"I see." Kimurahama nodded. "So your anger comes from the fact that I already have a wife?"
"Isn't that only natural?" Shirakawa Natsu snapped. "You leave your wife behind to rekindle things with your childhood sweetheart—don't you feel any guilt as a professor at Tokyo University? Or do you just want to toy with Sister Youcai's feelings?"
"If I were to divorce," Kimurahama said suddenly, his eyes fixed on Shirakawa, "would you still be angry?"
"You…" For a moment Shirakawa was at a loss for words.
Kimurahama's voice softened. "If you only think I'm playing with Youcai's feelings, then after divorcing, I'll be with her openly. You'd have no grounds to object."
"A man who can so casually abandon his wife—how could anyone believe he would bring happiness to Sister Youcai?" Shirakawa, having vented some of his fury, was gradually regaining his composure.
Kimurahama shook his head. "I lost my memory four years ago. During that time, my wife cared for me devotedly. Her only wish was to marry me, so I married her out of gratitude."
"Then stay with her and live your good life!" Shirakawa shot back, voice still heated.
"But my memories have been returning." Kimurahama continued evenly. "I lived twenty-two years with Hashimoto Arina."
"So now you abandon your current wife as if it's the most righteous thing in the world?" Shirakawa gave a bitter laugh.
"I have already come to an arrangement with her," Kimurahama said as if to himself. "I'll leave the house with nothing. All of my assets will go to her, and I'll continue to support her until she finds someone new and remarries."
"Two women—one must be betrayed. Tell me, Mr. Shirakawa, what would you do?"
"You…" Shirakawa felt himself being drawn into Kimurahama's rhythm. If faced with the same situation, could he honestly say he would have done better?
"But tonight, one thing is clear to me." Kimurahama suddenly smiled. "Mr. Shirakawa—you're fond of Youcai, aren't you?"
"Yes." Shirakawa didn't deny it. He admitted it plainly. "But where do you get the confidence to say such things? Thinking you can make Youcai happy—aren't you being too arrogant?"
"Reasonable," Kimurahama murmured. "Love has a shelf life, subject to the laws of nature. Humanity can't escape that limit. Take ovulation, for example—it's nature's design for better raising the next generation. I've simply been acting according to reason."
"Ridiculous." Shirakawa rose to his feet, pointing directly at Kimurahama. "I want to rip off that mask of yours."
A strange gleam flickered in Kimurahama's eyes.
"Don't forget to pay the bill," Shirakawa said curtly, turning his back on him. He had already said everything that needed saying; any further words would bring no more answers.
And more importantly—when it came to words, he was no match for Kimurahama.
Yazhikui stood as well. At the counter, she asked the young waitress to pack up two bottles of wine, pointed toward Kimurahama, and said, "He'll be paying."
Out on the street, Shirakawa glanced at her coldly, the two bottles swinging in her hand. His lips twitched.
"How do you manage to look so dignified, yet do such absurd things?"
Yazhikui frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Never mind," Shirakawa sighed, waving it off. She clearly saw nothing wrong with what she'd done.
They walked in silence for a while.
"You're in a bad mood," Yazhikui observed suddenly.
Shirakawa shook his head. "I was just thinking. In those transmigration novels, the so-called 'senior travelers' were ordinary nobodies in their original world. Yet once they transmigrate, suddenly they have unmatched eloquence, courage, and skill. Is it because the average IQ of the worlds they travel to is abnormally low?"
He was venting, of course—because against Kimurahama, he hadn't managed to gain the upper hand at all.
If you were stubborn enough, you could argue endlessly. But empty rhetoric changed nothing.
"Are you unwilling to accept it?" Yazhikui asked abruptly.
Shirakawa blinked, then groaned and covered his forehead. "Idiot. Aren't you supposed to comfort me right now? What nonsense is that to say?"
Yes—he was deeply dissatisfied.
Kimurahama's word echoed in his mind: reasonable.
Kimurahama had twenty-two years of history with Hashimoto Arina, a perfect face, polished personality, and a professorship at a top university.
And Shirakawa? To the outside world, he was a man who might not even live to see tomorrow.
Hashimoto Arina had been moved seeing him devote himself to drawing manga even at the end of his life. But could he really be selfish enough to ask her to choose him for that reason alone?
"Are you going to give up?" Yazhikui asked, brushing windblown hair from her face.
"No." Shirakawa shook his head, clenching his fist before him. "In my dictionary, there's no such word as 'give up.'"
He turned to find Yazhikui watching him intently. A chill ran down his spine.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
She shook her head. "Just now… you looked really handsome."
"You like me, don't you?" Shirakawa narrowed his eyes. Yazhikui was always by his side, helping him. And after what happened last time—even though his skin had been scratched, she hadn't flinched.
