The wedding ended without a single flaw.
Chuuya, lulled into an afternoon nap under the excuse of a "child's snooze," didn't stir until the very last guest had gone.
Edogawa Ranpo, having realized his mistake, apologized to Chuuya with uncharacteristic sincerity and promised to make amends.
"I'll never make that kind of mistake again! After all, no one else is as good as me!" Ranpo declared proudly, chest puffed out. "So from now on, Tachibana-kun, whatever happens—come to me! No matter the problem, I'm super smart, and I can solve it!"
Chuuya had been ready to say something heartfelt, but the arrogant glint in Ranpo's eyes erased any hope of a touching moment. "You mean like the time we got here, but you couldn't even pass the gate because you forgot the car?"
Ranpo visibly wilted.
"…I've decided to hate you, Orange-kun. We're breaking up for ten minutes."
The tone was harsh—though the "breakup" didn't even last five.
These were just little episodes. After the wedding, Zhong Li had no intention of disturbing the newlyweds' bliss. He took both children on a leisurely day in Tokyo before quietly returning to Yokohama.
The city was as busy as before, though the Port Mafia worked in unusual silence due to the boss's illness. Thanks to Zhong Li's steady presence, Chinatown remained one of the calmest districts. Ranpo, deciding it was safer, moved into Zhong Li's home with his small suitcase, with Chuuya helping him set up his new room.
Zhong Li's generous funeral-home salary could easily support the three of them and a cat, but his tendency to buy only the best left Ranpo wondering if he should get a job to help out. Naturally, it had to be something worthy of his genius—no postman routes or dishwashing for him.
High-standard jobs weren't easy to find, but Ranpo wasn't in a rush.
After setting aside the thin Yokohama Daily, he happily went with Chuuya to the convenience store.
Because snacks were important.
"Vegetables, meat, canned food, soap, shower gel, soda, potato chips, jelly, potatoes—Hey! I told you not to take so many snacks!"
Like a miniature butler, Chuuya checked each item against his list, easily spotting the contraband.
"What? I'm the older one! Why is Tachibana-kun controlling what the elders eat?" Ranpo complained.
"You and Zhong Li are spending money like water. Someone has to be responsible." Chuuya plucked the extras from the cart without mercy. "I'm nine. People outside Yokohama make the news for this kind of thing!"
"Hey, I'm not wasting money! The soda was on sale—I just bought enough to fill the fridge."
"That's exactly the problem!"
Their argument followed them out of the store.
Checking the time on his phone, Chuuya muttered, "At this hour—"
"Zhong Li's probably at the chess room next to Jinghe Building, playing with the old guys," Ranpo said through a mouthful of fresh potato chips.
"Let's cut through to Chinatown first," Chuuya replied, taking a side street.
As they walked, Ranpo licked the salt from his fingers. "Oh, and when we pass the first alley pipe, use your gravity to crush the trash can."
"…Again? Why so many cursed spirits in Yokohama lately?"
"Probably some kind of test. Just hang in there—it'll blow over."
"Internal and external troubles… not good, not good."
Elsewhere, a scalpel slashed across a cursed spirit's throat. It roared and thrashed before being silenced by a giant needle driven deep into its body.
Alice, a blonde girl in a nurse's outfit, landed lightly on the pavement, glaring at the scruffy doctor. "Hurry up, idiot Rintarō! Cursed spirit blood is filthy!"
"Oh, little Alice asking so sweetly—of course I'll finish quickly~" Mori Ōgai sang, twisting his body like a noodle until her small fist landed in his ribs.
"Rintarō's a pervert!" she huffed.
Once the daily banter was done, Mori's expression turned serious. "Let's go see that gentleman. If anyone knows what's going on, it's him."
When they found Zhong Li, he was calmly playing chess outside the card room, a circle of uncles watching intently.
"Checkmate," Zhong Li announced as his piece landed with a decisive pop.
The crowd cheered, praising his skill. Mori stepped forward to take the empty seat. "Mr. Zhong Li, you're as elegant as ever."
