Life is fleeting—seven feet tall at most, a century if you're lucky.
Time slips like an arrow through sand, silent and swift, leaving only sighs in its wake.
Youth doesn't return, though flowers bloom again.
Successful people master time. Given the same hours, they charge forward while most lounge in bed, scrolling phones. That's where the gap widens.
Takizawa, reborn, knew this well, knew discipline's weight. To break free of his lazy past, he forced a multitasking life, squeezing meaning from every second.
While watching variety shows, his mind's corridor recited War and Peace aloud—a blend of high and low culture.
While mortals toggled between study and rest, he fused them seamlessly, the ultimate work-life balance, a nascent path to mastery.
He could even tweak the voice… like a famous comedian's.
But the more one chases perfection, the clearer their flaws become.
Rushing to sets, honing skills, enriching himself, and tackling heavy coursework left him drained.
Choosing the elegant, black-haired goddess of a love interest meant losing the gentle, short-haired childhood friend.
Kids want it all; adults make choices.
Today, he was summoned.
"In my near-thirty years of teaching, you're not the first student called for a talk."
The speaker was a white-haired professor in a worn navy suit, thick vintage glasses, calloused hands, and piercing eyes. Despite his age, his spirit was vibrant, his smile warm and kind.
Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, Onishi Kawasuke.
The same man who, in the cafeteria, mistook Takizawa for a lonely soul and offered comfort—before roping him into volunteering at a kindergarten for corporate prep.
"I've seen true prodigies. When they find Tokyo U's summit underwhelming, they leave. As rumors say, dropping out is the real graduation—many greats did so. Young, learned one, why are you late or absent?"
It was less a meeting, more a stroll through the main campus's quiet corridor, their footsteps echoing in harmony, savoring the serene elegance. Walls displayed literary giants—Yasunari Kawabata, Kenzaburo Oe, Ryunosuke Akutagawa, and the idol of late-night brooding writers, Osamu Dazai.
"Mainly, I'm stretched thin. Root cause? My pink moped maxes at thirty kph," Takizawa said honestly.
The dean's face stayed calm, shifting topics. "Do you love literature?"
"Of course! My goal's the Literature Department!" Takizawa pledged eagerly.
"Fond of Natsume Soseki?"
"Absolutely!"
"Which work?"
"Uh, they're all similar."
"Your favorite? No hesitation, or it's not 'favorite.'"
"The Soseki on the yen note…"
"You're witty," The dean nodded lightly. "Humor reflects joy in life—optimistic, positive. Good."
"You're not roasting me, and I'm nervous…" Takizawa patted his chest cautiously.
"You ranked seventh in the Arts III exam, perfect in world and Japanese history. When we met, you spoke fluently across millennia. Without a clear mind, you couldn't recall history so vividly," The dean said warmly. "You've seen humanity's grand saga—skipping class is nothing. You've got a dream to chase, no time to waste. That's your mindset, right?"
"I do think skipping's no big deal… but I'm not that dramatic," Takizawa said.
"Learning is knowing the world; wisdom is the grit to seek the unknown. Credits, GPA—they're worldly clutter," The dean chuckled. "I was rebellious in youth, too. I just found my 'beauty.'"
"Beauty?"
"All kinds—fireworks' dazzle, stage spotlights, intoxicating nightlife, festival finery, timeless poetry, even endless wealth or decisive power. Mortals live for that beauty."
The dean squinted, hands clasped behind, strolling. He looked like a diligent office drone dreaming of retirement, yet radiated a unique charm.
"As a boy, I adored ancient history and culture. Thirty-five years ago, in the library, flipping an old book, I felt a bond with past scholars, my heart swelling with awe."
"The College of Arts and Sciences studies humanity's long history and ongoing deeds, probing our essence from a timeless vantage. No matter how distant or obscure the subject, we inherit the past's legacy, create new wisdom, and pass it forward—a bridge linking past, present, future. 'Literature' is that bridge's symbol. It's my lifelong 'beauty.'"
"Even scientists chase beauty. Einstein, obsessive, used instinct to dissect the world, thinking, 'Such a balanced formula—God must use it to connect all.'"
"Young bookworm, what's your beauty?"
The dean's gaze turned sharp, invasive, a king wielding power over academic fates.
The ambush hit. Takizawa paused.
"To be honest, my aesthetics knowledge is just art history… my literary foundation's weak, only grasping bits of beauty."
"I know a bit of that, too. Speak freely," The dean said, smiling with hidden steel.
"Baroque? Rococo? Renaissance? Where's your heart? Fauvism, Cubism, Futurism, Dada, visual or performance art—where's your study?"
A true Showa-era rebel, a titan of academia, his free-spirited facade masked ruthless rigor. Compared to the unmarried principal's fangs, his were unmatched.
Under that tangible pressure, Takizawa exhaled and spoke.
"In 1860, portable oil paints and Impressionism's rise—coupled with scorn and commerce—doomed near-perfect classicism. It had peaked, capturing reality's ultimate 'beauty.'"
"But the miracle came later. Despite that towering peak, successors forged new paths, building on their predecessors' souls. Art movements bloomed; painting wasn't photography's victim but a vessel for the mind."
The dean listened intently as Takizawa spoke softly.
"Monet's sunrise froze time, Munch's scream embraced anguish, Dalí's monsters unleashed absurdity. Great art is the heart speaking. Even when masters pass to the stars, their passion defies time. Immerse in their strokes, frozen centuries ago, wander their dreams, meet them honestly, and laugh loudly."
"Refined by time—that's my 'beauty.'"
The dean studied him, as if memorizing this radiant student.
"Your fire, your aspiration—I understand."
His smile softened, kind again.
"With those words, I'll clear your attendance record. If you join the Literature Department, I'll grant you unlimited make-up exams, so absences won't block your credits."
"Really?!"
"My word's bond. And if you pursue further studies," He paused, "I'll mentor you myself."
"That's a bit far off…"
"Be ready. Pure arts is tough these days. As a literature scholar, I can only introduce you to renowned artists or professors," The dean sighed.
"No worries. I'm working now; I'll figure the rest later," Takizawa shrugged.
"Oh? Already ahead of your peers?" The dean asked eagerly. "Any shows, international awards?"
"No, I've got no time or skill for that," Takizawa waved off. "I'm a voice actor for anime, busy with auditions and radio skits."
"What?" The dean blinked, doubting his ears.
"Voice acting."
"???"
***
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