The visit to the Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library was not a recreational outing. It was a controlled experiment, orchestrated by Clara Yagi and tacitly approved by Toshinori, who waited in the car outside, attempting to look inconspicuous while occasionally deflecting the curious glances of salarymen.
Five-year-old Mirai Yagi sat perfectly still in the reading room, occupying a child-sized chair with a sense of disproportionate formality. She was dressed in comfortable, non-restrictive clothes—a concession to her accelerated physical development with a ramrod, symmetrical posture. Completely robot-like.
Clara watched her from a table three meters away, ostensibly reviewing a stack of retired hero files, but her attention was focused entirely on the small, blonde head.
The test was designed to confirm their most unsettling suspicion. Mirai's rapid linguistic acquisition, her mastery of basic calculus by age four, and her unnervingly sophisticated verbal reasoning were already logged data points. However, the parents required qualitative proof—evidence of advanced abstract reasoning that transcended mere Quirk-enhanced memory.
"Mirai," Clara called, her voice low.
"Yes, Mother," Mirai replied, turning her head with minimal energy expenditure. Her amethyst eyes, usually fixed on the minute details of her surroundings, held a faint, distant glaze—the look of a person perpetually cataloguing the irrelevant.
"I want you to select a book. Any book, on any subject. You have fifteen minutes."
It was a test of choice, of preference. Kiyomi would have selected the most factually dense, immediately applicable text: perhaps a book on applied electrical engineering or advanced aerodynamics. Mirai, the child of logic, should seek efficiency.
Mirai rose, her movements precise and economical, a tiny human robot gliding between the towering shelves. She dismissed the picture books of anthropomorphic animals and basic science texts. She spent four minutes analysing the organizational system of the non-fiction wing.
Conclusion: The Dewey Decimal System is logically efficient but aesthetically bland. It prioritizes function over intuitive search.
And yet her gaze landed on a volume that was visibly older than the others, its spine worn and its cover depicting an elaborate, gilded motif. The title, embossed in slightly faded gold script, read: Legends of the Unbound Soul: A Comparative Study of Global Reincarnation Myths.
Kiyomi had processed the concept of reincarnation clinically in the delivery room, an impossibility but of course her current existence was the empirical refutation of every single one of those past life conclusions. It was one of the two true illogicality's of the Multiverse she had encountered. The second being the Multiverse itself.
Mirai reached for the book. It was heavy, necessitating the use of both hands. She carried it back to the table and placed it down with a soft thump.
(Mirai POV)
The book was heavy, resting on the polished mahogany like a brick of concentrated, illogical data.
Legends of the Unbound Soul: A Comparative Study of Global Reincarnation Myths.
My mother watched me, her posture a finely tuned instrument of observation and restraint. She expected a rationale, a summary of its potential utility, or perhaps an immediate rejection based on its lack of immediate, applied scientific value.
I provided none of these.
I opened the book, the pages smelling faintly of aged paper and dry vanilla. The first page was a preface, detailing the anthropological significance of the mythologies contained within. Irrelevant.
I skipped to the first illustration.
It was a full-page, vibrant rendition of the Hindu cycle of Samsara. A colossal wheel of life, death, and rebirth, filled with deities and mortals caught in an endless, cyclical loop. The colours were rich, moving from the blinding gold of creation to the deep, terrifying black of dissolution.
The illustration was entirely non-factual. It contained no measurable data, no verifiable constants, and no equations that could predict or replicate the phenomenon it described. It was, quite literally, a celebration of the immeasurable.
And yet, my analytical mind experienced a novel, entirely unexpected sensation: a spike of pure, intense curiosity.
In my previous existence as Kiyomi Kurayami, curiosity was a function of survival and intellectual superiority. It was the drive to absorb data necessary for victory. It was a sterile, procedural process.
This was different.
My current existence was the empirical refutation of every scientific axiom I had previously held regarding consciousness. I was the anomaly. The ultimate, undeniable proof that the logical grid of my past life was, at best, incomplete.
The concept of reincarnation was one of the two true illogicality's I had experienced—the second being the existence of the Multiverse itself, which had randomly deposited Kiyomi's consciousness into Mirai's new-born body.
Logically, my continued focus should be on controlling my physical superiority (Unknown) and maintaining domestic tranquillity (Mother's stress levels). This book did nothing to further either of those goals. It was an indulgence in the impossible.
And that was precisely why I needed to study it.
I needed to know how other cultures, constrained by limited scientific understanding, had attempted to rationalize the profound, recurring concept of a self that transcends physical death. I needed to know the narratives they built around the one thing that had shattered my brutal, pragmatic reality.
The sheer audacity of the mythologies demanded attention.
My eyes scanned the text, absorbing the dense, comparative analysis. The text flowed into my consciousness not as a stream of words, but as a compressed block of information instantly decoded, categorized, and filed.
I was reading at a speed that would register to a casual observer as nothing more than rapidly flipping pages. However, the depth of understanding remained absolute. The concept of Akashic Records (an Eastern concept of a universal repository of knowledge) was immediately juxtaposed with the Egyptian concept of the Ka (the spirit double) and the Ba (the soul's mobility).
