Record of Lorelei: Chapter 15

Previous TOC Next

Mikami's hand was trembling so badly it was evident even without touching it. Just lifting his hand to his face seemed to take immense effort. He complained of chills, yet sweat dripped from his skin. His eyes were vacant, and his cheeks bore fine wrinkles, like withered peaches. By the next morning, Mikami was burning with a fever and unable to get up.

With assistance, he managed to stagger to the latrine, but even then, it was a struggle. Yet at dawn, Mikami insisted on going to work with the other mechanics.

Rui, scheduled to fly that day, had to leave soon for a briefing. He had tried to stop Mikami, but Mikami, leaning on two fellow mechanics for support, left the shelter.

When Rui arrived at the airfield after completing formation and preflight preparations, he spotted Mikami. Mikami was limping, his movements sluggish. He looked like he was pushing himself purely on willpower, his body far past its limits. Rui ran over to him.

"I’m… fine," Mikami muttered, his voice weak and broken.

He could no longer move his ankle at all. Thick bandages kept the joint rigid, the only way he could stand.

"I’ll go to the hospital after this," Mikami promised.

Before allowing Mikami to leave the shelter, Rui had made him agree to one condition: after inspecting Rui’s aircraft and seeing him off, Mikami would go to the hospital.

Tropical ulcers were known to eat into the bone. Mikami’s injury had already reached the bones of his ankle, and if not treated properly before the infection spread to his marrow, it would claim his life.

The same man who told me to keep living cannot be the one to die first. When Rui said this, Mikami had given a faint, fevered smile, as though remembering something from far away.

Rui stood silently, watching Mikami work on the plane. He seemed entirely focused, checking over various parts. When Mikami crouched to inspect the landing gear, his body gave out. He gripped the main wing for support, leaning heavily against it, shoulders heaving with labored breaths.

Rui rose from his chair and walked toward the aircraft. Mikami was slumped on the ground, his strength gone.

"You’re done. That’s enough," Rui said.

The plane had already been inspected. Final checks on the landing gear could be handled by anyone.

When Mikami tried to stand, another mechanic nearby helped him up. Still, Mikami turned away from Rui, fumbling to tighten his belt as he struggled to regulate his breathing. His gaze was unfocused, and he was panting through his mouth, yet his ingrained habits drove him to complete the preflight checklist.

As Rui climbed into the cockpit, Mikami followed, staggering as he went.

It seemed unnecessary, but Rui decided to let him finish if that was what Mikami needed.

Once Rui was seated, Mikami stood by the frame of the canopy, holding on to keep himself upright.

"Go to the hospital," Rui commanded.

"Yes," Mikami replied, his tone unusually meek. Finally, he seemed to accept his condition, offering a weak, resigned smile.

Mikami had wanted to stay to see Rui off, but the hospital transport truck was already waiting. Only severe emergencies were admitted immediately; others were taken in groups to the hospital. If Mikami missed this truck, the next opportunity would be the following day, and supplies like medicine and injections were scarce—missing this trip could mean missing treatment altogether.

Mikami reached out, placing a fevered hand on Rui’s cheek. The heat radiating from it was alarming.

"…Safe travels," Mikami said softly, his voice weak, his eyes glossy with unshed tears.

Rui removed his leather glove and placed his hand over Mikami’s, pressing his cheek into the touch before nodding. Mikami’s hand was burning. The fever had worsened.

It would likely be a while before Mikami could work on Rui’s aircraft again. Hospitalization could mean days, possibly longer, away from the unit.

On the crowded runway, other mechanics were already waiting to take Mikami to the hospital. Rui glanced down one last time to see Mikami, completely drained, being supported on both sides as he was led away from the Zero.

There was no way Mikami could walk to the hospital on his own. Rui had made sure to issue clear orders: he was to be taken directly there, no delays.

As the mechanics guided Mikami to the truck, Rui couldn’t stop watching until they disappeared from view.

From the cockpit, Rui could see the dry underbrush below, swaying in waves under the currents stirred by the aircraft. Among the rippling grass, he watched Mikami’s back as two mechanics supported him on either side, helping him walk. Mikami turned back repeatedly to look toward the plane until his figure disappeared into the scrub.

