Chapter 36
by Need_More_SleepChapter 36: Courage
In many cultures, the term “date” doesn’t solely refer to romantic rendezvous between lovers—it can also denote formal, important meetings.
Shimizu Sakuya had only met Natsukawa Amane yesterday. It was understandable that the girl had developed special feelings after witnessing her downfall in dreams.
But if those feelings were romantic? That, Sakuya couldn’t comprehend.
The world didn’t have that many lesbians, let alone ones who conveniently clustered around her.
So she immediately dismissed the notion of a romantic outing.
Amane must have something critically important to discuss.
Her connection to the system made her the key to breaking the current deadlock—this meeting was unavoidable.
Thus, Shimizu Sakuya replied:
“I’m free next Sunday. You can come find me then.”
Natsukawa Amane: “Yay, senpai! I’ll message you then!”
Is Amane the same type as Saori? Both so clingy and affectionate…
But her schedule for next week was already packed—no room for anything else.
Saturday: Movie with Amami Saori.
Sunday: “Date” with Natsukawa Amane.
More pressingly, there was the matter of Fujiwara Yuki—who seemed to be awakening fragmented memories from alternate timelines.
I’m about to plunge into an inescapable harem warzone…
Propping her cheeks on her hands by the window, Sakuya surveyed the Fujiwara estate’s intricate layout from above.
Time ticked away on her wristwatch until Yuki’s summoning light flashed again.
She must have finished her bath—and her existential crisis.
Knowing Yuki, the coming hours wouldn’t be easy.
Sakuya smoothed her radiant golden locks, combing through each strand with care.
Her duties as a personal maid weren’t over yet—after bathing came hair drying and styling.
No free time until her mistress fully succumbed to sleep.
For Sakuya, not a single moment of relaxation could be afforded until she sank the battleship Fujiwara Yuki with one decisive blow.
Steeling herself, she stepped out of the cramped maid’s quarters.
The plush wool carpet muffled her footsteps as she turned left, facing an ornate red-brown door adorned with golden carvings.
Its Western opulence clashed starkly with youthful femininity—at first glance, one would expect some unyielding old fossil rather than a teenage girl to reside within.
Knock knock.
“Enter.” Yuki’s refined voice, slightly muffled by the thick door, carried an unnatural calm.
Having never seen Yuki’s private chambers before, Sakuya turned the knob with curiosity.
Contrary to the Fujiwara estate’s boastful extravagance, Yuki’s room embraced minimalist blues and whites.
A white goose-down bed.
A walnut desk for nighttime reading.
A vanity crowded with skincare.
Most striking were the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining every wall, crammed with tomes spanning languages and disciplines.
No other decorations.
Her tastes haven’t changed at all—still an old soul through and through.
Yuki sat at the desk in a sheer blue lace nightgown, her damp hair coiled in a towel turban.
Approaching, Sakuya noticed stray droplets escaping from loose strands near her ears.
The post-bath moisture lent Yuki’s typically aloof profile an unexpected allure—the tantalizing mystery of what could ruffle such composure.
Clearly, Yuki had regained her calm, though her slightly unfocused gaze suggested lingering introspection about her earlier outburst.
“Master, I’ll dry your hair now.” Retrieving the hairdryer, Sakuya kept her tone gentle.
Yuki wordlessly bowed her head—uncharacteristically docile after the bathroom incident.
Seizing this rare compliance, Sakuya patted her head approvingly before unwrapping the towel to drape over her shoulders, protecting the nightgown from dripping water.
A soft “hmph” of protest escaped Yuki, but no verbal objection followed.
The hairdryer roared to life. After testing the temperature, Sakuya began her ministering care.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the dryer’s hum.
Amid the soothing warmth that could lull anyone to sleep, Yuki ventured timidly.
“Shimizu Sakuya… What kind of person are you?”
Fingers carding through silken strands, Sakuya countered, “Does Master mean my self-perception? Or how others see me?”
“Your own thoughts.”
“I’m not a courageous person.”
Startled, Yuki looked up. “Why say that?”
“I often choose escape over confrontation. Gradually… I lost the courage to face things head-on.”
“Yet I find you braver than most in this world.”
“In what way?” Sakuya tousled the strands to speed up drying.
“Every aspect. Take your campaign to recruit me for the Light Music Club—you pursued it relentlessly.”
“That’s nothing. Just crossing a threshold where the worst outcome is wounded pride, not death. And death isn’t particularly frightening anyway.”
As she put away the dryer and selected an ivory comb, Yuki’s eyes sharpened.
“Are you implying… you’ve experienced death?”
Sakuya laughed lightly. “Of course not. No one returns from that—the mere thought terrifies me.”
“……”
Yuki fell silent.
The comb glided through rose-scented tresses. Ancient Chinese wedding songs spoke of “First comb till the end, second for white-haired harmony, third for plentiful descendants.”
Given the Chinese classics lining Yuki’s shelves, did she grasp this symbolism?