Kaito Manor, Present Day
Ran's tale left both his friends quiet for a long while as they were struck speechless.
Eventually, he decided to lighten up the air with a question. "So what do I call you now, stepbrother?" He said, faking a smile. He wasn't really feeling anything that inclined to a mood of joyfulness or even amusement.
"That's the closest, I think, to what we are," Haru agreed. "HE is your father and also Mukoku's father, but not my father. That makes Lilith, mine and Mukoku's mother, your sort of stepmother, with Mukoku as your half-sister. With me being the son of your stepmother and to neither of your parents, I'm therefore your stepbrother."
"And what does that make me?" Kigana asked, still holding on to his hand.
He smiled at her, genuinely this time. "You're still my cousin, I think. My adopted father is your uncle," he explained.
"Hmmm. I still find it hard to believe that you are not Uncle's biological son, Ran."
He arched his brows as her. "Does that change anything?"
She shook her head cutely and placed a kiss on his forehead. "No. You're forever my baby cousin."
He smiled and got up. "Is father home?"
Haru nodded. "He hardly ever leaves nowadays."
"What about the company? Who's running that?" He said heading for the door.
"He has a new Secretary," Haru said. "Your father told me that his sister helped run the company for all the time that he was dead. He said right now he doesn't even feel like continuing that part of his life."
Ran could understand that. Being hit with the truth was life changing, be it truth about death or truth of a past life.
The sliding door hissed open on its polished track as he pushed and he stepped barefoot onto the tatami. His friends were right behind him.
He walked slowly, scanning the floor, the corners, the painted panels. His footfalls made no sound. Every movement in this manor brought back memories from years past.
The hallway he entered was long and dim, punctuated by vertical slits of sunlight cutting through screen doors.
Byōbu, folding screens, lined one side, depicting autumnal forests in golden leaf, maple trees in blood red fire.
He turned a corner and entered the zashiki—the parlor room, a space built for formality and display.
Here the decor shifted subtly, becoming more precise, more intent on presentation. The walls were of shikkui, white lime plaster smooth as still water.
A single tokonoma alcove held an antique hanging scroll—ink brush calligraphy over rice paper, flanked by a delicate flower arrangement in a dark ceramic vase. Minimalism spoke louder here than abundance ever could.
He crossed the tatami slowly, eyes scanning every groove in the reed mats, every beam in the coffered ceiling.
It's been years so he took in everything, somewhat glad and disappointed at the same time that his father hadn't changed the decor.
His fingers brushed against a wooden post—keyaki timber, warm and living beneath his hand. The manor was ancient, yes, but immaculate, as if history itself dared not age it.
His friends followed him quietly, watching him rewalk paths of past memories, keeping a polite distance.
His movements grew more deliberate as he slid another shoji aside, revealing a narrow walkway open to the inner garden.
He paused and watched the koi pond shimmering beneath early light, the fish lazy and golden. Bamboo rustled in the breeze. Somewhere a wind chime tinkled.
Taking one last glance, he moved on.
"He's not anywhere near here so he must be in his study," he said, looking back to his friends. They nodded and continued moving.
The study was at the far end of the eastern wing, tucked beyond a bridge that crossed a tiny stream gurgling with polished stones.
The bridge was arched, red-lacquered, old enough to creak but still strong. When he reached the study's entrance he paused.
"He's in there right?"
Haru nodded from beside him. "At this time of the day? Most likely."
Kigana placed a hand on his shoulder from behind in support, squeezed and let go.
"Now is the time, Ran," Haru said. "This is what you have been waiting for. Everything you have done in the last six years was to bring about this moment."
"I know that. I'm just…"
"Scared? Nervous?" Kigana asked from behind him. "We understand that, but I guess you are also excited."
He let out a nervous chuckle because that was an accurate deduction. "Thanks, you two," he said.
He exhaled slowly, then stepped inside.
Here, everything changed.
The light dimmed. Walls of dark wood surrounded him like the inside of a box. The floor was hardwood, not tatami, and a massive chabudai table dominated the room—low and square, its surface bare save for a single inkstone and brush.
Scrolls lined the far wall in vertical slots, each sealed with string and marked with kanji. A wall of shelves held ancient texts, bound in faded silks, their titles too faint to read from afar.
The atmosphere was cloaked with refined stillness, like a mind deep in thought.
The dark-stained cedar walls that framed the space and their grain rich and wavelike patterns under dim, recessed lighting felt boxy, he felt boxes in.
He stood still not looking to the left where a low chabudai table rested atop polished wooden floors, surrounded by deep burgundy zabuton cushions.
Memories hit him hard as he inhaled the air that carried a faint scent of old paper and incense—subtle, contemplative.
Finally, he forced himself to turn left and look. Just behind the table, near the back stood a tall, narrow window, partially veiled by bamboo blinds, letting in a pale shaft of afternoon light that cut across the floor like a blade.
Seated at the table was a man of quiet gravity. In his mid-forties, he wore a tailored charcoal business suit, crisp and precise, the collar of his white shirt barely open.
His face was strong and elegant—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and deep-set eyes sharp as obsidian. A streak of silver brushed his otherwise jet-black hair, swept back neatly.
There was no warmth in his expression, only measured calm, like a samurai sheathed in civility. As he glanced up, his gaze landed with the weight of decisions already made.