Chapter Sixty-Four: Life’s Journey Against the Current

Sunlight as faint as drifting snow filtered through the clouds, falling gently on distant places. On her long black hair, a thin layer of gold shimmered. Junka Mokunan, as her grandmother had once advised, imagined the ordeal before her already ended whenever she faced something inevitable and inescapable. Yet her tears betrayed her efforts at concealment. She was, after all, only a nineteen-year-old girl—frightened, aggrieved, and now abandoned by the one person in this city who had ever brought her comfort.

She had believed that she’d seized a divine opportunity, that the man would take her away from this city, bring her home, and everything would conclude as in a fairy tale, the kind where the convoluted story ultimately finds a resolution everyone can accept.

She knew she had no right to demand much, but the pain welled up, compelling her to seek a place to hide and cry. From the beginning, she had placed a trust in Zhao Tianxing without reason, a trust that fermented slowly. When he refused her request, she felt discarded, as if he’d abandoned her.

She knew it was unreasonable, yet she couldn't help but feel disappointed after her hopes were dashed. Though she understood reality's cruelty, she still clung to her fantasies—perhaps that was the true boundary between youth and maturity.

Zhao Tianxing had faced countless choices in his life, never with anyone to guide him toward the right answer. There might have been better options, but they no longer mattered. He was the sort of man who silently bore the consequences of his decisions.

Junka Mokunan stared at her reflection in a shop window, questioning herself as to when her gaze had begun to follow that silent and unremarkable man. Yet as her reflection moved from the center of the glass to its edge, and as she finally stopped, she could not find an answer.

Only when Zhao Tianxing's voice sounded behind her did she break free from her confused thoughts.

"I can walk you a little further," said Zhao Tianxing, in his usual brief manner. Junka nodded foolishly and followed him back to the car.

Once she came to herself, Junka quietly pinched her thigh, thinking herself so naïve—just returning like that. According to TV dramas, she should at least wait for Zhao Tianxing to break down in tears before even considering forgiveness. Yet she came back in a haze, not even asking why.

"Where do you plan to go?"

Junka invented a destination—far away, yet not unattainable. There, she had a friend who would always welcome her, a warm bed, and fragrant barley tea. But this lie unraveled as soon as Zhao Tianxing delivered her to the address—her former employer's residence in Tokyo, the only name in that vast city that felt remotely familiar.

The trouble with lies is not just their betrayal of trust; to sustain one requires more lies. Junka braced herself, slowly unfastened her seatbelt, opened and closed the car door, and softly said goodbye.

Zhao Tianxing did not drive off immediately. Junka understood: she was to walk away, disappearing from his sight. Perhaps they would meet again tomorrow, perhaps never again.

She did not look back—just waved her hand behind her, gazing up at the night sky. No stars tonight, as usual. Suddenly, the answer to the question that had troubled her all afternoon became clear. It was loneliness. Because of loneliness, she responded to the person waving beneath her window that day; because of loneliness, she wanted Zhao Tianxing to accompany her shopping; because of loneliness, she developed that strange feeling for Zhao Tianxing, who had appeared unexpectedly in her life.

She wanted to turn and shout to the man who had shared three days and nights with her that she was afraid—afraid that loneliness would once again engulf her. But her steps never faltered. She would not ask questions for which the answer was not what her heart desired. Better to be the one who rejects than to be rejected.

"Wait."

Like a solitary traveler finding the final spring in a desert of swirling sand, Junka could never mistake that voice. She bounced back to Zhao Tianxing with an uncharacteristically light tread.

"If you have any trouble, send me a text." Zhao Tianxing produced a brand-new phone. Junka, looking at the phone he’d somehow obtained, spoke slowly, "You call me."

Her last bit of pride made her turn away. Disappointment hurts more when you had expectations. Heading toward her destination once more, halfway there her phone rang—surprising her, as she'd thought Zhao Tianxing would catch up, saying he didn’t know her number.

The call connected; only the sound of wind filled the silence. Just as Junka was about to hang up, Zhao Tianxing, watching her receding figure, softly spoke his farewell, "Goodbye."

