Hayato Tsuwabuki’s birthday party was held at the Hotel Grand Hills in early July. He would be 99 years old.

He had been the owner of the Tsuwabuki Zaibatsu, and had remained active as a mediator between the related companies after its disbandment after the war. Even now, he remained an influential person worldwide.

Nowadays he lived as a recluse, having bequeathed his fortune to his grandson, Meiro, but his ostentatious habits remained, and once a year he held a party like this.

The finest names in Japanese society were in attendance. Yet all eyes were fixed on just one man.

If you strained your ears, perhaps you could hear it...

On the 120th floor, high above the clamorous uproar of the lower world: a violin’s melody. It was a swift, elegant tune, yet a cold passion ran beneath the surface.

Behind the unhurried movements of the bow, the player’s expression was serene. Not a hair stood out of place in his neatly arranged platinum blond coif. He was a strikingly handsome man, the kind who turned heads wherever he passed. It was only natural, then, that many of the most eligible ladies in high society sent steamy glances his way.

At last the tune ended, and those who had been captivated by his performance — the vast majority of the guests — broke into wholehearted applause.

The man, seeming to give little heed to the applause, thanked them offhandedly and returned to the seat that had been reserved for him.

“What a versatile young man he is! The heir to the Tsuwabuki Concern...”

“His playing was invigorating. Truly splendid.”

These glowing words were from men old enough to be his father.

“Ichiro. Wasn’t that Ernst’s ‘Grand Caprice on Der Erlkönig’?”

“I hear it’s one of the most difficult violin solos there is! You made it look so easy...”

These lavish compliments came from ladies of beauty and refinement.

But every one of them was a phrase Ichiro Tsuwabuki was well used to hearing, so he simply nodded along as he placed his violin in its case. He had brought the instrument along merely as entertainment for the party. He hadn’t even touched it for two or three years. Even something that earned him such lofty praise simply as a matter of course was nothing but an idle pastime for Ichiro, a man well aware of his personal brilliance.

It’s nonsense.

The words drifted into his mind of their own accord. The compliments to his playing skill did nothing to lift his spirits.

Ichiro Tsuwabuki was bored once again. He was numb.

A few seats away, his great-grandfather Hayato Tsuwabuki could be seen chatting gaily with a crowd of esteemed politicians. From time to time, they glanced over at him, perhaps using him as the object of discussion.

Starved for amusement, Ichiro looked around the room, only to find his gaze drawn by the sight of a girl. She was standing beside a table as stiff as a statue, dressed in a white dress that, while gorgeous, was clearly wearing her.

Though most would agree she was charming enough, she was nothing compared to the beautiful women all around her. That was the kind of girl she was.

“You’re quiet today, Asuha,” Ichiro said to her.

She opened her mouth to say something back, then bowed her head for a moment before looking back up at him and answering.

“Well... you know... I’ve just never been to one of these things before,” Asuha Tsuwabuki said in response. “I mean, I don’t live in a big house like yours, Itchy. My father’s just a regular office drone. Why would Great-grandpa invite me to a place like this? What was he thinking?”

“I doubt he was thinking anything in particular. Great-grandfather just likes you, that’s all.”

Ichiro caught sight of one of the waiters who was smoothly navigating the room, stopped him, and asked for a glass of orange juice. The waiter thanked him with a dignified and not even slightly sarcastic smile and glided off.

“Yeah, and I think you get your arrogance from him.”

Ichiro laughed. “Nonsense. I have nowhere near his stubbornness.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so,” Asuha sulked.

As she spoke, the waiter from earlier returned with a glass of orange juice on a tray, and, at Ichiro’s urging, set it in front of Asuha.

The glass was delicate, tall and thin like a champagne flute, and the sweet-sour citrus aroma that drifted up from it suggested only the finest.

Asuha picked up the glass with a sigh and stared hard at the liquid. She did not move to drink it.



“This is that stuff that’s 1,200 yen a glass, right?”

“I don’t know, but likely so.”

“It’s ridiculous. You could just give me the money, and I’d buy a whole case of Sarashibo Orange.” Despite her grumbling, Asuha’s anxiety appeared to be slowly washing away.

Of course, an objective look at the party guests would suggest she had a good reason to be suspicious of her great-grandfather’s invitation. His family tree was a vast one, yet his great-grandchildren, Ichiro and Asuha, were the only blood relatives he had invited.

Many of the guests were clearly hoping to see Ichiro’s father Meiro Tsuwabuki, president of the Tsuwabuki Concern, but he hadn’t come. As a result, Ichiro had been left to endure the brunt of the many high-society sycophants seeking an in with his father’s business. In other words, a lot of nonsense.

In the end, though, the deepest motive at play appeared to be nothing more than a desire to show off his accomplished great-grandson — Ichiro — and his lovely great-granddaughter — Asuha — to the outside world.

Despite appearances, Ichiro liked his great-grandfather, and had attended several such occasions. But all the same, he couldn’t claim he enjoyed them.