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380 A Face Gradually Turns Pale
🕑 Added 2025-07-15 15:00:17 +0000 UTCEven in the end, Hojou Ichirou never answered Miyamizu dad question.
He never said whether his son's relationship with that group of girls was "normal" or not.
But did that even matter?
Even though Miyamizu Toshiki’s answer amounted to nothing more than, “I love my daughter, and I could never take away her youth,” and he never got the answer he really wanted—did that matter either?
Perhaps it mattered to Toshiki.
But for Ichirou, it was already enough.
He didn’t need to prove himself right.
He didn’t need to refute Toshiki.
He didn’t even need to engage with the question.
All he had to do was trap his opponent, show that he was wrong—and that was enough to be right.
Toshiki had asked whether Kyousuke’s relationship with Mitsuha and the other girls was appropriate.
Ichirou simply returned a different question:
“Do you really want to take your daughter’s youth away? Do you love your child?”
That was the art of debate.
The man once known in Tokyo’s legal circles as “Hojou Who Never Leaves Empty-Handed” finally stretched his long-stiff tongue with satisfaction.
The bottle of sake on his table was quickly emptied.
Without even thinking, he turned to the next table, unsurprised to find a sea of admiring eyes looking his way.
The two editors he’d been sparring with earlier practically shoved bottles at him, eager to return to his table to study the art of rhetoric under a true master.
Honestly, what had they been thinking before?
Did they forget he was Kyousuke’s father?
Never heard the phrase “Like father, like son”?
He only spotted one young man, Makki Hojou from Todai, who had truly shown insight.
No doubt he’d joined the university’s debate club.
Ichirou made a mental note to introduce him to Uchiumi and the others later.
A good senpai should always take care of his kouhai.
With that thought, Ichirou returned to his seat with a wide, satisfied grin.
But the moment he sat down, that smile drained from his face like color fading from an old photograph, turning dull and grey.
Wait a second. Weren’t there just a few bottles of light sake on this table before? Where had that orange glass bottle come from?
Surely that label didn’t say Juyondai?! Since when did Suntory start selling sake?
Whisky was one thing—every izakaya had it—but where did brandy come from?
Are you even Japanese!?
On a happy occasion like this, you’re supposed to drink cold beer by the pitcher!
Ichirou cursed internally as he forced a strained smile onto his face.
“Miyamizu-san… what’s this?”
“I just thought,” Toshiki said, lifting a bottle of vintage Suntory whisky with a booming laugh, “since your love for your son runs so deep, watching Kyousuke’s youth burn so brightly must bring you great joy.
Sake doesn’t suit the moment. A father should drink something more… substantial!”
“Haha… yes, very joyful…” Ichirou chuckled hollowly.
His eyes drifted over to where his son was chatting and laughing with the girls, holding nothing more than a glass of plain water.
Ichirou closed his eyes in quiet agony.
Toshiki had clearly seen right through his rhetorical ploy.
But thankfully, a silent understanding had formed between them.
Today was a day of celebration—for Kyousuke, and for Mitsuha.
No one wanted to ruin it.
Not even two bitter old fathers.
And Ichirou was right.
As a former member of Kyoto University’s notorious Rhetoric Society, it took Toshiki less than half a second to see through the trap.
He was no amateur coasting through club activities.
Back in university, he was known for a bold theory:
"Love fades in marriage.
Slowly but surely, the initial spark dies out.
Therefore, if you want to preserve that pure, innocent love, you should never marry the one you truly love.
The wise choose someone they don’t love."
[TL Note : Wtf?]
Of course, that wasn’t the whole theory.
As a scholar of folklore, Toshiki backed his claims with data, case studies, and cultural examples.
His theory spread like wildfire through the Kyoto University campus.
Every lovesick loser who’d watched the girl of his dreams marry someone else would chant Toshiki’s name like a mantra.
No, Miyamizu Toshiki was no naïve academic.
Before he met Futaba, he’d caught the eye of his professor’s daughter through sheer charisma and brilliance.
In a society like Japan, where academic cliques control everything, good connections were the only way to survive in research.
Didn’t Kyousuke himself write about that in his story about Ishigami Tetsuya?
Even when he moved out to the countryside to marry Futaba, he didn’t bring typical wedding gifts—he brought a record player, stereo equipment, and a camera.
How could a woman as beautiful and capable as Futaba choose an idiot for a husband?
The only reason he grit his teeth and sighed instead of blowing up at Ichirou was because—at least in part—what the man had said was true.
