19 The Strongest (Part Ten)

Page (1/3)

Chūya Nakahara soon got exactly what he wanted—he drank himself under the table. The young man with tangerine-orange hair lay sprawled across the table, his blue eyes half-open, hazy and dazed, before he began fumbling over himself restlessly. Osamu Dazai sat beside him, propping his chin on his hand as he watched Nakahara’s wandering hands explore his chest, then his waist, then his backside. A mischievous urge stirred within Dazai’s heart, tempting him to tease Nakahara by asking if he wanted some help searching.

But seeing Nakahara’s flushed cheeks from the alcohol, he silently slid his phone across the table. He didn’t want Nakahara grabbing him by the collar and scolding him while pressing him down—no good for his back.

Nakahara looked at the suddenly appearing phone in front of him, politely responding to the indistinct air, “Ah, thank you.”

Taking the phone, he skillfully dialed a number. Before the busy tone could sound, Dazai calmly ended the call and said, “Nakahara.”

“You bastard, Dazai!” Nakahara’s voice exploded in his ear, followed by a barrage of sharp insults.

Dazai, sitting next to him with a glass of red wine swirling in his hand, treated the scolding like an appetizer for his drink.

He watched Nakahara’s moist lips, stained with wine, open and close as he nagged incessantly, then raised his glass for a sip.

After all, Nakahara didn’t need him to respond.

It had taken Dazai quite some effort to get Nakahara into the habit of calling him after getting drunk.

Feigning a sigh, Dazai knew that every call from Nakahara meant he’d have to go to the bar to pick him up.

“Nakahara is such a hassle whenever he’s drunk!” Dazai complained. “He has no sense of caution at all!”

Recalling how Nakahara looked when wasted at the bar, anger flared in Dazai’s chest, and in a burst of irritation, he grabbed Nakahara’s cheek.

Seeing the red mark left on Nakahara’s face, different from the flush of intoxication, Dazai felt a bit better inside.

“Dazai?” Nakahara’s bleary eyes scanned Dazai and then the phone screen in his hand, his expression turning mischievous. “Dazai!”

Dazai was prepared, leaning back to avoid Nakahara’s punch, catching him smoothly and pulling him into his arms. “What did you want to say, Nakahara?”

Nakahara struggled a bit but only lost balance, the alcohol surging stronger, his head spinning more. “Ugh…”

Dazai pressed a finger to his temple teasingly. “If you feel that bad, why don’t you stop drinking so much?”

Nakahara collapsed onto his lap, unresponsive to Dazai’s hand resting on his vulnerable spot, defiantly saying, “Drinking is pleasure!”

“What pleasure is there in drinking yourself senseless?” Dazai watched Nakahara’s complexion carefully, relieved that the cursed spirit likely wouldn’t vomit, before they shifted together onto the tatami mats.

“Dazai…” Nakahara lay on Dazai’s lap, viewing the figure above him from a familiar angle, reaching out his hand.

“What is it, Nakahara?” Dazai’s heartbeat quickened slightly as he saw the hand reaching toward him.

Nakahara’s hand gently caressed Dazai’s cheek, his misty blue eyes fixed intently on him.

Dazai swallowed.

Suddenly, as if confirming something, Nakahara’s gentle touch turned fierce, grabbing Dazai’s cheek hard and shouting, “You bastard, how dare you grab my face!”

Dazai: …

He shouted back angrily, “You’re the idiot, Nakahara!”

“You’re the idiot!” Nakahara, still lying on Dazai’s lap, held his ground fiercely.

Dazai touched his reddened cheek, grinding his teeth. “What were you groping just now?!”

Nakahara said with certainty, “I couldn’t see your face clearly—how was I supposed to confirm it was you without touching?”

Dazai said incredulously, “So you just reached out and groped randomly? What if it wasn’t me?!”

“Then I wouldn’t have pinched you!” Nakahara shouted.

Dazai ground his teeth in frustration. “How can you be like this?!”

“Ah, clear-cut grudges are my style,” Nakahara replied sharply, sounding far from drunk.

“I couldn’t tell!” Dazai rolled his eyes dramatically.

“That’s your problem!” Nakahara retorted.

Their quarrel immediately escalated, filling the small space with noisy commotion, making it feel unusually full.

They only stopped once their mouths grew dry and their tongues tired.