That morning, Rui had made a decision.

Standing up in the cockpit, he raised a hand to call over one of the mechanics. Pressing his lips to the lingering heat in his palm, left by Mikami’s feverish touch, Rui waited as the mechanic approached.

"Attach the part," Rui ordered.

From the kit bag, he produced the U-shaped part and handed it over.

If an air raid were to strike now, Mikami wouldn’t be able to escape. The pilots were fighting desperately, but the balance of power had long since been broken. It wouldn’t be surprising if today marked their annihilation.

I swore never to break, no matter how grim the odds. Even if only for a single second, Rui would trade his life to delay the enemy’s attack, to shield Mikami for that single heartbeat. If that second could be bought, then perhaps his existence would have meaning.

The mechanic’s face turned grim.

"I can’t do it. The balance won’t hold."

"It’s 521 grams," Rui replied. "Mount it just above the right of the cowling, in this position."

He handed the mechanic a prepared diagram. As a pilot familiar with the mechanics of his plane, Rui knew that the schematic was clear enough for the task to be carried out.

The mechanic’s expression crumpled, tears welling up as he shook his head.

"Please don’t do this. Mikami told me to stop you."

Rui wondered how far Mikami had gone to thwart him, even in his condition. But he simply placed a finger to his lips, signaling for quiet.

This is the time. If Mikami found out, he would insist that Rui retreat, even if it meant conceding defeat. But such options were no longer viable. Even adding the part wouldn’t guarantee victory.

"Let’s do our best," Rui said, his voice steady despite the sorrow in the mechanic’s eyes.

"We can’t afford to lose."

The words wouldn’t reach the mechanic’s heart—Rui knew that. The man, visibly reluctant, took the part from Rui and climbed down from the aircraft.

Rui leaned back in the cockpit, staring up at the sky.

The day was beautifully clear. A perfect day for war.

They might no longer be able to win in the South Pacific.

But even if victory was out of reach, as long as Rui lived, he wouldn’t let Rabaul be bombed.

By the name of Rui Asamura, Rabaul will not fall.

Rui twisted the plane violently, the roar of the engine splitting the air. The sun glinted off the stripped paint of the wings, scattering light like shards of glass. Below him, the ocean stretched out, as hard and unyielding as asphalt. If he hit it, he wouldn’t sink—he’d shatter. A race toward the surface, and Rui was descending headlong.

“──...!”

His head pounded with the rush of blood, his temples throbbing with the force. Chased by machine gun fire, he dove at a nearly vertical angle, skimming perilously close to the water. Then, summoning every ounce of strength, he wrenched the control stick, forcing the plane back into a climb. The blood in his body surged as if it were a single mass being shoved up and down, his vision reddening as it rushed to his head, only to drop to his toes with a tingling numbness. Under crushing G-forces, Rui clenched his teeth, driving the engine to its limits, pushing skyward.

His vision blackened momentarily as the blood drained from his brain. He couldn’t loosen his grip; instead, he relied on pure instinct to twist the plane. Instruments blurred into irrelevance—he flew by feel alone. As his vision flickered back, he caught the enemy’s tail in his sights and squeezed the trigger. A burst of fire hit its mark, and the enemy plane trailed smoke, descending in flames.

But there was no time to savor the moment—another machine gun barrage had him in its sights. Without even a chance to catch his breath, Rui threw himself into a desperate turn to evade being shot down.

The sky was crisscrossed with the trails of anti-aircraft fire, dotted with bursts of black smoke where flak had exploded. One by one, friendly planes fell into the sea. The cacophony of gunfire, explosions, and the roar of engines created a dissonant symphony, dominated by the heavy growl of enemy aircraft.

Emerging from behind the flaming wreck of an ally’s plane, another enemy appeared. Rui fired instinctively, though his numb hands almost fumbled the grip. Holding his breath, he squeezed the trigger again, keeping the stream of bullets on target. The enemy danced just out of range, and Rui tightened his focus, ignoring the way his trembling fingers fought against him.

