Record of Lorelei: Chapter 9

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Simpson Harbor, the bay nestled within Rabaul, was formed from a caldera created by volcanic activity. It was an inland sea, shaped like a circular hole at the edge of the island, connected to the Pacific Ocean by a narrow passage. No matter how rough the open sea became, the waters here were always calm. With its wide mouth and deep depths, it was a natural, excellent port often frequented by ships.

Rui sat on a narrow pier extending into a secluded corner of the bay, barefoot, halfway down its length. It was a dock designed for small boats. He sat with one knee bent and the other leg dangling over the water.

Above him stretched a sky packed with stars, almost close enough to touch, yet Rui didn’t look up. Instead, his gaze was fixed downward on the dark sea.

Each time the waves lapped against the pier, the water below glimmered faintly, glowing with an eerie, pale blue light. The surface shimmered briefly before fading back into the darkness—a display caused by bioluminescent plankton. The sea sparkled with life, glowing blue whenever disturbed by fish or the pier itself. When the glow intensified, Rui could even see his toes in the water.

As the heavy, salty wind blew past him, Rui parted his lips and let out a soft, “Ah.” It wasn’t much of a sound. His vocal cords, melted and scarred, refused to produce anything more than a rasp. Even the base of his tongue had fused awkwardly. Eating was manageable, but certain pronunciations were beyond him.

How is it that Mikami can hear my voice?

Even Kido, who was remarkably adept at reading lips, didn’t understand Rui as well as Mikami did. Mikami, however, always seemed to understand, even when he wasn’t looking directly at Rui. It was as if Mikami could hear him.

When those three angry pilots had tried to drag Rui away earlier, he had screamed silently, “Someone, help!” Of course, the sound hadn’t carried. Even the squadron member nearby had ignored him, pretending not to see. No one should have heard me. Yet Mikami had come to his rescue, rushing from his Zero fighter as if he’d heard every word.

Rui dipped his toes into the water. The moment his skin touched the surface, pale blue rings of light rippled outward. He watched them until a sound from the shore caught his attention. His body tensed. Another ambush? He glanced in the direction of the noise, but the tall figure silhouetted against the faint light was unmistakable. Mikami, his weight leaning slightly to the right with each step.

“Rui.”

Again? How does he always find me? Rui wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to hear the answer. If it turned out to be something mundane, he’d feel both embarrassed and disappointed. Instead, he lowered his gaze back to the water, watching the faint, bluish glow dance across the rippling surface.

The wooden boards of the pier creaked as Mikami approached.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Rui said nothing, so Mikami sat down quietly beside him. From his pocket, Mikami retrieved a small bundle wrapped in white cloth. Gently, he unfolded the cloth to reveal the pocket watch Rui had entrusted to him earlier that day.

“I took a look at the watch,” Mikami said, his tone calm but serious. “The rust and dust inside are pretty bad. It’ll need a full overhaul. Several important parts are damaged beyond repair. I can order replacement parts and fix it properly. Or, if you prefer something quicker, I can use some of my own parts to get it working for now.”

So it’s really that bad. Rui had known the watch was in poor condition but had never found anyone he could trust to repair it. The hole corroded by acid mirrored his own wounds—an open sore, festering and spreading. Showing such an ugly, painful thing was deeply embarrassing. But perhaps it was easier to share with Mikami because he was a mechanic, someone accustomed to dealing with damage and imperfections. Like a patient reluctantly showing a doctor their scars, Rui had let Mikami see it.

Mikami’s offer was generous, but Rui knew the man needed his own watch. Rui reached into his pocket and pulled out a new aviation timepiece, its face coated with luminous paint. He always carried it when he ventured out; losing track of time could be dangerous. If Mikami needed parts, he could take them from this one.

Mikami looked at the watch Rui held out. His voice softened, almost like a parent patiently explaining something to a child.

"Won't you have trouble without this while it's being repaired? Besides, that watch’s parts aren't compatible with yours. I’ll be fine with a desk clock or even asking someone for the time. My pocket watch is an older model, so its parts should work better for the repair," Mikami said gently.

"Is that so?" Rui’s voice, unsteady and raspy as always, still carried enough to be heard. Mikami, unbothered, continued, his gaze fixed on the watch resting atop the cloth.

"It seems like an important watch to you, so I’ll try to keep as many original parts as possible. Swapping the whole mechanism would be quicker, but you wouldn’t want that, would you?"

