Debut, Wen Yao Girls! - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Who is the real protagonist?

When the practice room’s electronic screen lit up, the hum from the air vent was sucked away.

Edogawa Ranpo stood in the third row, the ahoge on top of her head trembling faintly with each breath.

She could hear, behind her, the rhythm of Shiraishi Yuna’s wine-red polished nails tapping against the back of a chair. One tap. Two. On the third, the grouping list finally froze on the screen.

“Edogawa Ranpo & Dazai Osamu.”

The words wavered in the blue glow, like a stone dropped into the center of a lake.

“Ah, we really got paired together.” A quiet sigh came from beside her, carrying a touch of smug amusement.

Dazai Osamu had, at some point, leaned closer. The ends of her hair brushed against Edogawa Ranpo’s earlobe. “Didn’t I tell you we’d be in the same group?”

Edogawa Ranpo tilted her head, catching the faint upward curve at the corner of Dazai’s eyes.

This girl, who always wrapped her sharpness in gentle sugar coating, now had an eager spark leaping in her pupils.

Just as Edogawa Ranpo was about to reply, an itchy prickling spread at the back of her neck—it was Shiraishi Yuna’s gaze.

When she turned back, the trainee was slowly putting her phone away, the sharp tips of her wine-red nails casting a cold glint across the screen.
“Some people,” she deliberately raised her voice, nails drumming the chair again, “are so lucky even the system has to play favorites.”

Whispers trickled through the practice room.

Edogawa Ranpo’s phone buzzed in her pocket, again and again, like a death drum urging her on.

She pulled it out. The number one trending headline stabbed at her eyes:
#ResonanceProjectDataAnomaly
Attached was a blurry backstage screenshot—three characters, Edogawa Ranpo, highlighted in glaring red.

“Ranpo-chan?” Dazai’s hand covered hers, warmth seeping through the fabric into her skin. “Want me to read it?”

Edogawa Ranpo stared at the endlessly refreshing comments: “No highlights in her first stage.” “For someone with ‘super deduction,’ altering data must be easy.” A metallic taste of rust crept up her throat.

She remembered the week before, when she had refined her stage positions backstage again and again. She remembered squatting in a warehouse for three sleepless nights, fine-tuning the console so that the “Locked Room Mystery” lighting matched her logic chain.

“Going to the mentor’s office.” She turned, the ahoge on her head slicing a clean arc through the air. “Teacher Fujiwara is looking for me.”

The office of Fujiwara Yuma smelled faintly of cold-brew coffee.

When Edogawa Ranpo pushed open the door, the former boy-group star was standing by the window, tablet in hand, his brows furrowed like a blade in silhouette.

“Explain.” The tablet landed on the desk with a thud. Displayed were the evaluation curves from the preliminary stages. “In the third vocal round, you jumped from fifth to second. The system shows ‘Stage Resonance’ spiking by 37%.” His finger tapped the jagged end of the curve. “Your Super Deduction—does it affect audience brainwaves?”

Edogawa Ranpo fixed her eyes on the coffee reflection swaying across the desk.

The daylight outside the glass wall fractured into starlight in her pupils.

She thought of Shiraishi Yuna’s earlier phone-swiping gesture. That was her habitual move when using “Heart’s Insight” to read people’s emotions.

So the rumor wasn’t baseless—it was someone deliberately leaking system logs from when Edogawa Ranpo had used her ability to comb for stage flaws.

“What do you think?” She smiled, pressing her thumb to her temple in her trademark deduction pose. “If I really could tamper with data, shouldn’t I have been parachuted straight into first place?”

Teacher Fujiwara’s pupils contracted.

This girl, who always spoke of logic, had no panic in her eyes—only the sharp focus of a hunter locking onto prey.

He recalled last week’s practice footage: Edogawa Ranpo had timed the “locked door” mechanism to 0.5 seconds, falling to the ground twenty-three times in the process. The bruises on her knees still hadn’t faded.

“Go on.” He rubbed his brow, his voice softening. “But the public opinion…”

“I’ll handle it.” Edogawa Ranpo turned, her white shirt hem brushing the desk edge and stirring the air. “With the stage.”

The mirrors in the practice room were covered in a thin layer of dust.

Dazai Osamu was sitting on the barre, swinging her legs.

When she saw Edogawa Ranpo walk in, she tilted her head with a grin. “Fujiwara-sensei’s coffee—is it more bitter than mine?”

“Do you want to collaborate?” Edogawa Ranpo cut straight to the point. “I need a stage of ‘truth and illusion.’ To prove I don’t rely on powers, but on this.” She tapped her temple.

Dazai Osamu’s smile paused.

