Debut, Wen Yao Girls! - Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Resolution

At six in the morning, the training room was still soaked in cold white light.
The soles of Edogawa Ranpo’s sneakers scraped faint sounds against the reflective floor.

She clenched a biofeedback sensor she had unscrewed from beneath a spectator’s seat. The metal casing still carried traces of body heat from last night—left behind by the previous round of test audiences.

“Ranpo-san.”

A jasmine-scented voice floated from behind.

Dazai Osamu leaned against the doorway, dew clinging to the ends of her hair, holding two cups of hot cocoa in her hands.

She shook one slightly, beads of condensation sliding down the cup wall and glimmering in the morning light.
“Fujiwara-sensei said the exam rules will be announced in half an hour. You should eat something first.”

Only then did Ranpo realize she had been in the equipment room since three a.m. Her knuckles, clenched tight around the sensor, were stark white.

She lowered her gaze to the coin-sized device in her palm, the red indicator light still flickering faintly.
“You said the holographic interactive stage needs to capture audience breathing frequency, pupil dilation, and micro-muscle changes in real time, right?”

“Mhm.” Dazai walked over, fingertip brushing lightly against Ranpo’s icy hand. “So you dismantled twelve audience seats and even dug out spare parts from the backstage storage?”

The training room’s broadcast crackled with static.

Fujiwara Yuma’s voice stabbed through the air like an icicle:
“All trainees, gather on the main stage within three minutes.”

Ranpo slipped the sensor into her jacket pocket. The cocoa cup burned hot in her grasp.

On the main stage, the dome projection looped with the words Holographic Interactive Stage. Trainees stood in scattered groups. At the very front, Shiraishi Yuna’s purple-tipped hair blazed under the blue lights.

“I heard this time we’ll have to adjust our performance in real time according to audience feedback?” Shiraishi turned, her wine-red nails tapping her temple. “Some people will probably treat their ability like a cheat code. After all, [Ultra Deduction] can calculate the human heart in an instant.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Ranpo stared at the upward tilt of Shiraishi’s eyes. Ultra Deduction unfolded across her retina: the slight bob of Shiraishi’s throat, her left hand unconsciously clutching her skirt hem. Her taunt was deliberate exaggeration—meant to mask her unease over the unknown rules.

“Shiraishi-san.” Dazai’s voice chimed, sweet as sugarcoated candy. “If someone always dismisses others’ efforts as cheating, maybe it’s because apart from [Mind Probe], they can’t manage a real performance themselves?”

Shiraishi’s face flushed scarlet.

From backstage came Fujiwara’s footsteps, black leather shoes striking the floor in sharp rhythm. Instantly, everyone straightened.

He held a tablet, scanning the crowd. His gaze lingered on Ranpo for half a beat longer than the rest.
“Final exam content: Holographic Interactive Stage. During your performance, you must adjust your choreography, lines, and even expressions in response to real-time audience biofeedback. Stage resonance will be ranked live. The bottom three will be eliminated immediately.”

A collective hiss of breath sucked the air thin.

Shiraishi’s nails dug deep into her palms. “This kind of rule is completely unfair!”

“Unfair?” Fujiwara pushed up his glasses, his eyes behind the lenses sharp as knives. “On a true idol stage, audience emotions are never prewritten into the script. If you think it’s unfair, you may leave now.”

No one moved.

Ranpo brushed the pocket where the sensor lay, the metal’s chill seeping through the fabric.

She stared at the fluctuating curves of the simulated audience emotions in the hologram and spoke:
“I need full access to all audience-seat biofeedback interfaces.”

“What do you intend to do?” Fujiwara’s fingers stilled on his tablet.

“Use Ultra Deduction to parse audience heart rate, pupil changes, and micro-expressions in real time—to generate an emotion map.” Ranpo locked eyes with him. “Then I’ll direct the stage pacing.”

The training hall fell silent. Shiraishi let out a cold laugh. “Nothing but ability abuse.”

“If I fail, I’ll withdraw from the exam voluntarily.” Ranpo cut her off. “But if I succeed, I want control over everyone’s stage positioning.”

Fujiwara stared into her shining eyes for a long thirty seconds.

He swiped his tablet, pulling up Ranpo’s training footage from the night before. Onscreen, she precisely adjusted her steps three times under sudden simulated audience mood shifts, resonance climbing from 57% to 89%.

“…Fine.” He closed the tablet. “But if your [Ultra Deduction] lags even 0.1 seconds, the entire group will be disqualified.”

…

On exam day, the stage glittered like stardust.

The holographic projection wrapped the audience seats in a simulated universe. Above each person’s head floated a pale-blue bar of emotion data—an interface Ranpo had requested for visualization.

Standing center stage, she could hear her heartbeat louder than the tuning checks backstage.

“Places.”

The cue sounded. Ranpo closed her eyes.

