mother, Kaneko, and her sisters. She moved to Tokyo, determined to build a new life—and never looked back.

Despite everything, she made it. Even when her fiancé abandoned her, leaving her to raise their son alone, she created a loving home for Arata’s father. Then continued to share that same unconditional love with her grandchildren.

Now, sitting alone in the taxi, Arata felt utterly devastated. How could she be taken from him without warning? How could everything change so suddenly—so violently—without giving him a moment to prepare?

I don’t believe this, Grandma…
I can't…

Chapter Text

The smell of incense and fresh flowers filled the air of the funeral house that morning. Arata stood in the corner, watching as the ceremony was prepared. It wasn’t his first time experiencing death of a loved one, his grandparents from his mother side died in a traffic accident when he was 10. Yet, it was the first time he fully grasped the kind of farewell that clung to every passing.

He absently rubbed the band encircling his upper arm. It was adorned with the symbol of a snake and bamboo leaves—their family mon (crest). Almost identical to his grandmother’s first cousin’s tsuba. The crest had been established by his father, Kouta, as a mark of the new Iguro family—one that had freed itself from the dark past of the old clan and forged its own legacy. Asako executed the design, turning a tsuba into a mon.

Among the guests beginning to fill the venue, he recognized a white-haired boy walking beside a small, delicate woman. It was Sanehiro, his best friend, with his mother, Shizuka. Arata raised an eyebrow. Shizuka's attendance was expected, but Sanehiro should’ve been in school at this hour.

“Arata, sweetheart, go welcome Aunt Shizuka and seat them behind our family,” his mother called softly.

He nodded and quietly approached Sanehiro and his mother.

“Aunt Shizu, Sanehiro,” he said with a nod. “Thank you for coming.”

Shizuka quickly pulled him into an embrace. Sanehiro just smirked, and they bumped fists as usual.

“My condolences, Iggy. Your grandma was a great person. She’ll be remembered for her strength and grace,” Shizuka said, grazing the boy’s hair.

As a single mother divorced from her husband, Shizuka adored Chiyo. The witty old lady had walked a similar path—even a worse one—and proved herself to rise against all odds.

Arata offered a faint smile. “Thank you, Aunt Shizu.”

“You got this, Iggy.” Sanehiro slung an arm around Arata’s shoulder.

“You missed school,” Arata noted.

“Tch… It’s just the first two periods.”

“Don’t worry,” Shizuka added with a smile. “I already called the school.”

Arata led them to their seats. It didn’t take long before the room filled and the ceremony began. Everything went like a slithering serpent that slipped away between your legs without you noticing—smooth and quiet.

As the priest’s chant faded into a low hum, the scent of incense deepened, curling through the hall like a quiet breath. Arata stood beside the altar, flanked by his older sister Aika and younger brother Aoto. All three wore black armbands bearing the Iguro crest stitched in gold thread.

Their mother, Asako, sat quietly in the front row, her hands folded in her lap. Kouta, their father acting as the designated moshu (chief mourner), stood nearest the casket. His formal montsuki haori bore the family crest on the back and sleeves. He bowed once to the gathered mourners, then turned to his children.

“It’s time,” he said softly.

Aika stepped forward first. She moved quietly, taking a pinch of powdered incense and placing it into the censer. She bowed deeply to the casket, then slipped a small bouquet of peony between their grandmother’s folded hands.

Arata followed. He repeated the incense offering, his fingers brushing the edge of the censer. He bowed a bit too long, before placing a folded letter beside the flower—his own farewell, written the night before. The paper folded neatly, and tied with a cotton cord.

Aoto hesitated. At fourteen, he was the youngest, and the ritual felt heavier than he expected. Arata gave him a small nod. He stepped forward, offered the incense, and placed a small ceramic tea cup he made himself next to the letter.

Kouta approached last. He offered incense, bowed deeply, and placed a cashmere scarf—Chiyo’s favourite, worn from years of use—into the casket.

The priest resumed his chant. The siblings stepped back, bowing once more. Attendants moved quietly to prepare the casket for its final journey to the crematorium.

For a moment, the hall was silent. The air held the weight of memory and the quiet dignity of parting. Arata looked around, taking in the sight of those who had come to bid farewell to his grandmother. Then, one last time before they closed the casket, his gaze settled on her serene face—smiling in her eternal sleep.

“I saw you crying,” Arata said in a hushed tone as Sanehiro walked him to his father's car. “You don't have to.”

“That's not for you to decide.”

Arata glanced at his friend. “Seriously, bro—”

“You're not the only one mourning, idiot!” Sanehiro whispered harshly. “Blame your grandma for treating me like family.”

Arata’s steps halted at the crack in Sanehiro’s voice. His big teal eyes watched his friend, caught between surprise and guilt.

Sanehiro turned around. “Every time you called her in the middle of our night outs, she always asked to speak with me. Even just for something trivial—like telling me she tried coffee-flavored ohagi and hated it. She—” He didn’t finish, just huffing harshly.

The other boy just stared at the ground, fingers fiddling with the hem of his black suit.

“Nii-san, hurry up! We have to leave now!” Aoto yelled from the car window.

“Go…” Sanehiro muttered. “They’re waiting.”

“Thank you for coming,” Arata murmured.

He stepped forward, hesitated for a bit before giving Sanehiro a quick hug, then ran to the car where his family waited. No one asked why he quietly sobbed on the way to the crematorium. They understood that sometimes silent was what needed to process some loss.

A day after the service, Kouta decided it was time to read his mother’s will. That evening, after a takeout dinner, the Iguro family gathered in their living room—grim and solemn. The house still smelled faintly of condolence flowers, which slowly felt invasive and suffocating, as if it lingered too long to remind them of their loss.

Kouta sat in a separate chair, looking distraught. On the couch, Arata sat beside his older sister, Aika, with a protective arm around her shoulders. Aika held hands with their mother, Asako, who hugged the youngest, Aoto.

“To my dearest family, if you are reading this, it means I have departed—” Kouta covered his eyes with his palm.

“Darling?” Asako asked gently.

Kouta looked at his wife with a wistful smile. “Sorry. Let’s continue…” He took a shaky breath. “It means I have departed from this world…”

Everything went just fine for a moment until he reached the part about their surname. The Iguro.

“...burdening you with the Iguro name—a name tied to a lineage of evil and dishonor…”

Arata clenched his jaw. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard this from his grandmother. As he grew older, he began to learn her complicated relationship with the name she ties with, her painful relationship with her own abusive mother, and her regret for passing the name down to her descendants.

“You are free to reclaim your father’s or grandfather’s surname, or take Asako’s surname, should you wish. My love and pride for you remain unchanged.”

Asako shook her head—disagreeing. Arata clicked his tongue, annoyed—not at Chiyo, but at whoever ancestors had carved their sins into the family name. Aika gently slapped his thigh to quiet him. Everyone knew Kouta wouldn’t let that happen, he was the one who established the new Iguro with the spirit of continuing his mother's legacy.

Besides, they would never change their surname to that of the jerk who abandoned their grandmother while she was pregnant. They had no relationship whatsoever with their father’s sperm donor—or his family. And no one in their little household had any desire to start one.

Whatever Chiyo had written in there felt ridiculous—just a trace of the self-loathing she hadn’t quite shaken off. They knew better than to dwell on it. So they moved on and continued reading the will.

“To my son, Kouta…” His father paused, tears welling up on his eyes.

“You have been my strength and my reason to persevere. You are always my baby, my world, my everything…” His voice cracked.

Kouta could only read a few more lines before quietly breaking down. Arata had never seen his father cry—not at the hospital, not even at the funeral. Like Arata himself, he rarely showed emotion in front of others. But the letter was the final blow, and this time, he couldn’t hold it in.

Asako rose from her seat, walked over, and settled gently on the armrest of her husband’s couch. Without a word, she took the paper from his trembling hands and continued the reading herself.

“I am proud of the man you’ve become and the family you’ve built with Asako. I hereby bequeath to you all my real estate holdings and…” she continued the whole part, while rubbing his shoulder firmly.

“To my granddaughter, Aika.
My sunshine, my brave and kindhearted girl. Your stubbornness…”

Arata barely registered the rest—Aika had begun to cry beside him. Without a word, he pulled her into an embrace. She wept against his shoulder, fingers clutching the back of his shirt as her body trembled.

“...kihachijō silk collection, each piece chosen with love and in memory of my beautiful island. I also entrust you with my beloved cat, Kuro. He adores you, please care for him as I did.”

Asako paused, looking at her two oldest children hugging and the youngest, who had shifted closer, leaning into his siblings.

She cleared her throat. “To my grandson, Arata. My moon, my protector, my warmth.”

Arata took a sharp breath, bracing himself.

“Thank you, Tacchan, for your late-night calls and unwavering love. Your tough exterior made me feel safe, but it is your true tenderness that makes me feel fortunate to be among the few who receive it,” Asako continued.

Tears welled in his eyes. His lips twitched as he fought to hold them back. Aika wrapped her arms around his neck. Aoto leaned in and patted his head. Yet, their touch just made the cracks in his composure widen.

“As promised, I leave you the entire contents of my kitchen, along with my book collection—which I hope you’ll share with your father. I also entrust you with a sword, a journal, and a kiribako once belonging to my first cousin, Iguro Obanai. Lastly, I leave you the snake-shaped diamond ring, to be given one day to your future bride or daughter.”

Arata squeezed his eyes shut. He replayed his grandmother's face, wrinkled but glowing with a gentle smile and striking teal eyes full of life. She had promised everything to him, and every time she mentioned it, he always cut her off. He hated when his grandmother talked about her own death as if it was something regular like going to the park.

The sword was something Arata had cherished since he was a little boy for no apparent reason. His sister wasn't interested in it, and his brother only liked the design but was never as invested as he was. He, on the other hand, loved checking on the sword every time he went to Grandma's house. Lately, he had started playing with it in the backyard, and his Grandmother would allowed him. She would just sit around with her cat, while talking to him or just reading a book.

And Grandma's kitchen... it was a playground for him. It was filled with sentimental old items, like a 50-year-old handmade knife, and newer ones Chiyo had bought impulsively.

“You have to try my new cooking utensils, Tacchan. I just bought some Vermicular pans and a Homusubi pot,” Chiyo told him out of nowhere that morning, while they had their last breakfast together.

That caused a small scene at the table, because Arata and his mom knew those pieces of cookware were worth a fortune. Aika’s jaw dropped when she googled the price. Aoto asked what they looked like, and whether the design was really beautiful. Chiyo just laughed like it was nothing, saying Arata would love them.

Fuck…
She bought those for me...

Arata opened his eyes again, and the reading continued. For the first time since his grandmother's death he finally realized, her departure was something she had already prepared. She'd been ready for it. To leave quietly and peacefully without being a burden to her family.

Chapter Text

On Friday evening, Sanehiro stayed over at the Iguro house. He’d decided Arata could use some company. His best friend hadn’t said it outright, but Sanehiro knew he was still shaken by his grandmother’s death. Over the past few days, he’d noticed how Arata’s usually sharp eyes grew distant when he thought no one was watching.

The two teenagers sat on the floor of Arata’s bedroom, surrounded by some of the belongings he’d just inherited. Grandma’s book collection was packed into several boxes, while the items from her first cousin were scattered across the floor. His father had brought them home earlier that evening before heading back to spend the night at Grandma’s house.

Arata's and Sanehiro's attention quickly turned to the sword.

