IYAMI's Seven-Day War: The End of the Counterattack Against the Sextuplets
"This is my final battle, zansu."
IYAMI, always the laughingstock of the Matsuno sextuplets, was never just a comical antagonist. He was once a respected gentleman in Parisian high society, a man who lost everything in a single, abhorrent incident.
The sextuplets' innocent cruelty awakens a genuine darkness within IYAMI. One day, a casual insult from Todomatsu ignites his fury. With a sinister grin, he declares, "For seven days, I'll fight you seriously, zansu. If you win, I'll disappear forev
IYAMI's Seven-Day War: The End of the Counterattack Against the Sextuplets - The cowardly eldest son, zansu.
August 2nd. 7:00 AM.
The six-mat room on the second floor of the Matsuno house was stagnant with a heavy, oppressive air.
The morning sun slanting through the window was already strong, bleaching the tatami mats white. And yet, inside the room, it was dark as if dawn had never broken. The closet's sliding doors were shut tight, and the mountain of laundry remained collapsed where it had fallen.
All six brothers lay curled up on their respective futons. No one was asleep. They hadn't managed a single wink.
That audio file that had arrived on everyone's smartphone last night. That file that replayed Todomatsu's past betrayals, accompanied by laughter. It hadn't left any of their minds.
Todomatsu had pulled his futon over his head, hugging his knees and trembling. Every time he closed his eyes, the faces of the friends he'd cut off in high school surfaced. People he'd severed ties with, laughing because they were *useless*. Where those people were now, what they were doing — he had no way of knowing.
"...Just stop it already."
A hoarse voice leaked from beneath the futon.
By the wall, Karamatsu had removed his sunglasses and was staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes. His usual posing expression had vanished completely. He opened his mouth, trying to say something.
"Brother... it's alright. As long as the six of us are together, no enemy can—"
"No one's asking for that right now."
Choromatsu's voice cut him off coldly. He sat hunched over, clutching a job-hunting magazine. The edges of the pages were damp with sweat.
Karamatsu's face twisted. The fingers gripping his sunglasses turned white.
In the corner of the room, Ichimatsu sat hugging his knees, facing the wall. The hood of his black parka was pulled low over his eyes, his face completely hidden. He didn't move a muscle. He had erased his presence so thoroughly it was as if he'd never been there in the first place.
Only Jyushimatsu remained oblivious to the strange atmosphere.
"Breakfast! Seconds on white rice! Bubuun!"
He dashed down the stairs with a bouncing voice. That very innocence only made the heaviness in the room more stark.
Osomatsu lay on his back on his futon, staring at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes.
He hadn't slept at all.
The same memory looped endlessly in his mind.
—Spring of fifth grade.
On the way home from school, Todomatsu was being harassed by three older students. Different grades, bigger bodies — clearly opponents he couldn't match. Todomatsu tried desperately to escape. But he was surrounded, with nowhere to run. The first blow struck Todomatsu's cheek. His small body staggered.
He himself had watched it from behind cover.
He was scared. So scared that his voice wouldn't come out. His legs trembled and wouldn't move. He could do nothing but watch his little brother get beaten one-sidedly. Despite being the eldest. Despite being the one who was supposed to protect him.
Todomatsu's crying face from that moment was seared permanently into his mind.
Osomatsu's lips moved faintly.
"Sorry... I'm sorry..."
A voice that couldn't become a voice.
This time, I have to do something, as the eldest.
But — what if, once again, I can't do anything?
He remembered Iyami's eyes. Those quiet, cold eyes that had been turned on him in the park last night. Eyes that saw right through everything. That knew all of the ugly truth of who he was — an eldest son who had never done a thing.
Osomatsu's hand clenched tightly around the edge of his futon.
10:00 AM.
The shopping district of Akatsuki Town was already wrapped in heat. Beneath the arcade, housewives carrying shopping bags came and went. The greengrocer shouted about a tomato sale in a booming voice, and from the fish shop came the sound of water as ice melted.
Osomatsu stopped at the entrance to the arcade.
"I'm heading out for a bit."
When he'd left the house, that was all he'd said to his brothers watching TV in the living room. No one had replied. Only Jyushimatsu had waved and said, "See you later!"
His destination was the apartment where Iyami lived.
A five-minute walk from Akatsuki Station. A fifty-year-old wooden apartment building: Miyako Manor. The walls were peeling in places, and the stairs groaned and shrieked with every step.
Osomatsu stood in front of Room 203.
A deep breath.
Another deep breath.
He clenched his fist and knocked on the door forcefully.
"Iyami! I know you're in there! Come out!"
No answer.
He pounded again, harder.
"I know you're there! I need to talk to you!"
Silence.
He wasn't there.
Osomatsu clicked his tongue. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The collar of his shirt was damp and clinging to his skin.
(*Where the hell did he go...*)
He traced through his memories. Iyami's behavioral patterns — in the mornings, he was often in the shopping district, getting assignments for day-labor jobs. He'd seen him around the shopping district countless times in the past.
Osomatsu ran down the stairs.
He returned to the shopping district, pushing his way through the crowds. The tavern Yamabuki stood at a break in the arcade. In front of it, several men were loitering. Sun-darkened skin, worn-out work clothes. Day laborers. They were waiting for the dispatch truck.
Among them—
The trademark pointed front teeth glinted sharply.
Slicked-back black hair, parted seven-three. A shabby white suit. An old silver ring on the left ring finger.
Iyami.
Osomatsu approached quickly. His heart hammered against his ribs. His palms were wet with sweat.
"Iyami!"
His voice trembled slightly.
Iyami turned around slowly. His deep brown eyes took in Osomatsu's frantic expression. Then, the corner of his mouth twisted just a little.
