Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A lot of people die on the docks. 

Mainly because of common accidents and mishaps formed by human nature. Yet all those stories of sunken ships, stowaways, and sirens spiraled into your head again like a vortex. Those legends and tales spun and woven by numerous storytellers from the past, all sewn by the same needle and thread from the poets and prophets of Ancient Greece. Greece. You bit your lip to regain your consciousness, there's no point in thinking about that now. The downpour and saltiness helped drown your buzzing mind, any recollection you had was washed away into the deep waters. There is nothing else to do while you stand waiting in the rain. You've been here for nine hours, and the daylight has died. Your body is stiff with cold. Your umbrella already failed you as your coat was drenched and your boots slowly filled up. You couldn't sit down because the seat was wet, and you would rather not have a soggy bottom. Everything was wet and cold and awful. Tiny droplets of rainwater cling to your eyelashes and you can barely muster the effort to blink them away. Your sigh condensed into a puff of smoke. Thunder crashes overhead and the wind whips at your face like a wet towel. There is a reason "it was a dark and stormy night" is the precursor to so many horror stories. Something about rainfall and the oppressive darkness of a heavy stormcloud is like catnip for the supernatural. The rain always makes it worse. 

To your right is a small ticket office. The lights were on but no one was home. A red and white barricade bar cuts off illegal immigrants and products from entering and escaping the country—shipping containers filled with who knows what stack together like plastic toy bricks. Excavators, dozers, loaders, graders, scrapers, tractors, and compactors stayed in a dirt lot, now scummy and muddy from the dirty rainwater and soil. Their industrial yellow turned brown like overripe bananas. Seems like the construction crew was expanding something on the docks. Beyond the gate laid asphalt and concrete. Roads leading upward and outward to the neighboring town. It was a quaint little town---one where the homes were built so close together like Siamese twins. The neighbors call each other "Uncle" and "Auntie" and "Cousin", borrow cups of sugar for their banquets that they're hosting next week and would love for you to come. A tight-knit community, but welcomes you like a long-lost brother visiting from college overseas. You liked the little town. You'll miss Uncle Rosco, sitting on his porch, drinking some beer as he tells his perilous war stories of Vietnam. You'll miss Auntie Beck; her freshly baked sweet potato pies and her tough, but tender love. You'll miss Cousin Gigi and Mimi. The girls always had the most splendid tea parties. Exchanging biscuits and juicy gossip with their cotton-stuffed friends seated across from them. Their little dresses, poofy and glittery, wobbling in their mother heels and smiling with smeared red lips---commonly mistaken for strawberry jam. You'll miss this little town, but this is only a rest stop for your journey. You left your pseudo-extended family without a word. Not even a note saying goodbye or why you're going or when you'll return to the banquet. You left in the dark of night. A concerning time really. Witching hour. Vampires, werewolves, cryptids, demons; the spooks. The stories you would tell to scare your children crooked as you roast marshmallows on the pyre. They weren't real! At least, that's what this town thinks.

A heavy splash of rainwater jolts you out of your monologue. You flinched, turning your head left to "dodge" the water. Your eyes open to the dock. Beyond it, the vast sea. Rolling waves collided with each other and crashed onto the piet. The sea was roaring and hungry for more decrepit ships and drunken sailors; as wilful and petulant as a child. It's as charming as one too. "Come", it'll say, "come look, come see how many souls I have claimed. I have a collection of ships dating back to the 1700s! You wanna see a mermaid? There's a ton waiting for you down here. You could play peek-a-boo with Cthulhu. Ring around the roses with the Kraken. Davy Jones' Locker is wide open and waiting for you to jump in!" You spit into the murky waters. You loved the beach, you loved the sea, but you hated drowning and how the water can be so gluttonous. And now, it's having a temper tantrum along with the weather. Another bucket of water splashed on you in childish protest. The sea and you used to be best friends. A caring soul. It brought you peace. It brought you solace. You discovered great things there. Great things like war and greed and cruelty and beauty. Life lessons that no scholar could ever teach you in the Hall. The sea had brought in friends from the New World. Large steel boats cut through the waves like razors. Men yelling and commandeering as they jump off the ships and stomp on the wet sand. Little steel balls sparking out of boomsticks, and larger clay ones were tossed into the air, before creating loud fireworks. How the people cried, how the marble and quartz pillars crumbled into fine chalk, how the sea turned red with wine. You didn't understand; why was there a parade coming? Who were these people? Why were your peers running and screaming? What's going on? The sea only giggled. Laughed in sinister glee. You were only left with your imagination and the sand between your toes. It wasn't until someone grabbed your hand and dragged you off the shore. They yelled something, scolded you. You couldn't see their face or hear their voice. It was probably Auntie Beck, telling you to come inside her home. It's dangerous to play outside, especially during a war. 

War. That's how you knew. Why the waters turned to wine. Why the people were cheering. Why the performers threw fireworks into the sky.

An orchestrated chaos, filled with harmonic bedlam and beautiful entropy.

