Record of Lorelei: Chapter 10

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The Japanese forces had withdrawn from Guadalcanal, following their retreats in the Solomons and New Guinea. Rather than recklessly pushing their occupied territory further south, the strategy now seemed to be securing the land they had already taken—establishing supply stations, reinforcing bases, and fortifying their positions.

Mikami thought it was a sound decision. The air squadrons was being worn down. The farther they moved from the mainland, the more precarious their supply lines became. Even here in Rabaul, supplies were no longer reaching them as they should. He could only hope that, for now, they would halt their advance and focus on consolidating their position. A decisive victory wasn’t just about bold strategies—it required a foundation of careful, measured action

Amid the generally grim news in Rabaul, Mikami had one personal piece of good news: Rui’s beloved Type 21 Zero had suffered an engine failure. The deterioration of the engine core had caused oil delivery issues, leading to leaks under pressure. A complete overhaul seemed unavoidable until a fortuitous development occurred—a Type 52 Zero became available due to its pilot being hospitalized. Rui was allowed to take over the aircraft under the strict condition that it wouldn’t be converted into a personal "custom" machine.

Mikami ensured Rui agreed to this condition before taking the aircraft. Yet, no sooner had his back been turned than the distinctive U-shaped fitting made its appearance on the plane. Someone had already adjusted the finely-tuned controls to resemble Rui’s previous Type 21 setup. Mikami tracked down the responsible mechanic and, with a polite smile and a precious bottle of whiskey, requested they not touch Rui’s aircraft again. He then personally removed the fitting and restored the plane’s settings to a compromise that balanced standard specifications with Rui’s preferences.

Rui was initially furious, but after his first sortie in the Type 52, his mood improved considerably. The aircraft’s superior horsepower and speed clearly left an impression. Over the next few days, he managed to shoot down two enemy planes every single day.

Today brought a sudden mission. Allied forces had been spotted deploying construction equipment on an uninhabited island. The objective was clear: bomb the site before it could be developed into anything significant. The southern front was like a game of Go, with islands as critical positions. A delay in responding to enemy advances could result in strategic losses later, so any signs of encroachment had to be quashed immediately.

But flying in today’s weather seemed an act of sheer madness.

The tropics often brought sudden squalls. A sky that had been perfectly clear minutes earlier could darken as if ink had been poured into it, thick clouds rolling in, fierce winds howling, and torrential rain drenching everything. These storms usually struck in the afternoon, heedless of whether preparations for sorties or battles against enemy planes were underway.

“Wheel chocks removed—clear!”

“Contact!”

Mechanics and pilots exchanged calls as propellers roared to life. One by one, the planes took off, those readying themselves braving the storm’s ferocity. The makeshift sunshades flapped wildly in the wind, creating an overwhelming racket, while the torrential rain made it almost impossible to keep one’s eyes open.

Mikami stood beside Rui, relaying the details of the adjustments made to the Zero as Rui prepared to board his aircraft.

"The flight time is four hours. I've adjusted the controls to be a bit gentler, so try not to make sharp turns. Even if you take it slow, you'll complete the turn at the same speed."

Performing the final equipment check before the pilot boards is also part of the mechanic's job. Life vest, belts, harnesses, the oxygen mask tube on the flight helmet—each checked meticulously, almost as if in prayer.

With the adjustments now in place, there should be no risk of crashing due to self-inflicted errors. It might feel like the responsiveness has dulled, but it all balances out. Given the aircraft's improved performance, it should actually be an advantage.

Rui’s foul mood wasn’t just because of the rain. Mikami had once again removed the U-shaped fitting Rui had reattached to the aircraft.

"Please take care," Mikami said once the checks were complete. Rui stepped onto the foothold bar, pushing aside the rain cover as he climbed into the cockpit. The lightweight Zero's fuselage couldn’t be stepped on directly, so Mikami followed him up using the bars extended from the aircraft’s side. Even in the downpour, the plane radiated heat, as if it might still be steaming.