She hopped down from the barre, her hair ends grazing Ranpo’s hand. “You know my No Longer Human cancels abilities. But here’s the fun part…” She leaned in, warm breath brushing Ranpo’s ear. “It can also create false memory points—make the audience believe they saw something, when it was just their brain tricking them.”

Edogawa Ranpo’s eyes lit up.

She grabbed a piece of scrap paper, her pen racing. “Locked-room structure. Three layers. First layer, the physical lock on stage. Second layer, your ability causing memory confusion. Third layer…” She stopped, looking up to see Dazai Osamu propping her chin, smiling as her eyes reflected Ranpo’s messy scrawl.

“The third layer is letting the audience reason it out themselves,” Dazai continued. “That way they’ll understand—Super Deduction never rewrote anything. It only guided.”

The spotlight formed a circle overhead.

Edogawa Ranpo gazed at the crowd surging below, recalling nights spent hiding in the library with The Murder of D Slope.

Back then she thought deduction was about untangling chaos. Only now did she realize: the stage was another kind of deduction—untangling the audience’s heartbeat.

As the music began, her fingers brushed the cold surface of a pocket watch.

A prepared prop—no powers, only the ticking of gears.

Behind her came the soft rustle of fabric. Dazai Osamu’s hand hovered near her waist, like an invisible anchor.

“First locked room: the door was bolted, the key in the victim’s hand.” Edogawa Ranpo’s voice was a needle piercing the dark. “But you ignored the frost on the window ledge.”

The spotlight snapped to the right, illuminating faint frost gleaming under the lights.

A collective gasp rose from the audience.

Edogawa Ranpo knew this was Dazai’s ability: there was no frost, only rewritten memory making them believe it.

“Second locked room: the witness said the culprit wore a red dress.” She turned—Dazai was suddenly in a wine-red gown, a rose pinned in her hair. “But the real dress was burned backstage.”

The spotlight shifted to the back, where the audience saw only darkness.

When they looked back, Dazai Osamu was already in a white shirt again, the red rose now tucked into Edogawa Ranpo’s hair.

“Third locked room…” Ranpo’s voice softened, falling like snow onto hearts. “Is all of you.”

The hall fell utterly silent.

Someone began clapping. Applause thundered forward, crashing from front to back like rolling lightning.

Fujiwara Yuma rose, clapping until his palms reddened, his eyes shining like stars. “This is literature’s true essence—not a display of powers, but a resonance of the soul!”

Ranpo looked out at the audience.

Shiraishi Yuna sat in the front row, her nails digging deep into her palm.

Her “Heart’s Insight” required calm readings of others’ emotions. But the audience’s emotions now were too overwhelming—shock, admiration, revelation—a tangled mess impossible to parse.

Backstage mirrors were fogged with steam.

Dazai Osamu handed her a cold water bottle, condensation dripping down the sides. “You won.”

“We only found our places.” Edogawa Ranpo twisted the cap, cool water sliding down her throat. “You hide the edge of my power, I tear off the sugar coating from your ‘trickster’ mask.”

Ding.

The broadcast startled them both.

“Attention. Final elimination rules will be announced tomorrow at 10 a.m. Trainees must form five-member units to complete a limited-time stage.”

Edogawa Ranpo gazed at her reflection.

The rose in her hair still held stage light, while Dazai Osamu’s shadow overlapped hers like a sheathed sword.

She gripped the bottle, droplets sliding through her fingers, scattering light on the floor.

“This time,” she whispered, heat coursing in her voice, “I’ll stand at the very top.”

When the broadcast faded, water from Ranpo’s fingers traced down her palm.

She looked at the rose in her hair, its petals still warm from the spotlight. Behind her, Dazai Osamu’s shadow loomed, a soft haze resting on her shoulder.

“Five-member stage, decided by audience votes.” Dazai Osamu’s voice held a smile, though her clenched knuckles betrayed her nerves.

The dressing room door opened, cold voices rushing in.

“Should the MVP really be captain? All she does is say things no one understands—has she even danced a full six counts?”

“Exactly. Last assessment she needed a tablet just to remember positions. We’re idols, not a mystery club!”

Edogawa Ranpo lowered her eyes to the water dripping by her sneakers, merging into the shadow of Dazai’s black boots.

Dazai Osamu, sensing it, shifted her foot so the shadows joined into one crescent moon.

“Want to explain yourself?” Dazai’s breath brushed her ear. “Since technically, you did…”

“No need.” Ranpo cut her off, the water bottle creaking under her grip. “What they need isn’t explanations—but a chance to lose with no excuses.”

As she turned, the rose slipped from her hair into Dazai’s hand.

Dazai Osamu pinned it to her collar and tilted her head with a grin. “Then I’ll go buy oden. You want it spicy?”

