With Shibusawa Tatsuhiko's involvement, the international influence of Asou Akiya's new novel expanded rapidly.
The Tears of the Muse was published one after another in the United Kingdom, the United States, Germany, Spain, Italy, and several other countries. Disregarding both licensing profits and promotional costs, it was marketed through every available channel. As a result, Asou Akiya—who had thought he was merely writing for his own enjoyment in Japan—suddenly attracted the curiosity of readers around the world.
One of the novel's greatest appeals was its portrayal of an ordinary world with no supernatural abilities, where society remained stable and familiar. Another was the author's remarkably perceptive interpretation of how the world might develop over the coming decade.
Compared to those deeper themes, the novel's fashion elements became little more than elegant embellishments.
Even so, only a small minority of readers truly appreciated those underlying ideas.
By the end of August, the novel had become a sensation in Paris, with its popularity spreading to other French cities. French readers embraced its generous praise of France without the slightest complaint. Ironically, that very "excessive" admiration for France caused Tears of the Museto flop spectacularly in Britain, where sales plunged into the depths.
The British and the French had never been particularly fond of each other. It was unrealistic to expect British readers to embrace a novel that lavished praise on the French fashion industry.
Every country had its own culture, customs, and tastes, so the novel's reception varied dramatically from place to place. The only consistent success came in France and the neighboring countries within its cultural sphere.
France, Marseille, in a picturesque seaside resort.
In an affluent district regarded by others as a neighborhood for the upper class, Mademoiselle Catherine Potts found herself reminiscing about Japan after reading the novel. It had already been two years since her last trip to the small nation in the Far East, yet the people she had met there came vividly back to mind.
She wondered whether Monsieur Randou and his Japanese lover had broken up yet.
Had the child who looked like the illegitimate son of a Frenchman grown up by now?
And that black-haired boy who reminded her of a cat... had he outgrown that innocent, lively charm?
Standing on an elevated terrace overlooking the Marseille harbor, Catherine Potts pressed a hand against the flowers adorning her ladies' hat as she gazed toward the horizon.
"I'll be thirty soon. My family gets more relentless about pressuring me to marry with every passing day."
She had once thought she could casually accept an arranged marriage.
In the end, however, she simply couldn't bring herself to settle—especially after meeting so many exceptional men.
"I admire truly powerful ability users, but they never seem to admire me..." Catherine had always been proud. Ordinary ability users could never win her wholehearted respect. What she wanted was a man who surpassed her in every way, someone she could wholeheartedly admire and love.
On top of that, the French government kept a close watch on marriages between ability users. The official reason was that two ability users were more likely to have children who inherited abilities. Whether there were other, less public reasons behind the policy, Catherine didn't know. That was a matter for the world of ability users.
Hidden behind the fine veil draped from the brim of her hat, Catherine's face was clouded with frustration.
"Where is my ability...?"
She had always felt, deep down, that she possessed an ability. Her family remained skeptical, yet they refused to pay for the testing required to confirm it, believing it would be too embarrassing for the family if the result came back negative.
After all, people with abilities generally awakened them long ago. Who would still show no signs this late?
She poured all of her resentment into poetry, following Monsieur Randou's example by publishing her own verses. But her poems attracted no attention. No one understood the world inside her heart.
"If I really don't have an ability, then so be it. At least let me find a decent marriage partner."
After standing in the sea breeze for a while, Catherine gradually calmed down.
She answered yet another matchmaking call from her family and complained, "I'm not asking for someone extraordinary, but the gap between us can't be that huge..."
The family member on the other end patiently asked her to describe exactly what kind of husband she wanted.
Catherine said shyly, "The silver-haired man I met on the cruise ship the second-to-last time I came back to France... he was so incredibly handsome. I want my blind date to be at least half as good-looking as he was."
The Potts family could only respond with silent disbelief.
How could they not know about the information Catherine had investigated after returning home that time?
"That gentleman is one of our country's Transcendents."
"..."
Two years late, Catherine finally received her answer.
Her heart turned to ashes as her fingers absentmindedly toyed with the charm hanging from her phone.
Then, throwing caution to the wind, she blurted out, "I'd rather go on a blind date with André Gide!"
