Minamoto Senya tore open the envelope and began reading.
Beside him, Toka lingered, clearly curious but keeping quiet. Instead, she walked to the kitchen and poured him a glass of water, setting it gently on the coffee table.
By the time Senya finished reading, he looked up and thanked her.
Unable to hold back anymore, Toka asked softly, "What did it say?"
Senya noticed how tense she seemed—of course she would be. She was worried about the manuscript he had only just submitted to the competition. His voice was warm and reassuring when he answered:
"Relax—it's good news. My novel passed the preliminary screening."
As he spoke, he handed her the letter without hesitation.
Toka accepted it with both hands, almost ceremoniously. When her eyes caught the congratulatory message printed there, her face lit up. The joy spilling across her expression was impossible to miss.
Senya, however, felt little in the way of waves inside. For him, this was expected.
Instead, he smiled and sipped the water, savoring not the victory itself, but the way Toka's smile shone before him. That, more than the letter, was the real reward.
When she finished reading, Toka carefully folded the notice. It wasn't an official certificate, but without question, it was still one of Senya's honors.
Back before their father remarried, the certificates Senya earned in school—commendations, award banners, letters of praise—were never things he himself cared much for. Their father had been the one to neatly collect and store them with pride.
After Junko and her two daughters joined the family, and as time went on, the responsibility shifted naturally into Toka's hands.
Every medal, every prize Senya earned since then—she had made it her duty to preserve them.
Toka had long since set aside her own dream, one she had clung to stubbornly for years. But seeing Senya steadily walking his own path filled her with both happiness and genuine pride.
Once she slid the letter back into the envelope, Toka looked up—only to catch Senya staring at her with unbroken focus, smiling softly.
Her composure faltered; she forced herself to act calm. "…Congratulations."
"This is only the beginning."
"You certainly know how to keep a level head."
Of course he did. After all, this was the same work that, in another life, countless readers had hailed as a classic of the mystery genre.
"Yes. I'm confident," Senya said simply, still smiling.
"…"
Something stirred in Toka as she watched his confident expression—a premonition, dangerous and unsettling.
And yet… strange as it was, that feeling didn't make her want to run. Instead, it drew her in. She wanted to know more. To dig deeper. To… keep looking closer.
Suppressing the rapid beat of her heart, she stood abruptly, almost as if fleeing. "I'm going upstairs for a bit. Later I'll come down and help pack your things."
"No need. Help Rikka with hers. I'll take care of mine."
"…Alright."
She gave the slightest nod before retreating to her room.
Only in the quiet, private space of her bedroom did she finally exhale.
Her cheeks burned as she gazed at the letter in her hands, Senya's features replaying vividly in her mind—his sharp profile, the breadth of his hand, the solid strength in his arms…
It had only been two days since she last saw him. Nothing about him should have changed in that short time.
And yet—why did he suddenly feel so much more… captivating?
His eyes, his posture, the way he carried himself—it was as though some of his boyishness had been shed, leaving behind something undeniably more mature.
This letter… he had just held it, hadn't he?
Her vision grew hazy, her gaze softening as she slowly lifted the envelope toward her face—
—but stopped halfway.
Clenching her teeth, she forced herself to inhale deeply, chanting silently in her mind.
He's your brother. He's your brother. He's your… adopted brother.
"…!"
The thought hit her like a shock. She staggered two steps and flung herself onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow.
Her flushed cheeks were as red as a blazing sunset.
Maybe she really was going crazy.
After lying there a while, letting the heat subside, she got back up. Carefully, she slipped the letter into a protective sleeve, slid open the transparent cabinet door, and placed it neatly among Senya's other awards.
She stared at the display case for a long time before finally turning to the window. After a stretch of silent thought, she pulled out her phone and dialed Yukinoshita Haruno.
"Toka-chan! Wow, you don't usually call me out of the blue."
"We literally just talked last night."
"Texts and phone calls aren't the same thing, you know."
How are they not the same?
Toka ignored that, getting straight to the point.
"Do you have time to meet?"
