The pen name for the French poetry collection had stubbornly refused to be settled.
For one thing, there was the worry that using his real name would attract trouble from people with the surname Wei. For another, Randou had fallen into a full-blown bout of decision paralysis—he refused to go to sleep, dragged Akira into long midnight conversations, and obsessively fixated on choosing a flawless French pen name, as if nothing less would do.
In the end, Asou Akiya simply suggested settling it with a game of rock–paper–scissors.
"If you win, we choose a different pen name. If I win, we go with Jean Nicolas."
—Jean Nicolas.
Cuihua, your surname is Wang Daniu.*
*{Note: "Cuìhuā" (翠花) and "Wáng Dàniū" (王大妞) are stereotypically rustic, old-fashioned Chinese names often used jokingly to evoke a strong "country bumpkin" or unsophisticated image.}
The sheer rustic absurdity of that name combination struck Randou like a blunt instrument. His reaction lagged by a single beat; his punch came out too slow. He stared blankly at Akiya's "rock," then at his own helpless "scissors," and in that instant, his mental state collapsed entirely. Asō Akiya reached out and ruffled his lover's hair, letting out a smug little laugh.
"This is the choice of the Wheel of Fate," he said cheerfully. "Don't overthink it. A pen name that creates contrast has its own kind of charm."
Randō shrank in on himself, curling up into a small, pitiful bundle. In a voice full of grievance, he muttered, "People will think I'm some foreigner who just picked a name at random."
"They won't," Akiya replied with absolute confidence.
Randō blinked, confused. "Why not?"
Akiya calmly dismantled the problem for him. "In the promotional blurb, we'll say that you have a deep love for nineteenth-century French culture. Besides, your poetry already carries a slightly retro atmosphere." The unspoken subtext was clear: this wasn't a poet choosing a name carelessly—it was a poet paying tribute to a revolutionary era.
Light flickered in Randou's eyes. He accepted the explanation, though he still couldn't resist silently judging Akiya's abysmal naming sense.
"…Fine. I lost at rock–paper–scissors, so I'll listen to you."
"My wife is amazing!" Akiya praised enthusiastically.
The one saying this, incidentally, was also someone perfectly capable of giving himself the pen name "Reader"—a true disaster when it came to naming.
Asou Akiya turned off the lights in the living room. Randou pushed himself up from the sofa, yet instead of questioning the gesture, he found himself intrigued by Akiya's sudden change in mood. Asou Akiya squatted down in front of him, and Randou leaned forward onto his back, brushing aside the long, curling hair by his ear.
"Akiya," Randou asked softly, "back then… was this how you carried me when we left the Yokohama Settlement?"
"Mm," Akiya replied.
"And what were you thinking about at the time?"
As a poet, Randou's mind was always restless and alive, overflowing with associations, his thoughts woven from a fantastical, delicate sensibility.
Asou Akiya carried Randou back to the bedroom to rest. The body pressed against his back was warm, close, and irresistibly tender. Without hesitation, he answered honestly, "I was thinking that I would treat you well for the rest of my life, and that I would never let you suffer that kind of harm again."
Finding you was his fortune. Even if the world remained perilous, one could still share a beautiful love with someone beautiful.
The black-haired young man carefully laid the lover he had long admired and dreamed of onto the bed.
The Frenchman smiled, gentle and sweet.
His supernatural ability had not yet awakened; nevertheless, the highest form of spatial power lay hidden within his eyes, gleaming with golden brilliance, intoxicating to behold, as though one could peer directly into the poetic world of Les Illuminations. The progenitor of three-dimensional surrealist poetry, the French Transcendant of the two-dimensional world—these two identities fused into the singular, irreplaceable existence that was Randou.
Asou Akiya murmured in a low voice, "Go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a new day."
Tomorrow will be better.
For you, for me, and for this world that will, in the end, move toward peace and prosperity.
...
Several months later.
With the strong backing of a Parisian publishing house in France, the poetry collection Lettres du Voyant took root in France.
Its innovative and unconventional style caused a considerable stir across France, quickly drawing widespread attention.
The poet Jean Nicolas became famous.
Alongside this success came a number of curious bits of gossip. It was widely known that ability users, as a group, tended to possess high levels of cultural refinement; most of them enjoyed reading. According to a survey conducted jointly by several national governments, the more powerful an ability user was, the more capable they were of appreciating literature. Some even amused themselves by writing a little on the side—quietly, secretly—tucking their work away and rarely showing it to others.
Especially now, when the international literary scene was in decline and there was so little worth reading, even ability users found themselves starved for good books.
The moment a truly fine work appeared, it was all but inevitable that it would circulate into the circles of French ability users.
Everyone knew that these people were, each and every one of them, romantics.
While the French government was still tensely dispatching ability users to the great war, fighting foreign powers to the brink of mutual destruction, it had no idea that back at home, its own ability users were privately holding poetry collections in their hands, using them to soothe their nerves and unwind.
