Seven randomly drawn talents gradually appeared before Kitagawa Ryo. As he examined them, a plan began to take shape in his mind. Eventually, his gaze locked onto the final talent:
[Fragile Health (Green): You will be born with a random congenital illness, but in exchange, your intelligence level will slightly increase.]
Kitagawa tapped on an item and activated its special effect—a reward he had earned from completing Horikita Suzune's simulation.
[Horikita Suzune's Self: Before each simulation, you may select one talent and upgrade it to Gold grade.]
A few seconds later, the talent transformed completely:
[Heaven's Envy (Gold): Your body is extremely frail, with a high probability of dying before the age of 30. In exchange, your intelligence level increases dramatically.]
Just as he expected.
Kitagawa nodded in approval and quickly selected the remaining talents.
[Talent selection complete.]
[Simulation begins.]
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Sakayanagi Arisu had once read a line in a book:
"Heartbeat is the sound of life."
Every morning, her female doctor would gently place a bell-shaped stethoscope on her chest, listening as if attending to a precious treasure, her eyes downcast, concentrating on the rhythm of her heart.
Arisu didn't know what the doctor actually heard, but she had once caught a glimpse of her medical chart, where the word "murmur" was written. That made her imagine the sound of a violin bow snapping mid-stroke, followed by a sharp, jarring noise.
"Today's examination is complete, Arisu-san."
Whether it was due to her father's instructions or simply professional discipline, the attending physician never once revealed a single crack in her demeanor. Arisu could never read anything from the woman's expression. Over time, her doctor's face became as featureless to her as the stark white walls, the pale ceiling, and the ever-present white lab coat.
Just like always, Arisu would be allowed to engage in other activities for the rest of the day—such as reading. A massive bookshelf and desk stood proudly in one corner of the room. Or watching television, with the remote control tucked inside the top drawer of her nightstand. She might also be permitted to go for a walk, though only within the hallway on this floor. From the window at the end of the corridor, she could glimpse the northwest corner of the courtyard; the southeast corner, she could see from her own hospital room window.
But today, Arisu learned something new from her doctor.
A new patient had been moved into the room next to hers.
Apparently, the child was around the same age as her.
However, the doctor quickly added a warning: the other patient's condition and symptoms were more severe than Arisu's. If they happened to meet—and here the doctor hesitated—it would be best if they didn't.
With that final remark, the doctor left, closing the door with such care that the sound was barely audible.
Curiosity about the unseen neighbor bloomed within Arisu. She knew that her father had arranged the absolute best medical care for her, including this astonishingly spacious private room—something no ordinary household could afford.
But her curiosity lasted less than ten minutes.
Because the other party had already knocked on her door first.
And so, at the age of seven, Sakayanagi Arisu met Kitagawa Ryo for the very first time.
Like the Alice who followed the white rabbit into a strange, hidden world, she rose from her chair, placed her hand on the doorknob—
And opened the door to another world.
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At first glance, Kitagawa Ryo looked like a perfectly healthy boy. He seemed to fit every standard that a girl of this age might like. Sakayanagi Arisu rested her head in her hand and examined the name tag hanging around his neck. She had the same kind of tag around her own neck:
"Kitagawa... Ryo."
"Sakayanagi... Arisu."
Mimicking her movements, Kitagawa read her name aloud as well.
After this brief exchange, the two children lapsed into awkward silence. Arisu shuffled forward in her white hospital slippers, concerned that her voice might be too soft, before finally asking:
"Hey, what's your illness?"
Arisu fixed her gaze on his chest—more precisely, the location of his heart.
"Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis."
The boy smiled as he answered. The name meant nothing to Arisu; it was beyond the vocabulary of a seven-year-old.
Kitagawa raised his right hand and slowly curled his middle finger into his palm. What was more surprising, however, was that his index and ring fingers remained rigidly upright, unmoving—as if they no longer belonged to that hand.
Arisu tried to imitate the motion herself, but no matter how hard she tried, her ring finger stubbornly bent downward along with her middle finger.
"They're frozen."
Kitagawa retracted his right hand and proudly showed off the dexterity of his left hand instead.
"So now I've learned to eat with my left hand."
"What about you?"
When Kitagawa returned the question, Arisu pointed to her chest. She had no intention of hiding it.
"Congenital heart disease."
Then, she asked bluntly:
"Can I listen to it?"
"Listen to what?"
"Your heartbeat."
After Kitagawa nodded, granting permission, Arisu eagerly pressed her ear to his chest. It was summer, and the hospital gown was thin enough for her to feel the warmth of his skin.
The two children held their breath together. In that moment, even the sound of a falling pin would have echoed like thunder.
In the stillness, Arisu heard a faint sound.
Books often used onomatopoeia like "thump-thump-thump" to describe strong heartbeats. Her own medical chart, however, had described hers as "murmur." But right now, neither description felt quite accurate.
"Oh..."