You ran through the sharp stone path down to the Hall, the stones broke through the toughened skin under your feet. Your small, thinner stature wasn't accustomed to all this running. Breathing in the cold weather reminded you of that air. Thick and grainy, slicing your lungs. The soot burned your eyes. No amount of tears extinguished the flames. A loud boom hooked the earth; your balance was off-kilter, but you kept running. Through the smog, the pinnacle of enlightenment shined like a beacon. Σχολή Φαινομένων. The Hall. The hearth of deviated thought and potential genius. Whenever a question burns in your head, whenever your research leads you to nowhere, whenever you're left in a shroud of voidness, The Hall will lead out of despair with its knowledge. Everyone and anyone was welcome to learn; even small children like you were lectured on mathematics, sciences, philosophy, and arts. It's not a church, mind you. Your people did not believe in a higher being reigning over the planet. That's preposterous! Blasphemy! Fallacies that the New World likes to spread to insert fear and desperation into others. Oligarchy, a corporate enterprise. You never spoke about it, but your curious mind always believes there's, at least, a small chance of some being living beyond our plane. Perhaps in this "World of Forms" your dear Plato speaks about. 

The Hall held the many survivors of the war—the ones who decided not to watch the parade from outside. Auntie Beck still clutched your hand, leading you to your peers. They were white as ghosts, yet blackened with ash. An elder held you tightly, petting your head, and muttered bottled relief. Your ears were still ringing. Your vision was opaque. Your peers looked like panes on stained windows. With senses deprived, you just followed whoever pushed you. Uncle Rosco spoke with Auntie Beck. Cousin Gigi and Mimi tried to talk to you, but the music was too loud. You saw smeared red lips and hot tears. Gigi cried into your shoulder while Mimi rested her head on your lap. Uncle Rosco and Auntie Beck spoke about something. The Hall glowed with the ethereal light. Looking up, you saw shadows flying overhead like large birds, cawing cries of war, beating their mighty wings against the sky. They're beautiful—mighty, like the Great Thunderbird. Roars of lightning flashed behind The Hall's cracked marble and aventurine walls. The earth shook with each swift flight. To a child like you, their power shined with brilliance. Your knees were already kneeled and your head looked upward before these superior beings; a small prayer of forgiveness escaped with each puff of breath. You've succumbed to the lords of chaos. Auntie Beck shook you out of your haze. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Your mouth was dry and cracking; the soot created a drought in your throat. The music stopped; a muted filter covered your ears now. Your vision cleared a little, but you couldn't see Auntie Beck's eyes. Her nose, her mouth, her frazzled hair, her stained skin, those were visible. But her eyes...her eyes were gone. There were just...divots of skin. Shallow cavities that crinkled with a motherly smile. You didn't want to look at her. In fact, something else caught your eye. A shadow, a spirit, a wraith slowly creeping to the doors. Through a sliver of clouded quartz, the shadow marched. Even with your horrible sight, you could tell it was a musician from the parade. His instrument was coddled in his hand. His uniform was a shining red like rubies. He looked beautiful; clean-shaven and well-mannered. His parents must've taught him right. His father must've been a veteran and wanted his son---probably his only son---to honor him and join the army. To go out there and bring him a medal of loyalty and savagery. A reward for killing many innocent people for having an idea too alien for him to understand. A sense of familial, patriarchal pride and a fear of failure and shame; he's here to fight. He's here to win. And he'll crush the heads of newborns if he has to. At a young age, you learn these little details and wove tales facsimiles to what may have happened. A frightening skill----a hidden talent---of yours. It fascinated your younger peers and paled your elders. This wasn't your Arcane, just a little thing you practiced over time with age.

The musician continued to march. Stepping in quarter notes and eighth notes, breathing in 3/4 time. Not once resting, always sharp and high-strung. Auntie Beck shook you again, this time Uncle Rosco pitched in to help. Your eyes were locked to the musician coming forth to play a song. He slowed down, hiding behind the sacred doors. Timid, afraid to interrupt this lovely, family moment. Or perhaps he's fine-tuning his instrument. The shadows of the bard flickered in the light before they stopped altogether. Auntie Beck kept shaking you, trying to snap you out of your trance. Her tired face obscured your vision. You wanted to see the musician and his instrument. You wanted to hear him play a song. You tilted your head side-by-side, up and over, trying to spot the music man.

A boot slid through the door. The steps cracked the fragile floors. Instrument raised and aimed over Auntie Beck. A boom rang. Auntie Beck produced wine from her head. Uncle Rosco cheered. Gigi and Mimi cheered too. You watched as the musician played his instrument. Uncle Rosco danced with him as sweet wine dripped off his body. A euphoric dance of pleasure and true bliss. Gigi and Mimi dragged you away; you saw Uncle Rosco fall asleep, imbibed but peacefully. A tiny dark corner of The Hall is where you sat. Gigi and Mimi huddled you close, their nails scratching your raw skin. You felt bad for the musician; he just wanted to sing you a song so he could go home and return to the New World with a gray filter and a silver medal.  

Instrument raised and aimed over you. A boom rang.

All was white.

All was clean.

All was silent.