Their game became a quiet exchange of information. Yes, the cursed-spirit disturbances were being manipulated. The culprit's identity and appearance were unknown—but there was one defining mark: a suture running the length of their forehead.
They were still playing when Chuuya arrived, grocery bag in hand.
Mori greeted him, and Alice rushed over to hug him, nearly knocking the bag to the ground.
Zhong Li, noting the empty street behind them, asked, "Where's Ranpo?"
Chuuya frowned. "We got ambushed earlier. Some silver-haired uncle saved us, and Ranpo ran off with him, saying it was a way to make money. Told me not to follow."
Zhong Li's gaze darkened briefly. "If it's that man, there's no danger."
Mori, unaware of the implication, simply nodded.
---
Mori Ōgai came and went like the passing of a shadow. After getting the information he wanted, he left with Alice without lingering, the faint scent of camellias in his wake.
During his brief stay, he had scattered the metaphorical chess pieces across the board with feigned nonchalance, pretending nothing had happened. Whether it was to avoid being drawn into Zhongli's next "game" was anyone's guess.
The men who had been stationed nearby were gone as well. Business at the funeral home was slow in this season, and there was no need to work on weekends. With the streets quiet, Zhongli led his young charge back toward their home.
Chuuya Nakahara stubbornly refused Zhongli's offer to take the heavy shopping bags. Instead, he manipulated his gravitation ability with practiced control, carrying two oversized paper bags in each small hand."This'll help me train my ability," he insisted.
"I'm still too weak," Chuuya said, his tone unusually solemn for someone so small. "If possible… I want to be able to help you as soon as I can—at least not be a burden when it matters most."
Zhongli saw no reason to diminish such earnest determination. He gave only a few measured words of encouragement, enough to let the boy's pride glow without letting it burn out.
Chuuya, satisfied with the acknowledgment, strode ahead with his short legs pumping, head held high, two full bags swaying at his sides.
At first glance, the scene resembled an unscrupulous adult exploiting a child's labor. But this was Yokohama—passersby rarely spared such moments more than a passing glance. At most, one or two eyes flicked over with concealed amusement before moving on.
The walk home was short; their street lay just beyond Chinatown. Zhongli produced a key from his pocket, unlocking the front door to a house that had changed entirely since the day Chuuya first stepped inside.
Gone was the worn, mismatched furniture; replaced instead with clean, elegant pieces chosen for comfort and proportion. Calligraphy and brush paintings by Zhongli himself adorned the walls, harmonizing with porcelain arranged in quiet display. Potted orchids sat in shaded corners, their leaves gently swaying in the draft, partially concealing a handmade cat bed.
Now, touches of Chuuya's own life filled the gaps—game consoles and CDs neatly stacked under the TV, watercolor sketches framed on the table, and books piled on a low coffee table beside the sofa. A small notebook lay open, filled with notes written in careful script.
Even Edogawa Ranpo's brief stays had left their mark—two large boxes in the corner, one brimming with snacks, the other stuffed with assorted trinkets.
It was, without doubt, a place that could be called "home."
Chuuya slipped into his slippers and made straight for the snack box, lifting the lid. "Seriously? This thing's already full…" he muttered, but still began stuffing the newly bought snacks inside.
From the kitchen, Zhongli stored the fresh ingredients in the refrigerator. "Ranpo may be quick-witted," he remarked mildly, "but he's simple at heart—particularly about the things he likes. Such temperaments are not unusual."
"That's still unhealthy," Chuuya countered.
"Indeed. And what do you propose we do about it?"
Chuuya crossed his arms, thinking. "Hide all the snacks? No… he'd make a scene. Limit daily consumption? Maybe with a reward system? But knowing Ranpo, he'd probably find a way to game it…"
Zhongli let the boy ponder, retrieving a container of extra rice he had cooked earlier. "The simplest solution is to make proper meals more appealing than snacks. What do you say to rice pudding tonight?"
Chuuya's eyes brightened. "I'm in!"
By the time the sweet, cinnamon-scented dessert was ready, evening had fallen.