It had an unusual wavy sheath made of thick leather, surprisingly well-preserved for something nearly a century old. Even at a glance, it was clear Chiyo had cared for it meticulously.

Sanehiro tried to unsheath the katana but failed. “Yo, Iggy, it’s stuck,” he muttered, frowning.

“You should ask the owner before trying to unsheath it,” Arata said coolly, taking the sword from him.

“Fuck you.”

Arata rolled his eyes—Sanehiro cussing was part of his normal. “Look,” he said.

He drew the sword horizontally in one swift motion. The sheath opened and closed automatically in a blink. The blade was unlike any katana Sanehiro had ever seen. Its wavy shape resembled a snake—almost like a keris blade from Indonesia, but bigger. The metal shimmered with a soft lavender hue, something he’d never seen in steel before. Kind of cute for a murderous weapon.

“No way…” Sanehiro’s jaw dropped, eyes gleaming like a kid discovering a new toy.

“The sheath has a magnetic pull. It keeps the sword locked in place,” Arata explained, showing Sanehiro how to put it back to its sheath. “You push it vertically through the opening, the sheath reacts, opened, placed and—clap!” He mimicked the sound. “It wraps around the blade perfectly.”

“Technologia…” Sanehiro grinned with a shit-eating smile.

They burst into laughter, half mocking and half admiring the old technology as they joked about it.

Curious, Sanehiro tried again. On the third attempt, he finally managed to sheath and unsheath the strange sword smoothly.

“Finally!” he laughed, striking a ridiculous pose like an old-time samurai.

“You know, my grandma didn’t actually inherit these things. She basically stole them,” Arata said, unable to hold back.

“The fuck?”

“Yeah…” Arata sighed. “She found them—forgotten in the storage room of her family’s mansion. When she asked her mother about them, she got furious and insulted the owner—her deceased cousin, Iguro Obanai. Said she should’ve killed him herself. That he was supposed to die as a child, sacrificed to their Goddess.”

He exhaled sharply, his face twisted in disgust.

“That’s sick—I mean, literally. Sacrificing humans?” Sanehiro looked stunned.

“Yeah. According to the old hag, little Obanai refused to be sacrificed, ran away, and angered the Goddess—who then wiped out the entire Iguro clan. Only the two of them survived.”

“Sounds like folklore. Grandma Chiyo didn’t believe that bullshit, right?”

Arata shrugged. “She said, whatever it was, it was child abuse. That’s why Obanai escaped. They only sent his belongings to my great grandmother after he died at 21.”

“Damn. He escaped only to die so young…” Sanehiro muttered. “But why would they send his stuff to the cousin who hated him?”

“I thought that was weird too. But Grandma said it was in his will,” Arata paused, eyes drifting to the tsuba that inspired their family’s new mon. “She was told to burn all of it.”

Sanehiro scoffed. “So instead of burning them, she stole them.”

“Exactly. She said she had to do the right thing. Ran—like Obanai did,” Arata smirked. “They were about to marry her off to some old landlord at the time.”

“Eww… Right decision,” Sanehiro grimaced, picturing one of the girls in his class marrying an old man.

“It actually took Grandma two months to figure out how to unsheath this baddie,” Arata said, slapping the sheathed sword in his hand.

“That’s a sword, not a girl. Pervert!”

“It has curves,” he shrugged, sending them into another fit of giggles.

Sanehiro leaned back against the side of Arata’s bed, his expression turning thoughtful. “You know, my dad inherited a katana too—from his great-grandfather. But the blade is greenish instead of lavender. Was your cousin a samurai?”

“No, he was a swordsman for an organization. Samurai no longer exist in that era.”

“Weird… My great-grandfather also did the same work. Do you think it was a common job back then?”

Arata shrugged.

Sanehiro unsheathed the katana again and froze. “Wait—does every katana from that era have the Akki Messatsu kanji? Demon Destroyer?” He pointed to the engraving.

Arata tilted his head. “I don’t know… Why?”

“My great-grandfather’s katana has the same phrase.”

Arata didn’t understand about that, but they promised to compare the two swords properly next time they had the chance.

That busy restaurant near the junction was filled with customers that Sunday evening. Arata had just finished his shift as a part-time assistant cook when the rain began to pour. He didn’t feel like going home yet, nor was he interested in walking through the downpour. He brought Obanai's old kiribako with him, and couldn’t risk it getting wet.

So he decided to stay a little longer and chill. He ordered a latte and settled at a table near the entrance, planning to wait out the rain while examining the contents of the box.

When Arata first received it from his father two nights ago, the wooden box had been locked. Grandma said the last time she opened it was with his father when he was a university student studying linguistics. After that, it had been stored in a dry storage alongside the sword and her kihachijō silk collection. She never opened it again, saying its contents were a private matter.

But Arata was curious.

So earlier that afternoon, before heading to work, he’d taken the kiribako to an antique store and asked them to open it without causing damage. Fortunately, they’d managed it with ease.

Now, Arata carefully opened the kiribako and randomly picked up one of the folded papers stacked neatly inside. Yes, papers. What a miraculous job his grandmother had done to have this wooden box and the papers inside it fully reserved. He unfolded the paper in his hands with care, eyes scanning the faded ink. It was a letter.

Iguro-san

I hope you arrive at Fukushima safely, and face no trouble.

I just finished my mission in Morioka last night. The demon isn’t that strong, so I had enough time to try wanko soba before the shop closed!

I will pass by Fukushima tomorrow early afternoon. If you’re still there, let's meet up. I don't mind assisting you if needed.

Kanroji Mitsuri

Kanroji Mitsuri…

Arata had heard that name from his grandmother before. Chiyo believed Iguro Obanai had been cremated and buried with that woman. Despite what her own mother, Kaneko, had said—that Obanai was buried alongside a cheap whore—Chiyo was convinced the woman had been his wife, or at least his lover.

She never explained to Arata how she came to that conclusion, or even how she knew the woman’s name. But she once told him that, when he was old enough, he’d uncover the truth for himself—hidden in the contents of the kiribako.

Now, with the letter in his hand, Arata was left wondering: Is this how Grandma found out about it?

He took another one.

xxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxxx for the training?
I was given two candy by a kind lady in the market yesterday. It was shining perfectly in yellow and teal, just like your eyes!

Do you think we can have a meal together before xxxx xxxxx gets started? It's been a week since we met, there's a lot I want to share with you.

Kanroji Mitsuri

 

Then another one.

Iguro-san!

Again, thank you so much for taking me to the festival! I'm so so happy!

Also thank you again for the cute kanzashi! Shinobu-chan said it looks pretty on me. We had afternoon tea at my xxxxxx xxxxxx. The ceremony grade green tea you brought from Shizuoka is so so good. Please let me pay, I know it's expensive!

Kanroji xxxxxxx

No shit, Sherlock… so far all the letters are from Kanroji…
And it's somewhat flirty… Despite being very modest.

Maybe that's why they cremated and buried them together.
Maybe they were really a couple.

Arata put the letter back and took a sip of his latte. Romance had never been something he took seriously—he found it a bit silly, honestly. Sure, he’d dated a few girls before, but nothing serious. Nothing like his parents, who had been together for nearly 24 years—hardly a fair comparison. And definitely nothing like his sister and her boyfriend, who were already talking about moving out together after just less than a year.

He couldn’t help but wonder how people knew that one person was their true love. Or how could anyone decide if two persons should be cremated and buried together—eventhough they weren’t married. His thoughts drifted to Obanai and Mitsuri.

What had their relationship really been like?

He was drowning in his own thoughts when suddenly a high pitched feminine Voice brought him back to reality.

“Excuse me! Can I—can I sit here, please? I’m afraid I’ll soak the floor if I walk any further in!”

Arata looked up.

A beautiful girl stood in front of him, drenched from the rain. Her pale yellow blouse was soaked around the shoulders, probably from the runoff of other people’s umbrellas. Her pink hair that gradually turned green on its tip was wet too. It was pulled into a messy bun—stray bangs and damp strands clung to her forehead and flushed cheeks. Water dripped from the neon green vinyl bag she clutched to her chest.

She’s… gorgeous.

Arata was stunned—words escaped him. He didn’t understand why he had goosebumps. He didn’t know her—had never met anyone that beautiful before—yet something about her felt warm, familiar.

His teal eyes lingered on her bright green ones a moment too long before he snapped out of it. A few drops of water from her had landed on his arm. He hastily pulled the kiribako toward him and shut it with a loud clap.

The girl flinched in surprise. And once again, as if drawn by gravity, their eyes met.

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Oh Gods, did I get your things wet?" The girl apologized, knowing he had startled himself trying to save the old kiribako on his lap.

She bowed frantically, only making things worse—water sprinkled from her in his direction. Realizing the mess, she gasped in horror and stammered another apology, mortified. Her cheeks burned crimson as her eyes darted around the room, desperate for another empty seat.

“It’s fine, really… I—I’m the one overreacting,” Arata stammered. “You can sit here. I’ll grab you a clean towel from my locker.”

Her green eyes widened at the offer. “Huh? But I—”

“Please, take a seat,” he urged, already dashing to the other side of the restaurant.

The girl watched him go, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. What a nice guy… Is he working here?

He’s cute…

She shook her thought away and sat down. Then quickly waved over the nearest server—she needed to stop fangirling over every random cute guy. Besides, she wasn’t about to sit there without ordering something.

The server had just left their table when Arata returned, towel in hand. She flashed him a grateful smile, thanked him profusely, and began rambling. She explained she’d been working as a barista at a nearby coffee shop. That evening, the rain had caught her on the way to the station. Since she’d passed the restaurant before, she decided to take shelter there.

A few minutes passed before the same server arrived with a steaming drink. “Enjoy your date, Iggy,” he winked at Arata.

“Fuck off.” Arata shot him a glare with no real bite, making the girl giggle.

“Sorry, my coworkers here sometimes—you know…”

“Act like jerks?” she finished for him.

He rolled his eyes, and they both chuckled.

Turned out, she was a chatterbox—talked a lot and knew how to effortlessly keep a conversation going. Arata, introvert that he was, mostly just watched her in bemused awe. They—well, mostly she—talked about her school, her pets, her dream of owning a restaurant, and, of course, food.

She was a foodie. She lit up the moment she learned Arata worked there as an assistant cook, gushing about it like it was something special.

“I started as a helper for two months, cleaning and peeling. One day, I cooked for the staff, and they tried it. Then, when an assistant resigned, they offered me her position,” Arata explained, proud of his achievement.

“Oh gosh, that’s so cool! I really want to try your cooking!” she beamed, so carelessly it made Arata flustered. “You must be cooked very well to impress them like that.”

“Im still learning… Just come during my shift,” he said—too quiet for a proper invitation.

Still, the girl brightened with so much joy. “I will! I promise I will.”

Arata turned to the window, trying to hide his flushed face. It was still raining.

“By the way, the rain hasn’t let up,” he said, changing the subject. “Are you going to wait it out?”

She followed his gaze. “My mom told me to wait here. She’s picking me up by car—she’s nearby.”

“Great,” he nodded, half relieved, half disappointed their conversation would soon end. This girl with her sparkling green eyes and bright as a sun smile had stirred something inside him.

He glanced at her again and noticed she was trembling. Wet clothes and air conditioning—bad combo, even in early summer.

