Chapter 35: Grandpa, Grandma.
The sliding timber doors of the ancestral estate groaned open, revealing the warm, golden glow of the interior against the blue darkness of the Hokkaido night.
"We have returned," Soichiro announced, his voice carrying the same formal stiffness he used in boardrooms.
From the hallway, an elderly couple emerged.
The grandfather, Genjiro Kuzan, was a mirror image of what Aokiji might become in fifty years if he lost all his humor. He was tall, thin, and moved with a rigid grace. His hair was snow-white, swept back severely, and his eyes were the same piercing black as his son's and grandson's. He radiated a chill that had nothing to do with the weather outside.
"Welcome home," Genjiro said, his tone flat. He looked at Soichiro, then at Aokiji. "The festival broadcast was satisfactory. The logistical application of the ice flower was... efficient."
That was it. No hug. No "congratulations." Just an efficiency report.
But then, a small, bustling force of nature pushed past the patriarch.
"Oh, hush, you old iceberg!"
The grandmother, Haru, was short, round, and radiated warmth like a walking furnace. She wasn't a Kuzan by blood; she had married into the clan, and she had retained every ounce of her humanity. She wore a thick, woolen apron and had a smile that crinkled her eyes into joyful crescents.
She bypassed her son and daughter-in-law completely and wrapped her arms around Sayuri who was still bundled up like a marshmallow.
"My sweet Sayuri! You look like a little snow bear! Come in, come in!"
Then she turned to Aokiji. She reached up, grabbed his cheeks with her warm hands, and pulled his face down to inspect him.
"And you! Look at those bags under your eyes! Are they feeding you enough in the city? You look like a skeleton!"
Aokiji blinked, his usual defenses useless against this assault. "Grandma... I'm fine. Just tired."
"Nonsense. Get inside. I made Ishikari Nabe. It's boiling right now."
The dining room was traditional tatami. They sat on cushions around a low table, the center of which was dominated by a massive clay pot bubbling with salmon, vegetables, and miso broth. The steam rose in curling ribbons, fogging up the windows that looked out onto the snowy garden.
For a while, the only sounds were the clicking of chopsticks and the slurping of broth. It was a comfortable silence, until Soichiro cleared his throat.
"Kuzan," the father said, setting down his bowl. "The internship nominations. I assume you have reviewed the list I forwarded to your device?"
Aokiji paused mid-bite of salmon. "Yeah. I looked at it."
"Good. The Endeavor Agency is the logical choice," Soichiro stated, as if it were a fact of physics. "However, Hawks is currently rising in popularity metrics. Working with him could boost your speed and public appeal. Which of the Top 5 did you select?"
Aokiji swallowed his food. He took a sip of tea.
"Actually," Aokiji drawled, "I picked the 'Chill Vibes Agency'."
The table went dead silent. Even the bubbling pot seemed to quiet down.
"Who?" Soichiro's eye twitched.
"The Ice Cream Hero: Frosty-Cone," Aokiji clarified, poking a mushroom with his chopstick. "He's ranked... somewhere in the thousands, I think? His office is near a beach. It sounded peaceful."
Sojiro's face darkened. The air in the room dropped ten degrees instantly. Frost began to form on the edges of his water glass.
"You..." Soichiro's voice was a low growl. "You rejected the top heroes... for an Ice Cream mascot? Are you trying to humiliate this family? This internship is a strategic stepping stone! It is not a vacation!"
"It's a field training," Aokiji countered calmly. "And I need to learn how to chill. Literally."
"I forbid it," Soichiro slammed his hand on the table. "I will contact the school and—"
"Sojiro."
The voice wasn't loud, but it had the weight of iron. It came from the head of the table.
Grandmother Haru didn't look up from her bowl. She picked up a piece of daikon radish.
"The boy just won the national tournament," she said. "He fought monsters. He fought his classmates. He is tired. If he wants to go sell ice cream for a week, let him."
"Mother," Soichiro protested, "this is about his future value—"
"This is my dinner table," Haru snapped, looking at her son with sharp eyes. "And at my table, we do not discuss business strategies while the salmon is hot. Eat your food, Soichiro. Before I take it away."
Sojiro's mouth snapped shut. He glared at his bowl, fuming silently, but he didn't dare argue. In the Kuzan hierarchy, the Mother was the only one who could freeze the ice men.
Sayuri hid a giggle behind her hand. Aokiji offered his grandmother a subtle nod of gratitude.
Later that night, the house was quiet. Aokiji stood at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the large clay pot.
"You don't have to do that, dear," Grandma Haru said, entering the room with a tray of dirty tea cups. "I can do it."
"It's fine," Aokiji said, rinsing the suds off a plate. "The water here is freezing cold. It hurts your joints. For me, it feels like nothing."
Haru smiled softly, leaning against the counter to watch him. "You're a good boy, Kuzan. Despite what your father thinks."
Aokiji scrubbed a stubborn stain. "Grandma... how do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Live with them," Aokiji gestured vaguely toward the living room where his father and grandfather were sitting in silence, reading newspapers. "Grandpa... he's just like Dad. Cold. Distant. Emotionally constipated. How have you not gone crazy after fifty years?"
