The clinking of glasses at the peak of the "New Century Ark," the submission of global dark forces, the power of both the underworld and the legitimate world held firmly in his grasp... these achievements, enough to drive any ambitious person into a frenzy of intoxication, were in Kanjuro's eyes like shallow marks left on a beach after the tide recedes. Once the novelty passed, only a dull aftertaste remained.
The dark bible flowed slowly deep within his soul; that ancient chaos and indifference that transcended time remained the cornerstone of his personality. Conquering nations, toying with power, reshaping individuals—these epic feats for mortals were, on the scale of his long, nearly eternal life, merely a few somewhat special interludes, a few interesting moves on a chessboard, or a few "works" in his collection worth playing with for a moment.
When everything moved according to his will and challenges seemed to have temporarily vanished, a deeper kind of "boredom," belonging to a higher level of existence, began to grow quietly.
Thus, on an ordinary morning, Kanjuro tossed the daily affairs to the "Council" executive committee—composed of Vermouth, Jodie, Ran, and others—and casually left that palace of maritime power as if shedding a garment he had worn once.
He didn't notify anyone, nor did he have a specific destination. He simply walked aimlessly, passing through bustling streets and familiar alleys, until finally, his footsteps stopped before a somewhat weathered school gate.
Sobu High School.
The characters on the plaque remained the same. The breath of youth, ignorant emotions, the clamor between classes, the rustling of chalk across the blackboard... these ripples belonging to the "daily" and the "ordinary" were like weak streams, forming a strange and sharp contrast with the vast, star-like sea of dark power within him.
The corners of Kanjuro's mouth curled slightly. His charcoal-gray overcoat had at some point been replaced by a well-fitting Sobu High School boy's uniform, with a schoolbag slung casually over his shoulder. He slightly adjusted his aura, and the endless pressure and sense of aged accumulation belonging to a Dark Emperor vanished instantly, replaced by a clear and clean sense of youth. The purple in the depths of his eyes also settled into a depth closer to black; only by staring intently could one catch a glimpse of an inhuman calmness.
Forever eighteen. This wasn't just a physical constant, but an anchoring of his state of mind and existence. He could play any role and blend into any scene, and "High Schooler Kanjuro" was just one of his countless identities that he found quite interesting at the moment.
Returning to the familiar classroom, he sat in his old spot by the window. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting bright spots on the desk. On the podium, the teacher explained quadratic functions, while below, students were either focused, distracted, or secretly passing notes.
Ordinary, peaceful, even a bit... boring.
But this was exactly what Kanjuro was seeking right now. After experiencing high-intensity power struggles and dark dramas, this extreme "ordinariness" had instead become a sort of spiritual "vacation."
His seatmate, a boy named Kazuhiko, had his head buried behind an upright textbook, reading with great interest, the tips of his ears flushed a suspicious red. Through the gaps in the textbook, exaggerated manga lines and dialogue bubbles that invited imagination were faintly visible. Kazuhiko was an ordinary boy with average grades and a somewhat introverted personality. His greatest hobby was collecting various fringe mangas and novels. He didn't have much of a presence in class, being a typical "harmless otaku."
During the break, Kazuhiko secretly poked Kanjuro's arm and lowered his voice, his eyes flickering with the excitement of sharing a secret: "Ye... Kanjuro, look... the good stuff I got recently... a limited edition collection!" He carefully pulled an "artistically" packaged manga volume from a hidden compartment in his schoolbag, the cover art being highly suggestive.
Kanjuro glanced at it, his gaze calm. Having experienced the shock of knowledge involving countless civilizations, falls from grace, and pleasures contained within the dark bible, this level of stimulation was as plain as water to him. However, he didn't show any disdain; instead, he cooperatively showed a bit of curiosity: "Oh? It looks... quite special."
Kazuhiko seemed to have found a kindred spirit (even though Kanjuro was also the type who didn't talk much in class) and became even more enthusiastic: "More than just special! The plot and art style are top-notch! I'm telling you, I have even more at home... all kinds! Some are private collections that even my mom doesn't know about..." He suddenly paused, a flash of hesitation crossing his face, and then, as if having made a great decision, he leaned closer and lowered his voice even more. "Um... Kanjuro, do you want to... come to my place after school to check them out? My mom is working overtime today and will be back late. We can... take our time appreciating them."
Inviting a classmate home to share a "collection" might be a clumsy gesture of friendship for a boy with social anxiety like Kazuhiko, or it might hide a deeper desire to show off and share that even he wasn't clearly aware of.