“You’re shivering.” He looked at her, concerned. “Do you want to change into dry clothes? I have a spare uniform in my locker, if you don’t mind wearing what the staff wears…”

She blushed, flustered, and initially declined. But the relentless blast of the AC soon changed her mind.

Arata stood and told her to wait. He disappeared for a moment, then returned with a neatly folded black shirt. Her heart fluttered. He’s so thoughtful, she thought.

Their hands brushed as he passed it to her, and the air between them seemed to spark. She clutched the shirt to her chest—it smelled faintly of fabric softener, fresh from the laundry. Her heart swelled with a strange, aching sense of longing.

No boy’s ever been this kind to me…

“I hope it fits,” he murmured.

She gave him a bashful smile, her peridot eyes glinting before she excused herself.

While she changed in the restroom, her phone buzzed.

Mom

Get ready

I’ll be there any minute

Sure! No rush!

She reappeared, practically sprinting back to the table, and dove into her bag in search of her wallet. Arata’s gaze flicked between her frantic movements and the way his uniform clung to her frame.

How does she look so good in that ugly uniform?

“My mom’s almost here—I need to pay now,” she said, flustered, yanking out a makeup pouch instead of her wallet.

“Don’t worry about your drink. I’ve got it,” Arata said before he could stop himself.

She blinked, startled. “No, no, no… You already lent me your shirt—”

Her phone buzzed again. Her mom had arrived.

“You better hurry…”

“Right,” she exhaled. “I’m so sorry for all the trouble! Thank you so much!” She bowed deeply. “Come by my workplace next time. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“No need to...”

She bowed again and dashed for the door. It swung shut behind her with a soft chime.

Arata stood frozen, then gasped. They hadn’t even exchanged names.

He immediately jumped up and ran after her.

“Hey, Pink Hair! You haven’t told me your name!”

She got into the car and rolled the window halfway down, grinning. “My friends call me Mika!”

Arata nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips as he waved goodbye. The car carried the pink-haired girl into the rain-soaked, neon-lit street, leaving him standing alone, trying to quiet the fireworks bursting in his chest.

Meanwhile inside the car…

"Kyaaaa! He’s so cute and kind!"

"Who? That boy?" her mother asked curiously.

"Yes, yes… We talked about so much stuff while I was taking shelter. Then he lent me his shirt and paid for my hot chocolate!"

"Excuse me?"

"I was drenched and freezing from the AC. Since he works there, he offered me this clean uniform."

"He did all that without knowing your name?"

Mika grimaced and nodded awkwardly. “Yes…”

"Do you know his name?"

Crap...

"What? You didn’t get his name either?" her mom pressed after a brief silence.

"Umm… We're kinda just talking and didn’t realize—Umm..."

Her mom raised her eyebrows without moving her gaze from the street. "Or maybe you kept talking and didn’t give him a chance to introduce himself?"

"Mom, don’t shame me like that!" she whined, feeling embarrassed that her mom could read her like a book. "Just feed my delusion for a minute. Let him be the Obanai to my Mitsuri, will you?"

Her mother chuckled. "Yeah sure. You’ll always be the hopeless romantic in our family."

Mika pouted, trying to recall what his coworker had called him. Her hands pressed over her chest as she was thinking. Then she felt something hard inside the uniform’s pocket—a small rectangular shape. She pulled it out.

"Oh my gods..." she whispered, eyes wide at the name badge. Her mouth gaped in disbelief.

"What is it, sweetie?"

She looked at her mom with wide eyes. "He—His name is Iguro."

Shitnazugawa Sanehirot

u fucking idiot
What if she steals ur uniform?

Not gonna happen

doesn’t sound like you

Bullshit

LMAO you’re crushing on her

Don’t start

▶️ Voice note 00:05
(sigh and moans)

Fucking pervert!
Won’t tell you what I found

inside the box

NOOO
You promise!!!

Arata put his phone down and stared at the kiribako spread open on his bedroom floor. After meeting that Mika girl earlier, he suddenly felt more curious about the letters inside. Romance, it seemed, had suddenly become interesting.

He shook his head harshly as if it could get rid of her from his mind.

Mika was just… he didn’t know how to put it into words. Sanehiro was right—he had a crush on her. He’d never trusted anyone that quickly, so carelessly. One minute she’d appeared out of nowhere, looking vulnerable, and the next she was laughing with him like they’d known each other for years. It was almost as if she’d pulled him into her domain without him even realizing.

Just as Arata sat down on the floor, a soft knock came at his door. It was his sister, letting him know their parents would be staying overnight at Grandma’s house again. She looked surprised to see the kiribako finally open.

“Wow, you finally opened it. Can I join?” Aika asked.

“Come,” he said, placing another cushion beside him.

Aika sat down, hugging her legs. Living in a dorm near her university, the 21 years old student didn’t always get to spend time with her family. But this weekend, she decided to come home again.

“So, how are you feeling?”

Arata rolled his eyes. “If you mean Grandma—yeah, I miss her badly. I usually call her around this time before she sleeps.”

“I know,” Aika smiled, her teal eyes shimmering. “She told me. She also said you once called her from a party.”

“That was supposed to be our secret,” he chuckled. “Gossipy Grandma.”

“Well, it’s still a secret from Mom and Dad,” she snorted.

They talked a little about how they were coping with their grandmother’s death. Aika was studying psychology at university, so she was eager to know how her brother was doing emotionally. When the topic shifted to the things they’d inherited, Arata showed her what he had found.

Aika bounced on her seat—excited. With Arata's permission, she picked a random letter from the kiribako and read aloud:

Iguro-san,

Thank you for asking about my injury. Don’t worry—it’s just a misplaced joint. Aoi-chan said I can exercise again in two days.

I’ll be overjoyed to have you at my estate! You can use my kitchen. I can’t wait to try your cooking! Just send Yuan ahead so I xxxx xxxxxxx

Kanroji xxxxxx

 

"It’s just a misplaced joint she said—what the fuck, that shit hurts," Aika commented. "But hey, it looks like Obanai cooked like you."

“I’m surprised too. It's probably in the gene,” he mused.

She read a few more random letters before finally lifting the box from Arata’s lap and inspecting it closely.

“What is it?” Arata asked.

“The bottom,” Aika said, pointing to the side of the box. “Don’t you think it should’ve been deeper?”

“Shit… you’re right.”

He reached beneath the pile of letters and noticed another compartment hidden beneath the bottom of the kiribako. They cleared the papers first, then Arata carefully pried up the thin wood with a pen cutter.

Inside was a small bundle wrapped in aged silk.

“What the fuck… do you think Grandma knew about this?”

Aika shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Secured in the fabric was a gold kanzashi, intricately crafted with the design of a snake slithering between cherry blossoms. The delicate petals were inlaid with pink sapphires, the leaves with green peridots, and the snake’s eyes gleamed with twin rubies. It shimmered faintly under the room’s light.

“Oh gods, it’s so beautiful,” Aika gasped. “This must’ve been his proposal gift to Kanroji Mitsuri.”

Beside the kanzashi lay a neatly folded sheet of washi paper. Arata unfolded it and found a black-and-white photograph tucked inside—already yellowing, but still vivid. It showed a young couple side by side.

The man stood with a relaxed posture, yet carried an unmistakable air of authority. He wore a dark uniform beneath an oversized striped haori, and a wavy sword hung at his waist. His shoulder-length hair was choppy, framing a face partially obscured by a bandage wrapped around his mouth. One of his eyes was pale, the other dark—heterochromia, just like Grandma had described. A white snake curled gently around his shoulder, its head peeking near his collarbone.

The woman seated beside him was stunning, her smile exuberant. Her hair was a lighter color, with a different shade at the tips, styled into thick braids. She wore a similar uniform, though hers had an open chest that revealed part of her voluptuous bust. Her skirt was short, and she wore high socks that reached her thighs, each marked with a horizontal stripe.

Arata stared at the photo, his breath catching. The resemblance was uncanny.

“This must be him,” Aika whispered. “Iguro Obanai. Look at his eyes… Heterochromia. Andhe must’ve worn the bandage to hide the scars the clan gave him. Damnit, Tacchan, he could be your twin! Oh gosh, if only Grandma could see this…”

Her gaze shifted to the girl beside Obanai.

“And this must be Kanroji Mitsuri. Oh gosh, look at her—she’s a Taishō-era baddie.”

Arata didn’t blink. His teal eyes stayed fixed on the girl beside his ancestor. He felt like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Tacchan?”

She looks exactly like that girl.
And he looks too much like me.

“Tacchan, why are you crying?”

He looked at his worried sister.

Am I?

His heart pounding in his ears, loud and fast. His breath became ragged. He blinked once, then the world went spinning.

“Tacchan!!!”

Chapter Text

Kanroji Mitsuka sat at the dining table of her family's house, a mug of warm tea cradled in her hands. She was surrounded by the other members of her family: her mother, father, and younger brother.

“Come to think of it… he—he actually looks familiar…” She said quietly. “Dad, does Aunt Megumi still have their old photo?”

“Onee-san, seriously.” Her younger brother rolled his eyes. “You crush on literally every cute boy you see on the street. Don’t get so worked up—it’s just the same surname.”

“No! ‘Iguro’ is a rare surname!”

“Shhh… calm down, you two,” their mother, Akari, waving a hand at her children. “Kanroji Motonori, go back to your room. You had a field trip early in the morning.”

The fifteen-year-old boy rolled his eyes but left without protest. Their father, Masato, smirked and shook his head before turning back to his eldest daughter.

“My grandfather told me Iguro Obanai didn’t have any family. That’s why, in his will, he left half of his wealth to our family and the other half to charity. It was a lot, Mitsuka. He wouldn’t have done that if he still had relatives of his own,” Masato explained.

Mitsuka pouted, her fingers gripping the hem of Iguro’s uniform. “I’ll contact Aunt Megumi tomorrow.”

“Go ahead, sweetie… Just don’t get your hopes up too high, okay? I don’t want to see you disappointed,” her father said gently.
Her mother stood behind her chair and wrapped her hands around her shoulders. “Baby girl, even if he isn’t related to Iguro Obanai, he’s been very kind to you, hasn’t he? I think that’s what matters most.”

A small smile formed on her lips. Her mother was right—it was still a win. Iggy—she remembered his nickname now—was so kind and polite, and she was eager to know more about him. At the very least, she hoped they could become friends.

She couldn’t wait for the weekend to see him again.

Arata woke up with a headache that morning to find Aika and her boyfriend crowding his queen-sized bed. A grimace quickly formed on his face upon seeing his older sister snuggled up against her boyfriend’s chest.

Disgusting.

“What the fuck are you two doing on my bed?” he asked, annoyed and still groggy from sleep.

“Oh, you’re awake! You fainted last night, Tacchan,” Aika said quickly, sitting up and patting her boyfriend awake. “I called Shishio to come and check on you.”

Fainted?

Shishio stirred in confusion. He looked around with narrowed eyes. “Where are—”

“We slept in Tacchan’s room, remember? He had a fever last night,” Aika explained.

“A fever?”

“Oh, that’s right…” Shishio, a medical school student, placed his hand on Arata’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

Arata looked at him—offended. “I’m fine, probably just fell asleep from exhaustion. Aika exaggerated as usual.”

“No, you weren’t!” Aika exclaimed. “We were looking at Obanai’s photo, then you suddenly teared up and fainted.”

Arata’s eyes widened as the memory from last night came flooding back. He opened his mouth to argue, but Shishio held his jaw and shone a flashlight into his mouth. “Let me see your tongue,” he said flatly.