He chose to leave at last. He had his own responsibilities. Even if he could solve Junka Mokunan's problems, who could help him? He’d already spent too much time indulging his private emotions.

No unnecessary words—always so calm. This brought Junka a quiet peace. She hung up without a word. Years ago, she'd heard a fairy tale: the details had faded, but she recalled the bear never said goodbye at parting—it waited until the next meeting to make up for the previous farewell.

Zhao Tianxing watched her disappear through the doorway, then turned toward the old Infiniti parked on another street. For a moment, he stood out on the avenue, where most people walked in pairs under the streetlights.

Ten minutes later, an Infiniti driving down the street suddenly turned around—so decisive, so resolute, as if that old car was being pushed to the limit before its final retirement.

Less than half an hour passed before Zhao Tianxing dialed that number again.

"This is Zhao Tianxing." "What is it?"

"I've decided to fulfill the promise I made to you." "Alright."

Standing inside a 7-Eleven, Junka Mokunan had no idea what Zhao Tianxing was thinking, but she knew her own thoughts. She hurried to the roadside, waiting with unprecedented happiness for the car that would take her away from this city.

A horn sounded behind her, and for the first time Junka found the dusty, faded old car so endearing—the worn hood, the scratched panels, all seemed pleasing.

Zhao Tianxing stopped before her, rolling down the window. His cool voice carried a warmth of home in the dusk. "Kagoshima isn’t far, is it?"

A wise man would not attempt the impossible; Zhao Tianxing had never considered himself wise. Years ago, someone called him a fool, and he agreed.

Whether it was the Academy’s duties or nostalgia, at this moment he was simply Zhao Tianxing. His world required him to act; whether it was worthwhile was irrelevant.

He had promised Junka Mokunan. Like all things in the world: if you believe it true, it becomes true; if you doubt, it is false. His words were half-true, but he was always ready to honor them.

Junka sat in the passenger seat. She didn’t ask why. Often, when you want to ask "why," you already know the answer. Like most people, Junka dared not verify the truth—she chose to believe her own reason.

She continued to gaze out the window, her reflection blurred, thinking this was good enough.

Silence is the language of God; all else is poor translation. It wasn't their first time falling into silence, but this time it stretched long.

"Aren’t you going to ask how much I’m worth?" Junka broke the silence, jokingly. She was proud—she’d rather tear open her wounds herself than be pitied.

Zhao Tianxing was never eloquent. Though he understood the girl sought relief with humor, he didn’t know how to respond.

"Thirty million yen, but she didn’t live to spend it all." Junka’s face was full of sorrow. She thought herself utterly foolish—her words sought comfort rather than ease.

"I have a friend who could lend me thirty million yen or more." Zhao Tianxing turned to face her. At that moment, in a hotel, Ji Ning sneezed.

Junka suddenly smiled—silently, until tears fell again.

She felt a pang of resentment: why hadn’t Zhao Tianxing appeared sooner in her life? She could have depended on him. Does fate always play with the ants, arriving too late for everything?

"Well, you’re lucky. I don’t have such friends. Are you bragging?" Junka’s tone suggested she missed the real meaning.

"I could be that friend," Zhao Tianxing said seriously. He knew that if Junka left Tokyo, she would struggle to handle external pressures without financial support.

Junka nearly lost control of her emotions. She sipped instant coffee; its bitterness faded faster than the bitterness in her heart.

She understood Zhao Tianxing’s meaning—he could lend or give her the money to settle her debts, letting her live a normal life. But he forgot that this would simply swap one creditor for another—the last person she wanted to owe.

Junka summoned her courage, charging like a knight on a doomed quest. "Why? Is it because I resemble that girl?" Of all the words she’d ever spoken, this one seemed to drain her entirely.

Zhao Tianxing didn’t know how to answer. He sensed Junka’s inexplicable trust, but he didn’t want to hurt her heart further; he chose silence.

"Just joking," Junka said softly after a pause. "You’d stop to pick up litter from the street, yet won’t look at me? Is etiquette harder than that?"

