Chapter 70: An Obvious Unknown

I, Horino Masa, have hated my two older brothers for as long as I can remember.

The eldest and the second son of the Horino household—my brothers. Both of them were insane, each in their own very different way.

…It wasn’t always like that.

I loved both of them once. More than anything, more than anyone, I was proud of them.

My eldest brother was the kindest person I knew, someone who would reach out a hand without ever expecting anything in return. My second brother would do absolutely anything if I asked him for help.

To a young, naïve me, the two of them were like wizards. Of course they were. Say the word, and they would do anything. They would buy me anything. When I was feeling down, they comforted me. When I was happy, they celebrated with me.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say they fulfilled every wish I ever had, but they always did their best. As a result, I think I grew closer to my brothers than to my father, who was clumsy and had no idea how to deal with people.

…That only lasted until I grew old enough to start seeing reality.

For my eldest brother, helping others was simply natural. Just as he treated me, he treated everyone else the same way. He reached out to anyone and cooperated with anyone.

Which meant that, to him, I wasn’t special… not the way I had believed as the younger sister.

To him, I was no different from a classmate or an acquaintance—or, if I’m being honest, no different from a complete stranger you might pass on the street.

Family, friends, strangers—he drew no distinction between them. He poured the same benevolent affection into everyone equally. It sounds nice when phrased that way, but I couldn’t bring myself to like it. Maybe it was because it hurt that, despite being family, despite being siblings, he never treated me as special.

…Still, compared to the other one, the eldest was manageable.

He was flawed in his own way, but at least he possessed the bare minimum of ethics and sanity as a human being. I disliked him, yes, but that dislike was personal, irrational, and rooted in my own values. That kind of feeling can be dealt with—by suppressing it, by keeping a proper distance, or by reshaping it into something else.

But my second brother… no, my brother—unlike the eldest, I could never accept him.

If someone said, “I want you to do this,” he would devote himself to it regardless of his own will. If someone said, “Help me,” he would try to help them by any means necessary, without hesitation.

On the surface, you might call that goodness. Responding to others’ wishes, trying to help people—seen from one angle, that is certainly “kindness.”

…As long as it doesn’t go too far.

My brother is fatally broken as a living being, to a degree that can’t even be compared to the eldest.

He can’t read people’s emotions—or rather, it feels as if he has forgotten human emotions altogether. He helps others with an intensity that borders on compulsion.

And then there is the most fundamental instinct a human should possess: the desire to be saved, to be helped, to be loved by someone. He is utterly, hopelessly lacking that.

My brother is… irreparably “missing” something.

…But that isn’t the real reason I hate him.

My brother doesn’t look at me.

Unlike the eldest, he doesn’t treat me the same as a stranger. Toward me, he behaves properly—as family, as an older brother.

…At least, on the surface.

But if you spend years living together as a family, anyone would notice the discomfort, the sense that something is off. The truth is… that brother of mine—

He’s always looking at someone far, far away, through me.

When we talked, when he laughed, when we played, when we studied, when we ate. In the living room, at school, in my own room.

Not once—not a single time—did he ever truly look at me.

At first, I thought it was because I simply wasn’t worth noticing.

Both of my brothers are extraordinary. They almost never scored anything but perfect marks on school tests. Their physical abilities were outstanding, their grades always at the very top. On top of that, they never neglected effort—especially the second brother, to the point where it was harder to find a moment when he wasn’t working on self-improvement.

By contrast, I was utterly average in both academics and athletics. Relatives from the branch families whispered behind my back, calling me dregs, a dropout, a failure.

To be clear, it wasn’t that I lacked talent entirely. If anything, I’m fairly competent and can manage most things reasonably well. It’s just that the two above me—including my brother—were absurdly exceptional.

The eldest had talent and could put in more than perfect effort—a flawless superhuman. The second had little talent, but an inhuman level of diligence. …And me? I was mediocre, with only moderate talent and moderate effort.

So was that why my brother didn’t look at me? Because I was useless? Because I was inferior, a failure, dead weight?

