Read or Die:Volume2 Chapter

This translation is a machine translation. Be warned that the degree of translation error may be higher than usual. For more details, see the machine translation guidelines.

Humans are said to possess the three great desires.

Those being: the desire for food, the desire for sex, and the desire for sleep.

And yet, people are consumed by many other kinds of desires as well, burning in the flames of longing.

This is a hunger that animals do not share, it's an entirely human desire. Among those many desires is one called the thirst for knowledge. You could call it an ordinary library.

Deep within the building, rows of bookshelves stood in neat order, and before them were seats with reading tables set out.

It was a weekday morning, so there were few people about. But even so, city libraries rarely fell completely quiet. At the very least, they’d draw in students swamped with homework or preparing for exams during summer break.

In other words, the library was, as always, a quiet place.

Sitting at the reception desk, was Haramine Mitsuko. She had her eyes on Watership Down. She was twenty-six years old. After graduating from college, she had gone straight into this job. Sunlight from early summer poured in through the windows, casting a glow that made time seem as if it had stopped.

It gave the air a certain stillness. She performed her calm duties in a calm workplace. The door remained closed, a silent barrier, until its doorknob began to turn with a sound shockingly loud in the stillness.Startled by the unnaturally loud sound, Mitsuko, who had been sitting, reflexively straightened her posture.

The door swung open violently, and in walked a man with blond hair in a deep navy suit.

“!”

Mitsuko stiffened.

The man was the one and only inconsistency in her otherwise peaceful workplace.

“Pay him no mind. Don’t get involved. Treat him like air.” Mitsuko's boss had said when she first started working here.

But calling him “air” was a stretch. The man stood out far too much, and made far too much noise. If there was such a thing as noisy air, he was exactly that.

“Hi there! Mitsuko!” He called out to her from across the room, and every time he did, Mitsuko was at a loss for how to respond. Though she struggled to remember what her boss had told her, the answer always seemed to slip her mind.

The blond man strode right up to the reception desk and pulled a book from his coat.

The title was A Christmas Carol. It was the same book he had borrowed the last time he came in.

“It was really good. Thanks for the recommendation—much appreciated.”

The blond man winked at Mitsuko with his

vivid blue eyes.

Mitsuko responded only with a silent nod.

This, she had decided, was the best way to deal with him.

“Well then. What should I borrow today?”

He looked around with deliberate exaggeration.

As he did, she noticed a large suitcase gripped in his hand.

“This place has such a great selection—I just know I’ll be lost in it again today.”

He muttered to no one in particular, prompting several nearby patrons to raise their eyebrows.

But the blond man didn’t pay the faintest mind

to that atmosphere of tension. He slipped off deeper into the shelves.

“………………………”

At the reception desk, Mitsuko turned to the filing shelf behind her and pulled out the lending card for A Christmas Carol.

At the bottom of the card was the name of the blond man.

Every time she saw that name, a little cloud of doubt stirred in her mind.

It simply read: “JOKER.”

A name so obviously fake, it couldn’t possibly be a real one.

And yet—neither could it be dismissed as just a pseudonym.

—---

He proceeded between the bookshelves.

Compared to his home base—the British Library—this place was no match, whether in scale or facilities.

Even so, the scent drifting from the books around him, the atmosphere and the air itself—those things were the same.

And Joker liked that air.

He felt lucky to be able to work in an environment like this.

He reached the very back of the library, near the shelves lining the wall.

By this point, the angle put him out of view—not only from the reception desk, but from the patrons’ reading tables as well.

He couldn’t be seen.

From the shelf labeled Medical & Pharmaceutical Sciences,

he pulled a book titled Peaceful Applications of Malignant Tumors, and opened the back cover.

There, a paper pocket had been affixed, and inside it was a library checkout card.

But no name had ever been written on the card.

Which meant that, since the library’s founding, it had never been borrowed by anyone.

That was as it should be.

This book existed for a different purpose.

Joker pulled the near-blank card from its pocket.

He returned the book to its original place, then strolled over to the Science & Chemistry section.

Between two books—The Reality of Relativity and Bright Chemical Reactions, both untouched for years—he slipped the card.

He slid it downward, from top to bottom.

The moment it touched the backboard of the shelf, a faint click echoed.

“…………………………”

Joker took one or two steps back from the bookshelf.

Before long, to his surprise, the bookshelf quietly began to rotate.

Pivoting around its center, the left half turned outward into the aisle. Naturally, the right half sank inward by the same degree, embedding itself into the wall.

Before long, a passageway appeared behind the wall—straight out of an old suspense or horror movie, or perhaps one from two generations ago.

The classic secret entrance.

Joker looked at it with a slightly self-conscious expression.

“…So this really is a matter of taste, isn’t it? I must admit, the gap in aesthetic is a bit much.”

Still, he couldn’t spend all day complaining.

Enclosed by stark white walls, the hidden corridor swallowed up Joker as he stepped inside.

As if confirming his passage, the bookshelf began to rotate again—this time in reverse, sealing off the passage behind him.

From the direction of the library, footsteps echoed.

The measured beat of those steps grew louder, until a face peeked out from behind the shelves—Mitsuko.

Just a moment earlier, the bookshelf had completed its rotation. Now, bathed in the glow of early summer sunlight, the corridor looked like any other—a perfectly ordinary space, as if frozen in a photograph.

She looked around the aisle, but the person she sought was nowhere in sight.

“………………………………”

Even though she’d carefully checked each row along the way to get here…

Standing in the sunlight, Mitsuko tilted her head, feeling as if she’d just witnessed a magic trick.

The hidden passageway was lined entirely in white.

It stretched about twenty-five meters in length, with a gentle downward slope. The total elevation difference was likely around three meters.

Joker deliberately allowed his footsteps to echo as he moved forward.

At first glance, it looked like an empty hallway—but embedded throughout the walls and ceiling were more than a hundred cameras and sensors.

Facial features, appearance, movement patterns, retinal scans, clothing variations, height, weight—every conceivable parameter was checked. If all measurements fell within a predefined margin of error, the subject was recognized as authorized personnel. Naturally, if even one variable was outside that range, the individual would never reach the other end of this hallway—having been subjected instead to an appropriate level of “processing.”

Whistling a tune, Joker arrived at the end of the corridor.

There was a sliding door set into the wall—no visible handle.

From somewhere, a voice came over the speaker system.

> “Dr. Strangelove.”

The passphrase. At the same time, it triggered a voiceprint verification.

> “Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.”

As Joker recited the response, the white wall split in two and opened, admitting him inside.

Into his workplace.

A vast, open chamber stretched out before him.

Yet despite its scale, the sheer volume of noise and heat within made it feel almost claustrophobic.

From the partitioned booths—separated by glass and metal plates—staff bustled in and out in a constant flurry of motion, never stopping for even a moment.

Hundreds of monitors were arranged in a semicircle.

At the very center, a man sat in a swivel chair, endlessly turning left and right.

The screens displayed footage from bookstores under their surveillance.

Every so often, the man would speak into the headset he wore, giving quiet instructions.

They were responsible for monitoring crimes within bookstores.Their extraordinary vision didn’t miss even a single shoplifted paperback.

A massive panel displayed a world map.

The numbers overlaid across the nations shifted by the minute—data reflecting book imports and exports through air, sea, and land.

Information gathered from airports, seaports, train stations, and customs checkpoints around the globe was constantly being uploaded to this panel. It served to track the global “book balance” between countries.

Around a sprawling table, a group of men studied blueprints, seriously discussing the expansion of bookstore operations for staff stationed at the South Pole.

Between booths, carts rolled along narrow lanes—carrying mission-critical reference books, seized contraband literature, newly published volumes from around the world, and stacks of paperwork.

Staff plucked necessary materials from the mountainous piles of paper, scribbled down new requests on slips, and tossed them into the attached mail slots.

Here, data on every book in the world converged.

And from that data, the staff worked proactively to respond to emerging threats.

Their slogan was simple:

> “Peace to all books across the globe.

A hammer of justice to those who abuse them.

And may all knowledge return to England.”

Yes—this was the workplace that Joker had devoted everything to.

The British Library’s Special Operations Division—Japan Branch.

Tightening the tie that had come loose, Joker stepped forward once more.

As expected of the Japan Branch, the staff he passed in the corridor were of East Asian descent. But without exception, the moment they caught sight of Joker, a look of recognition softened their expressions.

That was because he had visited this island nation countless times, often participating in missions.

Japan was the most prolific publishing country in the entire Asian bloc. One could not hope to monitor the state of books globally without keeping a constant eye on Japan.

For that reason, the Special Operations Division had allocated significant resources here—but the locals didn’t always seem aware of that.

The disorderliness of Japan’s publishing industry was, frankly, a mess.

And it was exactly that chaos which had opened the door for countless foreign organizations—of various nationalities and races—to run rampant.

It was Joker and his colleagues’ mission to clean that up.

Many might say, “Mind your own business,” but let a fire rage on the far shore long enough, and soon it’ll be licking at your feet.

There was no folly greater than standing by and watching it happen.

Besides, even if the situation had nothing to do with books, his "master" would never sit idly by.

That man desired peace in the world more than anyone.

Joker’s steps finally stopped in front of a door nestled deep within the facility. Like the others, it was encased in glass, but the glass had been infused with photochromic minerals—making it impossible to see inside.

All that could be seen was a darkness, as dense and rich as strong coffee.

With a gesture so poised it could almost be mistaken for performance art, Joker rapped gently on the door.

“Come in.”

A curt reply came through the door.

“Excuse me,” Joker said.

And with only those words, the door opened.

Seated around an oval table were more than a dozen men. Their ages and ethnicities varied. But what they all shared was the unmistakable glint in their eyes—sharp, calculating, not easily read.

At the far end of the room, as far from the entrance as one could sit, stood a massive chair, its back turned toward the room.

Given its position, there could be no doubt—the person seated there held the highest authority.

As Joker entered, every man around the table turned to him with piercing stares.

They weren’t necessarily hostile, but neither were they warm. Their gazes were clinical at best—perhaps even skeptical.

Joker paid them no mind, brushing aside their scrutiny as if it were no more than a passing breeze. He addressed the high-backed chair directly.

“I’ve come to deliver my mission report, Mister Gentleman!”

The backrest slowly rotated.

A small, elderly man came into view.

His face was creased with deep wrinkles, and his body was thin, as if skin had simply been stretched over bone. Though dressed in a suit befitting a gentleman, his appearance had the waxy pallor of a figure long removed from good health.

Gentleman lifted his face from the thick book resting on his knees.

“...Joker, is it,” he murmured.

With one thin hand, he set the book down on the table in front of him. Joker watched with mild concern, as did the other men around the table, half-expecting the elderly man’s arm to snap under the weight of the book.

“What are you reading?” Joker asked.

“A new release.”

There was a faint firmness in Gentleman’s voice—just enough to tell that the book had managed to impress him.

“Young people… are promising,” he muttered.

“Sorry, what?” Joker replied, a bit confused.

The deeply wrinkled eyes quivered faintly.

“This newcomer will be a master one day.”

Joker glanced down at the book’s cover.

TRUE AT FIRST LIGHT by Ernest Hemingway. In parentheses, “Kenya.”

“With all due respect,” Joker said, “Hemingway died in 1961.”

A quiet hush fell over the room. The men at the table were intently watching how this would unfold.

“The cover said it was a new release,” Gentleman replied.

“It was unpublished during his lifetime.”

“Ah… I see.”

Gentleman nodded sharply, unbothered, as if it were a trivial mix-up.

“Haven’t been reading the papers lately. A shame to have lost such a promising young author.”

“Well… he did win both the Pulitzer and the Nobel, so calling him a newcomer might be a bit misleading.”

“When was that Nobel Prize?”

“1954.”

“Don’t recall selecting him…”

Gentleman looked vaguely contemplative, as though dredging through the recesses of his memory.

However, amid the vast, hazy memories of a long life, that name could not be found.

“Well then, let’s put the Hemingway story aside for now.”

Joker once again placed the suitcase on the edge of the table. Not only the gentlemen but everyone turned their attention.

After fully savoring their gazes, Joker opened the case.

Wrapped in protective cushioning, The Black Fairy Tale Collection appeared. A soft breath of awe escaped.

“The repairs have finally been completed. This is The Black Fairy Tale Collection. Not a speck has changed since it was stolen. The British Library’s restoration department spent two months and finished it perfectly.”

With great reverence, Joker took the book in hand and walked around the table to the gentlemen, delivering it like a lost child returned to its parents.

The gentlemen received it with eyes full of nostalgia.

“It’s come back… at last.”

Lovingly, they turned the pages with slender fingertips.

Each movement was filled with deep emotion.

“‘The Paper’ has proved its worth. They were a great help.”

“The Paper?”

The gentlemen once again combed through the depths of his mind, finally dredging up a name that had caught on the edge of his memory.

“Ah—Donnie, you mean?”

“No. That title now belongs to Yomiko. Yomiko Readman.”

Joker’s tone, which had been light, now carried a subtle edge of formality.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Yomiko… how nostalgic.”

“It was her first assignment in quite some time, and she seemed highly motivated.”

Of course, that was merely a convenient explanation. The real reason Yomiko had been so enthusiastic was because a rare book had been involved.

“She’s out of high school by now, I presume?”

“Yomiko is currently twenty-five years old.”

“I see…”

The conversation with the gentlemen drifted without a clear direction. As far as Joker knew, the old man had never changed. From the very first time they met, he had already been old. How many years had passed since then? Even the man himself likely had no idea.

Over time, his vast accumulation of memories had blurred together into a chaotic swirl within his mind.

“Mr. Gentleman. As this mission’s success has made clear, The Paper possesses exceptional operational capabilities. Given the threat we are now facing, her particular talents are indispensable.”

“What nonsense!”

One of the men raised his voice sharply. He hadn’t missed the moment when Joker’s report shifted from objective summary to outright advocacy.

“I read the report, but she’s just a female paper-manipulator, isn’t she? We can’t entrust such a crucial plan to someone so delicate!”

“That may be,” Joker replied, calmly analyzing the man’s background based on his attire, “but if the Royal Navy were to intervene, things would escalate quickly. Should the operation be exposed, it would inevitably become an international incident.”

As the man fell silent, silenced mid-retort, Joker turned back to the gentlemen.

“There are numerous advantages to using our Special Operations agents. First, they allow us to form teams with the smallest number of personnel. Second, they’re unrecognizable as agents to outside observers. Third, should the need arise, ‘disposal’ can be carried out with minimal complication. And above all—”

He paused deliberately.

“—when it comes to missions involving paper, there is no one more capable than her.”

“Hm.”

In the sea of wrinkles that was his face, the gentlemen’s brow stirred.

“As you mistakenly noted earlier, sir, The Paper has changed hands since the previous generation. But that information is still not widely known. That, too, will serve us well in the field.”

“I have an objection.”

A silver-haired man raised his hand with theatrical exaggeration.

“You’re only listing her good points. That makes you sound less like a handler and more like a salesman. If she’s really so capable, then-”

“I know that much. Even if it was only for four months, I was her superior,”  the silver-haired man interjected.