Inside the cockpit, Rui checked the instruments. Mikami double-checked them as well—everything was functioning normally, no strange odors, no unusual noises. Rui's eyes, fully focused now, burned with determination as they fixed on the rain-lashed windshield.

Fly safely. Come back safely. That was all Mikami wanted.

"Take care," he said. Rui nodded in response. His profile, cleared of all distractions, was striking. His resolve and readiness shone in his gaze. Those eyes he despised so much gleamed like cold starlight.

Mikami suppressed the urge to do one last check. Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from the plane, removing the rain cover as if peeling himself from the hot metal. With the downpour worsening, the cockpit remained partially closed. Mikami pushed the foothold bars back into the fuselage and stepped down from the Zero. A signal flag waved, and Rui’s aircraft slowly rolled out of formation.

Mikami stepped back as he watched the Zero taxi away.

Rui's Zero sped down the taxiway, kicking up sprays of rainwater before taking off toward the stormy sky. The left landing gear folded up first. The wings tilted slightly, and soon the aircraft disappeared into the rainy haze.

Please. Please come back safely.

"Your soul might get taken with him, you know?"

As the Zero vanished, Mikami stood in the downpour, watching the spot where it had disappeared.

He had laughed off that comment back then, but now he prayed earnestly. And if his prayer could come true, he wished that at least his soul could go along with Rui, wherever he was headed.

＊ ＊ ＊

When Mikami was a child, he once found a kitten.

It was a rainy spring day. He followed the faint cries—meow, meow—and searched around the roots of a tree by the roadside, brushing aside leaves until he uncovered a tiny, wet tabby kitten buried beneath. He waited in hiding for the mother to appear, but she never came. The kitten’s cries grew weaker and weaker as he waited. Finally, Mikami picked up the soaked little creature and brought it home.

Mikami’s family, though strict like a hawk when it came to discipline, had never been unreasonably harsh. When he brought home the kitten, his mother had simply said, “Don’t dirty the tatami, alright?” His sisters were overjoyed, while his older brother, though exasperated, gave practical advice: to feed the kitten diluted milk and use a hot water bottle as a substitute for its mother. Despite their efforts, the kitten was too weak and eventually died. Yet Mikami still vividly remembered the soft fur and the smooth warmth of its little belly, sensations etched into his memory.

At night, Mikami worked in the workshop, lighting a lantern to repair a clock. At some point, Rui quietly slipped in and curled up on the wooden floorboards in the corner reserved for rest. He didn’t respond much to Mikami’s questions, and whenever other mechanics came in, he would slip away unnoticed—only to return just as quietly. For some reason, during those moments, Mikami always thought of that small, fragile kitten.

The clock repair was not going well. Many parts were corroded or worn, and a simple cleaning and oiling wouldn’t get it to work. Mikami disassembled it, washed the parts in benzene, and polished each gear—less than five millimeters in size—one tooth at a time. Since the parts were so tiny, even a single broken tooth would render the clock irreparable. The delicate work required even more precision and patience than repairing massive gears. Moreover, this wasn’t solely Mikami’s workshop; job-related tasks always took priority. Not knowing when an air raid might strike, Mikami had to reassemble the clock completely every night before finishing his work, adding another layer of difficulty.

On the table before him lay Rui’s clock, its gears exposed. Next to it, Mikami’s own clock had been similarly disassembled. Using tweezers sharpened to a needlepoint, he compared the parts from each clock and tested swapping them. If a swapped part worked, he reassembled the clock and tested it. If it didn’t work, he disassembled everything again and put it back to its original state. The process was painstaking and endless.

Mikami picked up a screw from his clock and dropped it onto Rui’s. Using a fine screwdriver he had fashioned from wire, he gently turned the screw into place. It fit perfectly, the thread catching securely.

A small success. Just one screw, but it worked.

Behind him, Rui lay stretched out. Though he must have been exhausted from the day’s flight, he had come in looking pale and quietly lain down to rest.

