Chapter Five: Old Deng and Little Deng

Putting aside the matter of the date for now, four days swiftly passed.

During those four days, nothing significant occurred. Since transferring to the forensic pathology department, Sōsetsu Uesugi found himself considerably less busy. Compared to the surgical department’s relentless tri-shift, four-week cycle with no breaks—a ceaseless grind of long nights and overtime, where right and wrong blurred—life as a forensic pathologist was far more leisurely. Professor Ōkawachi occasionally worked late, but he never imposed such demands on Uesugi.

Strangely enough, Uesugi noticed that communicating with the deceased still brought a marked emotional toll. That very night, after a fierce session of “Princess Connect” with his temporary girlfriend from Hokkaido, he couldn’t resist inviting her out for another round the next day. Perhaps it was the consolation of a guaranteed ten-pull; only then did Uesugi feel somewhat better.

It seemed that speaking with the dead had unavoidable side effects.

Beyond that, Uesugi secretly experimented with other ways to awaken the souls of the deceased. Using the pretense of pathological research, he entered the hospital morgue. Contrary to his expectations, most bodies of those who had died of natural causes were cremated immediately. Occasionally, some corpses were retained, usually due to insurance claims or legal disputes. Most were long deceased, their souls long since departed. Rarely, a recently deceased spirit could be roused, but none could trigger the contract’s law within Uesugi’s sky-blue gem. Even if he aided such spirits, he gained no “essence” in return.

He wasn’t about to work for free.

It became clear: he truly had to become a forensic pathologist.

Most East Asians, especially in Japan, showed little interest in the causes of death of the departed, which left forensic pathologists with low status. To access bodies that could activate his contract, he had to work closely with the police.

Uesugi quickly assessed his situation. Just then, a call from Detective Tanaka finally came through.

Sukiyaki-en was a Japanese barbecue chain, specializing in yakiniku. Essentially simple grilled meat, the restaurant elevated it to a more refined, upper-middle-class experience with elegant surroundings, smokeless technology, and exquisite service—a luxury for the average salaried worker.

That evening, Uesugi met again with Detective Tanaka from the Otsuka Police Station in Tokyo’s Bunkyo Ward.

Unlike Uesugi, who had changed into formal attire, Tanaka appeared weary and grimy. Despite slight grooming, his fatigue and heavy oily aura were unmistakable.

Men seemed to reach this stage inevitably.

The quiet, rustic-toned yakiniku booth was dimly lit, the tabletop adorned with a colorful birthday platter. The brown surface held condiments around a central grill, surrounded by greenery. Nearby, an art student played the piano, lending an elegant ambiance to the dinner.

“Yo, little brother Uesugi~” Tanaka greeted warmly as he set down his coat.

“Hello, Mr. Tanaka. Thank you for your trouble,” Uesugi said courteously, shaking his hand.

The middle-aged man, accepting the wager’s outcome, ordered two bottles of sake and swiftly recounted the case.

Uesugi gently picked up a slice of meat with chopsticks. Flames licked the meat, sizzling deliciously. After about 15 to 25 seconds, the side facing down cooked through; then he flipped it to sear the other side.

Clearly, he was no stranger to this cuisine.

“In the end, Mr. and Mrs. Endo both pleaded guilty. Mr. Endo might be sentenced to over fifteen years for intentional homicide, and Mrs. Endo over five years for aiding and abetting,” Tanaka said with a wry smile, noticing Uesugi’s lack of reaction. “Hey, are you even listening?”

The rich aroma of grilled meat mingled with sake as Uesugi nodded, expression unreadable. Though the outcome was reasonable, he felt a twinge of regret—Mr. Endo’s sentence was too harsh, while some intentional homicides received too lenient punishments.

Japan had not completely abolished the death penalty, but actual death sentences were rare. Usually, even intentional homicide resulted in 15 to 20 years or life imprisonment, with capital punishment reserved only for multiple victims under particularly grim circumstances.

