"So, Shoko," Kashimo said, keeping his voice casual. He was trying his best not to look like a suspicious character. "Where are your parents?"
Shoko gave a small shrug and gestured with her chin toward the street corner, her expression bordering on impatient.
Kashimo followed her gaze. A middle-aged man in a gray suit stood in line at a crepe stand. He looked like the definition of a corporate drone: tie perfectly knotted, briefcase in hand, and shoes polished just enough to pass muster. He kept glancing at the front of the line, his back radiating a deep, bone-weary salaryman energy.
Kashimo felt a pang of secondhand embarrassnt. He was a textbook Japanese office worker, the kind of man who could disappear into a crowd in three seconds flat.
"Dad just picked up from school," Shoko added, her tone matter-of-fact. "I wanted a crepe, so he's waiting in line. He told to stay close and play nearby."
Kashimo looked down at her. The girl spoke with a calm indifference, clearly used to the routine of her father running errands for her. She stood there with her backpack straps hanging loose, tapping the toe of her shoe against the pavent while her eyes drifted toward the crepe stand, likely calculating which flavor she wanted.
Kashimo arched an eyebrow. School? That ant she hadn't discovered her innate technique yet. At thirteen, in a normal middle school with a parent picking her up, it was clear Jujutsu High hadn't scouted her. Her rare talent for the reverse cursed technique would probably go unnoticed for another few years before she was whisked away into a world entirely different from this one.
For now, she was just a thirteen-year-old girl who wanted a snack.
Kashimo shifted his shopping bags, stuffing one hand into his pocket. He looked back at the man in the gray suit. "Your father has a lot of patience," he noted.
Shoko didn't answer imdiately. She tilted her head, her bright eyes studying him with a mix of childhood curiosity and a strange, budding intensity.
"You bought a lot of clothes, mister."
"I did."
"Are you a model? You're really tall."
"No."
"Then what do you do?"
Kashimo looked at the familiar face and paused for a second. "I'm unemployed."
Shoko blinked. She seed to be trying to reconcile the image of a handso, unemployed man carrying a dozen designer shopping bags. She didn't press him, though. She just gave a small "Ok" and turned her attention back to the crepe line.
The two of them stood there in the June sun, a tall man and a small girl, waiting for the man in the gray suit to return.
A few minutes later, the father finished his purchase and hurried back. He held a paper-wrapped crepe in one hand and his change in the other, moving with the hurried gait of a man who was always behind schedule.
"Shoko," he said, handing her the treat. He finally noticed the young man standing a full head taller than him and paused. "All set. And who is this?"
Kashimo opened his mouth to explain that he was just a passerby, but Shoko beat him to it.
"He's a weird guy I just t," she said brightly.
Kashimo's mouth twitched.
"Ah, I see," the father said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and offered a practiced, polite smile, giving a small bow. "Hello. I hope our Shoko wasn't a bother."
"Not at all," Kashimo said, his voice flat. "We just happened to cross paths."
The man nodded, his eyes scanning Kashimo's teal hair and the violet markings at the corners of his eyes. His smile remained polite, but his gaze was filled with the confusion of soone wondering exactly what kind of person he was talking to. He didn't ask, though. He just turned back to Shoko.
"Let's go. Mom's waiting for us at ho."
Shoko took a bite of the crepe, getting a bit of cream on her lip. She gave a muffled hum of agreent, gave Kashimo one last look, and started following her father across the street. After a few steps, she turned back, still chewing.
"Bye, weirdo!"
Kashimo stood on the sidewalk, watching the small figure in the school uniform disappear into the crowd. The June sun was still punishingly hot. He let out a huff, clamped the handles of the bags back between his teeth, and resud his walk to the apartnt.
The bags swayed with every step, just as they had before.
***
It was dusk by the ti Kashimo reached the building. The evening sun had painted the street in shades of warm orange. He stopped in front of a nondescript three-story apartnt block with a faded gray-and-white exterior. Each unit had a matching mailbox, and the place Kenjaku had rented was on the second floor.
Kashimo looked up, the orange light softening the sharp lines of his face. He took a deep breath, relieved to have finally arrived. His hands were numb from the weight of the bags. He set them down on the concrete and reached into his right pocket.
Empty.
He tried the left.
Empty.
Kashimo froze. His expression shifted from exhaustion to a sinking realization. He looked down at his new trousers. In his rush to leave that morning, he'd just pulled them on and walked out.
The key. The apartnt key.
He played back the day's events. Leaving, the mall, the clothes, the eting with Shoko, the long walk back. He hadn't touched a key once. Kenjaku still had it.
Kashimo closed his eyes. A vein throbbed in his temple.
Four hundred years ago, he was the God of Lightning, the strongest sorcerer of his age. Four hundred years later, he was standing in front of a cheap apartnt building with a dozen bags of clothes and no way to get inside.
He stood there for a long ti. His shadow stretched across the pavent, a distorted silhouette of shopping bags and ssy hair.
"Damn it," he muttered.
He picked the bags back up and climbed the iron stairs, the tal clanging under his feet as if he were taking his frustration out on the building itself. When he reached the second floor, he dropped the bags in front of his door and slid down to the floor.
He leaned his back against the door, his legs stretched out across the narrow hallway. He looked up at the ceiling, wondering what his options were. He didn't have a phone to call Kenjaku. He didn't know where she was staying. He could pick the lock, but his experience was with ancient wooden latches, not modern security doors.
Kashimo stared at the white wall across from him for a while. Finally, he let out a long, weary breath and leaned his head back against the door, closing his eyes.
The strongest sorcerer of the Edo period sat in a hallway like a college student who'd forgotten his lanyard, waiting for soone to let him in.
***
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A/n: 400 power stones = 1 bonus chapter. Thanks in advance to everyone for the support.
For early access to 15 chapters ahead: p@tre~~/Demonic_Fiction (Link is in the synopsis and my profile).
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