A soft sound from behind made Mikami turn. He saw Rui just as he lifted his shoulders, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Rui...?"

The quiet gurgling from Rui’s throat was audible even without words. He seemed to be fighting nausea.

"Are you alright?"

Mikami rose from his chair, grabbed a bucket marked “Fire Safety” from a corner of the room, and went to where Rui lay on the floorboards. Sitting on the raised entry, he reached out to steady Rui’s trembling shoulders, which clenched repeatedly as if struggling to suppress the nausea.

The military doctor had warned them not to vomit from flight sickness. Food poisoning was different—it was better to purge the toxins. But nausea from exhaustion was another matter. Vomiting would only deplete his nutrients and further weaken him. Still, if he was too unwell to keep food down, throwing up might bring relief. Lingering nausea was its own kind of suffering. It was up to Rui to decide what felt best.

Rui shook his head. When Mikami rubbed his back, he gagged several times, cold sweat trickling down his temple.

"Do you want to sit up?"

If he wasn’t going to vomit, keeping his body upright might help. Supporting him as he sat up, Mikami felt Rui heave a few more times, but eventually, his breathing evened out.

Instead of saying he was fine, Rui moved away from Mikami and curled up again on the floor. It felt unkind to press him to speak, so after watching him for a little while, Mikami placed the bucket by Rui’s head and stood up. Letting him rest until he felt better seemed like the best course of action. Mikami returned to his desk.

If that screw fit, then perhaps another part could be swapped next. Mikami picked up another tiny component with his tweezers, focusing intently.

The task felt like sharing vital organs between two bodies. Combining the parts of two clocks into one. If these clocks could eventually merge and tick together as one, how satisfying that would be.

As Mikami worked with steady concentration, praying for Rui’s nausea to subside, a voice suddenly rang out from outside the workshop.

"—Is this... the highly secretive naval maintenance facility, by any chance?"

The words were loud, though somehow still spoken in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Is anyone present? I swear, I’m not the enemy! Nor am I any sort of suspicious individual!"

He sounded more suspicious than any enemy.

The voice wavered oddly, occasionally reverting to normal volume, which only made it sound more absurd. Mikami stood and cautiously approached the doorway, lifting the mosquito net. A stranger stood outside—a man in an unfamiliar work cap, wearing gaiters on his legs. Army.

What was an army soldier doing here? Mikami’s expression must have been openly dubious because the man quickly raised both hands to show he wasn’t a threat.

"I mean no harm! I am an ordinary soldier of the Imperial Army!"

"Uh… right. Pleased to meet you. Mikami, mechanic of the Imperial Navy," Mikami replied, finding himself swept into the man’s rhythm and automatically introducing himself.

The soldier snapped to attention and saluted.

"I’m honored to meet you! I am Matsuda, Private First Class of the Imperial Army! I’ve heard a most fortuitous rumor that the Navy has developed an electronic match at a secret facility. My commanding officer instructed me to acquire classified information on it!"

"You’re here to… ask about it?"

"Indeed!"

The situation felt surreal, even ridiculous. Everything he said was nonsensical. Mikami, still hatless, offered a polite nod in return to the exaggerated salute.

Just then, Mikami noticed another mechanic standing behind Matsuda. The senior mechanic looked just as baffled as Mikami felt. Hoping to avoid any misunderstanding about consorting with the army, Mikami turned to his colleague.

"An army man is here asking questions. Shall I let him in?"

"Let him in," the senior mechanic replied, though his expression remained uncertain.

Mikami led Matsuda inside. As they entered, Rui silently got up and left the workshop. Mikami offered Matsuda a chair and adjusted the lantern on a separate desk for better light.

From under the desk, Mikami pulled out a small, boxy device. About the size of a lunchbox, it had copper wires protruding from the top.

