Chapter 8.

I find myself standing in the unending line outside the academy’s auditorium, waiting to enter the lecture on the summer festival. The midday sun beats down on us, causing droplets of sweat to trickle down my forehead and neck, soaking my white shirt. We’ve been clumped together for at least an hour under this scorching heat, with the line barely moving an inch.

I observe the crowd of hundreds of students around me, all clad in the academy’s mandatory uniform: short-sleeved white shirts and black trousers. Some wear lighter polos or dresses in an attempt to cope with the unbearable humidity. Their sweaty, flushed faces reflect mounting irritation as time ticks away.

I spot the freshmen, oblivious to the general discomfort, shoving each other and laughing as if they were on a playground. Then there are the older students, checking the time on their mobiles impatiently or kicking the ground in frustration.

The smell is pungent. Some fan themselves uselessly with their hands, desperate to deal with it. Others mutter under their breath, complaining softly. I even feel strangers’ sweat drops fall on me, a product of the pressing closeness in this unbearable throng.

Suddenly, a burly man in the academy’s security uniform forces his way through the crowd, pushing students aside with his plump arms.

“Quiet, everyone!” he bellows. “We’ll get this done faster if you line up in two rows, one for regular students and another for clan members! Move it, now!”

At the unexpected order, a buzz of confused and reluctant voices rises. Yet, nobody dares defy the guard. Clumsily, the mass of people begins to split into two groups, elbowing their way through with puffs of frustration. Some bump shoulders and exchange defiant glances.

I watch this unfold with an analytical gaze, coolly studying how these collective dynamics so predictably arise in the face of mentions of status and privilege. The mere word “clan” was enough to ignite the sparks of discord and envy.

In this prestigious academy, social stratification is everything. Belonging to one of the renowned families, holders of ancient hereditary blessings, carries multiple privileges and an almost untouchable status.

It’s pretty absurd that in a country where only around 10% of the population is born with any special blessing, that minority is further subdivided among the so-called “heroes” and “curse hunters” from clans. In theory, both have the same role: to destroy demons and eliminate curses with their powers.

However, in practice, they are very distinct categories, intentionally created by the elite. The “heroes” are the public face of the fight against evil. Ordinary boys and girls born with special gifts, recruited and trained by the government upon graduating from schools to join various hero agencies and organizations.

You see them everywhere, as a brand advertisement: TV shows, movies, ads, school events... They’re expected to risk their lives smiling for the cameras, to sign autographs, give interviews, and to submit docilely to authority. They are the system’s clowns, basically.

The “curse hunters” from ancient clans, on the other hand, are the elite within the elite. They act with complete autonomy and impunity under a veil of mystery, accountable to no one, governed by their own archaic rules. The icing on the cake: most of those ancient families own fortunes and assets several magnitudes greater than the annual budget of entire countries. All thanks to deals made with shoguns and emperors centuries ago.

Those from the famous clans are the first to hurriedly position themselves in their special line, chin tilted up with arrogance. I join them with a measured stride. I come from an almost irrelevant branch of the Fujiwaras, but at the end of the day, I am still a Fujiwara.

As we move forward a few steps, I scrutinize those around me more closely: I distinguish a petite girl with bright red hair, undoubtedly a Fujiwara from the main branch; a young man with delicate features and almond-shaped eyes, a Date; and I even glimpse the imposing figure of a Yamamoto, towering at six feet three inches tall. All exude pride and haughtiness from every pore, aware of their superior standing.

And yet, I am incapable of feeling intimidated or inferior in their presence. Not when I know that essentially, we are not so different; we are made of the same disorderly and repulsive components. Beneath the surface, we are nothing more than a wet jumble of muscles, veins, nerves, and bones. Mere connective tissue precariously assembled, destined to rot.

In the end, flesh corrupts and bones turn to dust, regardless of social standing or surname. Death levels us all. We are animals disguised in elaborate clothing and manners, beasts with delusions of civilization. Some of us are just better at hiding our fangs behind a polite façade and false smiles.

