Chapter 63: Ayaka's Explanation
The little girl's hair is straight, a honey-brown color that looks like dried honey. Her eyes are pitch black and appear almost expressionless, like a living porcelain doll.
The little girl is wearing a slightly worn brown long-sleeved jacket at the edges, and beneath the jacket is a simple t-shirt that looks a bit too big. Dark brown pants cover her legs down to her ankles, and her shoes seem to be covered in fine dust.
"Yes," the girl replies flatly, her voice sounding almost toneless as she stands before Tsukimi.
"Alright, Ayaka. You will explain and tell Souta everything he needs to do. Make sure Souta doesn't do anything unnecessary. Understood?" Tsukimi then says.
"Yes." Ayaka nods slowly, like a robot that has just received a command.
"Good. Then you may continue." Tsukimi turns around and walks away, leaving the room with a relaxed demeanor that feels in stark contrast to the stiff atmosphere left behind.
Souta glances at Ayaka and tries to smile again. He steps closer and hesitantly extends his hand. "Hi? My name is Souta," he says, trying to be friendly.
But Ayaka remains silent. Her eyes lock onto Souta's, then slowly drift down to his outstretched hand… before she simply turns away, ignoring Souta like a gentle breeze that isn't worth noticing.
"Come on, follow me," Ayaka says briefly. Her voice still sounds calm, but this time there's something that makes the hairs on the back of Souta's neck stand up—cold, like a night breeze from behind the old stage.
Souta falls silent, awkwardly lowering his hand. He scratches his head while forcing a stiff smile. "Well... that was a total failure," Souta mutters quietly, then hurriedly follows Ayaka, who has already started walking without looking back.
Ayaka leads Souta up a small staircase at the side of the stage. They now stand right in the middle of the main stage—where performances usually take place. From that position, Souta can see the entire vast imitation performance room.
The dim light from the chandelier illuminates the rows of empty audience seats, while black curtains hang from the ceiling, swaying gently as if breathing on their own. The room is so large, larger than Souta imagined, and for some reason... it feels both silent and filled with faint whispers.
Ayaka points around. Fragments of wooden dolls are scattered like corpses after a battle. Some appear shattered beyond recognition, while others still retain the shapes of hands, feet, or even heads that are intact.
"Your task is to collect these scattered doll parts," Ayaka says bluntly. She bends down and picks something up. "Separate what is truly broken from what can still be reused—like this."
Ayaka shows a piece of a wooden doll's hand. The right hand, perfectly intact without a single scratch. No cracks, no holes. The piece of the doll's right hand looks smooth, as if separated with a very precise tool. It may have come off during a collision, but it is not damaged.
"Parts that are still intact like this must be collected in a separate place. Whether it's hands, feet, heads, or even body parts like the torso—as long as they are still large enough and not severely damaged, separate them from the others. Small parts like fingers, eyes, ears, and nearly shapeless fragments should be thrown into a special trash bin."
Ayaka's tone remains flat, but her explanation is so detailed, almost like reading a technical manual.
Souta then nods his head with a serious expression.
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Chapter 64: Ayaka
"I understand," Souta said briefly, although in his heart he kept repeating the earlier instructions to avoid making mistakes. One bin for the intact and larger parts, another for the small fragments that couldn't be salvaged.
"Well then," Ayaka continued, "this is your trash can."
She walked to the side of the room, pulled two large trash bins with wheels, and pushed them toward Souta. One was pitch black, the other a bluish-gray. Although both bins looked worn and scratched here and there, they appeared clean and ready for use.
"Alright," Souta said again, taking a short breath before starting to move.
Souta bent down, picking up the wooden doll parts one by one. Hands, heads, shoulder pieces, fingers, mechanical wheels that once moved the joints—everything was sorted and examined. Even though it was his first time doing this, Souta's movements became increasingly neat over time.
A few other cleaners glanced at Souta. Some merely turned their heads with curiosity, others observed longer as if trying to assess, and a few others didn't care at all, remaining focused on their own tasks.
No one spoke. Only the sounds of wood scraping, metal clinking, and the soft creaking of the trash bin wheels could be heard.
But Souta didn't pay them any mind. He had already set his determination.
Souta didn't just want to clean this stage. He was clearing his own path toward something greater. Every doll part he collected was not just trash—it was a small step toward understanding Kugutsu no Jutsu, the secret art hidden behind the dolls and shadows.
And Souta knew that if he wanted to be part of the Puppet Arts Performance Theater… he had to start from the bottom. From gathering various scraps and debris.
...
...
...
After several hours, break time finally arrived.
The clock's hands pointed to six in the evening. The sky outside began to glow orange, signaling that night would soon come. Inside the theater, the sounds of the trash bin wheels and the clinking of wooden pieces began to fade one by one.
The cleaners stopped their activities, sitting in the corners of the room, some leaning against the walls, while others immediately opened their lunch boxes.
Souta, who knew nothing about the break schedule, could only sit near his trash bin. Leaning gently against the wall, he tried to calm his breath, which was slightly ragged after several hours of picking up, sorting, and lifting piece after piece of wooden dolls.
As Souta gazed at the contents of the trash bin—so many fragments, pieces of hands, feet, heads, and other small shards. The amount was far greater than he had imagined.
More than thirty people were working together, including Souta himself, yet the pile still seemed endless. It was as if this stage hid remnants of dolls in every corner, never truly clean.
Souta took a slow breath. In his heart, he compared it to his previous life—a world full of technology. In his former life, Souta was a scientist, a researcher, a robotics expert. Creating cleaning robots was a common task. Cheap, practical, efficient. Even an intern could assemble one from standard components available on the market.
But now, sitting dusty in the corner of an old stage with clothes that were starting to smell of sweat, Souta realized how valuable the things he once took for granted were. Cleaning robots? Now they sounded like a blessing from the heavens.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps approaching. Heavy and relaxed. Souta turned and saw an adult man walking toward him. His hair was messy, a beard covered part of his face, and his sharp but friendly black eyes looked at him.
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