29 Childhood friends

"You really are incredible. You."

Jin repeats it once more.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't endure even two years.

A world without command was colorless.

Fighting alone was impossible.

Kou, who has accepted the resolve to fight alone for ten years—and will continue to do so—deserves nothing but praise.

It was a sincere statement, born from knowing Jin's circumstances.

Otherwise, it would sound hollow.

Kou, for his part, shows no particular reaction.

"So what exactly are you trying to say, Instructor?"

"Ah, right. The real point."

Ever since I heard fragmented accounts from May, it's been on my mind.

"How did you tell them apart?"

That was it.

Even their parents couldn't tell them apart—identical twins.

In truth, no one had ever recognized the difference before.

Until Kou did.

...I didn’t notice the difference. Honestly, not even a hint of swapping was detected during childhood school days."

"Is that so?"

"They were truly identical. I accept it, even if they say they’re clones."

Perhaps they were intentionally made to resemble each other.

Even with standard cloning, environmental factors produce growth variations.

But if perfect transplantation is the goal, those differences should be minimized as much as possible.

Then how exactly?

"I couldn’t remember the conversation we had the day before."

"Only that?"

"It was a conversation I should’ve never forgotten."

He concluded it was someone else because he couldn’t recall it.

At the moment he realized that, what did Kou feel?

When he understood the person standing before him was not his childhood friend.

"Hm?"

Jin suddenly questions.

"Stop stirring things up, Instructor. Honestly, I don’t have anything I particularly want to talk about."

“That was careless of me. I just had to ask, though.”

“Doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.”

“Ah, well. That’s the influence of a bad student.”

Here goes. I’ll take a page from that shameless student and press forward without remorse.

“Sasamori trainee never noticed the switch, did they?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“So they only realized it when they couldn’t remember the conversation from the day before.”

“Makes sense.”

Jin tilts his head. It’s obvious when you look at it objectively.

Neither May nor Kou noticed, then.

“Hey, this is a genuine question.”

“Your preamble’s terrible, Instructor.”

“How did you tell the two apart?”

“Because of the day before.”

“That only proves the May from the previous day was different from the May at that moment. This is about earlier than that.”

In other words, a distinction made by tracing back.

Which of the memories with Mio, my childhood friend, belonged to the real Mio, and which belonged to the other Mio? How did you tell the difference?

"Ah...?"

For a moment, he looks utterly confused, as if he doesn’t understand what’s being said.

His expression drains of color.

"Since they were indistinguishable at first glance, the memories of both must have mixed together. You didn’t go through them one by one, weighing each against the other... that doesn’t seem likely."

He presses a hand to his mouth, trembling visibly. It’s obvious at a glance.

Jin thinks it’s understandable. The traumatic event from childhood. A neighbor had been replaced. When that truth finally emerged, remaining calm enough to distinguish between them was impossible.

Only because Jin hears it now, as if from outside, could he make such a judgment.

Beyond that, speculation remains. There was also a problem in how Mio had conveyed it.

Perhaps he had only conveyed that much—nothing more than the simple fact of replacement. He had not mentioned the subtle daily shifts that occurred.

No—perhaps he had intentionally conveyed it that way.

To ensure Kou would not find May within himself.

"Are you alright, Sasamori trainee?"

"I'm fine."

He says it, but his face is pale. He has never seen such a lack of blood in a face.

"Instructor, I need to think about something... Is it alright if I return to my room?"

"Sure. I’ve heard what I needed to hear. Good night, Sasamori trainee. And remember—watch your words during the day. Otherwise, you’ll be writing another apology letter."

Without reacting to Jin’s joke, Kou staggers back to his room.

"Hmm."

Jin scratches his head, watching the retreating back.

"Guess I’m not cut out for this..."

Listening to another’s troubles. Cutting open those same troubles.

Jin had always thought of himself as the type who frets and ponders endlessly. Objectively, that assessment was correct.

“Doing something cruel, aren’t I…”

Kou would likely take Jin’s words and begin examining memories.

Digging desperately at fading recollections. Battling the fear that he might be rewriting them to suit his own needs.

Which memory of the two Mays was it, after all?

It would likely yield no answer.

Human memories grow hazy within a day, rewritten conveniently as time passes.

So if anything changes, it will be because of what Kou himself desires.

“Still… better than standing still, I suppose…”

Jin cannot be certain of that himself.

The next day’s training.

The daily simulation combat ended in dismal results.

The standard formation has always been Kou and May teaming up to subdue Jin.

Their combined front-line coordination barely maintains equilibrium.

Therefore, naturally, any disruption in that coordination would scatter them instantly.

The debriefing concluded with that point highlighted.

The classroom after Jin exited.

“What was that pathetic performance today, Kou! Are you playing around!?”

“Calm down, May.”

May was the first to erupt.

Their breathing had been so out of sync it seemed deliberate.

Every action she took appeared to be obstructed by May’s movements.

She must have been under considerable stress.

Yuria, the squad leader, had intended to press the matter more firmly—she was left far behind by May’s full-throttle outburst.

“…Sorry.”

And Kou knows he himself has acted embarrassingly, so he cannot respond forcefully.

That sincerity is already a shock so great it feels like Yuria’s eyes might pop out.

She nearly shouts, How can this person actually apologize like this!

"It’s not enough to just say you’re sorry! If you act like that in combat, you’ll be dead in seconds!"

"So I said I was sorry, didn’t I?"

"Both of you, calm down... May, what’s wrong with you? Well, honestly, Sasamori’s flying today was… off, but everyone has bad days, right?"

She offers the gentle correction, though Kou’s flying today wasn’t merely off. To be clear, it was—

"If you’re unwell, then that’s fine. But today it wasn’t a malfunction. It was simply that you weren’t focused—just as the Instructor said!"

May was right. Even from her vantage point above, Yuriya thought so. Jin, facing off directly, must have felt it unmistakably.

Quietly. Focus was lacking. That was all I’d said—just that one must maintain concentration regardless of condition when entering combat.

"Hey, got something on your mind? If you do, talk about it. We're squadmates, after all."

"...Sorry."

Yuriya scratched her cheek, watching Kou’s honest expression.

Normally, she’d have snapped back by now, restoring her usual demeanor.

But seeing someone usually arrogant and bold now slumped and downcast—why did it stir something within her?

"Anyway, I suppose I could listen, if you want."

"...There’s nothing you’d understand."

"Grumble!"

Yuria feels an out-of-place sentiment—this is the first time she’s heard someone say “mukī.”

“Just stew in your own thoughts, that’s all you’re good for! Pfah!”

May strides out of the lecture hall, leaving behind that dismissive remark.

Well, it’s not worth getting upset over.

Yuria hesitates, then starts to rise, thinking she should try to calm her down.

At that moment, someone grasps her wrist, halting her.

No need to obscure it.

Only Yuria and Kou remain in the lecture hall. The one who grabbed her is unmistakably one person. Kou.

“Listen. I need to talk. Nastin.”

Impossible. Yuria hadn’t expected this at all—she nearly topples backward, her braid flipping upside down in shock.

Is he even eating right? She worries, suddenly thinking he must have swallowed something bizarre.

“Um, then maybe… the cafeteria?”

"No... I don't want to hear it from anyone else. Here. Please."

A voice, weak and clinging.

Yuria cannot become a demon even as she pushes it away.

"U—Leave it to me, squad leader!"

She slaps her chest and takes responsibility.

Normally, she'd make a sarcastic remark—now, not even that.

Instead, she says, "Thank you."

And Yuria is already at a loss, unsure what to do.

Still slightly panicked, she sits back down, re-adopting her posture to listen to Kou's words.