Ever since she'd begun following the fugitive officer at Monsieur Randou's request, she had come to admire him greatly. Though he had been framed as a traitor by the upper ranks of the military, he had led his men out of France, fought their way through impossible odds, and grown stronger with every battle until they became an internationally renowned mercenary unit.
Now that's a real man.
No matter how hopeless the situation, he had never once given up.
One of Catherine's uncles took over the call and answered his niece in a thick regional accent.
"We arranged that match for you before; you were the one who refused to marry a career soldier whose ability hadn't awakened yet, it's too late to regret it now. There's no chance the two of you will ever marry, so get back here and settle down!"
"What? You did? Why didn't anyone tell me?!"
Catherine let out a heart-wrenching scream.
She seized the opportunity to hang up, clutching her shattered heart before turning to the maid, Bina, who stood beside her without so much as batting an eye.
"Bina... I let the perfect husband slip through my fingers."
Unlike maids hired from outside, Bina had known Mademoiselle Catherine for many years. Holding an umbrella over her, she said, "It's a good thing you missed your chance, Mademoiselle. Otherwise, I'd probably be reading about you fleeing the country alongside him in the newspapers."
Catherine tilted her head.
"Not necessarily."
One of the reasons André Gide had been betrayed was that he was simply too outstanding. He was talented, widely respected, and lacked the backing of a powerful family, making him the perfect target for those consumed by jealousy.
If the two families had formed an alliance through marriage, perhaps his fate might have turned out differently.
"Oh well. I just hope Monsieur Gide will clear his name one day."
Catherine clasped her hands together in a maidenly pose and prayed aloud, "Dear God, please send me a good man. Handsome, faithful, not a womanizer, devoted to his family, and capable of making a good living..."
After listing all her requirements, Catherine realized they sounded almost identical to those of Monsieur Randou's lover.
Could it be... that I'll end up going to Japan to look for a boyfriend after all?
I may not be able to win over a French Transcendent, but perhaps I could consider the illegitimate son of one... Bah! That's not what I'm after. I'd simply be looking after the descendants of one of France's precious Transcendents. Maybe I could even discover something special about the children of ability users.
"Bina, I want to go to Japan. Maybe I'll find someone there who's worth marrying."
"Mademoiselle, it's hot."
That single sentence immediately extinguished Catherine's desire to flee abroad.
France was sweltering, and Japan was no better. The ideal time to travel would have to wait until October.
Changing the subject, Catherine asked, "Which country has Monsieur Gide's Mimic organization been active in lately?"
"The war zones of the Middle East," Bina replied.
The era of large-scale world wars had come to an end, but smaller conflicts had never ceased. Oil, natural gas, shipping routes, religious disputes—there was no shortage of reasons for war.
"I see. Give me the book."
Catherine took the novel she had finished reading from Bina. Her fingers brushed over the promotional text printed on the cover.
The novel contained not only the latest poems by "Jean Nicolas," but was also personally translated by the poet himself.
She knew that the French poet's true identity was Monsieur Randou.
And she also knew—
That André Gide was one of Jean Nicolas's most devoted admirers. Deeply grateful to the poet who had written verses on his behalf and spoken out against the injustice he had suffered, Gide had once gone so far as to kidnap a bookstore owner in Madrid, Spain, just to get his hands on the poet's newest work.
"The usual arrangement.
Have the poems from this novel published in the newspapers."
In a way, Catherine hoped to fulfill one of André Gide's lingering regrets.
Tears of the Muse wasn't available in the Middle East, but she could negotiate with the publisher to reprint the poems from the novel in newspaper advertisements. That way, André Gide—who still kept a close eye on news from France—might have the chance to read them.
The Middle East, in the Arab region.
Working as mercenaries had given Mimic the means to survive.
The French government no longer actively pursued them. Instead, it chose to turn a blind eye, pretending those traitors no longer existed. That gradually softening attitude gave André Gide hope. With each passing day, he and his men longed more desperately to return home, yet they could find no way to make it happen.
What would it take for the French government to rescind its orders and erase the charge of treason from their names?
André Gide had been asking himself that very question all along.