Joker’s brow tensed with hostility. The silver-haired man belonged to British Intelligence—known more commonly as MI6.

“She’s certainly capable. But she also carries a flaw that far outweighs that ability. And I have no reason to believe that flaw won’t be a detriment in this case.”

“We appreciate your concern,” Joker replied politely, “but we don’t intend to leave this mission in her hands alone. I’ll be overseeing it personally, and she’ll be supported by our most skilled staff. We’ve no plans to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

The implication didn’t go unnoticed—nor did the suggestion that MI6 had dropped the ball. The silver-haired man’s brow creased with irritation.

“And if I may be blunt, members of Intelligence are far too well-known. Their faces are already too exposed.”

With that final jab, the tension in the room thickened.

But just then, to break the strain, a light flicked on atop a mini-panel set into the table.

Gentleman placed his finger atop it.

“This is Gentleman.”

“My apologies for interrupting the meeting,” said a voice from the panel. “We’ve received word that the BBC is about to begin a broadcast.”

“Put it on.”

At Gentleman’s command, the meeting was suspended. One wall of the room lit up with a pale, dull glow—gradually resolving into a massive screen.

A female BBC anchor announced that the program was transitioning into an international segment.

“And now for international news. In Japan, a new bookstore is soon set to open— and we have in the field, reporting from Japan—Bush Lambert.”

The screen cut to a live feed of a man holding a microphone in front of a towering building. In the corner of the screen, the word LIVE was displayed.

“This bookstore,” he began, “will span forty floors above ground and six below, with a total inventory of approximately 800 million books. Upon opening, it is expected to be recognized by Guinness as the world’s largest bookstore.”

“What’s this about?” one of the men asked, frowning in confusion.

“A news segment on the opening of a bookstore,” Joker answered.

“Why would the BBC care about that?”

“Didn’t you catch the details?” Joker replied smoothly. “It’s a forty-story building—plus six underground. That makes it the world’s largest bookstore.”

The room stirred with interest. Even for those whose duties had little to do with books, the phrase forty-story bookstore had an undeniable impact.

“Eight hundred million books… That’s quite a number.”

Even Gentleman’s tone perked up slightly. Though aged and typically stoic, he couldn’t hide his fascination when it came to books. In fact, it was this very bookstore that had prompted him—rarely one to leave England—to personally visit Japan.

“The Japanese do love being number one,” Joker continued. “Though their obsession tends to lean more toward quantity than quality, which does feel a bit simplistic.”

“You won’t find many countries where there’s such a disparity between the number of books published and the number of actual readers,” another man remarked.

“Well, at least that shows how passionate their individuals are. It’s why someone like Yomiko could even come into being in the first place.”

While those two went on making their observations, the broadcast advanced to the next segment.

“And now, a report from Bush Lambert in Japan.”

The screen switched to a reporter standing in front of the colossal structure, microphone in hand. In the corner, the word LIVE gleamed. Putting on an exaggeratedly stern expression, Bush opened his mouth to speak.

“The Tower of Babel, as it appears in the Book of Genesis, is often cited as a symbol of human arrogance in challenging the divine. But here, in the Far Eastern nation of Japan—where over ninety percent of the population identifies as Buddhist—a new challenge to the heavens is taking place. Take a look.”

As Bush spoke, the camera tilted sharply upward, capturing the building from its base.

The skyscraper’s towering side filled the frame, the angle so steep it seemed to slice the sky itself. Even through the screen, the building’s overwhelming scale came across with forceful emphasis.

“Forty floors above ground and six below—on its own, not so unusual for a skyscraper. But imagine every floor packed with nothing but books. It’s enough to make your head spin.”

Bush continued his report as he strolled along the building’s outer perimeter.

“This unprecedented bookstore goes by the name Babel Books. It’s a name that almost begs one to imagine a tragic ending.”

The reporter’s irony-tinged tone brought faint smiles to the faces of the men watching.

“Unquestionably, it’s the largest bookstore in recorded history. The man behind this outlandish endeavor is Nagisa Buzushima, known in Japan’s entertainment industry as something of a maverick. With a background in talent agency management, film production, and game development, Buzushima has now turned his attention to publishing—drawing no small amount of interest from industry observers. That said, the things he’s currently making headlines for have certainly earned him a bit of news value,” Bush concluded, dropping his words with a knowing pause before glancing down at his wristwatch.

“In thirty minutes, at precisely 11:00 AM Japan time, this bookstore will open its doors. To mark its grand debut, a series of extravagant events are set to take place inside the building. Among them: a special public exhibition of a rare private collection on loan from the Crown Prince of Nalnia; a joint autograph session featuring one hundred popular authors; and an enormous used book fair boasting a circulation of over one million volumes. Each of these events is enough to thrill any devoted bibliophile.”

The camera shifted to the wall behind Bush, where several posters promoting these events were displayed in the windows—just as he described.

Lined up along the base of that wall were men who, to put it generously, wouldn’t be mistaken for fashion icons. They sat sprawled out along the tiled asphalt, seated on newspapers, killing time reading books or tapping away at handheld games.

“Even before opening hours, a massive line has formed around the entire building. Some of these people have reportedly been camping out for several days. Japan may be known as a nation obsessed with lining up, but even so, the sheer dedication here is astonishing.”

Though Bush kept his tone mostly professional, there was a faint, unmistakable trace of condescension in his delivery.

Still, true to his reporter’s duty, he made his way toward the very front of the queue with determined steps.

The closer he got to the head of the line, the more intense the atmosphere became. Sleeping bags were everywhere now. Some people had even pitched makeshift tents right there on the pavement.

It didn’t come through on the broadcast, but Bush wrinkled his brow in a subtle, almost imperceptible sign of displeasure—one only close acquaintances might pick up on. Perhaps there was even something offensive to the nose about it.

“We’re just about at the head of the line now… Hmm?”

He stopped walking with a faint grunt. Something unexpected had just entered his field of view.

At the very front of the massive line near the main entrance, it wasn’t a man occupying the coveted first position—it was a woman. To be more precise, a young woman. In fact, it might be more accurate to call her a girl.

She was half-curled inside a sleeping bag, resting against the wall with her eyes closed. Earbuds from an MD Walkman were stuffed into her ears. Scattered across the sheet beneath her were empty snack bags and drink bottles. A large cloth duffel sat nearby—perhaps packed with outerwear for the cold night.

“Well now, this is a surprise. It looks like the honor of being first in line belongs to a teenage girl.”

Raising his hand to his forehead in theatrical amazement, Bush exaggerated his reaction for the camera.

“Well then, let’s see if we can get a quick interview. Moshi moshi!”

He called out in Japanese. Having lived in the country for some time, he was capable of holding a decent conversation.

“…”

But she didn’t respond.

Thinking perhaps he was being a little rude, he gently removed one of her earbuds. A blast of trendy rock music leaked into the open air.

“Moshi mo~shi…”

“Nnya?”

The girl responded in the tongue of the feline kingdom—more of a reflexive grunt than a proper reply. She wasn’t really answering him; it was just the sound of someone being jolted awake.

“May I have a moment of your time?”

Her eyes slowly started to focus. The gears of her mind spun up, and bit by bit, she began to make sense of her situation.

“…Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter with the BBC.”

“BBC-eee?”

“I was hoping to ask you a few questions—since you’re first in line for the opening of Babel Books. Just how long have you been camped out here?”

Apparently now fully awake, the girl blinked at him and looked directly into his face.

“I’m not first.”

That was an unexpected answer.

“…Huh?”

“I just came along with someone else.”

“Came along? With whom?”

The girl turned toward the mountain of newspapers piled beside her and called out.

“Sensei! Sensei, come on! It’s morning already! Wake up!”

At her prompting, the paper mound rustled and stirred.

Bush frowned and squinted at the heap, confused.

“Mrrgghh… Five more pages…”

A barely intelligible groan came from beneath the heap. Judging by the voice, it belonged to a woman.

“They wanna talk to you, Sensei! Come on!”

The girl grumbled and slapped away a newspaper with the headline “New Hanshin Tigers Recruit: Alien from Outer Space!?” Beneath it, a white shirt came into view.

“Mrrrghhhhhh…”

Pushing aside headlines about pro baseball, soccer, horse racing, and celebrity gossip, a bespectacled woman sat up. Her hair was a mess of bedhead, and her shirt was wrinkled beyond belief.

Behind her large glasses, her eyes wandered hazily, still not fully awake. Reflected on her cheek—backwards, like a mirror—were the words “Lewd Lady Teacher.” The headline had been printed on the sports newspaper she’d used as a blanket.

The sleeping beauty who’d emerged from the mountain of old newspapers gave her head a vigorous shake.

She was probably older than the girl beside her, but her droopy eyes gave her a far younger impression.

“Sumiregawa-sensei, that was so mean of you…”

She stared at the girl with a face that looked like she might start crying.

“What was?”

“I was finally reading a mystery novel…”

“But you were asleep.”

“I was reading it in my dream! I was just five pages away from figuring out who the culprit was…”

The girl brushed off her resentful protest with ease.

“You don’t have to go reading even in your sleep, Sensei. You’ll ruin your eyes in your dreams too.”

“Awwuhh… I still don’t get how the trick worked in the room where Gainsbourg died…”

The woman clutched her head and shook it back and forth violently, her whole body expressing her frustration.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry already. But you know, the one who said he wanted to ask you questions is this guy.”

With a gesture so sharp you could practically hear a smack!, the girl pointed directly at Bush.

The woman scrunched up her mouth in a pout and glared daggers at him.

“If you’re gonna blame someone, blame him, okay?”

The moment the topic was turned his way, Bush clearly flinched.

But before anything else, his sense of journalistic duty took hold.

Raising his head with a jolt, Bush spoke.

“S-Sorry about that, Miss—”

The woman responded with a face that was still clearly displeased.

“Yomiko. Yomiko Readman.”

With her hair sticking out in all directions, her eyes still unfocused, and a dozy haze puffing gently around her face, the image of Yomiko Readman was broadcast across all of Britain.

The ones thrown into chaos were Joker and the others present.

“Yomiko!?”

“The Paper!?”

Even among Eastern names, that one was distinctive—there was no way they could’ve misheard it. In that moment, everyone watching realized that the woman now being shown in close-up on-screen, rubbing her sleepy eyes, was the very same “capable” agent they had just been discussing.

Even Joker was left with his mouth hanging open in astonishment.

There had never been a case of an active agent appearing on live television under her real name.

Until just minutes ago, Joker had been using the fact that Yomiko’s identity was still unconfirmed as a strategic advantage—yet within a span of mere minutes, that had been completely undone.

“Who is that woman!?”

“Does she have no sense of what it means to be an agent!?”

A storm of protest and indignation erupted at once, but Joker answered it all in silence.

He raised a hand to his forehead in a gesture of dismay—as if to say this was utterly beyond his expectations. And truly, at this point, it was all he could do.

So this is what she meant by “urgent business,” huh. Of course—if you don’t camp out ahead of time, you can’t possibly be first in line before opening.

Come to think of it, for her to be at the very front of the line for the opening of Babel Books should’ve been an entirely predictable outcome.

A rare book fair, a mass autograph event, an exhibition of priceless tomes—it was no different than a kid at the start of summer vacation being drawn to an amusement park.

Still… he should’ve asked. He should have confirmed.

As Joker wrestled silently with regret, he became aware of a faint hissing sound beside him. Listening more closely, he realized—it was the sound of Gentlemen chuckling.

“I see, I see. So that’s Yomiko, is it? Fshu-hahaha…”

Gentlemen stared at the screen, laughing with genuine delight.

“She hasn’t changed one bit.”

Onscreen, the interview with Bush continued.

Though he had just made history by securing the first-ever live interview with an active intelligence agent, he was no more aware of that fact than the viewers at home.

“So, when exactly did you get in line?”

“Mmm… I think… about three days ago?”

Yomiko tilted her head uncertainly as she answered, prompting Bush to react with exaggerated surprise.

“Three days!? …If you don’t mind my asking, what have you been doing for meals during that time?”

“Oh, I brought her food!”

Bursting in cheerfully from the side, the teenage girl raised her hand high and leaned into frame.

“Ah, well—thank you very much for your service.”

Had Bush been just a little better at distinguishing East Asian faces, he might have realized who this spirited girl actually was.

Roughly two months ago, she had been the talk of the town, the bestselling author who’d been kidnapped: Sumiregawa Nenene.

But his interest—or perhaps his professional instincts—remained fixed on the bespectacled woman: Yomiko Readman.

“So, as the first customer through the doors, where do you plan to go first?”

“Ahh… I’m still not sure yet… There’s an author at the signing I really like, but I also want to check out the used book fair, and the rare collection too…”

“I see. You must really love books, huh?”

At that casual observation, Yomiko’s whole face lit up like a child being praised for their best trait.

“Yes! I absolutely love books!”

Bedhead in every direction, newsprint smudged across her cheek, and a wrinkled, half-slept-in shirt… and yet, at that moment, Yomiko looked genuinely charming.

At least, Bush thought so.

“Well, I hope today turns out to be a wonderful one for you. But still—three days away from work? That’s a pretty forgiving job you have. Pardon me, but what’s your occupation?”

“Yes!”

Yomiko straightened to answer—but then her mouth stiffened in a frozen smile.

It seemed she’d finally connected the dots between her position… and her current situation.

All the color drained from her face.

“...I-I’m a part-time teacher…”

“A teacher? So then, you’re—”

Nenene grinned and cut in.

“That’s right! My teacher! Well, ex-teacher.”

“And now?”

“...Unemployed. They didn’t renew her teaching—”

Bush gave a sympathetic little shrug.

“Let’s hope you find another teaching job soon. Thank you for your time.”

“N-not at all…”

Yomiko bowed her head rapidly and repeatedly, flustered. Turning his back on her, Bush concluded his increasingly troublesome live segment.

“Reporting live from the pre-opening of Babel Books, this was Bush Lambert.”

The BBC broadcast cut back to the studio anchor.

A long, heavy sigh echoed through the meeting room—no one in particular had started it.

“That,” said the silver-haired man, with sarcasm dripping from his tongue, “is her flaw.”

“When her personal interests get involved, she completely loses her sense of judgment. Did you know? During a bomb defusal training exercise, she got so absorbed reading the instruction manual that she forgot to do anything else.”

“She’s simply… exceptionally thorough in her preparation,” Joker offered with an awkward smile. “Can’t we spin it that way?”

Before the discussion could erupt into a full-blown argument, Gentleman raised a hand to cut them off.

“Enough.”

Everyone in the room was reminded once again of who held the final authority here.

In the end, the fate of the mission lay in the hands of this one old man.

“There’s still time. Let’s go over everything again—each section’s strategy, the personnel assigned, how you plan to ensure this mission succeeds.”

Gentleman gestured to the empty seat opposite him.

“You too. Take your place.”

With a short bow, Joker obeyed.

And the seat he was given… was at the very end of the table. Quite literally, the last seat.

“Uuuugh... What am I gonna do? I’m probably gonna get yelled at...”

“For what?”