Fragments of the sky shone between the chaos. I can still fight. My heart is still beating.

RATATATATATATATAT! RATATATATAT!

The recoil of the machine gun jolted from his palms to his elbows, and his chest heaved with effort as his lungs struggled to keep up. He was alive—his body told him so with every vivid nerve.

When a glancing shot struck the tail of his plane, Rui’s aim wavered, but he quickly corrected, firing once more without even thinking about his dwindling ammunition.

I am alive, he thought. The blood coursing through him, the sharpness of his nerves—it was all fueled by the warmth Mikami had given him. That unwavering determination to protect Mikami. This was a fire he hadn’t known when he fought merely to claim kills and accolades.

Rui’s gaze locked straight ahead, unflinching. There was no longer any reason to look away. High in the freezing sky, his hands still carried Mikami’s warmth. The cockpit was filled with it—the same gentle spirit that Mikami poured into repairing the watch.

Mikami’s kindness, his simple honesty—these qualities had warmed Rui in ways no one could ever understand.

He turned Mikami’s support into strength. Today, this hour, this minute, even this second, Rui fought to keep Mikami alive.

The aircraft, once a cold shell Rui wouldn’t have cared to crash into the sea, now surged with life and passion. Until he met Mikami, he thought, maybe my fire had gone out. Or maybe it was on the verge of dying, and Mikami found it, sheltered it in his hands. Over and over, Mikami had fueled him—not explosively, but with a quiet, enduring warmth. Through words, gestures, feelings, and touch, Mikami had poured himself into Rui.

This was Mikami’s plane, one he had lovingly maintained.

Doesn’t it shine brightly?”

The paint glistening on the wings was Mikami’s handiwork.

Rui fired again, a stream of bullets tracing the enemy’s tail. Though it was slow and painstaking, his aim clung stubbornly to its mark.

The plane was responding beautifully. The engine thrummed with resilience, pulling with a strength that felt almost limitless. While it couldn’t quite catch up to the enemy outright, once within firing range, victory was assured. Rui twisted sharply to the left, diving deeply from a high altitude. The Grumman, perched above at 8,000 meters—well beyond the Zero’s ceiling of 6,000 meters—descended after him like a predator toying with its prey. Rui gripped the control stick with every ounce of his strength, enduring the crushing force of gravity that felt as if it might strip the blood from his veins.

The Grumman that had been tailing him began to slide forward into view. Before his altitude could recover, Rui twisted the plane, bringing the enemy within the U-shaped targeting sight, and squeezed the trigger.

PEEEE-Eeeeeee...! PEEEE-Eeeeeee...!

Between the bursts of the machine gun, the plane emitted its haunting wail—a sound Mikami hated. The sound of Lorelei. But to Rui, this foolish little part was a glimmer of hope. The tracer rounds streamed out, their light trailing into the enemy plane, and the machine gun fire tore into its body, sending up a bloom of black smoke. As he veered to avoid the debris, Rui pulled the control stick upward again.

More enemy planes descended, swarming toward him. Machine guns crackled as they crossed paths, trading bursts of fire. Rui twisted the plane into another hard roll.

PEEEE-Eeeeeee...! PEEEE-Eeeeeee...!

The singing voice that resonated now was no longer a lament.

It was a fiery, living heat. It was Rui’s clumsy, desperate roar, clawing his way back to the ground where Mikami waited for him.

Twisting the plane higher, Rui let the sound of the machine hum and sing to its fullest.

Listen. Hear the voice of Lorelei.

──The song of a monster crying out for the one it loves.

Beneath Rui's feet, the ocean stretched endlessly, its surface rippling like liquid asphalt. Far off, clouds floated aimlessly in the sky.

The Zero, maintained by Mikami's careful hands, flew beautifully.

Its windscreen was shattered, the fuselage riddled with holes. A bullet had surely struck the tail, the machine guns were spent, and the antenna mast leaned crookedly to the right. The acrid stench of something burning wafted from within the aircraft. Yet, despite being battered to this state, the plane maintained balance and buoyancy with uncanny grace.

