Konshuu Volume 57, Issue 7

Kanade Tachibana

Angel Beats

Art By Heaven Jones

THIS ISSUE’S FEATURED SERIES!

FILM RECOMMENDATION From Up On Poppy Hill

Coquelicot-zaka kara

By far the best thing the name Miyazaki Goro has ever been attached to, From Up On Poppy Hill is a fantastic and engrossing period drama. Featuring fairly simple themes, the narrative is occasionally melodramatic but the film’s production and overall charm compensate for it and then some.

ANIME RECOMMENDATION

Dragon Ball Z: The History of Trunks

Dragon Ball Z: Zetsubou e no Hankou!!

Nokosareta Chousenshi - Gohan to Trunks

Fundamentally a coming of age story, History of Trunks works as a prequel (albeit set in the future) given audiences already know of the main cast’s deaths at the hands of the Artificial Humans. It utilizes the Greek tragedy framing in order to tell a dramatic story of hope running eternal in spite of Earth being deprived of its strongest defenders (or in the case of Vegeta and Piccolo, people who kind of like the place, I guess).

2011, Ghibli Directed by Goro Miyazaki 1 hour 31 minutes

1993, Toei Animation Directed by Daisuke Nishio 48 minutes

AVOIDABLE DEATHS / TRAGEDY AND SOMETHING ELSE

tor who had found other causes for which to fight, other problems with which to deal and even other persons to sincerely hate. Those deaths are thus respectively, since avoidable, cruel, heart-breaking and absurd.

SPOILERS

Anime, some categories doubtlessly more than others, tend to include the death of some characters. A part of them is memorable — rarely because of the number involved, since most anime mass deaths happen in series known to feature a lot of such events, like Attack on Titan — more often because of the specific character whose death is concerned, in the way of a famous officer in Fullmetal Alchemist (be it the first one or Brotherhood). There are however ways to make a death impactful that do depend neither on the number nor even, or rather not directly, on the character’s importance. One way of such a kind is to have this death be, or seem, avoidable. An expected death in an anime may cause little sorrow: the characters, the viewer, sometimes even both, have been prepared for the fact and sad as its happening is, it is nonetheless easily accepted. An unexpected but also inevitable death (demanded for the scenario to continue, the logic of the anime to be conserved, et cætera) leaves one with bitter feelings but little anger. One’s dying without it being unavoidable or necessary sparks anger, frustration and their likes. It is tragic without being acceptable.

Cases can be found in Tanya the Evil, Moriarty the Patriot and Mobile Suit Gundam (that is, the original series — although for sure the complete universe does not lack its numerous other avoidable deaths), all of a different sort. In Tanya the Evil, those deaths (clearly not that death) are those of countless so-called soldiers but also civilians of Arène, a city where a revolt against the central State takes place (that is, in a hardly disguised Alsace where the rebels want to join the equivalent of Republican France, whilst they are under the control of what looks terribly like the German Empire) — and where the German-like army is sent to “tame” the native people by basically shooting everything and everyone. In Moriarty the Patriot, it is the disappearance of the protagonist, whose death was meant to be necessary for his plan, but with time, seemed increasingly less so. In Mobile Suit Gundam, it is a vengeance whereof the point had almost disappeared, even, indeed, to the eyes of its perpetra-

And that is where both the problem and its embedded solution are: it is not these events that are tragic, but us who think about it with, inside our minds, the scheme of tragedy. We often expect deaths to happen because they “have to” — because it was told and foretold, because it is necessary, because it is fitting, because it is logical, because it is right, et cætera. But as a matter of fact, these are not so frequent anime, wherein everything is ruled by divine fate, and events follow (more or less obviously) a written and irresistible script, in the way of xxxHolic. This fatalism, sometimes described as “Eastern” (see for instance Bellanger’s Le continent de la douceur) appears here to be more present on the side of the viewer (Eastern or Western) than on that of the Eastern scenarist. Deaths rather happen because it has been decided by something way more arbitrary — a god, chance, whatever — and a scenarist is all of that merged, if not even more.

Moreover, not only are there often reasons for those deaths which the viewer simply does not understand, but sometimes it is desired and preferable that he do not understand them, for it is the very point of the scenarist: would the viewer be so emotionally involved, if he were not that disturbed, that shocked, that frustrated? Would he understand so fully the characters, for whom too this death is by definition unexpected and unjust?