Zhao Tianxing looked up. Junka met his gaze openly, with only reddened eyes betraying her.

"I..." Zhao Tianxing began, but Junka, as if not hearing him, interrupted, "It’s stuffy in here. Let’s leave tomorrow."

Though Zhao Tianxing wanted to hurry her home, he said nothing, prepared to travel day and night.

Life is a journey—Zhao Tianxing had always been moving. Crowds came and went; many people appeared only once in his life, never again. Years later, when memories surfaced, he realized that moment had been the last. He could not know when his final meeting with Junka would come, but he had a feeling—it would not be long.

Zhao Tianxing did not know how to face Junka Mokunan. She had opened her heart to him, yet he could not be sure if it was all just an inconsequential encounter.

He suddenly wondered: if Junka had never bought that seal, would the two of them have remained parallel lines, stretching into infinity, never intersecting?

The wind swept through quiet streets, lifting Junka’s hair. Zhao Tianxing, after all, never answered himself.

The evening breeze carried a faint scent of ginkgo. Passing men hurried by, their faces bright with anticipation and arms full of roses. Zhao Tianxing and Junka Mokunan walked in tandem, maintaining a delicate distance: close enough to deter malicious glances from the alley, yet far enough to make the girl selling roses hesitate.

Sitting once more in the old Infiniti’s passenger seat, Junka felt as if a long-held burden had been released. She adjusted her steps, playing with shadows—not stepping on them, but dodging Zhao Tianxing’s shadow ahead.

"Thank you, Skyline," she whispered.

Perhaps the voice was too soft; Zhao Tianxing did not turn.

He was still too young to understand that indecision is the root of all tragedy.

As Zhao Tianxing drove the black Infiniti out of Tokyo’s streets, a man in a café, dressed in casual clothes and a baseball cap, smiled as he shifted his gaze from the departing car. "How coincidental—to meet someone I know here." Arthur Alfred didn’t dwell on it. He continued to focus on his target. As a GOC agent, Arthur Alfred was not vacationing in Tokyo.

The Paranormal Coalition was never a charity. The bounties were generous—but only after the job was done. Given the failure in Russia, Arthur had to postpone his holiday again.

He finished his last sip of espresso with a sigh. Someday, when he had money, he’d open an outdoor bar and drown all those coffee-sipping dandies in barrels. Every mission forced him to order drinks in cafés—too much torture, but necessary, since cafés always offered the best vantage points.

"Target left residence at 9:17 a.m. Tokyo time, shopped at a supermarket, returned at 9:46. I’ll check surveillance to see what she bought, but the report will have to wait until tomorrow." Arthur stood, habitually ensuring he wasn’t followed, heading to the next observation point while reporting through his communicator.

Having received a reply, Arthur didn’t hang up, instead asking, "Who is this woman, really? There’s been nothing unusual about her life for days—she’s just as ordinary as anyone could be."

"I don’t know. I’m just the communicator," Bettrey Grace replied, exasperated. Since being assigned to this task thirteen days ago, Arthur had subtly asked her the same question nearly every day, but she had no answers.

Arthur hung up, wondering why the GOC would expend so many resources on a housewife living an utterly normal life.

Although curious, he’d never approached the woman named Momiji Oda directly—one reason he could keep taking GOC assignments without forced retirement. Agents with too much curiosity ended up as black-and-white photos in the archives.

The target's apartment curtains were drawn as usual. Arthur, from a rooftop a hundred meters away, snapped a photo, adjusted his camera to ensure it captured the entire apartment during his absence.

He wondered what useful information this borderline voyeurism could yield, but it was the entirety of his task: to record Momiji Oda’s every move.

Arthur walked toward the store Momiji Oda had visited, darkly speculating whether the GOC’s high-ups had taken an interest in the woman, assigning agents to collect every detail about her.

The shop was small, serving mostly the apartment’s residents. Arthur bought a pack of cigarettes; finding the shop empty, he chatted with the idle owner.

