Chapter 6: Private Messages from Other Diary Holders
Underground idols didn't make much money. After joining an intensive training class, Hoshino Ai's expenses for costumes, makeup, and image upkeep had ballooned. She told herself that if she kept a polite distance from Hikaru Kamiki and hid the truths behind the careful lies she'd learned to wear, the connection would fade when the course ended. For now, the priority was simple: answer the mysterious fan's faith with better performances and a brighter stage persona.
Even with ragged sleep, Ai kept smiling. The diary's latest entry—about hidden supernatural threads in the world and the startling possibility that her future children might be reincarnators—made her uneasy, but it didn't break her. By the third night she was back onstage, flawless, and backstage she found the diary updated with several dense pages: an introductory manual for Ripple Breathing.
The list of benefits read like a dream for any idol: stamina renewed, youth preserved, posture and presence sharpened, and, undeniably, a last‑ditch self‑defense method. Yet the instructions were oddly abstract. Ai had grown up in an orphanage and entered the industry at twelve; dense, theoretical descriptions about "life energy" and diaphragmatic rhythm felt foreign.
She spent an hour mimicking the poses and counting the breaths the diary recommended—nothing. Frustrated, she began copying the key passages by hand, painstakingly, until the lines lived in her memory. By midnight she could haltingly recite the basics.
Then, a soft prompt pulsed in her head:
[You have obtained the introductory Ripple Breathing method. Do you wish to consume Reading Points to increase proficiency?]
Reading Points. Ai had been earning those simply by reading the diary each evening, but she'd thought they only unlocked permissions. The idea that they could accelerate practice felt almost obscene—but useful.
She had three points saved. Without much hesitation she spent one.
A small, keen clarity settled into her chest. The breathing pattern snapped into place as if it had always fit. Where the diary's words had been abstract, sensation now matched sense: a slight warmth at the diaphragm, a steadying rhythm, a faint stir of life beneath the skin. She was not a master, but the difference was real—what might have taken a week of practice folded into an evening.
"If one point is roughly a week, then four points might equal a month," she whispered. Her pulse quickened. In three days the impossible book had already altered her life.
Ai's mind turned to other holders. She couldn't imagine she had the diary alone. Would the others contact her? As an idol, her private phone was guarded by Berry Production—Saitou Ichigo oversaw contact and messages—but fans always found channels.
She opened her social apps. The stream of notes and comments had swelled—good for her metrics, but overwhelming. She scanned the last seventy‑two hours and found three messages that stood out.
A public reply from an account called EvilKingTrueEye_Messenger struck a theatrical tone: "I am the messenger of the Evil King's True Eye. You are my fated partner. Leave the radiant man by your side; he will bring you ruin." Ai rolled her eyes at the melodrama. It was a little cringey, but oddly comforting—after all, hadn't she become an idol because she wanted to be loved, and didn't that, too, sound like a vote for the dramatic?
Two private messages were different. Short, earnest, and vague about the diary, they offered quiet warnings: be careful around Hikaru Kamiki. The sincerity in both messages made her chest tighten. Strangers were worried about her. It felt tender.
She deleted the public comment, then—on a whim—followed the theatrical account with a seldom‑used alternate profile. To the private senders she wrote back, admitting in careful words that she'd seen the diary, and promising she would be cautious. She didn't say everything—some things couldn't be spoken aloud—but the exchange soothed her.
"If I can, I'll invite them to a live," she typed. "But first I have to get to bigger stages." She clipped the phone and finally fell asleep, clutching the diary like a talisman.
...
Far from Tokyo, Renji Miyauchi's house was quiet. He had spent the previous evening teaching Ripple Breathing to his parents, framing it as an old family wellness method found in the Miyauchi warehouse. They asked few questions—breathing exercises sounded safe—and when the first small improvements showed, they kept practicing.
Renji had also slipped tiny threads of Ripple into their sleep cycles, nudging their breathing patterns toward the new rhythm. The changes were subtle: lighter mornings, steadier steps. Small proof that the technique worked.
The next day he taught his elder sister Kazuho a simpler version. She was lazy by nature, so he altered her sleeping pattern subtly: a slow shift in rhythm to integrate the practice unconsciously. When he finally sat down, he let out a long breath. "I've gone to a lot of trouble for them," he muttered.
Kouka—the middle sister, often loud and sincere—walked in at that moment brandishing a popsicle. "I only bought one," she announced, triumphant. "If you want some, you can have a bite."
Renji looked at her and felt an odd pang. He'd given Ripple to everyone except Kouka—he'd been afraid she would spill it by accident with her careless honesty. It felt unfair.
"We're going to Tokyo soon," he said, testing the water. "Any plans before we leave?"
Kouka shrugged. "If you'd gone earlier with me, I'd have plenty. Here? Not much—just the usual." She stuck out her tongue and licked at the popsicle.
Renji smiled and tried to explain Ripple in gentle terms, disguising it as a wellness routine. Kouka exploded with laughter. "You're almost in high school and still trying to trick me with kiddie stuff!" she said, remembering old pranks: magical‑girl keys, swing‑at‑the‑swallow training, and the sealed well that supposedly led to the Warring States.
"It's not a trick. Ask Renge—I taught her all afternoon," Renji protested. Kouka waved him off. "Renge always listens. She'd say whatever you told her." She was unconvinced, but indulgent.
Renji pretended wounded dignity. "Truly a shame," he said, and left. Kouka frowned briefly, wondering if she'd been too scoffing. Maybe next time she'd pretend to fall for it so she could claim compensation.
He walked toward the Koshigaya home next—three siblings who were his classmates and neighbors. In a place like Asahigaoka, everyone's households blurred into one big, familiar map. Renji thought of who he could trust: friends, childhood allies, quiet people who could keep secrets. He needed allies if the diary's web of strange powers widened.
As night fell, messages moved like small pulses through the diary's network. A girl in Tokyo breathed differently, a boy in the countryside taught a child how to feel her own heartbeat, and other holders—unnamed, scattered—stared into their pages and wondered whether to speak. The small world stitched between pages and screens had started to hum.