Britain had far too many contemporary Transcendants to contend with—impossible to defeat head-on—so France could only withstand the pressure through alliances, occasionally shouting slogans like "France will prevail." Germany, on the other hand, had fewer Transcendants; it was enough to let the top figures step forward. As for people like Germany's Goethe or Schiller—those were not matters an ordinary ability user needed to concern themselves with.
Isn't it good enough, simply to be alive?
In the great battle of Tokoyami Island*, France—once glorious in its ancestral past—would certainly not be a defeated nation.
*{Note: In previous chapters I put it as "Chang'an Island", instead of Tokoyami Island. And it's completely an error on my part. I used Chang'an because in the og text, that's also what it used and I was too lazy to do some double checking. But then again, Asou Akiya was Chinese and you know how nationalistic they tend to be. Especially for an Author who wrote a fanfic that took place in Japan. They need to butter up the big dogs so their fics don't get axed.}
Privately, the French ability users who were not deployed to the front began to exchange opinions among themselves.
"This poetry collection is quite good. Give me a copy—it's a style I've never seen before."
"Nineteenth-century work?"
"No, it's by a newcomer. Supposedly written by a Frenchman who went overseas and sent his poems back home."
"My God! They don't read like a beginner's work at all. The command of meter and form is astonishingly precise."
"That poem 'Vowels' is so strange…"
"That's because you didn't understand it!"
"Oh? So you understood it, did you? Please—don't put on airs as if you're that impressive."
"'Ophelia'? Does this poem have something to do with the opera I've seen? Hiss… it actually writes about a character from Hamlet. The playwright of Hamlet is none other than the famously renowned British Transcendant, Shakespeare! I've watched operas adapted from his works no fewer than twenty times!"
"Shh, keep your voice down. Don't casually discuss British Transcendants—we're still at war."
"France won't lose to those despicable Englishmen!"
"We're the true great nation of ability users!"
Before anyone noticed, the group of ability users engaged in discussion had collectively turned their hostility toward Britain, causing the one who had admitted to enjoying opera to flush with embarrassment and quietly withdraw from the conversation.
Ability users typically occupied the upper echelons of society. Once they set the tone, the trend naturally spread downward, and the sudden popularity of surrealist poetry took the French literary world completely by surprise. In a sense, Randou had fulfilled the wish the three-dimensional Rimbaud held for so long. His poetry had entered France, had reached Charleville, and had fallen into the sightlines of people he had once known.
After losing his status as an ability user, Randou's talent was finally recognized by the people of his homeland.
The barren French literary scene was infused with a surge of fresh, living force.
This was a genius.
The poetry published overseas achieved undeniable success, and this, in turn, indirectly drove up its sales in Japan as well. In France, royalties were settled once every three months; when Randou unexpectedly received the francs sent from his homeland, he was caught completely off guard, gazing at the shimmering proof of his accomplishment with wide, shining eyes.
Printed on the franc notes was the portrait of the French king, sword in hand, solemn and imposing in his regal dignity.
Seizing the moment while Randou was still beside himself with joy, Asou Akiya reached out, removed the earmuffs he was wearing, and replaced them with a brand-new pair shaped like cat ears.
The long-curled beauty, now wearing the cat ears, even blinked at him playfully, sending a jolt straight to his heart.
"Akiya, I've made it!"
Using a newly purchased wallet, Asou Akiya neatly tucked the banknotes inside and placed it into Randou's hands. Randou held onto it tightly, as though he were embracing one of his dreams made real.
"Your name will spread throughout France," Akiya said. "You'll become a genius poet of the new generation."
"No one will stand in your way."
Asou Akiya was overjoyed.
Randou—you don't need to flatter anyone. Conquer the world's poetic stage with your talent alone!
This time, Verlaine will not force you to set down your pen so early.
Asou Akiya abruptly changed the subject. "I'll have to start thinking about my own new work too. I can't let Randou beat me."
Randou laughed. "Beat you? Back in Japan, I could never compare to you."
With his fingertips, Asou Akiya hooked a finger beneath Randou's gloves and slipped them off. Randou's skin was the fairest he had ever seen—black hair against snow-white flesh, long curls flowing with elegant grace, fully worthy of the French blood that ran through his veins.
"I want to write a story," Akiya said thoughtfully. "For example—how about a French heiress who's lost her memory falling in love with a country boy?"
"Pfft."
Randou reached out and pushed lightly against his chest, laughing as he spoke in a playful, teasing tone. "I'm not some French heiress."
Asou Akiya shot back, "Then what are you?"
The question caught Randou off guard, and for a moment his thoughts nearly veered off course. "I—no, that's not right. I'm a French poet!"
Asou Akiya caught his earlobe between his lips and murmured with a teasing lilt, "Is that so?"
Randou froze at once, still as a statue.
A poet.
That answer might fool outsiders, but it could not deceive himself, nor Akiya. There had to be some other, special identity hidden beneath it. The most obvious flaw was that even after recovering his name, he had never dared to go to the police to investigate his past.