Yomiko muttered anxiously as she folded the newspaper. Nenene, slicking her hair into place with mousse, replied with mild disinterest.

“That interview just now. I don’t think I’m supposed to be in stuff like that. Probably.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Well... I mean, if people recognize my face or anything, it could be a problem, right? Ugh, I’m definitely in trouble...”

Yomiko sank into a gloomy funk, dreading the scolding she hadn’t yet received. But Nenene, unaware of this inner turmoil, leaned in close, her interest piqued.

“Hey... who’s gonna yell at you?”

“Ah—”

Yomiko immediately realized she’d said too much. She turned her gaze away, feigning innocence.

“That’s a secret...”

Without warning, Nenene reached out and pinched Yomiko’s cheeks between her fingertips.

“Pmph!”

Caught off guard, Yomiko let out a strange little yelp.

“Between us, secrets aren’t allowed—remember?”

“Buh... betweem ush... there’sh no shecretsh...”

“Stahp~~~”

Yomiko’s mumbled protest went completely ignored as Nenene gleefully kneaded her cheeks between her fingers.

“Shenshei... pleash... shtahp~~~”

“Whoa, they really stretch... this is amazing!”

After toying with them for a while, Nenene finally let go of Yomiko’s face.

“Well, whatever.”

“Uuu…”

Clutching her now-flushed cheeks, Yomiko let out a pitiful whimper. Watching from the sidelines, you’d be hard-pressed to guess which of them was older.

“Um… Sumiregawa-san…”

“What?”

Nenene casually tossed empty snack wrappers and bottles into a plastic garbage bag.

“Don’t you need to go to school? It’s a weekday… classes have probably already started…”

“Oh, school? I filed for a leave of absence.”

“Eeeehhh!?”

Yomiko flailed her arms in panic, but Nenene herself remained perfectly unfazed.

“I barely went anyway, what with all my work. Besides…”

She flashed a sly smile, and a chill ran down Yomiko’s spine.

“From now on, I’ll be tailing you around, Sensei.”

“W-Why?”

“Because you’re a total mystery. You won’t even tell me what this Dai-Ei-something job is.”

“T-That’s… um…”

Yomiko awkwardly pressed her fingertips together, looking flustered.

“People have… circumstances, you know…so that’s why,” Yomiko murmured.

“And that’s why I want to get to the bottom of those circumstances. Heh heh.”

Yomiko could already tell—Nenene’s boundless curiosity had now turned her into its latest prey. Inside, she wept.

A torrential, heartbroken sobbing.

While the two of them were chatting at the very front of the line…

A sleek limousine glided smoothly down the road approaching the bookstore entrance.

It came to a halt—and the moment the door opened, a swarm of waiting cameras and microphones surged forward.

The man who emerged was tall, sharply dressed in a sleek, tailored suit.

He looked to be in his early forties, with a sharply chiseled face and commanding presence. An eyepatch over his left eye served as a striking accessory—part costume, part mystery. What kind of past had led to that scar? It was the sort of detail designed to spark intrigue.

Just by walking, the man radiated overwhelming charisma.

And he knew it.

Stopping in front of the main entrance just before opening time, he turned once more to face the press.

“Welcome, everyone—to the grand opening of Babel Books!”

This man was none other than Nagisa Busujima, the owner of the megastore.

A maverick who dabbled in every corner of the entertainment world—music, film, theater, live events—he stirred up every industry he entered with tactics bordering on the aggressive.

His grandstanding and flashy antics undeniably drew attention, and any project bearing his name instantly electrified the scene, but as with everything else, the faster the rise, the steeper the fall.

In particular, the failure of the film he produced last year seemed to have dealt him a serious blow. Rumors swirled that he'd taken on considerable debt, and he was now frequently hounded by tabloid reporters.

At Babel Books, he was credited as the general producer, but the press’s interest had little to do with the bookstore and everything to do with him.

Instead of bouquets, a cluster of microphones was thrust at the man standing in the spotlight of his life.

“Mr. Busujima, a word on the debt repayment situation!”

“Is it true you’ve been involved in multiple scandals with your leading actresses!?”

Busujima frowned, his finely shaped brows drawing together as he ignored the wholly inappropriate questions for such a festive occasion.

“What inspired you to build such a massive bookstore?”

He selectively caught wind of that one—the kind of question that wouldn’t wound his pride—and turned his head toward it.

“Books, aside from murals and stone tablets, are the oldest media known to humankind—and still the most powerful. And yet, despite Japan being one of the world’s great publishing nations, our reading population continues to decline. That is why I built this building—to play my part in revitalizing the current landscape.”

With polished, florid words and a camera-ready expression, he delivered the line.

But for the reporters, there was a clear dissonance between his usual flashy media ventures and the construction of this enormous bookstore. Sensing there was more to it, they tried to pry at the truth behind the façade ...and pressed him further, desperate to draw out something more revealing.

“In this day and age, with the internet so widespread, isn’t this a bit out of step?”

“The internet?” Busujima scoffed. “Hah! Yes, the internet is certainly convenient, but it remains a medium riddled with flaws. Cybercrime is only on the rise, and countermeasures against viruses are far from perfect.

“We benefit, yes, from being connected—but even more than that, we must confront the fear of being connected.

“Through the medium of books, I want to champion once again the importance of personal information, the acquisition of knowledge, and the reconstruction of individual identity.”

The way he rattled off his answer was so fluent, it was as if he’d predicted the question beforehand.

“What route was taken to secure and exhibit the Nalnian Collection?”

The Nalnian Collection referred to a trove of rare books reportedly gathered from around the globe by the Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Nalnia, known as an avid bibliophile. This was the first time the collection had ever been transported abroad for public viewing, making it the crown jewel of the bookstore’s grand opening.

“I’ve enjoyed a close relationship with the Crown Prince since my student days, when I studied abroad in Nalnia. I’m deeply grateful for his generous cooperation in this endeavor.”

A murmur of admiration rippled through the press.

Busujima’s career had always depended heavily on his personal connections, but few had expected the Crown Prince of Nalnia to be among them—if, of course, his claims could be taken at face value.

“Ah, speak of the devil…” he said.

The thunder of rotor blades filled the air as a shadow dropped from the sky. Looking up, they saw a transport helicopter descending toward the rooftop of the building.

“Just barely made it in time. The setup was a nightmare.”

“That helicopter—is it transporting the Nalnian Collection?”

“Yes. There were quite a few items, and they only just arrived the other day. We had to make use of both air and ground transport.”

Perhaps it was a bit of deliberate theater. At the very least, the dramatic effect was undeniable.

From among the cluster of reporters, a particularly burly man leaned forward.

“Historically speaking, anything named ‘Babel’ in the world of fiction ends up destroyed by divine wrath. Any thoughts on that?”

The question, posed in a different register than the rest, came from Bush—the same one as before.

Perhaps it struck Busujima as more thoughtful than the others, because he responded with a faintly approving smile.

“Forgive me, but I think that’s a misunderstanding. The origin I had in mind has nothing to do with the Tower of Babel from Genesis. Any true lover of books would know—there’s another Babel, one even more famous among bibliophiles.”

“And that would be…?”

Before the question could finish, Busujima turned his gaze toward one of the cameras.

“To everyone watching on television—what image comes to mind when you hear the word book?

“A book is the most affordable, most beloved companion to culture.

“And here, you will find books unlike anything you’ve ever dreamed of. Works beyond imagination await.

“Please—come and see for yourself.”

His voice took on a theatrical flair as he delivered his pitch. But bolstered by his natural charisma, it came off as perfectly convincing.

“Well then…”

Busujima turned his gaze from the camera to the long line of customers waiting outside.

A reporter asked, “Where are you going?”

“To greet my customers.”

No sooner had he said it than Busujima strode off with flair, heading directly for the long line of guests waiting with bated breath for the store to open.

“Sensei—look.”

“Hmm?”

Yomiko, who had just folded up her newspaper and tucked it inside her suit, followed the direction of Nenene’s subtle pointing.

Sure enough, Busujima was approaching from that very direction, flashing a radiant smile, with a full entourage of press trailing in his wake.

“Eep!”

For a moment, Yomiko looked ready to bolt. But after three days spent camping out to earn her prime spot at the head of the line, she managed to stop herself just in time.

Unaware of her inner turmoil, Busujima came to a halt directly in front of her, towering above.

“Welcome, miss.”

“U-uh… th-thank you…”

Yomiko wasn’t exactly young enough to be called “miss” anymore, but she obediently took the hand he offered. It naturally became a handshake.

In an instant, they were surrounded—by journalists’ cameras, microphones, and TV crews.

(Ohhh no, no no no this is bad this is so bad this is sooooo bad…)

Yomiko’s panic showed plainly: her mouth flapping helplessly, her arms twitching and flailing like some kind of deranged interpretive dance.

“To have such a beautiful young lady as our very first customer—it’s an honor for Babel Books.”

“Eh? Ah—n-no, I… I mean…”

“Our bookstore staff will continue to do our utmost for customers like you.”

Busujima’s words were a smooth blend of flattery and polite formalities. His comments were aimed far more at the surrounding press than at Yomiko herself—a textbook media performance.

Whether or not she realized this, Yomiko kept smiling with a dumb, stiff little grin plastered on her face, still clutching his hand in the handshake.

“If you notice anything during your visit, please don’t hesitate to contact us.”

With practiced ease, Busujima produced a business card and handed it to her.

Printed on it were the words:

“Nagisa Busujima – General Producer, Babel Books, Inc.”

“Th-thank you very much… That’s very kind…”

Yomiko bowed repeatedly, her head bobbing like it was on a spring.

“Well then, please enjoy yourself today.”

With a final smile, Busujima turned gracefully on his heel and swept away, the press corps trailing behind like a royal procession.

“The opening ceremony will begin shortly! This way, everyone!”

Yomiko stared after his retreating figure, dazed, until Nenene sidled up beside her.

“Smooth talker, that one... I can’t trust people like that.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Sumiregawa-san,” Yomiko murmured.

“Ooooh? Don’t tell me you actually go for guys like that?”

“N-not at all. Not in the slightest.”

The firmness in her tone left no room for doubt.

“Then what was that about?”

“Anyone who loves books can’t possibly be a bad person.”

It was such an utterly unfounded declaration that Nenene was left speechless.

“Ahh! And I was caught on TV again—what should I do, what should I do?”

Yomiko was flailing helplessly, and Nenene spent a good minute debating whether she should point out that the words Lustful Lady Teacher were still faintly stamped across her cheek.

---

“As you can see—people, people, and more people!”

From the window of a news chopper, a TV camera swept over the scene below.

The time was 10:55 a.m. Just five minutes before opening, and the area surrounding Babel Books was engulfed in layer upon layer of human lines.

Naturally, they were all here for the grand opening. Regular readers, rare book collectors, fans of the authors scheduled for signings, curious onlookers, even scouts from rival bookstores—there was no single type.

“I think it’s safe to say that every book lover in the country has gathered here today! With the slogan ‘You’ll always find the book you want,’ can Babel Books really live up to such massive demand?”

Even as the commentator delivered their breathless narration, the line continued to grow, inch by inch.

According to the latest official statement, the crowd had already surpassed ten thousand people.

In front of the main entrance, a special archway had been erected just for today.

Shaped around the word “OPEN”, a large ribbon waited, sagging between the two pillars of the archway that was placed there for the ceremonial opening-day ribbon cutting.

10:58 a.m.

The line had been moved closer to the entrance, and the air around it was thick with a strange, feverish intensity.

Attendees stood right up against the marked boundary, as instructed by security, tensing their bodies like runners at the starting line of a race, holding their breath, waiting for the moment.

Nenene, caught in the charged atmosphere, found herself shrinking back.

The source of that heat was, of course, the frontmost section of the line.

A kind of fierce, unmistakable resolve radiated from them. An unspoken vow that, no matter what, they would get the book they came for.

That raw, unfiltered, and utterly unselfconscious passion was overwhelming. It wasn’t hard to see why someone like Nenene—who was, after all, a relatively sane person when it came to buying books—would feel more than a little intimidated.

“I-it’s like… the air itself is hot…”

She could have added smelly, too, but that observation stayed tucked safely away in a little lockbox in her mind. If the wrong person overheard something like that, there was no telling what kind of retribution might follow.

“Hey, Sensei, are you even listening?”

But when she turned to look at Yomiko, the woman standing there wasn’t the same one Nenene knew.

“Fshhhrrrrrrr…”

Yomiko exhaled slowly through pursed lips, her gaze sharp and focused, fixed on the store’s front entrance from beneath her lashes.

“Sensei!?”

But she didn’t respond. Yomiko stood utterly still, every sense sharpened, every fiber of her being trained on the prize—like a predator poised to pounce.

It was hard to believe this was the same woman who, just thirty minutes ago, had been teary-eyed after Nenene had tugged on her cheek.

She was someone else entirely.

In that moment, Yomiko was dangerous—so sharp with tension it felt like you might cut yourself just by touching her.

“Haaah…”

A bead of sweat slid down Nenene’s forehead.

10:59 a.m.

Amid the applause of the onlookers, Busujima appeared before the entrance. In his hand gleamed a pristine pair of scissors. It was time for the ribbon cutting.

Sensing the battle was about to begin, the tension in the waiting line ratcheted up another level.

Bobsledding. Speed skating. And used book fairs.

These three are said to be utterly decided by how fast you can launch yourself from the starting line.

How quickly can you move? How fast can you reach the shelves? That alone is what determines glory or defeat.

“Miss it today? There’s always next time.”

No one here thinks that way. Everyone in this crowd knows the truth:

The book you truly want—if you let it slip past you once, you may never see it again.

And so, these people have cast aside pride, shame, and reputation…

All for the sake of getting the book they desire.

And unfortunately, Yomiko was among them.

A soul gripped—deeply, seriously—by that very obsession.

The second hand on the clock reached its lowest point and began its upward climb.

Busujima, savoring the moment and all the eyes on him, lowered the scissors to the ribbon.

Fifteen seconds remaining.

The line twisted, as if it had a will of its own. Brimming with heat and tension, and yet eerily silent.

Ten seconds remaining.

Beyond the glass doors, staff lined up on either side, standing at attention, ready to greet the very first customers.

Five seconds remaining.

Nenene suddenly realized how dry her throat had become, or maybe it was just the heat. The Near-Water she’d drunk not long ago already felt like it had completely evaporated.

Three...

Two...

One...

Busujima's lips curled into a crooked grin—then he snipped the scissors shut.

At the same instant, the ribbon guarding the entrance fell cleanly to either side.

“We are officially open! Welcome to Babel Books!”

Busujima threw both arms high and wide, proclaiming the grand opening of the world’s largest bookstore for all to hear.

Camera flashes erupted. Applause broke out.

But all of it was drowned beneath a deafening rumble—

The sound of countless feet pounding the pavement.

The moment the security guards stepped aside, the men at the front of the line bolted forward, like racehorses bursting from the gates. They launched themselves toward their goals with singular, desperate focus.

“The book you’re searching for is waiting for you!“

Busujima stepped neatly aside with the ease of a showman, clearing the way.

And right beside him—

“Sensei! Wait—hey!!”