"Is this the so-called electronic match you’ve heard about?" Mikami asked, placing a small strip of paper into the copper clips and turning a hand crank. A spark ignited, and the paper caught fire with a faint snap. It was nothing more than a repurposed igniter—a simple contraption with a small generator inside that produced a spark when cranked.

"Exactly! That’s it!" Matsuda declared enthusiastically.

This is going to be exhausting, Mikami thought.

For the Navy, the Army was often seen as a greater obstacle than the enemy. Though both were technically part of the same Imperial forces, they frequently clashed. If one proposed something, the other would oppose it on principle. The infamous Daimler liquid-cooled Atsuta engines, for instance, were a sore point. Daimler had offered a single usage license for all of Japan, but the Army and Navy insisted on purchasing separate licenses, squabbling all the way.

Even here, on New Britain Island, the Army’s presence felt distant. While Mikami and his peers focused on maintaining naval operations at their base, the Army reportedly operated further south, near Karavia Bay.

Still, here he was, face-to-face with an Army man in the heart of a naval base.

He had thrown himself into a place like this alone. If Mikami were told to do the same in reverse, he might have to steel himself for the possibility of being strung up.

"By the way, this isn’t a secret factory. It’s just a maintenance crew’s workshop. And this device isn’t exactly classified information, either."

Mikami opened the back panel of the box, revealing a simple setup: a generator, wiring, and bottles of gasoline and kerosene housed in beer bottles. The sudden spark could be startling, but the mechanism was straightforward.

"Feel free to take this with you. You’re welcome to replicate it as you like."

It was an invention by Watanabe Petty Officer of the Navy, but by now it had been widely distributed. It was a product of repurposed scraps, so it wasn’t even officially registered as equipment.

"That’s a relief," Matsuda said, smiling for the first time. His round face lit up, revealing a hint of overlapping teeth—a boyish and charming expression.

"So there are kind people in the Navy," Matsuda remarked.

"Well, we have our fair share of tough ones, too," Mikami replied.

While some in the Navy were venomous in their disdain for the Army—almost like serpents or scorpions—most of that sentiment came from officers and those parroting their opinions. Mechanics like Mikami, uninvolved in strategy, held no special feelings toward the Army.

"I’ll gladly take this back with me. You have my deepest thanks. And, though it’s not much…"

Matsuda untied a makeshift cloth bag slung over his back, revealing a neat row of canned goods.

"There’s no need—"

"Please accept it," Matsuda insisted.

At his urging, Mikami gave a polite nod.

"Thank you. We’ll share these among ourselves."

"I’m sorry it’s so little," Matsuda said, his tone now relaxed and conversational. Young but poised, his thick eyebrows gave him a dignified, almost samurai-like air. There was an undeniable refinement in his demeanor.

Matsuda carefully wrapped the electronic match in the same cloth he had used for the canned goods and hefted it, visibly heavy, in his hand.

At the workshop entrance, they exchanged salutes, and Mikami watched as Matsuda disappeared toward the mountains.

That’s an unusual way to salute, elbows sticking out like that, Mikami thought, watching him go. Suddenly, from the darkness, Matsuda’s voice rang out:

"Let’s do our best out there!"

The youthful sincerity of his words brought a smile to Mikami’s face, and he called back, "You bet!"

The Army has good people, too, Mikami mused as Matsuda’s figure vanished into the night. Then, Rui came to mind.

Hurrying to reassemble the clock, Mikami made his way back to the barracks. Rui was curled up beneath the mosquito net, looking both unwell and irritable. Keeping his voice gentle, Mikami whispered, "Good night," and then prepared himself for bed.

＊ ＊ ＊

The U-shaped part he’d just had reattached last night was once again neatly removed.

Gazing at the smooth, untouched nose of the Zero fighter as though nothing had happened, Rui glanced around. In the distance, Mikami was moving briskly, toolbox in hand, just as always. He was busy helping with the maintenance of another Zero, showing no signs of guilt or triumph, as if the removal of the part was a non-event. It was infuriating.