There was a pause on the other end before Haruno's cheerful voice answered,
"Of course."
—
Back at home, aside from Toka, Senya didn't see anyone else around.
No need to ask; little Chiyo had no doubt been taken out somewhere by Junko.
And his father, naturally, would be buried in work.
Good. The busier, the better.
After tidying up his things, Senya shared the news about his novel's success with Eriri and Utaha. Since they had been involved in the process of putting it together, it only felt right that they share in the milestone.
The exact judging criteria of the Edogawa Rampo Prize were still a mystery to him, but this was undeniably good news.
According to the official schedule, the winning works would be announced near the end of January. Yet here it was only January ninth, and the preliminary results had already been released—surprisingly fast for Japan, a country he'd always assumed moved slowly with such matters.
If things continued at this pace, maybe he wouldn't even have to wait until the end of the month for the final outcome.
After a cheerful chat with Eriri—who flooded him with celebratory emojis—and after helping Utaha pick between stockings she was agonizing over by reviewing the shopping links she sent him, Senya put down his phone.
He called a courier service to come pick up the local gifts he had brought back from Hakone, dividing them neatly into two packages to be delivered the same day.
Maintaining connections—that was the heart of all relationships.
The phrase people always tossed around at family gatherings—"let's stay in touch"—wasn't just empty politeness. It was the distilled wisdom of years: how many friendships had withered into nothing because of time and silence?
Senya valued this deeply.
With that done, he finally opened the personal status screen he hadn't checked in a while.
One glance—and his eyes widened.
[Strength: 24.7][Agility: 25.1][Constitution: 29](Average for males his age: 11.3)[Charisma: 41]
[Skills: Kendo Lv7, Piano Lv6, Japanese Lv6, Chinese Lv5, English Lv5, Drawing Lv4, Cooking Lv4, Writing Lv4, Bartending Lv2, Aikido Lv1, Guitar Lv1, Voice Mimicry Lv1, Lockpicking Lv1, Martial Arts Lv1…]
[Talents—]
Unusual Fate of the Transmigrator: For better or worse, your chances of running into unusual events are greatly increased.
Phantom Brain: Thanks to both expert guidance and rigorous daily training, your reflexes have been sharpened to the point where you can perform limited 'combat calculations' and 'action predictions' during real fights.
Perfect Pitch: Your hearing is sharper, allowing you to recognize musical notes and environmental sounds with flawless accuracy—even without a reference tone.
Japanese Mastery: Your understanding, learning, and expression of Japanese are significantly enhanced.
"…"
The new skills weren't shocking—that was thanks to the maid.
Since he hadn't been focusing on those areas or spending extended close-up time, they remained low-level, just scratching the surface.
The increase in Japanese proficiency and the new "Japanese Mastery" talent also made sense.
What truly unsettled Senya were the leaps in his basic attributes.
Then again, he was at the age of rapid growth. It wasn't unreasonable…
But Charisma at forty-one? That was absurd.
Hadn't it been under thirty the last time he checked? Where had these extra points even come from?
Nothing major had happened lately…
He couldn't wrap his head around it. The revelation left him shaken.
Around noon, Toka came downstairs to prepare lunch.
Senya steadied himself, then walked to the kitchen. "Let me help."
"No!" Toka turned sharply, almost as if startled, when she saw him roll up his sleeves and approach.
Senya froze, confused, staring at her.
Realizing her overreaction, she averted her gaze and lowered her voice. "…You just got back. Go rest like Rikka. I'll handle this."
"…Alright. Sorry to trouble you, Toka."
"What are you talking about? We're family."
Her answer was punctuated by the steady thunk thunk thunk of the knife against the cutting board.
Senya watched her for a moment, then said nothing more.
Instead, he went upstairs to the bathroom and studied his reflection in the mirror.
He looked… ordinary. The same as always.
Just then, Rikka came out of her room, heading toward the toilet.
"Hey, Rikka," Senya called, turning. "Take a close look at me. Do I seem different from usual?"
She blinked. "Different? How do you mean?"