Nenene shouted after her, but Yomiko didn’t even glance back. She tore past at full speed.

“………………”

Busujima watched her profile with a puzzled expression.

He was sure she’d been the woman at the very front of the line. She’d looked so slow, so dopey, so dull. And yet now she was charging through the entrance at a speed that would shame a professional track athlete.

He’d seen plenty of women go feral at luxury brand sales, but this was the first time he’d seen one sprint full force into a bookstore.

Truly, book lovers were a breed beyond comprehension.

And as he stood there thinking that, over a hundred people had already been swallowed up by the entrance.

“Welcome! Welcome! Welco—!”

The bookstore staff stationed at the front doors were, in a word, pointless.

The crowd surged forward like a dam bursting, utterly uninterested in any ceremonial greetings for “our very first customer.” The employees bowed dutifully, over and over, as customers blasted past them at full speed.

Their destination: the antiquarian book fair being held in the Grand Event Hall on the 30th floor—

And to get there, they needed the elevators.

“Forget it! Get back to your sections and organize the floors!”

Realizing the greetings were meaningless, the floor chief barked orders. The staff immediately scattered to their designated posts.

“Please don’t push! No pushing, please!”

“Where’s the Simulated Problems for Randomized University Entrance Exams workbook?!”

“This section is off-limits to customers under 18! Please be aware!”

“The comic floor has a dedicated elevator—please follow the staff instructions!”

Cries from both customers and employees echoed through the store.

A bookstore is, by nature, meant to be a quiet place.

But right now, in this moment, it was nothing short of a war zone for both the shoppers and the store itself.

But no one yet realized that this metaphor—a war zone—would become literal reality just one hour later.

Naturally, the first to arrive at the elevator hall—where all six cars stood ready—was Yomiko.

“S-sensei! You’re way too fast!”

Nenene caught up shortly after, slightly behind. While she lacked the burning passion or obsessive drive, she managed to close the distance thanks to the raw stamina of youth.

Even so, it was Yomiko’s performance that was truly astonishing. She’d sprinted all the way from the front entrance to the back hall—dragging her ever-present suitcase behind her—and had still beaten Nenene, who had been running flat-out.

But now that she had arrived, Yomiko stood still before the elevator, making no move to board it.

“…? Sensei? What’s wrong?”

“Move!”

With a speed that bore no trace of her usual dreamy airheadedness, Yomiko seized Nenene’s arm and yanked her over to the wall between the elevators.

A heartbeat later, a stampede of men thundered past, charging into the open elevator cars like a tidal wave of bodies.

“!?”

“What are you doing!? We have to hurry up and get in too!”

Yomiko’s primary goal was the used book fair on the 30th floor. The autograph session would continue until 2:00 p.m., and the Nalnia Collection would be available to view after the media presentation concluded.

But the used book fair—that was a raw, first-come-first-serve battle. Naturally, it took top priority.

So why, at such a critical moment, was Yomiko not getting into the elevator?

Nenene couldn’t make sense of it.

“Don’t rush. We can’t get on yet.”

“Huh? But—”

“If you get in right away, you get shoved all the way to the back. And then when the elevator reaches the top floor, you’ll be the last one to get out. If you want to be first into the venue, the spot right at the door is the best position.”

“Huh… wow…”

Now that she heard it, it made perfect sense. Nenene couldn’t help but be impressed by Yomiko’s explanation.

It was a piece of battlefield wisdom—honed not from books, but from countless firsthand campaigns at used book fairs.

Even as she explained it to Nenene, Yomiko was silently counting the number of men boarding the elevator, estimating its load limit by eye.

She carried herself with a calm precision that Nenene had never seen in a classroom—though admittedly, she’d never actually attended one of Yomiko’s classes.

“Now!”

Yomiko spun on her heel and slipped neatly into the elevator.

“Ah! Wait for me!”

Nenene scrambled in right after her.

And the very instant she squeezed herself inside—

BZZZZZZT!

The cold, merciless sound of the overweight buzzer rang out.

“Ehh!?”

There are few things more mortifying than being the person who sets off an elevator’s overload warning.

And if that person is a girl, the awkwardness triples.

But in this case, any such delicate sentiment was blown away by the sudden eruption of angry voices:

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Get out!”

“Hurry up and get outta here, dammit!”

“Go wait for the next one, kid!”

Merciless shouts came crashing down on Nenene.

“Wh-what the hell!? You guys are way heavier than me!”

Nenene wasn’t the type to just take that quietly. She fired back without flinching, despite the fact that her opponents were all scruffy men, each a good decade or more older than her.

But shouting back didn’t solve anything.

The men storming in from behind, having heard the buzzer, shifted their target to the next elevator over.

“Get outta there! We don’t have time for this!”

“No way! I’ll get separated from Sensei!”

Nenene turned to Yomiko, clearly expecting backup.

“……………………”

But what she saw was Yomiko staring back at her—

with a face twisted in anguish and sorrow.

“……………Huh?”

“Sumiregawa-san… I’m sorry!”

Yomiko placed both hands against Nenene’s chest—

and shoved.

“Wah—!”

Caught completely off guard by such a move from such an unexpected source, Nenene tumbled backwards onto the hallway floor.

“I’ll wait for you upstairs!……”

Yomiko had chosen her desire over her own student, and for some reason, the men inside the elevator burst into spontaneous applause.

“H-hey! HEY!!”

Nenene sprang to her feet and lunged at the doors, but just as she reached them, they closed coldly in her face.

The floor indicator began to blink, announcing that the elevator was on its way up.

With her palm still pressed to the door, Nenene curled her fingers into a tight fist.

“You IDIOT, Sensei!!”

She screamed the words with all her might.

---

Comedy and tragedy were unfolding not just in the elevator hall, but throughout the entire building.

“Attention, customers: Access to the magazine floors—levels two through four—is currently restricted. If you wish to enter, please line up at the east staircase!”

“The store is extremely crowded! We ask that you refrain from reading items while standing!”

“Please watch out for pickpockets and bag snatchers! If you experience any trouble, notify a staff member!”

A flood of announcements echoed over the PA system, though it was doubtful they reached the ears of the frantic shoppers.

One man, arms stacked with books from a bargain cart, tore through the aisle at full speed, only to wipe out when he failed to clear a sharp corner.

Elsewhere, in a corner showcasing out-of-print stock salvaged from a bankrupt bookstore, a full-blown scuffle had erupted over a single mass-market paperback.

Layer upon layer, magazines were lain, in a towering spiral, at least until someone slammed into them, sending them tumbling into a chaotic mess.

A small child, clutching a picture book and likely separated from their parents, wandered through the crowd on the verge of tears.

Of the six staircases positioned throughout the floor, five had been designated “up only.”

Some customers had taken up positions in front of the freight elevators, reaching greedily for books that had just been wheeled out.

At the autograph booths, the fan queues had become a painfully visible chart ranking the popularity of authors, flooding the space with a mix of awkwardness and clamor.

Babel Books had transformed into a boiling crucible of books and the people obsessed with them.

It was as if every book lover in Japan had descended upon the store.

Everyone who stepped inside felt the same illusion, and let themselves get swept up in a strange kind of euphoria.

Amidst the store interior, now nearing its boiling point, one man strode confidently with the mass media in tow.

Needless to say, it was Busujima.

Rather than being troubled by the chaos that had erupted the moment the store opened, he seemed to take genuine delight in it.

“Look at this heat—this energy,” Busujima said, addressing the TV station’s camera with an expression of rapturous bliss. “We’ve been far too calm about books until now. Like rock and roll, like action movies—great books can make people go wild. This is proof of that.”

He raised a single finger with a flourish and jabbed it toward the camera.

“A new page in Japan’s reading culture is being turned right here, today. If you don’t come see it with your own eyes—you will regret it.”

Everything Busujima touched had a phenomenal start. That was his gift. Every time, sales or attendance would spike to record highs on day one—only to collapse immediately afterward. Some reporters in the crowd knew this pattern well. But none of them were going to challenge him right now. At this moment, Busujima was newsworthy.

With deliberate flair, Busujima checked his watch and turned back to the press.

“Preparations should be complete by now. Ladies and gentlemen—this way, please, for the unveiling of the Nalnia Collection.”

30th Floor.

With a soft chime, the elevator doors opened.

Poised and ready for battle, Yomiko launched herself through the opening, emerging into the floor exactly as planned—at the very front of the pack.

She found herself standing in an ocean of books.

The open-concept floor, its walls removed, was filled with neatly arranged desks and bookshelves.

And covering every inch of those desks and shelves were, of course, books.

Most of them were secondhand—books that had passed through the hands of others. Just what kinds of stories had they experienced? Each one, surely, held its own history quietly pressed between its pages, lying still and silent.

The scent of old paper tickled Yomiko’s nose.

She had lived her entire life enveloped in that smell.

Books are the one thing she loved more than anything else in the world.

No matter how much she read, the world was still overflowing with books she had yet to encounter.

Even just sweeping her gaze across the room, unfamiliar covers leapt out at her.

An overwhelming euphoria surged through her entire being.

“Mmmm…………………………”

But that bliss was abruptly swept away by the thunder of approaching footsteps behind her. Yes, she couldn’t forget. This place was also a battlefield, a warzone governed by the law of the jungle.

A ring where desire ran rampant, where you had to snatch and seize what you wanted to attain glory and rare treasures.

Behind her glasses, Yomiko’s eyes gleamed with sharp determination.

And then she threw herself into the fray without hesitation.

The fact that she had left Nenene behind didn’t even cross her mind anymore.

“Seems to be going quite well.”

Watching the interior of the store broadcast on-screen, Joker murmured to no one in particular.

Since the BBC had cut away from its coverage, he was now watching a Japanese variety program, but even through the screen, the fervor was palpable.

Truthfully, he hadn’t expected such a massive turnout. As far as opening days went, this was a resounding success.

“Vulgar,” came a quiet remark.

Still staring at the monitor, the Gentlemen had spoken. The unexpected comment caused a shift in the room’s atmosphere.

“Vulgar…? What do you mean by that, Mister?”

The silver-haired man asked cautiously.

“Books are not something to be bought amid such clamor. They should be chosen with time, with care.”

His voice was calm, but it carried a sharp firmness. The Gentlemen continued:

“I doubt even one in ten of them has truly thought about why they’re buying those books.”

Forty floors aboveground. Eighty million volumes in inventory.

Managing such a collection by human effort alone would be utterly impossible.

That is why the twentieth floor of Babel Books housed its central control room—its nerve center.

There, six operators worked in shifts from the store’s 11 a.m. opening until 8 p.m. closing, overseeing the management system.

Sales from over five hundred registers were fed into the system in real time.

Every book sold, by title and quantity, at every sales counter, was recorded and automatically compiled into restocking data.

Barriers at corridors and stairwells could be opened or closed to minimize congestion across the building.

Newly delivered books from distributors arrived via the rooftop helipad, and a portion was moved into stock warehouses on the 37th, 38th, and 39th floors. From there, the cargo elevators transported them to their assigned floors to be distributed to their respective floors.

This meticulously regulated operation was known among the staff as BPS—Book Partician System.

It was, in effect, the heart of Babel Books.

And now, a directive reached that heart:

The presentation of the Nalnia Collection was about to begin in the grand event hall on the 25th floor.

An operator activated the recording system for archival purposes.

The presentation venue was roughly the size of a mid-sized auditorium.

With a thousand seats set out and a stage prepared at the front, the room was filled with an air of anticipation.

Stacked cubic blocks formed a backdrop, and to the left stood the host’s podium.

As cameras and press crews looked on, and stakeholders watched from the wings, Busujima stepped into place behind the podium.

The house lights dimmed. A single spotlight bathed Busujima in brilliance.

Contrary to expectations, he began to speak in a quiet, measured voice.

“Books…”

He paused, then began again from the same place.

“Books, naturally, are made to be read. But in this world, there are books whose value transcends the act of reading—books that possess meaning simply through their existence.”

With microphone in hand, Busujima slowly stepped to the center of the stage.

“If we accept that books are a form of culture, then their variations are truly infinite.

And yet, most people only think of books as square-shaped objects meant to be read.”

He placed a hand on one of the stacked blocks.

“Take a look,” Busujima said.

He peeled back the surface of the block—and a ripple of surprise ran through the reporters.

“What you see here is also… a book.”

What had looked like a simple cube was, in fact, a book.

“GOLD DUST IS MY EXLIBRIS, published in the Netherlands in 1983. Sixteen and a half centimeters tall, sixteen and a half wide, and fifteen point one centimeters thick. No text on the front cover, back cover, or spine. And inside—”

He fanned through the pages. Most were blank, save for the occasional hidden illustration that flickered into view.

“—the vast majority is empty. This is an example of a book whose value lies in its form. A book whose very existence is its most important quality.”

The reporters could not entirely conceal their confusion in response to such an unusually intellectual introduction.

Busujima, sensing their unease, pressed onward with momentum.

“My good friend, Crown Prince Nyeltega Anarlai of the Kingdom of Nalnia, is deeply insightful when it comes to cultural artifacts like these. He has gathered rare and precious books from around the world—what is known as the Nalnia Collection, which has long fascinated bibliophiles across the globe.”

The spotlight widened, flooding the center of the stage with light.

There stood an enormous book—or rather, a book-shaped installation—with the word NALNIA emblazoned across it.

“But today!” Busujima’s voice rose with passion, “By the grace of the Crown Prince, the Nalnia Collection will be unveiled to the public for the very first time!”

As the heat in Busujima’s voice built, so too did the atmosphere in the hall, slowly but steadily.

Most of the reporters present had little personal interest in books, but with all the fervent buildup, even they began to feel a stir of curiosity.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present—the Nalnia Collection!”

As a drumroll rumbled through the speakers, the enormous book’s cover was slowly opened.

But what emerged from within… was something no one had anticipated.

---

“Aaaaah! Someone stoooop meeeeee—!”

Yomiko’s world was utter chaos.

“Gimme that! That’s mine!”

Two men were locked in a tug-of-war over a back issue of Weekend Super.

“Volume Three of The Phantom of Devil Wolf Island! Volume Three’s the only one missing!”

Someone was frantically tearing through the sea of books in a desperate hunt to complete their set.

There were others like him.

All of them, drawn here by one thing above all else: books. The men who had gathered for this event were now embroiled in a frenzy, each desperate to claim the books they longed for.

They fought not for fame or fortune, but for the sheer joy of acquiring the book they desired most—to bring it home and giddily admire it in private. That was all this struggle was about.

And Yomiko stood right at the heart of that chaos.

The trouble was, she had completely melted into it. The confusion, the frenzy—it had swallowed her whole.

“Hey! I grabbed that copy of King of the Grotesque Faces first!”

“Idiot! ‘Grabbed’ means you’re hugging it like this, see!”

“Stooop, pleaaase, don’t take it from meee~~!”

“Wait! That’s it—let’s settle this fairly with rock-paper-scissors, okay? Rock-paper-scissors, yeah?”

“Lady, what are you, five? Play it by yourself!”