A robust bull horn ranged through your ears. The ferry was here, docking themselves accordingly. A few crew members hopped off the ship and carried any supplies they needed to carry. Quickly, you hurried inside the great ship; unthawing the cold with adrenaline and an anaerobic escapade. In honesty, you weren't meant to be on this dock. This place was restricted to construction workers and ferrymen. Exporting and importing goods to the little town like Santa Claus or the Wells Fargo wagon. This wasn't your first time being a stowaway. Every ship you've been on had you seated with the cargo, relying on the produce carts for sustenance and the small, circular windows for solace. If you're lucky, you can sleep with a lovely mannequin and use her clothes for warmth. They'll smell like cheap plastic and silicon, perfect. Once you got on the ship, you made yourself acquainted with the space. Narrow hallways and passages that'll make an overweight man deadpan. Warm rum mixed with water and citrus, fish raw and cooked and pickled in brine, treated hardwood, leaded oil, salt and sweat, and seafoam…only the slightest aftertaste of vomit. All the delightful smells and tastes of the ocean. The hiss of steam gasped into your face, trying to shoo you off. This ship was a beast of its own; slicing through the harsh waves as it carried the masses of cargo to greater distances. A journey Odysseus would've traveled to get back home. After inspecting the area---while hiding from the sailor men---you found a little corner to call your own. It was close to an exit and had a narrow path out of sight that led to the cargo bay. You shed off your extra layers---because somehow the ship's climate is worse than outside---and squatted down in the dark. All this trouble for what one may ask; you're here on an odd job---if you could call it a job. A few days before your departure, a crow landed on your room's windowsill. It was Sunday so Auntie Beck already left the house for church. You had just made tea for yourself and sat by the window. It wasn't until the pestering bird came. The crow kept fluttering and hopping around the sill squawking about.

CAW CAW! (L/N) (Y/N), YOU ARE SUMMONED BY THE MASTER UROKODAKI! PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO HIS HOME IN TOKYO, JAPAN IMMEDIATELY! CAW! CAW!

The bird squawked other things, but all you contained was the master's name.

Urokodaki. That name lingered in your mind like hot coffee steam. That man; he healed you a while back. You didn't know how many years it had been---mainly because you didn't remember how old you were---but you knew it wasn't just yesterday when you crashed into the rugged ridge of Japan's ethereal mountains and met the tengu-masked elder in the middle of the dirt path. The crash had broken several ribs and scarred your body, increasing the injury menagerie. The elder had taken the fleeting time he had left to bring you home to his estate hidden in the mountains. Watching the trees flutter with the wind, feeling the rich yet tough dirt under your feet; even the air felt much cleaner as it rejuvenated your lungs. You never felt this much peace since lying on the beach back home. About three-quarters of the trek in, you collapsed. Then, once you wake up, you lay on a thin futon with a blanket draped over you like a burial cloth; prepped and ready for your funeral. Urokodaki was nowhere to be found, but there was a cup of tea, water, and some food. The door was closed, yet the light seeped underneath the crack. His home was dull; nothing but wood and paper-like structures with a few pieces of furniture. It was all brown and minimalistic; whatever a man could get--and need---for his age. You spotted some medicinal herbs hung with twine and bottled in glass jars---the obvious "human" ones like Ginkgo, Ginger, and Milk Thistle, but also ones like Bishop's weed, Henbane, and Kelsal. You didn't think plants like those would grow in a climate like Japan, but you suspected the elder had a supplier many were unaware of. It also surprised you that a human, like Urokodaki, utilized them in the food and tea you consumed. You could taste the pungent stewed Kelsal in the tea. As you sat up, the ache came back. Your abdomen was wrapped in bloodied gauze as it strained against your curled form. A hint of a cooling sensation hit your stomach like Icy-Hot. Aloe? Or perhaps Lorelise paste? Whatever it was, it relieved your pain. You still pondered how you made it to Japan but everything was too foggy to remember. Not a single sliver of the past formed in your head. Were you hit with amnesia? No, you couldn't have---

The door slid open again. A hooded old man with a red tengu mask and a sky-blue cloak appeared in your view. Despite his permanent frown, you knew this man was human. And that his disguise wouldn't fool any arcanists passing by. What good is it then? Was he hiding from someone? A wealthy bounty on his head perhaps? 

"You're awake. Good." He said, stepping inside the hut and unloading his pack. More plants---Sage, Witch Hazel, Buppenamon--- and some ashen long-eared hares and animal skin. A hunting knife was squeezed in his hand; smeared blood shined on the blade as if it had oxidized.  He went hunting and gathering, like the Neanderthals of the prehistoric times. You watched the elder unpack his things silently, drinking the last bit of tea in the clay cup. Elders like him had stories to tell with the usual audience. Curious grandchildren and estranged guests were the main focus group, but you presumed this man did not have a family to call his own, nor was he a hospitable person: a hermit, or an anchorite, some old recluse whose day was interrupted by your sudden arrival. In what felt like a whole season, the elder spoke.

"Who are you?"

You told Urokodaki your name. (Y/N) (L/N). The last living member of the (L/N)s, and the last living native of the Aegeans. Once Urokodaki finished unpacking, he kneeled beside you. Red face still frowned in distaste, even though you've done nothing wrong.

"Where did you come from?"

All you did was shrug. "I don't know." You said nonchalantly. You tried your best, you really did, but nothing came up. The past few minutes between you were all you could remember. Well...that and the island. You kept that tale to yourself. The elder hummed, grabbed your wrist, and inspected the long scar growing on your left arm. A huge gash; it bloomed like grape vines, its tendrils spreading from your shoulder down your wrist. He observed the one on your neck; a little slit that curved down your clavicle. Then there's the old bruise on your right elbow and the slice on your right hand. Your scars; each was supposed to remind you of your battles. Your body told a tale, from the largest gashes to the smallest cuts. And yet you can't remember one piece of it. Just the one on your chest. A bullet hole from the music man on the island. He did shoot you, but he had forgotten basic human anatomy and shot the middle of your chest, not your heart. The elder just sat there, pondering while letting go of your hand. 