"My face," Senya clarified, his tone deadly serious. "Don't you think I look more handsome than before?"
Minamoto Rokuka fixed her gaze on him. The moment her eyes met Senya's, her cheeks suddenly flushed red. She muttered, "Narcissist," and without another word, she stomped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
Senya touched his own face and let out a long, weary sigh.
It was over—his boosted Charm stat was really showing its effect.
Even Rokuka, that silly little sister, was starting to feel the weight of his handsomeness!
"Senya, hurry up and leave! I can't use the bathroom while you're standing out there."
"How did you manage before, then?"
"Before is before, now is now!"
Evening.
The winter sun dipped below the horizon, its golden light spilling through the tall windows of the Tōma household. The sunset glow fell across Tōma Kazusa's pale, delicate feet where they touched the floorboards.
She sat quietly on the edge of her bed, cradling her guitar.
Her slender fingers brushed the strings as her voice softly rose in song:
"Rain falls all night, my love overflowing like water…?"
"On the windowsill, butterflies flutter like verses scattered in a poem…"
"I keep writing on…?"
"To carve 'I'll love you forever' into the poem's final lines…"
"You're the only one I want to understand me…?"
"…."
After a few more chords, she let the music die.
You're the only one I want to understand me…
Just who exactly was that "you" meant for?
Kazusa's lips parted in a faint, lonely sigh.
Hugging the guitar sideways, she rested her cheek against its neck, her long black hair cascading down like a waterfall.
It really was a beautiful song.
The melody, delicate as silk, flowed perfectly with the chords. The lyrics brimmed with poetry, elegant and wistful.
And yet—for reasons she couldn't quite place—every time she sang it lately, she was overwhelmed by loneliness.
Even though it hadn't been long since he invited her out.
Even though it had barely been any time since they'd last seen each other.
Her sigh deepened.
The door swung open without warning.
Her mother, Tōma Yōko, strolled in, utterly ignoring her daughter's irritated glare.
Kazusa didn't bother scolding her. She knew it wouldn't help. Her mother was free-spirited, reckless, doing as she pleased with the outside world—and even more so at home, especially around her only daughter.
"Well, well, strumming the guitar? That's rare."
"It's just a whim," Kazusa replied flatly, setting the instrument aside on its stand. Her gaze drifted toward the paper-wrapped package her mother carried.
"I doubt it's just a whim," Yōko teased. "You've been humming that same melody for weeks. Must be something you really like, huh?"
Kazusa's perfect pitch was inherited from her mother. Every tune she absentmindedly sang or hummed had been noticed, every note captured by Yōko's sharp ears.
But Kazusa hadn't told her mother about working on a song with Minamoto Senya.
It was her little secret—a treasure meant for just the two of them.
Not wanting to dwell on the topic, she quickly deflected, nodding toward the package.
"What's that?"
"Oh, this?" Yōko laughed. "I have no idea."
Kazusa rolled her eyes. Of course she's messing with me again. She grabbed a cloth to wipe her guitar strings.
But her mother wasn't done.
"It's a same-city delivery Aunt Shibata just received. Funny thing though—the addressee isn't me. It's you."
"My name?"
Kazusa's head snapped up.
Yōko's smirk widened as she lifted a pair of scissors in her free hand.
"If you're not curious, I'll just open it for you."
"I'll do it!"
Kazusa nearly lunged across the room, snatching the parcel from her mother's hands.
"Don't be so hasty."
"…..!"
Her heart skipped when she saw the sender's name written clearly on the label: Minamoto Senya.
She beamed, but quickly shot her mother a look that said: Why didn't you say that from the start?
Yōko feigned a shiver. "Scary~" She passed her the scissors.
Kazusa opened the package. Inside were local specialties—fish cakes, kuro-tamago (black eggs), traditional sweets.
"Straight from Hakone, huh… so Senya went traveling," Yōko observed.
"Mhm," Kazusa murmured. She already knew; Senya had mentioned it in passing before.
But her attention was caught by the small slip of paper tucked inside.