Page (2/3)

Dazai drained the remaining wine from his glass and poured Nakahara a cup of water.

Nakahara grumbled, “Why isn’t mine wine?”

Feigning surprise, Dazai asked, “So now you can still tell wine from water? I thought you couldn’t tell anything anymore!”

“What are you being so sarcastic about?!” Nakahara sat up to take the cup.

“I’m not,” Dazai pouted, his indigo eyes fixed on Nakahara, a charming smile playing on his lips as he elongated his voice, “I’m just curious. Aren’t you known for being able to recognize me even if I turned to dust?”

“I’m drunk,” Nakahara turned his back, only revealing a pair of flushed ears.

Dazai poured himself another glass of wine, casually remarking, “Nakahara never admits when he’s drunk.”

Watching Nakahara silently sip water, the smile on Dazai’s lips grew wider. The alcohol’s warmth finally crept through him, coloring his cheeks.

Feigning ignorance, Dazai continued watching Nakahara’s back, teasing, “Does alcohol act like an anesthetic for you?”

Nakahara’s poor tolerance to drugs had long been a focus for Dazai, but sometimes it made for interesting moments.

For instance, when Nakahara had to receive anesthesia for medical treatment.

At first, no one realized the issue—Nakahara rarely got injured, and when he did, anesthesia wasn’t needed.

Until Verlaine arrived. Dazai stayed by Nakahara’s bedside after a serious injury and saw firsthand how Nakahara acted after anesthesia.

He sat beside the hospital bed, watching Nakahara babble incoherently as if feverish, ordering everyone out, helplessly observing Nakahara chatting with imaginary members of the Flag congregation, then later mercilessly mocking him once he was fully lucid.

“Letting everyone know Nakahara is such a sentimental fool is unacceptable!” Dazai sat cross-legged at the bedside, prodding a straw into Nakahara’s mouth from a water cup, cruelly saying, “You talk so much even when injured—when did you become such a chatterbox?”

Nakahara sucked on the straw, swallowing cool, sweet water, his dry throat issuing a contented sigh.

He looked at Dazai with confusion and doubt. “Did I say a lot? No wonder my throat’s dry... What did I say?”

Seeing Nakahara genuinely had no memory, Dazai subtly relaxed, grabbed an apple nearby—why was there an apple in the hospital room? Was Mr. Mori playing some disgusting humanitarian role?

Absentmindedly, Dazai used a fruit knife to gesture on his wrist, then began peeling the apple. “Nakahara talked for nearly two hours—I’m not repeating it.”

Nakahara froze. Releasing the straw, he hesitated, “Two hours… You stayed here all that time?”

“Of course,” Dazai glanced downward, as if catching Nakahara red-handed, and smugly said, “If you didn’t want to see me, you wouldn’t keep holding on to me!”

Nakahara felt a bad premonition. Following Dazai’s gaze downward, he realized his hand was clutching the corner of the black trench coat.

He jerked his hand back, eyes wide in shock.

Dazai laughed maliciously, “I was kind enough not to take photos!”

Because he had no phone.

Though the hospital room had cameras.

But when he asked everyone to leave, he also had them turn off the cameras. Nakahara’s vulnerable moments shouldn’t be seen by anyone.

So, indeed, there were no backups.

Tsk!

Later, Dazai observed Nakahara for a long time, confirming it was only anesthesia aftereffects, not a psychological issue, before feeling reassured.

The next time this happened, Dazai expertly sent everyone away again, sitting alone by the bedside, waiting for Nakahara to finish before mocking him.

But Nakahara’s rambling had changed content, becoming complaints about acquaintances of the Port Mafia, including but not limited to Mr. Mori’s receding hairline, Big Sister Akino’s complicated kimono, Old Master Hirotsu’s glasses… and how Dazai was a clever bastard who always outwitted him.

Dazai regretted not having his phone on him to record and play it back for Nakahara—it would have been hilarious.

This kind of episode only happened about once a year. Missing it was too much of a loss!

“What are you thinking, Dazai?” After finishing his water, Nakahara, still with hazy blue eyes, looked at Dazai, sinking into a comfortable tipsy state.

He had been drunk at first but was gradually sobering up; this body sobered faster than the original.

Dazai snapped back to reality, his past attentiveness to Nakahara undiminished. He snorted, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Tch!” Nakahara curled his lips. “Don’t you already know? What have I ever hidden from you?”