In the case of Tanya the Evil, the battle of Arène has its explanations — both within the series and for the sake of the series. The massacre is necessary, because the loss of the city would be a terrible event, with even more terrible consequences and repercussions — the Empire, so it seems at least to its generals, has hardly any other choice. It must show its strength and its determination, and extinguish the fire of rebellion before it has begun to spread. It is also a reminder of how simple and worthless lives become when they are, for someone, not even big enough to feature on the maps of the army. For Moriarty the Patriot, this death no longer belongs to the plan — it now obeys new principles which the other characters do not know and according to which they can not that much act and react. Finally, in the case of Mobile Suit Gundam, the revenge murder happens to be a last demonstration of the personality of a character who is to be used again for other anime — and a conclusion such that it perfectly closes what had been opened forty episodes earlier.

Writer

ALEXANDRE HAIOUN-PERDRIX

3rd Year, Philosophy

Is there even such a thing as “unavoidable death”?

FOR MOBILE SUIT GUNDAM (FIRST SERIES)

SPOILERS FOR MORIARTY THE PATRIOT

THE THOUSAND YEAR VOYAGE -

snatched away from him, a climax executed in sublime anti-climax, should cue any viewer into how Thorfinn will not and cannot remain the same. The story changes course, towards the direction it was always headed.

The second main arc of Vinland Saga is in a tricky yet opportune position. Known colloquially as the Farmland arc, this stretch of 45 chapters, adapted in full by the second season of the anime, marks the crucial turning point for Thorfinn Karlsefni, the payoff for all of his stunted non-development in the first season. Frankly, Shonen protagonist-esque ball of rage season 1 Thorfinn is often a pain to watch, and that’s the point. The star of the show in Vinland Saga’s prologue is Askeladd, although he is mostly a static character, and once he finally sacrifices himself for a cause greater than himself, Thorfinn steps up to fill that void. He does this by thinking, really thinking. Thinking and re-thinking, grieving, regretting, pondering. Very few protagonists undergo such drastic change as Thorfinn does over his greater arc. Season 1 Thorfinn, vicious and vindictive, is not so much an interesting character by merit of his thoughts and ideology, which amounts to little more than to the maladaptive belief that might makes right. Rather, the bloody first leg of Thorfinn’s journey is interesting because of the dire situations that he is thrown into by cruel chance and circumstance and the pathos of seeing him descend into the hell on earth of blood feuds, war, and senseless violence that his father tried to shield him from. Of course, one can only descend so far, and Thorfinn’s realization at the end of season 1 of the essential hollowness and futility of his quest for vengeance, right as it is

As Thorfinn himself observes, the main cause of slavery is war. It is remarkable to me how, despite the admittedly marked tonal shift between seasons 1 and 2, mangaka Makoto Yukimura consistently depicts the often brutal living conditions of medieval Europe throughout the story. Some viewers may be distracted by the heaps of flashy action scenes in the first season, but the slaves and corpses created by the violence of Thorfinn, Askeladd and the rest of the warriors receive much attention as well. The story of the Slavic slave in episode 1, the Norwegian slave girl in episode 8, and the fate of the English village in episode 14 all come to mind. However, these victims of war do not receive as much attention as the battles themselves in season 1 (although Thorfinn, Askeladd, and the rest of those who wage war are arguably victims of it as well). The main cast is too caught up in their own petty squabbles and egos to pay too much attention to the casualties of their campaigns, after all. But the consequences of war are still frequently depicted in the first season, even if Thorfinn gives no deep thought to it at the time. Thorfinn’s enslavement in the second season, therefore, figures as a direct consequence of the violence he perpetuates in the first, and the hollowing out of his desire for revenge, the surface level manifestation of his pain at becoming the victim of a deeply unjust culture in which might makes right, opens himself up to personal growth for the first time in a long time. In essence, he finally asks

Writer

BLAKE MORRISON

3rd Year, English and Japanese It’s been a thousand and one years now, and the voyage still continues.

SPOILERS FOR VINLAND SAGA SEASON 2/CHAPTER 101!

REDEMPTION IN VINLAND SAGA

himself: if I was hurt, why do I have to lash out in return? All that does is create more pain. It solves none of my, of our, underlying problems. What are these problems? What can I do to resolve them?