"You may stay here until you have fully recovered." 

A natural response. And considering how much food he gathered today, it was understandable. He could only gather so much from this terrain without destroying the mountainous ecosystem. The resources here were just enough for him to survive. And you've just become another mouth to feed. The elder took the dishes and cups away for him to wash. You hate becoming a liability to people, especially elders. Auntie Beck worked so hard to nurture you; it was almost overbearing. Like an over-affectionate, lonely grandparent meeting their grandkids in the summer, she would make way too much food for you to eat and berate your lean body, believing you starved yourself for fun or something. She was probably just a little jealous of your fast metabolism. Random dollar bills would be pulled from her purse and stuffed into your hand before she headed to her bakery or church. "Get yourself a treat, sug'". You either don't or buy something for Auntie Beck instead. Your automatic response was to let you take care of it since you were the guest. However, with broken ribs and the elder's evident independence, you said nothing. Instead, you lay back down and rested until you could move freely.

During your time in Japan, you were met with its lush greenery and serenity, just like all the tourists and advertisements promoted—beautiful mountainscapes, exquisite cuisine, rich culture, polite people. No wonder everyone plans to go here. It's a utopia. A promised land. Where the streets are clean with no garbage or poverty or crime. Of course, that's what everyone believes. Once something pops up on a screen, you can't help but fall blindly in love with it. The flashing lights, the bold lettering, the catchy music, the salesman's smooth voice; luring you to buy what they're selling in exchange for your money and insecurities. Make no mistake: no country is without its flaws. Larceny, embezzlement, homicide, not to mention the Yakuza hiding in the shadows. Sure, Tokyo is safer than New York, with its stricter laws and regulations, but people always find a way to get over a gated fence. While you slowly recovered, you helped Urokodaki as much as you could—hunting for food, gathering herbs, chopping and garnering wood for the fire. It wasn't until the elder asked you a question one night after burning the midnight oil. 

"Have we met before?"

You shook your head. "I don't think we have." You were sure of it. Then again, your memory had been the biggest traitor of your life; how could you trust yourself?

"Hmm..." His head tilted downward. "Strange. It feels as though I've met you before. Your presence at least."

You hummed; perhaps Alzheimer's had struck him. No, the elder seemed like he wouldn't let mental doddery take over so easily. The rest of the night was silent and filled with introspection. No one moment have you seen this man at all, neither with nor without the mask—as if you ever saw him without the mask in the beginning. You've been meaning to ask about the mask. You left his home so hastily once you recovered that you never bothered to ask any further questions. Perhaps on this trip, you would. This ship started to sail while that ship had already done so. A midnight snack was in order. Let's see if you can find some food for the trip.

Chapter Text

...

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!

“Urgh.” You had passed out with your mouth open, your tongue dry and shriveled in your mouth. You swallow twice. Fuck, you don’t feel like you’ve slept at all, and exhaustion nags at the back of your eyes like a fishhook. The deep, resonant sound of the horn woke you rudely. The ferry crossing was about three hours in total—you must have been out for, what, two? Maybe more if the crossing was slower because of the storm. The boat sways discontentedly beneath you, and your mouth swells with salt.

God, how had you slept through the storm? Especially with these claggy, damp clothes? 

Whatever, you made to Tokyo. Here, fish is sashimi, rum is sake, and sailors are wako. Not that it matters since this country now speaks more than 65% English. The rich Japanese language slowly fades into extinction along with the rest of the foreign languages. With the expansion of technology internationally, countries worldwide are now exposed to---mainly--American media and have soon become accustomed to the English language. Today's reports show that more than half the world speaks fluent English, and the native languages have decayed into complete gibberish. The Rosetta Stone has been reduced to a pebble in the British Museum. It's good for you since all you could speak was English, Greek, and Latin; you wouldn't have to learn any time soon, but it sucks knowing that even thriving countries like Japan have succumbed to the States' influence. Cultural assimilation is a cancer brought upon by the multiplicity of social media.

You can complain about society later; the ferry had already docked and the crewmen were barking orders. The heat of the ferry was exhausted as you slipped through the narrow passages. Quickly, you made it through the harbor without a trace or a suspicious glance. You were like a ghost, a specter that died from the sea and returned to grab a drink. The biting cold returns; Jack Frost nipped your nose and your fingertips like a mite. While it wasn't raining anymore, the sharp wind didn't help your current body temperature. You stopped at the port's exit; the lights of a distant civilization are a mere orange stain on the clouds, creating an artificial horizon. A breath of relief condenses into a light smoke. Unless you could find a cab, you had to go a long way to the rural areas of Tokyo. 

Could you imagine it? A shadow walking through the winding roads of Japan at night, trying to find a ride to the other side. Sounds like any old scary story—Hitchhikers from Hell; like a horrible horror movie. Well, considering your fate, you were a part of these weary travelers. A dark rain jacket flowing to the bottom of your feet, your face shadowed by the night, with only the street lamps illuminating your pallor. How you walked at a slow, calculated pace. Though you weren't from the dead, you were dead tired. Your feet were starting to ache, screaming at you to stop. You would use your soaked clothes to soothe the probable blisters forming on your soles, but there's no stopping now, not in the middle of the road. When you looked, Tokyo—the actual city—looked pretty close by from where you walked. Its bright lights created the illusion that luxury civilization was just a few miles away...