The man completely ignored Yomiko’s desperate plea, tossed the book into his shopping basket, and turned his back on her to hunt for more.

That was when—

Shff!

Yomiko’s arm flicked through the air in a flash. Without a sound, the edge of the man’s basket was neatly sliced open, and the book he’d just dropped inside slid silently to the floor through a sudden, triangle-shaped gash.

The man didn’t notice a thing—too caught up in the surrounding frenzy.

Yomiko quietly stooped down to retrieve the fallen King of the Grotesque Faces, then casually slipped it into her own basket, wearing the most innocent face she could muster.

A Paper Master from the British Library is meant to be a guardian of both people and books. It is part of the Special Operations Division's very creed—to ensure that fine literature finds its way into the hands of those who deserve it, no matter what.

But still... when it came to the books she truly wanted, Yomiko just couldn’t bring herself to let them go to someone else.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry… But I think this book would be happier being bought by me. So, um… pardon me—I'll be taking it now…”

Murmuring her selfish justifications under her breath, Yomiko quietly edged away from the man. With the chaos all around them, even if he noticed the hole in his basket, the odds of their paths crossing again were slim.

Pushing through the shifting tide of bodies, Yomiko made her way to a new block.

It was the children’s section—an area filled with picture books, fables, and nonfiction geared toward young readers. There were yearly school reading list selections, bestselling illustrated books, collections of folk tales and legends, and even introductory science volumes. A broad and colorful array.

But to the sort of people who threw themselves into a rare book sale the moment the doors opened, this genre clearly held little appeal. Compared to the other sections, this one was practically deserted.

Yomiko let out a soft breath, a brief reprieve. Then, preparing to hurl herself back into the human storm, she began cutting across the quiet space.

That’s when she saw it.

It wasn’t deliberate—her brain simply registered it, caught among the spines of the hundreds of books that passed under her gaze.

“The Freckled Teacher’s Strange School.”

The spine was simple. Unassuming. Nothing flashy—just plain text printed on a hardcover binding.

“!”

Her head snapped around with reflexive sharpness. For a moment, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“…………………………!”

What can one compare the shock to, when a true bibliophile stumbles across the book they’ve spent years—maybe even a lifetime—searching for?

Perhaps it’s like finding out your longtime unrequited love… actually feels the same way.

Or like reuniting, entirely by chance, with a childhood friend you thought you’d never see again.

Or like the return of a beloved pet long presumed lost.

Something like that.

You doubt your eyes. You check again. And again.

Her heartbeat quickened. Her mouth went dry. The rush of blood in her ears echoed up into her skull. All other sounds vanished. Nothing remained in her field of vision except that single book.

The noise receded like the tide. The jostling bodies, the frantic hunt for books—it all faded away, like some distant world no longer connected to her.

Yomiko stepped toward the book, slowly. Inside, she wanted to leap. Her emotions were wild, impatient. But her body moved as if in slow motion.

She’d dreamed this moment so many times. In the dreams, she’d wander into a bookshop, and it would be filled with nothing but the kinds of books she loved. Overjoyed, she would gather them all into her arms and bring them to the register. But the moment she tried to read any of them—she would wake up. They were never books she could read. Not femme fatale, but livre fatal—the one destined volume forever just out of reach.

Carefully, she slipped the book out from the jumble of others stacked around it. The Freckled Teacher’s Strange School. There was no mistaking it. That title was etched into her memory—it could never be forgotten.

Her eyes stung. The book she had searched for all these years was finally, truly in her hands.

She clenched her grip around it. The sensation of the firm hardcover pressing against her fingers confirmed it—this was no dream. It was real.

Time slowed around her, as if to honor the moment. A reunion ten years in the making. Even the air itself seemed to embrace her gently, in celebration.

This was it.

This was the reason why a bibliophile could never quit. This was the ecstasy that no one else could ever understand.

Yomiko’s expression softened, as though she had just been reunited with a long-lost lover—

She brought the book close to her face.

And with all the tenderness of a lover’s embrace, she nuzzled her cheek against it.

Illustration

“Ahhh…”

“What the hell do you mean, ahhh?!”

The blissful silence shattered beneath the furious shriek of none other than Sumiregawa Nenene.

“W-w-wahhh!”

Yomiko juggled the precious book she’d only just secured, flailing in panic.

“S-Sumiregawa-san…”

“That’s right! Sumiregawa Nenene!”

Nenene’s face was flushed with righteous fury.

“I can’t believe you! You just left me behind like that!”

“S-sorry, I’m so sorry! It’s just, um, how do I put this… I kind of… lost control for a second…”

Her excuse sounded like something a middle schooler would mumble after being caught shoplifting, only making Nenene shout even louder.

“You have no idea what I went through after that!”

“I really am sorry, truly sorry…”

Yomiko bowed her head over and over, the very picture of contrition. Nenene let out a long sigh. She already knew this about Yomiko—knew that when books were involved, all common sense flew out the window. That didn’t make it okay, but… it did make it understandable.

“…So? You find anything good?”

It was the exact question Yomiko had been hoping to hear. Her entire face lit up like a child on Christmas morning.

“Yes!”

With a proud beam, she thrust the book forward in both hands. Of course—it was The Freckled Teacher’s Strange School.

“I’ve been searching for this for so long! I finally found it!”

The joy radiating from her face was undeniable. She was practically glowing.

“…What is it? Looks like a kids’ book.”

“Even children’s stories can be wonderful. They’re really fun, you know!”

Compared to Yomiko, who was practically glowing with excitement, Nenene looked entirely indifferent.

She didn’t seem all that interested.

“Well, whatever. …Anyway, can we get out of here for a bit? I feel like I’m gonna suffocate.”

Inside the venue, aside from Yomiko and Nenene, there were hardly any women to be seen. Which meant, effectively, that nearly everyone else present was a man. She didn’t mean to be discriminatory, but the strange, heavy aura radiating from all those male bodies was more than enough to wear Nenene down.

“…But I haven’t even looked at everything yet…”

Nenene grabbed Yomiko’s arm and forcefully dragged her toward the checkout counter.

“You can come back later. Let’s go check out the autograph session. We might run into someone we know.”

“Ahh, ahh, ahhhh~~”

Yomiko was pulled away, sliding helplessly behind Nenene.

Well, in her case, she’d be getting Fudemura Ara’s autograph anyway, so it wasn’t exactly a loss.

—

Under the watchful gaze of the assembled press and the lenses of countless cameras, the door—shaped like the cover of a book—began to slowly open.

At first, those seated at the very front thought it was simply another part of the event. With someone like Busujima, who loved theatrical flourishes, they assumed it was something he had staged. Since what emerged was so out of place, it could only be part of some elaborate performance.

The interior of the massive book had been hollowed out like a coffin.

And standing inside it was a man.

He wore a loose-fitting navy suit that clung to a slim, slight frame. He looked to be in his early forties, perhaps a few years older. The deep lines etched into his face hinted at a past long weathered.

But what most drew the crowd’s attention was what he held in his hands.

An M-16 assault rifle—the most widely used automatic rifle in the world.

Some thought it was a joke, and chuckled under their breath.

But Busujima, staring into the now-fully opened interior of the book, stood frozen, his mouth agape in shock.

According to the script, the first “page” was supposed to feature a congratulatory message from Nyertega: “Congratulations on your grand opening. May your paradise be cherished by all who love books.” Busujima had already approved the message, and had even prepared a speech in response.

He turned toward the man with the rifle, his expression clearly reading, Who the hell are you?

The silence dragged on—too long for any planned entertainment—and a murmur of unease began to ripple through the audience.

The man smirked. Just a twist of the lips, but unmistakably a smile.

He raised the muzzle of the rifle to the ceiling and pulled the trigger.

“YAAHH— HAAHH—!!”

A piercing, shrill shriek was swallowed by the deafening roar that filled the room.

Chunks of what used to be the ceiling came crashing down in shards.

Reporters dove to the floor all at once. Cameramen were knocked over, and the live broadcast feed trembled violently.

Screams and shouts of confusion erupted throughout the hall.

“What the hell!?”

Even at the British Library’s Special Operations Division – Japan Branch, the reaction wasn’t much different.

A man emerging from inside a book and opening fire with a gun, no matter how much of a showman the producer was, this defied all reason.

Amid the chaos around the operations table, only two men remained calmly focused on the screen.

The eldest: Gentleman.

And the youngest: Joker.

The man emptied an entire magazine’s worth of bullets.

During that time, not a single member of the press had the composure to properly assess the situation. They were all cowering, curled on the floor, shielding their heads.

Once the final round had been fired, and splinters still fluttered from the ruined ceiling, the man finally spoke. His voice was almost calm.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

With practiced hands, he reloaded the rifle.

“Stay quiet. If you cooperate, you’ll walk out of here unharmed. But…”

He clicked the new magazine into place, then slowly swept the muzzle across the terrified press from right to left.

“If anyone tries anything funny, I’ll make sure your coworkers get to read your obituary in the morning papers.”

“Wh–Who the hell are you!?”

Busujima shouted, voicing the thoughts of everyone present.

“Me? I’m John Smith.”

The muzzle of the rifle swung around to aim squarely at Busujima’s chest.

“Leader of Red Ink.”

“Red Ink!?”

A sharp crease formed on Joker’s brow.

He knew the name. A terrorist organization active primarily in the United States. They earned their moniker from the way their attacks left scenes splattered in blood, like red ink spilled across the page.

Joker had once encountered them before. The infamous New York bookstore siege. They had barricaded themselves inside, taking customers hostage. The incident left three dead and became a lasting nightmare in the American publishing world.

They were what one might call a trigger-happy gang, spraying bullets without hesitation. Their violent unpredictability had caused Joker no small amount of trouble.

What made them especially dangerous was how their tactics constantly changed, making countermeasures nearly impossible. Lacking any coherent ideology, they seemed to revel in terrorism itself. They called themselves “artists of death.”

But why here? Why now?

Their presence, of course, had already been caught by the surveillance feed in the control room.

“Th–This is bad…”

One of the operators reached toward the direct-line button to the police.

But behind him, a tall man had crept silently into the room.

Without a sound, the man moved closer, toward the hand poised over the button.

A knife touched the man’s finger.

“!?”

The cold sensation of the blade was instantly replaced by searing heat.

The tall man had sliced the operator’s finger clean off.

A scream surged up from the pit of the operator’s stomach.

But it never escaped his mouth. With a swift motion, the man reversed the blade and slashed the operator’s throat. The scream became nothing more than a wheezing hiss, slipping out through the ragged wound in his neck.

Inside the store, the surveillance cameras began to swivel in unnatural directions.

It was the signal: the system’s heart had fallen into their hands.

Men wearing long, heavy coats, far too heavy for early summer, reached into their coats.

The security guards, who had been watching closely, stiffened with alarm.

The men slowly drew out what they were hiding.

In each hand, guns.

“LAND HO!”

With a roar, they fired into the ceiling.

Startled customers turned around to see what was happening—only to stare wide-eyed at the pistols now brandished in the air.

“Sorry to interrupt your shopping, folks; but the exit’s that way!”

With the mocking announcement, another round was fired. The bullet pierced the forehead of a life-sized idol cutout and embedded itself deep into the wall.

“It’s a robbery!”

Someone screamed, and with that scream, the panic was unleashed.

With the same force as the morning's grand opening, the customers began running for the exits.

Driven by pure, unfiltered panic, they charged blindly forward. Some slipped and fell. Others trampled right over them.

“Move it, dammit!”

“Don’t push! You’ll knock people over!”

“What the hell’s going on? Is it a fire?!”

Most of the customers had no clear grasp of the situation. They were simply being swept along by the chaos that had exploded into existence, fleeing without direction or understanding.

The carefully stacked towers of books, balanced with such effort, were smashed apart by the stampeding crowd.

On the floors below, where no one even knew yet what was happening, shouts erupted as people were slammed into by those hurtling down the stairs.

“Please don’t push! Stop pushing!”

Grinning idiotically, a man with a gun approached.

At last, a few customers began to piece together what was going on. They, too, succumbed to the spreading panic and made for the exits.

In a matter of minutes, the Babel Books sales floors had transformed into a living showcase of hellish chaos.

“Uhhh, what’s this now?”

The elevator carrying Yomiko and Nenene suddenly ground to a halt.

“What’s going on?”

Nenene pressed the emergency switch again and again. No response.

“Hellooo?”

She leaned into the emergency microphone and spoke into it, but no one answered.

“That’s so weird… Maybe it’s broken, Sensei?”

“If it’s broken, that’s a real problem.”

Having just finished paying at the register and intending to head to the signing event, Yomiko’s voice grew noticeably tense at this unexpected delay.

“It’s a problem for me too, y’know.”

All the customers who had been around earlier must have gone off to find whatever it was they were after, leaving the elevator empty save for the two of them.

Yomiko leaned in close to the microphone and shouted.

“Helloooo! Mister Elevator! Helloooo!”

Nenene winced at the outburst.

“Sensei! Yelling into it doesn’t mean someone’s going to hear you!”

“Awuuu…”

Yomiko’s face puckered into a sulky frown as she was dragged away in a headlock. She looked exactly like a scolded child.

“Maybe there’s a power outage?”

“But the lights are still on.”

“Could it have been an earthquake?”

“I didn’t feel any shaking.”

“Mmm…”

Yomiko pursed her lips in thought. Nenene, having apparently already resigned herself to their situation, leaned against the wall and sat down on the floor.

“Well, we might as well wait it out. I’m sure it’ll start moving again eventually.”

But Yomiko wasn’t ready to give up. She paced restlessly around the small elevator, dragging her suitcase behind her with a constant clatter that made the cramped space all the more irritating.

“Ugh, Sensei! Would you just calm down already?!”

“But—but, just thinking about how while we’re stuck here, Fudemura-sensei’s autographs are disappearing one by one… Ahh, it’s just too much!”

The blocked passage must have been making her anxious. Yomiko’s eyes were flitting all over the place, completely restless.

“So what? If they run out, you can just go to another signing!”

“Fudemura-sensei skips signings all the time! He’ll suddenly say he wanted to see some cranes or that he felt like playing with monkeys…”

“What is that? Some kind of animal kingdom nonsense?”

To Nenene, who hadn’t read any of Fudemura Ara’s books, those reasons were completely incomprehensible. Though even if she had read them, she probably still wouldn’t accept it.

Yomiko suddenly planted her feet, as if steeling herself.

“I’ve decided. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“What are you planning to do?”

She didn’t give a direct answer. Instead, she pushed her suitcase to the wall, stepped up onto it, and climbed on top.

“I’m going to go take a little look.”

“A little- what?!”

She removed the ceiling panel and began to hoist herself up.

“Sorry, could you hand me my suitcase?”

“Why don’t you just wait here? What’s the point of going out of your way like that?”

Yomiko smiled a little awkwardly and said,

“I know, but… I just can’t help it. I’m a fan.”

Her innocent smile sparked a twinge of envy in Nenene’s chest. After the whole thing with Marihara, what did it mean when she said she was a fan? Did she say that to every writer? Was it all the same to her?

Words along those lines nearly escaped her lips, but—

“……………………Sumiregawa-sensei?”