The moment the door shut, Edogawa Ranpo’s smile vanished.

She went to the locker. The metal handle was icy cold.

Her fingers brushed a slip of paper stuck in the crack. Her pupils tightened. The jagged edge came from a trainee handbook page.

“You are not Wenyo’s core.”

Ink had bled slightly, like a drop of dried bl00d.

Edogawa Ranpo folded it into squares and tucked it into her sleeve. Catching her reflection in the mirror, her eyes gleamed like a tempered blade.

She entered the practice room, her tablet buzzing with the past two weeks of data.

“Rinako’s emotion fluctuation curve…” Her finger stopped on three sharp peaks.

The first: Wednesday, 3 p.m.—Shiraishi’s record showed she left early for the makeup room.
The second: Friday, 5 p.m.—surveillance caught Shiraishi with a coffee in the hall, while Rinako was in the restroom.
The third…

“Ranpo-san?”

The door opened. Nakajima Atsushi peeked in, sweat dripping from his hair. “Everyone’s waiting for the team meeting.”

Edogawa Ranpo flipped her tablet face-down, thumb brushing the paper’s imprint through her sleeve.

The conference room’s fluorescent lights were blinding. Five chairs, but six sat. Ishikawa Yumi spun her pen, the metal cap tapping the desk like a tiny hammer.

“I propose changing the main dancer,” Ishikawa said outright, slapping her pen down. “Ranpo-san’s style is too cold. The audience wants a racing heartbeat, not a puzzle.”

The air froze.

Nakajima twisted his shirt hem. Tanizaki Junko stared at her nails. Mori Ōgai toyed with his thermos, the cap popping with a click.

Only Dazai Osamu leaned on her hand, smiling faintly at Edogawa Ranpo.

“Replace me with who?” Edogawa Ranpo’s voice was soft as a feather, yet pierced every ear.

Her gaze swept the room—at Ishikawa’s clenched jawline, then Rinako’s trembling fingers tugging her sleeve, nails pale from anxiety.

“I can try.” Ishikawa straightened, ears flushed. “I’ve trained three years as lead dancer. My spin error last time was because—”

“Stop.” Ranpo raised her hand. “If you think I’m holding you back, then prove it on stage.” She stood, her chair screeching across the floor. “But remember—the elimination is a five-member stage. Not a solo.”

When the meeting ended, Rinako lingered last. She fidgeted at the door, hair ends chilled by the AC, like a drenched kitten.

“Ranpo-san…” Her eyes flicked to the corner of paper peeking from Ranpo’s sleeve. “I…”

“Go rest.” Ranpo ruffled her hair. “Don’t be late for morning practice.”

At 5:30 the next morning, the practice room was drenched in cold white light.

Ranpo entered on beat, spotting Shiraishi whispering into Rinako’s ear.

Rinako’s lashes trembled violently, fingers twisting her drawstring, cherry-blossom ribbon slipping behind her ear.

“Three, two, one—start!”

The music played. Rinako’s first lift lagged half a beat.

Nakajima nearly twisted his waist. Tanizaki spun off count. Mori’s harmony caught in his throat.

On the monitor, “Concept Realization” plummeted from 89% to 63%. The flashing red alert burned into their eyes.

“Stop.”

Edogawa Ranpo slammed the pause button. Music cut off.

She walked to Rinako, who stood with her head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Ranpo pulled up a video. “Look here.” She pointed at 1:12. “Your weight shifted three centimeters—because your left fingers trembled. Same as last Wednesday, 3 p.m.”

Rinako’s head jerked up, eyes watery.

Ranpo closed the video, her voice softening. “I don’t live by abilities. And I don’t speak only in data. I just…” She paused. “Don’t want us to lose by our own hands.”

The room was so quiet the air vent’s hum echoed.

Rinako collapsed against her, tears soaking Ranpo’s shoulder. “I’m sorry… Shiraishi said you only care about your deductions, that we’re just your pawns…”

“Shh.” Ranpo patted her back, catching Dazai’s figure in the mirror.

Dazai Osamu leaned lazily, clapping softly, her eyes glowing warm in the morning light.

When practice ended, Ranpo stood at the window.

Sunlight spilled across her hand, painting it in flecks of gold.

She drew out the paper slip. Under light, the jagged edge carried a faint orange-blossom scent—Shiraishi’s usual perfume.

“Starting tomorrow, we double practice.” Ranpo turned to the others, lips curling into her signature bold smile. “I want the audience to remember—not whose spins were prettiest, but whose heartbeats… were in perfect sync.”

Dazai Osamu chuckled behind her, fingers brushing the rose on her collar.

The wind lifted the curtain, scattering training sheets across the table. The top page, labeled Heartbeat Synchronization Rate, quivered gently in the breeze.