Moreover, even when sentenced to death, execution was unlikely. The law guaranteed at least a five-year appeals period, even if the condemned chose not to appeal, just in case of change of heart. The Minister of Justice had to personally sign off on executions—a political liability often avoided to preserve careers. Thus, most ministers delayed executions, trusting future successors.

Uesugi recalled a minister who had signed off on numerous executions at once, only to be harshly criticized and branded a murderer by opponents and the public alike.

Many death row inmates waited thirty or forty years for execution that never came.

“I’m listening,” Uesugi replied, undisturbed by the distant piano melody. “If I hadn’t come, that couple would have gotten away with it. Our traditional culture teaches that the elderly should not trouble their children, right?”

“That may be so, but I feel sorry for the Endos and their child,” Tanaka protested. “Don’t you think what you’re doing destroys a family?”

“If we allowed such things, that would be the real disaster. Murder is murder, no matter what excuses exist. We can’t open that door. You don’t want our elderly to start mass suicides by hanging, do you?” Uesugi answered coldly.

“Damn it, I can’t argue with you,” Tanaka admitted. He retrieved an envelope from his coat and handed it over. “Enough about that. Here’s your payment.”

The pale envelope slid across the brown table. The piano played “Memories of Love.” Uesugi opened it to find a 10,000 yen bill inside. “Thank you!”

“That, little brother, is what I fought to get you. Normally, you wouldn’t get a dime,” Tanaka boasted. “I told the station you’re from the Uesugi clan—the one descended from Uesugi Kenshin—otherwise, they wouldn’t have given you this. The status of forensic pathologists is that low. Ever considered switching careers?”

“I already transferred from surgery. There’s nowhere else to go,” Uesugi shook his head. He picked up a slice of large intestine—rich in fat and chewy from special preparation, lightly charred with an oily sheen.

“Honestly, Uesugi, the forensic field is tough,” Tanaka said as sake loosened his tongue. “Hospitals don’t want you, and neither do we cops. If a forensic report contradicts our expectations, things get complicated. I make 300,000 yen a month—why risk my life? It’s simpler to close cases with plausible reasons. Why nitpick on every detail?”

Uesugi chuckled coldly, nodding in understanding but rejecting the notion. “Tanaka-san, haven’t you earned some credit by turning civil cases into criminal ones, saving face for the station chief?”

“Eh, what’s that compared to busting drugs, serial killers, or stopping terrorism? By seniority, it’ll be years before I become a detective,” Tanaka replied.

“If you do become a detective, you wouldn’t be the one coming here, Tanaka-san. I appreciate your willingness to wager with me,” Uesugi refilled Tanaka’s sake glass, raising his own. “Thank you.”

“Heh, that’s more like it!” Tanaka beamed. “Truly noble blood!”

A detective is one rank above a senior detective, as in Detective Megure from Detective Conan. This rank allows officers to personally investigate crime scenes. Above this is superintendent, who primarily handles office work and planning, rarely visiting crime scenes unless under exceptional circumstances.

It was a tragedy of the system: Megure had solved hundreds of cases thanks to Conan, yet remained a detective after more than a thousand episodes.

This brings up the “seniority system” Tanaka mentioned.

In the police force, promotions depend not only on achievements but also on the entry category: career, quasi-career, or non-career.

Career officers typically have university or graduate degrees and enter via a comprehensive exam, akin to a national civil service test.

Quasi-career officers have high school or university diplomas and enter through general exams, like provincial civil service tests.

Non-career officers face minimal requirements, often just passing local intelligence tests and attending police school.

Unfortunately, Megure and Tanaka were clearly non-career officers.

The differences among these groups lie in starting rank and promotion ceiling. Career officers enter as senior detectives, get promoted to detective after one year, and after seven years ascend automatically to superintendent.

