Chapter 66
The carrot's crisp sweetness melted on the tongue, carrying the warm, lived-in aftertaste of street food. Denji held the bamboo skewer, still bearing faint traces of the radish's former life…
He strolled leisurely toward a nearby high platform with a wider view.
This wasn't some famous mountain or grand vista—just a modest dirt hill on the city's edge, carved flat at the waist into a perfect viewing spot, almost like someone had deliberately built a stage for scenery-gazers.
He had followed the scattered lanterns of small food stalls all the way up here. Even the wind carried the scent of grilled squid and oden, tugging people upward.
The steaming bowl in his hand came from an unassuming stall behind him.
"Ahm."
Another bite—the hot little sausage burst juice in his mouth.
Chew.
Swallow.
Denji stood at the edge of the platform, gaze crossing the low railing toward the distant river of light.
Ten thousand homes spread out below like an inverted starry sea. The crisscrossing streets formed the galaxy's veins, stringing countless stars together—flickering, clamorous yet lonely, composing a picture both extremely beautiful and somehow absurd in a way hard to name.
"If only there were fireworks right now… and a shy girl confessing to me beside me—that'd be even better."
Denji murmured; the night wind carried his voice away. He leaned his elbows on the cold railing, watching the world below with pure, unfiltered eyes, observing the ceaseless flow of human life.
"Smoky atmosphere," "human warmth," "the real and fake overflow of emotion"…
All of it belonged exclusively to the human world—scalding, vivid restlessness.
No matter what the world had become, people still had to live. After all, endless persistence wasn't exclusive to bugs.
Life's stubbornness was exactly like this.
Letting go of deeper thoughts, he focused on the scene before him.
Below the platform was a cross-section of the city.
An elderly couple walked arm in arm after dinner—steps slow, backs bent, yet carrying a quiet stability. At the convenience store entrance, several uniformed teens laughed and shoved each other—same clothes, different quirks; each one the protagonist of their own story, youthful and dazzling. Farther away, traffic lights changed mechanically, car streams surged endlessly along roads toward unknown destinations.
These lights, these people, these trivial everyday moments that would feel boring in a movie—they built an unbreakable wall: the most real proof of "being alive."
People love talking about masks and the faces we wear—but are all the emotions released through them fake?
The audience below watching the stage, the actors burning brightly above—who is performing for whom? Who is singing for whom? Who is crying and laughing for whom?
Something dawned in Denji's heart.
I came. I saw. I witnessed.
Real or fake—every instant of the world gets frozen in time as it passes. These scenes will be confirmed as real and replayed endlessly in the cinema after death.
He liked humans a little more now.
Of course, that didn't stop him from hating filthy things, nor did it change his special fondness for beautiful, sexy girls.
But liking is liking, hating is hating. No matter how good the sensory experience feels, none of it can become belonging.
He could no longer melt into this world like a drop of water.
This was something he had to bear. Of course, he could also choose to crash into the world like a meteor—that was his freedom too.
The reason he could summarize this was because just earlier, he had passed a hazy, shy young couple—maybe not even a couple yet, just more than friends, less than lovers…
The girl's eyes instantly lost focus, emotions interrupted, plunging into chaotic mental fantasy.
The hand that had tentatively reached out froze in midair.
This was already his limit of closeness to humans.
Just one glance—not only the girl, but even the boy had his mind shaken for a moment, almost questioning his own orientation.
No need to blame the girl—if Denji had cross-dressed, the boy might have fallen even faster.
"No wonder Sumina fell so hard. With looks like this, I could probably jerk off just staring at my own reflection, right?"
Denji joked, but deep down he knew.
He had become an indigestible anomaly in this world, destined to be an existence beyond the ordinary.
Even without using that terrifying power—just with the most superficial appearance—he could already stir waves that would affect the entire world.
Denji quietly withdrew from the flood of humanity.
It was time to go pick up Makima.
...
Makima had just stepped out of the restaurant. The night breeze brushed her hair when the driver's extended car glided up like a ghost.