A break wouldn't hurt. Some delicious hot pot and a dip in the spa. Dressed in a super comfortable robe with fluffy slippers and a hot towel. Man...that'll be nice...but instead, you're walking miles upon miles in cold clothes and sore feet.

A few hours later, you find yourself on a long, straight path that cuts through the woodland like a knife. Branches and brambles skitter across the beaten path. A copse of trees seems almost to welcome you back from your journey a few months ago. It is at this moment that you realize you have absolutely no idea where his home is. Well, you didn't get a good feel for the perimeter; you only went a quarter of a mile away from the house to hunt and gather. The treetops all look so similar: brown, sturdy, and lush. The elder once said his "property" spanned a couple of acres of the mountains, but you never asked where his turf ends and the wilderness begins. You feel your chest begin to tighten. There is no reason to be nervous; you've gotten lost in many other worse places, but some animal instinct inside you grips your lungs like a vice.

Something was wrong with this grove. 

A dark, looming presence wafts in the air like a bad smell. Something wicked. Something vile. Something...

Demonic.

You grind your cheek between your molars. Forests aren't equipped with street lamps, and the moon is shrouded by clouds. The light produced in your eyes acts as your only source, but it hurts. Your hand grips your umbrella; the brittle skin on your knuckles stretches to the point where it might crack.

And yet you kept walking. This time, your steps were quieter. You blended in the forest wind; just a lonely specter trying to return to their grave.

The trees groan, the leaves hiss, the earth humphs. 

And then...

skitter skitter...

skitter skitter skitter...

It crawled.

The sound of many legs punctured the earth. Needles prick the soil as a seemingly large object drags across the forest floor. You came to a complete halt. Once mimicking a specter, you now become a shadow. More tingly pricks poke the soil in rhythmic succession, almost like marching. Whatever it's dragging, its weight uproots the newborn buds growing. Your breath slows. Your heart thumps. Your body stiffens. Not even a little puff of air blows from your nostrils. You can hear the needles coming closer to your frozen state.

The forest holds its breath. 

tink tink tink...

SHINK

A large syringe-like appendage strikes at your side. With your umbrella, you bat it away. Stepping to the side, you readied yourself. The next pitch was about to come. 

SHINK

This time you dodged to the right, sliding across the hard soil before picking back up again. With the little light your aching eyes were producing, you could see what the beast looked like; only a little though. As you heard, the beast had a tanky lower abdomen, thin legs pinching the ground, and a long tail protruding from the back. It crouched, hunched over, and struck again. You batted away the tail. Once. Twice. Thrice. Parrying the attacks like a duelist in a stadium. One would never bring such a strange thing to a duel, but your opponent didn't care for that at the moment.

Uno. Dos. Tres. Un. Deux. Trois. Ein. Zwei. Drei.

Each strike powerful.

Each thrust blunt.

Each blow clashed against the behemoth.

One might ponder how a nimble umbrella could break the séigo's armor. It's similar to how David defeated Goliath with a single rock. And yet the real answer still illudes you. The, now broken, but still sharp edge of the umbrella was able to snip the exposed abdomen, but the skin slowly regenerated back. Speaking of which, your sword was slowly breaking on impact. Janky pieces of metal started to rip through your brittle, cold hands, creating a cluster of paper cuts that would make a worried parent call the Suicide Hotline. The armor of the beast was definitely stronger than the metal skeleton of the umbrella. This movement. This fighting knowledge. These heighten senses. The feeling of your heart beating out of your chest, rippling with electricity. Your legs burn with lactic acid as heaves escape and enter your mouth. It seemed so foreign, yet so familiar, that feeling of passion and vigor rather than fear and survival. You watch yourself holding the umbrella like a sword as the great beast claws through the brambles. The brush became the ring. The dark thicket becomes your audience. Your opponent jabbed through trees like a boxer, snipping through the sturdy wood. You dodge and parry swiftly, returning each attack with the same pressure. Each thrust made the scorpion cautious, stepping back before striking again. It was a waltz that was played out in the dreary terrain of a hallucination. As raw sawdust blows, you shield the tiny splinters that tried to nip you. Another strike whizzed past your ear. The steel-like tail bashes into an innocent tree, turning it into woodchips. The tenants inhabiting it squawked and fled at the sudden eviction notice. The tail swung again, this time sweeping the whole forest floor, toppling a cascade of trees down. Luckily, you jumped into one that wasn't affected. You got a better view of the beast through the canopy: A set of pinchers snipped together with voracious passion. They were bronze and beefy, and the head was gilded over, almost as if it was made entirely of gold. It was styled like the Trojan soldiers, with the brush part replaced with an oni horn. It was an Aqrabuamelu, better known as a scorpion person. Knowing the average scorpion's weak point would be its belly due to its weak armor; you had to close the distance between you and it. Slowly, you tried slipping off the tree.

Crack---

Er...

The tail swung against the tree you were on. A safety tumble made you land on your feet again. The coarse forest floor softened the blow; you opened your umbrella to block the incoming debris. The bark punctures through the flimsy covering. There goes your only weapon.

"Blood Demon Art: Wrath of Serket!"