“You looked like you saw a ghost. I wonder what happened,” Aika pressed, unfazed by her boyfriend examining Arata mid-conversation.

Shishio continued, now checking his pupils. He moved with steady hands, despite having just woken up.

“Can I speak alone with Aika?”

“Not until I finish checking your pulse,” Shishio muttered. “Do you feel anything? Lightheaded, dizziness?

Arata sighed, annoyed, but relented. “Just headache.”

When Shishio was done, he simply suggested Arata talk with Aika and busied himself with productive activities. “I suspect you experienced a psychogenic fever. Everything will be fine, Arata. You don’t need meds—you just need to decompress.”

“Yeah, thanks, dude…”

As Shishio left to get ready for the day, Aika quickly grabbed Arata’s forearms, her expression tight with concern.

“Tacchan, you know you can always confide in me if you’re struggling.”

He hesitated, then finally spoke. “I met a girl last night at Okura,” he murmured. “She took shelter from the rain and ended up at my table.” He paused, staring at his older sister. “She—she looked exactly like Kanroji Mitsuri in the photo.”

Her jaw dropped. “Seriously?”

“Yes! Her nickname is Mika, but I don’t know her real name yet. It all happened so fast.”

“What do you think about her? Do you like her?” she shot him with a direct question.

Arata blushed slightly. “Honestly? She’s hot and gorgeous—and fun to talk to. She’s also in her third year, like me.”

Aika stared at him, her expression clouded with concern. “Tacchan… I don’t know how to say this. You’re still grieving Grandma, still sorting through her mementos. Then you meet this girl, and right after, we find that photo of Obanai and Mitsuri. It could be your mind playing tricks on you.”

He frowned, eyes narrowing.

She hesitated, then said it carefully, with tenderness. “You know, sometimes the brain creates a false image—just to give someone we like a kind of idealized value.”

“Onee-san, are you calling me delusional?” Arata glared at her, offended.

“No! That’s not what I me—”

“That’s exactly what I hear!” Arata snapped. “You’ll see for yourself. I’m going to meet her again and ask for her picture.”

“Tacchan… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m just trying to be rational…”

“No. You’ll regret calling me delusional.”

Aika frowned, her grip tightening on her brother’s arm. It wasn’t the first time her teenage brother had taken offense like this. He was always stubborn, and he never liked being doubted.

“Look, you really scared me last night. You were crying, hyperventilating—and then you passed out. I almost took you to the ER if Shishio hadn’t shown up in time. I’m worried about you, little brother. Aocchan is worried sick too.”

“Aoto knows?” Guilt crept into his chest.

“He helped me move you to the bed.”

Arata groaned in frustration. He hated making his younger brother worry—especially now, when the boy was still grieving their grandmother.

“Promise me you won’t tell Mom and Dad. I’ll talk to Aoto.”

“I promise…” Aika nodded. “For now, I can call your school—”

“Stop coddling me!” Arata snapped. “I’m not a baby, and I’m okay. I’m going to school.”

“Fine… but only if you tell me you’re not mad at me anymore.” Aika opened her arms, asking for a hug.

Rolling his eyes, Arata gave in and hugged his sister, muttering under his breath, “I’m mad at you forever.”

“I know,” she chuckled, wrapping her arms around him. “Now get ready. We’re heading out too—we’ll give you a ride.”

Just as Aika opened the door to leave, Arata called out.

“Onee-san.”

She turned around and saw her brother perched at the edge of his bed, looking anywhere but at her.
“Thank you.”

The subtle aroma of steamy pork miso filled the classroom that noon. It's lunch time, and Arata sat at his desk, inspecting his kyushoku meal like a food critic.

He poked the boiled veggies with his chopsticks, and mumbled, “Overcooked.”

Then he sipped the pork miso. “Oh, surprisingly well made!”

“Let's check the grilled mackerel,” he told himself.

“Move!”

Arata looked up and found Sanehiro standing next to his desk with a tray.

“Shinazugawa, why are you eating in my class?”

Sanehiro smirked and set his tray down, he grabbed an empty chair nearby and set it beside Arata's table, right in the middle of the classroom alley—fully knowing no kids would dare to complain.

“I took a lot of photos of my great grandpa’s katana last night.”

“Show me.”

“Uh-huh… Not before you show me what's inside the pandora.” Sanehiro pointed at him with grilled mackerel between his chopsticks.

“It’s cheesy. You're not gonna like it,” Arata hesitated.

“I don't care, Iggy, I'm curious.”

Arata set down his chopsticks, took out his phone, then tapped for a moment before pushing it in front of Sanehiro.

Iguro-san,

Thank you for asking. I'm still a bit sad, but it's not as bad as before.

Thank you for spending the night with me after the funeral. I really don't know what to do with Onii-sama's death. I apologize for being selfish and making you stay up all night while you are also grieving your childhood friend.

Can't wait to see you tomorrow.

Kanroji Mitsuri

 

“A letter?”

“Plural. A lot of letters from Kanroji Mitsuri to Iguro Obanai, I haven't read them all,” Arata explained. “And there's also this…”

He showed Sanehiro the photos of the gold Kanzashi and then the portrait.

“Dude, holy shit, he's your twin!!” Sanehiro screamed, pointing at Obanai. “Is that the girl who wrote him the letters?”

Arata confirmed with a hum, as he busy chewing his lunch.

“So they're together, married?”

“We don't really know about that. Possibly lovers. I mean—grandma said their urn was buried together.”

“So they're kinda like a couple, but probably not married, yet buried together like a married couple,” Sanehiro mused. “What the fuck is that? Taisho era situationship?”

Arata just chuckled while continuing to eat his lunch. He really wanted to tell his best friend about how similar Mika and Mitsuri looked, but he knew he wouldn't believe him and would roast him until he toasted and burnt.

Soon…
You will meet her soon.

Sanehiro put down his chopsticks, already finished his meal. He held her phone and showed it to Arata.

“I took these pictures yesterday at my Dad’s house. The engraving is exactly the same.”

“Oh wow, they were probably made by the same swordsmith.”

“Maybe…. I also started to imagine that my great grandpa knew your cousin,” Sanehiro chuckled.

“Then they're probably partners in crime like us,” Arata added, grinning.

“You know what, I actually stole something from my great grandpa's belongings yesterday,” Sanehiro said as he stood up to go back to his class. “It’s a suspicious sealed envelope. Let's check it together after school. You bring your pen knife, don't you?”

“Dude… Are you for real? We can get into trouble...”

“Tch… Don't be a coward, you got nothing to do with this,” he muttered. “I see you after school, okay?’

Arata sighed and nodded. Sanehiro shared a victorious grin at him before taking his tray and left.

Kanroji Megumi

Aunty, do you still have Great Grandaunt Mitsuri's pic

Hi Sweetie
Yes I still have it, why?

Can you send it to me please 🥹
You know, the one with Iguro Obanai 🐍

Why so sudden?

I'll explain later
Do you have it on your phone?

I think so
Let me find it first

Yes please!

Just a sec

I love you so much, Aunt Megumi
You're the best!
♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

Mitsuka grinned stupidly at her phone. There was still another twenty minutes before the fifth period started. She really hoped her aunt could quickly find the pic as she desperately wanted to prove her suspicions.

“Mika, want to go to the bathroom?” A couple of her classmates asked her.

“Yeah, let's go!” She stood right away.

The girls walked to the bathroom talking about the upcoming summer holiday. This would be their last summer in high school as they were all going to graduate next Spring. There would be several parties and possibilities of going on a picnic together as a group.

Mitsuka herself had planned a solo trip to do a seven days Japan regional noodle tour with Shinkansen. She had wanted that since middle school, but no one could really commit to accompany her for seven days straight. But next July she would be 17 and her parents finally gave her more freedom to do things herself.

“So you're going solo if you have no company?” One of her friends asked.

“Yes! And the farthest will be Hakkodate in Hokkaido! I've been saving two years for this trip!”

“Mika you crazy foodie!” Her other friend shook her shoulder, causing the others to laugh.

Mitsuka laughed too, she knew her reputation as that one foodie girl in school, and she was proud of it. She loved it when someone asked her opinion or recommendation about food. Never did she feel ashamed of her love of food. When her ex questioned about it, Mitsuka simply took it as a sign that they couldn't be together. Food is everything for her.

Just before they left the bathroom, her phone buzzed with messages from Aunt Megumi.

“Just go back to the class girls, I need to call my aunt,” Mitsuka lied.

As her friends left her alone in the bathroom, Mitsuka quickly entered one of the empty stalls. She locked the door and sat nervously on the toilet cover.

The world suddenly narrowed down inside that small stall. Her breathing started to become labour as her heart thumped louder and faster. She didn't understand why she became so nervous.

Maybe because I’m expecting Iguro Obanai to look like Iggy?

Aunt Megumi

Sweetie, I found it!

Thanks Auntie
You're the best!
♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

With trembling hands, she clicked the picture Aunt Megumi sent to her.

Downloading…(69%)

The last time Mitsuka remembered, she walked in the school hallway in panic before everything went dark.

Chapter Text

School wasn’t crowded that afternoon—just a few underclassmen lingered, scattered across the campus, busy with club activities. The temperature had begun to drop, yet Sanehiro lounged on a bench in the school garden with few buttons of his uniform undone, exposing part of his pectoral muscles.

A few thirsty girls passed by, glancing and giggling—giddy but cautious. None dared to approach the intimidating third year student. Sanehiro, tall, handsome, and muscular, the reigning school karate champion two years running, drew plenty of attention. Yet, his infamous brusqueness and short temper kept most at a distance.

Arata approached quietly from the direction of the cooking club, his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, a small food container made out of paper in his hand. Though no longer an active member since this spring, he still served as an advisor, checking in from time to time.

Last year, Arata became the first male president of the cooking club. He took the role seriously. Under his leadership, the club’s popularity soared—along with his own. Much to his annoyance, students began calling him Chef Iggy, and he often received free food from admirers who thought he was cute and talented. Just like today.

Sanehiro grinned when he spotted his best friend, waving a brown envelope in the air. There was a flicker of anticipation in his eyes, like they were a pair of detectives about to crack an old, unsolved case.

“Are we really gonna do this?” Arata asked, as he settled the food container between them and opening it for Sanehiro.

“Oh, come on. Of course we are! What if this envelope proves my great-grandpa was some secret old-time CEO?” Sanehiro snickered.

“You idiot,” Arata snorted, amused. He pointed at the cake inside the box. “Eat. I’m not finishing this alone.”

“Which demented girl this time?” Sanehiro scoffed.

Arata scratched his head. “It’s a boy, actually.”

That earned a louder laugh from Sanehiro, who immediately launched into a mocking bit about invasive rizz.

“If you’re just here to make fun of me, I’m going home,” he grumbled.

“Nooo!” Sanehiro grabbed Arata's backpack. “Let’s finish the cake, then start working, okay? I need some sugar dose.”

“Fine.”

Once Sanehiro devoured the cake—which Arata only took a bite from—they began to work. Sanehiro held the envelope while Arata sliced the folded edge with surgical precision using a pen knife. By the time he finished, there was no sign it had ever been opened. Later, they could reseal it with a thin layer of glue, good as new.

“You could be a surgeon, you know,” Sanehiro said.

“Yeah, for fish.”

Sanehiro chuckled as he carefully pulled out a yellowing, folded sheet of paper. His eyes sparkled with the excitement of a curious child about to uncover a world-shaking secret.