Princi (the Spider Devil) opened the door. In the front seat, the female driver gripping the wheel had vacant, fanatical eyes—a "Control Puppet."
The door closed, briefly isolating her from the outside world. Makima gracefully removed the silk blouse layer under her coat, the motion elegant as though performing a ritual.
The red dress shimmered darkly under the light, forming a stark contrast with her almost luminous white skin. Unfortunately, this breathtaking sight remained unseen—Princi and the driver kept their gazes restrained.
"Everything is ready, Makima-sama."
"Mm."
A simple reply. Makima slipped the coat back on and stepped out of the car.
Her fingertip slid across the screen, double-checking Denji's message.
Just a few sparse words—simple, no time, no place, only that name that slightly disordered her heartbeat.
After confirming there was no additional information, she decided to wait right here.
The streetlamps outside the restaurant glowed dim yellow. She signaled the car to pull back slightly and melt into the darkness so it wouldn't be an eyesore.
She stood like a perfect statue on the boundary between light and shadow, patiently waiting for the only variable named "Denji."
It didn't take long.
A hand suddenly rested on her shoulder—palm still warm, the sensation familiar.
"Ah lala Makima was already waiting here so early? There's still an hour left"
Even before the hand touched her shoulder, Makima had already smelled Denji's scent.
She didn't know where he came from, but once she confirmed it was him, Makima had no reason to react with alarm.
Even if his arrival stirred a faint ripple in her heart, under her precise control, that ripple wouldn't spill over at all.
"But you didn't say a time."
"Huh, really?"
Makima touched the phone in her pocket, about to pull it out to verify with Denji, when he spoke confidently:
"I clearly remember sending you a brain-wave signal. You didn't receive it? You must not have me in your heart!"
Makima's movement paused. Her brain began high-speed analysis of Denji's thinking pattern. She tried to play along:
"…Oh, I remember now." She parted her red lips, her tone even carrying a perfectly measured hint of annoyance. "Denji did send me a 'brain-wave signal.' Just now I was probably too excited about our date and momentarily forgot the exact time."
"Hehe~ That's what I thought."
Denji broke into a slightly exaggerated grin—cunning with a trace of mischief. Gradually, that effect settled back down.
His expression returned to calm joy.
The two looked at each other, both wearing faint smiles.
One pair of eyes clear as a mirror; the other deep, shrouded in mist.
"You don't look good smiling like that."
Denji suddenly spoke, breaking the strange stalemate.
Makima tilted her head slightly, smoothly switching to a faintly puzzled expression—innocent and alluring.
"Then what kind of smile does Denji like?"
As she spoke, she had already mentally rehearsed countless possibilities. Whatever Denji said, she could instantly adjust her facial muscles to present the next "perfect" expression.
"Hmm—"
Denji drew out the sound, nasal and teasing, refusing to let the next words land.
Makima's pupils remained empty, but every sense in her body had already tensed—like a marionette awaiting command.
"I'm not telling you~"
Denji suddenly leaned in close, the tip of his nose almost brushing her cheek. Those golden pupils sparkled with some instinctive cunning.
"Hehe~"
Looking at Denji's smug face right in front of her.
Makima's expression showed no extra change.
A joke at this level wouldn't stir even a ripple in her heart…
Her attention had been fixed on Denji's gaze and smile—so she completely failed to notice his little movement: at some point, a finger had already poked her soft cheek.
"Ultra-Sensitive Skin"~
"Mmm—yi yi yi oh hoo—oh!"
This "sensory module" was specially designed by Denji with reference to little Koharu, of course with "a tiny bit" of his own personal understanding added.
Makima's proud composure collapsed instantly. Those eyes that always saw through everything rolled back, exposing vulnerable whites; tears poured uncontrollably from the corners, sliding down her cheeks; even her tongue and saliva lost control under the neural chaos, hanging messily from her "O"-shaped lips…
Watching Makima's entertaining reaction, Denji smiled and added the final line:
"Just kidding~ I'm not that petty."
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