October 28th.
The Minamoto household welcomed a major event.
Good news—Mother Junko had safely delivered a new member into the family.
It was a darling baby girl. After a day of careful thought, Junko settled on the name Chiyo.
In Japan, Chiyo symbolizes eternal vitality. Junko's wish was simple and pure: that her daughter would grow up healthy and live a long, full life.
When discussing names with her husband, they had prepared several other options.
For instance, Ruri—drawn from the Seven Treasures of Buddhist scripture, a symbol of clarity and wisdom.
Or Funa—since she was born in autumn, they thought it would be lovely for her to grow up graceful and beautiful, like a maple leaf.
But in the end, Junko chose Chiyo with another thought in mind: her eldest child.
Minamoto Chiya, Minamoto Chiyo.
The names carried a natural sibling bond.
Everyone in the family treasured this new member.
Of course, the parents' love went without saying, but Minamoto Chiya and the Takanashi sisters also gave her all the care they could manage in their free time outside of school.
During this period, Chiya's friends began visiting the house more often.
Every one of them adored little Chiyo.
They brought gifts constantly—tiny toys, baby clothes, diapers.
Even the maid, who had never once set foot in the Minamoto home, mailed over a bottle of medicinal olive oil after hearing Chiya had gained a new sister. It was a thoughtful gift, meant to help Junko's postpartum skin recover.
These gestures were so warm and considerate that Junko sometimes felt embarrassed.
As someone who had lived through such things herself, she could clearly see what was going on. In quiet nighttime conversations with her husband, she voiced her worries about Chiya's situation.
Every single one of the girls around him was exceptional—pretty, refined, talented, and from good families. She truly had no idea how her son was going to handle things in the end.
No matter whom Chiya eventually chose, she would inevitably feel sorry for the others.
In her heart, Junko secretly wished she could call every one of them "daughter" one day. But she knew that kind of greedy dream was impossible.
Her husband thought about it for a while, then admitted he had a headache over the matter too. In the end, he could only sigh and say: "This is his problem. He'll figure it out for himself."
There was no way to intervene—after all, even the two of them were torn up inside about it.
Late November.
Kasumigaoka Utaha once again visited the Minamoto home.
She had been coming over quite often lately.
She had her reasons, so it wasn't too suspicious.
Yes—she simply wanted to see the baby.
Newborns were just so adorable. Who could resist dropping by for a look?
Truthfully, at first, Utaha's visits hadn't been entirely pure.
She wanted to craft an image of herself as "someone who loves babies." That way, in a certain someone's eyes, she'd seem cuter and more charming.
But along the way, she realized she genuinely liked little Chiyo.
Now, Utaha especially loved gently rocking the cradle, or poking Chiyo's soft cheeks with a fingertip before glancing sideways at Minamoto Chiya watching from nearby. Those moments filled her with an indescribable warmth.
And sometimes, when she imagined the similarities in their features…
Didn't it look exactly like a young couple raising a child together?
"…Mm."
Utaha shyly pressed her nylon-clad legs together, rubbing them ever so slightly.
"Mom fell asleep, so I didn't wake her," Rikka said as she emerged from the master bedroom on the first floor.
Chiya nodded. "She was up late with the baby—let her rest a little longer."
He was about to head toward the kitchen when Utaha moved first, anticipating his intent. She opened the fridge. "I'll do it."
By now, after so many visits, Utaha was practically part of the household. She often stayed for dinner, too, and naturally she had developed a quiet rhythm with Chiya.
Chiyo's little hands waved restlessly. Her diaper was fine, so the problem was hunger. Rikka had gone to call Junko, but since their mother was resting, it would be better not to disturb her. The milk Junko had pumped earlier was already stored in the fridge.
Utaha handled the routine smoothly—warming the bottle, testing the temperature, and preparing everything.
When she held the baby and fed her, Utaha felt once again the illusion that she really was a young mother. Her body responded with a rush of uncontrollable tenderness.
Deliberately sitting close beside Chiya, she held the bottle with one hand while telling Rikka with a smile: "We've got things under control here. Go on, take care of your own stuff."
"Mm, I need to finish my homework anyway. Thanks, Utaha-nee."
Rikka left without protest, heading upstairs.
But halfway up the stairs, she sighed softly, her expression clouded.
As Chiya's younger sister, she could clearly see the changes around him. And lately, Utaha's behavior had been especially obvious.