“Let’s see,” he mumbled, unfolding it slowly. “Oh crap, I hate kanji.”

“Let me see,” Arata said, leaning over his shoulder.

Shinazugawa,

If this letter reached your hand that means either me or Kanroji survived—

 

“Kanroji…what?!” Arata was in shock. “Give it to me!”

Sanehiro slapped his palm over the shorter boy’s face, holding the letter high in the air with his other hand. “No, Iggy! This is my dad’s property—he’ll kill me if you ruin it!”

“But it mentions Kanroji! Let me see!” Arata protested, grabbing Sanehiro’s wrist to pull his hand away.

“No!!!”

Arata bit his palm.

“Oww!! You piece of shit!” Sanehiro yelped, yanking his hand back. “It’s probably just a similar surname, you idiot!”

“That’s why I need to see!”

“Okay, fine! We’ll read it together—but you’re not allowed to touch it!” Sanehiro barked, clutching his aching hand to his uniform.

“Fine! Now sit!”

“You sit!” Sanehiro growled. “And don’t touch the letter.”

He placed the letter on his lap. The two of them sat side by side as Arata began reading the kanji aloud.

Tokyo, December 1st, 1917

 

Shinazugawa,

If this letter reached your hand that means neither me nor Kanroji survived the last battle.

Congratulations for surviving through the worst. I really hope you can finally have a breath of air in the world without demons. After all, you're a strong warrior, I'm glad to have you as a friend and comrade.

Since I'm obviously no longer here. I'd like to ask you some favours.

If Kaburamaru made it alive, please make sure he is in a good hand, either Shinobu Kocho, Ubuyashiki family, Rengoku Senjuro, or whoever can provide him home and care. But if he doesn't make it, please lay him on my chest, and cremate his body with mine,

About the Serpent Estate. The whole mansion, along with the land, should be given back to Oyakata-sama and Ubuyashiki family. I am grateful for their kindness.

My valuable assets, money, gold, and whatever valuable items you find inside the Serpent estate are to be split fairly. Half is to be given to Kanroji Mitsuri’s family including a kiribako containing letters from her. And the other half is to be split fairly among the kakushi who have worked hard to support us.

My old katana, the one with normal shape with Rengoku's tsuba, should be given back to Rengoku Shinjuro. Tell the old man I’ve done using it and I thank him for saving me as a child and giving me guidance to follow his path.

For my only blood relatives, my cousin in Hachijo Island, Iguro Kaneko, I leave my nichirin sword and the journal that documented every demon I’ve killed. She didn't deserve any of my assets, I leave these for her so she could know, I have dedicated my 9 years of freedom to slay the creature she worships. Honestly, I just want to piss her demon worshipper ass.

And for you, my dear friend, I leave you my book collection so you could work with your writing and reading skills. Don't be mad at me, I'm dead already.

May you live the best of your life, explore the world, start a family or whatever please you, hopefully in a world without demons. Let's find each other again some day in another life

 

Iguro Obanai

Arata read through the entire will, staggered and trembling. When he finished, he just sat there in shock, his breath uneven. His hands clenched into tight fists on his lap.

“So…” Sanehiro finally broke the silence. “Turns out they really were friends.”

“It’s really him,” Arata said hoarsely. “Iguro Kaneko is my great grandmother.”

Sanehiro folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. “Iguro Obanai sounds as annoying as you,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Arata snorted and rolled his eyes, masking his shock—though the twitch in his hand gave him away.

“What’s your great-grandfather’s name?”

“Shinazugawa Sanemi.”

He nodded slowly, eyes stared into nothing. “At least now we know why Obanai and Sanemi had the same engraving on their swords.”

Sanehiro stayed quiet, trying to process the shocking revelation.

“Do you have any idea what he meant about demons in the letter?” Arata asked.

“Actually—I never took it seriously. But when I was a kid, my grandfather used to tell me his father fought in the last battle against the demon king. Said a lot of great swordsmen died, but they won—and freed the world from demons.” He fiddled with the envelope. “It’s a fucking folklore. right? I mean, demons? Sounds like bullshit… But honestly, the way your ancestor wrote about it—I don’t know, Iggy…”

Arata rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. “Maybe it’s metaphorical. Like… some criminal gang or cult?”

“Hey, what about the journal?” Sanehiro perked up. “You still have it, right?”

“Shit, I haven’t checked it…" Arata turned to his friend. "It’s somewhere in the boxes with Grandma’s books.”

“Obanai said he documented his kills. You should look.” Sanehiro muttered. “What a nerd… Not gonna lie, that’s totally something you’d do. You’re not just looking like him—you’ve got the same personality too.”

The raven-haired boy gave a wary smile, a knot tightening in his gut. He raised his hand as if wanted to touch something, yet it stopped mid air at nothing. He quickly brought it to his head and brushed his bang back. Something felt missing but he couldn't point out what.

“Hey, I need to tell you something. Some absurd shit…” he said quietly. “Promise me you’re not gonna bully me for this.”

Sanehiro shot him a curious stare. Arata scrolled quickly through his phone, his fingers trembling.

“Fine… What?”

He showed his phone. “Her.”

“Mitsuri Kanroji?”

There was a brief silence before Arata finally talked. “The girl I met last night—Mika… She looks exactly like her.”

“No way…” he snorted. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I'm serious, Hiro… I’m going to meet her again this weekend. You'll see it yourself.”

“Fuck…”

“Weird, huh?”

“Kaiju level weird.”

“By the way, do you have any idea why Sanemi dismissed one of Obanai's requests in his will?”

“Which one?”

He palmed his forehead. “The kiribako, idiot! It was supposed to be given to Kanroji's family, but instead he gave it to my great grandmother. The kanzashi I found hidden inside of it is crafted from gold and gemstones. My sister said it must've been a proposal gift.”

“Oh crap, did he mess up?”

Arata shrugged. “I’m starting to wonder if he was probably as reckless as you.”

“Fuck you…” Sanehiro swung his hand to smack Arata's head, but the smaller boy dodged him faster.

“Don’t worry, in the name of Iguro Obanai, I forgive you,” He sneered. “He's lucky my evil great grandmother didn't find the kanzashi first.”

“Whatever…” Sanehiro grumbled.

“What do you think happened with Kaburamaru?” The name weirdly felt familiar on his tongue.

“Oh… I was about to ask about that. What do you think Kaburamaru is, a pet?” The white haired boy asked back.

Arata raised his phone again. “I think that's his little buddy.” He pointed at the white snake on Obanai's shoulder.

Sanehiro blinked. “I have no fucking idea… Holy crap, I just realized, he has the snake you always wanted!”

The other boy felt his chest tightened. He always loved snakes, it was his favourite animal since he was in diapers. And his personal favourite was the Japanese albino rat snake—just like Obanai's. Yet he was never allowed to have one because they already have cats. Also, that kind of snake is expensive.

Suddenly a gust of wind blew Arata's hair. “Do you know what Sanemi looked like?” He mumbled the question out of nowhere, as if the wind had whispered those ideas in his ears.

“He—” Sanehiro paused. “You're not gonna believe it…”

“Try me.”

“I'll ask my Pa to send his photo later. You better look for yourself.”

“Fine…” Arata rested his chin in the back of his hand

Both teenagers fell silent again, each busy with their own thoughts, trying to process the whole absurdity in front of them. It wasn't everyday you found out that your best friend for almost four years was the descendant of your ancestors best friend. It almost felt like a creepy joke that the universe threw at them.

Let's find each other again someday in another life

 

Arata felt goosebumps creeping up his arms and neck. Something inside of him stirred. He suddenly felt a strange urge to break down and hug Sanehiro for no reason.

Abruptly, Arata stood up from his seat, earning a questioning look from his best friend.

“Bring the letter again tomorrow, I'm going to scan everything at the library after school.” He slung his backpack back on his shoulder, his back straightened perfectly hiding any display of emotions.

The white haired boy scowled. “Are you going home now?”

“Yeah, I missed a few days of lessons last week. So I got extra assignments.” At least he wasn't lying about that. “See you tomorrow, Shinazugawa.”

Sanehiro watched Arata walk towards the exit, feeling betrayed as he still wanted to hangout a bit with the ravenette. “Tch… Don't forget about the killing journal!”

Arata turned slightly but kept walking. “Yeah, I'll text you!”

Sanehiro kept watching his friend's back as he walked farther and farther. There's an emptiness gnawing in his chest, as if he missed him already. He shook that feelings away, taking his phone out, and typed a message to his father.

As for Arata, the short walk from the school to the station felt stretched that afternoon. Between the familiar noise of the city and the rubbing shoulders with other passersby, Arata found himself lost in a sea of questions. But the biggest one must be: WHY? Why now? Why them? Why the fuck he cross path with Sanehiro, or even Mika?

Do they really find each other again?

“You must have caught a fever from the rain last night,” Kanroji Masato told his daughter as he helped her sit in the passenger seat.

Masato was in his office this early afternoon when he got a call from Mitsuka’s mother, informing him that their daughter had passed out in school. Since Akari was too far away from Mitsuri's school, they decided to send him to pick their daughter home.

He got behind the wheel and patted her head. “Let's get you home so you can rest, okay?”

“I got the picture from Aunt Megumi,” Mitsuka murmured without responding to his father.

Masato fell silent, waiting for any sort of revelation that would come from his oldest daughter.

“He—Iguro Obanai, he looks exactly like the Iguro boy I met last night.”

Chapter Text

Arata had no idea what to expect from a hundred years old killing journal of a swordsman. So as he sat there on his desk in his darkened room, he decided. He expected nothing.

Snake Woman, Iguro Clan’s Demon
Not my kill, but the first I witnessed—done by Rengoku-sama. She tried to catch and eat me, but he came and cut her into pieces. Good riddance. I hated her.

Ugly Bald Oni with a Horn
A weak-ass demon. I fought him with a Nichirin sword Rengoku-sama lent me. I can’t even do proper Fire Breathing, but I managed to beat him after two hours.

Big-Headed Demon with Frog Eyes
Another weakling. I beat him in an hour. Sprained my ankle in the process.

Slender Demon—Skinny and Very Tall
First time using Water Breathing. Almost lost. Beat him at the last minute.

Three Child Demons with Sharp Teeth
Creepy little weirdos. Weak, but unsettling. Beheaded them with Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance.

Farmer Demon
First demon I fought with a Blood Demon Art. He kept trying to bury me alive. Tough bastard. Beheaded him using Water Breathing, Fourth and Sixth Forms combined. First time I broke my ribs.

Ugly, Random Weak Demon
Fastest kill ever. Didn’t even need Water Breathing, just pure sword skill.

Weird Female Demon, just weird
Her BDA could manipulate air. Tough opponent. Fought her with Sensei for hours. Beheaded her with Water Breathing, Sixth Form.

Twin Headed Female Demons
Not strong, just creepy. Beheaded with Fourth Form. My seventh kill as a Water Breather.

Note:
Water Breathing doesn’t really suit me. I can do it, but it feels mediocre, like it can’t carry my full potential. I need to keep developing my own breathing. Better to wait until autumn than join the Spring Final Selection with a half cooked technique.

Arata had only read a few pages of Obanai’s killing journal, and already he felt uneasy. The more he read, the more confused he became. Who were these people he called demons? Why did she want to eat him? Was it cannibalism they were fighting? Why so much violence? And what the hell were Blood Demon Arts and Breathing Techniques?