But if this was the direction that Vinland Saga was always headed towards, towards the journey of a warrior turned pacifist to build at least one town in recompense for the lives and livelihoods he has destroyed, why did it take so long to get there? Somewhat understandably, many anime-only viewers of the season 2 have expressed their disappointment with the slower, more introspective turn the story has taken, but to anyone who thinks that season 2 is a complete 180 from the first one, I want to ask if they were really paying attention, or rather, I want to ask what they were paying attention to. The first answer that comes to my mind is the action and the other more conventionally exciting aspects of the prologue. A compelling quest for revenge, a series of exciting fights, a charismatic and intriguing anti-hero in Askeladd. These are all admittedly key aspects of the first season that are absent in the second, but they are not absent without good reason. The core of Vinland Saga was never these specific parts but rather Yukimura's holistic depiction of medieval Europe and Thorfinn’s journey. Caught for a time in the spiral of death and destruction, Thorfinn escapes by chance and then stumbles towards new growth and ideals as he develops real relationships with the people around him. Thorfinn’s oft-quoted and memed declaration “I have no enemies” may sound naive to some, but naive can be a dysphemism for admirable, or more neutrally, for idealistic. The point of an ideal is that it does not align with the status quo, with

our lived experiences at large. It is something you have to struggle for, something you may never be able to truly achieve but you believe is worth reaching for nonetheless.

Only a few stories have changed the way I think, which is to say changed it in ways that I think about a lot. Vinland Saga is one of those stories. Simply put, it has made me want to be a kinder, gentler person. I was in my late teens when I caught up with the manga over two years ago, and I learned much from it. I watched the first seven episodes of the anime as they were airing four years ago before my interest petered out with the weekly broadcasts, but if I decided to continue the story then, I would have also learned much from it. An even younger me would have learned a lot. That said, it is not important to me that I could have learned more or less if I experienced this story at a younger age. Rather, if I had experienced the larger arc of this story earlier, if I had seen Thorfinn make a concerted effort to grow up to become what he sees as a true warrior a year or even a day earlier than I did, I would have been a different person for it. That said, any story anyone ever experiences changes the way they think, if you grant that the change does not need to be dramatic. And if you grant that, then all art and every experience is “life-changing.” Let us say that all experiences are transformative, then. Why do I care so much about my experience with this one story? Although the story is not without its own flaws, I think reading and watching Vinland Saga has changed me for the better. That alone makes me want to recommend it to as many people as I can in the hope that it can do the same for them.

WHY ZETA IS BEST

solute favorite for epitomizing the sort of television series Tomino spent nearly a decade moving towards. Arguably, when one considers the conventional serious war story told with robots in Japanese animation, it is Zeta that really serves as a good blueprint, more so than the original.

The original 1979 Mobile Suit Gundam isn’t all that great. There’s some inklings of a great idea, and it’s clear why the series was so important so as to essentially create the subcategory of “Real Robot” mecha anime series, but it’s held up by the need to simultaneously appeal to children with toy manufacturer-friendly designs and storylines. Mixed within a story of war, moral relativism, and changing alliances are elements like the monster of the week story structure, a holdover of the series’ roots in more traditional kid friendly series in the vein of what Western viewers might associate with Saturday mornings.

In a sense, the original series is a transitional series picking up where director Tomino Yoshiyuki left off in 1977 with Muteki Choujin Zambot 3. That series, a “Super Robot” series with darker elements aligned with war stories like the mental anguish of the soldiers themselves and the overall condemnation of large scale military conflicts seemingly counter to the very point of merchandise-heavy robot series, logically would be followed by a series like the original Gundam. In many regards, then, the recut film trilogy version of the 1979 Gundam series far surpasses the tonally inconsistent television series as it does away with certain elements incongruent with its war narrative. Not to say that all media needs to be doom and gloom, but war narratives need to utilize levity in a very careful manner, which the original television cut of Mobile Suit Gundam clearly does not. By doing away with those unengaging elements, the film trilogy’s only real shortcomings come from the circumstances of their creation, with occasional pacing that feels odd. One can easily see the films’ seams, as certain scenes which ended episodes in the television cut are spliced somewhat ungracefully with the beginnings of the next episode. Particularly, the first two films feel far more like compilations of episodes than solid movies, though the third film somewhat avoids due to the higher quantity of original material. Still, these problems were inevitable given how the film trilogy was indeed a recut of the television series.