"You can do something like that?" Rui asked, surprise mingling with doubt. How could Mikami know so much? This watch was the only surviving proof of that night—the fire, the scattering of his family. Rui couldn’t bear to lose even a single cog. Yet, carrying it felt like a weight, like dragging around a corpse. The corroded backplate, its expanding hole, mirrored his own wounds, a relentless reminder of the disease consuming him. Mikami had promised to remove the decay, restore what was salvageable, and leave Rui with something whole again.

"If you'll allow me to do what I can, I’ll give it my best. Are there any parts you absolutely want to keep?" Mikami asked.

"I don't know the first thing about watch mechanics," Rui admitted.

"Got it." Mikami carefully wrapped the watch in its cloth, his touch tender, almost reverent. Watching how gently Mikami handled it tightened something in Rui’s chest.

He knew he should thank Mikami, but before Rui could dredge up words long buried, Mikami spoke again.

"About earlier—I’m sorry for interfering. But I thought you were in danger."

Was Mikami referring to how he had come to Rui's rescue?

"You’ll draw unnecessary resentment if you keep flying recklessly," Mikami added, concern etched into his voice.

He meant well, but Rui was used to it. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced violence. Since coming to Rabaul, Kido’s watchful eye had kept him from any life-threatening encounters, but Rui had endured plenty: cigarettes pressed against him in passing, beatings that left him bruised but able to fly. It was routine.

"I appreciate your concern, Mikami, but don’t meddle. You’ll only get caught in the crossfire. I’m going to keep flying as I wish, even if it kills me," Rui replied firmly.

He knew his actions were selfish, reckless even, but he was resolute. Mikami had nothing to gain from getting involved and would only suffer as collateral damage.

"I don’t understand," Mikami said, his voice unwavering.

He never did. From the start, Mikami had been unable to grasp Rui’s mindset. The notion of risking everything—even his life—for the sake of victory, of securing glory, was alien to him. Rui knew that Mikami’s life hadn’t prepared him for such extremes. He came from a good family, likely one with moderate wealth, a proper education, and an honorable path through technical school. Mikami’s world was filled with family, friends, and the ordinary luxuries of a life Rui could only envy. It made Rui feel bitter, resentful—and oddly relieved that Mikami couldn’t fully comprehend his pain.

Rui shifted his gaze from the glowing sea to Mikami, an idea sparking in his mind. "Do you want to hear my story?"

There was a mischievous edge to his tone. Rui had never cared if others thought him a selfish fool, obsessed with personal glory. But part of him wanted Mikami to know, to understand—to see the truth and resign himself to it. This wasn’t a story for the crowd or a place bustling with noise. With his fractured voice, Rui needed this quiet, this stillness, to stand a chance of being heard.

Mikami turned toward him, his expression a mix of curiosity and hesitation.

"What is it?" Rui asked, surprised to see Mikami so visibly taken aback. Mikami scratched his head, looking slightly flustered.

"I thought you were someone who wouldn't open up so easily," he admitted.

Rui couldn't help but laugh softly. What an amusing man.

"It's because you’re a simple-minded, bothersome guy," Rui replied.

People had always made assumptions about him. His inability to speak was taken as proof of arrogance, cruelty, or even insanity. Selfish, bloodthirsty, ruthless, reckless—a fool willing to throw his life away for glory. Everyone decided who Rui was without ever asking him, cementing those impressions as fact.

But Mikami was different. He didn’t take rumors at face value. Instead, he tried to understand. Why Rui insisted on certain modifications. Why he flew the way he did. Patiently, Mikami sought answers directly from Rui, pulling out the truth with care, as though cradling something delicate in a soft white cloth.

The first man who seemed to hear his voice, even through its silence. The first man foolish enough to put his body on the line for someone like Rui.

It was hard to imagine, but Rui wanted to tell Mikami about his father—something he’d never shared with anyone. Perhaps Mikami wouldn’t believe him, but Rui wanted to leave the truth with him: his father hadn’t taken his own life.

Rui gently dipped his toe into the sea. Blue light rippled outward across the surface, the bioluminescence shimmering like a living constellation. Droplets of glowing water clung to his foot before falling back into the waves. As he watched the light play on the surface, he murmured softly, almost to himself:

"When I was seventeen, during a brief leave from flight school, robbers broke into my home. They killed my parents. They stuffed a cloth soaked in hydrochloric acid down my throat."

