Chapter 214: Birthday
Eighteen was a deeply special milestone, an age where the threshold of adulthood finally met the readiness of the heart. Everyone residing within the Butterfly Mansion knew that Akira harbored an inexplicable, almost stubborn obsession with reaching this specific age. As the day steadily approached, a silent, collective understanding settled over the household. Something monumental was about to happen.
Naturally, the reactions to this impending milestone varied wildly across the estate. Akira found himself frequently lost in thought, a rare daze settling over his usually sharp features, betraying a subtle blend of nervousness and deep-seated anticipation. Makomo and Kanae, however, mirrored his emotions and amplified them tenfold. Makomo, in particular, practically vibrated with restless energy. As the calendar pages turned, her usual calm demeanor fractured, leaving a blatant, almost endearing impatience written across her delicate features.
Far away at Mt. Sagiri, one could almost imagine Urokodaki Sakonji letting out a long, weary sigh, feeling the distinct sorrow of an old man watching his prized cabbage eagerly uproot itself just to feed a certain pig. If Akira could hear the old man's internal grumbling, he would only offer a dry, amused smirk in return.
Beyond the immediate trio, Shinobu and Mitsuri harbored their own quiet calculations. Whenever they glanced at Akira, their eyes would drift away, mentally counting down the months and years until their own eighteenth birthdays arrived.
Kanao, who was still several long years away from reaching such a milestone, could only puff out her cheeks in a rare display of a pout. Feeling entirely left out of the unspoken adult tension, she sought out the only remedy she knew: marching straight up to Akira and demanding a hug. Naturally, Akira yielded instantly. No man alive possessed the willpower to refuse a soft, sweet-scented Kanao when she actively decided to act spoiled. He scooped her up without a second thought, offering gentle pats to soothe her unspoken grievances.
Aoi offered her earnest blessings, her bright eyes carrying a flicker of envy. She carefully tucked away the faint trace of melancholy lingering in her chest, maintaining her usual strict, hardworking facade as she managed the household chores.
Hanako, the matriarch of the Kochou family, was more than delighted to watch the events unfold. Lately, whenever her gaze swept over Akira, Kanae, and Makomo, her eyes crinkled with a mixture of maternal blessing and wicked, knowing teasing.
As for Sawa, the patriarch had developed a sudden, chronic cough. It remained entirely unclear if the esteemed doctor had simply failed to cure his own ailment, or if he was choking on the sheer, unadulterated malice of watching another young man claim his precious daughters. Akira merely met the older man's glaring eyes with a calm, unbothered smile, silently challenging his future father-in-law to start a fire he couldn't put out.
When the morning of Akira's eighteenth birthday finally dawned, the sun rose just as it always did. Yet, the air within the Butterfly Mansion hummed with an extraordinary, electric atmosphere. Every resident moved with a tacit, synchronized understanding of what tonight signified.
Only the three youngest girls, led by Kiyo, remained blissfully ignorant of the underlying tension. To them, it was simply a rare and joyous occasion to have Akira home for his birthday. They cheerfully offered their bright blessings, helped string up decorations, and prepared the dining hall. Throughout the day, the trio scurried around the Medical Department, their boundless energy bringing a comforting warmth to the wounded patients as they delivered fresh bandages and medicine.
For Akira, however, the day felt entirely surreal. Every step he took through the wooden corridors was met with warm, sincere smiles and heartfelt congratulations. Even Sawa, despite his persistent, stress-induced coughing fits, managed to offer a stiff nod without glaring daggers into Akira's skull.
Of course, that polite restraint was largely due to Hanako standing firmly by her husband's side, her hand resting pleasantly yet threateningly on his arm. The couple's dynamic was as harmonious as ever, maintained by Sawa's wise decision to swallow his complaints the moment his wife offered him a dangerously sweet smile.
As the sun finally dipped below the western peaks, painting the sky in deep hues of violet and gold, the daily chores of the Butterfly Mansion came to a halt. The sprawling family gathered in the main dining hall, taking their seats around a massive, feast-laden table to officially commence the celebration.
"Happy birthday to you..."
A chorus of bright, incredibly warm voices filled the room. Everyone clapped their hands in rhythm to the familiar melody. As the song reached its peak, Aoi and Mitsuri emerged from the kitchen, carefully pushing a wooden cart that bore a genuinely massive birthday cake.
Exactly eighteen candles flickered around the perimeter of the pristine white frosting, casting a warm, dancing glow over the room. Resting proudly in the very center of the cake was an adorable, stylized caricature of Akira, carefully piped out using various colorful fruit syrups and rich jams. The edible portrait lacked his usual sharp, calculating edge, replacing his stoic battle-readiness with an exaggerated, childish cuteness that made the girls giggle.
Regardless of the tangled web of anticipation, envy, or protective fatherly grief that had colored the day, this singular moment was pure. Every soul in the room looked at Akira with genuine affection, pouring their heartfelt blessings onto the young man who had become the unshakeable pillar of their sprawling, unconventional family.
Akira leaned forward, the candlelight reflecting in his dark eyes, and blew out the flames in a single, smooth breath. Cheers erupted, but as the time came to slice the dessert, Mitsuri hovered the silver cake knife over the frosting, her brow furrowing in a deep dilemma.
She had drawn the little syrup caricature with her own two hands. Because it sat perfectly in the center, any traditional slice would inevitably cleave the adorable face in half. Worse still, taking a blade to Akira's likeness felt like a terrible omen.
"Let me do it," Akira murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble.
He reached out, his large hand gently covering Mitsuri's to guide the knife away. With the precision of a master swordsman, he executed a few clean, unorthodox cuts. He expertly carved a perfect circle around his own syrup portrait, leaving it entirely intact. The outer ring of the cake was then swiftly divided into even, generous slices, with Akira thoughtfully portioning out smaller, manageable pieces for Kiyo and the other little girls.
Plates were passed around the table, leaving the untouched center piece resting on the platter for the birthday boy. As they ate, the atmosphere remained cozy and civilized. There were no sudden pranks or childish attempts to smear frosting across each other's cheeks. This wasn't some generic pastry bought from a local bakery; it was a labor of love, led by Mitsuri and carefully crafted alongside Makomo and Kanae.
The sheer effort the girls had poured into baking it made the very idea of wasting a single crumb feel like a crime. Mitsuri, in particular, revered sweet treats far too much to ever tolerate seeing them weaponized for a joke., despite the cake being the size of a small millstone, Akira and Mitsuri possessed appetites that bordered on the supernatural. If they truly let loose, the two of them could devour the entire thing themselves, leaving absolutely zero excess frosting to spare for a food fight.
Besides, while a sudden cream war might spark a few seconds of chaotic laughter, scrubbing greasy frosting out of hair and tatami mats was a miserable chore. It was a perfect, peaceful birthday. There was no need to ruin the warm, domestic mood with a sticky mess.
Amidst the lingering echoes of laughter and the clinking of teacups, the modest but deeply heartwarming celebration naturally wound down.
Across the table, Makomo's gaze locked onto Akira. The look in her eyes had shifted, shedding its earlier impatience to reveal an undisguised, smoldering heat. Beside her, Kanae—usually the picture of serene, unshakeable grace—fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, her cheeks flushed with a nervous anticipation she couldn't quite mask.
Noticing the sudden, heavy shift in the atmosphere, the rest of the family exchanged knowing glances. With practiced, silent efficiency, they cleared their plates and quietly retreated from the dining hall, melting into the corridors of the estate.
The doors slid shut. The quiet of the night settled in.
The true main event of the evening was finally about to begin.
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