“Back then…” Ichiyo continued. “I saw light coming from within you. A ‘light’ that shone upon your painting. A light which I never had… It was a magnificent light… A light that shone so brilliantly.”
Surely his father was lying, Daiki thought. He was, by now, frantically upset. He knew that no such light shone from within him. Daiki was uncertain as to what his father was trying to say. How could he have light that the great Ikuma Ichiyo himself didn’t possess?
In the beginning, the boy had painted. He dirtied himself with paints and pencils and got covered in soot, but he had loved all of it. He loved it even if he was treated harshly, even if he wasn’t acknowledged. He believed one day, if he continued painting, that his father would come to respect him. But that day never came.
The boy spent countless days worrying about what his father wanted from him. He did as he was told, creating pictures like a robot… No! He wasn’t creating. He was copying, trying to mimic Ikuma Ichiyo.
Hearing his father’s unexpected words, Daiki’s emotions burst forth like water from a broken faucet. The emotions he had kept simmering inside—they never had dissipated, they had only been locked up. And now, after festering for years, they finally poured forth like a burst dam.
“But I have no talent! I can draw cookie cutter pictures and I can copy your style, but I can’t surpass you! When I realized that, do you know what happened?! It was the end of the world for me! I thought there was a future, even if I followed the rails you laid out for me, but this is the end. Because of you! You were the wall that always stood in my way. To end like this—it’s too pathetic! I have nothing left… And now you say you saw light in me?! I’ve always been in nothing but a dark tunnel to nowhere!”
His knees were about to buckle. He couldn’t find strength anywhere in his body. He was nothing but an empty shell. But still, the father spoke softly to his son.
“No. It is not the end… When you drew that drawing of black smears… I realized how much pressure you’ve been under. But I believed in my own way of doing things… Just bear with it a little more… You will succeed and become a light that will shine for the entire world…”
Ichiyo was desperate not to nip Daiki’s talent in the bud. He had only wanted his son to have an environment in which he would not fold under any obstacle, to continue bravely in the face of his artwork.
“At this rate… you’ll only be an artist by virtue of the fact that you are my son. And even then, you will be just one of the faceless many… But know that you have the talent to create something never seen before, something nobody can imitate… But if you remain the way you are now, you will never be recognized… That’s how conservative the world is… But if this exhibition is a success… If you can win recognition from society, only then will you be able to create the things you want to create… You’ll be able to paint as your heart desires…!”
What Ichiyo wanted was for society to notice Daiki as soon as possible, so he had him paint by the numbers, forcing him to learn the basics. He knew it was painful for the boy, but it was all done with an eye looking towards the future. Daiki’s future.
Against Daiki’s will, he had painted pictures in the style of his father. To an artist such as Daiki, this was unbearable. But even copying was only possible after acquiring basic skills, and so it was a shortcut in the process of obtaining social recognition.
The black sketch Daiki had drawn on the day he met the shinigami, Ichiyo had torn apart in a fit of anger. To be more precise, it had most likely been born out of resentment.
“At the time… I realized how much pain I’ve put you through. To think that that warped picture was your soul… I believe it was an image of your death… wasn’t it? …Don’t think about dying. You’re still young. You don’t even know how to live yet.”
Ichiyo’s words and feelings rocked Daiki’s body with a mighty force. Here was Ichiyo, on the brink of death, trying to stop him from dying.
“But… I have nothing left…!” Daiki protested. “No talent, no reason for existence. I am without a reason to live… I want to shine… as my last act… I want to shine… I want to know eternity… What should I do? I’m not wanted in this world. So teach me, like you always do, Father…”
Hearing these words, Ichiyo’s soul trembled. They were spoken as if by someone walking with his head down, his energy totally exhausted.
Even now, Daiki continued to wonder why everyone looked at him with such sad eyes.
“…Live. And paint… Eventually, you will reach a place I myself never found. You’ll understand how happy it is to be able to paint as your heart desires. Look at yourself carefully. The reason you cannot see the light is because you yourself are the shining light. You can shine that light on the world that I have lived in, and now in the world that you continue to live in… Just as you have always been a light to me… My Daiki…”
Finally able to say what he had wanted to say to his son for the longest time, Ichiyo reached out his hand. As if to plead to the heavens, his large hand grasped Daiki’s small, trembling hand. A comforting warmth traveled from the father’s hand to the son’s. It was his father’s warmth.
“…Father…”
—Ring.
At that moment, without warning, the energy suddenly drained from Ichiyo’s body. Like a string being unraveled, Ichiyo’s hand slipped from Daiki’s.
“Father…?”
Thud, it went, like a soulless doll. His arm dangled over the bed, unmoving.
“Father? Father!”
Ichiyo no longer responded.
“Father, what’s wrong?!”
But it was not his father who answered Daiki’s pleas.
“—He ran out of time.”
It was the messenger of death, Momo.