Chapter 38

While Tamako barked orders with the confidence of a field marshal, the suspect—one Shika Fushimi—slashed the last bus tire, smashed the emergency radio inside, and hand-cuffed both instructors to the handrails.

In an instant, the entire mountain became a cage cut off from the world.

Bear in mind, the range locals call "Kamui Mintara"—the Playground of the Gods—spans twenty peaks over 2,000 meters. The exam zone is just one of them. Without transport, you could march for days and never see another soul. Some ridges are so treacherous that once the fog rolls in a map becomes useless; you wait for your family to file a missing-person report. If you're lucky, rescue finds you; if not, they find your body.

He intended to cancel this exam for good.

Fushimi drove down the mountain, checked into a family-run inn, and soaked until every joint loosened. A couple of gray-haired travelers lounging in the hot spring sighed, "Nothing beats a scalding bath for an Edokko."

An hour later, belly full and wearing a yukata provided by the inn, hands tucked inside his sleeves, he strolled across the garden and admired the saw-toothed silhouette of the range.

Night blurred the ridgelines into a single ink wash across the stars. A snowflake drifted past his eyes; he instinctively ducked.

"Snow already?"

Hokkaido's first snow can fall in late September. By October it was overdue. The slopes tomorrow would be stunning.

He clacked back to his room in wooden geta and burrowed under the thick futon. Delicious warmth spread through his limbs.

"Nothing beats collapsing into bed after a hard day." He closed his eyes, satisfied.

A minute later they snapped open.

"She's not catching cold, is she?"

Tamako, he recalled, lived on sugar and skipped every workout. Barely 150 cm of stubborn pride—probably curled up somewhere in the dark, shivering and starving.

"Should I check on her?"

The moment the thought surfaced, the miniature angel and devil popped onto his pillow.

The devil purred, "Stay put. Warm futon beats freezing forest. Her misery's not your fault—blame Instructor Shirata." Before it could finish, the angel lassoed it with a halo and hauled it skyward.

The angel cackled. "My turn! Ask yourself how Tamako treats you. You'll let her freeze? Get up, coward!"

Fushimi hesitated, half sat up, felt the cold slide in, shivered, and flopped back down.

Even the devil scolded him now: "Idiot! Rich-girl rescue right in front of you and you're wasting it?"

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, cleared the static in his head, then yanked the blanket aside.

"Twenty grand is twenty grand. A deal's a deal."

He dressed, tossed a spare futon into the sedan's trunk, then doubled back to the kitchen for hot rice balls and the strawberry daifuku Tamako adored. Only then did he start the engine.

Inside Kamui Mintara, the situation was far worse than he imagined.

Tamako had repeated Yoshimura Yu's mistake: she'd overestimated the cadets' discipline.

The moment search teams formed, chaos erupted. First the girls demanded a rest break, then two boys vanished behind bushes with urgent stomachs. When the search finally began, someone twisted an ankle in the half-light.

"What coordinate is this? I can't read the map!"

"I thought the view was better from here..."

"Shut up! You think I'm stupid?"

No matter how diplomatic Tamako tried to be, every order grated. They accused her of lounging while they toiled. Leadership was brutal; she finally understood why their class leader looked so haggard.

A three-hour sweep stretched to five. They scoured the entire peak, confirmed Fushimi wasn't there, and the grumbling exploded.

"He's probably at the assembly point laughing at us!"

"Traitor! I can't believe Yu-kun ditched us!"

"And Tamako's his friend—bet she's stalling on purpose!"

On the hike back they traded theories louder with every step. The calmer cadets urged them to hush, which only fanned the flames. Someone had to pay for the wasted day.

Tamako trailed behind, using a branch as a crutch, spirits sinking with every footprint.

At least, she told herself, the search had turned up an unexpected clue...

The girl with braided pigtails slowed to walk beside her and offered a few kind words. Tamako's eyes brimmed—Kuroki Miu truly was an angel.

When they reached the north-slope assembly point, the real disaster greeted them: the bus sat on four flat tires, both instructors cuffed to the railings and passing the time with a dog-eared porn magazine.

Instructor Shirata questioned them, learned Fushimi was responsible, and felt his stomach drop. He ordered the cadets to stay put, then led a squad to the nearest trailhead. Sure enough, the sedan's tires were slashed too. A sticky note clung to the cracked windshield:

"Your tires are flat."

Shirata's fist punched through the glass, note and all.

Back on the bus he found the cadets "interrogating" Tamako. Three boys had her cornered, accusing her of collusion: she'd staged the search so Fushimi could escape, duping them all.

Shirata saw red. He hauled the boys outside, lined them up, and slapped them until their lips split and stars danced in their eyes.

"You idiots want badges? Street punks have more discipline!"

He slammed the door and left them to feed the mosquitoes.

Without lights they couldn't navigate the mountain roads at night; the bus would have to serve as shelter. Exhausted and starving, cadets begged water from anyone who still had some.

Snow began to fall.

The bus had no heater. It felt like an icebox. Tamako curled in a corner, sneezing, head heavy.

Beside her, Kuroki Miu tucked her braids inside her collar for warmth. She glanced over; Tamako's eyes were shut, brows knitted. Miu pressed a hand to Tamako's forehead and flinched—it burned.

"Crap. She's running a fever."

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