By any measure, she must at least feel something for him.
Yazhikui turned her head, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.
"Sorry, I shouldn't ask such self-defeating questions," Shirakawa muttered, pursing his lips. Her smile was too mocking.
She sent him back to the hospital and left.
After the meeting with Kimurahama, Shirakawa's mind steadied. He picked up his brush once again.
Kimurahama wasn't just a professor at Tokyo University—he was also a bestselling mangaka under another name.
The next day came quickly. Hashimoto Arina was still on leave, and the two spoke on the phone in the morning.
She asked what he'd eaten for lunch. He complained about the awful hospital food. She reminded him to take his medicine on time. Their talk was like that of a couple, but in truth it felt more like an elder sister fussing over her younger brother.
Shirakawa kept drawing until 11 a.m., then called Yazhikui to pick up the manuscript.
He planned to wrap up Reaper first. Since he didn't need to think too much about the plot anymore, and had cut out many side arcs, the story moved quickly and the pacing was tighter.
When Yazhikui arrived, she was yawning—she clearly hadn't slept well.
"What's your deal?" Shirakawa asked, puzzled. "Out clubbing again last night?"
"No." Yazhikui rubbed her temples. "Koizumi called me all night, crying. Her family grounded her."
"Figures." Shirakawa's mouth twitched. He wasn't surprised—if his daughter were about to be someone else's pet, any decent father would break her legs.
He handed Yazhikui the manuscript. "Here. Take it to the editorial department."
Last time, the publishers had wanted him to attend an apology meeting, but he'd stood firm, and the matter blew over. Readers cursed him and bought his work in equal measure, and sales climbed higher than ever.
He was back on top.
Yazhikui skimmed the manuscript, then asked, "The editorial office is organizing a trip next Monday—popular authors, all expenses covered, to a hot spring inn. You can even bring a guest. Are you going?"
"Do I look like I can enjoy a hot spring?" Shirakawa shrugged. Left unattended, he'd probably end up the centerpiece of a locked-room murder case.
Yazhikui gave him a sidelong glance. "Bring that doctor with you."
Shirakawa froze, then turned to her with a smirk. As expected of a seasoned player—always a step ahead.
But he quickly shook his head. Even if Arina Hashimoto agreed, if the two of them went to a hot spring together, he might not measure up. The shame would be unbearable.
Better to take it slow. Push too fast, and it might backfire.
Seeing his face change from excitement to gloom, Yazhikui frowned. "What's wrong?"
Shirakawa hesitated. They'd already shared too much to keep secrets now. Hiding the truth would only create an imbalance. So he confessed his worries.
Unlike most women, Yazhikui didn't flush or panic. She simply analyzed calmly. "You're overthinking. Last time, everything was fine."
"No." Shirakawa shook his head. His health was failing—his mornings gave no sign of normal vitality.
Last time, Yazhikui had only cut him lightly. Until the very end, she hadn't seen the whole situation.
Now, she sat down in the nursing chair, one hand over her mouth.
Shirakawa's mouth twitched. Those sharp canine teeth of hers had left him with a shadow in his heart. Even if she wanted it, he wasn't sure he'd dare.
The moment grew awkward.
Yazhikui suddenly smacked her forehead. "You're such a hassle!"
She stood, sat on the hospital bed, and slid her hand under his quilt.
"Wait—!" Shirakawa quickly stopped her.
They locked eyes. Yazhikui frowned. "You don't want to?"
"Uh… that's not it." Shirakawa gestured toward the curtains. "Just close them first. It's almost lunchtime—someone might walk in."
With a look of pure contempt, Yazhikui got up, shut the curtains, then sat again on the edge of the bed. Her right hand slipped beneath the quilt.
It wasn't the first time—this time she was far more practiced.
After a while, Yazhikui frowned. "Hopeless. Just give it up." She started to withdraw her hand, but Shirakawa grabbed it, eyes serious.
"I think it can still be saved. The problem is—I don't really see you as a woman, deep down."
"Annoying man." Her face twisted in disgust. With her other hand, she lifted the hem of her T-shirt and guided his hand beneath.
His fingers brushed something unexpected—firm, fibrous texture, patterned lace.
Shirakawa hadn't expected his "brother's" underwear to be so feminine.
Yazhikui looked away, expression blank. Shirakawa didn't meet her eyes either. They sat side by side, staring at the drawn curtain, while their hands worked in silence.
"As I thought—it can still be saved," Shirakawa said, delighted. He turned his head. "But… could you be gentler?"
Yazhikui scowled. With her free hand she grabbed his collar and yanked him toward her. Their lips collided.
When they parted, she glared. "Who told you to stick out your tongue?!"