"This brand’s only found in Japan, right?" Arthur held up the blue Seven Stars, having noticed the middle-aged shopkeeper kept the same brand in his shirt pocket.

The man, both owner and cashier, nodded proudly: "It’s our best-selling cigarette."

Arthur smiled, rummaged through his pockets, then looked at the man, slightly annoyed, "Could I borrow a light? Of course, I’ll smoke outside."

The man smiled, handed over a lighter. Arthur lit up, thanked him, and stepped outside.

Truthfully, he disliked smoking, but found no better way to lower suspicion.

After finishing, Arthur returned. "Good cigarettes. Too bad they’re only found in Japan. I’ll have to stock up before heading home."

People like hearing their favorites praised. Masao Okada was no exception. To him, this tourist-looking foreigner had good taste.

"By the way, earlier I bumped into a lady outside the apartment—accidentally, apologized and left, but when I got back to my hotel, I found she’d dropped something. I’d like to return it." Arthur held a bank card, his own.

Okada examined it, seeing nothing from the anonymous card. "Can you describe the lady? I know most residents here."

Arthur rubbed his chin. "She wore a red coat, straight shoulder-length hair with side bangs—a Japanese woman, I think."

Okada’s eyes lit up at the mention of the red coat. "That must be Miss Momiji Oda. She often wears red coats; she bought something here this morning."

"Thank you! Do you know where she lives? Never mind, I’ll ask the apartment manager to forward the card."

He switched topics. "Seems Miss Oda’s lived here a while; you recognized her immediately."

Okada shook his head. "She’s only been here a few months, but she favors red clothes—every time I see her, she’s in red, so I knew it was her."

"Red clothes? I heard women who like red are passionate in Japan. Is Miss Oda like that?"

Okada laughed, "Not sure where you heard that! I’ve never heard it. Miss Oda’s very ladylike—a typical gentle and kind Japanese woman."

"Kind? Has she helped you?"

Okada replied frankly, "Once, I had to leave urgently and hired someone to watch the store. It was Miss Oda. I forgot to tell her the register password, but she handed me a handwritten transaction list afterward—every detail noted. She’s truly diligent."

After leaving, Arthur checked his watch—it was 2 p.m. Tokyo time. In ten hours, he’d return.

He observed the apartment entrance, then headed to a flower shop.

When night fell, Arthur ended his work, finding a ramen shop to eat and reflect. Oddly, everyone described Momiji Oda the same: always in red, gentle and kind, the perfect woman.

Perhaps she was well-liked. That afternoon, those he questioned about her were wary, even warning him not to harbor ill intentions.

Besides the praise, Arthur noticed something peculiar—everyone avoided mentioning her family. He knew nothing of her parents, partner, or marital status.

A strange feeling nagged at him: Momiji Oda seemed utterly ordinary, but something was off.

Finishing his ramen, he suddenly realized the source of his unease: How could one person leave exactly the same impression on everyone? Normally, perceptions differ, even if similar. Only one possibility—she deliberately shaped others’ views of her.

Arthur lit a cigarette, watching the smoke drift in the night breeze. He disliked smoking, but loved the sight of curling smoke—a quirky habit, like some people enjoying gasoline fumes, others singing in the shower. Standing on the rooftop, he fast-forwarded through the camera footage—nothing gained, as expected.

He swapped the memory card, checked the camera angle, and left the rooftop, abandoning the lit cigarette on the railing. It was no beacon in the sleepless city—but only for ordinary people.

If Momiji Oda were ordinary, the GOC wouldn’t bother.

As Momiji Oda stepped out of her steamy bathroom, half-clad with only a towel, she seemed unconcerned. You cannot ask a woman radiating beauty to restrain it—it was her birthright. She settled on the sofa, combing her damp hair, glancing at the drawn curtains. The faint ember visible only to eyes that shouldn’t have seen it made her pause.

She changed clothes and soon appeared on the rooftop Arthur had just vacated. Though Arthur had locked the door, it was futile.

Momiji Oda regarded the camera pointed at her apartment thoughtfully. Ultimately, she left it untouched.

