While prior volumes of Spica Aoki‘s Kaiju Girl Caramelise have focused on the metaphorical aspects of Kuroe’s dual nature as Kuroe the High School Girl and Harudon the Kaiju, these four books take the story to a more grounded place. Kuroe has always assumed she’s really a human with the odd ability to transform into a giant Godzilla-like monster, while we readers have largely worked within a framework that positions Kuroe’s transformation as a manifestation of puberty. But now Kuroe learns the truth about herself: she’s actually a kaiju born from an egg her mother smuggled off a remote island. Her human form is the lie, an adaptation created by an infant who imprinted on a human parent. While her transformation may still relate to adolescence, it isn’t a metaphor. It’s her true self.

To say that this is world-changing and upsetting for Kuroe would be an understatement. Her entire identity is that she’s just a regular girl who has the embarrassing quirk of transforming into a monster. It’s something she wants to hide from her boyfriend, not something that may prevent them from being together at all, because she won’t grow out of it. The introduction of another human/kaiju pair in volume seven only exacerbates this tension, because things really didn’t work out for them. (It’s worth mentioning that this couple is from an island community whose depiction is just this side of problematic and/or racist.) More than her sudden manifestation of kaiju symptoms, learning the truth about her heritage and what it might mean for the life Kuroe wants to live is utterly devastating.

This, more than anything else, is the heart of Kaiju Girl Caramelise. Adolescent girls learning harsh truths about themselves has been a staple of the magical girl genre for decades, with one of the best-known examples being Usagi Tsukino’s discovery that she’s a princess from a lost civilization in Sailor Moon. Kuroe may not technically be a magical girl (though I could see the argument), but her discovery of her own specialness is perhaps a reversal of that process. In my review of volume three, I likened her situation to Dorian Gray’s in Oscar Wilde‘s novel, and the truth is somewhere in the middle. Kuroe’s true form is considered monstrous, but it’s not a complete reflection of who she is. Yes, she has heart shapes on her body and in her eyes, which serve as shorthand for her love for Minami and affect her transformation, but they’re also the equivalent of teenagers drawing hearts in a notebook. The hearts are hints at Kuroe’s true self. She transforms into something monstrous and terrifying, but inside, she really is just a teenager trying to sort things out. She’s a reverse Dorian Gray, where the picture (kaiju form) isn’t a reflection of what she’s trying to hide. Instead, it contains clues to who she truly is, within the form that people, perhaps including her mother, assume is the “real” her. Kuroe may have been born a kaiju, but she truly is a high school girl.

The only people who see this are her friends. While the introduction of Daichi, a giant grade schooler who looks like a grown man, seems like a bid for a cheap laugh at first, he’s actually a parallel to Kuroe. People make assumptions about him based on his appearance, but once Kuroe and, later, Minami learn the truth of his age, they easily see him for who he really is. Accepting Daichi is as difficult as accepting that Kuroe is Harudon, but Minami and Kuroe do realize that he’s not a predator. Despite appearances, it’s not a huge leap from understanding Daichi to understanding Kuroe: both of them wear what are essentially costumes that cover up their real selves. Daichi would look like his classmates if he could; the bullying he endures is analogous to the fear Kuroe experiences as Harudon. Being different, especially during your school years, isn’t easy, and what Daichi and Kuroe go through is, emotionally, very much the same.

That’s what makes Minami’s devotion to Kuroe so important. It would be easy to make jokes about how you should be with someone who even loves you at your most monstrous, but Aoki treats it seriously here. Minami and Kuroe have what is essentially a very healthy relationship, despite some stumbles. Upon figuring out that Kuroe is Harudon, Minami doesn’t hesitate to stand by her (or, more literally, on her). He unflinchingly supports her no matter what she looks like. The adults try to tell him that this isn’t good, but none of them are seeing Kuroe. They’re only looking at Harudon, even her mother.

It’s true that the other human/kaiju relationship we’re introduced to in volumes seven and eight didn’t work out long-term. (Or at least, it hasn’t thus far.) Perhaps that’s in part due to societal factors, or maybe there really is no hope for Kuroe and Minami. But if we return to a reading of Kuroe’s monstrousness as about puberty and adolescence, or view her as something of a magical girl, there’s hope. Not everyone is the same, and puberty frankly makes monsters of us all. The only way out is through, and getting through is much easier with a support system. Kuroe’s is on its way to her island prison, and hopefully, they’ll show everyone that who you are on the outside doesn’t matter nearly as much as who you are in your soul.