"Oh my, the eldest son, all by himself? What could this be? Don't tell me you want to pretend yesterday's contest never happened?"
He'd hit the nail on the head.
Osomatsu exploded with rage.
"Don't screw with me!"
His hand shot out and grabbed Iyami by the lapels of his suit. The surrounding laborers recoiled, putting distance between them.
"What the hell did you send Todomatsu?! Do you have any idea how much that's breaking him?!"
Iyami didn't flinch.
Even with his collar grabbed and Osomatsu's face thrust close, his eyes remained cold and clear. He slowly took hold of Osomatsu's wrist and, one by one, pried his fingers loose. The motion was quiet, yet carried an undeniable strength.
Straightening the lapels of his suit, Iyami spoke quietly.
"You're simply afraid, aren't you, Osomatsu-kun."
The clown's mask had come off.
That voice was completely different from his usual jester-like *zansu* tone. Fluent standard Japanese. A flat voice, devoid of inflection.
A chill ran down Osomatsu's spine.
"You cling to the title of eldest son, finding your sense of self-worth in being relied upon by your brothers. However, at the truly critical moments, you have never once fulfilled that responsibility. Am I wrong?"
That scene surfaced in Osomatsu's mind again.
Todomatsu being beaten by older students. Himself, watching from behind cover, unable to do anything.
"You've always papered it over with laughter, haven't you? To avert your eyes from your own weakness. But you see, Osomatsu-kun—"
Iyami's eyes pierced straight through Osomatsu.
"In the end, that's the same as protecting no one at all. Every time you run from a decision as the eldest, your little brothers break down, little by little. Just as Todomatsu-kun has this time."
"Shut up...!"
Osomatsu tried to shout. But the words wouldn't come from his throat.
He wanted to say *you're wrong*. He wanted to say *I've done my job properly*.
But he couldn't.
Because Iyami's accusation had, without missing a single detail, struck at the truth that Osomatsu himself felt more painfully than anyone.
Iyami pulled a single envelope from the inside pocket of his suit.
"Take a look at this."
He pressed the envelope against Osomatsu's chest.
"This is the reality of what you've all done with your laughter."
With trembling hands, Osomatsu took the envelope.
He opened it.
Three sheets of stationery. A letter written in dense, cramped handwriting. And one photograph.
The letter's sender was Masuda Yukio.
Sixty-seven years old. Former owner of *Masuya*, a long-established tofu shop that had operated for forty years in the Akatsuki shopping district. Currently working part-time at a supermarket in the neighboring town.
The letter contained—
A summer three years ago.
How the sextuplets had helped themselves to the tofu samples set out in front of the shop, eating and scattering them everywhere. How they had turned on Masuda when he scolded them, knocking over product shelves. How they had rampaged through the store in front of regular customers, shouting "This tofu tastes like crap!"
The entire incident was recounted — dispassionately, yet with piercing sorrow.
After that incident, rumors spread and customers dwindled drastically. At fifty-seven, burdened with massive debt, he had been forced to close the business. His wife's health collapsed from the stress, and she had been in and out of the hospital ever since. His daughter was rumored about at school — "her father was made a laughingstock" — and stopped attending.
The letter ended with these words:
*—It would be a lie to say I don't resent those children. However, I am simply tired now. Please, I beg you, never make a laughingstock of anyone ever again.*
The enclosed photograph.
Masuda Yukio standing in front of the closed Masuya, his expression hollow. White hair, deep wrinkles, vacant eyes. Behind him, the shutter was shut, cold and lifeless.
The envelope and photograph slipped from Osomatsu's hands.
"...Ah..."
He opened his mouth, trying to say something.
But the words turned into a sob.
He collapsed to his knees. The heat of the asphalt resonated through his bones.
Iyami said nothing more.
He simply turned his back quietly.
"Tomorrow, all of you come to Akatsuki Park."
Leaving only those words behind, Iyami disappeared into the bustle of the arcade.
4:00 PM.
The front door of the Matsuno house opened slowly.
Osomatsu stumbled inside. His complexion was ashen, his eyes hollow.
The brothers watching TV in the living room all turned around at once.
"Hey, big bro...?"
Osomatsu didn't answer. Without even taking off his shoes, he climbed the stairs and vanished into the second-floor room.
The sound of the closet opening.
The sound of rummaging, rustling through something.
When the brothers nervously climbed the stairs—
Osomatsu was slumped against the wall, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Amber liquid spilled from his lips, soaking his shirt.
"...Uu... uuu..."
Tears were overflowing, unstoppable.
"H-Hey... what happened, big bro?"
Osomatsu didn't raise his head. In a hoarse voice, he muttered.
"Have we... always been like this...?"
The air in the room froze.
"Have we done... a ton of stuff we can never take back...?"
Karamatsu pressed closer.
"Brother! What happened?! Talk to us!"
Wordlessly, Osomatsu held out the envelope that had fallen onto the tatami.
Karamatsu looked inside. Todomatsu peered in. Choromatsu took the letter, and Ichimatsu, still facing the wall, listened intently. Only Jyushimatsu tilted his head, looking puzzled.
The hollow old man in the photograph. The closed shutter of Masuya.
"This... we did this...?"
Choromatsu's voice trembled.
The color drained from Todomatsu's face. His usual slyness had vanished, leaving only a pale expression behind.
"I knew."
Still facing the wall, Ichimatsu murmured quietly.
At those words, everyone looked at Ichimatsu.
Ichimatsu said nothing more.
Silence.
At that moment—
All of their smartphones rang with an incoming notification simultaneously.
*Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.*
The timing was eerily synchronized.
Todomatsu fearfully looked at his screen. The sender was unknown. He opened the message.
*—Tomorrow, noon, all of you gather
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