If Zambot started the shift towards war stories, with the 1979 television cut of Gundam furthering it, then the film trilogy almost completes this progression, save for its pacing issues. The series which serves as the epitome of Tomino’s intended path for the anime mecha war story, then, is the 1985 followup television series Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam. While other entries like ∀ Gundam may have more conventionally graceful narratives, Zeta remains my ab-

One immediate difference from 1979 to Zeta is the presence of more factions within its war story, which does wonders in complicating the main narrative in a manner that truly enhances its discussion of militaristic conflict. It far more effectively pushes the morally gray subtext which the original series hinted towards, albeit unsuccessfully given how one side was clearly a German National Socialist analog, completed with similar iconography and even direct quotation. In comparison Zeta is extremely interesting with how it completely shifts the original series’ dynamic, with the protagonist Kamille Bidan being mentored not by previous protagonist Amuro Ray, but by Amuro’s rival and eventual main Universal Century final villain Char Aznable, under his Quattro Bajeena guise. Atop having his personal failings and inexperience being far more realized, Kamille Bidan is a fascinating protagonist existing within a world where most sides have fundamental failings. Arguably, Zeta becomes even more interesting with understanding of where the series eventually goes with Char’s character arc given how his later shift into megalomaniacal acts like dropping asteroids on Earth are implied to be informed in part by Zeta. While that has little bearing on an assessment of Zeta, it does illustrate how effective the series is at presenting its conflicts as the multifaceted, complex political situations they largely should be. The series’ finale is uniquely dour for a series in the franchise, ending with most of the main cast being presumed dead in a conflict. In that regard, it fits remarkably well with the fundamental thesis of Mobile Suit Gundam as a wider media entity - that war is a disruptive mess that destabilizes civilizational progress, yet it is an inevitability due to an inherent human tendency to conflict with others.

Zeta still faces several pacing problems, alongside a few particularly awful portions of its story which are rather egregiously bad. In spite of these problems which, for me, only effected a few episodes, it remains my favorite Gundam series and one of my favorite anime as a whole due to how it presents its ideas, along with how it exists seemingly as the culmination of Tomino’s artistic career up until that point in time. Beyond that, its production values are remarkably impressive with fantastic music choices and a remarkably vivid color palette that really accentuates both the more lighthearted earlier portions and the darker second half. Zeta is a series whose strengths aren’t exactly evident at first glance, but really stand out in context. Avoid Zeta’s own film recut trilogy, but Zeta is, for my two cents, the best traditional Gundam entry, narrowly over ∀’s more unique approach.

Writer

TONY T.

3rd Year, Economics and Data Science Writing about a 10/10 for article 10x10.

Art By Skylar Li

THE RESOUNDING HOPE OF “ANGEL BEATS!”

Managing Editor

SPOILERS FOR ANGEL BEATS!

If I had to describe Angel Beats! in a single word, it would undoubtedly be “hopeful.” But in the midst of searching for a word, I wondered why this one came to mind so singularly. Compared to works from Studio Ghibli or Kyoto Animation, for example, it is far less realistic and detailed in its portrayal of hope. Furthermore, despite many of my own hopes stemming from philosophy, I wouldn’t dare to describe Angel Beats! as “profound”, the same way I could about shows like Neon Genesis Evangelion or Serial Experiments Lain. Hell, I couldn’t even give it the honor of being “exciting” compared to shows like Code Geass or Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. So why, then, did “hopeful” seem like the only correct answer?

I want to start off by saying that Angel Beats! is not a perfect anime. It has conflicting plot points, and the show is riddled with inconsistent pacing. Sometimes the humor may not land, and there’s plenty of it throughout the show’s runtime. However, despite its flaws, I still kinda love this show. Perhaps it was simply a “right place, right time” kind of anime, but I think my bias is well-founded. It is true that one could say every joke made in life doesn’t always land, and it’s the well-placed intention that matters. The same justification could work with life’s pacing and its nonsensicality, and any myriad of life’s issues. Even though this justification is hardly an excuse for the flaws of Angel Beats!, I’ve actually found that its shortcomings have repeatedly enhanced its core message, that being of how to live. Each episode dedicates itself to showing the value of letting go of the past, and of believing in the hope that awaits in the future. While Angel Beats! doesn’t discuss this topic nearly as deeply as it could have, given its short length, I find the choice to structure its story around a handful of meaningful philosophical insights to be a smart decision.

