Chapter 13: Mitsuko Emi

The two elders stayed until late into the night. Only after they had left did Uesugi Koshin depart from the Toyokawa residence, choosing not to stay overnight. Despite Toyokawa Sadaharu’s earnest attempts to persuade him otherwise, Uesugi Koshin declined, explaining that after living in a pigsty for so long, staying in such a grand house made him feel insecure and sleepless.

Thus, Sadaharu had no choice but to escort him out under an umbrella. Uesugi Koshin climbed into his old rickety cart, pressed the accelerator, and the vehicle’s engine sputtered to life with a chugging sound, resembling a three-wheeled scooter. It swayed gently as it disappeared into the night.

A flicker of firelight vanished beneath the black umbrella. Gazing after his departing old friend’s silhouette, Sadaharu lit a cigar.

Time reduces everyone to stubborn children. Once a proud kingpin of the underworld, Koshin now only wished to tend to his noodle stall, reluctant to replace a car that was barely holding together.

The fine rain beginning to fall around his feet brought a slight chill. Sadaharu suddenly felt that the season approaching spring was bitterly cold, wearisome and disheartening.

There were still things he hadn’t told Uesugi Koshin. Recently, Tokyo had been drenched in relentless rain, with stretches of sunshine lasting no more than three days before another bout of rain—sometimes light, sometimes heavy—would arrive.

In the past month, the rainfall had already exceeded what was typical for half a year, yet everywhere outside Tokyo basked in clear skies, as if all the rain in Japan had concentrated here, flooding recklessly.

This was a sign of elemental turbulence, a harbinger of great events to come. The wind and rain before him reeked of dragon’s blood.

***

The next day was Saturday. Toyokawa Shoko opened her eyes, looking up at the familiar ceiling.

After such intense training, she woke without soreness, even feeling refreshed—benefits of the dragon’s blood coursing through her veins. As an advertisement might say, it was like eating heartily and feeling incredibly fit.

The first thing she did was not to wash up, but to glance at the calendar on her bedside table, then turn over and open the bottom drawer.

Inside lay a gift from Kazama Ruri: twelve vividly colored cocktails. The first bottle was already empty.

Shoko picked up the second pale blue one and twisted off the cap. The rich aroma evoked the joys of springtime. She tilted her head back and drained the small amount of liquid, feeling it flow down her throat into her stomach.

A fiery lava seemed to ignite within, and her heart pounded like a battle drum, pumping fresh blood surging through every corner of her body, thrilling her.

Her body temperature rapidly soared to 42 degrees Celsius—enough to destroy brain proteins and cause organ failure.

Yet she felt her cells dividing faster; the aging waste was killed the moment new cells were born. Every new cell, supported by dragon’s blood, radiated unparalleled vitality. Her cheeks flushed from the heat, becoming even more adorable.

Biology books said the human body’s cell division is limited, with each cycle lasting about 2.4 years. But this cocktail seemed to defy that rule, keeping her body at peak condition—each time stronger than before.

She tried swinging her fists as boxers do. Her slender arms cut through the air with sharp whistling sounds.

The box of gifts contained a note explaining these could activate her bloodline, significantly boosting her physical strength and endurance. The method was to take the next cocktail one day later than the previous interval.

She had taken one on the day she was discharged. Today was the third day; the next would be on the sixth, then the tenth.

She circled these dates on her calendar so she wouldn’t forget, ensuring she’d see them first thing upon waking.

Feeling the exhilaration of evolution, Shoko wondered what she might become after finishing all twelve.

A Super Saiyan like Kakarot? Or a Superman like Iron Man?

If possible, she hoped to grow taller too. Though in Japan, a height of 1.55 meters was considered cute and ideal, Shoko longed for long legs.

After all, cuteness always loses to sexiness. Which young girl doesn’t wish for a great figure?

And, if possible, a larger bust as well…

Dressed in a vertically striped French-style elegant blouse, paired with a grey plaid skirt, lace-trimmed white ankle socks, and Mary Jane shoes, Shoko finished breakfast at home and set out with her bag.

Among the other four members of CryChic, Nagasaki Sosei had readily admitted to being a half-blood, even believing it was a superpower and seemed to enjoy it.

Based on past interactions, Sosei was a good listener and would keep secrets if asked not to meddle.

Shiina Riki was an ordinary person but was close to Takamatsu Akari, often caring for her and accompanying her home. Bright-eyed Akari was actually the least worrying; if anything happened, Riki would likely be the first to alert everyone.

Therefore, Shoko felt the one who needed concern most was her childhood friend, Waka Mutsu.

In the practice room, Mutsu had not answered questions directly, which made Shoko uneasy. Mutsu never lied, so perhaps she found it difficult to respond with so many people around.

***

Shoko decided to visit Mutsu privately to talk about the half-blood matter.

At the shopping district, she bought a boxed mango juice. Though visiting a childhood friend didn’t require a gift, she felt it rude to arrive empty-handed and chose something Mutsu liked.

It wasn’t her first time at Mutsu’s home, yet standing before this splendid building, Shoko couldn’t help but admire its beauty.

This was a three-story detached house on 1,300 square meters of land, with a modern stone facade rising and falling like a natural work of art. The main structure was reportedly designed by a private Tokyo residential architect, exuding understated elegance and grandeur. Passersby didn’t need to know who lived here—they could tell the occupant’s stature at a glance.

Modesty was a word foreign to Mutsu’s home. She was a second-generation celebrity: her father was the nationally beloved comedian Waka Takafumi, and her mother the rising star Mori Minami.