Rui had clashed with every mechanic before Mikami. Each time, the argument would escalate over whether or not to install the part, with Rui eventually forcing his way through sheer stubbornness. But Mikami was different. He would silently remove the part, ignore any protests, and calmly adjust the plane to what he thought was the best configuration. He didn’t seek confrontation, didn’t try to argue or force a resolution. Instead, he simply delivered a plane configured to his own standards.

It was maddening. If Rui wanted a fight, he had to be the one to start it. But... Mikami currently had Rui’s precious clock.

"Line up!"

The maintenance chief’s commanding voice cut through the air. Rui stayed by the cockpit, checking over his plane while half-listening to the announcement.

The mechanics gathered as the chief held a stack of papers.

"Starting tomorrow, a new squadron will be integrated into our operations. This means more planes to maintain. But remember this: your responsibility is always the aircraft directly in front of you. When you finish with one, move to the next. And then the next. The workload increases, but your focus doesn’t change. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Rui felt fortunate for the squadron’s diligent mechanics. They might grumble, meddle in flight matters, or nag, but they were skilled and dependable, always ensuring the planes were in top shape. Rui had never once doubted their work.

"Type 99 Carrier Bomber, Sakai Heita, Chief Petty Officer. Sonoda Takami, Ensign. Type 1 Carrier Bomber, Hara Shouichi, Petty Officer First Class. Nonomura Tasuke, Petty Officer First Class!"

The chief called out the names of the integrated crew members and their aircraft assignments. Rui listened indifferently, uninterested. They might be familiar names, but none of them were friends.

It sounded like a large addition to the squadron. Rui wondered how anyone could remember such a long list. Then again, Mikami probably could. But that didn’t excuse Mikami’s unilateral removal of the U-shaped part.

As the monotonous roll call continued, Rui quietly stepped away from his Zero. If the mechanics had the integration list, the squadron would receive their own updated roster soon. He would likely be summoned for introductions and reorganization.

What a pain.

With an irritated sigh, Rui stepped into the sunlight, its pale glow illuminating the ground.

Once the new pilots arrived, he’d have to deal with the same tired complaints—wandering off from formation, cutting in line, ignoring return orders.

The whole routine all over again.

"—Lieutenant Hata Noritoshi! Type 97 Reconnaissance Seaplane, Ensign Abukawa Takuma, Petty Officer First Class Honmaru Kazuyoshi—"

One of the names, heard only in passing, snagged on Rui’s eardrum like a fishhook.

The surname Abukawa.

He froze. His pulse quickened as a memory stirred.

“My name is Abukawa Takuya. I have a son about your age.”

It had to be a coincidence. A cruel one, perhaps, but nothing more.

The name Abukawa wasn’t common; Rui had investigated its origins. He had tracked down a home in Kanagawa Prefecture, only to find it abandoned. He had learned that Abukawa had moved just a month before… the incident. The destination was unknown.

This can’t be.

Yet Rui couldn’t move. His legs felt as though they were chained to the ground.

Abukawa Takuma. Abukawa Takuya. Just one character apart.

The coincidence gnawed at him, refusing to let go.

A rapid thudding echoed in Rui’s ears, resonating through his entire body like a pounding drum.

What would he even do if he found him? What could he possibly ask now?

His breathing became shallow and uneven. A sharp pain resurfaced in his throat, and instinctively, Rui clutched at it with his hand.

That moment. That moment. Where had his father’s secretary—Abukawa—been? After the incident, the man had disappeared. Where had he gone, and why hadn’t he defended Rui’s father’s innocence?

“...!”

Years of pent-up pressure inside Rui burst through the smallest of cracks, spilling out uncontrollably. Confusion, fear, sorrow, anger, injustice, grief, despair. Each crest of the dark, raging waves seemed sharp as a razor, slicing through him with raw intensity.

"Type 97 Carrier Attack Bomber! Petty Officer Second Class Nakagawa Takumi, Petty Officer First Class Ueno Kōzō, Ensign Ōmoto Kanji! Type—"

Rui dashed toward the maintenance chief, snatching the papers from his hand.