"Is that what happened?" Mikami said, his tone somber but without unnecessary theatrics. A decent man to listen to such a grim story without flinching.

"My whole family died. My father—he was a government official. They accused him of embezzlement."

Rui glanced at Mikami, searching for a reaction. Mikami’s brow furrowed slightly, his expression one of quiet sympathy. He seemed to be waiting for Rui to continue. That genuine, unguarded empathy unsettled Rui, making him question whether to go on.

"Do you believe me, just calling it an accusation?" Rui asked.

Mikami’s expression didn’t waver. He tilted his head slightly, as if confused by the question. "If you say it was an accusation, then it was."

Rui let out a soft laugh despite himself.

He’s either incredibly kind or incredibly foolish. Until now, no one had ever believed him when he said the rumors were false. Yet Mikami accepted it so simply, with a sincerity that almost brought tears to Rui’s eyes. Was this relief? For so long, Rui’s denials had fallen on deaf ears, leaving his truth battered and frail, barely clinging to life within him. Every day was a struggle to preserve a shred of dignity under the weight of relentless scorn. But Mikami, with his straightforward trust, had eased that burden—even just a little.

"You’re an interesting guy," Rui said, swallowing back the lump in his throat. The impulse to cry gave way to a faint, incredulous smile. Mikami’s kindness felt almost unreal.

Mikami looked at him with a slightly troubled expression, which quickly sobered Rui’s mirth. The brief joy faded as a more profound ache resurfaced—the loneliness he’d endured for so long. For the first time, Rui realized how deeply he had craved acknowledgment, a simple recognition of his pain.

The bioluminescent glow blurred through the tears welling in his eyes. A single drop fell to the sea below, creating another ripple of blue light. Rui didn’t wipe his eyes. Instead, he spoke again, his voice steady despite the weight of his memories.

"After my father died, everything was burned. There’s no evidence left, and the accusations will never be cleared. The Asamura family is finished," Rui said, his voice tinged with resignation.

"You’re still here, aren’t you?" Mikami responded earnestly.

How naïve is this man? Rui thought. Mikami must still hold the kind of optimism Rui had before the incident—that being the eldest son, working hard, and carrying on the family name was all it took to preserve a legacy.

"If I keep living without clearing my father’s name, the family will forever be branded as corrupt. If that’s the case, it’s far better for the Asamura family to end with its heir dying honorably in the Navy. At least that way, there’s some dignity in how it ends."

"That’s it? Just that?" Mikami asked, his face puzzled.

To Mikami, giving one’s life for a lost cause—honor that could never be reclaimed—was incomprehensible. Rui knew his death wouldn’t fix anything; it was an empty gesture. But Mikami’s innocence began to feel frustrating. He likely didn’t understand the depths of the scandal, how the newspapers had torn Rui’s family apart, turning them into a spectacle, spreading baseless rumors. Rui was all that remained of the Asamura family. None of his relatives could be reached, and rumors suggested distant kin had even changed their surnames out of shame.

It was impossible for someone like Mikami to understand. Even Rui had never heard of a story as tragic as his own.

"That’s right. This is all I have left. I’m here to carve my name into the world. —Rui Asamura fought like a demon, shot down countless enemy planes, and died on the front lines. Kido will make sure the telegram is sent without fail."

It was a promise Kido had made to him. When Rui was introduced to him with the advice, "If you go to Rabaul, rely on Kido," he hadn’t been prepared for Kido’s overly cheerful and familiar demeanor. Yet Kido had given Rui his word—to ensure that when Rui died, the story of his sacrifice would be known back home. Rui feared dying anonymously, his achievements erased. He wanted the people to know that Asamura’s son had fought bravely and died honorably. Kido, an officer in the communications corps, would ensure that tale was told.

"The Asamura family would regain its honor and then vanish. That’s the story I’ve chosen."

If the family name could fade with some semblance of dignity, Rui might face his parents and grandmother in the afterlife with some measure of pride.

Mikami, gazing at him with neither anger nor scorn, whispered firmly, "That’s wrong."

It wasn’t a shout, just a quiet declaration of truth. Mikami’s tone carried a weight that left no room for doubt.

"I don’t know why your father had to go through what he did," Mikami continued, his voice soothing, almost gentle. "But wasn’t he falsely accused?"

"Yes," Rui replied.

"Then you don’t have to die for this."