I scan the crowd once more, puzzled. I don’t see Tatsuya anywhere, which is unusual. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot someone who resembles him and quickly turn around, but it’s not Tatsuya. My brow furrows in confusion. Tatsuya was supposed to meet me half an hour ago to enter the lecture together.

Where the hell could he be? It’s not like him to make me wait. He has always been extremely punctual, almost to the point of obsession. It’s one of the few things I would admire about him if I was capable of admiring anything in another person.

Not that I’m dependent on his company, not that I need anyone, but there’s an order to these things, and his disappearance disturbs it. I don’t like waiting, and he knows that; it’s one of the few truths I’ve shared with him. Each person, like each puppet, has its role and its moment, and any deviation is an irritating reminder that the world outside my control is chaotic, unpredictable, disagreeably human.

Suddenly, a figure timidly positions itself behind me. I turn around with a frown, uncomfortable with the intrusion into my personal space, and meet Tsuneo’s nervous gaze. His shoulders are hunched in a submissive posture, quite unlike the arrogance of the others.

“Hi, Tsuneo, I didn’t expect to see you here,” I comment with a false smile, masking my annoyance.

He startles as if my voice suddenly snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, hello Makoto...” he replies with a nervous chuckle, wringing his hands.

I try to ignore the fact that Tatsuya is making me wait and decide to focus on Tsuneo, who has suddenly become a rather convenient momentary distraction. Besides, it’s the perfect time to inquire about something that has always struck me as a very peculiar omission in our interactions.

“I had no idea you came from an important clan... you never mentioned it,” I say, narrowing my eyes and feigning a look of false surprise.

He blushes violently. Clearly, the topic makes him uncomfortable, which piques my interest. I’ll press until he reveals what he’s hiding.

“Well, you never asked,” he replies shyly, averting his gaze to the ground.

I pause for a moment, watching him. Then I tilt my head slightly to one side, in a rehearsed gesture meant to appear friendly and curious, imitating the posture that a real friend interested in his nonsense would make.

“Well, now I’m asking,” I insist with apparent friendliness. “Tell me, Tsuneo... which important clan are you from?”

Tsuneo swallows hard, and his eyes dart from left to right, trying to find an exit that simply isn’t there.

“I... you see, Makoto... I am a Yoneda,” he finally murmurs. “The Kamiyas are a branch of the clan.”

I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. The Yoneda are a large clan, among the top ten most important in the country. Tsuneo doesn’t have the build or the bearing of a descendant from such a prestigious family, not even from one of its insignificant branches.

“I see... I had no idea!” I reply with false surprise, rolling my eyes subtly so he doesn’t notice.

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Tsuneo seems to shrink even more. I can tell he’s hiding something about his supposed origin in the Yoneda clan, but it’s not worth digging further into that topic for now. I have more pressing matters to focus on at the moment, like Tatsuya’s inexplicable absence.

I glance around again. Then, to my irritation, I finally spot him in the distance, chatting animatedly with a petite girl with long lilac hair. They are somewhat away from the student throng, under the shade of a cherry tree in the courtyard.

The girl laughs, covering her mouth with a gesture meant to be modest but coming off as obviously flirtatious. Meanwhile, Tatsuya grins foolishly and scratches his neck nervously, captivated by the young woman. I understand immediately that Tatsuya is flirting with a new romantic conquest and has therefore completely lost track of time. Today was not a good day for his usual romantic dalliances. We had a very clear plan.

Right at that moment, the rest of the students begin to move en masse toward the auditorium entrance. I prepare to walk quickly to catch up with them when I notice that Tsuneo has not moved, standing still, looking at the ground with reluctance.

“Come with me, Tsuneo. We’ll sit together,” I say in a friendly tone, gently touching his shoulder.

His face lights up with a pathetically grateful smile at my gesture. He nods energetically and follows me obediently, like a happy little puppy. I can almost imagine an invisible tail wagging behind him.

We take our seats in the second row, right behind a group of giggling girls chattering non-stop about the festival preparations. I sit at the end of the row, leaving an empty space beside me in case Tatsuya eventually decides to show up.

Tsuneo is fidgeting nervously in his seat. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye as he browses through the conference program, holding it with both hands to disguise his shaking.

