Act 1, Chapter 18: The Spirit Carries On

Saturday, 3:00 PM. The sanctuary of frequency had returned to its slumber.

Yakomori’s infernal 1 Week Go to Hell had scorched the stage, and Suede’s purgatorial Death Homesick had borne their souls, and Toriteba’s bittersweet Garter Belts had risen to paradise after Hasumi’s tearful awakening. Their spirit still carries on.

The private bands' battle among the twelve first-year Sakuragawa Light Music Club members was over, leaving behind a shared catharsis that bound them closer.

No absolute winners—only understanding of each other's pains. Their raw and unpolished songs served as powerful weapons against their inner demons, transcending mere music.

Pooling their yen to cover the studio fees, they emerged into the warm Osaka afternoon with their gig bags slung over their shoulders.

Laughter and chatter filled the air, replacing the tension stemming from Hasumi’s breakdown and Aoi’s earlier outburst with a sense of camaraderie among the group. The twelve lingered outside, reluctant to part.

Riku, his gig bag bouncing, grinned at the group. “Alright, to wrap it up, who's going to dinner at my favorite pub?”

The boys cheered, fists raised in a banzai salute. Toriteba’s girls hesitated. Takane shook her head, her Yamaha gig bag steady. “Sorry, my aunt’s got a warm meal waiting tonight.”

Daichi sauntered over, pointing to them with a teasing tone, “Can we—”

“Hell nah! Girls only!” Mei cut him off, pointing her gig bag like an assault rifle.

Laughter erupted, the group’s playful dynamic restored. But Hiroki held up a hand, stopping the girls from leaving. “Hey, girls, hold on!”

The girls turned, curious. As Hiroki leaned toward Aoi he whispered, “You go with the girls. I’ll hang with the boys.”

“B-but…” Aoi stammered, her turquoise eye narrowing, her mood shifting uneasily.

Before she could protest, Sara’s gyaru energy took over, wrapping an arm around Aoi’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright! We’re all cool now, aren’t we?”

Takane, Mei, Yuna, and Hasumi circled Aoi, their earlier conflict forgotten, their smiles warm.

Aoi’s bitter glare lingered, her chuunibyou priestess persona bristling at their closeness. Hiroki, having confiscated her toy prank knife earlier, wasn’t taking chances.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Hiroki warned firmly. Then, stepping closer, he reached for her left eyepatch, intent on peeling back her chuunibyou armor for one normal day.

“H-hold on!” Aoi protested, squirming as she tried to fight back. “If you remove this, it’ll—”

Too late, the girls sensed resistance, and they grabbed Aoi like cops hauling a suspect.

Hiroki quickly lifted the eyepatch, revealing her same turquoise eyes, and unwrapped the bandages on her arms, stripping her priestess facade.

Aoi froze, vulnerable without her persona. With a laugh, Sara and Mei then lifted her like a rice bag.

“Let me go, you heretic succubus! This is heresy! Heresy!” Aoi shouted, flailing as Toriteba’s girls laughed and carried her away.

Their giggles echoed down the street, Aoi’s protests fading into the chatter of newfound friendship.

Hiroki exhaled, feeling a sense of relief and lightness in the absence of Aoi’s chuunibyou intensity. For one evening, he craved normalcy.

He slung his Les Paul gig bag over his shoulder, joining Junichi, Riku, Daichi, Kenta, and Gojou as they strolled through Osaka’s bustling streets, the city alive with neon and noise.

“Now that’s wrapped up, let’s get drunk!” Kenta declared, sparking another banzai fist raise from the group.

“Dude, we’re underage!” Hiroki exasperated in surprise.

“Metaphorically, man!” Riku chuckled, his punkish hair catching the streetlights.

The six boys headed toward Riku’s favorite pub, flowing with their conversation.

Hiroki felt a weight lift, the studio’s intensity replaced by the simple joy of friendship.