Yomiko, likely not thinking about anything in particular, was climbing upward when Nenene looked at her and let out a long sigh. There was no helping it—she’d have to be the adult here, even if the other woman was eight years her senior.

“Sheesh… Fine. Alright, I’ll come with you.”

“Huh? No, really, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not safe leaving you alone, Sensei. If you fell while reading the elevator’s safety instructions or something, I’d feel awful. Okay, c’mon—help pull me up from above.”

Nenene hoisted up the suitcase and held it out toward Yomiko.

Yomiko looked down at her, a faint smile forming on her face.

“Thank you very much, Sumiregawa-sensei.”

“Sumiregawa-sensei… I do have one request.”

“What is it now?”

“If you could possibly be… just a little lighter, it’d make me very happy.”

Yomiko was clinging to the inner wall of the elevator shaft, inching her way upward.

Nenene was piggybacked on her back, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. In the other, she dangled Yomiko’s suitcase.

“I’ll go on a diet next time.”

“Please doooo…”

Yomiko’s hands, wrapped in wet tissues, made soft sticking sounds as she pressed them to the wall, climbing steadily upward. The tissues didn’t peel away from the surface, as though coated in some kind of industrial-strength adhesive.

“…Sensei.”

“Yes?”

“I know I’ve asked this before, but—how can you even do stuff like this?”

"…It’s a special skill of mine."

From behind, Nenene yanked hard on Yomiko’s cheek.

"Ih hurth! Ih hurth, Shenshei!"

Yomiko’s shriek echoed through the dark shaft.

---

“Kill the cameras—NHK, CNN, and BBC are the only ones that stay live!”

John’s voice and his rifle menaced the room into silence.

“The rest of you—sorry, but you’re out of luck on this scoop!”

He let out a short, stuttering chuckle—kukuku—a sound that sent a strange chill down the spine.

“What are you planning?”

Bravely, Bukishima interjected from the side.

“That’s obvious, isn’t it? A declaration of our demands—and a ransom note.”

With NHK in front of him, CNN to the right, and BBC to the left, John stretched both arms wide.

“People watching this broadcast—consider yourselves lucky! You’re about to witness the most academically significant act of terrorism in history!”

Still holding his rifle, John gestured wildly with theatrical exaggeration. Each time the muzzle swung toward them, the reporters flinched.

“I’m John Smith! Don’t laugh—it’s my real name. And my group, Red Ink, is demanding a ransom of one hundred million dollars from the Japanese government!”

One hundred million dollars! For a moment, even the reporters forgot the danger they were in—gasps rippled through the crowd. At current exchange rates, that was 11 billion yen—the highest ransom demand in history.

“You know what the hostages are, right? The main event of today—the entire Nalnia Collection!”

“What!?”

Of course, it was Bukishima who cried out. No surprise—he was the one who had arranged for the collection to be brought into the country under his responsibility. If anything happened to it, his career—and life—would be over.

“Six hours from now, I want the full amount in Japanese yen, in cash. Deliver it to the rooftop heliport. Got it? If you’re even a minute late, I’ll scatter the collection from the top of the building. No doubt it’ll become an international incident.”

Then, turning his gaze toward BBC and CNN in turn, he continued:

“This is the first extortion in history carried out by holding cultural heritage hostage. Let’s see just how much this country is willing to pay for culture.”

A maniacal grin spread across his face.

“Wait! Where is the collection? Where are you keeping it!?”

At Bukishima’s shout, John waved a hand irritably.

“Don’t worry. My guys are keeping it safe—with the utmost care.”

“Um, how did you get past all that tight security…?”

“That was security? I’ve seen tougher setups in a high school locker room.”

At John’s scornful words, Bukishima’s face flushed red with humiliation.

“The collection was a gesture of goodwill from Nieltega! I won’t let you do whatever you please with it!”

There were surprised expressions among the gathered reporters. They could hardly believe that Bukishima—always more talk than action—was standing up to a man with a gun.

Even the grin vanished from John’s face.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

His hand moved. The gun in his grasp swung toward Bukishima.

The next moment, a short, sharp crack split the air.

Before anyone even realized what had happened, the bullet had already struck Bukishima in the chest.

“Wha…!?”

Leaving behind a question-shaped cry and expression, Bukishima crumpled to the floor. A dark red stain spread rapidly across his suit.

“Brave men die young. Got that!?”

The second half of the sentence was flung at the reporters.

As chaos erupted, the cameras from NHK, CNN, and the BBC remained rolling—unsettlingly eager as they broadcast a murder live.

Before the shock had fully settled, a brief tone rang out. John pulled a communicator from his waist.

“This is me. …Good. Let the civilians and authors go. The media here will do just fine as hostages. …Secure the floors, one by one, starting from the top.”

John ended the transmission and swept his gaze slowly over the seated reporters.

“Being the ones getting reported on for a change... it’s kind of refreshing, isn’t it?”

---

“Isn’t this weird?”

The first to notice something was off was Nenene.

Having made their way out of the elevator shaft through a side vent and into the hallway, she and Yomiko were now heading toward the autograph venue on the 35th floor.

But ever since they entered the hallway, they hadn’t seen a single person.

Not a single customer, not a clerk, not even a security guard.

“Maybe it’s lunchtime?” Yomiko offered, not sounding entirely convinced herself.

“This isn’t school. And it’s not just the staff, there aren’t any customers either. That’s what’s weird.”

The two of them had given up on the elevator and were taking the stairs. The stairwell was fairly spacious, and there were even posters along the way that read “Autograph Session Ahead.” Which made the total absence of people all the more unsettling.

“But, well, if it’s empty, that just means we’ll get our autographs quicker—and more of them too.”

“……………………”

Nenene gave Yomiko a slow, damp stare. Instinctively, Yomiko pressed a hand to her cheek.

“...You really do lose it whenever books are involved, don’t you, Sensei?”

With a sigh of resignation, Nenene shrugged. Yomiko, finally a little flustered, puffed out her cheeks in protest.

“What do you mean, ‘lose it’? I’m perfectly normal!”

“Yes, yes.”

And with that, the two of them finally arrived at the 35th floor; the autograph session venue.

“Excuse meee…”

Yomiko’s overly polite, utterly out-of-place greeting dropped to the floor unanswered, as if no one were there to catch it.

“This is the right place, right?”

Nenene double-checked the sign posted at the entrance to the venue: “Joint Autograph Session – 100 Popular Authors All Together!” Of course, the publisher had extended an invitation to her as well. But Nenene, who as a rule didn’t do signings, had politely turned them down.

That said, not every author must’ve made the same decision she had, but the spacious venue was utterly deserted.

Along the walls, the tables had been arranged in a U-shape. In front of each one hung a placard with a name like “Norikazu Mahama Sensei” or “Kaede Kaoru Sensei.”

And yet, at none of the tables sat a single author.

No, not just the authors. There wasn’t a single attendee in sight either.

Nenene checked her watch. It was just past noon. This should have been the liveliest, noisiest time of the signing session.

“What do you make of thi- wait, Sensei!?”

But Yomiko was already off and running, ignoring Nenene’s concern completely. Naturally, her destination was in the H row. “Fudemura Arashi Sensei’s” table.

“Seriously! Don’t you think this is weird!?”

But as Yomiko drew closer to the table, her pace began to slow. Her brisk run turned to a stagger, until she finally came to a stop and crumpled to her knees right there on the floor.

“What’s wrong?”

“Auuuh…”

As Nenene questioned her, Yomiko simply pointed at the table. It was the one prepared for Fudemura Arashi. But over his nameplate, someone had taped a printout, clearly made on a word processor:

“Fudemura-sensei has departed on an impromptu research trip to Tibet for the development of his next work. We sincerely apologize for the sudden schedule change and ask for the understanding of all his fans.”

Nenene read the message and gave a nod of acceptance.

“Ah… so he wasn’t going to be here either way.”

“But I was so, so looking forward to getting his autograph…”

Yomiko pulled a paperback from her coat pocket and began to sob softly. The title read Space Violence: Cosmic Dynamite Bastard. It wasn’t what you’d call a tastefully named book, and the contents did nothing to improve that impression.

But to Yomiko, he was one of her beloved authors. Someone she simply couldn’t help but admire and follow.

People’s tastes, after all, are often inexplicable.

“Well, anyway…”

Nenene let out a sigh and hauled Yomiko upright as she collapsed in despair.

“Let’s check the floor downstairs. I don’t feel right until we at least see someone down here.”

At that, Yomiko suddenly lit up, as if she’d remembered something.

“That’s right! The Narnia Collection exhibition is still going on here!”

It might’ve dropped in her priority list, but when one hears of the private collection of the Crown Prince of Narnia, an internationally renowned bibliophile; even someone like Yomiko, mad for books, would be practically foaming at the mouth to see it.

“There’s no time to lose, Sumiregawa-san!”

“It’s not like we have to rush. It’s not as if the exhibit is going to—”

“It will run away! That’s how books are!”

Yomiko yanked along her suitcase and took off running. It wasn’t the full-speed dash she’d done at the store’s opening, but it was still impressively fast.

“Hey, slow down! Sensei!”

Nenene tried to stop her, but Yomiko was already nearing the entrance.

And then, suddenly, a figure stepped out in front of her.

“Gyah!”

Yomiko slammed straight into the person and went sprawling backward in a dramatic tumble. Her trusty suitcase tipped over and clattered to the ground beside her.

But the shadowy figure didn’t escape unscathed either. No matter how small-framed, a full-grown human crashing into you is no joke. The figure was sent flying backward, mirroring Yomiko’s fall almost perfectly, and likewise dropped their own suitcase in the process.

“S-sorry about that…”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, bitch!?”

The furious shout came in English, and it was very foul-mouthed.

Yomiko’s cheeks turned crimson, not from anger, but from the crude language.

“U-um… I mean, I am sorry I ran into you, but calling someone a… a female… dog right off the bat… I think that’s kind of uncalled for, don’t you?”

It was only then that Yomiko finally realized the person she’d crashed into was a foreign man.

“So you’re still skulking around up here… Get down to the lower floors, now!”

“Huh?”

The strange, aggressive tone behind the man’s words left Yomiko blinking in confusion, unable to fully grasp what he meant.

Behind her, Nenene finally caught up.

“Oh, thank god. There are people here.”

She commented with a perspective slightly out of step with the situation, coming to stand behind Yomiko.

“Hurry it up!”

The man reached into his coat. Instinctively, Yomiko sprang to her feet.

And what he pulled out… was a handgun.

“!”

“!?”

Wordless exclamation marks hung over both Yomiko’s and Nenene’s heads.

“Shut up and do what you’re told!”

“Wha—why!?”

Nenene’s voice rose, full of confusion and protest.

“Shut it! Don’t talk!”

The gun, almost naturally, now pointed more toward Nenene than Yomiko.

“Why the hell are you carrying a gun!? Who even are you!?”

Because the man was shouting in English, his threats weren’t getting through clearly to Nenene. That misunderstanding was putting her in real danger.

She was now facing a situation where being shot was very much on the table.

“She doesn’t understand English. Please, just put the gun down!”

“Don’t give me orders!”

The man was clearly rattled, unnerved by this unexpected encounter. Most likely he was even more agitated than Yomiko or Nenene.

“Sumiregawa-sensei, please don’t say anything!”

“Sensei, who is this guy!?”

Nenene, unable to hold it in, pointed at the man. It wasn’t much of a gesture—but it was more than enough to set him off.

The finger on the trigger twitched.

“!?”

An instant before the shot rang out, Yomiko’s hand dove into her coat.

Her fingers brushed against a book. No time to check what it was—she yanked it out.

The man’s gun fired.

Nenene squeezed her eyes shut on reflex. In that moment, Yomiko thrust the book she’d grabbed in front of Nenene.

The bullet tore through the air, straight toward Nenene’s face.

But at the very last second, the book intercepted it.

A pistol round may not be the most powerful in the world, but it was still a bullet—and fired from this close, no ordinary book could have stopped it.

Yet the bullet did stop. It had no choice.

Because of the special power imbued in the book Yomiko held.

The man stared in disbelief, as if watching a bad joke unfold, seeing his bullet be halted midflight by nothing more than a paperback.

Nenene opened her eyes and found herself staring at the spine of the book in Yomiko’s hand.

Neither of them said a word.

The first to break the silence was Yomiko, standing between them.

“Ahhh—!”

Her voice was closer to a scream.

Because she had just realized which book she’d used to block the bullet.

It was none other than the copy of Space Violence: Galaxy Dynamite Guy by Fudemura Arashi—the one she’d brought in hopes of getting signed.

“Ah—ahh!?”

While the two of them stood frozen in shock, Yomiko quickly flipped through the book.

The bullet had punched a neat, insulting hole straight through the center. It had torn from the cover all the way to three pages before the end.

“This book’s out of print…!”

Tears welled up and spilled from her eyes in uneven sobs. Almost every one of Fudemura Arashi’s books went out of print shortly after release. If you missed your chance to buy it, tracking down another copy was an uphill battle.

The man finally snapped out of it. He seemed to decide that he’d put what had just happened on a mental shelf for now, and raised his gun again to fire another shot. This time, the target was not Nenene—but Yomiko.

“Sensei—!”

Nenene shouted, trying to snap her out of her daze.

“Ughh!”

Yomiko was in shock—but she hadn’t completely lost touch with reality.

“Hyah!”

With a bizarre shriek, Yomiko batted the incoming bullet out of the air—again, using a book, as casually as if swatting a fly.

The man’s mouth dropped even further open. He was going to need a second shelf in that mental cabinet of his.

“This is all your fault! You understand that, don’t you!?”

Her words were polite, but Yomiko was clearly furious—a rare thing indeed.

She strode straight toward the man, completely ignoring the gun pointed at her.

“This book’s publisher went bankrupt, so I can’t even reorder it! The print run was tiny so it barely shows up in used bookstores either! I came all this way just to get it signed, ‘cause I was gonna make it a treasure!”

The reproach, wildly off-point, was something the man couldn’t begin to understand.

“Wh—what are you!?”

A question he himself now found flung at her—the very one he’d shouted at them a minute earlier.

“I’m a fan of Fudemura-sensei!”

That was one part of who she was—and not even a particularly important one.

Whether he found the answer unsatisfactory or simply lost interest, the man once again attempted to resolve the situation with his handgun, undeterred by everything he’d just witnessed.

“Honestly! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

And with that, Yomiko’s psyche finally passed its critical limit.

She tore a page from the book, rolled it swiftly into a cone, and threw it.

It struck the barrel of the gun with uncanny precision, lodging itself inside and blocking the next shot.

The man’s face faltered. It was paper. Just paper. There was no way it could cause a misfire. And yet—everything he’d seen up to now defied reason. That absurdity stayed his finger on the trigger.

That hesitation would end up deciding his fate.

A square-shaped iron hammer came flying at his face. More specifically, it was none other than Space Violence: Cosmic Dynamite Bastard by Fudemura Arashi (out of print).

The garish illustration on the cover—some sneering man grinning against a starfield—swallowed his field of vision. The bullet still lodged in the center of the book struck him square on the nose, and he saw sparks explode behind his eyes.