Ultra Deduction surged over her like a tide:
—First row, third seat left, a girl with heart rate 128, pupils contracting 0.3 mm, mouth corners down 15 degrees: classic micro-expression of heartbreak.
—Center, a bespectacled man breathing 2.7 times faster than average, fingers tapping his knee: anticipating high-energy dance.
—Rear right, a girl in a school uniform clutching her glowstick so tightly her knuckles whitened: nerves at their limit.

“Three, two, one—”

As the spotlight struck, Ranpo’s voice came half a beat slower than the script:
“I know some of you came here today carrying unspoken sadness.” Her gaze fell on the girl in seat left-three; the girl snapped her head up, eyes brimming. “But look—” Ranpo spread her arms, and behind her the hologram burst into cascades of cherry blossoms. “Even the blossoms bloom for you. Because every emotion deserves to be seen.”

The hall froze for half a second.

Then thunderous applause.

On her retinal display, the emotion bars flared like lit fuses: the girl’s heart rate dropped to 98, pupils dilated, her mouth lifted 20 degrees; the man’s breathing normalized, fingers tapping to the beat; the school-uniform girl finally raised her glowstick overhead, no longer white-knuckled.

“Advance the chorus by twenty seconds,” Ranpo whispered into her mic. “Suzuko, get ready for your solo.”

In the backstage monitoring room, Shiraishi’s nails nearly pierced her palms.

From her sleeve, she drew a miniature disruptor—designed to amplify negative emotions, a direct counter to “Mind Probe.”

On-screen, Suzuko’s bar plunged. Her fingertips trembled.

“Now.” Shiraishi pressed the switch.

Ranpo’s Ultra Deduction caught the anomaly instantly: Suzuko’s breathing spiked from 22 to 35 per minute, pupils constricting 0.2 seconds faster than normal.

“Lighting, follow spot on Suzuko.” Ranpo’s voice was steady as an instrument. “Music, soften to ballad, reduce percussion.”

Under the spotlight, Suzuko saw Ranpo mouth the words deep breath.

Her lashes quivered twice. She sang, voice trembling but raw:
“Even if it hurts right now, remember—someone is blooming for you.”

Sniffles rippled through the audience.

In the control room, Haruki Takahashi lowered his score sheet, fingers pressed to his chin.
“This isn’t a performance. This is real emotional resonance.”

At curtain call, the holographic universe dimmed.

But in the next second, the entire audience lit their phones, warm golden lights falling like stars into the stage.

Ranpo stared at the glowing sea, throat tight. For the first time, she understood: true resonance wasn’t the optimal calculated answer, but catching every unspoken feeling.

“You did it.” Fujiwara had appeared onstage without her noticing, his voice soft as a sigh. “Not with ability. Not with logic. With your heart.”

Ranpo turned. Dazai stood at the steps, hair dusted with paper stars thrown by the crowd.

Her eyes gleamed like galaxies falling in.
“I told you—you’d be the real protagonist.”

“Thank you.” Ranpo touched the pocket over her heart, where the paper note Dazai had slipped in that morning still lay: Slow down, listen to your heartbeat.

She smiled.

Above, the broadcast carried Fujiwara’s voice, tinged with faint warmth:
“Special exam complete. All members of Bunyō pass.” He paused two beats. “Next—”

Ranpo’s breath caught.

“Enter debut stage preparation. Edogawa Ranpo, you’ll lead overall planning.”

She looked up at the dome. Morning light poured through the glass onto her face.

Her fists clenched, palm still carrying the chill of the sensor and the indented marks of that note.

This time, what she would write wasn’t a deduction puzzle—

But their most vivid story.

…

The morning glow hadn’t yet faded from the stage dome when Fujiwara’s voice fell like a silver key, turning open a new lock.

“Next, you must decide the main Center position yourselves.”

His words rippled across the empty stage.

Ranpo’s fingers curled slightly at her side. She should have known.

The main Center wasn’t just the physical front—it was the eye of the public storm. Of course someone like Shiraishi, adept at manipulating hearts, wouldn’t miss the chance to muddy the waters.

The trainees formed a loose half-circle.

Atsushi Nakajima’s fingers rubbed the edge of his sleeve unconsciously. Junko Tanizaki bit her lip, gaze flicking between Ranpo and Shiraishi. On the edge, Megumi Taniguchi tugged nervously at her hem, her cowlick bobbing with the motion. Ranpo’s Ultra Deduction caught it all within 0.1 seconds—yet she forced herself to suppress it.

No ability now. She had to dismantle hearts the way she dismantled mysteries.

“Center, hmm…” Shiraishi chuckled softly, her pearl hairpin glinting cold under the lights.

She stepped forward, white skirt brushing the stage. “Since it’s the front, under the audience’s eyes, we should choose someone who can… truly earn everyone’s trust.”

Her words pierced the silence like a fine needle.

Ranpo noticed Atsushi’s brow twitch upward, Junko’s breathing rise from 18 to 22 per minute. There was something to work with.

She lowered her gaze to her sneakers. The heel bore a faint scuff from last week’s spin practice—proof her focus was still under control.

Good.