It felt less like a warrior’s record and more like the fever dream of a delusional otaku or maybe the scribbles of a seven year old with hyperactive imagination. Well, not really a scribble when the writing is this meticulously tidy though. Nevertheless, this would’ve worked better as fiction than a real journal.

He flipped through a few more pages and found a sketch of Obanai’s sword and the design of his tsuba.

Serpent for Serpent Breathing—a tribute to Kaburamaru. Symbolizes good fortune, protection, wisdom, rebirth, and transformation.
Bamboo leaves: strength, flexibility, prosperity, and resilience.
Forged by Tecchikawahara Gantetsu.

 

“Kaburamaru…” he murmured.

Arata pressed a hand to his chest. A strange longing surged through him. He suddenly felt empty.

Can you miss something you’ve never known? Someone you’ve never met? Something from someone else’s past?

He turned to another random page.

Magician Demon, Lower Moon 2
My first mission as Serpent Hashira. Assigned with Wind Hashira, Shinazugawa Sanemi.
I think we made a good team. The demon could regrow his head—annoying as hell. The secret was in his hands. I took all his limbs; Shinazugawa landed the final blow before he could regenerate. Mission successful. We barely got scratched.

Arata felt goosebumps.

Sanemi. Sanehiro’s great-grandfather...

He snapped a photo of the page and sent it to Sanehiro. Then he flipped again, hoping—quietly, irrationally—to find Kanroji’s name.

And there it was.

Daimyo Demon
First joint mission with Kanroji, the new Love Hashira. Her Breathing Technique is as beautiful and strong as she is. The demon was even stronger than Lower Moon 2. It's an ancient one. His BDA made it feel like we were fighting a storm of katanas. Kanroji held the defense, creating an opening for me to behead him. We both got sliced up and needed stitches, but it was worth it.

 

Arata’s breath caught.
What in the romantic fantasy gore is this?

His thoughts were cut off by a buzz from his phone. A new message had arrived.

“Shinazugawa,” he murmured, tapping the image.

Downloading… (85%)

Arata covered his mouth in shock. On his phone was a black-and-white photo of a slightly older version of Sanehiro—the one with tired eyes, more scars, and quiet wisdom. He was smiling, carrying a little boy, with a beautiful young woman standing beside him. His son and wife. His little family.

“Shinazugawa…”

Arata didn’t realize when he started crying. By the time he noticed, his face and hands were already wet with tears. He wasn’t just crying—he was full-on bawling. Ugly crying, with sniffles and everything. And before he could think of anything else, he started laughing—a hearty, unfiltered laugh. A warm, unfamiliar feeling washed over him. No logic could explain it. It's a feeling of relief he couldn’t understand.

Why did seeing this man and his little family make him feel so relieved? He’d died long ago—they never met in person. He didn’t even know anything about him, except that he was Sanehiro’s great-grandfather.

Why does it feel like I know him…

The deeper he looked, the further he fell down the rabbit hole. Truth after truth had emerged in the days following his grandmother’s passing. At first, it felt innocent—exciting, even. Like inspecting the sword with Sanehiro and discovering what lay inside the kiribako. But then things started shifting. Strangely.

First, that girl—Mika. Her resemblance to Kanroji was uncanny. But what was even more surreal was how he found that photograph right after Mika appeared at his table that evening. His grandmother had never found that photo in the 69 years she’d kept the box. She never knew what Obanai looked like, aside from the heterochromia her mother had described.

Then there was Sanehiro. How he came to possess Obanai’s will was beyond Arata’s comprehension. And of course, Obanai and Sanemi had been close friends—just like him and Sanehiro. The same friendship, a hundred years apart. Funny.

It scared him. It felt like an invisible force was pulling him in—colliding his world with theirs.

And then, the journal. It was creepy. Even creepier because Sanehiro was right: Arata had done the same thing. He documented every dish he cooked in his own journal. He tried to convince himself it was something written into his DNA—a trait passed down from ancestors before Obanai.

But the feelings were real. The longing for Kaburamaru. The relief, the tears, the laughter at seeing Sanemi’s little family—they were raw and intense. He couldn’t explain them. But he couldn’t deny them either.

Carefully, Arata closed the old journal and set it down on his desk. Outside his room, he could hear the voices of his parents and brother—warm and familiar. It was getting dark. In a few minutes, he’d be in the kitchen helping his mom prepare dinner. He needed that. Something normal. A simple, daily task to keep him grounded.

The table had been reserved. Mitsuka had made the reservation on Tuesday, and when Friday finally came, she found herself feeling utterly nervous with anticipation.

That day, she had switched shifts with a coworker just so she could make it on time to Iguro’s workplace. Her reservation was thirty minutes before his shift ended. He had mentioned his work schedule when they met, and she had made a mental note of it.

“Anything else?” the server asked after confirming Mitsuka’s order.

“Is Iguro-kun here?” she asked sheepishly.

The server tilted her head. “You mean Iggy Arata, the assistant cook?”

“Yes, that Iguro—Iggy,” she confirmed, squeezing her hands nervously under the table. She didn’t actually know his given name. “Could you please inform him that Mika is at table six?”

The server smirked. “Okay, I’ll let him know,” she said with a quick wink.

Mitsuka felt heat creeping up her cheeks. She was mortified—not just from the teasing, but because half of her hopeless romantic self was expecting this modern day Iguro to be related to that ancient one. Which was silly. Completely delusional.

Just a couple of minutes later, the same server delivered her matcha frappe, grinning. “He asked you to wait. His shift ended in like twenty minutes or so.”

Mitsuka thanked her, then quickly busied herself with her phone. Despite having planned everything in advance, she was so nervous she needed a distraction to calm her nerves. With her earphones in, she opened YouTube and started watching Michelle Phan’s channel. Girlie pop needed some entertainment before meeting her (not) crush.

So, with her ears blocked, she nearly had a heart attack when someone wearing a mask suddenly appeared at her table. He carried a tray with a plate of ichigo daifuku, a plate of korokke, and a glass of infused water. Striking teal eyes crinkled as he greeted her. Mitsuka froze, remembering the picture Aunt Megumi had sent her.

They really look alike…

“I thought you’d like some bites while waiting,” he said politely, setting the plates down. “Please enjoy—it’s on the house.”

“Oh—” Mitsuka snapped her earphones, jolted upright, realizing she’d been staring. “Iguro-kun, I’m sorry for bothering you! I’m here to return your uniform!” She stood up abruptly, just to bowed so deeply her shoulder hit the edge of the table with a—THUD!

“Oww!”

Arata’s eyes widened in alarm. People around them glanced over at the commotion—some grimacing, others stifling laughter.

“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” Arata helped her back into her seat and rubbed her shoulder.

“No, no… it’s fine!” Mitsuka said, her face flushed red with embarrassment. “I’m okay. I’m just—oh gods…” She covered her face with both hands.

It's embarrassing!

“Really? Are you sure you’re okay?” Arata asked, awkwardly pulling his hand back from her shoulder. “I need to get back to work, but if something hurts, I can—”

“It’s fine, really…” Mitsuka cut in. “Please go back to work. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

He looked hesitant but finally nodded. “Alright… I’ll head back to the kitchen. Please make yourself comfortable… And enjoy the food.”

The pink-haired girl smiled shyly. “Thank you for the hospitality…”

Hiding his blush behind the mask, Arata sprinted back to the kitchen. He felt a strange mix of nerves and excitement from Mitsuka’s surprise visit. He had planned to visit her workplace tomorrow—who knew she had her own plan to find him here?

A stupid grin spread across his face. He thought he had a crush on Mitsuri Kanroji’s twin—and he wasn’t going to deny it.

Chapter Text

Arata peeked at Mitsuka from behind the counter. The girl was still wearing her school uniform skirt but had changed into a sleeveless top and a flowy long cardigan. She looked cute with her light makeup and beautiful pink hair neatly styled into loose low pigtails. Something about her beauty made Arata hold his breath (and his gaze) a little too long.

She was more composed than the first time they met, when she was drenched from the rain and had her hair disheveled. However, there was still an air of nervousness lingering around her. Maybe because of her clumsy nature?

Arata smiled at the thought of what happened earlier. He hated clumsy people, but Mika was different—she was clumsy (but cute), and he didn’t mind that at all.

After changing out of his uniform and freshening up a bit, Arata slipped out of the kitchen and quietly approached Mika’s table.

“Hi…”

“Huh! Hi… Iguro-kun, please sit!” she frantically greeted him.

His gaze fell on the food on the table—counting. There was one daifuku left, but the korokke was barely touched except for a small bite on its edge. He had made the korokke filling himself and took pride in everyone’s praise for it. So seeing it barely touched by the girl he liked made Arata feel a bit upset.

Is something wrong?
She doesn’t like it?

“You know, we haven’t properly introduced ourselves.” The girl extended her hand.

“Oh, of course.” Arata accepted her hand. “Iguro Arata, people call me Iggy.”

“Kanroji Mitsuka.”

Their hands met with an electric buzz, and Arata’s heart dropped. He no longer thought about his korokke.

The surname… She didn’t just resemble Mitsuri—she had the same surname.

Curiosity started gnawing at him, but he couldn’t just blurt out and ask if she was related to Kanroji Mitsuri. That would be so weird.

Their hands clasped together a bit too long until he realized the girl was also watching him intensely.

“Ahh, I almost forgot! I’m here to return your uniform.” She broke the awkward handshake and shifted her focus to her bag.

The boy was lost for words. He just sat there quietly until she handed him back his things. “Thank you so much, Iguro-kun.”

“Uhh… It’s nothing, really.” He forced himself to smile. “You can call me Iggy, by the way.”

Silence hung in the air for a brief moment. Despite the warmth and sudden closeness they experienced during their first meeting, this second meeting felt intense. Both of them looked a little nervous and hid something in the back of their minds.

“So…” They spoke in unison.

“Ladies first,” Arata chuckled.

Mitsuka felt her face heat up. “I hope I’m not interrupting your evening. I mean—I know I could’ve just left your stuff here, but I preferred to return them in person.”

“Well, it’s a nice surprise, to be honest. I actually planned to come to your workplace tomorrow. But yeah—you’re here already.” Arata smiled.

“We can meet there next!” she clasped her hands.

“Next?” Arata blurted out.

“Oh!” Mitsuka covered her mouth—heart pounding fast—those words just blurted out of her. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I mean—you know—we can be friends.”

He blinked,

“Of course I don’t mind. I’d love to be your friend.”

“Thank you!” Mitsuka beamed, far more excited than she intended. “Can I have your number?”

He nodded, a mix of longing, unknown hurt, and burst of happiness stirring inside him.

Both teenagers exchanged numbers and added each other’s LINE accounts. Just like that, the prior tension melted into something warm and oddly nostalgic. Arata ordered a drink, and they continued chatting. Mitsuka, the chatterbox that she was, led the conversation.

At some point, she brought up the topic of his cooking.

“Anyway… I told you I’d like to try your cooking, but I was so dumbfounded earlier I forgot to ask what to order,” Mitsuka said, playing with her hair—faint pink blooming across her cheeks.

Arata couldn’t stop himself from pointing at the barely eaten korokke. “The korokke—I was actually the one who made the filling.”

Mitsuka’s breath hitched. “Really?? Iggy, it’s so good!”

“I thought you didn’t like it.”