Many of his men still had parents and loved ones waiting for them back in France, tirelessly working to clear their names. But without enough influence, who could possibly persuade the government to reverse its decision?
Some of André Gide's old friends might have possessed that kind of influence. But friendship was one thing; political careers and family interests were another. Even the Transcendent Stéphane Mallarmé, who had always admired him, was powerless to help. Born into a family of government officials, Mallarmé couldn't act on his own. He had a family whose interests he had to protect.
The cruelest reality was that most of France's top ability users came from privileged backgrounds rather than ordinary families. They had military ties, noble lineages, or influential political connections. The class divide was unmistakable, and none of them would lightly step forward to solve the problems of a "traitor" who had lost both his military career and his value.
Seated on a chair, André Gide methodically maintained his weapons, carefully wiping each component of his rifle.
Just then, one of Mimic's soldiers came running back with a newspaper in hand.
"Captain! We managed to get a French newspaper!"
"...Good."
No longer the brilliant young officer with a promising future, André Gide concealed himself beneath a gray cloak. Strands of white hair hung around his neck, their once-lustrous sheen beginning to fade from years of hardship. Suppressing the bitterness in his heart, he kept his face stern, presenting the dependable image that had become the pillar supporting every soldier who had fled alongside him.
Then, in an instant, the white-haired man who had endured both war and betrayal came alive.
"Has that poet published something new?"
He gently brushed the dust from the newspaper and calmed himself, shutting out even the lingering smell of gunpowder that perpetually filled the Middle Eastern air.
"'Jean Nicolas's latest poem—a poem written for a seventeen-year-old boy...'"
André Gide read each line with care, a tide of bittersweet emotion welling up inside him.
Those who were happy saw happiness in its words.
Those who were not, found only sorrow. He, too, had once been seventeen, with a heart full of hope.
A poet capable of understanding the suffering of soldiers caught in war while also writing works filled with lightness and laughter must have experienced life's joys and sorrows in profound measure.
Having long since lost any interest in fine food, André Gide finished the short poem and, for the first time in a long while, felt a flicker of enthusiasm for life.
He wanted to have a glass of beer, or, perhaps, find a grove of linden trees and lose himself in memories of home.
How wonderful it all was—the aroma of cafés, the fragrance of grapevines, the rich scent of beer. The poem was filled with so many familiar smells, all carrying the lingering perfume of youth. Soldiers needed hope. They needed their attachment to their homeland and their longing for it. Only then could they endure, day after day.
André Gide rose to his feet, folded the newspaper carefully, and slipped it into his pocket.
"Men, we're having drinks tonight. Forget your worries for one evening. Tomorrow..." He paused, his eyes brightening. "Tomorrow, we're going to buy the novel Monsieur Jean Nicolas translated! But the chances of finding it here in the Middle East are slim...
That will be our mission for the next month!
Men, we'll obtain it by any means necessary!"
The soldiers keeping watch from every defensive position looked up, excitement spreading across their faces.
Were they going to raid another bookstore?
Every time they robbed a bookstore, their homeland's poet became a little more famous in return. It was their way of repaying the poet who had spoken on their behalf. It gave meaning to their actions—they were no longer simply struggling to survive.
Their commander was leading them on another campaign.
In September, one of the Middle East's major television stations aired a sensational news report:
["An international mercenary group operating in the Arab region has been robbing bookstores, demanding that local publishers release the novel Tears of the Muse in the Middle East! If publishers in Arab countries fail to comply, the group has threatened to escalate matters by kidnapping those responsible..."]
The explosive story dominated the news for several days.
Because Mimic meant every word they said. Just as they had done in Madrid, they kidnapped someone from a publishing house.
Through these simple yet heavy-handed methods, André Gide finally obtained the latest news about Monsieur Jean Nicolas. The poet was serving as the translator for a Japanese novelist, and the two apparently enjoyed a close friendship. The poet who had once written poems exclusively for his soldiers had now begun writing poems for the protagonist of a novel.
A pang of jealousy rose in André Gide's chest.
After waiting for so long, this was what he had received—Monsieur Jean Nicolas had found a new source of inspiration.
Was this how quickly French poets changed their affections?It was far too fast!
