151. Unsuccessful, died of a sudden illness (not really)

After Jiang Yu got into the car, Tsumugi Kotobuki found herself almost unable to put her astonishment into words. No matter how she thought about it, she never could have imagined that the remarkably talented peer her aunt had promised to introduce to her would turn out to be the “mysterious pianist” she had gone to see that day with her friends from the Light Music Club.

What was more, that inexplicable sense of déjà vu had grown stronger and stronger. When they had been sitting some distance apart in the café, she had not noticed it particularly, but now there was no more than a single seat between them. Tsumugi could be certain that she had seen this person somewhere before. The memory, however, was blurred beyond recognition, and no matter how hard she racked her brain, she could not recall it.

Ever since they had gotten into the car, Jiang Yu had felt the girl beside him watching him. The strange discomfort brought on by her gaze lingered in his mind. After a long silence, he finally surrendered beneath her stare and asked, “Um... is there something you need?”

“Eh? No, I’m sorry. I just feel as though you look familiar...” Tsumugi seemed to awaken from a dream. Realizing that she had been rude, she summoned the refined bearing of a young lady and apologized with a slightly sheepish smile.

“Er... well, my name is Jiang Yu. And you?” Jiang Yu’s expression turned subtly awkward as he introduced himself. He was certain that he had never met this girl before. And what era was that way of striking up a conversation from?

“My apologies. My name is Tsumugi Kotobuki, and I’m a first-year high school student. What about you, Jiang?”

Though Tsumugi remained curious, she understood that this was not the time to pursue such questions. She replied with an elegant, faint smile.

“Hmm, I’m one year above you. May I ask what your relationship with Teacher Kotobuki is?”

“Teacher Kotobuki? Oh, Chika is my aunt.” Tsumugi was taken aback. It took her a moment to realize that the “Teacher Kotobuki” Jiang Yu referred to was Chika Kotobuki, who was sitting in front, wholly focused on driving.

At that moment, they came to a red light. Chika brought the car to a smooth halt just a hair’s breadth from the vehicle ahead. Hearing the question, she nodded lightly.

Anzu Kato turned around to look at Tsumugi and introduced herself with a smile. “Hello! Little Tsumugi, is it all right if I call you that? I’m Anzu Kato, your aunt’s friend. I’ve heard about you for ages, though this is the first time we’ve actually met, isn’t it?”

Tsumugi smiled as well. “Of course. Aunt Chika often speaks of you, Aunt Anzu.”

“Really? What does she usually say about me? And you can just call me Big Sis—”

“Anzu!”

The woman who had been trying to make herself sound younger was mercilessly interrupted by another woman her own age, and in the end, she could only give up with a disgruntled huff.

Jiang Yu stared in astonishment as Anzu and Tsumugi suddenly began chatting away, growing steadily more familiar with each other. Once again, he was struck by how rapidly women could form friendships.

Still, he was more than happy to enjoy the peace and quiet. Neither his former self nor his present one had ever been particularly talkative or eager to make friends. Otherwise, he would not have had only Tomoya Aki as a friend since entering high school.

With nothing else to do, Jiang Yu began rehearsing in his mind what sort of conversation he ought to have when he met Joe Hisaishi.

Hisaishi was unquestionably a master in the field of music—or, more precisely, in the field of musical composition for visual media. He could be considered the most accomplished person in any single field whom Jiang Yu had encountered across his two lifetimes.

Yet what Jiang Yu admired most about Hisaishi was not the emotion expressed in his music, nor his creativity, nor even his skill at the piano. When it came to those aspects, there were several people in Japan alone who surpassed him.

Hisaishi’s greatest strength lay in his ability to create music that perfectly suited the work it accompanied. Hayao Miyazaki’s animated films and Takeshi Kitano’s movies were invariably enhanced by Hisaishi’s music.

Jiang Yu had no desire to become a master of music. In that field, the ability he wanted most was naturally the ability to compose music that truly matched the theme of a work.

That was why he had been genuinely excited when Chika Kotobuki said she could recommend him to Joe Hisaishi. Yet Jiang Yu, who had remained a programmer at heart from beginning to end, would rather see his name quietly appear in the credits of the animated sequence after a game was completed than place himself in the position of a musician.

Planning, script, music—it did not matter which category his name appeared under. He would not even mind if every category bore his name. Deep down, compared with some glorious reputation that would live on for generations, Jiang Yu cared far more about the sense of achievement that welled up when players paid attention to one of the works he had released.

Besides, if anyone understood him, it was surely himself. He knew perfectly well who had truly created those dazzling works that astonished others. The people of this world could never know, but Jiang Yu did.

And so, he had never wavered in his goal: to become a game producer.

While he was lost in thought, Chika, guided by an attendant, had already parked the car in the lot of a certain hotel. Naturally, the hotel was also the destination of their journey.

Unfortunately, to Jiang Yu’s considerable disappointment, it seemed that the fatigue of traveling had taken its toll on Joe Hisaishi, who had come down with a cold. According to a member of Hisaishi’s team who had stayed behind to wait for Chika, they had feared it might be seasonal influenza and had taken him to the hospital first thing that morning. They had not had time to notify Jiang Yu and the others, who had also arrived early.

Thus, the four of them could only bid farewell with some regret. On the way home, perhaps influenced by thoughts of her own, Chika suddenly announced that she wanted to test whether Jiang Yu’s skills had declined recently.

She drove to her family’s music shop, and the group passed through the back entrance with practiced familiarity, arriving at the recording studio Jiang Yu was visiting for the second time.

“Play the piece you performed at the restaurant last time!”

After sending Jiang Yu into the soundproof booth, Chika gave him that instruction.

Half amused and half exasperated, Jiang Yu finally understood that the test was merely an excuse. What Chika really wanted was to take the opportunity to record a solo piano version of “One More Time, One More Chance.”

Knowing that she was only trying to help him, Jiang Yu had no reason to refuse. He steadied his breathing, gathered his concentration, and began to play.

Once the performance started, Tsumugi followed Chika and Anzu’s example and put on a pair of headphones. Before long, she was immersed in the magnificent melody flowing from Jiang Yu’s fingertips.

When the piece ended and Jiang Yu emerged, he found Anzu greeting him with a look of admiration, Chika with an expression of satisfaction, and Tsumugi with an oddly complicated look on her face.

After a moment of silence, Tsumugi suddenly said, “You really are amazing, Jiang. Compared with the music I heard from you in the café, your technique feels much more polished now.”