As previously stated, Angel Beats! explores hope through

the question of how to live. This question is explored through nearly every facet of the show, from the afterlife setting, to the character backstories and attitudes about peace, and even to the musical identity. The afterlife setting, for instance, gives space for both the characters and the audience to contemplate meaning and the importance of one’s life (“what meaning does anyone’s life have if everyone ends up dead”, “was I doing the right thing", etc.). The music of Angel Beats! also fleshes out different areas of human emotion, from the contemplative “Memory”, to the upbeat “School Days”, to the depressing “Unjust Life”. Its integration into the story is also done masterfully, with tracks like “My Song” and “Ichiban no Takaramono” being sung from certain characters’ points of view. When two or more of these elements are able to work off of each other, they create scenes which are more than the sum of their parts.

Each piece of Angel Beats! points towards the beauty of living, with the resolution that human beings should live with hope and make the most out of their lives. Throughout the anime, we see firsthand how someone’s purpose can be so long-forgotten that they may not even remember what they’re living for. Compounding this, the reality these characters convince themselves of ends up being much harsher than their current one. The characters of Yuri Nakamura and Ayato Naoi serve as great examples of this phenomenon, as in many ways, they are two sides of the same coin, despite Yuri being a protagonist and Ayato initially being an antagonist.

XAI JETHANI

1st Year, Japanese R.I.P. 2nd Beat…

Both Yuri and Ayato had lives that robbed them of their childhood, involving the deaths of loved ones. After witnessing these unjust deaths, both characters changed, and became cynical, obsessed with enacting revenge. Once in the afterlife, both Yuri and Ayato abuse their power in hopes of feeling at peace, and both eventually come to the realization that the time with their new friends is what they should draw meaning from. This journey conveys a simple, yet powerful lesson: by incessantly holding onto the past, people can rob themselves of a meaningful future. The choice of having both an antagonist and protagonist realize this is immensely impactful, and this is entirely due to how Angel Beats! chooses to portray its ramifications, with innocent people being hurt as a result of both of these characters’ actions.

While these moments and their teachings are presented somewhat forcefully, there are also more quiet ones that communicate equally important ideas. One small scene that continues to stick with me is the scene with Kanade and her sunflowers in the garden. There is hardly any time dedicated to this scene, but it’s clear from Kanade’s diligence that she’s tended the garden for a long time. More importantly, there are tangible, beautiful results that have come from this dedication. What makes this scene “hopeful” to me is that even though Kanade isn’t in the real world, her garden demonstrates the worth of continuing to put in effort. Her attempts at creating beauty aren’t a necessary addition to this anime, but the fact that it’s there fleshes out her character, and makes her ideals more believable

due to this small detail.

Angel Beats! includes these thoughtful character studies with almost all of its main cast, each examination showing the risks of viewing existence through a negative lens. Even though their unsatisfied lives brought them together, the characters could only find peace by accepting what had happened to them, and by choosing to move on. The fact that Kanade represents acceptance, and the fact that she’s placed as an antagonist are both brilliant concepts, although I will say that the story failed to emphasize this dynamic enough to create any sort of profundity. Kanade’s shifted role from enemy to ally in the second half of the anime also mirrors the nature of acceptance itself. While it may be easy to find acceptance, it is another thing to move on entirely from one’s pain.

Finding enough hope to even accept peace is one of the greatest themes that Angel Beats! covers, due to its nuanced and deeply thoughtful nature. This theme is the main reason why it has remained with me for so long. Denying hope isn’t a problem that has a simple answer, nor is it one that is consistently solvable for everyone. Angel Beats! attempts to show a possible answer, and while its answer is largely a blanket statement, it acts as a reasonable first step for people who may truly be lost. Angel Beats! suggests that even though you may occasionally feel worthless or out of place, it’s in those moments, more than ever, that you should rely on friends and positive influences. While it may not be a permanent fix, friends offer more strength than you realize, and being with them makes finding hope something more manageable.

Angel Beats!’ strong message of hope and persistence make it special, and even though it isn’t a unique message in the overwhelmingly large sea of anime, its specific combination of cohesive and noncohesive elements allow it to stand tall, 13 years after its original release. The impact that Angel Beats! has made upon anime fans and the industry cannot be understated, and despite its messiness, I maintain the opinion that I have never watched an anime as resoundingly hopeful as Angel Beats!

WHEN HIKARU WAS ON EARTH’S UNFORTUNATE STAGNATION

L.