The sky around was eerily silent.

Sitting in the cockpit, Rui closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, tilting his head back.

I fought well, he thought. This machine held up remarkably.

Fuel was leaking, and he’d lost his wingmen. Though he had escaped the dogfight, he had no idea which way home lay. Now, he was merely flying to avoid crashing. Even that was nearing its end.

As his altitude steadily dropped, the aircraft began to groan under its own weight. The glittering waves below shimmered blindingly in the sunlight.

He was alone over the open sea. This is the end.

A strange mix of satisfaction and resignation settled in his chest. Rui had wished to take down every enemy plane before dying, but he knew that was an impossible dream. All that mattered was that Mikami survived just a little longer. That was the only wish he had left. He had done all he could, fought with everything he had, even beyond his limits.

...It was a good life.

Sitting idly in the cockpit, Rui allowed a faint, self-deprecating smile. What about this life was good? Locked away as a child, ostracized, reviled, his only source of pride defiled and destroyed. His family stolen, his voice silenced, his home obliterated. He had spent his youth chasing hollow redemption. That he could now face death without regret was entirely thanks to Mikami.

I never thought my final moments would be so peaceful.

As the last seconds of his life ticked away, the memories that surfaced weren’t of war, humiliation, or even pride. Instead, he recalled the scent of Mikami’s skin, the sound of his breath in the quiet night, the way he shifted his weight to his right leg while crossing his arms, the tremor of his heartbeat, and that peculiar pause before his warm smile. The war, the shame, even his pride—all of it felt like something from a distant past.

The fuel gauge had long since dipped past empty. Minutes? Seconds? The remaining time felt painfully precious now.

I want to see Mikami.

Rui’s chest ached as he realized, all over again, how irreplaceable each moment with Mikami had been.

"…"

He removed his glove and touched his own cheek, imagining Mikami’s hand there—the dry, heated skin, the calloused fingertips stained black with oil, the faint scent of scorched metal. He could almost feel it. The thought that he would never again see Mikami race up to his plane, his face on the verge of tears, filled him with a deep, aching loneliness.

A tremor overtook him. He could hear the sound of his unsteady breathing. Even now, calling for Mikami would achieve nothing. He couldn’t return. He couldn’t see him.

"Mikami," he gasped hoarsely, as though the name alone could tether him to life.

He had nothing left. No means, no options. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

I don’t want to die.

For the first time, Rui admitted it to himself.

I want to see him again. I don’t want to die.

The blue sky, visible through the cracked windscreen, deepened and darkened as though to swallow him whole, intensifying in its cruel beauty.

He opened his mouth to breathe, tears spilling down his face.

He buried his face in his hands, tilting his head to the sky, and for the first time, he cried for himself. He longed for Mikami. He was terrified of dying. He was terrified of losing the chance to see Mikami again.

Sobs wracked his body, his breath hitching as he wept in the void of the unrelenting sky. Alone, aimless, no way home.

The heavens were high, and the land impossibly distant.

"Mikami… Mikami, I—"

Rui screamed into the unfeeling expanse of blue, his voice raw and desperate. His cries echoed futilely against the serene vastness.

The sky above remained indifferent, an unyielding canvas of tranquil azure.

"—I don’t want to die—!"

His lament pierced the quiet air, the light catching the tears streaming down his cheeks.

An explosion roared from the side of the fuselage, and the plane pitched violently.

The U-shaped part rattled, slicing through the ocean wind.

Piii-eeeee

The clear, melodic cry echoed through the air, and Mikami instinctively looked up toward the sky. Beyond the scorched treetops, patches of blue peeked through. It was the call of a jungle bird, high and drawn out, resonating in the heavy air.

Sweat, thick like oil, trickled down the back of Mikami’s neck. He no longer had the strength to wipe it away, nor even the will to feel discomfort.

“Mikami, stay with us.”

The ground crewman and mechanic supporting him readjusted their grips under his arms, preventing him from collapsing completely. As they steadied him, a gust of wind swept through the trees, momentarily cooling the sweltering air. Mikami narrowed his eyes against the fleeting breeze.

