Girls' Last Tour (Shoujo Shuumatsu Ryokou) Review

I've already emphasized the "spoiler" disclaimer in Reviews, but I'll repeat this here. This review is spoiler-heavy and shouldn't be read unless you've finished the entire story (including the last bits from the manga).

I was introduced pretty late to Tsukumizu's works (in 2023), indirectly by one of my friends, Ota, since she's been referencing Shimeji Simulation a lot on her Discord server (which had Shijima Tsukishima as the server icon). I then went on and picked that manga for a quick read and immediately found myself in love with everything about it. I've never appreciated a mangaka's particular artstyle much more than I did while reading his work, and it went so far that my English teacher caught me reading it on my phone for a couple of times (and still allowed me to do that afterwards, seeing that I do very well in her class). I'm glad she didn't see the yuri scenes.

After finishing Shimeji Simulation in the same year, I immediately sought Tsukumizu's former masterpiece, Girls' Last Tour (in manga form), which stayed with me longer than the other manga did. The story is quite what the title suggests; Chito and Yuuri, two girls traveling through the remains of a post-apocalyptic world with a set goal to reach the rooftop, while talking about whatever comes to mind and getting in contact with their surroundings. The longer it goes on, the more things quietly begin to unfold, as if the world is a record of what remains after the fall of human civilization.

In that huge world, humanity seems to have built structures so colossal that they seem almost impossible to reconcile with the emptiness that followed after the war. Layers upon layers of advanced and complex technology, machinery, and buildings were all built by a civilization that was seemingly capable of piercing the sky, and yet, still could not save itself from impending doom. It makes you wonder why humanity ever needed to conceive such powerful indifferent weaponry in the first place, only to advance further into their perishment. The world is still full of signs of intelligence and ambition, but no one left to use either. Reminds me of the the gigantic scale of the library near the end of the journey, which feels much sadder to think that humans have thought up this far merely to perish.

With such surrealism, the reader is eventually prompted to ponder upon the philosophical difference between permanence and presence. Humans in this story have built things to last, but they themselves did not last for that long; all monuments begin to feel fragile simply because the people who gave it meaning are gone, and thus, permanence is an illusive concept unless there's someone out there witnessing it. Without consciousness, all of the impressive structures simply become debris. As they march towards the rooftop, the girls are witnessing civilization, and as insignificant as it seems, the awareness of their surroundings keeps the world from becoming completely mute.

At the rooftop, the place they had been seeking for since the beginning, there's neither a restored world nor any proper explanation. There is no perceivable "meaning" behind their journey, they just did it for the sake of doing it. The manga suggests that "meaning" is something small, temporary, and experienced by the people who are still alive (unintended Portal reference?); that life isn't only "meaningful" in the grand scheme, but any minuscule moment, such as a shared meal or shelter, can become significant simply because it exists at all.

Chito and Yuuri have learned how to rely on each other to exist, because there's nobody else around. In a world where almost everything has disappeared, those small interactions end up meaning a lot. Their friendship is what keeps the story from feeling completely hopeless, and while their surroundings and conditions should feel unbearable, they keep going by concentrating on whatever is directly in front of them. Their lives have been reduced to simple routines, keeping them grounded. It feels less like a story about hope and more like a story about adaptation. When everything around you is too vast, too damaged, or too uncertain to understand, sometimes the only way to keep living is to shrink your world down to something manageable. The girls are not in denial about what happened. They understand that the world is ending, but they have learned how to exist within that reality rather than fight against it.

Across six volumes, there were only two living humans besides Chito and Yuuri themselves; Ishii and Kanazawa. Both of these adults were driven by singular and lifelong ambitions, yet when their respective life's work was inevitably destroyed in an instant, neither fell into absolute despair. Instead, they found a strange, weightless liberation. The burden of purpose was lifted, subtly reinforcing the manga's underlying philosophy that simply existing is enough, and that clinging to grand goals in a dying world only brings unnecessary suffering.