Meanwhile, Aoi, stripped of her priestess armor, was with Toriteba, learning to laugh without her guard.

***

Saturday, 3:30 PM. The pub near the Hasegawa Family Studio buzzed with life, the clatter of plates and chatter of patrons filling the air.

Neon signs flickered, casting a warm glow over the packed tables. The six boys sat cross-legged around a wooden table, their gig bags leaning against the wall.

Fresh from their explosive studio battle, they raised glasses of root beer in a celebratory toast for their successful performances at the studio.

“Cheers!” they shouted, clinking glasses and chugging the fizzy root beer like it was lager, their underage exuberance mimicking overworked salarymen.

The rush-hour crowd delayed their meals, but the mood was high.

“This pub’s root beer is the best! Another round!” Daichi hollered, waving his empty glass at a passing waiter.

Riku leaned toward Hiroki with a playful grin, a stark contrast to his metalhead stage persona. “Hey, Hiroki! You’re a Deftones fan, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” Hiroki replied, raising an eyebrow and adjusting his glasses.

Riku leaned closer, eyes glinting. “Which album? Around the Fur? White Pony? Diamond Eyes? Koi No Yokan?”

“Saturday Night Wrist,” Hiroki said, a touch nervous.

The four Yakomori boys burst into laughter. “Their worst album?! Are you kidding us?!” Daichi teased, slapping the table.

“C’mon, give my taste a chance!” Hiroki shot back, exasperated but grinning.

As they laughed, waiting for their food, the conversation shifted into a mourning section.

Hiroki’s tone softened, his gaze distant. “My brother Kaito Yamada… He was a part-time studio sound engineer. Dreamed of working live concerts whilst being in a band. Taught me music production on BandLab. He ever told me, ‘Don’t just play music, create it.’ That was before…” His voice cracked with somber hesitation. "...the fiery motorcycle accident."

The table quieted, nodding in sympathy. Riku’s eyes softened. “My uncle was a huge metalhead. Came home from military service with gifts—my black Jackson King V, Line 6 POD, all that. Spoiled me rotten.” He paused, clenching his chopsticks. “I took it for granted. His death in the Senkaku dispute… felt like my fault.”

The group nodded, the weight of shared loss settling in. Riku lightly grinned with melancholy, shaking it off. “But now? I’m Japan’s bootleg Matthew Tuck. Because I had to put my passion to good use.”

Daichi leaned in; frustration was lingering in his tone. “I lost a regional middle school soccer match because of a bullshit referee call. Probably bribed. Screwed our championship shot. Still pisses me off, even these days, though." He shrugged. “But thankfully, music’s my escape from that shitstorm.”

Kenta, quieter, rolled up his sleeve, revealing scars on his neck and shoulders. “Two years ago, the middle school bike riots? I was involved—not even throwing punches, but those bastards keep dragging me into this mess. Got caught, suspended, and forced into homeschooling. My family couldn’t afford a decent school, so I ended up in a public one full of chaos.” The table stilled, stunned by his violent past. “Thankfully, rehab and counseling got me to Sakuragawa. It’s much nicer in here. A hopeful fresh start.”

Gojou twirled his chopsticks like drumsticks, his voice low. “Back in middle school, I was in a regional drumming competition, grand finale, playing a tricky Latin track. Accidentally dropped a stick at the end, costing me the trophy. I locked myself in my room with anxious anorexia and nearly quit drums. Still haunts me.” He glanced at Hiroki. “That’s why I lean into power over precision, like our 1 Week Go to Hell.”

Riku pulled out his phone, grinning, and played Hiroki’s middle school YouTube video—his Deftones’ Elite solo vocal, a chuunibyou scream-fest.

Hiroki groaned, covering his face. “Please, not this shit again!”

Daichi pointed his chopsticks, eyes bright. “Come on! Your ‘cringy’ performance? It’s like our Mother Teresa! Without it, we wouldn’t be here!”

