Unlike the previous two songs, Kotomi Izumi didn't hide the title this time. The moment she stepped onto the stage, she announced it clearly—her third song was called "Ultramarine."
After learning that Shizuka Hiratsuka would be resigning, Kotomi decided to dedicate this final song to her—as both a farewell and a blessing. When she first made that decision, she hesitated for a while, unsure what song to choose.
But later, when she saw Shizuka still struggling with her decision about leaving, the idea for the third song solidified instantly in her heart.
Kotomi had no intention of trying to make her stay. Though she felt deeply reluctant to see her go, she didn't want to sing some emotional ballad in an attempt to move her teacher into staying.
Everyone has the right to pursue their dreams. From her university years until now, Shizuka Hiratsuka had worked tirelessly to earn admission to the Royal Academy of Arts. Only she knew the hardships behind that journey.
Now that her hard work had finally paid off, Kotomi wanted to see her off with a smile.
If Shizuka was still hesitating, then Kotomi hoped this song, "Ultramarine," would tell her: everyone has worries and fears, but may you find the strength to move forward toward your dream.
"Ultramarine pigment is one of the oldest and most vivid shades of blue. Its brightness carries a faint hint of red. I love this color—it's melancholic yet passionate." Kotomi looked gently toward Shizuka on the stage below, her expression soft, her smile radiant. "That's why I'm dedicating this song to her—because I want to tell her this:"
Kotomi's eyes shone as she spoke the next line with heartfelt warmth.
"In a world that isn't simply black and white, go find—and paint—your own shade of ultramarine."
Before her words had even fully faded, Kotomi's guitar roared to life, each strum bursting with rhythm and emotion. Her voice—clear and refreshing like a bottle of marble soda just pulled from a summer fridge—shone brighter than the stars themselves.
"Ah, the unchanging days—"
"Monotony so dull it puts me to sleep."
"Across the restless night, once again—"
"Morning light spills onto the streets of Shibuya."
"An unknown feeling stirs within me."
"An emptiness without reason."
"So boring it almost hurts."
"But that's fine."
"That's all right."
"Just like this."
The audience was spellbound. They had heard her play guitar for the past two songs, but this was the first time they truly experienced Kotomi Izumi's voice unleashed in full.
What did it mean to have the face of an angel and the voice of one too? Kotomi embodied it perfectly.
For the other students who had sung on stage before her, her performance was on another level entirely. The only one who could even come close was Yui Yuigahama—but even then, Yui's current abilities still couldn't surpass Kotomi's.
Because Kotomi's voice wasn't just beautiful—it carried mastery, a level of control and emotion that rivaled that of a professional diva.
If someone had uploaded this performance online without context, most viewers would probably assume it was a famous singer disguised as a high school student returning to her alma mater for a guest performance.
"Let the hidden voice within—"
"Echo freely once more."
"Even if I pretend not to see it—"
"It still exists, quietly, inside of me."
As she sang this verse, the students operating the lighting and stage equipment backstage exchanged quick glances before swiftly pressing the buttons on the control panel. Every cue was executed with precision—just as Kotomi had instructed before the show.
There could be no mistakes. The lights and mist effects had to synchronize perfectly with the song's emotional peak.
And in that moment, Kotomi's earlier gesture of handing out drinks and ice cream to the stage crew paid off.
The stage lights shifted to a deep ultramarine blue. The fog machines hissed softly, releasing thin layers of mist that spread gently across the stage.
Under the haze of mist and blue light, the entire stage transformed into something ethereal and dreamlike—as though the world itself had been dyed in luminous indigo.
Meanwhile, Kotomi's guitar brought the melody to its first crescendo, and her voice rose with it, bright and resolute.
"With the colors I've chosen for myself—"
"I'll paint, guided by instinct."
"In the drowsy light of dawn—"
"I'll welcome a world bathed in ultramarine."
"And bare my heart to the things I love."
"I'm filled with fear and unease."
"But it feels as though—"
"I've finally met the real me."