Kanjuro looked at the light in Kazuhiko's eyes—a mix of nervousness, expectation, and a hint of lewdness—and suddenly thought it was quite interesting. Observing the microscopic psychological ripples of an ordinary youth completely immersed in low-level desires and simple social interactions was, to him at this time, like observing the busyness of ants in a glass box, possessing a different kind of amusement.
"Sure," Kanjuro nodded, agreeing casually.
After school, Kanjuro followed the somewhat excited and slightly nervous Kazuhiko through several blocks to an ordinary residential area. Kazuhiko's home was a somewhat old, detached two-story house with a small courtyard, planted with common flowers and plants—neat, but not exactly exquisite.
"I'm home!" Kazuhiko opened the door and shouted inside in a casual tone.
"Welcome back, Kazuhiko," a gentle and soft female voice came from inside.
Kanjuro stepped into the entryway behind him. A woman wearing an apron walked out from the direction of the kitchen, still holding a soup ladle. She looked to be in her early thirties, or perhaps a bit younger, wearing a beige knit sweater and light gray trousers for home. She had a well-proportioned figure, and her jet-black long hair was loosely tied back, with a few strands hanging by her neck. Her features were soft and beautiful, without makeup; her skin was fair, and her eyes were clear and gentle, carrying the peaceful temperament unique to a domestic woman. Most striking was her aura—gentle as water, yet not appearing weak; instead, there was a kind of resilience and calm refined by life.
"Ah, and this is?" The woman saw Kanjuro and was slightly startled, then immediately showed a gentle smile.
"Mom, this is my classmate, Kanjuro," Kazuhiko introduced quickly, his face looking a bit unnatural, likely fearing his mother would ask why they came back together. "He... he's here to borrow study notes!"
This excuse was so clumsy it almost made Kanjuro want to laugh. But he simply bowed politely: "Hello, Auntie. Sorry for the intrusion."
"Not at all. Kazuhiko rarely brings classmates home. Welcome, welcome." The woman, Kazuhiko's mother, smiled even more warmly. "My name is Amemiya Misako. Please take care of me. Come in quickly; I happen to be preparing dinner. If you don't mind, Mr. Kanjuro, why don't you stay and eat with us?"
Her hospitality was natural and unforced, her eyes clean, looking at Kanjuro with only the kindness one has for a son's classmate.
"Then I'll be troubling you," Kanjuro said, following the flow.
"Kazuhiko, take your classmate to your room. Make sure to keep it tidy," Misako instructed, then smiled at Kanjuro again before turning back to the kitchen.
Kazuhiko breathed a sigh of relief and quickly pulled Kanjuro upstairs into his room. The room wasn't large and was piled with various manga, light novels, game discs, and models; the air was filled with the faint scent of old books and plastic models. As expected, he brought out more of his "treasures" like they were prizes and began to explain them incessantly, temporarily forgetting the embarrassment of lying to his mother.
Kanjuro listened absentmindedly, his gaze occasionally sweeping over a photograph on the bookshelf. It was a photo of Kazuhiko as a child with a young woman; the woman's features were somewhat similar to the current Misako, but her aura was more lively and charming. In another recent photo of the family of three (Kazuhiko, Misako, and a middle-aged man whose face was blurry and who didn't seem to be home often), Misako's smile was gentle, but deep in her eyes, there seemed to be a very faint, barely perceptible sense of detachment and fatigue.
How sharp his perception was. Even if the power of the dark bible was intentionally restrained, that insight beyond common logic still existed. He could feel a subtle atmosphere permeating this home. Kazuhiko's dependence on Misako carried a bit of matter-of-fact demand, while Misako's care for Kazuhiko was meticulous and comprehensive, yet it seemed... to lack that most deep-rooted, irreplaceable, and burning bond between biological mother and son? It was more like a warmth cultivated by responsibility and habit.
During dinner, the feeling became even more apparent. Misako was a skilled cook, and her home-cooked meals were exquisite and delicious. She constantly served food to Kazuhiko and Kanjuro, asking about school life with a gentle and thoughtful demeanor. Kazuhiko, on the other hand, was somewhat distracted, picking at his rice; his mind was clearly still on his "collection" upstairs, and he responded to his mother's concern perfunctorily.