“We saw it and thought, ‘Gotta form a band with this guy,’” Gojou added, pointing at Hiroki.

Kenta nodded. “Music unites us, man. Doesn’t matter what we’ve been through.”

Hiroki smirked, wrapping an arm around Junichi. “Too bad, I’m with Suede. Right, Junichi?”

“Oh yeah!” Junichi flashed a joking double devil horn salute.

Riku pointed his chopsticks at Junichi. “Hold up, you haven’t spilled your story. What’s your pain?”

Junichi’s grin faded, his face darkening. “My parents’ divorce. Worse? They’re both gone.” The table froze. “Mom was a tailor, barely scraping by. Dad, a gambling addict, overdosed in the bathroom and drowned in debt. Mom’s colon cancer got worse from the stress. Both had deceased.”

Hiroki’s jaw dropped, the group’s sympathy palpable. Junichi tapped his chopsticks on the table. “When I said Death Homesick felt like overdosing in a bathroom, I meant my dad. Your song hit that nerve. Left me hollow.”

“W-why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Hiroki asked, voice soft.

Junichi sighed with somber hesitation. “Didn’t wanna stress you guys. But… here we are.”

“Oh… My condolences,” Daichi nodded quietly in sympathy. "Who are you with now?”

“My uncle, a shrine keeper. Thinks music’s full of ‘evil spirits,’ wants me to quit. But I’m saving up to get out and start fresh.”

The table nodded, their shared scars laid bare. Just then, the waiter arrived with steaming plates—edamame, gyozas, beef gyudons—and fresh root beers. The somber mood lifted.

“You know what? Enough mourning! Dinner’s here; let’s dig in!” Riku said, grabbing his chopsticks.

The six boys dove into the feast, their dark pasts forging a deeper bond.

***

Saturday, 4:30 PM. The pub’s clatter faded as the six boys parted ways, their stomachs full but their hearts still heavier with shared scars.

Hiroki walked alone toward the nearby Osaka train station, his late brother Kaito’s black-gold custom Les Paul gig bag slung over his shoulder.

The city’s neon lights flickered against the dusk, but his mind replayed the studio’s roller coaster. It was a day he’d carry forever.

His phone buzzed as he strode along the sidewalk. Pulling it out, he opened the Sakuragawa Light Music Club group chat, curious to see how the twelve first-years were faring.

The chat was alive with chaos—shitposts, and playful jabs flying between the first years.

While the three 2nd-year senpais played the role of exasperated parents, trying to rein in the madness.

A photo popped up: a group shot of all twelve first-years in studio B-6, grinning and posing with their instruments.

Hiroki remembered the moment—Riku had roped a studio staffer into snapping it, then made them swear secrecy.

It was part of his plan to surprise their 2nd-year senpais at next Friday’s LMC showcase. Their raw original songs needed polish, but the week ahead would sharpen them for the public stage.

procoratsoranakamura (Sora, 2nd admin): Seems like you guys had fun in there. Why won't you invite us?

touhoumaycry345 (Riku): You senpais were busy, duh.

candyapplemist65 (Mika, main admin): Excuse me?! My shift ended two hours ago! You could’ve invited me!

toritaan5829 (Takane): Too bad, senpai. It’s a secret~~~.

candyapplemist65 (Mika, admin): I’ll interrogate you by any means~~~.

mioakiyamachan (Mei): Kyaa, senpai~ Don't be so rough~

flyhighdaijirokato2003 (Daichi): Horny at somewhere else, dumbass!

Hiroki cracked a laugh, the chat’s chaos a perfect reflection of the day’s energy.

Riku’s secret showcase had been a gamble, but it united them—metalheads, pop-rockers, and alt-rockers alike—against their shared demons through music.

The surprise for the 2nd meeting was their next challenge, a chance to prove their raw creations could shine. Hiroki pocketed his phone, the weight of Kaito’s guitar grounding him.