Debut, Wen Yao Girls! - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Runaway 

At six in the morning, the first sunlight crawled up the floor-to-ceiling windows of the practice room. Edogawa Ranpo was already at the barre, stretching her legs.

Her white sports headband was pulled tight, stray strands clinging to her temples with sweat. In the mirror, her eyes gleamed like sparks of starlight—that unique glow she always had whenever faced with a new challenge.

“Ranpo-san, you only slept three hours again last night?”

The jasmine-scented voice drifted from behind.

Ranpo didn’t need to turn around to know it was Dazai Osamu, leaning against the doorframe with two iced Americanos in her arms.

Her flaxen curls were tied loosely into a low ponytail. The collar of her light-blue training jacket gaped slightly, and despite arriving half an hour later than Ranpo, she somehow still looked more composed.

“Coach Fujiwara said he’ll announce the special training rules today.” Ranpo straightened up, wiping the back of her neck with a towel. “I need to enter the right state earlier than everyone else.”

“So that’s why you came two hours ahead to stretch?” Dazai swirled the coffee, condensation catching the morning light like tiny diamonds. “Last time you said, ‘Logical accuracy is directly proportional to physical flexibility.’ Is this you testing that formula again?”

“That wasn’t a formula—it was an observed conclusion.” Ranpo reached out for the coffee. The chill of the cup against her fingertips brought back last night’s bottle of ice water backstage—the same coldness, the same touch, yet carrying an inexplicable sense of comfort.

She lowered her head and took a sip. The sugary foam stuck to her tongue. “You added syrup to my coffee again.”

“Because today’s going to be a hard battle.” Dazai’s smile rippled gently at the corners of her eyes. “And Edogawa Ranpo’s stomach needs a little sweetness to blunt the sharpness of her logic.”

The creak of a door swinging open cut off their words.

Chuuya Nakahara barged in with an armful of knee pads, her short wine-red hair sticking up like small flames. “Hey! Dazai, you stole my limited-edition lip balm again, didn’t you?” Her eyes landed on the coffee in Ranpo’s hand. She raised her voice: “Even the coffee too?!”

“Chuuya’s got ten boxes of knee pads—way more than lip balm.” Dazai tilted her head, twirling a strand of hair. “As for the coffee…” She pointed to the pads in Chuuya’s arms. “I traded for it with Kunikida-san’s brand-new training schedule.”

“You—!” Chuuya’s ears instantly flushed crimson to the roots. Clutching the knee pads tighter, she stormed to the storage lockers in the corner. “Just wait till the stage battle—I’m not teaming with you!”

Ranpo watched her stomp off, puffed up with indignation, and her lips curved unconsciously upward.

Even as the others filed in one after another, even as Fujiwara Yuma stepped through the door at exactly nine o’clock, she still carried that trembling excitement—like a child tearing into wrapping paper, impatient to see what was hidden inside.

“Starting today, you are no longer trainees.”

Fujiwara’s voice sliced cleanly through the chatter like a surgeon’s scalpel.

He wore a black turtleneck under a loose leather jacket, a training timer hooked casually on his thumb. “You are idol candidates.”

A sharp intake of breath swept the room.

Kunikida Doppo adjusted his glasses, notebook pages rustling between his fingers. Yosano Akiko rested her chin in her hand, the tips of her red hair brushing her collarbone. Even the always-slouching Akutagawa straightened his spine.

“The core of being an idol is resonance.” Fujiwara’s eyes swept the group, finally pausing on Ranpo. “Not the flaunting of abilities. Not the piling up of techniques. From today, all stage performances must step out of the comfort zone of depending on your powers.”

Ranpo’s fingers curled faintly at her sides.

She didn’t rush to dissect his words with her ability. Instead, she let the sound of her heartbeat swell in her ears.

“This is exactly the challenge I’ve been waiting for.” Her voice came out rough, cracking slightly, yet clearer than ever.

Fujiwara’s brows lifted in surprise.

He flipped his tablet, then looked up again. “Kaori, take them to the props room to collect training uniforms. At ten o’clock sharp, the improvisation challenge begins.”

It was only when Tamura Kaori stepped from the shadows that Ranpo noticed her.

The former idol’s shoulders were still elegant, but the scar at her left knee showed faintly through her sweatpants—the wound that had ended her career.

Ranpo remembered during the auditions, Kaori always watched them from the backstage corner, her gaze like needles dipped in warm water—sharp, yet tender.

“Ranpo-san.”

When Ranpo emerged in her new training uniform, Kaori was leaning against the hallway window, waiting.

Sunlight slid past the pearl earring at her ear, scattering dots of light across the wall. “Just now during choreography, you adjusted your position five times and your rhythm three.”

Ranpo froze.

She thought she’d hidden it well enough—after all, Ultra-Deduction let her calculate everything within 0.1 seconds.

“Your logic is too dense.” Kaori’s hand hovered over Ranpo’s shoulder, fingertips brushing taut muscles tightened with tension. “The audience can’t breathe.”

“But only this way can every move strike exactly at the emotional beat.” Ranpo stepped back, avoiding the warmth of her touch.

She thought of the last competition’s stage resonance, of the audience holding glow sticks chanting ‘Is it deduction or is it magic?’ “That success proved this method works.”