"I don't care," Asou Akiya said softly, laying bare his feelings. "Whoever you are, the Randou standing in front of me is someone I'll see clearly with my own eyes, and remember with my heart, word by word, everything you tell me."
Randou covered his ears, speaking as if shy. "Me too."
His gray-green eyes held a depth of feeling, profound and irresistibly captivating.
"No matter who Akiya is."
Whether an ordinary person or a member of the mafia, as long as he loved him, that was enough.
Randou felt their similarities more keenly than ever. He reached out to touch Akiya's brows and eyes. Akiya, too, was lonely—someone who had sealed his world away from others, allowing only Randou to step inside.
Silently, Asou Akiya thought, We both lost our memories. We both left our homelands behind. You don't remember your past; I don't remember my name or my family. We are lonely souls existing in this world. You are stronger than I am, and I can't help but draw closer to you, binding you tightly to my side, never letting go.
"Akiya," Randou said softly, gazing into the eyes that seemed to speak even without words, "if there's something you want to say, you should say it out loud."
"Don't," Asou Akiya pleaded, flustered. "I get embarrassed too."
Randou tilted his head, curious. "How embarrassed?"
Asou Akiya cupped his face, as though deep in thought for a new book. "So embarrassed I'd faint on the spot."
Randou smiled, amused.
Right after that, Asou Akiya sketched out a rough framework for his next work.
The setting would be nineteenth-century France: a rebellious boy who runs away from the countryside falls in love with a mature beauty in a foreign land.
He casually gender-swapped himself in the story.
An author bold enough to write harem, wish-fulfillment fiction was never one to speak of moral restraint.
And as for Verlaine? Apologies—this balding male supporting character clearly wasn't qualified to serve as a romantic rival.
Asou Akiya's inspiration surged forth unstoppably. He was forever stationed on the front lines of metaphorically stealing Verlaine's thunder; even within the confines of fiction, he refused to let the man off the hook—though no one else could possibly tell. After reading the outline Akiya had dashed off at lightning speed, Randou was left with only a single question mark floating in his mind.
"So I've become a French country bumpkin?"
"You're focusing on the wrong thing!" Asou Akiya laughed so hard he nearly collapsed in the study.
"There's no sense of immersion, Akiya," Randou said in an unhurried, elegant voice, speaking words of coquettish complaint as naturally as breathing. "I should be a young French aristocrat—one who rebels against oppression and defiantly leaves his family behind. That would make more sense, wouldn't it?"
Asou Akiya stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Could it be that you're talking about your real family?"
Randou froze for a moment, then shook his head slightly. "I can't remember."
With pointed slyness, Asou Akiya replied, "A country boy is better anyway. After all, I don't understand aristocratic households."
Randou stared at him for a while, his expression turning unfathomable, before he broke into teasing mockery.
"Oh? A foreign young lady."
He took Asou Akiya's right hand, lifted it to his lips, and placed a gentleman's kiss upon it. Every movement adhered perfectly to refined etiquette, yet carried a faint, deliberately provocative intimacy. Even with his long hair, there was not the slightest trace of femininity about him.
"I believe you will come to love France," he said softly, "because the moment I first laid eyes on you, I had already decided that I would be with you."
Faced with such blatant flirtation—delivered as though rehearsing a story outline—Asou Akiya couldn't help but laugh. "Where do you get that kind of confidence?"
Randou lifted his gaze, restrained yet arrogantly poised. A sense of heavy grandeur surged forth, like a historical figure immortalized in an oil painting. Icy wind and snow seemed to gather at his brow; sharp golden light threatened to burst from the depths of his eyes. The many layers of warm clothing on his body transformed into cold armor, radiating a chilling aura that could freeze anyone who dared draw near.
"Because I am a genius destined for brilliance—Arthur Rimbaud."
Asou Akiya's heart skipped violently.
What did you remember?
Damn it—why do you scare people like this on purpose? When you say 'genius,' do you mean as a poet, or as an ability user?!
In the very next instant, Randou reverted to his gentle, harmless self, his voice turning soft and pliant. "Akiya's ignoring me. That's no fun."
Asou Akiya promptly reached out and tugged hard at Randou's cheeks, retaliating for the fright he had just been given.
"A country boy should at least act like a country boy!"
You've broken character!
"Waaah—! I want to be a young French aristocrat, not a country bumpkin! And then I'll spend my money to marry you, Akiya!"
"That's not how the plot outline goes," Asou Akiya shot back. "Objection overruled."
"Bad guy."
"The 'bad guy' you're talking about is the one who's been raising you!"
"I'll raise you in the future then~."
Randou smiled at him so beautifully it was almost unfair, perfectly embodying that elusive balance—able to be dominant or submissive, cool or sweet, all at once.
Asou Akiya firmly pressed down the part of his personality labeled "Arthur Rimbaud."
"Making a little bit of royalty money and you get this full of yourself!"
Damn it.
It's not like I'm scared of Arthur Rimbaud or anything.
A real man dares to face a partner with multiple personalities—once I've trained my mental resilience a bit more, we'll see!