Living constantly under the spotlight, even if she wished to be low-key, it was impossible.

Pressing the doorbell, Shoko waited.

“Oh, Miss Shoko! Long time no see!” came a surprised voice from the video intercom—it was the maid.

“Hello,” Shoko bowed slightly. “Is Mutsu home?”

“She’s practicing guitar. Shall I call her?”

“No need to disturb her. I’ll find her myself.”

This was about the half-blood issue; no outsiders were allowed.

The garden gate slowly opened. Shoko was as familiar with the place as her own home. She didn’t use the front door, instead walking around to a side floor-to-ceiling window to enter and reach the basement.

Mutsu’s hobby was guitar, whose sound pierced more than a piano’s, so she always stayed in the basement.

Shoko found this odd. The house was huge; surely there was a separate music room? Was this sunny-faced beauty actually a mushroom, shunning the light?

She had asked once, but Mutsu only shook her head in response.

The basement was dimly lit by wall lamps and cluttered with miscellaneous items: a projector, screen, full-length mirror, electronics—a secret little world.

The electric guitar’s rhythm was gentle and tender. Mutsu sat on a small round stool, unaware of Shoko’s arrival, focused on her playing.

Shoko didn’t interrupt immediately, instead standing on the stairs, quietly listening.

She was playing "Springtime Shadow," CryChic’s own song.

When the song ended, Shoko gently clapped. Mutsu froze, looked up, surprised to see her childhood friend standing there.

“Sho...” Her long lashes fluttered. Mutsu glanced briefly before lowering her head again, clutching her guitar silently.

“Am I not welcome?” Shoko stepped down the stairs.

“No, it’s not that...”

“Then why do you look so unhappy?”

To those unfamiliar with Mutsu, it was hard to discern happiness on her face. Many thought she was expressionless and unfeeling.

But she did smile—rarely, but truly. And only Shoko could understand her emotions.

“Sorry... I caused CryChic to break up,” Mutsu whispered.

“CryChic hasn’t broken up. I just don’t have time now. As long as you’re there, CryChic exists,” Shoko said, sitting on a small sofa in the corner.

“And I know you said that because you feel your guitar playing isn’t good enough, but you really shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Mutsu nodded faintly. Shoko wasn’t sure if she understood. Technically, Mutsu’s skills were flawless, but she couldn’t pour her emotions into her music.

Shoko understood this problem—but she hadn’t come just to talk music.

“I came today to talk about something else.” Opening the mango juice, she gave one to Mutsu and kept one for herself. “That day in the practice room, did you hide something from me?”

“Hide? What do you mean?” Mutsu looked puzzled.

“Your eyes. Don’t you know? Sometimes they turn into bright golden irises, far beyond normal human color.”

“...I don’t know.” Mutsu shook her head.

Her tone was calm, merely stating a fact, making it impossible to tell if she was lying.

“Look into my eyes.” Shoko pointed at herself.

She closed her eyes, recalling that night’s encounter: the rainy night, the overpass, the Maybach, the blurred face, the fading shouts...

When she opened them again, her stern golden eyes outshone the wall lamps. The entire basement was bathed in bright light.

Mutsu’s usually impassive face stirred. She widened her eyes slightly, surprised.

“Colored contact magic?”

“Just think of it that way,” Shoko said. “Recognize it? That’s something you have too.”

“I don’t know...” Mutsu faced the golden eyes close at hand with a look that said, “I don’t understand. Asking me won’t help.”

Shoko felt a twinge of annoyance. She clearly remembered that in the practice room, when Mutsu said, “I’ve never found playing in a band fun,” her eyes, raised then, were like burning gold—cold and fiery.

From experience and what she had seen in herself, the golden eyes light up with the emotions of a half-blood. Could Mutsu really be unaware of this?

The golden glow dimmed gradually, and Shoko’s eyes returned to their usual amber.

“Then let’s pretend I never asked. But if you notice anything like this again, promise to tell me.”

“Okay.” Mutsu nodded.

“And about the guitar.” Shoko’s voice softened. “Your technique is fine, even skilled. But you play without emotion. Music is about expressing your feelings.”

“Express my feelings?”

“For example, just now when you played ‘Springtime Shadow.’ You usually practice alone with heavy metal songs, right? Why did you choose that one now?”

Mutsu thought seriously for a moment. For a girl with little emotional fluctuation, it was a tough question; she could only shake her head helplessly.

“It’s your mood. Because you were thinking of CryChic, of me, of everyone, feeling sorry. That emotion turned into the rhythm of your guitar. The same song naturally became gentler, even sadder.”

Shoko looked earnestly into Mutsu’s eyes. “When you’re happy, you sing and dance, bursting with excitement. When troubled, you just absentmindedly strum, the sound not reaching your own ears. You’ve felt this before—when we sang together at karaoke, and at CryChic’s first performance.”

“If you want your guitar to come alive, think back to those feelings—that’s your best state.”

Mutsu lowered her head, apparently pondering this advice. Shoko sipped her mango juice in silence, hoping her childhood friend would soon learn to play with heart.

A long, cool silence followed, then sudden applause—like hearing a master’s stirring words.

Mutsu clapped and looked up, her shining eyes vivid with golden light.

“Well said, little Shoko.”

Shoko was stunned by the reappearance of those golden eyes. Mutsu’s lips curved into a smile—a face so adorable one wanted to embrace it, yet so unfamiliar.

“Mutsu never calls me that...” Shoko stared into her eyes. “Who are you, really?”