Chapter 1: What If I Told You the World Has Yokai

“Women easily yield to power, wealth, and authority.”

“Many writers, simply by holding the title of ‘writer,’ become very popular with women in Ginza bars. The popular author Junichi Watanabe is a good example.”

“In these situations, it doesn’t matter who the man is. In the eyes of these women, he isn’t a specific person, just a symbol.”

“Personally, I prefer another writer who frequented the pleasure quarters, Kafu Nagai.”

“Every time he went, he would hide his identity as a writer and was popular simply because he was good with women. I’ve never heard any similar stories about Watanabe.”

In a spacious classroom, Professor Chizuko Ueno of the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences was lecturing on her “Feminist Studies.”

A young man in the front row, on the far right, held a ballpoint pen and was writing something with his head down, looking as if he were diligently taking notes.

To whom it may concern,

To my respected mother, the elders of Shikoku, the beautiful Seto Inland Sea, and the seagulls crying in the fishing port, this is my April status report.

I’ve started my third year and, as per school rules, moved to the new campus. Everything around me is unfamiliar, like I’ve entered a whole new university.

The recent talk online is true. Just as Professor Chizuko Ueno says, this university is almost entirely male, a grossly unfair institution.

In the brief moments I have between my studies, I took the time to attend one of Professor Ueno’s feminist studies lectures—I’m actually listening to it as I write this letter—and I’ve read “Misogyny: The Japanese War Against Women.”

It wasn’t very interesting.

From the day I was born, I have been a firm believer in “gender equality and self-supremacy.” I don’t need any more ideological education; I am a very mentally healthy person.

The air quality in Tokyo is poor, the cherry blossom season is crowded everywhere, and transportation fees are as expensive as ever. Fortunately, I successfully applied for a student dormitory again this year, which saved me a lot of money.

I recently found a part-time job as a lecturer at a private cram school called “Seisho,” earning 2,500 yen an hour for six hours a week.

I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. Perhaps I don’t need to be in such a hurry.

According to the study plan I made when I started university, I must learn two foreign languages a year.

In my first year, I learned French and German. In my second year, it was Italian and Spanish.

My Italian is more or less proficient now, but Spanish still needs a little more time. I must master it completely before the end of the first month of my third year—which is this month.

Finally, Moe, my study method has only two points: sufficient effort and overwhelming confidence.

Not just in studying, but in all things. As long as you can do what I say, any dream can be realized.

Class is about to end, so I’ll stop here. I’ve enclosed a photo of the new campus.

Minamoto Kiyomoto

Third year, during a feminist studies class in April, as the cherry blossoms are about to reach full bloom.

Cell phones had long been common, but the reason Minamoto Kiyomoto wrote letters was because of his mother’s request.

“If you call, only I will know. But if you write a letter, Kiyomoto, everyone can see what Tokyo is like.”

It was his duty as a son to satisfy the small desire for his single mother, who had worked so hard to raise him, to show off a little.

Ever since he took an overnight bus across the Great Seto Bridge to Tokyo two years ago, Minamoto Kiyomoto had written one letter every month.

Sometimes he talked about his studies, what books he read, what classes he took.

Sometimes he talked about where he went for fun that month, what movies he saw, and how many mixers he attended with classmates.

Sometimes he sent photos of Tokyo to satisfy the curiosity of the folks back home.

It had been twenty years since he came to this world’s Japan. Although he didn’t have a system or anything like it, Minamoto Kiyomoto was very content with his life.

Just as he wrote in the letter, through relentless effort, his grades had always been number one, and there was no goal he set that he couldn’t achieve.

As for a girlfriend, he didn’t have time for that.

Many people around him thought he was a genius. His mother was proud of him.

If you talked about talent, maybe he had a little, but how could he be considered a genius?
He simply used the time others spent on games and entertainment for studying and worked harder than them.

Hard work pays off—long-term practice had made him firmly believe that as long as he continued to work this hard, he would sooner or later live a life superior to others.