In the audience, Iroha Isshiki was the first to raise her phone, switching on the flashlight. She lifted it above her head and gently waved it toward the stage—for Kotomi Izumi.
One after another, everyone who was touched by Ultramarine did the same. They turned on their phone flashlights, lifting them high.
One light. Two lights. A hundred lights...
Almost every audience member had their flashlight raised, the glowing beams swaying softly in rhythm—like an entire galaxy of support lights, shining just for Kotomi Izumi.
No one could count how many lights had filled the auditorium that night.
The only ones who didn't were either those whose phones had died—or one exception.
Usa Saion.
She sat slumped in her seat, eyes wide with disbelief, staring blankly at Kotomi Izumi on stage.
Her proud guitar-and-vocal performance—the one she had believed would win her the spotlight—was utterly eclipsed. She had thought herself the champion of today's performances, yet Kotomi, also playing guitar and singing, had effortlessly crushed her in every possible way.
Usa had chosen a popular song to play, while Kotomi had performed three entirely original songs of her own composition.
Usa had strived for perfection in every note, making sure not to make a single mistake. Her playing was technically sound, earning her polite applause—but she knew her flaw: she was too rigid. Her performance lacked natural flow; her movements were stiff, her expression strained. The disconnect between her technique and her presence was obvious.
Kotomi Izumi, on the other hand, embodied seamless harmony—her voice and guitar intertwined as one, each breath and chord flowing together like water.
In every aspect, Kotomi had effortlessly outclassed her. And the most crushing part? Kotomi hadn't even considered Usa as competition—she didn't even know Usa's performance had also been a guitar solo.
Usa Saion's earlier arrogance and disdain were shattered into dust, destroyed by the sheer grace and brilliance of Kotomi Izumi's stage.
"...Tch."
Usa clicked her tongue, unable to admit defeat. Why did she resent Kotomi in the first place? Maybe it was because, earlier that morning at the maid café, she saw Ruriya Hojo laughing and chatting happily with Kotomi Izumi—and that had stirred jealousy within her.
And perhaps, it was also because of her pride—so intense it bordered on self-delusion.
Kotomi's confidence and strength made her elegant, unafraid of competition. The stronger a person was, the more capable they were of being kind and composed—even if that grace was partly an act.
But Usa Saion was different. Her pride existed without the foundation of confidence. She feared losing—to anyone better, stronger, brighter than her. That fear twisted into hostility toward those she envied.
To Kotomi Izumi, however, such feelings were meaningless. You can resent me all you want, she would think. I don't know, and I don't care.
And if anyone ever dared to display their hostility openly—then Kotomi would respond without hesitation. She would strike back, decisively and completely.
Not only cutting the root—but burning the ground clean, until not a single blade of grass remained.
Kotomi Izumi's lips curved upward into a soft smile. She was a girl who loved the spotlight—someone who thrived on praise and applause. Her voice continued to echo throughout the hall, gently awakening the hearts of everyone who listened.
"Ah, the harder I reach forward,"
"The farther my desires drift away."
"Nothing seems to go as I wish."
"Today again, I'm struggling, stumbling along."
"Regret fills me."
"Embarrassment overwhelms me."
"Uncontrollable tears fall like rain."
"The deeper I sink,"
"The more bitter it feels."
"And it still aches faintly."
The cheerful melody contrasted sharply with the heaviness hidden within the lyrics. Beneath its brightness lay something quietly somber.
It felt like the song of a weary soul wandering through a bustling city, surrounded by skyscrapers that reached too high to touch. No matter how vibrant the city, there was no place that truly belonged to them. They dreamed of a brighter future—imagining the joy that awaited the day their dream came true—but for now, among the towering buildings, they felt like nothing more than an unnoticed ant.
Was passion and ambition no longer fit for this era?
Must dreams be sold off for the sake of survival—traded for rice, oil, and daily necessity?
The only difference seemed to be when one sold them—some sooner, some later.
Every day, the media glorified those who became successful overnight. It made it seem as though success was everywhere, that anyone could achieve it. Yet, if there were so many who succeeded doing what they loved, why—why—was it never you?