"Petty Officer First Class Asamura!?"

He scanned the list frantically, searching for the name that had been read moments ago. First page—Type 97 Reconnaissance Seaplane.

There it was. Abukawa Takuma—Kanagawa Prefecture.

Rui shoved the documents back at the chief and spun on his heel.

The same rare surname, from the same prefecture, and with a name just one character apart.

It had to be his son—or at least a relative. Someone who might know what had happened to Abukawa Takuya.

He had seen the new flight squadron gathering outside the barracks earlier, assigning quarters. Rui headed straight for them.

"Asamura! Rui!"

Mikami’s voice called after him.

“What’s going on, Rui?”

Rui broke into a run, determined not to let Mikami interfere. He wouldn’t let this chance slip away. He would find Abukawa, force him to confirm his father’s innocence, and make him reveal where the evidence was.

The new flight squadron was still gathered, distributing equipment. Rui approached, breathless.

“Abukawa. Is Abukawa here!?”

His hoarse voice, barely above a rasp, startled the pilots, who exchanged confused glances. But Rui didn’t care. He shouted again.

"Abukawa! There’s an Abukawa among you, isn’t there!?"

He was shouting so hard that he tasted blood in his mouth, yet somehow, they didn’t seem to hear him.

Then their expressions shifted. What had been confusion turned to something else—hesitation, unease, as if they had just seen something terrifying.

It was his eyes.

"Abukawa—!"

As Rui tried to yell again, a sharp pain pierced his throat, forcing him into a fit of coughing. He fumbled for the notebook in his chest pocket to write the name, but a firm hand settled on his shoulder.

"Pardon the intrusion. This is Petty Officer First Class Asamura of the 11th Flight Squadron, and I am Mikami, a maintenance crew member. Is Ensign Abukawa present?"

Mikami’s clear, measured words carried over the group. He had caught up and managed to interpret Rui’s rasped cries.

The pilots turned their attention to a man among them. He looked at Rui and Mikami with suspicion.

“I’m Abukawa. What’s this about?”

The resemblance was unmistakable. The mantis-like shape of his face, the broad forehead—he looked strikingly like the secretary.

“You…!”

Rui lunged for Abukawa’s collar, but Mikami quickly stepped between them.

"Wait, please wait! Petty Officer Asamura!"

Mikami raised a hand to Abukawa apologetically.

"I sincerely apologize, Ensign Abukawa. May we have a moment of your time?"

Abukawa’s suspicious expression deepened, and he glanced at his squadmates before giving a curt nod.

“Highly improper behavior. What’s this about?”

Mikami gestured toward the shade of a nearby tree, guiding Abukawa away from the group. Rui followed, gripping the paper that listed Abukawa Takuma’s name.

“This is Petty Officer Asamura,” Mikami explained briskly as they walked. “His throat is injured, so he has difficulty speaking. I’ll assist him.”

Abukawa listened silently, his expression unreadable, clearly waiting for the explanation to continue.

Under the shade of the tree, Mikami handed Rui the roster. Rui stared at it, the name Abukawa Takuma filling his vision. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, trembling with the weight of years of anguish and unanswered questions.

"Was Abukawa Takuya your relative?" Rui asked, his voice shaking, and Mikami faithfully repeated the question aloud.

Abukawa, with the same restrained politeness and faintly dubious expression Rui remembered from the secretary, responded.

"...He was my father."

Even though Rui had braced himself, hearing the words felt like a physical blow to the head.

Abukawa Takuya’s son. The son of the man who had fled the scene that night—

"Where is he now?"

When Rui tried to ask, Mikami hesitated for the first time. "I’m sorry, what did you say?" he asked, turning toward Rui. The words had come out garbled, Rui’s breathing uneven, his lips trembling so much that even he could barely understand his own voice.