Yes… Mitsuha’s youth.
His daughter had spent three years of junior high body-swapping with that boy.
Their lives were practically one.
That boy had stood in as her sister, granddaughter, even daughter—fulfilling all the roles Mitsuha was expected to.
He probably spent more time with Mitsuha than Toshiki himself had.
For three years of high school, Mitsuha studied day and night just to get into a university in Tokyo.
And now, finally in Tokyo, Mitsuha had found her youth.
And he… the father who hadn’t done enough… did he really have the right to take that away?
Of course, he didn’t want to break them up.
He just wanted Mitsuha to find true happiness.
To be loved—uniquely, wholly, unconditionally.
Not like this…
But the more he thought about it, the more Toshiki could feel the anger he’d just managed to suppress rising again.
“Hahaha! Come on, Miyamizu-san, drink, drink!”
Ichirou saw the shift in his expression and immediately forced out a cheerful voice, biting his lip in desperation.
Toshiki tore his gaze away.
Even if he ignored Kyousuke, just looking at how Mitsuha laughed and chatted with the other girls—he knew he couldn’t make a scene.
If it came to that, it wouldn’t be here. It would be back at his house.
Just the three of them—father, son, and daughter-in-law candidate.
Seated in the tatami room.
No outsiders.
Just the three of them and… maybe a hunting rifle hidden under the table for emphasis.
He grinned.
Now it was his turn to take the stage.
Unlike your typical izakaya, where drinks were served by the glass, Kyousuke had apparently decided to serve them by the bottle. Fine.
Let’s see if his father’s drinking skills were as sharp as his tongue.
Twisting open the cap, the rich scent of honey and cream wafted from the bottle.
Without another word, Toshiki started pouring the whisky straight into a glass.
“Wait, wait! Miyamizu-san!” Ichirou blurted, face paling. “Aren’t you forgetting the ice? The soda? No one in Japan drinks it neat!
You’ve gotta do a proper mizuwari—whisky with water!”
“Hahaha, that heavy love a father carries for his child—that’s what this whisky represents!” Toshiki laughed, ignoring him completely as he filled the glass.
Forty-something percent alcohol?
Please.
Back in Itomori, they used to drink homemade high-proof moonshine.
Ichirou’s face was now frozen in terror.
He was no longer the alcohol warrior of his Tokyo days.
Now, he only drank fresh milk—and not the store-bought kind, either.
It had to come from his own cows.
He even turned his nose up at milk from the neighbor’s farm.
And now, staring down a full glass of pure whisky…
His face was turning pale.
Seeing that he couldn’t stop Toshiki from drinking, Ichirou lifted his head and looked at the two clueless fools across the table—two men completely incapable of appreciating the elegance of his rhetoric.
After a moment of thought, he decided to throw them into the mix.
“Onizuka, Gorou—this here is the legendary mayor who led an entire town to safety during a meteor disaster. Come, give Miyamizu-san a toast!”
When it came time to drink, it was always up to these two useless subordinates of his son to step in.
“Ohhh! So you’re the father of the great swordmaster Mitsuha!”
“You’re Mitsuha-san’s father?! I—I’m Hatake Gorou! An honor, sir!”
The difference in how they addressed him came down to how each of them remembered Miyamizu Mitsuha.
Eikichi Onizuka was most impressed by her swordsmanship, which was identical to his own boss’s when they went to that kendo tournament.
Gorou, on the other hand, had relatives in Itomori, so he’d heard more about the Miyamizu Shrine and respectfully called her “Mitsuha-san” and her mother “Madam Futaba.”
Before Ichirou could even say another word, Eikichi Onizuka had already jumped up and snatched the bottle from Toshiki’s hand, pouring the whisky into his glass with a big grin.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it! No way I’d let you pour it yourself!” Onizuka beamed.
When it came to anyone associated with his boss, there were only two words in his heart: total respect.
‘Hey! Idiot! I was trying to scare him! Put in ice! Add soda water!’
Miyamizu Toshiki’s face had also started to pale.
Now that he thought about it, it had been over three years since he left that rough countryside of Itomori.
He’d traded strong, homemade liquor for refined sake with a polished rice ratio below 60%.
More importantly, ever since reuniting with his family, he rarely drank anymore.
He was no longer the alcohol warrior of his past.
These days, his favorite drink was the tea brewed by his daughters.
Even if Yotsuba hadn’t mastered Futaba’s delicate techniques, even plain hot water from her hands tasted sweet.
And Mitsuha… well, if he messed things up here, he could probably say goodbye to her fragrant tea for the next half-year.