Mikami’s words, so simple yet sincere, pierced through Rui’s resolve. For the first time, someone had listened to his story without prejudice, and judged it with fairness. If it was a false accusation, there was no shame to erase. There was no need to sacrifice his life for honor he hadn’t lost. Naive, maybe—but his kindness is real. Rui’s heart warmed at the thought. Among millions of people in the homeland, no one else had ever responded this way.

Rui smiled faintly, a mix of sorrow and gratitude. "If only everyone were like you, Mikami," he said.

If only people believed him, saw his eyes as something beautiful rather than alien, and didn’t turn away.

"But the world isn’t like that," Rui added. His smile carried the weight of a lifetime of humiliation, of existing as someone who was always out of place.

He had no home anymore, but ensuring the Asamura family’s honor and then dying for it—that was his role as the heir. Meeting Mikami here, at the farthest edge of the south, was a small solace. For once, someone had listened, had understood. Rui felt a bit lighter. Perhaps he wouldn’t die utterly alone. There was a warmth, however fleeting, that he could carry with him to the other side.

Mikami, still gazing seriously out at the sea, broke the silence.

"If I’m part of this ‘world’ you speak of," he said softly, "then I want to tell you—things aren’t as bleak as you think."

Mikami’s hand reached out, brushing the back of Rui’s head gently. That slight touch sent another tear slipping from Rui’s eye. It fell into the glowing sea, where the night-lighting plankton created a small, radiant circle around the ripple.

＊ ＊ ＊

Tetsuo Mikami came looking for Kido just as Kido was wondering about him.

"Kido, there’s someone outside asking for you," a communication officer reported, interrupting Kido as he worked on leftover paperwork. The visitor had chosen a spot where they wouldn’t be in the way, clearly timing their arrival for the end of the communications department’s tasks. Either Mikami was considerate by nature, or perhaps all maintenance crew were just that mindful.

Kido escorted Mikami to the officer quarters, which had been burned down in the recent air raid. The makeshift building was crude but had enough chairs, tables, and liquor to make it suitable for hosting a guest.

"What’s on your mind?" Kido asked.

Mikami inquired if there were any old, discarded pocket watches lying around. Specifically, he was looking for an older model. When Kido pressed for a reason, Mikami explained it was to repair a pocket watch.

"Rui’s?" Kido asked.

"Yes."

Apparently, Rui had entrusted Mikami with repairing his keepsake pocket watch, a relic of his father. Kido had seen the watch before—it was broken and unremarkable. Rui had always refused to let anyone touch it.

"Impressive," Kido admitted, genuinely astonished. For someone as guarded and distrustful as Rui to share his life story and hand over such a personal item—it was almost magical.

"What is?" Mikami asked, puzzled.

"You fix more than just machines. Do you mend hearts too?"

Mikami seemed unaware of the deeper impact of his actions. Even now, Rui only appeared when Kido explicitly summoned him.

Kido, amused by Mikami’s confusion, offered his own pocket watch. "How about this?"

Watches were essential tools for communication officers, sometimes doubling as improvised cipher tools. Kido’s was a newer model, a valuable piece issued when he departed for the frontlines—while not as prestigious as an award watch, it was still a quality item.

Mikami glanced at it briefly before shaking his head. "No, this isn’t what I need," he said, returning it.

"The watch Rui has is an older model, predating the standard issue for the aviation corps. It’s American-made," Mikami explained.

"…Rui?" Kido repeated in surprise.

Realizing his slip, Mikami quickly corrected himself. "Apologies—‘Asamura First Class Petty Officer.’"

"No, it’s fine. You can call him Rui. He told you to, didn’t he?"

Rui is fine. Kido recalled Rui brusquely handing him a small scrap of paper with those words written on it. It had been more than three months since they’d met, and Rui had finally expressed his preference.

Rui hated being called by his surname. He resented how people would connect "Asamura" to his blue eyes and form negative impressions because of it.

"Yes," Mikami replied, sitting upright across the desk.

"It’s an important watch, and I want to restore it as close to its original state as possible," Mikami explained. "But I’m struggling to find compatible parts. I’ve asked around, but most of the other aviators have already switched to the new standard watches."

"That’s not surprising. Was it two months ago we sent back a whole batch of old ones?" Kido mused.

Watches were indispensable tools for the aviation corps. Pilots, mechanics, signalmen, and ground crew alike depended on them to synchronize operations. Relying on American-made models had become untenable, prompting the development of domestic military watches, which were now standard in the Navy. When the new models were introduced, the old ones were recalled, and incoming personnel were issued the new standard watches. With the new models distributed to the southern frontlines first, finding older watches now would be no small task.