Honestly, Eiri really ought to start feeling some urgency.
Rikka wanted to help her best friend, but Eiri was currently buried in a rush job—a children's book illustration project with a tight deadline. Every day after school she ran straight home to draw.
Eiri said that once she finished, she'd earn a big payout and treat everyone to a seaside hot spring trip at year's end.
But Rikka thought that was missing the point.
At this rate, Utaha—the later arrival—was going to have far more weight in Chiya's heart than the childhood friend who'd known him since grade school.
And lately… Rikka herself felt she was starting to fall for Utaha too.
Utaha was kind, brought her gifts and snacks, and when she tutored her, she never scolded or knocked her on the head like Toka did. Instead, she explained everything with gentle patience.
Maybe the saying was true—childhood friends just couldn't compete with the "fated encounter."
Rikka shook her head.
Forget it. She was too small, too powerless. She didn't belong in such a complicated mess.
Best to just focus on homework.
She stroked her pet crow's sleek black feathers, then sat at her desk.
Meanwhile, downstairs, the roles had shifted.
Chiya now held the baby, while Utaha leaned in beside him, holding the bottle and occasionally poking the infant's chubby hands—using the excuse to press herself close to him.
Unfortunately, Toka returned home just then, ruining any chance for greater intimacy.
Utaha sighed inwardly. But she wasn't discouraged. There would be other opportunities.
"Toka-nee, let me help with dinner," she volunteered, eager to score points with Chiya's older sister.
Toka smiled. "What kind of guest would I be if I made you cook? Sit with Chiya. Dinner will be ready soon. Stay and eat with us tonight."
"That feels a bit rude…"
If Eiri had been there, she surely would have snorted at Utaha's fake modesty and called her out.
After a couple rounds of polite refusal, Utaha gave up on helping.
Truth be told, Toka had already judged her unfit for the kitchen. The last time Utaha tried cracking an egg, half the shell fell into the bowl, and the yolk splattered across the table before a glob landed on the floor. That was enough to earn her a lifetime ban.
"Come on, let's go upstairs. She's eaten enough—looks like she's getting sleepy."
Chiya carried Chiyo toward his room.
Toka glanced at them, then nodded. "I'll call you when dinner's ready."
Utaha rinsed the empty bottle at the sink, but Toka waved her off. "I'll sterilize it later."
"Thanks, Toka-nee."
Toka chuckled. "It's me who should be thanking you. You've been such a big help with Chiyo lately."
"Not at all. I've always loved babies."
They shared a few pleasantries before Utaha followed Chiya upstairs.
Once they were gone, Toka pressed her fingers hard into her own cheeks, then shook her head vigorously.
Something was wrong with her.
Utaha was warm, polite, and graceful. She and Chiya matched well—in looks, in temperament, in presence. And she had been nothing but kind, helping with the baby again and again.
So why did Toka feel so irritated?
Even just now, when she'd said, "You've been coming over a lot to help," she'd caught the faint edge in her own tone.
What was she resenting, exactly?
She had a guess. But she didn't dare think too hard.
Because if she faced that answer directly, it might drag her into a pit she couldn't climb out of.
So she avoided it.
"Feels like I haven't been in your room in ages," Utaha said.
"You were just here two days ago."
"That doesn't count. I only dropped off a toy for the baby. I didn't get to sit down and really look around like now."
"There's nothing to see. Just an ordinary room."
"Not to me. I'm a novelist. Observing details is part of my work. To you, it's ordinary—but to me, every little thing could be a spark of inspiration."
"No wonder you're the most popular rookie light novelist. Professional as always. No surprise you've succeeded."
"That sounded way too sarcastic. Careful, or I'll think you're mocking me. If you expect something in return for your support, just say it directly."
"Stop. I didn't mean it like that."
And even if he did… I wouldn't mind.
Actually—I'd welcome it.
Utaha lay sideways on his bed, shoes off, cradling the sleeping Chiyo. Her posture, her soft humming, her gentle rocking—it was the very image of maternal tenderness.
When she rose lightly and noticed Chiya's gaze flick away from her thighs, her cheeks grew warm. But her heart brimmed with quiet triumph.
She was confident now. With steady patience, she could guide things where she wanted.
After all, boys Chiya's age were at the height of their hormonal awakening. If she built their bond step by step, surely it would lead to something natural.
…Wouldn't it?