“Heh… thanks,” Toshiki said with a forced smile.
“It’s an honor sir!” Onizuka replied, still grinning.
Ichirou caught Toshiki’s expression and chuckled inwardly.
‘So you’re all bark too, huh?’
‘I knew it—no middle-aged man can still down high-proof booze like a college kid.’
“Hojou-san, allow me!” Gorou suddenly piped up, grabbing another bottle of whisky.
Eikichi Onizuka had no eye for quality—this bottle was clearly the more expensive one.
‘With that kind of amateur judgment, you think you can compete with me for the number one underling spot?’
“Heh… thanks,” Ichirou said, mirroring Toshiki’s pained expression.
“It’s an honor sir!” Gorou answered, just as brightly.
The sight of the two standing up to pour drinks caught the attention of those nearby.
Miyamizu Mitsuha, who had been quietly watching from the side, finally let out a breath of relief.
Her bright eyes twinkled as she turned to Hojou Kyousuke with a satisfied smile.
“Looks like Dad and Uncle Hojou are getting along pretty well.”
“That’s… surprising,” Kyousuke admitted. “Honestly, I thought they were going to argue. I was ready to jump in and rescue the situation any second.”
“Hehehe~ Me too. But this is so much better,” Mitsuha said cheerfully.
“Yeah… I hope it stays this way.”
Kyousuke sincerely hoped those two old men would forge an unbreakable bond—like stone and iron.
“So sneaky, Mitsuha,” came a soft whisper from beside her.
It was Kasumigaoka Utaha, her voice low and wry.
Why did it feel like she was the one who’d built the stage just for Mitsuha to shine?
Mitsuha turned with a gentle bump of her shoulder against Utaha’s and whispered back with a teasing grin:
“Let’s just call it payback for helping you and Kyousuke get closer~”
She ended the line with a blink of those big brown eyes, her face full of playfulness.
“Mitsuha…” The dark-haired, crimson-eyed enchantress suddenly felt a lump catch in her throat.
“Come on, eat up.” Mitsuha pushed a stuffed green pepper Eriri had passed over toward Utaha.
She knew Utaha well—especially the version of her that only Kyousuke saw.
She understood the girl’s insecurities, the hidden feelings of inferiority, and the deep, silent gratitude Utaha held toward her.
But Mitsuha didn’t like the imbalance between them.
If given the chance, she wanted to erase that inequality.
Kasumigaoka Utaha, the sharp-tongued beauty with incredible talent, was most beautiful when she stood tall with pride.
“Hehe~” Utaha’s expression shifted subtly, then she let out a soft laugh and gently slid the stuffed pepper back across the table to Eriri.
“Mitsuha, did you know? Stuffed peppers are Eriri’s favorite. She just told Kasuko that herself.”
“That’s right!” At the mention of her name, Kasuko immediately perked up.
“Huh? Really?”
Mitsuha blinked in confusion.
Back when she was inside Hojou Kyousuke’s body and went to eat at Eriri’s house, she never once saw her touch green peppers.
But then, seeing Utaha’s smile, it clicked.
“Hehe… yeah, I just love stuffed peppers,” Eriri forced out through gritted teeth, wearing a terrifying smile.
Then, with her tiny hands, she shoved all the greasy-looking skewers on the table straight in front of Utaha.
“Eat up. You’re so skinny—what, were you starving yourself just to save money for this party? If things are tight, just say the word.
I’ve got manuscript money I don’t know how to spend.”
She then dramatically pulled out her wallet and flashed a lineup of high-end credit cards—cards she definitely couldn’t afford on her royalties alone.
Eriri might not know what foods Utaha struggled with, but she did know one thing:
A woman who did daily fitness training would never eat that much high-fat food.
Now it was a battle of silent understanding.
Blonde-haired, blue-eyed princess vs. black-haired, crimson-eyed temptress.
If you eat, I eat.
Let’s suffer together.
“They look like they’re having fun too,” Mitsuha said, leaning her head slightly—almost resting on Kyousuke’s shoulder—as she spoke softly.
“Yeah.”
Kyousuke replied just as quietly, though his eyes had drifted elsewhere.
Across the table, the atmosphere was far less cheerful.
The usually gentle Nishimiya Shouko—so kind and delicate, like a moon reflected in a still lake—had raised her voice in protest, even before she spoke a word to him.
And the person she was confronting?
Yukinoshita Haruno.
It was clear just how much Haruno must’ve said to provoke even her.
