"You're a monster…"
Miss Kushida, sprawled out like a puddle of mud, made no attempt to maintain her image as she lay there, breathing unevenly.
"I'm telling you, being too quick is a problem, but that doesn't mean lasting forever isn't one too," she turned her head and grumbled. "You seriously need to see a doctor."
"Otherwise I feel like I'm going to die here."
Asakusa Tōru got up, pulled the blanket over Kushida—who looked like she'd definitely catch a cold—and conveniently dragged her into his arms so he could share the blanket as well.
Lowering his head to her ear, he blew lightly against it before whispering:
"Big sis, you're just too weak~"
"Such a little minnow."
He'd expected Kushida to explode again, maybe punch him a few times, or at least pinch his thigh in retaliation.
But unexpectedly, the girl in his arms didn't react at all.
He looked down.
She'd fallen asleep again.
…Probably overexerted.
Well.
No need to wake her.
He might as well check the notification he'd ignored earlier.
In fact, ever since he finished writing his diary entry, a familiar prompt had been ringing in his ears.
"You have a new message."
Yes.
A message.
A long-overdue message.
Aside from the Little Princess and Miss Kushida, someone else had finally left him a message.
And not just one.
Two.
He suspected one was probably from Horikita.
As for the other…
Maybe it was the well-hidden fourth person he had never managed to identify.
He'd been a little too busy earlier to check.
Now that he had a free hand, of course he was going to find out.
So Asakusa pulled out the diary and flipped quickly to the message section.
But what greeted him wasn't text.
It was… a manga?
Sharp linework.
Clean draft strokes.
The kind of skill that immediately revealed the artist's ability.
The comic leapt vividly from the page.
A quick glance suggested a perfectly ordinary plot.
Going to school.
Running with toast in her mouth.
Bumping into someone.
Then… falling in love.
From that single page, it looked like a standard romantic comedy opening.
But as Asakusa flipped further…
The tone changed.
No—rather than "changed," it felt like the story had been unshackled from the limitations of conventional templates.
The artist had begun drawing freely, pouring out a strangely dry and hollow imagination.
No romantic atmosphere.
No youthful tension.
No dramatic love triangles.
The rival who appeared once vanished without a trace.
The awkward fluttering feelings disappeared.
The moment the confession page was drawn, the entire story felt like a roller coaster reaching its peak—
Then plunging straight down.
Confession.
Dating.
Holding hands.
Heart pounding.
Then… END.
"…What the hell is this?"
He couldn't make sense of it.
Was this even manga?
It had characters, panels, dialogue.
But calling it manga almost felt insulting to the medium.
Random.
No—wait.
That wasn't the point.
The point was—
Who the hell was sending him manga as a message?
Or rather—
Was someone using his diary as a sketchbook?
Asakusa's logic started short-circuiting.
"…"
He slipped a hand under the blanket absentmindedly, rubbing lightly as he tried to think.
Was there a manga artist in this school?
Or someone aspiring to become one?
…
Nothing came to mind.
If he had to name someone vaguely related, maybe Shiromi Chihiro.
At least she was in the art club.
But her skill level?
He knew it.
Nowhere near this.
Frowning, Asakusa flipped a few more pages.
This message was absurdly long.
Even though it was drawn in manga format, the volume rivaled Kushida's twenty-plus-page message.
It looked like someone had treated his diary as scrap paper and dumped an entire manuscript into it.
In his understanding, a "message" should be like the Little Princess's—
Short.
Concise.
At most a single page.
That was a message.
Kushida's and this one?
More like a DDoS attack.
Were they trying to clog up his diary with garbage pages so it'd be harder to flip through?
Sure, the diary had infinite pages. With a thought, he could jump anywhere.
But too much junk still made it easy to flip to the wrong spot.
The following pages continued in the same pattern.
Youth romance.
Meeting.
Love at first sight.
Dating.
End.
Any hint of foreshadowing.
Any side characters.
The moment the couple got together, everything vanished.
…What exactly was this person drawing?
As that thought crossed his mind, he turned another page.
Finally, it wasn't another draft of a romantic comedy.
Instead—
A striking black-and-white illustration filled the page.
(Illustration)
Figures prostrated themselves in reverence.
The perspective looked upward.
On a towering throne sat an exalted being, gazing down upon the world with supreme indifference.
…This was master-level work.
The moment he saw it, Asakusa understood.
There was no way an ordinary high school student had drawn this.
What was this, Danganronpa? Why were there so many "Ultimate" talents running around?
Which old master had gotten hold of his diary and drawn a pile of trashy romance comics in it?
Still—
As breathtaking as the illustration was, it had one fatal flaw.
The figure on the throne had no face.
As if the artist had suddenly forgotten how to draw one.
The being who should have had a domineering gaze was instead faceless.
…
Wait.
Let me process this.
Asakusa frowned deeply, piecing together the clues.
Trashy romance manga.
Art skills far beyond a normal high schooler.
"Ultimate"-level talent.
He had the faintest memory of someone who fit this description perfectly.
He stared at the illustration.
The name hovered on the edge of his mind.
Romance manga.
World-class oil painting talent.
Aspiring manga artist.
"Shiina Mashiro."
The name locked in place.
A genius painter who dreamed of becoming a manga artist.
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