Their spiritual sustenance was gone...
"Captain, what should we do next? Keep waiting for the publisher's response?"
"We wait."
When one of his soldiers asked the question, André Gide quietly clenched his fist.
He kept reassuring himself that Monsieur Jean Nicolas was still their kindred spirit. The poet must have been heartbroken by the French government's indifference. That was why, for the time being, he no longer had the heart to sing the praises of his homeland or write poems to comfort its soldiers.
"If all else fails, we'll go find him. He might not even be in France anymore—he could be traveling in Japan!"
The white-haired man's eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his hat, as sharp as a hawk's.
The keen intellect that had once made him an outstanding military officer was now working at full capacity.
…
Back in Japan, Asou Akiya was being bombarded with calls from the publisher, who had even changed phone numbers just to keep reaching him.
"What on earth is going on?"
He was genuinely baffled. Had the president of Stewed Pigeon Publishing House lost his mind? How dare he pester his own boss every few days?
"What? You want to publish my novel in the Middle East? Would anyone over there even want to read it?"
"Someone kidnapped employees from an Arab publishing house? And the publisher came to you for help, hoping you'll meet the kidnappers' demands so the novel can be sold in the Middle East?"
"What kind of nonsense is this..."
It was already 2001, did people really think international kidnapping and threats still worked?
Asou Akiya rubbed his temples before quickly interrupting.
"Wait—who are these kidnappers?"
In an odd tone, the president of Stewed Pigeon Publishing House replied, "They're an international mercenary group. Apparently they have a prior record in Spain—they once kidnapped a bookstore owner. I looked into the old news reports and discovered they aren't targeting you at all. They're after Monsieur Jean Nicolas's poems in your novel!"
Asou Akiya's expression instantly turned cold.
Every alarm bell in his head began ringing.
International mercenaries targeting Randou? A history of kidnappings?!
Randou had never mentioned anything like this to him.
"What country are these mercenaries from? Do they have a name?"
As he spoke, Asou Akiya opened his browser and searched through the news, looking for reports about the earlier kidnapping in Madrid, Spain, as well as the recent abduction of employees from an Arab publishing house. Unfortunately, the president of Stewed Pigeon Publishing House didn't know many details and couldn't provide anything specific. Akiya would have to investigate on his own.
With the internet becoming increasingly widespread, websites and online forums were always filled with rumors—some true, some false.
The instant Asou Akiya found what he was looking for—
The president of Stewed Pigeon Publishing House noticed that the breathing on the other end of the line had stopped.
After a long silence, he heard his boss quietly utter a single word.
"...Mimic?"
The international mercenary organization—Mimic. A band of ghosts from France.
They were the very people who had been fueling Jean Nicolas's popularity. Wherever his poetry collections were sold, they would go to buy them. And if they couldn't buy them... they would kidnap someone until they could.
Asou Akiya ended the call and immediately used his speed-dial to contact Randou, who was currently slacking off in the Black Lizard.
"Randou, have you ever heard of Mimic?" Asou Akiya asked earnestly.
"Mimic? What's that?" Randou sounded genuinely bewildered.
"They're a group of your die-hard fans. Their leader is André Gide—that name should sound familiar, shouldn't it? Don't play dumb. You wrote several encouraging poems for him. Now they're kidnapping employees from an Arab publishing house because they want my novel published in the Middle East so they can buy it."
Even Asou Akiya felt a headache coming on as he explained the situation.
Randou, however, chuckled.
The whole chain of events sounded strangely familiar.
As he leisurely walked back toward Port Mafia headquarters, he replied, "Isn't that a good thing?"
"But you've forgotten about your own situation!" Asou Akiya shot back without hesitation. "The number of poems you've written has dropped off a cliff over the past few years. This year, you've only published a single poem. It's one thing if those people don't know where you are, because they'll just assume you're still in France, which they can't return to—but you're in Japan!"
Randou let out a puzzled sound.
"And what does my being in Japan have to do with anything?"
"...It means they can find you."
"I don't believe that." Randou shook his head. "If a French publishing house leaked my address, they'd be facing a lawsuit."
Asou Akiya sighed in exasperation.