"You've been reading a lot of literary theory lately," Utaha remarked, noticing the books stacked neatly on his desk—Literary Theory, The Faces of Fiction, The Japanese Canon. Each bristled with colored bookmarks, and beside them sat a notebook filled with carefully written reflections.
It was just like her own habits—reading wasn't enough; you had to record your thoughts or they'd slip away.
"Yeah. I've suddenly taken an interest."
In truth, Chiya hadn't let his improved living conditions make him complacent.
On the contrary, with his ambition clearer than ever, he felt an urgent drive to improve.
He had been working hard in three main areas:
First, at Saeko's suggestion, he had tested for a kendo rank. He was now officially certified as Shodan—first rank.
Ranks in kendo ran from first to tenth. First was entry-level; tenth was the peak.
With his current skill, Chiya could already dominate adult competitions. But the exams couldn't be skipped; they had to be taken in order.
What's more, each rank had age requirements, reinforcing the deeply Japanese sense of seniority.
For most, even reaching eighth dan required a lifetime of effort. Ninth and tenth were rarer still—honors reserved only for those who had made great contributions to kendo itself.
Even Busujima Dairyu, a master from a famed kendo family, had only reached eighth dan despite his trophies and international efforts to spread kendo culture.
Second, the professional recording studio at the Tōma household had finally been completed.
Yōko Tōma had filled it with top-of-the-line equipment, and Chiya couldn't resist experimenting with it.
With Kazuha's help, he tested the gear, even humming melodies from his previous life—songs that didn't exist in this world. Kazuha arranged them, combining instruments at his request.
Chiya even wrote lyrics and, despite his embarrassment, recorded himself singing once.
The moment his voice filled the booth, Kazuha's teasing expression gave way to astonishment. Hands clutching her chest, she stared at him as though struck by lightning.
Third—and most importantly—he had begun seriously studying literature, trying to understand what made great works resonate with Japanese readers.
Through this research, and with Utaha's frequent presence, his writing ability had risen to Level 4.
Now, he felt ready to choose his own direction and begin writing in earnest.
"Suddenly interested, huh…"
Utaha's mind, full of girlish thoughts, couldn't help but connect the dots.
No one around him was really into books. Except maybe Yukinoshita—skinny, frail Yukinoshita—but she was abroad.
So if Chiya said this interest was new, surely… surely it was because of her.
He wanted more common ground with her.
That had to be it.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing at all." Utaha smiled brightly, leaning close, arms folded behind her back to accentuate her chest as they gazed out at the darkening sky. "I was just thinking—it would be nice if we went to the library together sometime. We could exchange books, share our thoughts."
"Not a bad idea." Chiya stroked his chin.
Utaha's eyes sparkled. I knew it… you're doing this for me.
She was about to press the advantage—
Bzzzzt!
Her phone vibrated.
It was her editor.
Suppressing her irritation, she excused herself, stepped onto the balcony, and answered.
When she returned, she gave Chiya an apologetic look. "Can I borrow your computer? My editor sent over the draft illustrations for my next volume. I need to confirm them so the artist can move forward. It's hard to check properly on my phone."
"Go ahead."
"Thanks."
Utaha sat at his desk, logged into her email, and downloaded the files.
The illustrations looked wonderful—just as she'd envisioned. Relieved, she sent back her approval and her gratitude.
It only took ten minutes.
As she closed the files, another document on the desktop caught her eye.
It was titled Outline.
Was Chiya… writing a novel?
Utaha's heart skipped.
She turned to him. "Chiya, what's this?"
He glanced over. Fate, perhaps, that she'd noticed it.
It was his recent practice project. Not much written yet, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to let a pro read it and give feedback.
"That's a novel I've been trying to write," he admitted.
Her heart leapt. So it's true…
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, baffled.
Because knowing you're trying to share my passion makes me so happy, that's why.
"Am I?" she said innocently.
"You are."
"Fine, fine. I love to smile. Can I read it?"
Her eyes sparkled with starlight, full of hope.
Chiya nodded. "Sure. Just don't laugh if it's bad."
"How could I? You're so talented—you must have written something great."
Utaha told herself she would praise him no matter what, but subtly, believably—never fake.
After all, writing wasn't easy. She had stumbled plenty before finding her style.
Still, she opened the file eagerly.
The title appeared at the top:
Four Bodies — Prologue.
It looked impressive already.