"Kazuhiko is just too introverted and doesn't have many friends. I'm glad you're willing to associate with him, Mr. Kanjuro." Misako added soup to Kanjuro's bowl, her tone gentle yet carrying an imperceptible trace of apology and a faint melancholy. "His father is busy with work and away all year round. It's just me... sometimes I don't know how to communicate with him properly."
·· 0 Ask for flowers 0 --- "Mom!" Kazuhiko muttered with some dissatisfaction, seemingly finding it embarrassing to be spoken of this way in front of a classmate.
Kanjuro responded with a smile: "Kazuhiko is very interesting; we get along quite well." He paused, then asked as if casually, "It must not be easy for you to take such good care of Kazuhiko all by yourself, Auntie."
Misako paused slightly, her smile remaining gentle, but a complex ripple seemed to flash deep in her eyes as she sighed softly: "Yes... however, Kazuhiko is a good child. Even though he isn't..."
She stopped abruptly, as if realizing she had misspoken, and quickly covered it with a smile, changing the subject: "The soup is getting cold, please drink more."
Isn't?
Deep within Kanjuro's purple eyes, a flash of realization flickered.
So that was it.
Amemiya Misako was Kazuhiko's adoptive mother.
No wonder there was that subtle sense of distance, that overly thorough and sometimes even cautious care, and that faint sorrow flashing deep in her eyes as she watched the boy, with whom she shared no blood relation, grow up and drift further away.
A gentle and beautiful adoptive mother, a slightly reclusive adoptive son obsessed with subcultures, a long-absent adoptive father (or nominal husband), and an ordinary family that seemed calm and warm but had undercurrents surging beneath.
After having just experienced a global-level dark conquest, suddenly falling into such an "ordinary" scene filled with daily details and subtle interpersonal relationships gave Kanjuro an unprecedented sense of... freshness... 0... This was no longer a grand narrative that required him to use his authority to crush and reshape, but a delicate "small world" full of the subtle folds of humanity. Observing it, intervening in it, or... like a stone tossed inadvertently into a pond to see what ripples it could create, seemed more interesting than continuing to toy with those already-subjugated chess pieces of power.
He lowered his head to drink the soup, the corners of his mouth curling into an interested arc that went unnoticed by anyone.
The forever-eighteen-year-old Lord of Darkness, after conquering visible kingdoms, seemed to have turned his interest toward the more obscure and complex mazes of the human heart hidden beneath mundane daily life.
Amemiya Misako... is it?
It seems this "back to school" vacation might not be so boring after all.
A new game seemed to have quietly begun in this ordinary living room wafting with the aroma of food. And this time, the rules and outcome of the game would still be defined by him alone. Kazuhiko hurriedly finished the rice in his bowl, put down his chopsticks, and looked at Kanjuro with some impatience, then glanced at Misako, his eyes written with the urgency of "let's hurry upstairs and continue researching the 'collection'."
"Mom, I'm done! Kanjuro, let's..." Kazuhiko stood up.
"Kazuhiko," Misako interrupted him gently, a trace of disapproval in her soft expression, "Mr. Kanjuro is still eating; don't be so impolite. Besides, it's not good to keep a guest cooped up in that messy room of yours all the time."
She turned to Kanjuro and smiled apologetically: "Mr. Kanjuro, don't mind him. This child is just like this; he gets all restless whenever he encounters something he's interested in."
Kanjuro put down his spoon and wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin, his movements natural and elegant, not at all like an ordinary high school student. "It's fine, Auntie. I'm actually about full. Kazuhiko's 'collection' is indeed quite interesting." He followed Misako's lead, his tone relaxed, giving Misako face without letting Kazuhiko down too much.
Hearing this, Kazuhiko's eyes lit up, and he looked at his mother again.
Misako shook her head helplessly, her favorable impression of Kanjuro seemingly increasing—he was polite, considerate, and knew how to smooth things over for a classmate. "Then... if Mr. Kanjuro isn't in a hurry to leave, why not stay a bit longer and have some tea? I just baked some cookies; they're still in the oven. Kazuhiko, if you really can't sit still, go finish the practice problems you're supposed to do today first, and then... then play with Mr. Kanjuro." She drew a line for Kazuhiko.
Kazuhiko's face fell, but he clearly didn't dare to disobey his mother, especially in front of a "guest." He muttered "I know," reluctantly cleared his dishes, took them into the kitchen, and then went upstairs with his head hanging, likely to do his tedious practice problems.
For the moment, only Kanjuro and Misako were left in the dining room. The air was filled with the faint aroma of food and the increasingly rich, sweet scent of baking cookies.
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