Clenching my back teeth, I threw myself into effort with reckless abandon…

In the end, I managed to pass the trainer examination—said to be the most difficult in the country—in just two years.

…Though, of course, my brother passed it on his first try.

Even after all that effort…

In the end, I never appeared in my brother’s clouded eyes.

That’s what I can’t stand.

From the bottom of my heart, it’s bitter, hateful… and I hate him.

Even though we’re family.

Even though I’m his only little sister.

I first realized something was wrong with my brother back in middle school.

…No, “started to realize” would be more accurate.

I didn’t have any concrete proof. He was strange—somehow. There was something off about his gaze. I was still too young to pay attention to the world around me, so that vague awareness was all I had.

Around the time I began to notice the widening gap in talent and ability between myself and my brothers, and our relationships started to strain…

That’s when it happened.

The Horino family is a prestigious line of trainers. Including my father, we have produced many individuals known as great trainers over the years.

Although times have changed and children are no longer forced into the profession outright, education aimed at becoming a trainer remains thorough. If you clearly declare, as my eldest brother did, “I won’t become a trainer,” you’re exempt. But for someone like my brother, who was almost guaranteed to become one—or for someone like me, with no clear vision for the future—participation was all but mandatory.

The lessons involved learning about the Horino family’s history, receiving basic instruction in training Uma Musume, and handling paperwork…

Or, on Sundays, watching races on television—or sometimes even traveling to the venue to see them live.

That day was one of those Sundays. It was supposed to be an ordinary afternoon.

Starting from the conclusion, then.

That afternoon, on the other side of the television we were watching—my father, my brother, and I—

In the middle of a race, an Uma Musume had an accident.

My memory is a bit hazy, but I believe she was a relatively small, chestnut-colored closer-type runner. She collapsed forward during the third corner, rolled painfully across the turf with her momentum, and then… stopped moving.

The camera followed the rest of the pack, so she quickly left the frame, but I remember the racetrack descending into chaos on the other side of the screen. Apparently, she had been seriously injured—either from a bad fall or an unfortunate impact.

According to the investigation afterward, the cause was that she had entered the race without fully recovering from the strain of excessive training.

She underwent surgery, but that race became her last. With lingering aftereffects and deterioration in her legs, she never returned to top-level competition.

Even though it was happening on the other side of a screen, the tragedy unfolding before us twisted everyone’s faces in anguish.

My father, my eldest brother, my mother… and of course, my brother as well.

"…Brother?"

But even among them, my brother’s expression was—

It went far beyond discomfort or pity.

If I had to compare it to something… yes, exactly so.

As if someone had just been killed right in front of his eyes.

"……I’m sorry. I need to excuse myself."

Saying that, my brother stood up and walked away.

Watching his back as he left, I—

"…That’s strange."

I muttered it quietly, without trying to stop him, simply seeing him off.

Yes.

If it had ended there, I would probably still know nothing even now.

I would never have learned what my brother had been hiding—his “memories of a previous life,” what had happened to him in the past, and the irreversible changes that came from it.

…But fate didn’t turn out that way.

Late that night, I suddenly woke up.

Through my groggy haze, I felt a slight dryness in my throat.

…It’s irritating to be woken up by something like this, but it can’t be helped.

"Mmm…"

Still half-asleep, I slid out of bed as if rolling off it.

At this time of year, the warmth of the bed is hard to abandon, but hunger and thirst always win in the end. Trying to endure it just means I won’t fall back asleep. It’s better to get a drink from the dining hall and be done with it.

With that in mind, I rubbed my eyes, left my room, and was about to head down the stairs when—

A voice reached my ears, and I froze.

The Horino estate stands deep within the forest.

Cars rarely pass by, and naturally, there are no noisy neighbors. In summer, you can faintly hear insects rustling, but on winter nights, the house becomes a silent, motionless world.

When I was a child, that quiet—and the things lurking within it—terrified me, and I used to have my brothers accompany me to the bathroom. But that was long ago.