“That was only because Dazai’s gentleness softened your sharpness.” Kaori’s voice was feather-light. “But today, you’ll face improvisation alone.”

At ten sharp, Ranpo stood center stage.

The spotlight caught the sweat at her temples, making it sparkle.

She looked out at Fujiwara, Kaori, and the thirty virtual audience avatars, their expressions feeding directly into the scoring system—this would decide the success of her training.

“Theme: Clear Skies After a Storm. Three minutes of prep. Begin.”

Ranpo drew a deep breath.

Ultra-Deduction unfolded in her mind. She saw it all: Chuuya stepping left twice after six beats, Akutagawa tossing his coat during the chorus, Kunikida raising his hands from chest to overhead during the interlude… All their movements meshed into a flawless chain of logic, precise as clockwork gears.

“Three, two, one—” The music hit. Ranpo took her first step.

She slowed deliberately, leaving space for her teammates to adjust.

But the deduction ran uncontrollably: Chuuya’s left foot should land 0.2 seconds earlier, Akutagawa’s coat should swing 15 degrees wider, Kunikida’s hand gestures 3 centimeters lower…

“Ranpo-san!”

Yosano’s voice pierced her calculation.

Ranpo spun around—colliding with Yosano stumbling out of rhythm. She was supposed to hit a high note here, but Ranpo’s half-beat-early step had thrown off her breath.

“Sorry.” Heat rushed to Ranpo’s ears.

She tried to rein in Ultra-Deduction, but the harder she grasped, the more it slipped away like sand.

Soon Chuuya’s knee pad scraped the stage edge, Akutagawa’s coat snagged on a mic stand, Kunikida’s notebook slapped to the floor—

When the music ended, most of the virtual audience frowned.

The system flashed red warnings: Team Coordination 62%. Emotional Resonance 58%.

“You think you’re controlling the stage, but you’re destroying it.”

Fujiwara’s words hit like ice water.

Ranpo stared at the red numbers flashing on his tablet—like needles stabbing into her eyes.

Behind her, Chuuya muttered about worn-through knee pads, Akutagawa silently picked up his coat, Kunikida’s notebook pages fluttered with scrawled records of mistakes.

“Ranpo-san, Coach Fujiwara wants you in his office.”

Shiraishi Yuna’s cold smile peeked out beneath her silver curls. Her phone screen glowed with the headline: ‘Bunyo Training Irregularities Data.’

“I heard you repeatedly abused your ability during practice—interfering with the scoring system, even.” Her nails tapped against the phone. “As a trainee, I have a duty to report rule violations.”

Ranpo’s fingertips trembled faintly.

She wanted to protest. But she remembered—when her deduction spun out of control, she had indeed glimpsed the scoring system’s data streams for an instant. For the first time since awakening her power, it had crossed the boundary without her will.

Fujiwara’s office smelled faintly of cold-brew bitterness.

He lounged back in his chair, tablet spread across the desk, displaying every training timestamp. “Explain.”

“I…” Ranpo’s throat tightened. “I only wanted to use deduction to predict teammates’ moves—to avoid mistakes.”

“Prediction?” Fujiwara twirled his pen. “Do you know how real idols predict an audience? Not by calculating every reaction. By feeling their heartbeat.” He shut the tablet. “Take the training footage. Analyze it. Report on my desk tomorrow morning.”

By the time she stepped out, the sunset had dyed the hall in orange-red.

Ranpo stared at her shadow on the floor, and it felt frighteningly unfamiliar.

That night, 11 p.m.—the practice room lights were still on.

She sat on the floor, surrounded by over twenty training recordings.

Sweat drenched her uniform, her headband had slipped loose, strands sticking to her neck.

“0.1 seconds.” She whispered at the paused screen, tapping the button. “Chuuya’s stumble was 0.1 late. Yosano’s breath faltered 0.1. Kunikida’s notebook dropped… 0.1 too.”

Ultra-Deduction charted it out: all the errors stemmed from an emotional delay—the real reactions of her teammates lagged 0.1 seconds behind her logical timeline.

That was the time of a heartbeat. The time of a breath. The buffer when souls collided.

The door creaked open softly.

Ranpo looked up. Dazai stood there with a blanket in her arms, damp hair dripping, the jasmine scent of shampoo weaving a gentle net around the air.

“You weren’t wrong.” Dazai crouched beside her, fingertips brushing the dark circles beneath her eyes. “You just haven’t learned how to slow down.”

Ranpo met the starlight in her eyes—and her nose stung.

She tried to speak, but Dazai pressed a finger to her lips.

From her pocket, Dazai pulled a worn slip of paper, edges frayed from folding.

In neat, elegant handwriting, it held one word: Resonance.

Ranpo’s fingers lingered on the ink as if touching a warmth she’d never known.

Moonlight poured through the window, spilling across the paper, the sweat in her hair, the laughter shimmering in Dazai’s gaze.

“Tomorrow…” Ranpo whispered, her voice carrying a fragile softness, “I want to try—using feelings instead of deduction.”

Dazai’s smile rippled sweet as melted sugar.

She smoothed back Ranpo’s messy hair, fingers brushing her ear. “I’ll be with you.”

The clock struck midnight.

Ranpo gazed at the word Resonance on the paper, realizing the hearts she once treated as variables might be the most precious solution to this idol equation.