The handwriting was fluid, elegant—memorable at a glance.
It read simply:
'I tried some local food that I thought you might like. I brought some back and sent it to you. Hope you enjoy it.'
Yōko peeked over her shoulder. "Wow, Senya's penmanship is way better than yours, Kazusa."
Her daughter flushed. "So is yours, Mom."
"At least better than yours," Yōko teased with a chuckle.
Kazusa ignored her. She snapped a picture of the package with her phone, then sent it to Senya with a short message: Thanks.
By the time she looked up, Yōko had already unwrapped one of the sweets and taken a bite. "Mmm, not bad."
Kazusa quickly gathered the rest and stashed them by her bedside.
The eaten one was beyond saving, but she wasn't about to let her mother get her hands on another.
"You're so stingy, Kazusa! There's no way you'll finish all that yourself."
But Kazusa shoved her mother toward the door and shut it firmly behind her.
"Good grief… did I raise a daughter, or a food-hoarding puppy?" Yōko sighed dramatically, massaging her temple in the hallway.
Meanwhile, at the Shinomiya estate, a nearly identical scene unfolded.
"You stingy Hayasaka! You've got a whole pile of these black eggs—giving me one won't hurt!"
"Lady Shinomiya," Hayasaka Ai replied coolly, her face expressionless. "A refined young lady should refrain from uttering words like 'eggs' in such a manner. Doubling them into 'black eggs' doesn't make you sound cuter. And more importantly, items sent from outside cannot be guaranteed safe. If you want eggs, our chefs can prepare them fresh—black, white, or even red—at Michelin-star quality."
"I don't care! I want that one!"
"Don't be unreasonable, my lady. If, heaven forbid, someone tampered with this and you were poisoned, I could never face your father."
"But it was sent by your friend! No way it's poisoned!"
"My friend wouldn't, no. But in transit, anything could happen. Better to be safe."
"You're just stingy, Hayasaka!"
"Dinner is ready, my lady. Please."
Shinomiya Kaguya stomped her foot in frustration, but Hayasaka remained unmoved.
The meaning was clear: No eggs for you. Not even one.
Kaguya finally stormed off with a huff.
Though, in truth, their relationship was more than mere master and servant. To Kaguya, Hayasaka wasn't just a maid—she was her irreplaceable childhood friend. And so she couldn't bring herself to order Ai to do something she didn't want.
Watching her lady retreat, Ai sighed silently. I can give you anything… but not this. Not something from him.
Dinner, etiquette lessons, promises of fetching Hakone's eggs later—all that was enough to soothe Kaguya. Soon, they were back to being inseparable mistress and confidante.
Later that night, past eleven, Ai finally slipped into her room.
She immediately opened Senya's package again, taking out the note tucked inside:
'A small gift. Good luck with work. Take care of yourself too—I hope you stay happy every day.'
The words were short, polite.
But to Ai, they carried a meaning far deeper.
Even while traveling, even surrounded by friends… he still thought of me.
Her cheeks burned as her body seemed to melt into steam.
She sat at her desk, picked up one of the kuro-tamago.
Beneath its blackened shell, it was just a simple boiled egg.
"I'll eat well."
She pressed her palms together, took a bite. The taste was nothing remarkable.
But with her heart overflowing, it felt exquisite.
[Hayasaka Ai]: The egg was delicious. Thank you.
[Minamoto Senya]: grinning.jpg
[Minamoto Senya]: Let's hang out again sometime.
[Hayasaka Ai]: Mm!
January 10th. The day after returning from the hot springs, Yukinoshita Yukino boarded her plane overseas.
The next day, January 11th, schools across Japan resumed their winter term.
Peaceful days slipped by.
On January 15th, at the offices of the Mystery Writers of Japan, in the Edogawa Ranpo Prize review board—
An elderly man with glasses, scholarly and refined, suddenly shot to his feet.
The manuscript in his trembling hands shook as his eyes lit up, his voice breaking with near-mad delight:
"So that's it… so that's how it is! Brilliant—brilliant!!!"
..
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