3rd Year, Environmental Engineering

Hikaru ga Chikyuu ni Ita Koro…… (When Hikaru Was on Earth) is a light novel published between 2011 and 2014, with 10 total volumes upon its completion. Its story sprouted from the dynamic formed between its protagonist, Akagi Koremitsu, a high schooler whose difficult circumstances have forced him into garnering a terrible reputation, and the remaining spirit of Hikaru Mikado, a notorious Casablanca in and outside of his school whose death at the beginning of the novel has caused a great turmoil among those close to him. This leads to Koremitsu taking it upon himself to tie the loose ends in the many past relationships with Hikaru, which have left many people, who relied on Hikaru’s presence to sustain their existence, broken due to his death. And this quest to fix these shattered ties and bring closure to everyone involved with Hikaru is paralleled by Koremitsu’s acceptance of himself and those around him, as he tries to embrace his life and the people he ends up getting close to on this journey have to offer to him reciprocally.

This entire story is greatly inspired by the Tale of Genji, the Japanese literary work written around the 11th century by Murasaki Shikibu, a Japanese noblewoman, that describes the social and romantic lives of Genji, a member of the Emperor’s family line, as he involves himself with the rest of the aristocratic society. Each volume of When Hikaru Was on Earth focuses on one heroine and her past relationship with Hikaru, and each of these is inspired by a specific character from the Tale of Genji, with their life being adapted to a contemporary Japanese adolescent setting.

Therefore, this novel has a practically episodic nature in the stories that it has to tell, as each heroine had their own mostly independent dynamics with Hikaru, and therefore the void tied to their past relationship that Koremitsu has to fill and bring closure to will make their character unique in what their story entails, and the newly formed dynamics that are formed through Koremitsu’s quest. And these dynamics do end up building off of each other and piling up to create a larger overarching evolution within the cast that acts as an interesting and emotionally compelling guiding thread centered around the protagonist’s appreciation of these ties that he is building himself accompanied by those he helped.

The flip side of this coin, unfortunately, is lacking consistency in quality for those volumes, despite a strong sense of progression,

which makes the finality of the protagonist’s journey lacking in impact. The first volume truly shines as a great representation of the show’s premise, with Hikaru’s past fiancee, Saotome Aoi, going through a compelling arc as she is forced to contemplate her current life after Hikaru’s passing and finding the will to move on while embracing her past feelings for Hikaru, in a way that also leaves a deep impact on Koremitsu despite him having to act as another, the vessel of Hikaru to recreate what was lost, even for just a moment. The second volume, focusing on Yuu Kanai, a shut-in girl who was entirely dependent on Hikaru’s affection to survive, succeeds as well to a commendable extent, putting Koremitsu and his personal feelings for this girl in the spotlight, while still developing her past dynamic with Hikaru and setting her up for her future life on an engaging level for the reader.

But I find there to be a significant drop off after this point, that never really manages to pick up again. Volume 3 and subsequent ones shy away from being stories delving into human emotion, instead showcasing dynamics within the other heroine’s families from a more political standpoint, as in families who use their members as pawns to further their interests. Some focus on different things, but always keep this trend of creating pragmatic stories, rather than human ones. Volume 3’s heroine for instance is a young girl attempting to get revenge on a businessman who ruined her father. While this is not inherently weak as a form of writing, it does struggle to make for engaging stories when taking the LN’s premise into account, and its nature as a story of broken people dealing with loss and the need to go on despite their circumstances. If the reason for these people being broken is defined pragmatically, and outlined clearly as something born of malice, or the system that surrounds them, rather than the product of their own feelings and struggle to cope with their situation, its strength as a vector for development within this story fails to live up to the standard set by the first two volumes, particularly the first one, that shines in its exploration of human feelings.

There are strong moments in the latter half of the novel, namely tied to the evolving dynamics of the cast that keep many previous heroines relevant in somewhat compelling ways, or Koremitsu’s own journey on understanding his own feelings and accepting those of others, which happens in some ways in parallel of the novel’s main storylines. There are also reveals tied to Hikaru’s past life and the mysteries surrounding some of its more tragic aspects that receive a great amount of stylistically strong exploration, particularly in the last volume, but overall, this is a story that I would describe as one that greatly understands what makes romantic and emotional dynamics compelling, but has struggled to execute it as it went on.

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Dramatic irony at its finest.

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