The so-called life superior to others, according to Minamoto Kiyomoto’s understanding, was this:
His future mother-in-law would currently be a middle school girl in a sailor uniform.

There was actually a reason for this, and it wasn’t as simple as just wanting to find a young and beautiful wife—though, of course, that was also important.

To view “marrying a beauty of one’s own age” as the goal of success and be satisfied with marrying only one wife was to actively limit one’s self-development. Unacceptable, absolutely unacceptable.

Even the Analects of Confucius said: “Aim for the highest, and you will attain the middle. Aim for the middle, and you will attain the low. Aim for the low, and you will attain nothing.”

One’s vision must be long-term, one’s ambition must be great.

If he was going to marry, he would marry a beauty whose mother was a full zodiac cycle younger than him. And for the quantity, he’d start with ten. That way…

“Your abilities should not only be used to strive for personal gain and victory, but also to help others.”

“As the most outstanding talents in Japan, you all should understand this principle even more.”

“Class dismissed.”

The bell rang. After her final words, the lecturer, Chizuko Ueno, called on everyone to work towards achieving social fairness.

Minamoto Kiyomoto put down his pen, read the letter from the beginning to confirm there were no typos.

Then he capped the pen, placed the letter in a pristine white envelope, ready to drop it in a mailbox later.

The girl sitting next to him said, “Minamoto-kun, can I borrow your notes? I missed a few parts.”

“I didn’t take any,” Minamoto Kiyomoto said.

“Oh, I forgot. You’re the guy with a three-tiered memory,” the girl said with a hint of envy in her tone, then asked, “Are you going out to eat? Inaba just asked me.”

“You guys go ahead. I’m going to the library later. I’ll just grab something quick at the cafeteria,” Minamoto Kiyomoto said, picking up his textbook and letter before leaving the classroom.

The noon sun of spring was just right, casting dappled tree shadows that swayed on the smoothly curved archways. The surroundings were filled with buildings of carved stone pillars.

After finishing his meal, Minamoto Kiyomoto came out of the Central Cafeteria and strolled towards the main gate to aid his digestion.

On both sides of the straight road ahead, rows of ginkgo trees were planted.

When the wind blew, the lush ginkgo leaves looked like a sea of turquoise.

An enthusiastic upperclassman had told him that in autumn, the golden-yellow ginkgo leaves were beautiful, and the ginkgo fruits littering the ground were very smelly.

The female tourists who came to the university to pass their lunch break weren’t looking at the ginkgo trees or the architecture; they were looking at Minamoto Kiyomoto.

Nearing the main gate, he turned left, passed between two European-style buildings, and ahead was the General Library.

As he was walking, he was suddenly struck on the back of the head by an unknown object, which startled him.

The students passing by on the road snickered.

Minamoto Kiyomoto’s free right hand touched the back of his head. He turned around to see a pitch-black crow perched on a ginkgo branch, staring at him.

“A crow?”

What bad luck.

If a person had attacked him, he would either make them apologize or put down his books and fight. But what could you do to a crow?

Minamoto Kiyomoto confirmed that the back of his head was fine and continued walking. He went around the fountain and entered the quiet General Library.

He found a seat with a view of the window and began studying Spanish.

Occasionally, he would look up, recalling the example sentences he had just read while staring at the Faculty of Letters Building 3 to relax his eyes.

The light and shadows outside the window were mottled, and the climate was so comfortable it made one want to just lie down on a book and fall asleep to the scent of paper.

Just then, a young woman walked over, attracting the attention of everyone around.

Straight, smooth black hair, clear, large eyes, and lips that were just the right size. Her face was beautiful and pure, and a faint, elegant fragrance seemed to waft from her.

She wore a fresh white long dress and had an otherworldly, refined air. She was a peerless beauty.

Minamoto Kiyomoto couldn’t help but think of the white cherry blossoms he had seen on the train that morning.

He temporarily forgot the Spanish example sentences, and a thought popped into his head:
The mother of his yet-unborn wife must look like this.

The young woman sat down diagonally across from him. She didn’t open the book in her hands but instead looked at Minamoto Kiyomoto.