People were told from childhood that hard work always paid off, that effort never betrayed. But when reality struck and success remained out of reach, who could truly stay calm?
Everyone, at least once, wanted to scream from the depths of their heart—Why?!
Adults liked to think that graduating students were full of excitement and hope for the future—that they embodied youthful vitality.
But they didn't realize that today's students carried far different feelings: confusion and fear.
After over a decade of study, even those who made it into good universities faced the cruel possibility of not finding a suitable job afterward. The fire of ambition was doused again and again by the cold water of reality.
"On the path I've chosen for myself—"
"I'll move forward, guided by my instincts."
"In the quiet of night, my heavy eyelids tremble—"
"Yet I still bite down on my indigo oath, refusing to let go."
"To continue doing what I love—"
"Brings more than just 'happiness.'"
"But can I truly do it?"
"Even when anxiety gnaws at me so?"
Everyone feels lost and uncertain at times.
But what separates people is how they respond to that uncertainty.
Do they give up—or keep going?
Whichever they choose, no outsider has the right to judge.
Those who haven't lived another's struggle have no place offering easy comfort.
"No matter how many pages,"
"No matter how many sheets,"
"I'll keep drawing, without confidence, but never stopping."
"No matter how many times,"
"No matter how many attempts,"
"All my accumulated efforts will become my weapon."
"I look around me."
"No matter who I compare myself to—"
"What only I can do—what only I can create—"
"Still eludes me."
"But even so..."
On stage, Kotomi's voice soared. After the previous verse's soft calm, she drew in a deep breath—the tension before release—like a bowstring pulled to its limit.
Then, with explosive force, the bowstring snapped. Her voice shot forth like an arrow piercing through armor, straight into the hearts of everyone listening—leaving behind a lingering streak of deep indigo.
"Feelings I've never known before."
"Emotions I've never understood."
"The pain I only felt after taking that first step forward—"
"All of it, everything."
"Because I dared to face what I truly love,"
"I finally touched that faint, fragile light."
"It's all right—just keep moving forward."
"From here on, all that matters is enjoying the journey."
Kotomi Izumi's voice burst like a wave, unstoppable and overwhelming—crashing down over the entire audience.
Her sound rolled through the hall like thunder, shaking the hearts of everyone who heard it.
"Keep moving forward... When did that little witch find out I was resigning...?"
Shizuka Hiratsuka whispered with a tearful smile. But the further she spoke, the more her voice broke—until she couldn't speak at all.
She pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs, trembling as a storm of emotion—joy, sorrow, pride, and regret—flooded her heart.
At that very moment, the last trace of hesitation in Shizuka Hiratsuka's heart finally vanished.
She had been wavering over whether to submit her resignation letter—knowing that once she handed it in, there would be no turning back. It would mark the end of her life as a teacher at Sobu High School. The title of "teacher" would no longer belong to her.
Now, however, Shizuka no longer hesitated. She decided she would turn in her resignation tomorrow.
Don't hesitate. Don't forget the tears you shed all those years ago when you failed to enter the Royal Academy of Arts. Don't stop moving forward just because you're reluctant to leave.
Leaving means you'll have the chance to meet again someday.
And besides, she had begun to realize something about her feelings for Kotomi...
"Perhaps resigning really is the best choice," Shizuka whispered to herself, smiling through the tears as she gazed at the girl on stage. "So I won't regret it someday."
Though not much time had passed since they met, she felt as though their first meeting had been ages ago—so distant it almost seemed like another lifetime.
She found herself wanting to say something so simple, yet filled with emotion: It's been a long time.
On stage, Kotomi Izumi reached the final verse of Ultramarine.
"With the colors only I can mix,"
"I'll stake everything to paint."
"Running day and night without rest,"
"I'll chase that streak of blue light."
"Even though facing what I love,"
"Still fills me with fear,"
"Now I am no longer,"
"The transparent self I once was,"
"But the real me—unchanging, irreplaceable."
"Let the voice I once hid away,"
"Resound once more within my heart."