Arisu let out a quiet sigh. She still couldn't find the right word in her not-so-limited vocabulary to describe what she was hearing. It was a sound that couldn't be turned into language or written down.
It was like a gentle haze of warmth and solitude.
A sudden gust of wind from outside interrupted her thoughts. She realized she had backed Kitagawa up against the wall.
"Thank you very much."
As if completing something she'd always wanted to do, Arisu thanked him unexpectedly.
Then she asked her second question—why he had moved here.
Neither of them could stand for too long, so they sat down on the couch in the room—normally reserved for visitors, who rarely stayed long enough for their tea leaves to settle more than a third of the way down the cup.
Perhaps it was the long absence of peer conversation, but the two children quickly grew comfortable with each other. Kitagawa was far more talkative than Arisu and began chatting about his past and why he had been transferred.
Just as Arisu had guessed, Kitagawa's family was quite wealthy—enough to afford treatment in a hospital like this. But he had only lived that way for less than a month.
Before being found by his biological parents, he had lived in a rather ordinary—even impoverished—household.
After using Arisu's private bathroom, Kitagawa returned to his seat.
"Back when I first noticed I couldn't move my fingers, I stayed in a small hospital with six people crammed in one room. That place didn't have a private bathroom like this."
"The restroom was at the end of the hallway, right across from the duty doctor's office. The trash bins were over there too."
Kitagawa sniffed. Unlike the antiseptic smell most hospitals had, this room carried a faint scent of herbs and greenery. It felt more like a hotel suite than a medical facility.
"Actually, the whole hallway smelled awful. A mixed kind of awful. But nobody seemed to care—patients or doctors. I even saw the night shift doctor eating instant noodles outside the office door. Never heard of him getting sick, though he sometimes woke up with a sore neck from sleeping at his desk."
Arisu found the story distasteful in its imagery, yet undeniably amusing.
Because she had started to laugh.
Kitagawa was now sprawled across the sofa—plenty wide for two children. He kicked off his slippers.
"Honestly, being sick is just a slow lesson in learning to be content."
Before Arisu could ponder the meaning of those words, Kitagawa's attention had already shifted. His eyes lit up at the sight of something on the bookshelf. Reaching up, he grabbed it.
It was a set of three boxes containing international chess, Go, and Chinese chess pieces. Apparently, unsure of which one Arisu would like, her father had simply brought them all.
He was the kind of father who respected Arisu's choices, even if she was just a child.
In three trips, Kitagawa carried them over to the coffee table by the couch.
"Let's play a game."
"Do you know how to play any of them?"
Arisu shook her head. She had never played any board game before.
"Then let's do Gomoku!"
Kitagawa enthusiastically took out the black and white pieces.
"You know the rules, right? Connect five of the same color in a row—horizontally, vertically, or diagonally—to win."
Arisu nodded in confusion and, before she knew it, had played several rounds with him.
But even in this simple game, she didn't win once.
"Time's up. I have to go."
Noticing the time on the wall clock, Kitagawa hopped off the sofa and slipped his shoes back on. His movements were so fluid, you wouldn't think he was sick—unless you had noticed earlier that he used only his left hand to place the game pieces.
"I'm going to call my cat."
Seeing Arisu's puzzled expression, Kitagawa smirked proudly.
"Cat?"
She echoed the word. A fluffy creature came to mind.
"If the hospital let me keep pets..."
Kitagawa sighed like a little adult, hands on his hips.
"I think you'd like Hotaru. She's a cat who can smile."
"Like the Cheshire Cat in fairy tales."
Arisu shook her head, signaling she hadn't read that story. Kitagawa briefly explained, then suddenly clapped his hands as if remembering something.
"The heroine of that story has the same name as you."
"Alice."
Arisu figured it must be a Western girl's name. She looked it up on her phone. The top result was a blonde-haired, blue-dressed animated character.
She tugged at a lock of her own hair and examined it seriously. The silver strands shimmered like something delicate and brittle. Looking down at her hospital gown, she shook her head with certainty.
"I'm nothing like her."
If anything, she felt she was the complete opposite of Alice.
That girl had beautiful, golden hair, while hers was silver-white and barely reached her neck.
While Arisu compared herself to the animated Alice, Kitagawa had already called home. After saying a few words to someone who sounded like his father, the video feed revealed a close-up of a fluffy face filling the entire screen.
"Hotaru!"
Kitagawa cried out happily and began chatting excitedly with his cat in front of Arisu.
Though calling it a "conversation" might have been a stretch.
One side kept spouting nonsense; the other just meowed back.
"I'll be home soon!"
Just before the call ended, Arisu heard Kitagawa declare that with utmost confidence.
She stared at her phone, now displaying search results for "amyotrophic lateral sclerosis," and began to think seriously.
Arisu had always considered herself good at thinking. After all, she had endless hours to do so.
But she still couldn't understand the logic behind Kitagawa's words.
Sunlight streamed into the hospital room in scattered patches. A sudden breeze rustled the thick foliage outside, sounding like countless muted bells chiming together.
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