They were trudging up a gentle incline through underbrush. Earlier, when they had returned to the air-raid shelter, the hospital truck had already departed. Delayed from the outset, Mikami’s condition had worsened so much that walking—even dragging his leg—had slowed them further. He’d fallen to his knees several times, and by then he was nearly at his limit. Over the course of mere hours, his body had grown markedly weaker.

Just as they resigned themselves to waiting for tomorrow’s truck, someone mentioned a tricycle heading toward the hospital from a nearby post. They managed to arrange a ride.

“Almost there, Mikami,” one of his supporters encouraged as he faltered again. Mikami could only manage a weak nod, unable to summon words of thanks.

The tropical heat bore down relentlessly. Beads of sweat dripped from his chin, and he could distinctly feel the rivulets running down the center of his chest beneath his clothes—a sensation so vivid it seemed surreal.

He forced air into his scorched lungs, exhaling with deliberate effort. Using his swollen, throbbing right ankle to bear his weight, Mikami summoned all his strength to push his body forward.

I’m alive, he thought, almost in disbelief. The crunch of sand beneath his shoes, the sensation of air tracing his tongue and throat, the creaking of his swollen joints—all of it felt overwhelmingly present. Even the gleam of sunlight on green leaves seemed painfully vivid.

“…”

As he blinked slowly, his eyelashes momentarily came into focus. Perhaps this, he mused, was what it meant to be alive.

If only Rui could feel this, Mikami thought. No matter how scarred or different he might be, Rui is still Rui.



The war was harsh, but the future would come to all equally. Each second, each fleeting moment, unfolded like fabric being torn—appearing hopelessly taut but never the absolute end.

Just three more gears, and the clock could be repaired. What seemed like a lifeless second hand could tick again, revived, reaching forward into the future. That future continued to open, unyielding, even for Rui.

If we survive this war, Mikami thought, maybe Rui and I could live somewhere he’s never been. Somewhere no one knows him, where no one calls him Asamura.

At first, people might be startled by Rui’s blue eyes, but they’d soon come to see them as beautiful. Over time, his heart would surely find peace. And in a place where no one knew his name, perhaps those wounds in his heart would heal even faster.

Piii-eeeee. Pii, pii-eeeee.

A flock of birds darted noisily between the trees, their black shapes cutting across the green canopy as they sang.

When they left the shelter earlier, someone had mentioned that tonight’s meal for the pilots would be salted fish. Islanders from nearby had heard the Japanese paid well for fish and had come to sell their catch.

Surely, Rui would be pleased. He’d eat the fish with childlike focus, his strange, impeccable precision making it almost an art form.

Mikami allowed himself a faint, fleeting smile at the thought.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The pier where Rui had submerged his feet that night remained in ruins, its planks warped and broken. Underneath a fierce canopy of stars, Mikami sat in the same spot where he and Rui had once shared a quiet moment.

His leg was still bound in bandages, and he could not walk without a cane, but the fever had subsided, and the progression of the wound had finally halted. Gently, Mikami dipped his toes into the seawater, mimicking Rui’s action that night. A soft, blue glow rippled outward from his movement, like a spring unfurling into the sea.

The lonely light of bioluminescent plankton. What had Rui felt as he gazed at this? The thought sent waves of sorrow crashing through Mikami’s chest, mingling with the sound of the tide.

The pier groaned, footsteps approaching. Mikami, unwilling to have his thoughts of Rui interrupted, did not turn to see who it was.

“Mikami,” a voice called, close now. It was Toyoda, the head mechanic.

“You’re relieved of your post with the flight squadron. Return to the maintenance unit,” Toyoda said without preamble.

“What does that mean? I’m still—” Mikami’s voice trailed off as he stared at the shimmering moonlit sea. Though his thoughts felt hazy, he still divided his time between the squadron and the maintenance crew. Fuel shortages had grounded most of the planes, but during the day, Mikami worked as a mechanic. At night, he lingered near the pilots’ quarters, ensuring Rui wasn’t left alone. If Rui was sitting by himself, knees pulled to his chest, Mikami would find a way to invite him for a walk.