"…Why isn't Ranpo back yet?" Chuuya asked, glancing toward the window. His voice held a trace of worry. The silver-haired swordsman had seemed trustworthy enough, but trust was not the same as certainty.
A calico cat hopped onto his lap, pressing its paws against him in silent comfort. Chuuya absentmindedly stroked its fur. "Guess it's a late night for him," he murmured.
The knock at the door was unexpected—firm, deliberate. Not Ranpo. Chuuya's easy expression vanished, replaced with guarded focus as he padded over and opened the door.
"…You? Through the main door this time?"
Oda Sakunosuke stood there, holding a small package wrapped in kraft paper. "It's a proper visit," he said simply. "I brought something."
Chuuya accepted the package, its rectangular shape suggesting two books inside. "Huh. Didn't take you for the gift-giving type," he remarked, but stepped aside to let the visitor in.
Oda Sakunosuke slipped off his shoes and inclined his head politely toward Zhongli, who emerged from the kitchen. "Mr. Zhongli."
"Sakunosuke," Zhongli acknowledged, his eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but as if noting a subtle change in the young man's demeanor. He said nothing of it. "Sit. Have you eaten?"
Oda shook his head. "Not hungry. I… actually came to ask you something."
The sincerity in his voice was enough to warrant Zhongli's full attention. "Then speak."
Chuuya, recognizing that this conversation was one of those serious ones, quietly poured tea for them both before retreating to the living room with the calico cat. He opened the package—two books, their covers slightly worn but well-kept.
Meanwhile, Oda hesitated only briefly before beginning. "I read a book recently. The story was beautiful—quiet, but gripping. But I only had the first and middle volumes. I searched everywhere for the last one, but it was nowhere to be found."
He traced the edge of his teacup. "A kind man gave me the missing volume. It was… just as good. But the ending—cut off. No explanation for why the killer in the story swore to stop killing."
He exhaled softly. "That man told me to write the ending myself. He said I… 'have the qualifications to describe humans.'"
The calluses on Oda's hands caught the light, each one a relic of countless missions. Blood spilled, lives ended—yet in this moment, they trembled faintly.
"Mr. Zhongli… do I really have that qualification?"
Zhongli's gaze was steady, unreadable. "Why do you think I'm the one who can answer?"
The question caught Oda off guard.
"The so-called 'qualification' is a scale one sets for oneself," Zhongli continued. "Morality and conscience on one side. Sin on the other. Many measure worth by which side outweighs the other… failing to realize the truth."
"That… by the time you can see the scale, the qualification is already yours."
Oda stared into the tea, its surface trembling with the faintest ripple. "…In my hands?"
"When in doubt, ask your own heart. Like water—no matter what leaves you steep in it, its essence remains unchanged."
Silence hung between them, the kettle in the kitchen hissing faintly as it neared boiling.
"…I'm not sure I understand," Oda admitted at last. "But your words… make sense. I'll think about them—until the day I can truly see my soul."
Zhongli inclined his head. "That will suffice."
A wry smile tugged at Oda's lips. "You're always like this… But thank you."
With that, he rose and departed as quietly as he had arrived.
Zhongli stepped into the living room to find Chuuya sitting cross-legged on the couch, the cat in his lap and the books open in front of him.
"These are actually pretty good," Chuuya said without looking up. "Some kanji I don't know, but… still good."
Zhongli watched him for a moment, then said, "Chuuya—what would you think about going to school? Properly."
The boy froze, blinking. "…School? What, like… sitting in a classroom?"
"Exactly. To help you read without pause."
"…" Chuuya clearly hadn't seen that coming.
---
Elsewhere, Edogawa Ranpo polished off a third bowl of red bean mochi under the withering gaze of the silver-haired man across from him.
"…Red beans again?" the man muttered, pressing a hand to his temple.
Ranpo glanced up mid-chew. "Relax, uncle. My guardians know why I'm not home yet—they won't start dinner without me." He swallowed. "Anyway, better to be here than stuck in some middle school classroom full of idiots."
The man blinked, entirely unsure how the conversation had arrived at that conclusion.
Ranpo just popped another bite into his mouth, unconcerned.