"This will be your lodging. Until this incident is resolved, please live here for the time being."
Kikuchihara Aki led Van Gogh and Shimazaki Yuna to their room.
Though sparsely furnished, it was larger than their old rental apartment, and the emptiness only made it feel even more hollow—lacking all traces of lived-in warmth.
But if treated not as a home but as a hotel, a temporary place, it was perfectly serviceable.
Standing at the door, Kikuchihara told them:
"If you'd like to add anything, tell us. We'll try to meet your requests."
"Ah, if that's the case… could you get us some painting supplies?"
"…You mean manga tools? Those are already prepared. Since all of you invited here are Creators, we've readied the necessary equipment whether you asked or not."
"No… not manga tools."
Yuna's voice trembled a little before a government official, but thinking of Van Gogh's temperament, she gathered her courage.
"Van Gogh… she loves to paint. Manga, oils, ink wash, sketching—she loves it all. Could you prepare all kinds of art materials for her?"
At this, Kikuchihara paused, startled, turning eyes filled with surprise toward Van Gogh.
A professional mangaka at eight years old—Matsubara and the others had been floored, but she too had found it unbelievable. Even as a non-Creator herself, Van Gogh's achievements were enough to make anyone question reality.
And now Yuna said… Van Gogh didn't just master manga, but also oil, ink, sketch.
Did humans, with finite energy, truly manage such things?
Even Kikuchihara, practiced in managing her expressions, couldn't suppress a stunned look.
"…Understood. I'll have them prepared."
With those words, she left, giving the two girls the room entirely.
This whole building had been given over to them—a base, with living quarters, conference rooms, even simple recreation facilities.
Van Gogh and Yuna lived there as arranged.
Before them, Selesia, Meteora, and the other Created were already staying here. Alongside them, the Creators—Matsubara, Mariné, Nakanogane Masaaki. It made monitoring and protection easier for the government.
Monitoring, for the Created.
Protection, for the Creators.
It was said they were even arranging to bring in Anazuma Tenkyuu, author of Record of the Night-Window Demon. Unfortunate man—among all the Created brought forth, his was the most dangerous: Chikujoin Magane, pure Chaotic Evil.
That night, after gravely wounding Alicetaria and nearly killing her, Magane had vanished without a trace. No one wanted such a monster loose. Bringing Tenkyuu in served a dual purpose—safeguarding him, and perhaps luring Magane out.
Mizushino Sōta, meanwhile, still lived at home with his mother, commuting between here and school. He wasn't a Creator, and less likely to be targeted.
After Kikuchihara left, Yuna began familiarizing herself with the room.
"…There's a mini fridge, but no kitchen."
She opened it. Inside, canned goods, fruit, drinks—crammed in until full.
Checking the bedroom, she opened the door and stared at the neat, hotel-like orderliness.
"…So this is what a room looks like, when not buried under manuscripts…"
Her voice was quiet, filled with emotion she herself might not have understood.
Then she sighed with resignation.
"…But soon, this room will be just as messy."
Returning to the living room, she saw Van Gogh curled on the sofa, already asleep. She looked like a tiny kitten.
Cute—but Yuna shook her shoulder gently.
"Van Gogh, you can't just fall asleep like this. Take a bath, change clothes, then we'll go to bed."
Half-awake, Van Gogh instead clung to Yuna's waist, pressing her face into her stomach, voice pleading, childish.
"Nooo… Van Gogh is sleepy… Van Gogh wants to sleep… Van Gogh doesn't want a bath… baths are too troublesome…"
She had napped in the conference hall, but fatigue still claimed her, pulling her into dreams soft and sweet as cotton candy.
But Yuna refused to yield to her whining.
"Be good. A bath and pajamas first—then sleep will feel better. Van Gogh is a clean and obedient child, isn't she?"
"Guuuh…"
Van Gogh was already so drowsy her words slurred.
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Yuna hesitated, then went to answer.
Surprise flickered across her face.
"…Mariné-san?"
"Good evening, Yuna. I hope I'm not intruding?"
Mariné stood smiling at the doorway.
"No, no… what brings you here? Would you like to come in?"
"Ah, nothing urgent." Mariné scratched her cheek, a little embarrassed. "Since you and Van Gogh-sensei just arrived, we thought we'd have a dinner party—a welcome, really. …Well, truth is, we're all just too excited. It's the first time meeting Van Gogh-sensei in person, and earlier I barely even managed to speak with her…"
Yuna blinked.
"So… the welcome party was an excuse?"
"Eh? No! It's real, of course. Matsubara-san and the others all want to meet Van Gogh-sensei properly. …By the way, where is she?"
Mariné looked around, noticing Van Gogh wasn't with her. Peeking past Yuna, she spotted her on the sofa, curled like a cat.
"As you see, asleep."
Yuna's voice was exasperated. "She must've gotten drowsy in the conference hall. I was about to wake her for a bath…"
Mariné's first thought:
So cute! She's always cute, but sleeping like this—adorable beyond words! I want to scoop her up, rub her cheeks, hear if she meows when I scratch…
Her inner scream, unheard by anyone.
Then panic. Covering her mouth, she blurted:
"D-did I disturb her sleep?!"
Stupid! She's still a child, even if she's a manga legend! She needs proper rest—how could I forget that?! If they hate me for this, what will I do—?!
Yuna, not grasping Mariné's frantic thoughts, reassured her.
"It's fine. I was going to wake her anyway. Can't let her sleep in her clothes. …Though, if we're going to this dinner, then she doesn't need to bathe first."
"N-no, if she's tired, let her sleep. We can hold the welcome tomorrow. Sorry for intruding!"