“First Class Petty Officer Asamura won’t be returning.”

“He hasn’t been declared KIA (killed in action) yet!” Mikami shot back, his voice rising in defiance. It was the sole thread keeping him together. Rui had not returned, but no official confirmation of his death had come. There was still a chance. Perhaps Rui had crash-landed somewhere. Mikami had known several pilots who had been presumed dead, only to return weeks later, ferried back by local boats.

He reached into his pocket, where he carried Rui’s watch. He had kept it close at all times, a treasure he had vowed to protect. Repairs had stalled due to a lack of parts, but Mikami’s greater fear was being ordered to surrender the metal itself for the war effort. He had already handed over his own watch. But this one, Rui’s watch—no matter what, he would guard it until Rui returned.

The thought was as solid and unwavering as the cold metal resting against his heart.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Kido held a document that had never been submitted to command—a message intercepted by the communications unit. It was the final transmission sent from Rui Asamura’s aircraft.

The communications unit had grown increasingly quiet. The rising strength of enemy jamming signals had rendered Japan’s already fragile radio systems nearly useless. The dwindling number of operational aircraft meant fewer transmissions from pilots, and in response, many had begun discarding their radios to lighten their load before taking off into the isolated skies.

Just before dusk, a communication officer entered the room. He walked up to Kido and, with a somber expression, spoke quietly.

“Please tell him. Leaving him like this is too cruel.”

He was referring to Mikami, who continued to wait at the harbor pier for Rui’s return.

Everyone in the room knew of Rui Asamura’s fate. They had not witnessed his death, nor could they pinpoint the exact moment it happened. But it was evident that he had likely crashed. Even if he had survived the impact, the location of his fuel depletion made it impossible for him to swim back to safety.

When Kido first received the transmission, he had ordered absolute silence from everyone present. Rui’s death was a certainty. His wingmen had witnessed and reported his final feat—downing six enemy planes in that battered, outdated Zero. There was nothing more to be said.

The communications officer, eyes full of quiet protest, stared at Kido.

“Rui Asamura fought valiantly. To the very end, he was a guardian spirit of our forces, fierce as a demon. Those words—”

Kido rested his hand over the folded paper in front of him.

“—are not fit for Rui Asamura’s final moments.”

“But—”

“If you have any sense of compassion ... if you care for Mikami at all—”

A wave of helplessness washed over Kido. Even he, who had resolved to allow Rui to die on his own terms, felt shaken by his own decision. He had intended to respect Rui’s wishes—to grant him the dignity of a death that satisfied his pride. And for that, Kido had been deeply grateful to Mikami, who had offered Rui a rare kindness in his final days.

Kido had wanted to shield Mikami from being dragged down, yet at the same time, he had allowed him to carry his sincerity—like a poor man’s last supper—for Rui to take with him as he soared towards his final stage.

But now… Kido could hardly believe it. That Rui had left behind such words.

“What should my death poem be?”

The first time Rui had ever turned to Kido for help, it had been for something as absurd as that. He had wanted to know what would make his farewell words more dignified, more impressive. It was such a typical Rui thing to ask.

Kido had humored him, listing off elegant phrases drawn from classical Chinese literature and telling him to mix and match as he pleased. Rui had listened, cheeks flushed, nodding in satisfaction. That same Rui had left behind this.

“Let him be remembered as missing in action. Let him scatter like fallen petals.”

Kido cursed Arata Etou, the man who had placed Rui under his care.

What had Rui ultimately gained? In those brief moments before the end, what had he built with Mikami?

“I don’t want to die.”

Those words—words Kido had intended to carry to his grave.

It was a phrase powerful enough to drag Mikami into the depths of despair.

And it was a phrase so profoundly unsuited to the life that Rui Asamura, who had once so desperately sought the perfect death, they were an epitaph that no longer suited him at all.

Previous TOC Next

Comments

Popular Posts

Second Serenade [Illustrated]

COLD HEART Series [Illustrated]

List of Novels by Konohara Narise (Chronological Order)