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 - Speaking in Front of the Ruins, Zansu — Iyami's Wounds and Masuda's Wife's Scream
The darkness before dawn still lingered in the corners of the room.
Beyond the drawn curtains, the sound of a newspaper delivery motorcycle faded into the distance. It was an ordinary morning. But in the six-mat room on the second floor of the Matsuno house, no ordinary morning came.
The sextuplets lay curled up on their respective futons. They weren't sleeping. They hadn't slept a wink.
The stack of documents Iyami had left behind the night before still lay scattered across the tatami. Neighborhood association meeting minutes. An izakaya bill. A written statement from the Miyashita neighborhood association chairman. And—their father Matsuzou's signature.
Osomatsu stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes.
The same words churned endlessly in his head.
*(Dad bowed his head to the floor.)*
He hadn't known. No—he hadn't tried to know. He'd laughed it off, looked the other way, pretended not to see. That while they were laughing, their father had been pressing his forehead to the tatami.
On the neighboring futon, Karamatsu turned over. His sunglasses were off, placed by his pillow. Not a trace of his usual smug smile remained on his face.
In the corner of the room, Ichimatsu sat hugging his knees, facing the wall. From beneath the hood of his black parka, only faint breathing could be heard.
Choromatsu lay face-down, motionless. The pages of the job-hunting magazine clenched in his hand were warped with sweat.
Only Jyushimatsu, in the strange stillness, swayed his body slowly back and forth. His eyes were fixed on something, but reflected nothing.
Todomatsu lifted his face from his futon.
"...In the end, I wonder who's really the worst one here."
A murmur to himself, yet clearly a calculated remark. His voice cracked through the frozen air.
Osomatsu raised his head.
"Todomatsu, stop it."
"But it's the truth, isn't it? Because of someone, Dad ended up like that."
Todomatsu didn't look at Osomatsu. He kept facing the wall as he continued.
"I was already out on the first day anyway. The rest doesn't have anything to do with me."
Choromatsu slowly sat up. His eyes glared sharply at Todomatsu.
"Doesn't have anything to do with you? Are you seriously saying that?"
"I'm serious. Because I tried to stop it, you know. At that audition."
Choromatsu's voice grew forceful, as if striking his own chest.
"I told you back then—don't do it! But you guys—"
"I wasn't even there."
Todomatsu's cold words cut Choromatsu off.
Karamatsu stood up by the window. Backlit by the morning sun, he slowly turned around.
"Brothers... blaming each other now is the gravest mistake we could make. I feel everyone's pain—"
"Shut the hell up!"
Choromatsu's roar echoed through the room.
"Nobody asked for your cringey act! They never have! I don't know if you think you're reading the room, but you're completely off, every single time!"
The color drained from Karamatsu's face. The fingers gripping his sunglasses trembled faintly.
In the corner of the room, Ichimatsu stirred slightly.
"...Shut up."
The voice was small. But it pierced coldly into everyone's ears.
"Who do you think you are, talking about other people? You guys have always treated me like some gloomy outcast."
Still facing the wall, Ichimatsu continued.
"You only talk to me when it's convenient, turn me into a joke... and now you're gonna act like brothers?"
No one could say anything.
From the hallway came the sound of Jyushimatsu running around. *Thud thud thud—*. Only that innocent noise spun uselessly through the oppressive silence.
Osomatsu bit his lip.
*(I have to stop this.)*
As the eldest, he had to say something here. But—the words wouldn't come. No matter what he said, it would just be laughing it off like always. And no one would accept that anymore.
"Hey, big brother."
Todomatsu looked at Osomatsu. His eyes were utterly cold.
"You always act like the eldest, but you've never actually decided anything, have you? Isn't the reason we ended up like this because you just laughed everything off?"
Osomatsu's face went pale.
He wanted to say *no*. But the words wouldn't rise from his throat. Todomatsu's accusation pierced straight through a truth that Osomatsu himself felt more painfully than anyone.
"...That's..."
At that moment—
Every one of their smartphones vibrated simultaneously.
Osomatsu looked at the screen.
*"Come to the front of Masuya in the shopping district right now, zansu. If even one of you is missing, I'll tell Matsuzou-san everything myself, zansu yo."*
The sender was Iyami.
With their father's name brought into it, the sextuplets couldn't argue. Todomatsu clicked his tongue. Choromatsu slammed his phone onto the tatami. Karamatsu silently put on his sunglasses. Ichimatsu pulled his hood low over his eyes.
Osomatsu gripped his phone with trembling fingers.
*(Dad... can't take any more.)*
"...Let's go."
His voice was hoarse, but everyone stood up.
---
Akatsuki Shopping District lay wrapped in morning stillness.
The fierce August sunlight slanted through the torn ceiling of the arcade. The street, lined with shuttered storefronts before opening time, was empty. In the distance, only the sound of a dog barking echoed.
The sextuplets walked in silence.
Before long, they reached their destination.
Masuya. A tofu shop that had closed down three years ago.
Faded shutters. Rusted rails of the sliding door. Cracks ran through parts of the wall. And—in the center of the shutters, a single notice remained posted.
*"Thank you for everything over the long years."*
The edges were curled from rain and wind, the letters faded in places. But those words alone were unmistakably there.
In front of the shutters stood Iyami.
Black hair parted in a seven-three style. Distinctively pointed front teeth. Deep brown eyes quietly fixed on the sextuplets. From the breast pocket of his suit, his left hand, wearing an old silver ring, was visible.