The roles of hunter and prey had quietly reversed.

"No unusual activity," Arthur reported through yawns. Clearly, the days of monotonous surveillance had dulled the GOC agent, so much that Bettrey could detect last night’s hangover in his tone.

She said nothing. This assignment seemed pointless to her—some GOC tasks were like that. No one knew who issued them, but they appeared in the task list all the same. Perhaps this was another.

Arthur hung up, considering where to spend his evening. He’d perfectly blended into the role of tourist these days—after all, he’d been vacationing.

Today, Mount Fuji. The famed "jade fan suspended above the eastern sea" lay eighty kilometers southwest of Tokyo—not far. As Arthur climbed to the top floor, he planned his outing. Momiji Oda only ventured out twice weekly; otherwise, she stayed home. Besides the camera, Arthur had installed one at her apartment door, linked to his phone, so he wasn’t worried about missing crucial information.

Humming, he adjusted the camera. A steel pachinko ball from yesterday’s game slipped from his pocket, rolling until it struck a pair of women’s shoes.

"Are you the one spying on me?" Momiji Oda picked up the ball, staring at the startled man.

Arthur’s first instinct was to reach for his waist, forgetting this was a gun-free country—posing as a tourist, he’d brought no firearm.

"Are you an SCP Foundation agent or GOC operative?" Momiji Oda ignored his gesture, calmly pressing her inquiry.

Arthur broke into a cold sweat. Who would know about the SCP Foundation and GOC? The gentle-looking woman before him was likely an anomalous entity.

"Miss, I am a GOC agent. I did not intend to spy on your life—the higher-ups assigned this task. I am just an employee doing my job. I apologize for the offense." Arthur bowed deeply, praying to his not-so-devout god.

"No need to be afraid," Momiji Oda, surprised by his humility, smiled. "If you can, tell me why you’re monitoring me. If I recall, your GOC allows harmless yokai to coexist with humans."

Yokai, then? Arthur was familiar with the term—an Eastern staple in the paranormal realm. Spirits in mountains and rivers, sentient trees and grass. Although sightings had dwindled, every trip to Asia brought new encounters.

Yokai naturally wielded arcane arts; apart from a minority of harmless ones, most could kill a person. More importantly, yokai were endless—when one died, somewhere in the world, another would be born, nearly identical except for memories. This was a known principle in the supernatural field, a rule for maintaining the balance of mystical energy, as immutable as gravity.

"Probably an error from above. I’ll report it—GOC management is famously incompetent. Rest assured, I’ll urge them to cancel the task." Arthur was sincere, resembling a crusader for truth.

"Mr. Arthur Alfred, please stand up," Momiji Oda said, half amused, half exasperated. In her long life, she’d met GOC agents, but never one so pragmatic.

"Thank you. Again, I apologize for GOC’s immaturity. I’ll report your case carefully. Forgive me, I’ll take my leave." Arthur kept his head down, hand hovering near his left waist, ready to draw a knife.

Momiji Oda made no move to stop him, but watched thoughtfully as he departed.

"Bettrey, there’s been an incident—Momiji Oda spotted me," Arthur dashed into his rented Subaru Outback. The black SUV sped down the street like an unleashed hound.

"What’s your status?" Bettrey, painting her nails, leisurely capped the polish and adjusted her headset. She wasn’t worried—since Arthur was calmly reporting, things weren’t dire enough for her to interrupt her beauty routine.

"I’m fleeing by car," Arthur gripped the wheel, glancing behind. Though experience told him Momiji Oda meant no harm, he remained uneasy.

"Is she chasing you?"

"I don’t know."

"What? You don’t know?"

"To be precise, after our exchange, I slipped away. She didn’t stop me, but she might change her mind."

Arthur, ever experienced with women’s fickleness, was cautious.

"What did you say?" Bettrey was curious; Arthur, though flippant, hadn’t yet flirted across species.

"I said the GOC is trash, all because of their mistake that I had to surveil her." Arthur admitted frankly, startling Bettrey with his audacity.