If the scorpion's tail wasn't enough to help describe it, the beast called upon the Egyptian goddess of scorpions for aid. With the incantation, the tail grew longer and sharper, resembling a canine. More poison dripped from its tip as small spikes emerged, steeled like a morning star. Veins erupted from the scorpion's abdomen as its muscle mass expanded tenfold. A wretched aura of rebecca purple radiated from the scorpion. The tail whipped around, gaining momentum. It lunged forward at lightspeed, nearly piercing the sound barrier with its sharp stinger. A furious flash, a striking jab, the vicious, viscous poison dripping from the tip as it charged toward you like a bullet train. You knew you couldn't parry such an attack with your broken umbrella, but it was too fast to dodge. You had fallen hard on your feet, leaving you immobilized to the bone. Only by the blessed gods, Nike and Fortuna, the goddesses of victory and luck, can be called upon now. You had to do something; you can't die now.

Defeat is not an option.

It's as if time slowed down. Usually, in films, this is when the characters die a fatal death. Where their lives flash before their eyes, giving them a record of all their achievements and mistakes. One final glance before it all ends. 

However...

*KRSH*

A tinted yellow filter shaded your vision. A flash of lightning. Blue. Yellow. Blinding white. All zapping around the thicket. The tail moved at a snail's pace. The poison dripped from the tips like a melting icicle. All the trees were electrified, yet when they jumped, their leaves floated. The water droplets left your soaked clothes in a fine mist. Your body felt lighter than air; the tension aching in your legs and lower back fled like a flock of crows. The mere action of you blinking outsped the attack of the beast. The lightning—electricity flowed through your bones, revitalizing you with new vigor. A single push of your foot caused the earth to crack beneath you. A meteoric crater formed below as your umbrella crackled with electricity. You readied yourself; hair raised and muscles tensed, your strength flowed to your legs. 

*BOOM*

A lightspeed attack. A flash practically quicker than lightning itself. The slash burned through the arachnid's torso. The tail was sliced off clean. The gilded armor of the pincers broke off, leaving white meat and red blood splattering to the ground. A few of its legs were sawed off, immobilizing the creature entirely. Slowly, as it dropped, the beast bellowed a roar of pain through the tinted terrain. And while it may be in pain, it isn't dead yet. You readied yourself again, but the state of your umbrella made you pause. The handle was all that was left in your hands. The entire canopy was nowhere to be found. Your sword drew its final breath from the last attack. The electric field died down as the yellow tint faded from your eyes. Your hair fell back to its disheveled state, yet you still felt the goosebumps pull your skin. Your heart banged against your chest; the thumps were so palpable it felt like it would burst from the cage. Your legs burn with the acid buildup and your muscles tighten into firm knots. 

The beast slowly emerged from its state. Its tail wiggled as the exposed flesh crystallized into a new shell. The legs also started to grow; thin, stick-like appendages began poking out from the abdomen. With newfound footing, the beast turned slowly to you. The cracked helmet revealed two beaded eyes, blank and darkened but glaring daggers at you. What the hell?! It's not dead?! This damn scorpion! You readied yourself; your sword may be gone, but you'll use the broken remnants as a sharp dagger. It would be great to activate whatever hidden arcane you cast earlier. Just a few minutes ahead of the arachnid, 7 minutes for 7 slashes upon 7 hearts. And a little luck, too. The scorpion swung its tail again; more trees were swept aside like flimsy paper. It is as if, by animal instinct, you jumped to the side, your body flying with the wind. The broken handle scraped against the earth as it anchored you. A large tree flew into your line of sight. You rolled on the hard ground, abandoning the handle dagger. It felt as if the earth was against you as shards of rock and dirt scraped your knees. Every part of your body ached; you writhed on the hard ground, seething in pain. You rarely prayed in situations like this, but...

Great Being above, please grant some help.

The scorpion behemoth's unruly legs poked the earth. Its tail pointed high above your head like a guillotine. The executor was ready to punish his prisoner.  

The trees rustled, jeering at the unrighteous undertaking like an angry mob in Salem. 

You closed your eyes, accepting death.

Swish!

...

You felt a hot liquid splashed on your face. Was it yours? Did it stab you? Is it toying with its prey? The trees went quiet. Your staggered breath filled the haunting silence. The hissing sound of the scorpion stopped for a breath's moment. Something heavy dropped into the earth. You peered one eye open, then both when the coast was clear. The head of the scorpion thudded like an overripe fruit whilst the body fell like a tree. It's over, you thought, hulking your lead body back up. The sight of the decapitated scorpio made you cringe as the blood spluttered out like an exhaust pipe, and its exposed face was riddled with rusted pieces of metal as its mandibles gaped with a silent, eternal scream. Soon, it started to dissolve---burned into tiny flecks of ash---and blown into the wind. Your silence acted as a mourning, watching the beast die slowly without burial to remember their sacrifice. You touch a small scar on your face; the poor...thing? There's just something about watching rotten corpses wither into the hard ground. Their carbon being reused and recycled for the new beings. Their energy channeled into the atmosphere, back into the arcanum. It signed a death, like soldiers of war fighting for their country's protection, knowing they won't make it home for dinner tonight as their wives and children weep for them and their comrades salute in their honor. Only it'll be known for their kills---their impressive slaughtering. Given the beast's form, you could only imagine how many lives it's eaten to gain this much strength---a soldier of war who takes pride in its growth.

And yet, its face made you think: should mercy be given? Even to such a beast? All it wanted was to fight for survival, just like an animal would.

