614 — Katou Megumi: The Pain of Knowing Too Much

Fuji TV didn’t hold back.

They brought in Matsumoto Motohiro and a panel of “experts,” setting up a televised shouting match between both camps.

What followed was a digital-era brawl — a cyber clash waged through electromagnetic waves and broadcast signals.

As expected, newspaper sales and TV ratings on both sides skyrocketed.

Fuji TV, eager to keep the momentum going, shamelessly sent a representative to contact Hojou Kyousuke.

They offered a huge appearance fee, promised national exposure for his new book, and even hinted at helping him secure a live-action adaptation deal.

When Kyousuke mentioned this to the staff at Asahi TV where he had previously appeared, they didn’t mind at all.

In fact, they cheerfully encouraged him to negotiate a higher price.

Their reasoning was simple:

“If you stay on our side forever, Fuji TV will lose all its viewers! We need a proper rivalry to keep the ratings alive!”

And so, Kyousuke arrived at Fuji TV’s studio in their private car.

From the moment the cameras started rolling, the host made no effort to hide his hostility — though it might’ve been just for show.

Sitting across from Kyousuke were three well-known sociology experts and two senior members of the Mystery Writers’ Association, all seemingly united in one goal: to gang up on him.

The director clearly had a talent for creating drama.

Just as the experts began firing off their criticisms, a katana suddenly descended from the studio ceiling on a steel wire — landing right in front of Kyousuke.

The host immediately struck a dramatic pose, shouting into the mic:

“Ladies and gentlemen, behold! The sacred blade once used by Hojou-sensei’s mentor — forged to slay demons in ancient times! Truly, the sword of a master!”

As Kyousuke reached out, his slender fingers pushing the tsuba slightly forward, a faint metallic click echoed through the air.

When he lifted his gaze, his eyes, those faintly dangerous, alluring peach-colored eyes  met the host’s.

Even though everyone knew it was part of the act, Matsumoto Motohiro still found himself instinctively ducking under the table.

Only then did he finally understand why the two judges he’d tried to recruit earlier, Kurokawa Toyomasa and Naganuma Hironori, had looked at him with such pity.

Even the three “experts,” who were seasoned talk-show veterans, jumped to their feet and hid behind the host.

Kyousuke chuckled softly, glancing at the frightened faces before turning his attention to the sword.

It was real metal though the edge was dull enough to use for a massage.

Still, the craftsmanship was remarkable.

The hamon rippled like flowing clouds, and the lacquered scabbard gleamed under the studio lights.

“Beautiful piece,” he murmured.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he drew the blade.

A silver gleam flashed across the stage.

The host, still performing his part, dramatically shielded the others while rambling on about how this “legendary sword once vanquished demons in the Sengoku era.”

‘Ah,’ Kyousuke thought, ‘so it’s just a prop from some historical drama.’

He gave it a few test swings.

It looked impressive, though the light metal made it clear it was designed for actors, not warriors.

The host smiled nervously.

“So, Hojou-sensei — a fine sword, isn’t it? Please! Show mercy and let me live! The entire nation would weep if I didn’t appear on TV next week!”

Fake tears and all.

Kyousuke tilted his head, lips curling into a half-smile.

“You’re right. It’s an excellent sword.”

Then he stood.

Regardless of how blunt it was, a weapon in hand always beats being empty-handed — the unspoken creed of any cautious fighter.

The host tried to crack another joke, but before he could, Kyousuke raised the sword — the blade catching the light like liquid silver and swung.

‘CRACK!’

The heavy wooden table before him split cleanly in half, sending water glasses and nameplates crashing to the floor.

“Impressive. A blade worthy of slaying demons indeed,” Kyousuke said casually, giving the host a sidelong look.

The host froze, his face drained of color.

Only after the director yelled repeatedly through his earpiece did he manage to snap back into character.

Then, in exaggerated shock, he rushed forward, pointing at the destroyed table.

“A-amazing! Truly amazing! Look at that—look at the clean cut! Unbelievable craftsmanship!”

The camera zoomed in for a close-up, showing the smooth, flawless split in the table.

Viewers at home could practically hear the collective gasp:

“Don’t tell me! A demon-slaying sword from the Sengoku era… still sharp enough to cut solid wood?!”