“I took a walk in the cafeteria during lunch break.”

Ranpo spread a notebook against the training room’s glass window.

Sunlight fell through her hair, scattering golden flecks across the page.

On it, red, blue, and black pen lines interwove like a spiderweb, each node marked with names and times:

Atsushi—Training Room—20:15 (0.7 sec eye contact with Shiraishi)
Junko—Dorm 302 (Shiraishi’s room)—12:03 (stayed 17 minutes)
Megumi—Laundry Room—14:02 (picked up Shiraishi’s coat left on machine) …

“So that’s what you’ve been doing.”

A familiar voice came from behind.

Ranpo didn’t turn—she knew it was Dazai, carrying that faint jasmine-and-ink scent.

“Just confirming variables.” She shut the notebook, fingers brushing its leather grain. “Shiraishi’s canvassing for votes.”

Dazai crouched beside her, his hair ends grazing her hand. “Want me to help observe? Like… that young lady who waters her potted plants at midnight?”

Ranpo arched a brow.

Watering at 23:00 sharp—Shiraishi’s ritual for her plumbago auriculata, claiming it let plants ‘feel human routine.’

So Dazai had been gathering intel too.

“No.” Ranpo slid the notebook into a drawer. “I’ll verify this equation myself.”

That night, the dorm conference room smelled faintly of instant coffee bitterness.

Shiraishi arrived first, head bent over her phone. By the time the door clicked open, she’d already worn a flawless professional smile.

“Everyone here?” Ranpo shut the door with a deliberate clack of the latch.

Five silhouettes overlapped against the wall, forming an abstract painting.

Shiraishi set down her phone, tapping the table with her nails. “Since we’re choosing the Center, we should set criteria, right? Stage performance? Or… frequency of ability use?” Her gaze swept toward Ranpo, her tone lilting. “For example, some people calculate every step with Ultra Deduction. Even their blocking looks like numbers in an equation.”

The AC hummed.

Ranpo heard her own heartbeat—one, two, five beats faster than usual.

She rose, chair legs screeching against the floor. “You mean me?”

Shiraishi’s pupils tightened. Clearly, she hadn’t expected Ranpo to meet her head-on.

“If so, then let’s have a fair debate.” Ranpo circled the table, stopping directly opposite her.
“The Center isn’t about who shines the brightest. It’s about who makes the team shine.” She turned to Junko. “Last Tuesday, during the duet for Spring Koto Song, when your low bl00d sugar almost made you collapse—who adjusted the choreography in advance so your stumble looked like it was part of the design?”

Junko’s ears flushed crimson. “It… it was Ranpo.” She clenched the tablecloth. “She said, your center of gravity is off by 0.3 degrees; I’ll step back half a beat in the next chorus. That mistake became the highlight of the whole stage.”

Atsushi spoke up: “Three days ago, during the PR crisis, she drafted twenty clarification chains in thirty minutes—pinpointing every flaw in the haters’ rhetoric. I checked the stats: those posts were shared 37% more than the company’s official account.”

Megumi raised her hand, her cowlick trembling. “I… I was crying in the practice room yesterday ‘cause I couldn’t memorize the new dance. Ranpo taught me to break it into equations. She said, left foot is the X-axis, raising your hand is the Y-axis; that way you won’t forget.” Her nose sniffled. “And I really remembered it.”

Shiraishi’s nails dug deeper.

She looked at Junko and Atsushi—supposed allies—realizing too late: Ranpo had already woven herself into everyone’s lives, piece by piece, in the simplest ways.

“Then… let’s vote.” Shiraishi forced a smile, uglier than tears. “Anonymous.”

The results came out: six votes for Ranpo.

Only one paper slip didn’t bear her name. Flowing cursive—Shiraishi’s.

As the meeting ended, Atsushi lingered behind.

She approached Ranpo, her voice soft as a feather:
“You didn’t win with data.” She touched her chest. “It was this—showing me something real.”

Ranpo watched her disappear down the hall, only then noticing Shiraishi was gone too.

The door had been left ajar. A draft rustled the slips of paper, one drifting to Ranpo’s feet.

A crooked little sun doodled on it—Megumi’s handwriting: Ranpo-senpai is like a detective in a mystery novel, but warmer!

Back in her room, the nightlight glowed.

As soon as she opened the door, a faint lemon fragrance greeted her—Dazai’s favorite honey lemon tea.

A note was pinned beneath the bottle, scrawled in familiar wild cursive:
Don’t push yourself too hard. Being Center isn’t math—it’s… a dance with everyone together.
At the end was a doodled cat sticking its tongue out.

Ranpo gripped the bottle, its warmth seeping into her chest.

Moonlight crept across her desk. Footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by a light knock.

“Ranpo?” Fujiwara’s voice. “Ten a.m. tomorrow, conference room. New assignment.”

Ranpo answered softly, fingers tracing the note’s edge.

New assignment… She looked out into the night and smiled.

This time, her equation wouldn’t just factor in human hearts—

But everything beyond.