“Ahhh… I can’t even read it anymore…”

Yomiko clutched Dynamite Bastard in her arms, sobbing softly, her tears soaking into the ruined book. The cover was stained with the man’s nosebleed. The center of the book was pierced clean through with a bullet hole, and to make things worse, she had torn out the ending.

Sure, in the moment, she’d had no other choice. There was no other choice… but still…

“…Who was that guy, anyway?”

Illustration

Nenene stood looking down at the unconscious man, who now sported a square-shaped bruise across his face.

“Any idea who he was?”

“Not really…”

“You think it’s got something to do with why everyone’s gone?”

“Maybe…”

Yomiko’s reply lacked her usual energy. She still hadn’t fully recovered from the shock.

“We should probably tell the police—”

Just as Nenene, ever the voice of reason, began to suggest the proper course of action, a new voice echoed from the end of the hallway.

“Hey!”

A suited foreigner was striding toward them.

“Oh, perfect timing. Excuse me—”

Nenene raised her hand and waved broadly. But as she did, something buzzed past her like a hornet.

“…Huh?”

It struck the wall behind them, leaving a small hole.

Another bullet.

“You’re assholes!” the man shouted, hurling the insult in broken English as he advanced. His demeanor was nearly identical to the man now collapsed at their feet.

“Sensei!”

“Yes!?”

Nenene grabbed Yomiko’s hand and bolted down the opposite hall.

“Ah—m-my case!”

Yomiko reached out and managed to snag the suitcase by the handle. It was packed with the books she’d bought at the rare book market… and the “paper” that served as her weapon of choice.

“They’re working together—move it!”

As if to confirm Nenene’s deduction, the man opened fire. Fortunately, there was a corner just ahead.

Yomiko and Nenene immediately ducked behind it and dashed down the emergency stairwell.

“Faaack!”

The man who had just arrived kicked the unconscious one aside in frustration.

“Carlos! Get up!”

The man called Carlos began to stir.

“Was that a dream? Richard, tell me I had a bad dream…”

Richard spat on the floor and cursed.

“I don’t give a shit about your dreams. Who were those women!?”

“Those women…?”

Carlos’s expression shifted as though he were recalling what had happened just before he lost consciousness.

“It wasn’t a dream… She’s a witch. A witch who uses paper!”

“You high or something?”

Richard didn’t bother to hide his suspicion as he stared at Carlos. No unusual dilation in his pupils—he didn’t seem to be on any drugs.

“Whatever. John wants us to finish the setup, now. Where’s the package?”

“Ah, right… over there…”

Still visibly dazed, Carlos pointed to the suitcase lying where it had been flung across the floor.

The suitcase lay toppled on the ground.

“Things have taken an interesting turn.”

In the conference room of the British Library’s Special Operations Division, Japan Branch, a group of men were watching the rapidly unfolding situation.

“This sort of incident is a first for Japan.”

“Indeed. It’ll be something to see how the Japanese government responds.”

“The real question is, do those old books actually hold that much value?”

“In this case, the bigger issue is international public opinion. The government will do everything it can to resolve the situation for the sake of national pride—whether by money or by force, who can say.”

“Gentlemen.”

The flurry of conversation came to a halt at a single word from The Gentleman.

“If it were up to you, how would you resolve this situation?”

The silver-haired man raised his hand.

“We will suppress it using a special task force. The hostages’ lives will be our highest priority, with the collection placed second.”

“And your reason for that priority?”

“Because human lives are more valuable than anything else.”

The Gentleman fell silent for a moment, as though tasting the words and weighing them carefully.

“…MI6 has grown quite humanitarian, it seems.”

The silver-haired man’s brow twitched. He had caught the note of sarcasm in The Gentleman’s voice.

“Sir. That may be, but what I said is simply the logical conclusion.”

“It’s perfectly logical. Which is why it’s so dreadfully dull.”

“For a man who claims to love peace, that’s a rather surprising thing to say.”

The air in the room took on a hardened edge as the exchange between the silver-haired man and the Gentleman unfolded.

It was Joker who diffused the tension.

“Mr. Gentleman.”

“What is it?”

“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t assign a priority.”

A faint murmur rippled through the room.

“You mean to say you’d place the collection and the hostages on equal footing?”

The one who responded wasn’t the Gentleman, but the silver-haired man.

“That’s not what I meant. There’s no need to assign priorities at all. With our Special Operations Division’s The Paper on the case, both the hostages and the collection can be retrieved without so much as a scratch.”

The murmur swelled into a stir.

“You speak rather boldly.”

“With absolute confidence.”

Brushing off the silver-haired man with ease, Joker turned back to the Gentleman.

“What do you think, Mister? May I entrust this incident to The Paper? And, if possible, submit the results for consideration in your upcoming operation?”

From between the folds of his wrinkles, the Gentleman glared at Joker.

“A most intriguing proposal.”

“Mister!”

The silver-haired man nearly shouted, as if about to leap from his seat.

“Very well. Give it a try.”

“Thank you.”

Joker smiled, his greatest weapon was his charm, and made his declaration.

“I hereby order The Paper to mobilize. In the name of the British Library Special Operations Division’s honor.”

Richard opened the suitcase.

Inside was a tightly packed collection of folded newspapers, Post-its, notepaper, A4 copy paper, paperbacks, and light novels.

But one crucial item was missing.

“In other words,” He said, “you’re telling me that woman beat the hell out of you and took the case, is that it, Carlos?”

Carlos, his face pale, answered in a small voice.

“She didn’t take it... I think... she must’ve grabbed it by mistake. The cases looked similar…”

“So you’re not denying she beat the crap out of you, huh? Hmph.”

Richard didn’t bother hiding the contempt in his voice or his expression.

“In that case, my orders are simple…”

He leaned in close, shouting so furiously that spittle flew from his lips.

“Find her! Take it back! And kill her!”

Carlos flinched and nodded, his body rigid.

As Richard moved to roughly shut the suitcase, something gave him pause.

“…………………………”

He stared into the case again, scanning it from end to end.

Someone had once used things like this. A long time ago.

“Carlos…”

Richard called out just as Carlos was about to leave the room.

“Tell me again. What kind of magic did that woman use?”

Forty floors above ground level, a bookstore like this had all sorts of unusual features, and the twenty-third floor, where Yomiko and Nenene finally arrived, turned out to be one such place.

“What is this... a hotel?”

It was a floor of one-room hotel suites, available for rest or overnight stays. Presumably, it was meant for guests to relax after buying large hauls of books.

“A bookstore that even has lodging… You’d never be able to leave once you came in,” Nenene muttered.

And right on cue, Yomiko was beside her, her eyes shimmering with dreamy delight.

“Wonderful… If I stayed here, I could just read and buy and read and buy and read and buy for the rest of my life…”

“Get a grip, Sensei. …Doesn’t seem like they followed us, though. Think we’re safe to hide out here for now?”

Nenene peeked into the lobby and switched on the TV that had been set up.

Before long, the screen displayed a tense-looking newscaster.

“We now interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you a special news report. Earlier today, the newly opened large-scale bookstore ‘Babel Books’ was taken over by terrorists.”

“!”

Yomiko and Nenene looked at each other.

“The group, calling themselves ‘Red Ink,’ has issued a demand to the Japanese government for a ransom of 11 billion yen. If their demands are not met, they claim they will destroy the rare books on loan for today’s event from the Crown Prince of Narnia’s private collection.”

“Wait, those guys were terrorists!?”

Nenene's eyes widened—she had assumed at most they were just robbers or something.

“Because news crews from various networks are still inside the building, the police are being forced to proceed with extreme caution. Now, over to you, Isozaki-san, on the scene.”

The screen switched to a slightly overweight reporter with glasses. Behind him was a very familiar building—of course it was familiar; it was none other than Babel Books, the very building they were currently in.

“This is Isozaki. Right now, Babel Books has been surrounded by dispatched police forces and the riot squad.”

Sure enough, police vehicles could be seen at the edge of the screen.

“It appears that the general public—those who had come to shop—have already been released. However, we’ve received word of multiple casualties, including the man in charge, Mr. Buzushima.”

The footage then abruptly switched to the moment Buzushima was shot by John Smith.

“!?”

The two, having never seen this before, were visibly shaken. Especially for Yomiko—it had only been a couple of hours since she’d been chatting with the man.

“Police are focusing their efforts on resolving the situation with top priority on preserving the hostages’ lives. As of now, we have not yet received any statement from the Kingdom of Narnia.”

Whether it was the sticky pre-rainy season air, or the crowd-generated heat pressing in, sweat was beading visibly on the reporter’s forehead.

And just from watching, a small bead of sweat also formed on Nenene’s brow.

“Terrorists… in a bookstore… for real?”

“Japan’s really gotten dangerous these days, hasn’t it…” Yomiko replied, sounding strangely detached.

“Then that guy earlier must’ve been one of them too.”

“Most likely…”

“So what now? How do we get out of here?”

“…………………………”

Yomiko furrowed her brows in thought.

It was at that moment that something changed on the TV screen.

The police squad, the crowds, and the broadcast crew all suddenly turned their eyes to the sky.

“What the hell is that!?”

Isozaki, forgetting he was still live on air, looked up. The camera lens tilted to follow his gaze.

“!?”

When had it arrived?

Above them floated the massive shape of a blimp.

“What kind of airship shows up at a time like this!?”

“Do they have clearance? Did they get authorization for that!?”

Snatches of agitated voices—presumably from security personnel—bled into the broadcast.

Yomiko and Nenene also turned to face the large window set into the wall of their hotel floor.

There it was—hovering just slightly above the height of the building—a blimp flying unusually low. It didn’t have any visible writing, unlike those used for advertisements. A mysterious, unmarked airship. The scene below was growing increasingly agitated in response.

“What on earth is that? Could it be connected to the incident?”

Even the reporter's voice wavered with uncertainty.

“…………………………”

Everyone stared up at the sky, wondering what this sudden vessel was going to do.

And then, something began to fall from the bottom of the airship—thin, square, white slips of paper.

“Paper…?” Nenene murmured.

Hundreds upon hundreds of sheets poured down from the ship’s underbelly. It had been a long time since anyone had seen flyers scattered like this—like a department store promotion drifting over a downtown street corner…

There had been a time when stores scattered flyers like this—but now, no one used such outdated promotional methods.

The sheets fluttered gently, tossed by the wind as they drifted to the ground.

Some people picked them up.

“What the hell is this?”

But not a single one of them could grasp the paper’s meaning.

And that was only natural—because these papers had been scattered for the sake of one person alone.

“I wonder what that is…”

Nenene pressed herself against the window, trying to make out the writing printed on the falling sheets. But with the way the paper danced erratically in the wind, it was nearly impossible to read.

Beside her, Yomiko also stared intently at the drifting paper.

“…………………………”

“…Sensei?”

At that moment, a gust of wind blew—toward the building.

The air caught the flyers, sending them spinning against the glass.

One of them stuck flat against the window where they stood, and through the pane, they could read the printed words:

“THE PAPER NOW ON SALE!”

“!”

That was all it said. It looked like a newspaper ad slogan—but Yomiko knew exactly what the words really meant.

It was a secret code used by the British Library Special Operations Division. And its true message was…

“Sensei?”

Nenene had noticed it—noticed the change in Yomiko after she read the flyer.

The dreamy, floaty air about her had vanished. And now, behind those eyes, a sharp gleam had begun to burn.

Yomiko was no longer the same.

Yomiko Readman: no longer just a book lover, but once again The Paper.

“Was it really necessary to send such a conspicuous message?”

The Silver Haired man cast a sarcastic glance toward Joker.

“With that kind of method, it’s guaranteed to reach her no matter where she is,” Joker replied.

“That might work if she were outside. But what if she’s still inside the building? There’d be no way for her to receive the flyer.”

A perfectly reasonable objection—but Joker parried it with a smile.

“Don’t worry. All paper is on her side.”

———

Yomiko had laid her suitcase on its side. Now that the mission had begun, it was time to prepare.

“Sumiregawa-san, please stay hidden here. It’s dangerous.”

“No.”

Nenene flatly refused Yomiko’s unusually serious instruction.

Yomiko’s hands froze just as she was about to open the case.

“Sensei, you’re about to do something, right? No way I’m letting that slip by.”

Nenene’s expression was alive with curiosity—and there was no chance she’d be talked out of it.

“I’m not kidding. It’s really dangerous. Please listen to your teacher—”

“You’re not my teacher anymore, Sensei.”

It sounded contradictory at first, but somehow Nenene’s logic still made sense.

“Ugh… I’m going to fight terrorists, you know! This isn’t the time to be selfish—”

Yomiko’s sentence cut off as she opened the case, because there was something unfamiliar inside.

The suitcase was supposed to contain her favorite things: newspapers used as bedding, cherished books, memos, Post-its, and stacks of copy paper—her everyday companions.

But now, nestled inside, was a rectangular object the color of pale ochre, wrapped in protective padding.

“What’s that?”

A scene replayed itself in Yomiko’s mind like a flash of lightning.

That moment in the hallway outside the autograph area—when she and Nenene had been fleeing from that man.

In her haste, she’d grabbed a suitcase lying on the floor… But that had been his suitcase!

“I… grabbed the wrong one…”

Yomiko slumped forward with a look that could only be described as ‘whoops’.

“The case? Back then? Well, we were in a rush.”

Nenene casually reached into the suitcase and picked up the object. It had a soft, clay-like elasticity to it.

“So, what is it?”

Yomiko dug into the back of her memory. Long ago, during a brief stint with the intelligence agency—MI6—she remembered seeing something like it.

“I think… that might be plastic explosives.”

“B–b–bomb!?”

Nenene, startled, dropped the object without thinking.

“!”

The blood drained from her face, and her heart turned to ice.

But the thing simply landed with a dull splut, sticking to the floor without so much as a spark.

“It’s okay. It won’t explode unless it has a detonator attached. …Or, well, that’s what I read in the instruction manual once.”

“Sensei… what kind of place even has bomb instruction manuals?”

Nenene clutched her still-pounding chest.

Yomiko didn’t answer. Instead, she knit her brows.

“Which means… my case is…”

“They’re the ones who took it, right?”

“Aaaaugh!”

Yomiko clutched her head and thrashed her upper body back and forth.

“And after I went through all the trouble! All the trouble! Of finally finding that book!”

“That book?”

Needless to say, she meant the Sobakasu-sensei she’d discovered at the rare book market.

Giving up on it wasn’t an option for Yomiko. No way, no how. Now that it had come to this, she’d simply have to get it back. Her mission and her passion had, at last, aligned in perfect harmony.

Stowing the plastic explosive back in the suitcase, she muttered to herself.

“…Anyway, I need to resupply my paper stash.”

Right now, she hardly had any paper on hand. Normally, she’d keep as many books as she could fit in her coat pockets, but since it was the day of the rare book fair, she’d packed them all into the case.

And as for her wallet… well, thanks to buying out half the rare book market, she only had one or two bills remaining.

But still, this was a bookstore. And not just any bookstore, but the largest in history.