Before Yuna could protest, Mariné fled down the hall. Yuna sighed into the emptiness.
...
Night spread like flowing water, wrapping the city in stillness. Cold wind threaded through the gaps, whispering winter's chill.
The overpass stretched like a dragon across the city. Beneath it, neon lights and endless traffic. Above it, only the occasional car broke the silence, its tires murmuring before being swallowed again by the dark.
Crimson and amber lamps painted warm shadows across the night.
Driving there was a convoy—Kikuchihara's men, tasked with retrieving Creators tied to the incident.
They had already collected Van Gogh, Yuna, and Anazuma Tenkyuu. Now, three more Creators rode in their cars:
Ōsawa Chika, pen name Suruga Shunma—author of Code Babylon, Creator of Blitz Talker.
Gōda Ryōsuke, pen name Yatouji Ryou—author of Underground -Dark Night-, Creator of Mirokuji Yūya.
Takarada Naoya, pen name Takarada Gai—author of Alicetaria of the Scarlet, Creator of Alicetaria.
They were split across three cars.
Each of them bore some irritation.
Understandable. Deadlines loomed, and suddenly police and government agents arrived, gave no explanations, and dragged them away.
Meteora was with them, riding shotgun, silent, gazing at the shifting lights.
The hour was late. Few cars passed them. The road was clear.
"…Truly clear."
The driver glanced at the empty lanes.
Meteora knew what he meant. Not traffic—but danger.
Her presence was precisely to guard against that. For a simple escort, ordinary officers would suffice.
"Best not declare it so early, driver-san."
Her voice was flat, pure logic.
"I know, I know. I don't read manga, but I know about 'Flags,' right?"
"That is only a trope of authors. Foreshadowing, planted to manipulate readers' unease, building subconscious tension until it bursts. The Oedipus effect, in narrative form.
Reality is not a story. Logically, declaring a flag does not alter probability. Yet… investigations show many events where flags are followed by incidents. We cannot explain it. But we can respect the pattern."
"True enough. If Meteora-san and Selesia-san can appear before me, what else can't exist?"
The driver laughed, shaking his head. "Because of you, this world I've lived in for decades suddenly feels foreign."
Above the city, in the freezing night air, a figure stood as though gravity did not apply. Cold wind bit at him. Below, a sea of lights glittered.
"The gods who created us… from here, they look like ants. Crushable in an instant."
Blitz Talker's hand twitched for a cigarette, then remembered the altitude. Ash would scatter. He resisted.
He fixed his gaze on the cars below. After a silence, he twisted the dial of the watch on his wrist and descended.
The lead driver froze. A man was standing in the middle of the road.
Blitz Talker raised his revolver.
Bang!
Muzzle-flash flared. The bullet tore through a tire.
The car lurched, tires screaming, sparks flying as metal scraped asphalt. The driver barely avoided flipping, slamming instead into the rail.
Inside, hearts pounded, but none were injured. A deliberate mercy.
The other cars stopped at once.
Blitz Talker emerged from shadow. Reloading his revolver calmly, he bowed slightly.
"Good evening. Blitz Talker. By position… I suppose I am your enemy."
Meteora stepped out from the wreck, pulling survivors to safety. She met his gaze, her book already floating, pages fluttering.
"You say you are our enemy."
Her voice was low. "Then you are allied with the monsters?"
But Blitz Talker shook his head.
"No. I fight with the Military Uniform Princess. But this attack is my own. I seek my god."
His rugged face, carved by time, flickered with something sharp and cold.
"I won't say foolish things like 'It's all her fault, she toyed with us.' But as a victim of her pen, I claim the right to ask her directly."
"…And if it's only words, why the gun?"
Meteora's book pulsed, magical circle glowing like a shield.
She had expected Magane. Instead, she faced Altair's ally.
Bang! Bang!
Sparks. Bullets slammed into her shield, rippling it but not breaking through.
When his cylinder emptied, Blitz Talker reloaded, firing again.
Meteora never struck back—her offensive spells were stored weapons, locked by Kikuchihara's command. Especially in the city.
The Creators behind her cowered, helpless, watching their world unravel.
Once more Blitz Talker emptied his gun. But this time he slipped in a different round. A special round.
Boom!
The blast roared like a cannon. Recoil kicked his arm upward.
Meteora's eyes widened—too late.
The bullet hit her barrier, detonated. Violet light engulfed her.
Gravity crushed down a hundredfold. The road cracked, caving inward, shattering. Her barrier collapsed. Her body smashed to the ground.
Boom!
Buried in rubble, she lost consciousness.
Blitz Talker frowned, hesitating. But he did not finish her. Instead, his cold eyes shifted toward the Creators nearby.
His past weighed heavy. Once a detective, now a bounty hunter, his world filled with demi-humans and bio-monsters. He had a daughter, Elinatoka. He gave her everything. Until she was taken, made an experiment, fused into a monster, used as a "key" to open the Gate.
To save his world, to end her pain… he killed her himself.
That was his story.
He did not regret it. He did not blame gods entirely.
But he wanted an answer.
From the one who had written that fate.
And depending on that answer—he would decide whether to kill.
He began to move toward the Creators. He would take his author away. This was no place for such a conversation.
But then—
"Yo, old man. Finally, we meet again."
The voice stopped him.
Mirokuji Yūya approached, wolfish grin splitting his face, sunglasses glinting.
"Last time you cut out halfway. I've been waiting for another round. You'll fight me, won't you, old man?"
The air thickened. His killing intent pressed down, sharp, heavy, undeniable.