Haru chuckled. "Oh, Genjiro? He was much worse when he was young. Like a block of dry ice. He wouldn't even hold my hand in public."
She looked at the doorway, her expression softening.
"But ice melts, Kuzan. It takes a long time. It takes patience. And it takes warmth. Over the years... he's changed. He doesn't say 'I love you,' but he fixes the roof before it leaks so I don't get cold. He peels the tangerines for me because he knows I hate the pith. He has his own language."
She looked back at her grandson.
"It is hard for you," she admitted. "Because you have two of them. Your mother and your father... they are both ice. They amplify each other's coldness. There is no one to melt them."
Aokiji turned off the tap. He dried his hands on a towel.
"I have Sayuri," he said quietly. "That's enough for me."
Haru patted his arm. "Protect that warmth, Kuzan. It's the most powerful quirk you have."
Aokiji couldn't sleep. The silence of the countryside was too loud compared to the city traffic he was used to.
He slid open the door to the engawa—the wooden veranda running along the side of the house. The cold air rushed in, crisp and clean.
Sayuri was sitting there, wrapped in a thick blanket, her legs dangling over the edge.
"Can't sleep?" Aokiji asked, sitting down beside her.
"The stars are so bright," Sayuri whispered, pointing up.
In Tokyo, the light pollution hid the sky. But here in Hokkaido, the Milky Way was a river of diamond dust spilled across the ink-black void. It was breathtaking.
"Yeah," Aokiji leaned back on his hands. "They're alright."
"Are you really going to the Ice Cream Hero?" Sayuri asked.
"Yep."
"Father is going to be so mad."
"He's always mad. Might as well be mad about ice cream."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching their breath mist in the air.
"Thank you, Big Brother," Sayuri said suddenly. "For the flower. At the stadium. I know you named it after me."
Aokiji looked away, pulling his collar up. "It was just a name. Don't read too much into it."
Sayuri leaned her head on his shoulder. "I know. But thank you anyway."
Under the vast northern sky, the two siblings sat together, a small island of warmth in a sea of snow.
The next morning, the world was buried. A fresh foot of snow had fallen overnight, covering the roofs, the trees, and the roads in a pristine, white blanket. The sun was bright, reflecting off the snow with a blinding intensity.
"Kuzan!" Grandma called from the kitchen. "I'm out of red bean paste for the zenzai! Could you run to the village store?"
"In this weather?" Aokiji complained, already putting on his boots.
"It's a ten-minute walk! Go!"
Aokiji stepped out. The cold didn't bother him, but the snow was deep. He walked with his hands in his pockets, his breath coming in white puffs. The village was quiet. Smoke rose from chimneys.
He reached the small general store at the edge of the village.
Closed for Family Emergency.
A handwritten sign hung on the door.
"Great," Aokiji sighed. "Just my luck."
He looked down the road. There was a convenience store near the highway, about two streets over. It was a longer walk, past the abandoned lumber yards.
"Guess I'm walking," he muttered.
He trudged through the snow. The houses here were older, wooden structures, spaced far apart. The silence was absolute. No cars. No birds. Just the crunch, crunch of his boots.
He turned a corner near a cluster of old warehouses. The snow here was undisturbed, a perfect white sheet.
HISS.
A sound cut through the air. Like water hitting a hot pan.
A projectile slammed into the snow right in front of Aokiji's foot.
Aokiji stopped. He looked down.
Embedded in the snow was an arrow. But it wasn't made of wood or metal. It was made of pure, flickering orange flame. As it sat in the snow, it hissed violently, melting a small crater around itself before sizzling out of existence, leaving nothing but steam.
"A fire arrow?" Aokiji whispered, his eyes narrowing.
"Your reaction time is slow."
The voice came from above. Calm. Amused.
Aokiji slowly lifted his head.
Perched on the roof of an old, single-story wooden warehouse was a figure.
He was a young man, perhaps a few years older than Aokiji. He had messy, ash-gray hair that blew in the wind. He wore heavy winter combat gear—dark gray pants, tactical boots, and a thick, tattered yellow scarf that wrapped around his neck and face, obscuring his mouth.
But his eyes were visible. They were a deep, blood red.
And in his hand, he held a bow. It had no string. It had no limbs. The bow itself was formed from blazing, concentrated fire, crackling in the cold air. He pulled back an invisible string, and a new arrow of flame materialized, nocked and ready.
"Just checking," the stranger smiled beneath his scarf, his red eyes crinkling. "You are Kuzan Aokiji, right? Though, I don't really need to ask. I watched the festival. I know that bored face anywhere."
Aokiji didn't take a combat stance. He kept his hands in his pockets, though his muscles tensed.
"I guess, you're not a local," Aokiji noted flatly. "Are you a fan? If you want an autograph, you could have just asked. Shooting fire at people is bad manners."
The stranger laughed. It was a light, airy sound that didn't match the weapon in his hand.
"An autograph? Haha, that's the kind of confidence that the champions should have.." He lowered the bow slightly, though the arrow remained nocked. "I'm here for something much bigger than ink on paper."
.
.