This pace was not an effort; it was the default state for me. Not this me either. I had learned every word in existence, mesmerised their meanings, to the point that whenever I read I just kept reading.
My initial focus—the logical necessity of understanding the illogical—quickly dissolved.
The dry, academic comparison of mythic structures transformed into something else entirely. I moved beyond the technical analysis of why people believed and began to absorb the stories.
I read of the defiant, compassionate souls who chose rebirth to complete an unfinished mission, of heroes who returned only to be consumed by the very world they sought to save, and of souls that merged with rivers, trees, and stars.
They were engaging. They were dramatic. They were completely, wonderfully useless.
A small, internal tremor of pure, unadulterated enjoyment registered in my mind.
It was a novel sensation. Pleasure, in my previous life, was only the confirmation of successful execution: the moment the logical grid achieved its intended outcome. This, however, was derived from the sheer complexity and irrelevance of the data. It served no purpose other than to satisfy the intellectual craving.
It was fun.
I finished the book, the knowledge of countless mythical journeys—from the Buddhist concept of the Trikaya to the Norse Ragnarok—now perfectly indexed in my mind. The entire volume had taken less than ten minutes.
I placed the finished book neatly on the table, and without waiting for Mother's response, I rose. My target was now the nearest mythology section. My intention was no longer analytical; it was driven by pure, subjective desire. I wanted more stories. I craved the beautiful nonsense.
Clara, three meters away, watched in stunned silence as I navigated the stacks. She had expected me to struggle with the complexity of the first volume, to analyze it, and then set it aside as irrelevant. Instead, I was selecting a second book, The Pantheon of Olympus, a massive tome on Greek and Roman gods.
The test was not only a success; it was an overwhelming refutation of their baseline assumption. Mirai was not just a powerful Quirk user; she possessed a preternatural ability to absorb abstract, non-scientific data at an impossible velocity.
I returned to the table. The Pantheon of Olympus was consumed in seven minutes. I was not skimming; I was ingesting. Every detail of Zeus's infidelities, Poseidon's rage, and Athena's calculated brilliance was filed.
Finished.
My mind began to make connections, no longer logical, but irreverent and amusing.
Hades, God of the Underworld. Conclusion: An unappreciated management professional forced to handle high-volume eternal bureaucracy. Could be designated an early example of a 'Black Company' CEO.
Hera, Goddess of Marriage. Conclusion: A strategic planner whose primary tactical output is revenge against her husband's objectively poor choice of partners. Inefficient use of political power.
Heracles, Demigod of Strength. Conclusion: A powerful brute whose primary flaw is a lack of foresight and a reliance on kinetic output. Would make a poor squad leader, but an exceptional shock trooper.
The connections were frivolous, unnecessary, and utterly delightful. This process of applying advanced logic to absurd fiction, creating new, useless data—this was my first true hobby. It was a game.
The pile of books beside me grew. Norse Sagas. Japanese Creation Myths. Tales of the Welsh Mabinogion. The stack was now taller than my five-year-old body, a physical monument to my accelerating, hedonistic curiosity.
Clara finally stood, walking over to the table. The silence of the reading room seemed to magnify the tension in her posture.
"Mirai," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "What are you doing? Why these books?"
I looked up from the fifth volume, my purple eyes calm, but with a faint, internal spark that had never been there before. The analytical core remained, but now it was a tool, not a master.
"The study of applied electromagnetism is necessary for strategic advantage, Mother. It is an obligation," I stated, my tone still perfectly even.
I tapped the towering pile of books beside me.
"But this," I continued, adopting a dry, philosophical cadence entirely unsuited to my age, "is the luxury of truth. All of these stories describe impossible phenomena—deities, creation ex nihilo, and souls that defy the Second Law of Thermodynamics. They are beautiful lies. Falsehoods."
I flipped the book closed with a decisive snap.
"And I have realized that I have a significant, previously unacknowledged need for a constant stream of beautiful, useless, and engaging lies. My intellect demands to be entertained by the absurdity of the universe."
Clara stared at the mountain of consumed literature, then at my face. She hadn't heard a logic-based statement; she had heard a declaration of personality. The machine was actively choosing to seek pleasure.
"You... you finished all of those?" Clara asked, her controlled facade finally fracturing.
I tilted my head, adopting the smallest, most utterly unnerving smirk. It wasn't Kiyomi's blank mask, but a genuine expression of irreverence—the first sign of the hedonistic human.
"Yes, Mother," I confirmed, my voice gaining a hint of that future vulgarity through its sheer, calculated arrogance. "They were entertaining. Now, if you are done observing my new, self-assigned course curriculum, I have located the section on advanced calculus and the history of global torture methods. I believe a little non-fiction will be required to properly cleanse the palate."
The test of choice was over. Mirai had chosen both. She would balance the frivolous (mythology) with the brutal (history of torture), because for the first time, she got to write the syllabus for her own existence.
A choice she wanted to make for herself.