Now, I’ve learned how to coexist with those things, and they no longer pose a serious threat.

…However.

"…………"

What’s more frightening than such things is the possibility that a human has intruded.

As a prestigious family, the Horino estate is filled with information and valuables ranging from moderately valuable to priceless. With no neighbors around, the risk of being discovered is low. To a thief, it’s an ideal hunting ground. It wouldn’t be strange for one or two people a year to try their luck.

"…Whew."

Fortunately, I’ve been trained in self-defense.

It would be my first real encounter, but if the opponent is alone—and even if they’re armed—I should be able to subdue them without too much trouble.

The tension completely chased away my sleepiness.

Careful not to make any noise, I returned to my room, grabbed my baton, and traced the source of the sound…

Then, through the slightly open door to my brother’s room, I peeked inside.

"…Huh?"

That’s when I saw it.

…My brother, collapsed in a pool of vomit mixed with blood.

"What… is this…?"

Without letting my guard down, I hurriedly checked every corner of the room to confirm there was no intruder.

…Okay. For now, that’s a relief.

No—this is no time to feel relieved.

Shaking my head to dispel the panic, I rushed back to my brother.

"Brother…?"

When I called out to him, his limp body twitched slightly.

H-he’s alive… right? That wasn’t just a reflex. I should assume he’s conscious.

Letting out a silent sigh of relief, I pulled him up, not caring if my clothes got dirty.

"W-what happened, brother? This…"

The moment I touched him, I realized it.

…His body temperature was low.

As if he had abandoned life itself, my brother’s body felt cold against my fingertips.

There were faint traces of blood around his mouth.

The vomit around him—no, most of it was stomach acid, with no solid matter left. That amount meant he’d been vomiting repeatedly, and his esophagus must have been damaged, causing the blood…?

Either he was terribly ill, or he had hit his head somewhere…

…No.

There’s more than that.

Why is there so much blood on his fingertips, darker than anywhere else?

Wait—no, calm down, me. Dealing with the situation comes before figuring out the cause…!

"Brother, are you okay? How do you feel? Are you in pain anywhere? I’ll call an ambulance—!"

"Masa."

Just as I was about to pull out my phone in a panic, my brother’s hoarse voice—and his cold hand—stopped me.

When I looked at him, my brother was… staring straight at me, as if the way he’d been collapsed moments ago had been a lie.

Then that icy body slipped free of my hands… and pulled away.

That, in itself, was fine. If he could move on his own, all the better.

But… what is that expression?

His face was deathly pale, completely drained of color…

And yet, he wore a forced smile, as if trying desperately to hide something.

"S-sorry. It’s nothing. I just felt a little sick. I made you worry."

That gentle tone, like he was soothing a child…

Made something snap inside me.

"D-don’t mess with me! There’s no way you’re fine in that state!!

What, is it because I’m a defective, unreliable mess that you can’t tell me anything!?"

…Looking back now, it was pathetic.

Yelling purely on emotion at someone who was clearly shaken.

But if I can offer an excuse—

Honestly, I was at my limit too.

Constantly being compared to my brothers—or comparing myself to them—and drowning in self-loathing. Rebelling against a reality where I wasn’t acknowledged, lashing out meaninglessly while leaning on the comfort of my environment. Realizing that being accepted meant I was being coddled, which only made me feel even more like I wasn’t truly acknowledged. Getting angry at myself for acting that way, yet still unable to stop being tossed around by those emotions…

In the end, the me back then… no—the me now, too, doesn’t possess a level of mental maturity anywhere near that of my eldest brother.

I’m not a saint like him, nor am I a madman like my other brother.

I’m nothing more than a foolish person who still can’t rein in her emotions, who lashes out whenever something irritates her.

…But.

Maybe because of that. Or perhaps precisely because of it.

After I snapped at him like that, my brother looked at me with slightly unfocused eyes, and then—

He gave a weak smile and said:

"So you say… but, you know.

You wouldn’t believe it either if I told you I have memories of a past life, would you, Masa?"