I can guess what he’s thinking: that he doesn’t belong here, that we are from completely different worlds. And he’s right, of course. The only reason he is sitting next to me is that I specifically asked him to, as part of the pretense of our “friendship.”

A professor steps up to the podium and begins the conference with the typical formal speech about the importance of upholding school traditions. Every year, our academy organizes a grand festival open to the public, following the tradition of elite schools showcasing their talents. Over a weekend, the gardens are filled with food stalls, games, and exhibitions prepared by the various clubs and classes.

It is the most anticipated event of the year for the students. Especially for the battle tournament, where everyone competes fiercely, turning it into a massive and chaotic display of youthful egos.

My attention returns to the boy next to me. Tsuneo is absent-mindedly doodling in his notebook, sketching strange interwoven symbols. They look like characters from some ancient language; I can’t identify them.

Suddenly, he looks up and catches me examining him. I smile at him amicably. Tsuneo blushes and looks away, clearly embarrassed.

“Hey, nice drawings. What do they mean?” I whisper to him.

Tsuneo hesitates, as if debating whether to share that knowledge with me or not.

“They’re... elvish runes from one of my favorite books,” he finally responds in a low voice. “I study them for fun, I like that stuff... you know, fantasy, imaginary worlds.”

I nod with feigned interest. Inside, I only feel something akin to disdain. Tsuneo is the stereotype of the solitary geek who retreats into worlds of fiction to escape his mediocrity. Weaklings who shy away from facing reality.

***

The professor’s tedious speech finally comes to an end. The students begin to stand up and move towards the auditorium exit in a human tide. I get up from my seat, smoothing out my uniform, and look at Tsuneo who remains seated.

“Come on, we don’t want to get left behind,” I say, gently tapping his shoulder.

Tsuneo starts at my touch but then gives me a shy smile and stands up. We walk side by side, following the stream of students. We finally make it out of the auditorium to the outside courtyard, where the students scatter in different directions. I stop under the shade of a tree and turn to Tsuneo.

“That was pretty boring, don’t you think?” I comment with a smile.

Tsuneo nods vigorously.

“Yes, very tedious... I don’t really like lectures,” he admits shyly.

“Me neither. Hey, what if we...?”

My words are interrupted by a figure that rushes towards me, clinging to my arm. I turn in surprise and find myself faced with the haggard figure of Fumiko.

She’s wearing loose clothes that do nothing to highlight her feminine attributes. Her hair looks unkempt, a far cry from her usual neat appearance. Surely, she’s in those dreadful days of the month when women become irrational and unbearable.

“Makoto, I need to talk to you, it’s urgent,” she says with a trembling voice.

She makes an impatient and disdainful gesture towards Tsuneo, as if he were an undesirable nuisance to be rid of as soon as possible.

“Give us a moment alone, will you?” I ask Tsuneo, making a face of apology. “We’ll talk later, I promise.”

Tsuneo looks at me, confused but nods and walks away with his head down. Fumiko doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. She grips my arm tighter and drags me to a more secluded area, behind some bushes. Her touch is sticky and unpleasant.

“I have to tell you something...” Fumiko begins, her voice breaking with contained sobs. “On Saturday... something happened...” she breaks into uncontrollable crying, covering her face with her hands.

I stare at her intently, analyzing the tell-tale signs of her deplorable state. Uncontrollable sobbing, trembling voice, swollen and reddened eyes. She has undoubtedly been in this pathetic state for days, maybe since the last time we saw each other.

Doesn’t she understand that I couldn’t care less? She never did. She was just a convenient pastime for a while, until she became too demanding.

“Fumiko, listen to me. There’s something I need to tell you,” I interrupt her, taking her trembling hands in mine.

She looks at me expectantly, like a kitten waiting to be petted. I suppress the aversion I feel at her pathetic devotion. I need to be cautious now. A false move, and I will be prey to her claws for much longer.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and... I think we should take a break,” I say gently, gauging her reactions.