On set, the three experts crouched by the broken table, muttering in disbelief.

Kyousuke’s fingers twitched slightly.

The way their necks were bent, exposed, defenseless—

‘No. Calm down.’

‘The demon inside my arm is waking up.’

Meanwhile, Matsumoto Motohiro, still under the table, looked ready to faint.

Was Hojou trying to say that even if he hid down there, he’d still get sliced in two?!

Losing all sense of professionalism, he suddenly stood and yelled at the host for “arming the enemy.”

The host turned to the camera, made an awkward face, then said cheerfully,

“Hojou-sensei, could you perhaps demonstrate the blade for the audience?”

Obliging, Kyousuke smiled and lifted the sword toward the crowd.

He ran his palm along the dull edge twice to show it was harmless.

A wave of applause erupted.

Even though everyone knew it was part of the show.

The audience couldn’t help but marvel at his composure — and at how a blunt sword could still cut so cleanly.

Most people were impressed.

Matsumoto, however, was terrified.

‘If he can do that with a dull blade, what could he do bare-handed?!’

One of the veteran mystery authors on the panel finally spoke up, claiming that the table must’ve been pre-cut by the production crew — a classic stage trick.

The director’s instincts for good TV kicked in immediately.

Through the earpiece, he ordered the host to verify it live.

The host invited the skeptical writer and two audience members to examine the remaining tables.

They inspected every inch even the joints and confirmed there was no sign of tampering.

The host even jumped up and down on it to prove the point.

“Hojou-sensei,” he said while smiling, “could you show us that technique again? It must have a name, right? It looked so graceful — like moonlight dancing on water!

Don’t tell me it’s one of the secret techniques of Hokushin Ittō-ryū… perhaps Mizutama-zan, the Water Orb Slash?!”

He even mimed a digging motion to go along with the name.

Hearing the word Mizutama, Kyousuke raised an eyebrow.

Indeed — Mizutama was a true secret art of the Hokushin Ittō-ryū.

Alongside it were others such as Kokuryū (Black Dragon), Koma-gaeshi (Returning Pony), Mikazuki (Crescent Moon), Kusazuri-otoshi (Falling Tassets), Ōgasumi (Great Haze), and Kuyōken (Nine Lights Blade).

Some referred to actual forms; others, like Mizutama and Kokuryū, were abstract, almost poetic.

Their meanings as elusive as moonlight reflected on rippling water.

“It’s not Mizutama,” Kyousuke said with a calm smile. “I’m nowhere near being qualified to learn that technique yet. This was just… a normal slash.”

That “normal slash” happened to be one of the reasons why Yamamura-sensei kept pestering him to return to the main dojo, but that was another story.

“You’re kidding me! That was just an ordinary strike?!” The host’s eyes widened.

“If that’s what you call ordinary, then if you used one of those secret techniques, could you, like… slice an airplane in half?”

Unless those “secret arts” literally possessed supernatural powers, Kyousuke didn’t believe any of them could surpass his current level.

After a bit more banter, the two of them walked up to the table belonging to one of the association elders.

Before the man could even start boasting or bluffing, Kyousuke casually swung his sword down.

‘BANG—CRACK—!’

Under the elder’s stunned gaze, the table he had personally inspected countless times split cleanly in two.

The cut was smooth—too smooth, not a splinter out of place.

“H-how… how did you do that!?” the elder stammered, looking like his entire worldview had just collapsed.

“Well…” Kyousuke hesitated.

“I know! It’s speed, right? Speed equals power!” the host cut in before he could answer.

“Everyone knows water can cut through steel if it’s fast enough! It’s the same principle—just with a demon-slaying blade!

I mean, we’re talking about Hojou Kyousuke, the man they call ‘The Hope of Japanese Kendo’! Something like this is nothing for him!”

The host rambled on so fast he was almost out of breath—at one point he even tried to explain it using quantum mechanics.

When a few skeptics called him out, he doubled down and said, “You’re a mystery novelist, right? Stick to studying murder weapons! Leave the science to me!”

Kyousuke nodded seriously, pretending to understand every word.

From there, the show completely went off the rails. Under the director’s gleeful orders, the host dragged Kyousuke around the studio for a “live demonstration.”

After cutting the table, he sliced a chair.