Non-career officers start as patrol officers, must serve three years before qualifying for patrol sergeant, four years as sergeant before senior detective eligibility, and five years as senior detective before detective promotion. Promotions aren’t automatic by age but depend on vacancies—only when a position opens can they compete for promotion.

Thus, Megure, in his forties, remains a detective because, despite his accomplishments, no vacancies exist above, and seniority governs advancement.

Many non-career patrol sergeants reach retirement age without promotion.

Tanaka’s modest achievements won’t elevate him; major cases are necessary, or he must accept the slow seniority grind.

Why risk everything for minor cases?

Tanaka shared these internal police realities with Uesugi, then laughed, “Besides us, the public prosecutors are the real challenge. They often pressure you to alter autopsy reports to favor their prosecution. Most forensic pathologists can’t resist, but with you… the prosecutors wouldn’t dare bully someone like you.”

Hospitals, police, prosecutors—three towering obstacles. Forensic pathologists truly lacked support from all sides.

Uesugi felt as if he had returned to the moment of his department transfer.

But his power… he gazed at the sky-blue gem on his right hand.

He had to be a forensic pathologist.

“Tanaka-san, I need money. I really need money,” Uesugi said earnestly. “Could you introduce me to more autopsy work? I need the extra income.”

“Possible… But you come from a prestigious family. How could you lack money?” Tanaka doubted Uesugi’s need.

“I’m the second son,” Uesugi replied succinctly.

“I see,” Tanaka immediately understood. “Alright, whenever the station has such cases, I’ll come to you. We truly lack talent like you.”

Only Tokyo and Osaka had specialized forensic institutions. Among them, only the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department’s forensic division had dedicated forensic pathologists. Local stations relied on university hospitals or private clinics for autopsies.

Due to this shortage, interns without autopsy qualifications were often allowed to assist. Failing that, surgeons were sometimes unofficially permitted.

Uesugi’s willingness to take on this role was a welcome surprise.

Both parties reached a preliminary agreement.

After a hearty meal that cost Tanaka 20,000 yen—a painful expense for the older man—Uesugi showed little gratitude, acting as if it were just a casual dinner.

Damn noble blood! the elder thought, vowing never to gamble with this younger one again, suspecting he was just after his gold coins.

After eating, as they passed a large screen downstairs, a news broadcast caught their attention instantly.

On screen, a girl of miraculous beauty faced a sea of microphones, answering questions.

“Recently, the immensely popular actress Mai Shirakawa from the Soul Agency announced her participation as the lead in the highly anticipated ‘Ancient Bookstore Incident’ drama. The agency’s president, Takataka Miyazaki, confirmed the news and expressed excitement over further cooperation with Fuji TV!”

The stunning girl continued the interview, while below, fans erupted.

“Super adorable Mai! The perfect ideal!”

“Mai Shirakawa, number one in the world!”

“The answer to Earth, the pinnacle of life! I’ll love Senior Mai forever!”

Hundreds of fans waved glow sticks in fervent cheer at the news of a single actress.

“She’s really popular lately,” Tanaka remarked. “All the young cops in the station, men and women, like her. Do you like her too, Uesugi?”

“Of course. She’s my senior,” Uesugi said proudly, glancing at the screen. “We went to the same high school in Gunma. I was a sophomore, she was a senior.”

“Wow, as expected of noble blood!” Tanaka exclaimed.

However, Uesugi hadn’t told the whole truth: he knew Mai Shirakawa, but she didn’t know him.

After awakening as a sophomore and feeling estranged due to family conflicts and a lack of immersion, Uesugi requested a transfer to a different school to be alone. His concerned parents agreed, and he transferred to Gunma, becoming Mai’s schoolmate.

But he never actually met her—she scarcely attended school during her senior year.

Yet, that was youth.

Youth was unfulfilled dreams, wishes left undone, unattainable seniors, and the lost Eri.

Yes, Eri’s surname was Uesugi!

Damn it, now he felt like playing Princess Connect again.