The girls' encounters weren't entirely limited to human remnants. That detour into the massive pitch-black temple was especially weird, and seeing all those bizarre statues (one of which resembles Chito :3) felt like looking at the sheer spiritual desperation of a collapsing civilization. It was as if humanity was trying to build its own heaven when the real world was falling apart, praying to silent "gods" that obviously couldn't save them. Eerily, those statues closely resembled Nuko, which became their stupid pet. Nuko eventually led them to the "Eringi," who are towering mushroom-like beings that essentially acted as the earth's final caretakers, acting as an indifferent cleanup crew for a failed species. Watching the Eringi depart and leave the girls behind really drives home the fact that the earth just doesn't belong to humans anymore. The apocalypse wasn't a huge explosion but rather just a quiet, systematic shutting off of the lights.

The scarcity of people makes every encounter feel meaningful because it reminds you just how empty the world has become, and yet the series never idealizes that lost past. It simply not presents it as something distant and irretrievable. The series does not depict isolation as constant despair. Instead, loneliness becomes something ordinary, woven into daily life until it feels almost natural. Chito and Yuuri have spent so long surrounded by silence and absence that they no longer react to it with shock. It has simply become the environment they inhabit. That feels unsettling precisely because it feels believable; not all people break under isolation, sometimes they just adapt so completely that they stop recognizing what has disappeared.

What makes the series resonate with me, though, is the way these two approach questions about life and death. Neither of them speaks like a philosopher, and they rarely try to reach grand conclusions, yet their conversations often feel more genuine than stories that openly try to tackle existential themes. They don't understand why the world ended, nor do they have the knowledge needed to piece together its history, but they still wonder about it. They still ask questions. There's something very human about it.

Once the manga shifted to the realization that the two potatoes had effectively become the last human beings alive, every quiet conversation and every small moment began carry a different weight. The world isn't merely abandoned; it has reached the point where only these two remain to witness its final days. The last traces of humanity were passed forward through generations until there was no one left to inherit them, except Chito and Yuuri, and this idea was more emphasized by the "photo folders" scene in the nuclear submarine. Another unsettling thing is how the Tower AI unknowingly prompted them to turn itself off, as it would rather die than continue in eternal emptiness and uselessness.

After taking the elevator, their Kettenkrad broke down, and the girls enjoyed a bath on the remnants of its metal, marking the end of their reliable means of transport and only safe space in that nuclear winter, which continued with them since the beginning of the journey. That bit got me the hardest because it really does a good part conveying how close the story is to finishing. I cried just knowing I was reading the last volume. Chito started crying after they turn it into a bathtub and Yuuri began comforting her; this clash of feelings was so hard that I had to take several breaks from that point on.

Chito's important journals and books are then casually burned by Chito herself, after treasuring them so much (and nearly strangling Yuuri for trying to burn them in the beginning). Yuuri's gun and ammunition is thrown out, as it had no use. The food runs out and they share the last ration. The journey becomes more stripped down and more exhausting, and all that remains is the company of each other.

They get to the final spiral staircase to the top. Chito is afraid of heights, and Yuuri is afraid of the dark; the staircase they walk up is high and has no lighting. In complete isolation, they would feel lost and afraid, but together, they can push through the worst of it. They then hold each other's hands and walk upward for days, in complete darkness, getting so exhausted that they abandoned speaking.

Even at the end of the journey, looking into the face of death, they spend their final moments having a snowball fight and having fun, looking at the sunset, and finally sleeping besides each other. After all, the girls never lost their most valuable possession; that being the life they had together, and the moments they cherished. "Living sure was the best, wasn't it?" The juxtaposition of the joy of living, and the acceptance of the past tense. Only Yuuri could say something like that. It's so beautiful.

It's the hardest I've ever cried after finishing any fictional media. I love Tsukumizu and his works with every cell of my being, and hopefully his new "Fragments of the Layered City" manga will uncover a lot of questions. The fanbase is also the best one to ever exist. S-tier, will gladly do it again!