"Even if I pretend not to see it,"
"It's always been there—it still is now."
"Let the voice I once hid away,"
"Resound once more within your heart."
"Even if you pretend not to see it,"
"It still exists—deep within you."
There were countless who succeeded, yet no one could guarantee that they would be the next. Perhaps they would remain ordinary—one among millions.
But as long as she kept running down the path she chose, holding tightly to her vow and her dream—
Maybe she would never stand atop the mountain. But why not climb as high as she could, reach the closest point to the summit, and look up—just once—at the view from above?
Then decide whether to descend back into the ordinary, or grit her teeth and keep climbing.
Where is the closest point to the summit?
The farthest your effort can carry you—that's the closest you can get.
As her final note lingered, the sound of her guitar slowly faded, dissolving into silence.
Then the auditorium erupted into thunderous applause and cheers.
"Kotomi!!!"
"Kotomi!!!"
"Kotomi!!!"
The entire hall roared as if it would collapse under the sheer force of the sound.
It wasn't just applause—it was an uproar, passionate and overwhelming, more like a professional concert than a high school festival. The atmosphere was so intense it felt unforgettable.
Countless audience members waved their phones high, their flashlights glowing like stars—each one shining for Kotomi Izumi.
And in Kotomi's eyes reflected that light—the countless beams blending together into a brilliant, endless galaxy.
Every glimmering light, every thunderous shout—was it admiration for her voice, or the emotional resonance of Ultramarine?
Perhaps, it was both.
When Kotomi bowed deeply toward the audience, the hall exploded with even greater cheers, the loudest of the night.
...
Sobu High School, auditorium rooftop.
Dressed in a black bodysuit and mask that blended into the darkness, Atsuki crouched on the steel beams above the ceiling. One hand held a camera, the other gripped a rope. Though she was light and the beams were sturdy, she still shifted her weight carefully to stay balanced.
From the moment Kotomi Izumi took the stage with her partners for the first song until now—after she had finished her solo—Atsuki had remained hidden above, recording the entire performance with a steady hand.
As the Sakayanagi family's head maid and Arisu Sakayanagi's personal attendant, being skilled in stealth and rooftop movement was... well, part of the job.
"The Izumi family's eldest daughter really does have incredible composing talent," Atsuki murmured softly to herself. "No wonder the young lady sent me flying from Kyushu all the way to Chiba just to record her performance."
She sighed. "But seriously... these round-trip tickets came out of my pocket. I wonder if the young lady even plans to reimburse me."
Originally, Arisu Sakayanagi had wanted to attend the festival herself. But after leaving the Izumi residence in Yamanashi a few days earlier, she had flown directly to the Hishinaga estate in Kyushu—for one very important reason: a marriage proposal.
Before anything else, she needed the approval of Kotomi Izumi's grandparents and relatives. Only then could the proposal move forward.
She had been so focused on preparations that she completely forgot the festival date. It wasn't until her first night at the Hishinaga estate that she suddenly realized—Tomorrow is the cultural festival! My wife is performing on stage!!
But with the engagement talks about to begin, she couldn't possibly abandon everything to fly back to Chiba.
So she made another plan: send Atsuki back to Chiba alone to record the entire event.
During Atsuki's absence, the Hishinaga family's head maid took over Arisu's care. Though Arisu's legs hadn't completely healed yet, she had long since mastered her crutches and could manage daily tasks—walking, dressing, bathing, even stairs—without assistance.
Having another maid nearby was mostly for safety and formality. Before leaving, Atsuki had called Arisu's parents, the Sakayanagi family heads, to explain her temporary leave in detail.
Only after the call between the two family heads confirmed everything did Atsuki board the plane.
Now, as Kotomi stepped down from the stage, Atsuki quickly stopped recording, saving the footage carefully before packing up her camera.
Before the house lights could rise again, she grabbed the rope and slid down from the beams like a shadow, silent as a ghost.
Without a sound, she vanished from the auditorium—leaving behind only the faint echo of applause still thundering below.
—
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