Soft steps in the grass broke the silence. The makeshift funeral was interrupted by the new footsteps hitting the earth. You gazed at the approaching figure. Your savior----who looked like your cliche masked hero----walked towards you with poise and balance. Sandals patted the ground, soft but swift, a calming pace that could ease any shocked victim. White socks covered their feet while billowing chiffon pants flowed with the wind gracefully. The cardigan on their upper body was incredibly baggy hence they tied the ends to their left. Clay red and green, a solid color and a geometric pattern splitting the middle. Incongruous but complementary---a fashionable juxtaposition. The sword in their gloved hand glowed a gorgeous blue in the darkness, illuminating the dark red blood staining the metal. On their right hip, a little red rope was loosely tied to a bulbous bottle made of...wood? You mentally raised a brow, but where your eyes landed----and never looked away from---was the black kitsune mask blocking their face. Little flecks of blue detailed the face, creating a sort of scaly design around the tear troughs and to their outer cheeks. The sides were accessorized with tassels and little paper fans similar to fish fins. The darkness shrouded the hero's eyes, but--judging by the body language---stoicism and equanimity were their two main emotions. Even the ragged state of their bangs flying over their eyes didn't bother them. 

"Are you injured?" A deep, smooth voice. Muffled, like hearing the ocean through a conch shell. The hero looked about your height as your eyes evenly met blank white sockets. 

"No," You said, "Not severely. Only a few minor cuts." You moved your hands around, watching the little divots open and close like mouths. They littered your hands down to your wrists. A few were bleeding, but the rest were drying up from the cold. You felt a warm liquid slide down your cheek; you weren't crying, nor were you sweating again. The blood from the cut forms a little tear as it rolls from the side. You wiped it off, revealing more red seeping into your fingerprints. As you said, a few minor cuts. However, the hero didn't take your unconcerned nature by heart. The sound of a cork popping directs your attention to the wooden bottle. A free gloved hand started sweeping upward; the bottle released a fresh scent, like river water. A coil of ocean-blue water rose. Swirled and shifted, flowed and churned. White seafoam stirred from the stream, orbiting the hero in a ring. Droplets floated from the tip of their sword towards your open hands. They bubbled on your skin, cooling and clearing the dirt from them. And slowly clean your cuts. The exposed red flesh sealed away the incoming blood, leaving only a translucent shallow nick. You felt your cheek run cold, too; the soothing rain had washed away your blood. You closed your eyes and let the water fall against your dry skin, smelling the petrichor and tasting the fresh grass. A babbling brook gurgled through your ears as you swam on the Rainy River, rippling with the waves, washing your grime away with the tide. The ocean, you thought, your old friend came back. Friendly and smiling, like it was before. Like it always was. 

Until it stopped. Your memories floated away and turned into seafoam. A dewy epidermis formed on your cheek. Your hands were cupping a pool of water, spilling from your palms and cuts. The bottle was corked up again, and the hero sheathed their sword. "That should help." Said the hero, "There's a crowded population of demons in this area. It's best to find a safer place to stay in for the night." 

As much as you want to take their advice, your urgent summoning compels you to continue, even if your body protests. The crow might be exaggerating—squawking like crazy—but Urokodaki called for you. It's a troubling sign for an old hermit to request the arrival of a newcomer. The soft steps began to fade away; the hero's duty was done, and it was time for him to return ho—

"Wait!" You called out, "I'm looking for someone. Do you happen to know of a man named Urokodaki?"

The hero stops. The cold wind blows once more. The trees hiss as if your words were taboo. Even the hero's shaggy hair seemed to shake with animosity like a rattlesnake. You wanted to apologize for your insolent question, swallowing hard to break the silence.

"What business do you have with him?" They asked; the muffled tone of the mask made it sound cold. 

"A crow told me to come. I don't know exactly the situation, but it sounds critical." Tell the truth. Even if it sounds vague and unbelievable, tell the truth. 

The wind howls again. The silence thickened by the second. The temperature dropped, plunging you into an ice bath.  

"Where did you come from?"

"Off the coast of Russia. Vladivostok. I came by boat."

The hero turned around; blank white eyes glared daggers at you. A pensive hum reverberated from the mask. "You don't sound Russian."

"It was the shortest route to Japan."

You could tell the hero was eyeing your outfit: black trousers, a white collar shirt peeking out, once-polished dress shoes, and an obnoxious, foreboding black trench coat. A style more common in Western Europe than in East Asia. It felt as if Tommy Shelby was standing before them—if they even knew who that was. One might think they shouldn't be so skeptical; after all, Japan is full of tourists, especially from the West. Then again, undisclosed foreigners often bring about "coincidental" terrorist attacks. Ironically, they all wore black. "I'm Hellenic if you're wondering."

The hero stared at you for a few seconds before turning their back to you. They still don't believe you. Understandable. "Please, you could give me simple directions, and I'll be out of your hair," you pleaded one last time. It's fine if he didn't; Urokodaki is a private man anyway. And your sense of direction wasn't too bad. But you were banking on it this time, mentally crossing your fingers.