“Do you believe that yokai exist in the world?” Her voice was pleasant, light like a glacier melting in spring.

Minamoto Kiyomoto looked left and right, then confirmed she wasn’t wearing headphones and wasn’t on a call before asking, “Are you… talking to me?”

The young woman nodded lightly, her movement graceful.

“Are you talking about that crow that attacked me today?” Seeing as she looked very much like his future mother-in-law, Minamoto Kiyomoto decided to waste some of his study time.

“The yokai I’m talking about are creatures beyond comprehension. They might have parts that resemble animals, but they are not ordinary animals that steal garbage or attack people from behind. For example, a crow.”

Looking at her closely, Minamoto Kiyomoto noticed a white magnolia flower embroidered on her cuff.

The white magnolia on the white dress wasn’t very conspicuous, but if you looked carefully, you could still tell that the two were not made of the same fabric.

“Miss, are you from the Werewolf Research Society? Or a member of the Todai Gensokyo or the Shrine Research Club?” he asked.

The young woman didn’t answer. Instead, she changed the subject. “Do you have a coin? I’d like to borrow one.”

“To sponsor your yokai-slaying quest? After you come back alive, we split the shogun’s reward fifty-fifty?” Minamoto Kiyomoto asked.

This world’s Japan was divided into three parts. The one ruling the Kanto region was the “Ogosho.”

The Kanto region was also much larger, covering everything east of Sekigahara, except for Hokkaido.

By the library window, the two looked at each other. The young woman’s eyes were clear, captivating, and very serious.

Minamoto Kiyomoto lowered his head, preparing to end the conversation, then suddenly looked up as if he remembered something. “Pardon my asking, but how old are you?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Minamoto Kiyomoto explained. “I’m not saying you’re childish or have a problem with your head. It’s just that your age is related to my dream.”

“Dream?”

“My name is Watanabe, Watanabe Yu. My hometown is Kagoshima in Kyushu. I’m a third-year student in the language department of the Faculty of Letters, currently studying Spanish. My goal is to become a novelist who is idle all day. Ah, that’s not my dream. My dream is—please give me your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

The conversation ended there.

The young woman seemed to have lost interest due to Minamoto Kiyomoto’s frivolousness and began to read the book in her hands. Minamoto Kiyomoto also went back to studying his Spanish.

About ten minutes later, the young woman suddenly spoke again. “There are yokai in this world.”

Minamoto Kiyomoto’s reading paused for two seconds. He then looked up at her. “Miss, I’m from the Faculty of Medicine, Department of Medicine.”

He pulled out a copy of “Neuroanatomy” from under his Spanish notes and showed it to her.

“If you want to learn about yokai, you can find someone from the history department of the Faculty of Letters, or the biological sciences department of the Faculty of Science, or the veterinary medicine department of the Faculty of Agriculture. We medical students believe in science, and that time is life. Also, I suggest you get your brainwaves checked.”

The young woman closed her book and took out a few coins.

“You have your own coins. Why did you ask me for one just now?”

Before Minamoto Kiyomoto could finish his sentence, the young woman, while looking at him, casually kneaded the coins into a metal ball.

“…” Minamoto Kiyomoto stared at the young woman’s eyes without blinking.

After a moment, he put his “Neuroanatomy” book back and took a coin out of his pocket.

He picked a one-yen coin, placed it on the table, and pushed it towards the young woman with his index finger.

She picked up the coin. With a light pinch of her slender, delicate fingers, the 100% aluminum coin, the side with the sapling design, was folded in half.

Minamoto Kiyomoto looked at the young woman sitting diagonally across from him. Her expression was calm. Then, he carefully took the one-yen coin back.

He tried it himself. Without using any tools, just with his fingers, the coin showed no sign of changing shape.

He put the coin down, closed his Spanish textbook, and sat up straight.

“I believe you,” he said. “Besides yokai, I also believe that aliens must exist in the universe. And considering the advancement of science, the possibility of future people existing is also there.”

To whom it may concern,

Mother, Tokyo is amazing.

(End of Chapter)