If they could just get to a floor above or below, paper would be in endless supply.

“For now, we move.”

“Yeah!”

Nenene stood up. Yomiko looked at her with a half-defeated expression.

“…It can’t be helped, but don’t stray from my side, okay?”

“Got it!”

Nenene promptly clung tightly to Yomiko’s arm.

“Th–that’s not what I meant!”

Yomiko flushed red. Just then, behind her, there came a soft pon—an electronic chime.

She turned around and saw the elevator doors just beginning to open.

“!”

Damn. If the building had been taken over, then the control center had to be in enemy hands. That meant the hall’s power, the security cameras—everything was likely under surveillance. The elevator stopping earlier had to be their doing. And now, it had started moving again...

As if to confirm her worst suspicions, the elevator doors slid fully open.

Inside stood several men, guns raised. Every finger rested on a trigger.

“Sumiregawa-sensei!”

Yomiko grabbed Nenene and yanked her with all her strength—

They tumbled backward down the hallway, practically in each other’s arms. The suitcase bounced after them.

Not a second later, a hail of bullets tore into the space where they had just been standing.

“It’s her! Kill her!”

With Carlos at the lead, the men burst out onto the floor. Trampling across the carpet now riddled with bullet holes, they charged in pursuit of the vanished pair.

“Sumiregawa-sensei, please!”

Yomiko handed off the suitcase to Nenene and leapt for the nearest door.

Predictably, it was locked.

“!”

In a flash, she pulled a 10,000 yen bill from her wallet and slid it between the door and the frame. Chin—a short metallic snap—and the lock broke open.

As she threw the door open, the sound of the men's footsteps thundered from down the hall.

“Get in!”

She yanked Nenene inside and slammed the door shut behind them.

She could feel the harsh vibration of bullets gouging into the outer surface of the door.

She scanned the cramped single-room space. Beside the bed, near the phone, was a notepad set. Yomiko snatched it up. Only five sheets.

“To the window!”

She gave the order to Nenene, and began tearing the memo paper and sticking the pieces over the crack between the door and wall. How much time would this buy them?

Even as she worked, bullets continued to pound against the door with a dull thudding sound.

The room had only a desk, a chair, a TV, and a bed.

“Paper! Or books—anything!”

Nenene yanked open the drawer of the desk. Inside was only a pamphlet about the hotel’s amenities. And worse—it had been folded into thirds and was laminated in plastic. That meant Yomiko’s powers wouldn’t work on it.

The door began to scream. The memo paper acting as a stopper had reached its limit; its corners were already starting to peel away.

“………………!”

She opened her wallet. The only bill left was a single 5,000 yen note. Even if she tore it up and used it, it would only buy them a brief moment at best.

“Sensei…”

Even Nenene was showing signs of real unease now.

“It’s okay… It’s going to be okay…”

Yomiko’s brain was working at full throttle. Outside the window was a balcony. From the 23rd floor to the ground, it had to be at least eighty meters. There had to be some way to escape…

“!”

A spark of inspiration lit up in Yomiko’s mind.

“Sumiregawa-san! Out—get outside!”

She unlocked the door to the balcony and shoved Nenene out onto it. Then, without hesitation, she dashed straight for the hallway where the door was groaning under pressure.

“Sensei!”

The door’s cries became a death scream.

The memo paper peeled away.

“Outta the way!”

The door, hanging on the verge of collapse, was kicked in with the sole of Carlos’s boot.

Slamming shut the bathroom door that had been left ajar near the entrance, the men surged into the room like a flood.

“—You!”

Carlos and the others all saw it at once—Yomiko was climbing over the balcony railing. Clinging tightly to her back, arms wrapped around her shoulders, was Nenene with the suitcase gripped firmly in her hands.

A suicide!?

“Hand over the case!”

“………………”

Without replying, Yomiko launched herself into the air.

“Hyann!”

Apparently, the fear had finally struck her—Nenene gave a short yelp from behind.

“Damn it!”

If the case fell outside, retrieving it would become a nightmare. Carlos and the others rushed toward the balcony.

“Hey!”

One of the men behind him noticed it first—the white cloth trailing from the iron railing.

“!?”

Leaning out over the railing, Carlos was met with a sight far beyond his expectations.

Yomiko and Nenene, whom he had assumed had crashed to the ground, were instead dangling from the outer wall roughly five floors below. Around their waists was a white length that extended from the railing above.

No—wait. It wasn’t cloth.

It wasn’t cloth at all.

It was paper. A very, very familiar paper.

Toilet paper!

Yomiko had taken the toilet paper from the bathroom and used it as a lifeline to leap from the balcony!

Of course, toilet paper on its own couldn’t possibly have that kind of strength. It was purely the result of Yomiko’s abilities as a papermaster.

Far below, even the police and media crews had now noticed the spectacle. As she dangled against the outer wall, Yomiko pulled a 5,000 yen bill from her pocket and used it to draw a circle on the glass before her.

“Sh–shoot them!”

Snapped back to reality, Carlos and the others aimed their guns downward.

But a split second earlier, the two women had slipped inside the building through the hole in the window. The stray bullets, now without a target, were wasted as they scattered toward the ground.

“Tch!”

In frustration, Carlos yanked on the toilet paper tied to the railing—only for it to tear feebly. Yomiko’s ability had been released.

“Damn it! That witch—!”

“No. She’s not a witch.”

Behind Carlos, John stepped forward.

“With skill like that, there’s no mistake. She’s a papermaster. That’s worse than a witch—far more troublesome.”

John plucked the scrap of paper off the railing. Something black had caught his eye on it.

“How the hell are we supposed to get the bomb back from someone that dangerous?”

Unfolding the crumpled paper, John scanned its surface—and then answered cheerfully.

“Don’t worry. Even papermasters have their weaknesses.”

There, written with the room’s complimentary pen, was a message left on the paper:

"I’ll be taking my book back."

A challenge, if ever there was one—and it made John grin.

Below, a buzz rose through the crowds. Following the shock of the woman’s bungee jump off the balcony, the mastermind behind the terrorist incident had just revealed himself. The news show’s live coverage—

The press stirred, the police squad tensed.

John noticed an armored vehicle idling behind the lines of riot officers.

“Well now... They’re ready to act sooner than I thought.”

He tossed the remark offhandedly, as if he'd anticipated this all along, then barked an order to the man standing at his back.

“Get floors one through five into combat readiness.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode back inside.

“I’ll show them the most literary terrorism the world has ever seen.”

“She’s moved—The Paper is in play.”

The footage of Yomiko leaping from the balcony played over and over on every station.

In the conference room with Gentleman, the men watched it and voiced their opinions one after another.

“Isn’t getting filmed while in action a major slip-up for an agent?”

“It’s only her back, and the zoom is pulled wide. There’s no risk of facial recognition. That girl with her serves as additional cover, too.”

“But that girl’s a civilian, isn’t she? Drawing a civilian into an active operation is a serious complication.”

“Think back to the next scene—they’re fired upon by the terrorist on the balcony. That means she saved the girl from an armed threat. The public will see it favorably.”

Joker parried the barrage of concerns with all the cleverness at his disposal. But even so, he felt the firm weight of a solid first step.

Gentleman said nothing, eyes fixed on the screen. The final decision would rest with him alone.

All Joker could do now was follow Yomiko’s every move, completely and faithfully.

That, in this situation, was what teamwork meant.

There was only one thing Joker still worried about: that girl. Although he had just covered for her, he could only hope she wouldn’t become a liability when the time came. Perhaps she’d even need support.

Joker engaged another part of his mind and began running new simulations.

“Waaah! Waaah! That scared me!” Nenene gasped as she leapt back inside through the hole in the window glass, finally exhaling deeply. It seemed she had been holding her breath the entire time. The dive using toilet paper had been more thrilling than expected, her face flushed from the excitement.

“I really thought you were dead for sure!” Nenene exclaimed.

“I won’t die,” Yomiko replied firmly. “I’ve decided I won’t die until I’ve read every unread book in the world.”

“So that means you’ll never die…” Nenene teased, starting to unwrap the toilet paper wrapped around her body. The weight of two people had taken its toll; tears were visible in several places on the paper, making reuse a doubtful prospect.

“Sensei, do you have any paper money on you?”

“After using the convenience store, I only have coins. I do have a card, though.”

Nenene’s hopeful suggestion was dashed by the fact that cards wouldn’t help in this situation.

“Somewhere… I’ll need to find more paper again…”

It seemed she had ended up in a hallway. Yomiko gave the ceiling a quick once-over. No surveillance cameras in sight. She could easily get more books if she went to the sales floor, but there was a real risk of being spotted by one of the shoplifting prevention cameras. This was something that had to be handled delicately.

“What should we do…” Yomiko murmured, tapping her chin in thought.

“Sensei! Look! That!” Nenene cried, pointing out the window.

Down below, the armored vehicle had begun to move. It seemed it was preparing to breach the building from the first floor.

“To think we’d see something like this in Japan…”

“That’s an inappropriate thing to say, Sumiregawa-san,” Yomiko scolded gently—but even she was transfixed by the unfolding clash below.

In the control room, monitors showed the armored vehicle approaching from the front, from the upper right, and from the upper left. It looked like the vehicle was planning to march in proudly through the front entrance.

The man stationed at the operator console contacted John.

“They’re coming through the front. So, what shall we read them before bed?”

Suppressing a laugh, John answered,

“An encyclopedia. There’s no book better for putting someone to sleep.”

“Roger.”

The operator relayed orders to the team stationed on the second floor.

The nearly pristine automatic doors at the building’s front entrance shattered to pieces.

Jagged shards rained down onto the magazines strewn across the floor, catching and scattering the dim light.

The first-floor lobby was buried beneath magazines and books discarded by fleeing patrons, to the point where the floor was no longer visible.

The armored vehicle rolled straight ahead, crushing the innocent books beneath its treads. There was no other way forward.

Strangely, there was no resistance. The vehicle made it to the central staircase without a single shot fired. This staircase opened up into the second floor—specifically, the magazine section. However, with the lights above completely out, nothing could be seen from below.

The side hatch of the armored vehicle swung open, and several riot officers emerged. They moved cautiously, eyes scanning the surroundings—but there were no signs of life.

“…Something’s not right.”

One officer muttered under his breath to no one in particular. The forest of books around them was eerily silent.

Red Ink was a terrorist organization unlike any other—leaving swaths of victims behind through their unprecedented attacks. Each operation had a defined “concept.” These so-called “artists of assassination” were immune to conventional counterterrorism strategies.

The officers knew this, and yet they had no choice but to proceed with standard tactics.

“……………………”

An unnerving minute passed.

Should they spread out and scout the area? Call in reinforcements to charge the stairwell?

They were still wavering—when it happened.

A thunderous noise erupted from the top of the stairs.

“!”

It was a wave. A tsunami of books. Hundreds—no, thousands—came surging down the steps in a relentless avalanche.

“What the hell!?”

Crunch. Crack. A low, thunderous series of sounds echoed through the lobby. The books were all hefty volumes—encyclopedias and the like. Having braced themselves for gunfire, the officers were momentarily stunned, unable to grasp the situation. Their mouths hung open as they froze in place.

The wave of books poured swiftly down the staircase, flooding the floor below. On top of that, a second wave of dictionaries cascaded down. This flood of accumulated knowledge crashed upon the armored vehicle and the officers like a living avalanche.

“!? Fall back!”

Only when they were already surrounded did they realize it was a trap.

Encyclopedias are heavy. Lavishly bound with thick covers and filled with high-quality paper, they weigh several times more than a normal book. Now, thousands—tens of thousands—were swallowing the floor in every direction.

“Reverse! Get us out of here, now!”

The order was given, and the armored vehicle attempted to back away. But the tires simply spun in place, kicking up shredded pages like splashes of water—unable to gain any traction, as if mired in a bog.

“Gh…damn it…!”

The riot officers struggled to retreat, wading through the sea of encyclopedias up to their knees.

Books meant to enlighten the mind had become devastating weapons, overwhelming them by sheer physical mass.

Back in the control room, watching the scene on the monitors, John let out a delighted laugh.

“If used right, books really can be weapons. These are doing the job of sandbags… but unlike sandbags, these burn real well.”

A devil’s grin split his face, teeth nearly bared.

At the top of the staircase, a silhouette appeared and began to pour liquid over the piles of encyclopedias. The pungent, unmistakable odor hit the officers at once.

“Gasoline!?”

In the next instant, a serpent of flame slithered across the stacked encyclopedias.

“Uwah—!! AAAAAHH!!”

With a sudden whoomph, flames burst upward. From the shattered front entrance came soldiers engulfed in fire, flailing and writhing as they rolled across the floor in desperate attempts to extinguish the blaze.

“Put it out—hurry!!”

Police officers rushed forward, slapping at the burning men with coats and blankets. Somehow, they managed to smother the flames, but the wounded officers continued to groan in agony.

“Get them to the hospital—move!”

Deeper inside the entrance, the armored vehicle was aflame, the surrounding encyclopedias licking at it with scorching heat.

Then the fire reached the engine compartment.

With a thunderous blast, the armored vehicle erupted in a fiery explosion.

“Whoa!”

A blast of hot wind burst out through the entrance, scattering flaming fragments of paper. The second squad of officers—who had been lining up for a follow-up incursion—were blown backward, collapsing in disarray.

Just hours ago, Commander Busujima had stood at this very entrance, cutting the ribbon to commemorate the store’s grand opening.

Now, that same front hall had become a battlefield.

“Damn, that’s awesome! Seriously—freakin’ awesome!”

John looked about ready to clap in pure delight.

“I mean, I’ve always loved the Bible and porno mags, but I never knew encyclopedias could be this useful!”

He was deeply satisfied with the strategy he’d devised—a tactic that would go down in the history of terrorism.

He opened a line to the control room.

“Turn on the sprinklers. That oughta cool it down! With this, those bastards should keep their heads down for a while!”

---

Nenene was speechless.

It was like watching a scene straight out of an action movie—only it was unfolding directly beneath her feet.

The armored vehicle had charged in and then never reemerged. Then, out of nowhere, people came hurtling out, completely engulfed in flames. The final punctuation was an explosion so massive it rocked the entire building.

“What the hell… is going on down there…?”

Even her active imagination couldn’t process what she’d just witnessed. The reality defied belief, and Nenene could only stand there in dazed confusion.

“…Unforgivable…”

Yomiko’s muttered words made it clear she hadn’t even heard Nenene.

She had seen it. Amid the flames and the blast, books had scattered through the air.

She knew what had happened. John and the others had misused them—those precious books.

“To treat books like that… how could they…? What do they even think books are?”

“Sensei?”

Nenene could feel the heat coming off Yomiko—palpable, seething.

“I am truly, deeply angry now. Those people… they’re enemies of books!”

“Honestly, I think they’re enemies of way more than just books. I mean—they’re terrorists.”

But her comment didn’t seem to register with Yomiko. The paper user clenched her fists, her voice rising with conviction.

“I can’t forgive them. I won’t forgive them. For the books that perished in those flames—and for the sorrow of the innocent people caught in the crossfire—I will see justice done!”