With his right hand, Rui gripped his left wrist tightly to steady himself.

"Ask him where his father is now," Rui said, forcing the words out, and Mikami conveyed the question politely.

Abukawa answered flatly, "He passed away last year. Lung disease. November."

"And where was he before that? After he disappeared from Kyoto three years ago, where did he go?"

"What’s this about?" Abukawa asked sharply, his expression hardening as he looked directly at Rui.

"Where did Abukawa Takuya go after vanishing from Kyoto three years ago?" Rui demanded, the words tumbling out in an unsteady growl.

Mikami, his tone careful and measured, rephrased the question. "Could you tell us where your father went after leaving Kyoto three years ago, Ensign Abukawa?"

The polite question seemed to trigger something in Abukawa, whose face darkened with undisguised hostility.

"Asamura, right? What’s your deal? Why are you prying into my father’s—" He paused, as if something had clicked.

His expression changed, recognition dawning.

"I remember now. The bribery case. You’re connected to Asamura, aren’t you?"

With that, Abukawa reached for Rui’s collar, his movements sharp and accusatory.

"Stop it, Ensign Abukawa!" Mikami intervened, pushing himself between them.

"Because of Asamura, my father suffered too! He was driven out of the Ministry of Finance and hounded by journalists even after moving to the private sector!"

Rui’s breath caught. So after fleeing the Asamura household, the secretary had quietly transitioned to a civilian career? The audacity. The anger swelled within Rui, overwhelming him. If Abukawa had been safe, why hadn’t he come forward? Why hadn’t he testified when the investigation had shifted the ruling from murder to suicide?

Abukawa broke free of Mikami’s restraint, lunging forward to shove Rui violently while shouting, "My father had nothing to do with it! He proved his innocence! There was evidence! And yet—!"

The words burned like acid in Rui’s mind. He used the evidence to save himself.

A wave of anger rose, white-hot and consuming. Rui opened his mouth to scream, "Your father betrayed mine, didn’t he!?" The effort tore at his throat, and the sharp taste of blood filled his mouth.

Mikami pushed Rui back firmly. "Calm down! I can’t even understand you right now!"

Rui’s raspy voice failed him entirely as the strain silenced what little sound he could make. Mikami wrapped an arm around Rui, shielding him from Abukawa while creating distance between them.

"Calm down. Let’s organize what you want to say," Mikami urged, his voice low and steady.

Tears welled up in Rui’s eyes, blurring his vision. His body trembled with the weight of despair.

Abukawa, wearing a look of disgust mixed with unease—as if repelled by something feral—spat on the ground before turning and walking away into the crowd of pilots.

"Let me talk to him. I’ll make him listen!" Mikami offered urgently.

"It’s… no use," Rui croaked weakly, his voice a whisper.

Over Mikami’s shoulder, Rui watched Abukawa’s retreating figure. His anger had nowhere to go, his hope nowhere to cling to. His hands clenched Mikami’s shirt desperately, as if holding on to the only stable thing in the chaos.

The truth sank in, cold and heavy.

The secretary had only used the evidence to clear his own name. After proving his innocence, he had destroyed or hidden anything else that might have exonerated Rui’s father. He had never intended to defend him.

The fact that Abukawa had managed to transition to civilian life indicated he had connections—connections that might have been part of a deal from the start, a reward for framing Rui’s father.

And now, with Abukawa dead, there was no evidence left.

The events of that night—like filth ground into the earth—would remain buried forever.

He doesn’t know about his father’s crimes. Even if I told him, it wouldn’t make any difference. He wouldn’t believe me—there’s no evidence.

Rui had given up on Abukawa long ago. Yet, a faint hope had lingered—if he ever found him, perhaps Abukawa could explain why he disappeared that night. Maybe he could reveal evidence that no one else had seen, testify to Rui’s father’s innocence.