After the chair, a teleprompter.

If the camera equipment hadn’t been considered the “holy relics” of the station, they probably would’ve tossed those up too for Kyousuke to cleave in half.

———————————————————————

Meanwhile, in a quiet living room, Katou Megumi sat between her parents when her phone buzzed. She sighed softly and glanced at the caller ID.

As expected—Keiichi Katou.

Her eyes shifted toward the TV, where Kyousuke was still swinging his sword with calm precision.

Her good mood instantly vanished.

She frowned slightly and picked up the call.

She didn’t dare ignore it, sitting here with her parents meant that if she didn’t answer, Keiichi would just call them next.

Then she’d be scolded twice over — once by her brother, and once by her parents.

“Moshi moshi…”

“Megumi! Did you see it? Did you see it?!”

“Yes, yes, I saw it,” she replied weakly.

“I mean Hojou-san! He’s on Fuji TV right now! Go turn it on if you haven’t—wait, you already have, right? If not, I’ll record it and bring the copy myself!”

‘Please don’t… just don’t…’

Megumi closed her eyes.

That calm, polite face of hers briefly twisted in pain as she silently cursed a certain someone in her heart.

She already knew what would happen next: at the next Katou family gathering, Keiichi’s “main event” would definitely be replaying this very program.

She had been so relieved recently — after Kyousuke invited Keiichi to that training camp, his obsession had finally cooled a little.

She’d even managed to convince him not to play that old video of Kyousuke cutting through a bamboo mat.

But now…

‘Ahh, seriously!’

‘Why did Hojou-kun have to appear on TV again? And why, of all things, didn’t he bring Keiichi along as a demonstration dummy this time!?’

“Haha.. yeah, yeah, I recorded it myself already. I’ll watch it later, okay?” she replied as evenly as possible.

If she sounded even a little irritated, Keiichi would immediately switch into his “big brother lecturing mode” about being the pride of the Katou family.

So staying calm was always the safest strategy.

After that, she simply set her phone aside without hanging up and let Keiichi’s excited rambling continue on speaker while she turned her attention back to the screen.

There was Hojou-kun, casually promoting his new novel between sword swings.

Her eyes drifted toward the coffee table.

There sat a blue-and-white book titled The Dream and Death of Writer K.

He had given it to her two nights ago—showing up at her door at ten in the evening, breath misting in the cold air, a gentle smile on his face as he handed it to her personally.

“Please take care of me,” he’d said.

‘Take care of you?’

At that moment, Megumi had barely managed to stop herself from muttering “That’s amazing~.” three times in a row.

The book was incredible—everyone in her class was talking about it.

Even Eriri had become the center of media attention again because of the illustrations.

The school’s art club had been flooded with new applicants ever since, boys and girls alike all hoping to get a word of advice from Sawamura-sensei.

Some even said they’d be content just quietly watching her draw.

It sounded like something out of a fairytale—an elegant, graceful artist surrounded by admiration.

Megumi nearly lost her composure when she heard that.

After all, she knew what Eriri was like during crunch time at the dorm.

Sure, she could be quiet… but graceful? Not even close.

When she wasn’t furiously sketching with a scowl, she was shouting at Hojou-kun, cursing at news reporters, or complaining about Utaha-senpai for reasons Megumi still didn’t quite understand.

But somehow, that chaos always brought her inspiration—after ranting for a few minutes, she’d fall right back into creative mode.

Honestly, talented people really are something else…

Later that night, Megumi went back to her room and pulled out a small stack of newspapers and magazines.

She carefully cut out every article mentioning Hojou-kun and Eriri, pasting them into her scrapbook one by one.

Beside each clipping, she wrote down little notes in her neat, thoughtful handwriting.

‘I may never be a genius like Hojou-kun or Eriri,’ she wrote, ‘but standing beside them while they create miracles—maybe that’s enough to make me shine, too.’

Her fingers brushed over the cover of The Dream and Death of Writer K, tracing the small serial number printed on the back.

It wasn’t a commercial release—it was one of the special advance copies Hojou had given to close friends.

‘I wonder who got number one,’ she thought. ‘And number two… or number three…’

Blinking softly, she smiled and made a quiet decision.

Tomorrow at school, she’d check Eriri’s copy and see what number she got.