The air around Iyami alone was different. Gone was his usual clownish atmosphere. His posture was straight, his presence quiet.
"You came, zansu."
Just a few words. But his voice carried none of the usual lightness of his "zansu" speech pattern.
Osomatsu stared at the notice.
*(Three years ago—)*
The memory surfaced without warning. It had been a hot summer day. The six of them had come here and knocked over the product shelves, laughing. Tofu had splattered everywhere. Karamatsu had slipped on it and fallen, and they'd all clutched their stomachs laughing.
It had been fun.
Just a stupid, goofing-off kind of day.
But now—what lay before them was only a permanently closed shutter and the faded words, "Thank you for everything."
Something throbbed dully deep in his chest.
Their laughter and this silence were connected by a single thread of time. For the first time, he understood that in his gut.
Iyami opened his mouth.
"There's something I want to tell you, zansu."
The sextuplets looked at Iyami in silence.
Iyami turned his back to the shutters and faced them. The morning sun illuminated his profile, bringing deep wrinkles into relief.
"I was once in Paris, zansu."
The clownish color gradually faded from his voice.
"Salon de Rêve—a high-end salon in the 8th arrondissement of Paris. I spent five years there as an appraiser of East Asian art. About 150 members. Annual dues of 2,000 euros. It was a world where only knowledge and refinement held value, zansu."
Osomatsu caught his breath.
No one had ever heard Iyami talk like this.
"I had a best friend, zansu. My business partner, Jean-Luc Morel. He valued my talent more than anyone. Every night, we'd drink wine together and talk about the salon's future. I trusted him from the bottom of my heart."
Iyami's voice trembled, just slightly.
"But one day—it came to light that the salon's funds had been embezzled. When the books were examined, my signature had been used. Even the handwriting analysis determined it was mine."
Iyami gently touched the ring on his left hand.
"The one actually embezzling was Jean-Luc. He perfectly imitated my signature and pinned the crime on me. I denied it. Desperately, over and over, to anyone who would listen. But—not a single person believed my words, zansu."
The sextuplets listened, holding their breath.
"The colleagues I'd laughed with every night at the salon, the business partners, even the madame at my lodgings—the moment they decided I was a fraud, every one of them conveniently rewrote the five years before. 'Come to think of it, I always thought he seemed suspicious.' 'I never trusted Orientals.'—People who had treated me with smiles just the day before, the next day, avoided me as if it had always been that way."
Iyami's voice lost all inflection. It was the moment the clown's mask completely fell away.
"I couldn't prove my innocence. It never even went to trial. And I received a deportation order from France. I was driven out of Paris. I lost everything. My honor, my friends, my future—all because of one person's betrayal."
Silence enveloped the shopping district.
Only the sound of cicadas droned in the distance.
Iyami slowly exhaled.
"I didn't tell you this story as a weapon, zansu. I just—wanted you to know who I am."
Osomatsu kept his gaze fixed on Iyami's profile.
*(This man—)*
He wasn't just some petty scoundrel. He was a human being whose very core had been destroyed by absurd injustice.
Todomatsu dropped his gaze to the ground, his lips pressed tightly together. For the first time, he was trying to measure the weight of the defeat carried by the man he had once called "a loser in life."
Iyami reached into his breast pocket and took out a small IC recorder.
"And this—is the voice of Masuda-san's wife, zansu."
He pressed play.
A woman's voice flowed from the speaker.
*'—How could it possibly not matter?'*
It was a dry, exhausted voice.
*'After those kids came, my husband started waking up in the middle of the night, over and over. He couldn't sleep without taking medicine...'*
Choromatsu's face stiffened.
*'Even after we closed the shop, he kept saying he still had dreams. That the fallen shelves appeared in his dreams. That the customers' faces appeared in his dreams.'*
Karamatsu closed his eyes beneath his sunglasses.
*'To you, it might have just been one day of fooling around, but—'*
The voice trembled.
*'Our forty years ended because of that.'*
Tears welled up in Todomatsu's eyes.
Tears he couldn't control. Not calculated. Not an act. It was the moment he felt someone else's pain inside himself for the first time. And the terror that it was far too late overflowed along with the tears.
Choromatsu, hands still on his knees, trembled faintly.
Ichimatsu remained motionless, staring fixedly at a single point on the ground.
Jyushimatsu had completely lost his words. His large eyes simply stared at the recorder.
The recording ended.
Silence.
Only the cicadas' cry continued, unchanged.
The first to move was Osomatsu.
Slowly, his knees buckled, and his forehead touched the asphalt.
"...I'm sorry."
His voice shook.
As if that were the signal, the other five collapsed as well. Karamatsu dropped to his knees. Choromatsu sobbed, head bowed. Ichimatsu's shoulders trembled. Jyushimatsu pressed his forehead to the ground in eerie silence.
Todomatsu bit his lip, made no attempt to wipe his tears, and simply placed his hands on the ground.
"We're sorry..."
Six voices overlapped.
Iyami looked down at them.
He said nothing.
After a long silence—Iyami spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
"You're not apologizing to me, zansu."
Osomatsu raised his head.
"The people you should be apologizing to—Masuda-san, Totoko-san, the children who cried in the park—they're no longer in this town. Or they're people you can't be sure are still standing somewhere your words can reach, zansu yo."
Iyami turned his back.
"Your apology may never reach them now. You have no choice but to start by accepting that, zansu."
Leaving
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