The first thing Odoro did was bring the head of his walking stick down on Ibara’s skull.
There was a dull thunk.
Concussed, Ibara crumpled, his knees buckling. Odoro promptly caught him; then, on seeing his clouded eyes, he ground his teeth. Lowering Ibara to the carpet, he carelessly removed his hat, raked his fingers back through his hair, and sighed.
“Just in time—or so I’d like to say, but you took longer than I’d anticipated,” Shiroshi told him.
“Cracking the door code delayed me. I’d assumed it would be the full birth date of one of his favorite composers or novelists. To think he’d use the date of Agatha Christie’s death…”
Ordinarily, Seiji would have been clutching his head and thinking, What the heck just happened? But this time, for once, he’d been in on all of it.
It had begun with a text Shiroshi had sent Odoro.
Although Odoro had appeared to be unconscious and in critical condition for the past week, he’d actually been playing possum and watching for a chance to escape.
Having guessed that might be the case, Shiroshi had sent a photo of the invitation he’d received from Ibara to Odoro’s e-mail. He’d also attached the schedule of a train that would overtake theirs en route.
I didn’t think he’d actually board a moving train, though. Appalled, Seiji thought back.
“If you’re awake, please look out the window.”
Right after hearing Shiroshi’s voice in the library, he’d seen Odoro climb up the side of a freight train, then leap across to the roof of the Blue Magic Lantern in a stunt that would have given a professional the screaming abdabs.
And then, getting instructions from Shiroshi through the transceiver, Seiji had hastily rolled down the window and stuck a lit cigarette outside, signaling to Odoro on the roof. When Odoro had slipped in through the library window, Seiji had handed him the key to Room 302 and told him to go hide there. Then—
“I received an alert that the library window had been opened.”
Takamura had appeared immediately after that. They’d cut it incredibly close.
In the end, it was a gamble.
The very act of inviting Odoro onto the train had been a risk.
He was practically a wounded animal. Who would he turn on? Would he take revenge on Ibara, the traitor? Would he rescue his father, who’d been taken hostage? Would he side against Shiroshi? They hadn’t even known what his goal would be.
However…
“In the end, I decided to bet on Odoro’s sharp instincts. I felt certain he would sense that there was something more to Ibara’s actions.”
And so, after being turned away from the observation car, Seiji had taken the transceiver that linked him to Shiroshi, given it to Odoro in Room 302, and had him eavesdrop on Shiroshi’s conversation with Ibara.
He’d trusted that Shiroshi would manage to make Ibara reveal his true intentions.
And now, striding over to the table, Odoro picked up one of the two Mirror of Illumination pieces and tossed it carefully to Shiroshi. “Reparations,” he explained.
“It really doesn’t seem like enough.”
“I’m about to pay you the rest.” He carelessly raised the end of his stick—and then there was a gunshot and the smell of powder smoke.
However, there was no spray of blood.
All that was left on the table was the shattered wreck of a Mirror of Illumination piece: the last remains of the soul of Evil God Shinno Akugorou, killed by his own children.
“…So that is your answer?” Shiroshi asked.
Odoro didn’t respond.
Deliberately picking up Ibara, he strode across the carpet and kicked open the door to the deck.
When they emerged onto the observation deck, an icy wind buffeted them.
The semicircular deck was bordered by a railing, and the view seemed limitless. As Seiji looked up, his white breath fluttered hazily toward the sky. Through it, he could see a wintry forest.
The mountains seemed to have been painted with shadow-colored pigment. The entire ridgeline was dusted with snow, and its whiteness was starting to take on a faint blue tinge.
Dawn was breaking. They’d reach their destination soon.
Just then…
Huh? The wheels sound different…
When he listened closely, he could tell that the train was slowing.
The surface of a wide river spread out below them. A railroad bridge ran straight across it, through the morning mist; the first cars had just reached it.