"Just come back. I’ll explain to Mr. Masakawa."

Arthur hung up, confirming he wasn’t being followed before turning toward the GOC’s Tokyo branch.

"You were discovered?" Masakawa Hisakazu, in suit and glasses, regarded Arthur calmly.

Arthur slammed the table angrily, "She’s a yokai! No one told me that when I got the assignment. Isn’t it normal to be found out? Besides, Mr. Masakawa, you didn’t even warn me the target might be non-human. Are you disregarding my safety? I reserve the right to report you to GOC HQ!"

Masakawa’s stern expression softened. "It wasn’t a violation—there were reasons. Momiji Oda is a long-registered yokai. Recently, we noted anomalies and issued an investigation. Due to her special abilities—similar to a memetic effect—we had to conceal her information. If you’d known about her beforehand, she’d sense your presence as soon as you approached, making surveillance impossible."

"She’s still a yokai! I could die any minute!" Arthur persisted, ready to confront Masakawa.

Masakawa considered, then produced an envelope. "Though Momiji Oda has never harmed anyone, it was our mistake. Please accept this apology."

Arthur glanced at the envelope—judging its heft, his anger evaporated. "It’s fine, these things happen. Don’t worry, Mr. Masakawa, I’m not much of a talker." Dirty money could wash away most things, even rage.

Masakawa nodded, but stayed. "Bettrey mentioned you spoke with Momiji Oda?"

Arthur nodded, confused.

"Did you learn anything from her? Anything about her, please share."

Arthur thought for a moment. Though he wanted to fabricate something, the conversation was too brief. He could only shake his head. "Sorry."

Masakawa seemed disappointed, "She didn’t mention family or children?"

Arthur shook his head; Masakawa turned away.

"May I ask, Mr. Masakawa, why are you so interested in Momiji Oda?" Arthur finally gave in to curiosity—he couldn’t fathom why Masakawa would invest so much effort in a law-abiding yokai, especially in Tokyo, where he had many responsibilities.

Masakawa paused, then slowly turned. "Arthur, you know this world has many races. In times before advanced technology, why did humans—not powerful anomalous beings—become rulers?"

It was a simple question. Arthur had answered it correctly in his supernatural theory class at Alexylva University, and he knew it now. "Because those entities can’t reproduce like humans—their difficulty in creating offspring prevents them from forming a population comparable to humans."

"Correct, yokai are the same. Since the end of the Heian era, the Onmyo Bureau has not observed a new yokai’s birth. Perhaps after the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons, mystical energy in Japan balanced to a level that prevented new yokai. For humans, this was good—Japan’s population doubled in centuries. This prosperity lasted until 1966. Before then, Japan even had birth control policies; after 1966, everything changed. Even with pro-natal policies since 1977, birth rates kept falling." Masakawa’s tone shifted, the mild office worker now a warrior, his eyes flashing.

"We confirmed from historical records that this is a cycle. Mystical energy rises in the Yayoi era, yokai appear; in the Heian era, the Night Parade causes population collapse. Every millennium, there’s a mystical tide—both humans and yokai undergo transformation. Now, a new cycle begins. This time, humans will decline, yokai will prosper." Masakawa stared at Arthur for a long moment before continuing, "Momiji Oda showed signs a year ago that we must take seriously."

"What signs?"

"Arthur, you should submit the surveillance footage from the store today."

Arthur recalled the memory card still in his jacket pocket from last night’s trip to Kabukicho after stealing the store’s footage.

Masakawa took the card, handed it to a subordinate. Soon, a video was projected, fast-forwarded.

Momiji Oda, in her red coat, bought daily necessities but didn’t leave. She walked to the maternity section, selected a pacifier and a small toy before departing.

Masakawa was silent for a moment. "Arthur, yokai have no mates. Their offspring’s origins are unknown, likely tied to mystical energy. If Momiji Oda truly has a child, she may be the herald of a new era."

Arthur looked up, catching Masakawa’s profile against the light. He couldn’t see his eyes—only heard a brief statement.

"Japan cannot live in fear."