"I see. Understood," Mikami said. "I’ll try reaching out to someone back home. I think I can track down at least one."

"Sorry to trouble you. Rui owes you a lot," Kido said.

"Not at all. I just want to fix it as soon as possible. After all, I volunteered to help."

To Kido, the mere fact that Rui had entrusted Mikami with such a precious item was a monumental event, but to Mikami, it seemed like just another task.

Then they chatted casually for a while. When Kido asked Mikami what he and Rui talked about, Mikami cautiously described their conversations, mainly small, mundane topics. Encouraging Mikami to talk about himself, Kido learned that Mikami knew how to play Go. Seizing the opportunity, Kido invited Mikami to drop by when he had time—he was growing bored of playing with the same opponents in the communications corps and was eager to encounter a fresh playing style.

At first, Mikami seemed slightly hesitant, but as they spoke, his initial stiffness faded. He wasn’t the type to shy away from people, but neither was he naïve enough to blindly trust strangers. His speech was straightforward and unadorned, reflecting the practicality of someone in maintenance. He had the patience to wait for others to finish speaking and demonstrated a sense of tact and a gentle, earnest demeanor. He could handle Rui, Kido thought. Mikami’s guileless sincerity was probably the perfect antidote to Rui’s guarded nature.

“How did you and Rui meet, Kido?” Mikami asked. It was an unusual pairing—a pilot and a communication officer—unlikely to cross paths naturally. Rui’s almost feral wariness made it even less probable for him to gravitate toward someone like Kido under ordinary circumstances. Their connection, Kido admitted, had been deliberately arranged.

“A mutual acquaintance introduced us,” Kido explained.

Calling that person a “friend” felt too presumptuous. Technically, they had been colleagues during a communications corps training session, where Kido first met this man—someone from a respected family, regarded as a rising star by even the upper echelons of the Navy. Despite the man’s promising career and notable reputation, their relationship was distant; Kido had only been aware of him through rumors. This man, Arata Etou, was the one who introduced Rui to him.

“It’s the military, after all. He had blue eyes, joined a year late, and on top of that, he had a fiery temperament and skill as a pilot. Of course, he attracted trouble. There’s someone I know who enjoys taking in people like that,” Kido explained.

The acquaintance in question was Arata Etou, a man who had graduated at the top of his class from the Naval Academy. Though expected to join the crew of a prestigious battleship, Etou had instead taken a position in the communications corps, earning a reputation as an unconventional officer. Kido remembered Etou vividly—he had accosted Kido in a hallway, greeting him with such familiarity that it felt like they were old friends.

"So, you’re off to Rabaul, huh? Congratulations! Oh, by the way, I’ve got something interesting for you."

In hindsight, the encounter seemed too coincidental to be accidental. Perhaps Etou had been waiting for him. With Kido about to depart for Rabaul, there hadn’t been time for elaborate preparations.

"It’s just… this one comes with baggage. He could use a guardian."

Etou had introduced the topic lightly, but Kido had been puzzled at the time. While it wasn’t unusual for officers to request favors for acquaintances heading to the front, Kido couldn’t imagine why Etou would entrust him with such a task. Surely, someone with greater rank or influence would have been a better choice.

"He’s picky about people," Etou had said with an easy laugh. Kido remembered Etou’s refined appearance: his chiseled features and elegantly styled curls radiated charm and sophistication. But behind his cheerful demeanor, Etou’s unwavering gaze unsettled Kido. It felt as though he were being appraised. Etou wasn’t judging whether Kido liked Rui but whether Kido was one of the few people capable of looking after him. His penetrating stare, like litmus paper, seemed designed to test Kido’s suitability.

"Rui Asamura… the eldest son of former Finance Minister Asamura."

The moment Kido heard the name, he understood the situation. Asamura, the former Finance Minister, had been embroiled in a scandal two years prior. Accused of embezzlement and corruption, he had fled, barricading himself in his Kyoto home. When cornered, he had set the house ablaze in a dramatic finale. The story had dominated newspapers and tabloids for weeks. And now, his eldest son was a pilot being sent to Rabaul.

"No, I don't need such things."

The idea that such a man’s son had even ended up in the preparatory training corps was surprising enough. But a man with such a scandalous history could only bring trouble, far beyond what an ordinary communication officer like Kido could handle.