After failing to stop someone from planting bugs everywhere, Nakahara gave up on pointless efforts—there was nothing he absolutely had to hide from Dazai.

A smug smile appeared on Dazai’s face. “You still have some things to learn about keeping secrets!”

Page (3/3)

A lie. In truth, to contend with Dazai’s all-seeing observation, Nakahara excelled at keeping secrets; his frankness stemmed only from indifference.

He didn’t care if others saw his true emotions, didn’t care about others’ opinions, nor about the pain and suffering that might follow.

“Otherwise, would you rather suffocate yourself like you do?” Nakahara raised an eyebrow, pouring the last bit of wine into their glasses.

Dazai picked up his glass and clinked it against Nakahara’s.

The red wine inside swirled along the glass walls, forming two tiny whirlpools, like the two men’s restless fates.

They drained their glasses in one gulp.

“Found it,” Dazai said, watching the surveillance footage as Satoru Gojo’s car swaggered boldly across the screen.

He understood people like him—like Nakahara—not ones to hide or shy away, but to face the enemy head-on, because when faced with overwhelming power, all conspiracies unravel.

Nakahara stood nearby, not looking at the screen but at Dazai. “Why not let me go?”

Though asking for a reason, his tone sounded more like regret—that he wouldn’t get to confront this time.

So Dazai replied calmly, “There will be a chance in the future, Nakahara.”

“All right.” Nakahara rarely saw Dazai so cautious. Feeling a bit uneasy, he averted his eyes and silently raised the danger level of Satoru Gojo in his mind.

Saitama Commercial Street.

Satoru Gojo sat in the backseat of the car, sunglasses on, glancing at the wine shop beside him. “This is the wine shop that attracts cursed spirits? Doesn’t look special at all.”

From the driver's seat, Kiyotaka Ijichi reported, “This is the only shop around here that sells that brand of wine.”

“That cursed spirit has good taste,” Gojo asked suspiciously. “Didn’t they notice anything missing during the shop’s inventory?”

“No,” Ijichi recounted the investigation results. “The shop’s accounts are fine. The staff are all ordinary people with no connection to cursed spirits.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So... that cursed spirit actually paid for the wine? Which sorcerer is so... interesting?”

Either way, Jaken definitely didn’t have such a habit. Gojo wasn’t sure which was worse: a sorcerer who could control cursed spirits or one foolish enough to collude with them.

Probably the latter. A cursed spirit smart enough to collude with a sorcerer—that was a rare kind of cursed spirit Gojo wanted to meet… Well, since the other party was flaunting themselves so brazenly, he’d likely meet them soon enough.

Gojo stretched his long legs and stepped out of the car. Closing the door behind him, he casually told Ijichi, “Go ahead, I’m meeting Megumi for dinner tonight. Come pick me up early tomorrow.”

“Understood, Mr. Gojo.” Ijichi drove off as usual.

Gojo strolled through the wine shop but still found no trace of cursed energy residue.

No matter; since the other deliberately challenged him, they’d show up on their own.

His gaze swept the long street beyond his sunglasses. He bought an ice cream from a nearby shop, eating as he walked forward, planning to pick up Megumi Fushiguro from school.

The crowd thinned. It was here that Megumi had first encountered that cursed spirit.

Gojo paused, suddenly sensing someone watching him. He calmly turned his head, still licking his ice cream.

A figure clad in a black trench coat appeared in his distinctive eyes.

The sunglasses slid down his nose. Gojo instantly understood why Megumi couldn’t identify the cursed spirit—he looked too much like a human.

No grotesque features typical of cursed spirits; the figure had a remarkably handsome face, indistinguishable from a human, yet undeniably exuded cursed energy.

Dazai watched Gojo quietly, hands in pockets, not attacking, merely observing the “Strongest Sorcerer,” trying to gauge his character through every move.

Gojo’s observation ended quickly. He preferred a direct test.

A cocky grin spread across his face.

“Ao.”

A blue energy blast surged from his fingertips, shooting toward the cursed spirit.

The other didn’t even dodge. The dazzling blue light struck him directly before vanishing.

The cursed spirit in the black trench coat stood unharmed, as if the mighty “Ao” was nothing but a gentle breeze.

Gojo’s eyes widened in surprise.