"I'm Japanese! Their leader isn't an idiot. There's a very good chance he'll figure out that you and I are close. He'll come to Japan to find me first and then find you!"
Those soldiers were completely insane.
He hadn't provoked those Russian Rats, so how had he ended up attracting Mimic—the group that solved every problem with violence?
"Randou, you'd better prepare yourself."
Asou Akiya set down his phone and looked up at Randou, who had just pushed open the door and walked in.
Randou swiftly closed the executive office door behind him, hurried over in quick little steps, and braced both hands on Akiya's desk. For the first time, he looked genuinely anxious over something related to his writing.
"These fans... are they actually going to chase me across international borders?"
Looking at the poet version of Rimbaud, Asou Akiya felt a splitting headache. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.
Did André Gide know Arthur Rimbaud?
That... remained unknown.
The real-life André Gide had an astonishingly wide circle of friends. Not only was he acquainted with many of France's greatest literary figures, but when Oscar Wilde was imprisoned for "gross indecency," Gide even wrote to comfort him. The Nobel Prize-winning author led a life as controversial as it was celebrated, surrounded by scandals involving his homosexuality, an illegitimate daughter, and a sexless marriage—truly living up to the reputation of a nineteenth-century French literary giant.
They were all romantics in one way or another.
As long as there was even the slightest possibility, André Gide and Randou should never meet. No one could say whether Gide, in his desperation to return to France, might expose the fact that the Transcendent, Arthur Rimbaud, was still alive.
The Mimic leader's moral principles... were just as much of an enigma.
"Randou, I have a really bad feeling about this. Promise me you won't meet Gide, okay?"
...
Randou, who had been both nervous and excited at the prospect of meeting one of his admirers, felt as though a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. A chill seeped into his very soul.
He remembered the morally questionable identity he carried.
His real name was Arthur Rimbaud, and during the war, he had very likely been a French intelligence operative dispatched to Yokohama, Japan.
Had André Gide, a former military officer, known him back then?
"Akiya... I..."
"I don't care. I don't care about any of that! Darling, let's just take things as they come!"
Asou Akiya pulled the trembling Randou into a tight embrace, determined to stop any unforeseen disaster before it could happen.
Holding the beautiful Frenchman close, he whispered softly,
"Randou.
Just give me a little more time...
No matter who you are or what your past may be, I'll stay by your side. You never have to face it alone.
As long as you love me... I'll do whatever it takes for you."
The bone-deep chill came swiftly and vanished just as quickly. The warmth of their love gave Randou a sense of security.
Leaning against Asou Akiya's embrace, his cheek resting against the warmth of the scarf, Randou could hear every word of the man's promise with perfect clarity, even through his earmuffs.
His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he said softly,
"I believe you."
...
What were fans, anyway?
Anyone who dared threaten his family and take away his happiness would be shown the door without a second thought.
After Asou Akiya made him realize the danger, Randou mulled it over again and again. Finally, in a fit of determination, he decided to retire from writing altogether and stop publishing poetry. After all, he no longer needed to earn money through his poems.
If I stop writing poetry, my fans won't have any reason to come looking for me.
"Akiya, what do you think of my idea?"
That night, as they lay in bed together, Randou snuggled up to him and presented his solution in a coaxing tone.
"..."
Without a word, Asou Akiya reached over to the bedside table and picked up an ordinary fruit knife.
"Randou, what is this?"
"A knife."
"And now?"
Still smiling, Asou Akiya pressed the flat of the fruit knife gently against Randou's neck.
Damn it!
He had worked so hard to encourage Randou to write poetry again, hoping it would rekindle his spirit and passion; and now, because of one André Gide, Randou was planning to quit writing altogether!
Don't use that as an excuse to slack off, Randou!
Randou froze.
After thinking for three full seconds, he let out a small, uncertain sound.
"...Coo?"
At that moment, Randou finally understood the true meaning behind the name "Stewed Pigeon Publishing House."
The pigeon they stewed... was the pigeon-like authors who stopped writing!
Terrifying!
Asou Akiya wanted to stew every contracted author who refused to write—including him!
Akiya wants to eat pigeon meat!