Striding up to the railing, still carrying Ibara, Odoro leaped onto the handrail. Executing a skillful half-turn on the heel of his shoe, he pivoted to face Shiroshi and Seiji. “Evil God Shinno Akugorou’s faction admits their defeat in this contest. The victory goes to Demon King Sanmoto Gorouzaemon’s faction. This concludes the battle for the throne.”
He proclaimed his own loss, loudly and clearly.
Then, in an unexpectedly careless motion, he flung Ibara toward the river’s surface. Removing his hat and pressing it to his chest, he bowed.
“…I’d really prefer not to tell you to take care,” Shiroshi told him.
“Frankly, I’d rather not hear it.” With that, Odoro kicked off the railing and plunged into the river.
Seiji didn’t hear much of a splash.
By the time he blinked, startled, the train was across the bridge, and the view was dominated by the frail light peculiar to winter dawns.
It was as if everything he’d seen that night had been a fleeting dream.
Clackety-clack, clackety-clack.
The sound of the wheels went on, carrying them toward that final station.
“Um…does this maybe mean we won?”
“The match doesn’t officially end until the train reaches its destination. The other party has forfeited, so I do think victory is ours—although it feels quite strongly as if they won and fled from a rematch, and that’s unpleasant.” Shiroshi’s face was uncharacteristically sour.
It was possible that those two would drown in the river…but no, they probably wouldn’t. After all, for better or for worse, it was Odoro.
Oh, I see. Then the new Demon King is…
Frankly, the thought didn’t seem real. Nothing did.
Except for the fact that they were alive. At this point, Seiji felt as if that was enough for him: the mere fact that they were standing here, side by side.
Then, unexpectedly…
“We’ll be arriving soon. Please return to your compartment,” Takamura said mildly, stepping through the door to the observation deck. He took the pocket watch from his waistcoat, glanced at it, closed its cover with a click, then turned to go.
“Takamura,” Shiroshi called. “Were you aware of the circumstances when you decided to help Ibara?”
Takamura turned back to face him. It wasn’t possible to tell what he was thinking from his expression.
“When Master Ibara stole the Mirror of Illumination, he intentionally left traces so that I would eventually make contact with him. After divulging everything, he challenged me to a game of sugoroku—and wagered his life.”
“…He must have been truly desperate. Even I’ve never won against you.”
“Yes, not once. And I do not think you have ever genuinely wanted to.” Takamura smiled, as if he were thinking fondly of some distant memory. “As the one he’d defeated, I was compelled to risk my life to help him as well. Besides, it has never been in my nature to ignore tyranny. Even from a bystander’s perspective, the atrocities the two demon kings inflicted on their sons were unpardonable.”
“…Yes, that’s true. You always were that sort of person.” Shiroshi nodded, lowering his eyes.
“In addition…” With a smile that probably hadn’t changed in a thousand years, he narrowed his eyes, as if he were rather dazzled. “…I thought you would survive. Just as you have for as long as I’ve watched over you. However, if it weren’t for something like this, you would never have thought to leave that birdcage, would you?”
Shiroshi grimaced. He nearly said something—but gritted his teeth and shook his head instead. When he did speak, he looked as if he’d forced himself to choke back some immense emotion.
“Even so, I don’t think I will ever be able to forgive you.”
“I’m honored.”
Bowing deferentially, Takamura vanished like smoke rising into the sky.
Then only Shiroshi was left.
For a moment, he looked as if he might be crying—but then he gave a small sigh, shook his head, and simply gazed up. When Seiji tipped his head back, the paling sky, the clouds, the wind…everything seemed to have a blue cast to it. The sky was endlessly clear and lonely—just sheer blue.
Right now, the world was nothing but sky.
However, before long, a town appeared from beyond the reverie. Their dream of a night spent traveling the galactic railroad was coming to an end.
Drawing a deep breath, Shiroshi turned to him. “Shall we go home, Seiji?”
Seiji nodded, and they set off together, taking their first step toward the place where they belonged.
And so the Blue Magic Lantern reached its final destination.