Such situations were like quicksand: if you hesitated and reached out a hand to someone drowning in their own woes, you risked being pulled under yourself.

"It seems I can’t meet your expectations. Apologies, Lieutenant Etou. My departure is imminent."

Kido had intended to cut the conversation short, dismissing it outright, but Etou’s serene smile froze him in place.

"I won’t meddle too deeply either, but…"

The moment Etou leaned in to whisper, Kido realized he’d already been ensnared in the man’s game.

When Etou mentioned the name, Kido wondered, what color had his metaphorical litmus paper turned?

"That Asamura minister… there’s a rumor he was falsely accused."

This man was dangerous. Kido’s father was a judge who had mistakenly ruled on a case of wrongful conviction the previous year. Though the error was quickly corrected with the presentation of new evidence, sparing his father’s career, the punishment of a three-month ban from court appearances had been a lasting stain. The incident had been reported only briefly in the newspapers—just a few lines about a "judgment error"—but the disgrace remained. Kido couldn’t help but wonder how much shame his father still bore at his courthouse.

If someone were to dredge up that incident now... The thought chilled him. A minor blemish that had been swept under the rug could become sensationalized, exaggerated, and splashed across tabloids.

Kido glanced at Etou, who wore a composed smile. He realized now that he had been selected deliberately, deemed the "appropriate" person to oversee Rui Asamura. The thoroughness of that calculation sent shivers down his spine.

"I’ve instructed him to stay out of trouble. I’ll also see that a promotion is added to sweeten the deal. While I’m sending him to the South Pacific for now, I trust you’ll keep an eye on him."

"If he comes to you for advice, please listen to him. It shouldn’t be too much trouble, right?"

Kido nearly wanted to bury his head in his hands. What kind of delinquent am I being handed? If even someone like Etou couldn’t keep Rui under control, Kido doubted he’d fare any better. And would Rui even come seeking advice in the first place? If not, it seemed Kido would have to chase him down and force a conversation.

Either way, there didn’t seem to be an escape.

Etou continued chatting amiably, weaving small talk and polite pleasantries like a masterful diplomat. He even suggested a round of Go when the opportunity arose, claiming it was amusing to play with the "straight-laced types."

Why is this man a communication officer? Kido wondered, watching Etou’s carefully crafted smile, as polished and charming as a nobleman’s. His lips, sculpted like a succulent plant’s smooth curves, moved with an elegance befitting someone of aristocratic grace.

With a mind like this, he could have thrived as a commanding officer in another era. Or perhaps… he’s chosen to pull the strings of information himself.

Their meeting ended abruptly, as Kido’s departure to Rabaul loomed. There had been no time for formalities or prolonged goodbyes.

Soon after arriving in Rabaul, Kido met the infamous "eldest son of Minister Asamura."

Rui had neatly cropped hair, was slightly small in stature, and had a delicate, wiry frame. His sharp, almond-shaped eyes were strikingly large, and his upright posture made him cut a fine figure in his flight uniform. If one could distill the concept of an aviator into its purest form, this man would be the result. He reminded Kido of a small Japanese sword—compact, refined, and deadly.

Until I met his eyes and heard his voice.

"I’ve been entrusted with this by Lieutenant Arata Etou."

His words were nearly unintelligible, and Kido had to ask him to repeat himself several times. By the end, Rui’s face was flushed red with embarrassment. What Rui handed him was a single Go bowl.

It was made of golden, lustrous shima-kuwa wood, filled with clam-shell white and Nachi black stones of a thickness Kido had never seen before. He had to bite back a curse.

This is the price of the trouble to come, Kido thought. It was painfully clear from that first meeting that protecting and supporting this young man would demand significant effort.

When Rui arrived in Rabaul, he began racking up extraordinary achievements almost immediately. The reasons for his performance quickly found their way to Kido in the form of complaints. Over time, Kido also pieced together Rui’s background.

A war god who needed protection. The Lorelei of the Azure Sky. That was Rui Asamura.

"I’ll see if I can find anything about the watch," Kido said, nodding to himself. Then he turned his gaze to Mikami.

"And Mikami."

"Yes, sir?"

"When the war ends, you’re coming to the Suikōsha for Go."

"…Huh?"

"It’s a conversation for later."

Kido imagined Mikami being lured to the table by Arata Etou, getting patted on the shoulder, and thoroughly fleeced. Sighing heavily, Kido reached for his glass of whiskey.

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