The line was so abrupt it caught me off guard.

Memories of a past life… no, wait. He said Masa too?

"…What, did you tell someone else that?"

"…Dad and our brother didn’t believe me."

I couldn’t help but knit my brows.

Well, of course they wouldn’t. It’s not an easy story to swallow.

Memories of a past life—that’s firmly in occult territory. Honestly, I’d be more worried about someone who believed it immediately.

And on top of that, the people he told were our stubborn, socially inept father, and our brother who actually has psychological knowledge.

In that case, it’s only natural they’d think it was some kind of mental illness.

…But.

I’m different.

I pride myself on being fairly open-minded, and I haven’t exactly gone my whole life without encountering strange, inexplicable things.

If such things exist in this world, then the idea of a past life doesn’t feel that jarring.

And… this isn’t something to be proud of, but—

I felt a sense of superiority I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

This was the first time I’d ever seen my brother so weakened.

I don’t know what pushed him this far.

Maybe not being believed about those so-called “memories of a past life” was part of it. Maybe not. Either way—

What’s certain is that right now, my brother is mentally exhausted to an extreme degree.

That brother who always wears a “nothing’s wrong” expression, who never lets his composure crack…

Right now—just for now—he’s standing on the side of the weak.

I know it makes me sound awful, but… it felt a little good.

…I see.

No one believed him.

No one else trusted him.

Right now, I’m the only one he can rely on.

And that… made me a little happy.

"…Well, you don’t really have a reason to lie. I’ll at least believe you."

When I said that, my brother looked slightly surprised, and then—

He lowered his gaze.

"…………It smells sour."

"…………Well, yeah. After throwing up that much, of course it does."

The room—and both of us—were covered in my brother’s vomit, and the stench was overwhelming.

After cleaning the room and taking separate baths, we decided to talk properly again.

---

After finishing everything that needed doing late at night, I found myself in my brother’s room.

I asked him again about what had happened.

Why he’d been vomiting so badly. Why there was blood on his fingertips.

…There were other things I wanted to ask, but for now, those two would do.

When I questioned him from the chair where I sat, my brother—perched on the bed—scratched his cheek, his expression bitter.

"I’ve told you already. It’s not going to be an interesting story."

"I’ve told you already too—I’m not expecting it to be interesting. I’ve got school tomorrow, so can you hurry up and tell me why you ended up like that?"

After repeating this exchange several times, he finally seemed to give up.

With a single sigh, he clasped his fingers together and began to speak.

According to him—

My brother has memories of a past life.

More precisely, it’s as though the memories from the moment he died in his previous life connected seamlessly to the memories from when he was born into this world, continuing without interruption.

If you think of a life as a single string, it’s as though the two ends were tied together—his memories apparently run straight on from his “past life.”

Furthermore, even his personality carried over directly from that past life.

I’d always thought he seemed unusually mature for his age—even more so than our eldest brother—but it seems that was the reason.

Could it be that the eldest…? No, probably not. That one’s just a natural-born anomaly. Besides, he said even his past-life memories weren’t believed.

In short, reincarnation truly exists in this world, and my brother inherited his memories and personality without losing them.

…Naturally, it was an incredibly hard story to believe.

If anyone other than my brother had told me this—or if there’d been more strength in his voice—I might’ve laughed it off.

But right now, he doesn’t seem to have the leeway to lie.

And when I think about it, there are a lot of things that suddenly make sense.

His excessive breadth of knowledge. His unchildlike calmness. And above all, that mysterious power known as “App Transfer Reincarnation.”

When I start fitting those pieces together, it feels like most of the questions I’d had until now are… somehow answered.

That said, thinking about it rationally, it’s still a hard story to believe. The odds that it’s just a tall tale are far higher.

But… well. Maybe things like that really do happen.

I’ve never told anyone this, but ever since I was little, I’ve been the type who can see “things that shouldn’t be visible.”

Well, when I say see, it’s nothing impressive—just fleeting glimpses every now and then.