Fumiko blinks confusedly. My words are like a thick fog in her consciousness, and I watch as she struggles to dispel it, to understand the shape and contour of what I’ve just said. There’s a delay in the emotional response, a gap between what her ears try to hear and what her brain tries to reject. It’s fascinating, in a clinical and detached sense, to observe the mechanisms of denial at work in real time.

“But... why?” she stammers, desperately clinging to my hands.

I give her the sweetest and most compassionate look I can muster.

“You’ve been a wonderful girlfriend, and I will be forever grateful for all the time we shared. But sometimes, even the most perfect couples just stop fitting together. And I think that’s the case with us.”

Fumiko looks at me, dumbfounded, her mouth slightly open and her eyes brimming with tears.

“But Makoto... don’t you love me anymore?” she says with a thread of a voice.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at such melodrama. What does she find in me? What does she see in this mirage I have created? It’s not love that I can offer her; it was never love that she received. How could it have been if love is a language my mind was never programmed to understand?

To me, love is like music to a deaf person or a rainbow to a blind person: I am aware of its existence through third-party descriptions, but my personal experience is an unfathomable abyss of nothing. But instead of saying that, I cradle her face in my hands and look at her tenderly, wiping her tears with my thumbs, not because it pains me to see her cry, but because I know that’s the gesture expected of someone who loves.

“Of course, I love you, Fumiko. And precisely because of that, we need to let each other go. Sometimes, to love means knowing how to give up.”

The tears start to flow down her cheeks with greater intensity. She averts her gaze, clearly overwhelmed by the onslaught of feelings that engulf her. We remain silent for a moment until she finally speaks again.

“But Makoto, you do love me, I know it! You can’t just leave me like this!” she whimpers like a spoiled child.

Then she looks at me with sudden suspicion, narrowing her reddened eyes.

“Or is there someone else?”

Her breathing becomes dangerously agitated.

“No, Fumiko, there’s no one else,” I say calmly. “This isn’t about that. It’s about how our relationship just isn’t working anymore, that we deserve something better...”

It’s a beautifully hollow phrase, a shell of words that I find particularly delicious in its blandness. Deserving. As if life was fair enough to measure merits and distribute rewards and punishments.

“You’re lying!” she suddenly screams, out of control. “There’s another, I know it! Is it someone from the theater club? That’s why you don’t love me anymore!”

Her hysterical voice hits the courtyard walls, as if each syllable were a stone thrown in desperation. It attracts looks, of course, and I feel each pair of eyes drilling into us, as if we were an exhibition in a zoo, a pair of exotic creatures behaving in strange and interesting ways.

I contain a grimace. Not of empathy, not of pain at her suffering, but of pure and simple annoyance. This public spectacle is inconvenient. How can I maintain the façade of the ideal boyfriend, that deceit I have so meticulously woven, if I make a woman cry in broad daylight?

“Fumiko, please control yourself. You’re making a scene,” I whisper between clenched teeth.

She ignores me, her face distorted by anger and pain. Her whole being radiates anguish. She’s a pathetic creature.

“Tell me who it is! Tell me her name, damn it!” she demands, violently shaking me by the arm.

Oh, how juicy is melodrama when you’re not part of it! Although a small part of me finds her personal theater fascinating. A story she tells herself in which I’m the villain and she’s the victim, a twisted fairy tale where the prince is a fraud.

“Enough. There’s no one else, I assure you,” I insist. “But we need to calm down and talk about this maturely. Come on, let’s go somewhere quieter.”

She resists, refusing to walk.

“No, I won’t go anywhere with you! You’re a liar, a scoundrel!” she yells out of control.

I suppress the urge to slap her to make her shut up. Instead, I take her firmly by the shoulders.

“Fumiko, listen to me. You’re making an unnecessary scandal and you’re going to regret it,” I say with an angelic smile. “Go home, take a relaxing bath with salts, cook something delicious and you’ll see you’ll feel better. Let’s talk when you get over this emotional outburst, alright? Go on, be a good girl.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, a battle in her eyes between continuing to fight or accepting defeat. Finally, the words seem to click somewhere within her brain, and with a defeated look and without another word, she turns around and walks away. The sobs are a dull murmur as she fades into the distance, leaving me alone.