Her smile faltered. She hadn’t meant it that way. She’d deliberately held back after taking a bite, knowing it would be hard to stop if she continued. It was too good. The plate would be clean in no time, and she’d end up ordering more. She didn’t trust her self-control and definitely didn’t want to look like a glutton in front of her new crush.

“No, I like it so much, actually,” she murmured shyly, pulling the plate with the two korokke closer.

“Please, don’t push yourself to eat just out of politeness, Mika,” Arata said gently. “I’d rather hear honest feedback so I can improve.”

“I swear it’s perfect—it’s not like that!” she stammered, twisting her tongue in an effort to convince him.

The boy stared at her, dumbfounded.

She looked up at Arata with her large green eyes. “I’m sorry you think that way. I actually stopped eating because it’s too good and—and I—” She paused. She should’ve come up with a better excuse instead of blurting out the truth.

Arata waited, confused. 

But Mitsuka was really bad at lying. She couldn’t think of a single convincing excuse and ended up confessing.

“I stopped eating the korokke because if I kept going, I’d eat them all and order more and embarrass myself with how much I ate!” She covered her face with her hands.

A sudden wave of sadness washed over her. I have no chance. I’ve ruined everything.

As proud as Mitsuka was of her foodie status, she still didn’t want to look like a glutton on a first date. Wait, no—it’s not even a date!

“Seriously… that’s not something to be embarrassed about.” Arata’s smooth voice made her lower her hands. “If anything, I’ll take it as a compliment to my cooking.”

If it had been anyone else, Arata might’ve called them an idiot—but this was Mika. She was somehow… special.

The black-haired boy picked up a korokke with his chopsticks and held it out to Mitsuka. He paused in front of her mouth,and their eyes met. He didn’t know why he was doing it, but he tilted his head slightly, as if asking for permission.

Without breaking eye contact, Mitsuka opened her mouth and took a bite of the delicious korokke. A smile formed on her face as she chewed with her eyes closed, practically bouncing in her seat.

When she opened her eyes again, Arata was watching her with a soft expression.

“I’ll finish it myself,” she murmured, taking the rest from the chopsticks with her hands.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s my pleasure to see people enjoying my cooking.”

Then he looked away shyly, cursing himself inside. Where did I get the audacity to feed her like that?

The dish was gone in no time, and soon Mitsuka ordered another plate—this time with more korokke. She was glowing, content with Arata’s approval. While eating, she talked more about food and how she planned to study business management after high school so she could one day open and manage her own restaurant.

Arata just sat there, listening to her ramble and watching her eat. Something about the moment felt nostalgic, and made the warm feeling in his chest bloom even more, as if he’d suddenly forgotten all the crap going on in the world.

Minutes stretched into hours before Arata asked something Mitsuka never thought he’d remember.

“So, how have Mokomoko and Chibimaru been doing?”

Mitsuka froze, her green eyes widening. “You remember?” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Arata tilted his head, puzzled. “You told me, right? You said you have a cat named Chibimaru and a rabbit named Mokomoko.”

“Oh, right!” She laughed, though inside she was melting.

How does he remember things I only mentioned in passing? He really does paying attention.

“They’re both doing great—round and fluffy as ever. Uhh, let me show you their video!”

She reached for her phone, but her smile quickly faltered.

“Oh gosh… it’s 9:33! I have to go—I’m supposed to be home by ten!”

“That’s pretty early… but I’ll take the train home with you,” Arata offered.

“You don’t even know where I live.”

Arata shook his head. “As long as I make it to the station before the last train, I’m good. My parents stopped giving me a curfew after I turned seventeen.”

“Eeek, I’m not seventeen yet—almost!” Mitsuka cupped her cheeks. “But you really don’t have to, Iggy.”

“I want to,” he said firmly, then waved at the server. “At least until you reach your stop.”

When she saw him pull out his wallet, she panicked.

“No, I’ll pay this time!” Mitsuka grabbed his wrist and quickly handed her card to the server, who grinned mischievously at them.

“You already paid for part of the food. So it’s only fair I cover the rest.”

“Fine…” he relented.

Arata glanced at the empty plates and hid the faintest trace of a smile.

The walk to the train station wasn’t far, but Mitsuka was still panicking and half-running the whole time. Arata jogged behind her, trying to ask about her train route. He soon learned that their houses were in the same direction—just one station apart, though technically in different cities.

“Kawaiiiiiii!”

In front of the station, a drunk middle-aged man approached them, shouting hysterically when he saw Mitsuka. Arata felt a sudden grip on his bicep—it was Mitsuka. She was scared, instinctively hiding behind him.

Arata shot the man a glare and pointed at him. “Stay away, pedo! You’re older than her grandpa, you nasty scum,” his voice dropping an octave.

The man grumbled something about young people with no manners, but they hurried past him into the station.

“I hate those perverts…” Mitsuka whined as they reached the platform.

“That’s why I insisted on going with you. It’s Friday night—more drunkards on the street,” Arata said matter-of-factly as they waited for the train.

“Wait… Friday? Oh gosh…”

He looked at her, confused.

“I totally forgot… My curfew is 11 PM on weekends,” she muttered meekly.

Arata smiled at her first, then burst out laughing. He couldn’t believe they’d jogged for five minutes for nothing. This girl is so silly, he thought.

Mitsuka was still apologizing when Arata gently placed a hand on her back and nudged her onto the train.

“Why am I like this…” she sighed, plopping into her seat—face still flushed with embarrassment. “We really didn’t need to rush. I’m so sorry, Iggy-kun.”

“It’s fine… At least now you don’t have to sprint from the station to your house,” he teased.

She smiled shyly.

A brief, comfortable silence settled between them before Arata’s phone buzzed with a new text. He pulled it out and quickly shielded the screen when he saw Sanehiro’s name pop up. He asked for the picture Arata had promised.

Crap…
How do I ask a girl for a picture without sounding weird?
I really didn’t think this through.

He glanced at Mitsuka and saw she was also busy with her phone.

Shitnazugawa Sanehirot

Help. How do I ask her?

“Hey, Iggy,” Mitsuka’s voice made him flinch. “Can we take a picture? My mom’s asking where I am—you know, parents.”

“Sure,” he agreed quickly.

Mitsuka bounced in her seat and got her camera ready. She took not just one, but several selfies with Arata. She didn’t want to miss the chance.

“Can you—can I have one?”

“Of course, silly! Check your LINE,” she grinned.

Arata smiled back. Problem solved. Mitsuka had sent him the best one. He downloaded the photo, heart swelling at the sight of them sitting side by side, shoulders brushing, smiling. It reminded him of Obanai and Mitsuri in the old photograph.

An odd joy sparked within him.

“Do you like it?”

He looked up, startled to find Mitsuka watching him stare at the picture. Embarrassment bloomed across his face in a pink flush. He was grateful the nearest passengers were too far to witness him getting flustered.

“Uh, yeah…”

“You look so serious. Are you afraid someone’s going to see it and scold you for having a selfie with a girl?” she teased, half-hoping that wasn’t the case.

“Huh?” Arata paused, then caught her meaning. “No, I don’t have a girlfriend right now.”

“Well, okay…” Mitsuka looked away, embarrassed by her own question—yet happy with the answer.

“Do you?”

Mitsuka’s breath hitched as he turned the question back on her. She blushed even deeper.

“No, I’m single."

Arata nodded, trying to hide his smile, but failed and ended up biting his cheeks. Secretly screaming “yes!” inside his head.

The train moved fast. First, they reached Arata's stop. He told her about it, but choose to stay to make sure she was going home safely. Then only 5 minutes later, they reached Mitsuka's.

Eventually, after some consideration, Mitsuka decided to let Arata walk her until she reached a safer area.

She chirped the whole walk, rambling about her family and pets. Arata mostly listened to her quietly while giving small comments here and there. It felt like he had done something like this with her hundreds of times.

Then as the conversation grew, she asked about his family.

“So what about your family, Iggy? Are they also from Tokyo?”

“My… my mother’s from Yokohama. But my father—Grandma moved to Tokyo from Hachijo when she was around our age,” he replied.

Mitsuka halted her steps and turned to him. “Hachijo Island?”

“Yeah… Why?” he asked, suddenly nervous.

“Umm… nothing…” she said curtly, though a prickling sensation crept across her skin.

She knew Iguro Obanai was from that island.

“You can leave me here, by the way. We’re already in the safer neighborhood.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, my house is nearby.”

Arata felt a little disappointed. He wasn’t ready to part from the bubbly, pink-haired girl. But he didn’t want to push or come off too forward either. After all, they’d only known each other for less than a week, of course she didn't want him to walk her home.

“Okay then…”

Mitsuka bowed. “Thank you for everything, Iggy. It was nice hanging out with you.”

“You too,” he smiled. “See you next time, Mika-chan.”

“See you again, Iggy-kun. I’ll text you!”

She flashed him a bashful smile before bouncing off under the streetlamps. Arata stood there, watching her. At some point, she turned back and waved one more time as if knowing that Arata was still there for her, before finally disappearing around the corner.

Later that night, Arata sent the selfie of him and Mika to Sanehiro and Aika. Both were shocked by what they saw—the resemblance between them and Mitsuri and Obanai was uncanny. Aika immediately requested a family meeting. Their father had to know—about the photo, the kanzashi, everything.

Arata slumped into his seat, phone in hand. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen where the selfie was displayed. Mitsuka, smiling sweetly, looked undeniably like Kanroji Mitsuri. And beside her, him—with eyes and facial structure too similar to Iguro Obanai. A twinge of sadness coiled in his chest.

If only Grandma were still here to see this—and make it make sense.

Chapter Text

The cold breeze of early winter howled through the empty yard of the Serpent Estate. It wasn’t snowing, yet the chill from outside had seeped through the wooden walls of Obanai’s room and spread around like a plague.

The witching hour was quiet. Serpent Pillar’s trainees had retired to their barracks in one of the estate’s pavilions. They had fallen asleep quickly after a warm bath that ended their long, grueling day of training. Now, only the wind and the crackling of coals in the hibachi fireplace remained. And Obanai—sitting nearby at a low table in a grey sleeping yukata—held a letter he had just written.

“I don't know if I should send this letter, Kabu,” he murmured to his loyal companion. “I can’t bear the consequence, what if I hurt her?”

The serpent loosened his coil, stared at him, then let out a soft hiss. He looked like he was trying to convince him otherwise.

Obanai nodded. “I know,” he said, replying to Kaburamaru. “But she deserves someone better. I’m sure she’ll find someone and continue to live happily. She’ll be fine without me.”

Something cold hardened within him—a heart made of steel. He had decided, not now, but long ago. Long before this final battle debacle. That he wasn’t the one for Mitsuri. That he had only lingered longer so he could care for her, and protect her. The only reason he brought it up now was because he had finally drawn close to the death he’d been waiting for. That he knew his time was near.

With the pad of his trembling fingers, Obanai grazed the surface of the paper. He had written the letter—now he just had to think carefully about how to send it to Mitsuri without breaking her heart.

He sighed—devastated. She would be upset, maybe even stop speaking to him. But that was fine. She won't be torn apart. Will she?

He wiped away a single tear that threatened to fall, then read his letter one more time.

Kanroji-san,

With the last order from Oyakata-sama to renew our will, I couldn't deny the dangling feeling in my gut that something final is approaching us. Thus, that means my end is near.

