Uncle Hikigaya is Forever Young [77]

So the policeman’s name was Megure Jūzō—and he’d once been a soldier.
The neat row of names beneath the group photo confirmed it.

In the picture, Megure looked much younger—barely thirty—fierce-faced, solidly built, brimming with energy.
Both hands rested on a military sword of indiscernible make. He sat front and center, striking a dignified, imposing pose.

Behind him, three ranks of soldiers formed a human wall; he alone occupied the front seat.

“Looks like he was Hikigaya Ryōhei’s old commanding officer? Pretty young back then.”

Ryōhei tapped a finger against Megure in the photo, gauging. Megure hadn’t been that fat yet, and his shoulder insignia differed slightly from the men around him—probably an officer.

But Ryōhei couldn’t read the ranks, and the original Hikigaya had left no memoir of his mandatory service. He still couldn’t pin down whether Megure had been an officer or an NCO.

Not inheriting the predecessor’s knowledge could be a pain.

Still, having the name was good enough. Next time they met, there’d be no awkwardness.

As for the huge shift in personality and demeanor from the original Hikigaya Ryōhei—well, nothing he could do about that.

If anyone brought it up again, he’d just hint—

“It’s all the fault of Tōma Kazusa, that wicked woman who hurt me so badly!”

Use her as a scapegoat and shut those weirdos up.

Once people heard something that suggestive, they wouldn’t press him in public about changes to his character or mental state.

And if they kept digging after that—did they even count as human?!

Ryōhei had glanced at the photo before, but Megure hadn’t stood out to him then.

Naturally, he couldn’t have known he’d later run into someone else from that same picture in daily life.

Miura Kōzō was there too—likely assigned with Ryōhei since they were from the same hometown.

Second row from the left, Miura held a semi-automatic sniper rifle clearly longer than the others’ weapons.

That jogged Ryōhei’s memory: over ramen, Miura had mentioned he’d served as a marksman.

By the way, in this country, Hikigaya Ryōhei, Miura Kōzō, and most of their peers had all done mandatory service.

By Hikigaya Hachiman’s generation, though, things had changed. Ten years ago, the elected cabinet abolished the century-old Conscription Act and replaced it with voluntary enlistment.

Overnight, the once-arrogant conscription clerks turned meek—now even mocked by kids at summer comic cons.

Ryōhei’s history textbook praised the shift to the skies, calling it the culmination of political reforms dating back to the Taishō era, and so on…

Lately, though, he’d seen op-eds shouting about “strengthening and reforming national defense” in this era of global economic turmoil.

He’d dug around. Besides the old empires still standing, this world’s military tech had developed in strange directions. With a century free of great-power wars, armies’ organizations, training, even strategy had drifted far from what he knew.

Basically, major powers had stopped fighting high-intensity wars; instead, low-level colonial conflicts dragged on. Those asymmetrical fights didn’t push technology or theory forward.

So some genius invented periodic joint exercises among specialized land, naval, and air academies from different countries to keep innovation alive.

The idea: maintain tech progress and a low-cost professional force while building mutual trust among the great powers’ militaries. What’s not to love?

For instance, this nation had nominally abolished the active navy, reallocating all warships and sailors to the four major naval academies.

That airship carrier Ryōhei saw in Tokyo Bay the other day belonged to Yokosuka Girls Maritime Academy—officially an “educational ship.”

Every battleship now an “educational ship.” How peaceful could you get?

Yeah, right.

Ryōhei still struggled to accept it, but even a fool could see it was a loophole in the international arms-limitation treaties.

...

That night, curious after the photo, Ryōhei flipped through several volumes on modern military history.

He came away utterly baffled.

He couldn’t help imagining: if a world war broke out now, would we see massive fleets—revamped super-Yamato and Montana-class battleships with modern fire control, fully automated guns, rocket-assisted torpedoes—lining up to pound each other to scrap?

If the global economy collapsed and countries slid into crisis, social breakdown, then political upheaval… hiss.

Not that a broke teacher like him needed to worry. Let the big politicians lose sleep over that.

After amusing himself with those idle thoughts, he washed up and went to bed.

The next day was Sunday, but Ryōhei didn’t rest.

Being a father and keeping a household running was hard work—unlike kids, who only had to study.

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” as the saying goes. Here in Japan, there’s a traditional proverb: “Three houses opposite, neighbors left and right. Even a passing acquaintance is the fruit of many past lives.”

So when you move, you visit the three houses across and the neighbors on either side, bringing small gifts.

Once faces become familiar, greetings come naturally, and you avoid that awkward not-quite-acquainted stage.

Before, Ryōhei hadn’t bothered—neighbors become neighbors just by living nearby.

But now, as a proper Nihonjin, he had to do it right.

Working part-time at the convenience store, he’d even noticed a special “new neighbor gift” section—neatly wrapped daily necessities priced 300 to 1000 yen: towels, cleaning cloths, soap, practical stuff.

Mrs. Yuigahama definitely deserved a proper visit. She was gentle, well-spoken, refined—being ordinary friends sounded nice.

He picked out a gift and weighed his options.

But ordinary consumables felt a bit bland. He wanted to leave Mrs. Yuigahama with a more distinct impression.

After all, he wasn’t just her neighbor—he was also Yuigahama Yui’s teacher…

Speaking of which, that Yuigahama Yui always daydreamed in class and only scored a 61—barely passing—on the latest World History quiz. Hopefully Mrs. Yuigahama wouldn’t think poorly of him.

Unlikely—he’d taught her less than a month.

Might as well give a good supplemental workbook!

The Japanese edition of Five-Year Gaokao, Three-Year Simulation—the “Five-Three”—sounded like a solid choice.

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This is a fan translation of 比企谷大叔永远年轻 by Stargazer All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!