But Abukawa knew everything. He had fled from the scene of the incident. He had escaped unscathed, fully aware of the baseless slander that reduced Rui’s father’s corpse to a symbol of disgrace. And yet, he never came forward. Not a single word of defense. He must have known where the proof of innocence lay—or perhaps had the evidence itself. But he used it only to save himself and concealed the rest. He abandoned Rui’s father. Maybe—if we’re only speaking in possibilities—it was Abukawa who sold Rui’s father out to the enemy in exchange for his own survival.

If the truth died with him, if he kept everything hidden even from his son, then the evidence is gone for good. The truth is now buried in darkness.

"Does this have something to do with your voice?"

Mikami turned to look at Abukawa with a face so tense it seemed like he might step in to fight.

Rui shook his head.

Without a word, Mikami guided Rui to sit under the shade of a tree, giving him space to calm down.

"Rui. Are you all right? What’s going on?"

"He’s the son of the man who disgraced my father."

Regardless of who orchestrated it, Abukawa’s father was one of those who stood by and did nothing as Rui’s father was driven to his death.

Mikami’s shocked expression gave Rui a strange sense of relief. It shouldn’t have been enough, but it was all he had to soothe his unbearable pain.

"But… it seems he doesn’t even know what his father did."

If Rui took revenge on someone so ignorant of the past, all he would create was another version of himself—another soul filled with unending bitterness.

"My father’s name will never be cleared. There’s nothing left for me to do."

It doesn’t matter how many enemy planes I shoot down—none of it will mean anything. There’s no way to restore the honor of the Asamura family. There’s nothing left. Am I supposed to spend my life swallowing this indignity? No way to recover, no home to return to. Not even the purpose of finding a place to die feels meaningful anymore.

"I don’t understand all of it," Mikami began, his voice and eyes filled with quiet compassion, "but if this sets you free—free from revenge, from trying to reclaim honor—then maybe..."

The anger, stripped of its target, had become something like tar: viscous, black, and heavy, its heat dissipated into cold despair. Rui felt as though he were sinking into a mire of his own misery.

Mikami gently placed a hand on Rui’s back, rubbing in quiet reassurance.

"When the war is over, why don’t you come live with me? There’s not much to offer, but I’ll work hard for you," Mikami said softly.

The kind words barely reached Rui, seeming to fade into the void as soon as they touched his ears.

"Where am I supposed to put my father’s humiliation? My mother’s grief?" Rui asked, his voice hollow.

What about my grandmother’s sorrow? Her heartbreak?

At that moment, no kindness, no gesture of comfort, could reach him. Even so, Mikami didn’t stop trying.

"Then I’ll mourn with you," Mikami said with quiet determination.

He laced his fingers with Rui’s, gripping his hand firmly.

"I can’t even begin to imagine your pain, Rui," Mikami said, his voice breaking, "but if you let this destroy you, if you live in unhappiness and die here like this, then you’ve gained nothing. None of this will have been worth it."

Rui blinked in surprise when he noticed tears running down Mikami’s face. Why was this man crying for him?

"We’re alive, so let’s be happy," Mikami said earnestly. "I know it sounds absurd to say that here, in the middle of a war, but the person who hurt you is gone. There’s no one left to take revenge on. It’s wrong for you to carry this pain alone for the rest of your life."

Mikami’s simple, heartfelt conviction pierced Rui’s heart like a blade.

“…You're right."

A bitter smile rose beneath his quiet sobbing. Rui pressed his face into Mikami's shoulder, letting the endless stream of tears soak into it.

Time flowed on, calm yet merciless, whispering to Rui that it was time to let go.

Maybe I should have given up when I survived in that hospital. The thought clawed at him. Maybe I should have walked away when I lost all hope of proving my father's innocence. Instead of returning to the Preparatory Training Corps, I should have chosen a new life. But what can I do about it now?

The three humiliating years he had lived as Rui Asamura—how could he possibly reclaim them? And even if he wanted to, could there really be a "future" for me, like Mikami says?

He clung to Mikami’s steady presence, his heart filled with uncertainty.

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