So I already knew that occult things genuinely exist in this world.

Anyone could doubt my brother’s story.

But probably… very few people could actually believe it.

Someone who knows that “those kinds of things” exist—someone like me.

So… for now, I decided to believe my brother’s words.

Still, why bring this up now? Was it connected to something?

What I was asking about was the reason he’d been vomiting so violently so late at night.

If it was something physical, like hitting his head, we’d need to take him to the hospital just in case. If it was psychological, then it would be better to have Dad arrange a counselor or something.

My brother is far too careless when it comes to managing himself, so it’s up to those of us around him to stay vigilant.

And then there was the blood on his fingertips.

If it was something impulsive, that would be one thing—but if it was habitual, then as his sister, as his family, I’d have to stop him.

So when I urged him again to explain… he did something rare and twisted his face slightly in bitterness.

Then, with visible effort, he opened his mouth.

"Yeah… how should I put this… right. I couldn’t forgive it."

"Couldn’t forgive… what?"

"Forgetting."

As he said that, my brother lightly pressed a hand to his head.

His eyes were… clouded to a degree I’d never seen before.

Couldn’t forgive it. Who? Himself? If so… self-loathing? Did he hurt himself because of that?

"When I think about it… the nausea gets overwhelming. I guess I kind of lost control."

Overwhelming nausea. Loss of control…?

I’d heard that when you feel nauseous, forcing yourself to vomit can actually make you feel better.

So did he stick his fingers down his throat to make himself throw up… hard enough to damage his esophagus and draw blood?

If so, just how intense was that nausea…?

"…Okay. For now, I’ll listen. So—what was it that you forgot?"

"That’s…"

At that moment, my brother suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth.

"…!"

"Is it nausea again? I brought a bag."

"…………No, I’m fine."

Fine—wait, did you swallow it?

"I’m used to it. …When I stay up all night studying, nausea is basically routine.

…Well, earlier I couldn’t hold it back at all, though."

My brother gave a helpless smile and drank some water he’d poured into a cup.

Used to it. Doing things so reckless you make yourself sick on a regular basis…

…Oh.

So that’s it.

My effort really wasn’t enough.

I’d thought I’d been doing my best.

Opening textbooks in my spare time, trying some strength training—doing what I could, in my own way, to chase after my brother.

But it wasn’t enough.

He’s been working that hard all along.

Putting in many times more effort than I ever have.

…It’s frustrating, but of course I could never catch up.

Strangely enough, going all the way around like that left me feeling oddly convinced.

I probably don’t have the “aptitude for effort.”

Even when I try to push myself like my brothers do, the calm part of my mind asks, Do you really need to work that hard?

Drawing a hard line—What has to be done must be done—or shutting my thoughts off entirely is difficult for someone ordinary like me.

No matter how you slice it, “my kind of effort” will probably never beat my perfect eldest brother, or my insane younger one.

…Even so, the painful part is that it’s still no excuse to stop trying.

---

After a while, my brother’s nausea finally subsided.

Unlike my eldest brother, I’m not well-versed in psychology, but being struck by such violent nausea just from trying to remember something is probably a very strong rejection response.

Is it really okay to push him to talk any further?

"…Um. Can you talk about it?"

"Mm… probably. I want someone to hear it… before I forget."

My brother hesitated, grimacing as he spoke.

He seemed lighter than before, but the nausea apparently hadn’t fully gone away. Even so, if he still wanted to talk… maybe I should respect that resolve.

But… before he forgets?

Earlier, he’d said he couldn’t forgive himself for forgetting—and the way he spoke made it sound like he’d only just remembered the “reason,” and might soon forget it again.

My brow furrowed despite myself.

If that guess was right… there was no way this could be considered a healthy state.

And then, as I straightened myself and prepared to listen seriously—

My brother placed his hands on his knees, lowered his gaze, and began to speak, as if vomiting the words out.

A small tragedy that had happened to someone I didn’t know, before he ever became my brother.

"This is a story from when I was in elementary school.

I… let a girl die."