I know you are going to be mad at me for saying this, but my end goal in becoming a Demon Slayer was to die defeating Muzan. I’m only a failed sacrifice who dedicated his life to cleaning his blood. Blood which was tainted by centuries of demon-worshipping generations and the guilt of causing the deaths of so many people in my clan. This is my only chance to atone for my sins, to die with dignity, so in the next life I can be reborn as someone better, in better circumstances.

As much as I despise my own existence, that doesn't mean there's nothing for me to be grateful for in this lifetime. The truth is, I've been surviving this long because I have things I truly hold dear—one of them is you.

Kanroji, you came into my life bringing such brightness and joy, as if someone had finally put a window on the wall of my cage. You made me feel like a normal human being without even trying—you made breathing feel easier. I cherish every moment with you as much as I'm grateful for crossing paths with you.

There are too many things I can't let myself tell you in this life. But believe me, if I have a chance to be born again someday, then I wish in that life we can cross paths again. Hopefully, in a better time and better circumstances. Without man-eating demons, and without my own personal demons. And if that happens, I will tell you everything I could never say in this life.

I apologize if I ever hurt you during the time we spent together. You need to know—those times were the best time in my whole life. The closest I’ve come to feeling happy.

Thank you, Mitsuri, for everything. This will be the last letter you got from me. I hope you survived the final battle and found the love you deserve.

 

Iguro Obanai

Arata was choking, his breaths short and trembling. The letter slipped off his fingers and fell to the floor as he curled up on the bed, clutching his chest. He had made a mistake—he shouldn't have searched through the kiribako box. There, hidden beneath layers of old memories, he had found another letter. A letter from Obanai that was never sent to Mitsuri.

Heavy, suffocating pressure gripped his chest, as if an invisible force were pressing down on his lungs and heart. Tears slipped down his cheeks unannounced. It hurts—this wave of devastating emotions. It was like a surge of melancholy he couldn't explain. Like a memory he didn't remember, yet the pain, the longing, felt real.

Alone in his room, in the middle of the night, Arata broke down—overwhelmed by emotions he couldn't name.

This isn't my feelings, it's his. But why? Why does it hurt so much?

Chapter Text

“I’ve read these letters, along with the journal. I did research on them back when I was in university,” Kouta explained to Arata that morning. “But your grandma never let me touch the box—for this simple reason.” He pointed at the now-broken wooden box.

“I’m sorry,” Arata murmured. His gaze dropped to the floor. Regretting how he had broken the box he recently just inherited.

“It’s fine. If it weren’t for you and Aika, we never would’ve found this,” he reassured his son. “We’ll find a safer box to keep the letters and everything else.”

Aika raised her eyebrows. “It wasn’t broken like that last Monday.”

“I did that last night,” Arata mumbled. The memory flashed before his eyes—the sudden wave of guilt and sorrow that had broken him to pieces. “I found Obanai’s last farewell to Mitsuri.”

“Wow! Let me see,” Aika demanded.

“Oh no, you’re definitely going to be upset,” Arata said, handing the letter to his father, who took it quickly.

Aika narrowed her eyes, clearly unhappy. But before she could say anything, the door opened. Their mother entered, carrying four cups of steaming tea.

“Arata, could you bring the onigiri? It’s still in the air fryer.”

“Gladly,” he muttered, immediately heading to the kitchen.

That Saturday morning, Aika had come home and gathered the whole family—everyone except Aoto, who was at a sleepover—to talk about their findings. She and Arata had been keeping it to themselves for days, and after seeing the resemblance between Mika and Mitsuri, Aika thought it was urgent to tell their father.

Arata took the yaki onigiri from the air fryer, carefully placed a slice of nori on each one, and arranged them neatly on a ceramic sushi platter. For the side dish, he prepared a small bowl of sunomono and a bowl of edamame—Aika’s favorite. Their family loved food, but they weren’t big eaters, so this was always enough for breakfast.

The room where they gathered was usually used by their grandmother. It had a double bed, his father’s work desk, bookshelves, and a low table where Chiyo often helped Aoto with craft projects. It was his grandmother’s unofficial bedroom—also serving as a home office, study, and occasional guest room.

When Arata returned with the food, he couldn't help himself from imagining his grandmother to be amongst the members of his family that gathered in that room. Although instead, what he found was his mother and sister dabbing their eyes with some tissues.

“You read it,” he mumbled to himself as he set the tray down on the table.

“I’m glad your grandma didn’t find it,” Kouta sighed. He couldn’t imagine the guilt his mother would’ve felt if she read that letter.

“They were never really together. How sad,” Asako murmured as she gently rubbing Aika’s back.

“Actually, there’s something else I need to share.” Arata pulled a printout from his pocket and handed it to Kouta. “It’s a scanned version of Obanai’s will.”

Kouta was taken aback. “Obanai’s will? Is it in the box too? Where's the original?”

“I don’t have the original. It belongs to the Shinazugawa family.”

“What?!” Aika's brows furrowed—confused. “You never tell me about that.”

“I only promised you Mika’s picture, Nee-san,” Arata replied flatly.

Asako tilted her head. “Who’s Mika?”

Shit…

Arata was trying to say something, but Kouta cut in.

“Wait—what do you mean by Shinazugawa?”

“It’s—We found out a few days ago that Sanehiro’s great-grandfather was Obanai’s friend and comrade. The original will is currently in Uncle Norito’s possession.”

Arata’s answer stunned everyone. Sanehiro had been a regular guest in their home for years since transferring to Arata’s middle school. Despite his cussing and rough edges, he was a sweetheart—always nice to Arata’s family. Who would’ve guessed there was a hidden history between their families, long before the boys ever met?

Just in a blink of an eye, his mother and sister were already standing behind Kouta, peering over his shoulder to read the will. The look on their faces was a mix of shock and unspoken emotions.

“So the box was meant for the Kanroji family, and only the sword and journal were actually to be sent to Hachijo—to make a point to Kaneko,” Kouta muttered. “Thank the gods that woman didn’t find the kanzashi.”

“This is insane! How did you end up befriending his descendant?” Aika was baffled. “And then now Kanroji Mitsuka…”

“Who?” their parents asked in unison.

Arata shifted uncomfortably under their sudden attention.

Aika nodded. “Show them, Tacchan.”

He sighed. Almost reluctantly, he pushed his phone toward them. On the screen was a selfie of him and Mitsuka.

Aika placed the old photo of Mitsuri and Obanai beside the phone. For a moment, no one spoke. The resemblance was undeniable.

“Oh my goodness…” Asako put a hand to her cheek. “Is that your girlfriend?”

“No, Mom!” Arata blushed furiously. “She’s just a friend—Kanroji Mitsuka. I don’t know if she’s related to Mitsuri or not. I’ve only known her for a week.”

“You two look exactly like them,” his mother said, awestruck. “She must be Mitsuri’s relative.”

“I’m curious,” Aika said, turning to him. “I bet you are too.”

“I am. But I’m not going to ask her anything—at least not yet.” Arata hesitated. After last night, he was afraid that bringing it up might ruin their new friendship.

“You need to,” Kouta said firmly. “If she’s related to Mitsuri, then we have to return the box and everything inside to her family—just as Obanai requested in his will.”

Arata frowned. He didn’t want to scare Mitsuka off. This was all too strange to bring up casually.

What if she thinks I’m weird? What if she doesn’t want to hang out with me anymore?

Noticing his brother’s reaction, Aika began to question his intentions. “I thought you were into the idea. You’re the one who convinced me in the first place that they look so alike.”

“I don’t want it to be weird.”

“Why does it have to be weird? You just ask whether she has a relative named Kanroji Mitsuri who died young during the Taisho era,” Kouta said.

If it were anyone else, he would’ve asked without thinking twice. The problem was, once again, this was Mika—not just anyone. He didn’t want to risk it.

“That’s weird, Dad,” he muttered, glancing at his mother for help.

Asako, who had been quietly watching them argue while enjoying her onigiri, noticed her son’s pleading eyes. She quickly chimed in.
“Do you know what the ‘man-eating demon’ they keep mentioning is?”

“It’s giving cannibalism,” Arata added.

“I never reached a final conclusion, but cannibalism was the most logical explanation my friends and I used to agree on. Although uncommon, cannibalism and human sacrifice were part of the old times. In this case, we suspected cannibalism among people with unknown genetic mutations.”

“Mutation… Is that why the journal mentioned creatures in weird shapes?” Arata asked, genuinely curious.

Kouta sipped his tea. “That’s still just a theory, and a hard one to prove,” he said. “It’s easier to find out whether she—” he pointed at Mitsuka’s picture, “—is really related to Mitsuri or not. If we’re lucky, we could ask where their grave is… for your grandma.” His voice cracked a little.

The boy fell silent. That’s right—his grandmother would love to know where their grave is. She always said if she could find his grave she wanted to visit and let him know that there was a part of his bloodline that would always remember him and felt sorry for his abusive childhood.

“Will you ask her, Tacchan?” his mother asked softly.

Arata sighed in frustration, but eventually nodded. “Fine… but give me some time.”

“I don’t think we’re in a rush,” Aika muttered. “Don’t you think so, Dad?”

Kouta nodded briefly. “Take your time, Arata.”

Just as Arata was about to speak again, his phone rang. Kanroji Mitsuka’s name lit up on the screen for everyone to see.

Asako squealed. Aika cupped her cheeks with both hands. Kouta just chuckled, watching his son fumble to grab the phone from the table.

The boy sprinted to his room and slammed the door shut while his family watched in amusement. A second later, he reopened it and shouted, “Don’t talk about me behind my back!” before slamming it shut again, sending the room into laughter.

Asako turned to Aika. “Does he like her?”

“He definitely has a crush on that girl,” Aika whispered, as if Arata could hear her from inside his room. “They had a date last night at Okura.”

“Really?” Asako perked up, while Kouta choked on his tea.

“I won’t tell you the details, but she’s a foodie. Last night she ate six korokke that Tacchan made and praised them. He was so proud,” Aika giggled.

Asako’s jaw dropped. She turned to her husband, who was now smiling and shaking his head.

“That’s so cute,” she murmured. “I can see why he hesitates to ask her about Kanroji Mitsuri.”

Aika nodded. “Yeah, I think we should just let him do it at his own pace.”

“Both of you better not tease him about it,” Kouta warned, smirking at his wife and daughter.

Aika giggled. “It’s going to be difficult not to…”

“Your birthday?” Arata felt his heart race.

“Yes! I’ll be seventeen in a few weeks. I was wondering if you could take care of the food. It’s not a big celebration—just close friends and family. Around fifteen people, including you,” Mitsuka’s cheerful voice came through the line.

“When is it?”

“My birthday’s on July 1st, but the celebration will be on the weekend, just as summer break starts. Maybe Sunday… would that work with your schedule? I’ll pay fairly.”

Arata took a deep breath to calm himself. “Yes, yes… of course I can.”

“Eeek…! That’s great!” Mitsuka squealed. “We need to meet again soon to talk about the menu. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Yes, I’ll need your input on that,” he replied—almost too enthusiastically.

“Okay then, thank you so much, Iggy!”

“Well, thank you for trusting me.”

“Bye!”

As the call ended, Arata screamed into his pillow with his legs kicking the air. She had asked him to cater her birthday. This was his chance—to get closer to her, visit her house, meet her pets… maybe even her family.

Wait. Family?

Arata’s eyes widened.

Oh…

I still need to find out if she’s related to Mitsuri…

He stood up. This was his best chance. He turned on his heel and headed for the room across the hall, where his family was still gathered.