"Fine." Short, stiff, and relieving. Thank the Great Being above. You really thought they wouldn't accept it, leaving you to your own devices. The hero began to walk. "Stay close," they said. You caught up to their pace, eager to follow your fellow arcanist through the night. You gazed at them, analyzing their form. Surprisingly, they're about the same height as you. Lean and well-built, their clothes merely masked their body shape as their chiffons billowed with each step. Their hair appeared dense and thick, slightly frizzy from the wind. You could hear the gourd bottle sloshing up and down at their side. And yet, their walking pattern is steady and direct. Level-headed and frank. The final slice they made to defeat that beast must have been clean—no hesitation, nor any jagged edges—a precise cut straight through the trachea. Watching them walk, each step followed an obvious route the masses would take. A path paved cleanly and simply, like a river flowing directly, yet patiently, to the sea. You can't help but observe their poised stride, sneaking a few glances while you walk. You wondered what they looked like beneath the mask. Masculine? Feminine? Their gender seemed highly androgynous to you; their voice was deep and rich, yet their lithe form and ponytail suggested other details. 

"Is there something wrong?" You flinched. Not even a subtle twist of their head, they queried your erratic behavior. "You seem antsy."

"No, I'm alright, sorry." You scratched behind your ear. Your eyes try to find some stimulation through the grove. Trees, trees, crows, trees, the dark night, trees; nothing took particular interest in you. You bit your inner cheek and fiddled with your coat pocket.

"You defeated the beast with such grace. I'm impressed." You said, trying to engage in a conversation; a makeshift stimulus. 

"Thank you." They said. 

"When you healed my wounds, was that your arcane skill back there?"

"Yes." A hand stopped the bottle's plashing. "The gourd is filled with water from a nearby lake. My mahōu allows me to control water from any given source." 

Mahō. Their arcane skills. Many countries call it different names: Ésotérique in France, Zauberei in Germany, Brujería in Spain, and many others. Yet, no matter the language, they all mean the same thing: Arcanum---the essence. As the earth flows with the energy of the supernatural, the birth of a race bloomed from the soil and the seafloor. Their arcane flowed through their veins like blood, coursing through their bodies, pulsing through their souls like solar flares. You could sense it. Mermaids, harpies, witches, demigods. Eldritch horrors and children's fables. Creatures writers from the past create to elucidate allegories and messages to their youngins and future children. That little town in Vladivostok: Auntie Beck, Uncle Rosco, Gigi and Mimi, the dozen other citizens going on with their lives with no media sources reflecting the entirety of Russia. They'll never believe your powers. They'll never believe in the mystic and the magical. Great story, kid, you should tell them to your youngins sometime. When are you getting hitched anyway? Some grandkids would be nice; I haven't seen them in so long. And they'll take a swig from their cups, looking into the night sky. You'd just shake your head and snort. The summer breeze clears those fallacies into the dark.  

Walking along the barren path, you bit your cheek again, cringing at the awkward silence. In your peripheral, the hero looked straight ahead. You were never great with small talk; your education from the island made you prone to eschew nonchalant conversations. And yet you knew not everyone knows—or wants—to listen to the works of metaphysics. You watched the soft grass crunching against your feet. Perhaps for tonight, you'll make do with the silence.

"You said a crow told you to come here, right?" Said the hero.

"That's right."

They swiveled their head. "Have you met him before?"

"Urokodaki?" The hero nods in response. "It was a while ago." 

"How did you meet?" 

"Well-" You strained a hum. Saying that you probably fell from the sky wasn't exactly a viable truth, even though you live in a world where the fantastic can exist. But still, you vowed to tell the truth, no matter how extreme it may sound. They'll understand? "I don't exactly know. All I remember is lying in his house covered in bandages and balm."

"Were you injured?"

"Brutally. I must've..." You bit your lip. "Fell...?"  Even just saying that made you a skeptic, raising a brow at the difficult, bizarre predicament. The hero only hummed, facing forward again. The silence returned; a moment to process the information acquired. In the meantime, you start to see the horizon. The deep purple night slowly bleeds its ichor across the skyline, leaving orange stretch marks along the clouds. You breathe deeply, smiling as you drink up the dawn and dew of the forest. The subtle warmth of the light slowly heated your rain-soaked clothes. You met countless dawns in the past, but this one felt different. Maybe the relief of seeing daybreak after the dark healed your worry, or perhaps the natural beauty of Japan itself illustrated another beautiful painting. 

"This path will take you to his estate." The hero gestured to the dirt road ahead. Paved cleanly and simply; even the traces of the crater you created from your flight were gone, as if it was nothing but a dream.  "When you get there, state that "Tomioka" had guided you here." 

Tomioka. A name to the masked face. The hero's mononym was branded into your mind. Such a gentleman, a chevalier with a mysterious past. A cliché trope written in one too many novels and screenplays.

"Thank you so much for---" Your eyes met nothing but the whistling forest. There were no shadows, not even a sound of footsteps, like a mirage or a ghost of the past. The sudden disappearance bewildered you. Of course he was real, you thought. Your cuts wouldn't start to heal as fast as they would before. The slice on your cheek had vanished, yet the thin layer formed droplets on your fingers. It wasn't a dream (Y/N), it wasn't a dream. 

The road ahead practically gleamed in the morning light, illuminating the path to the hermit's home. Somnolence began to seep into your eyes and muscles as Morpheus's sweet whispers echoed in your ears. The two-hour nap on the ferry had left you exhausted from the fight in the bramble, and you were running on fumes from last night's meal. The light of dawn started to hurt your eyes. Your hand acted as a visor as you walked. Soon, the aches from the fight began to pulse again; a bitter aftertaste of the battle you endured. "Shit," you cursed, just hold on a little longer. At least until you reach his estate.

The native mountain birds chirped with the delight of morning. The sun pierced through the canopy of the grove, creating floating patches of warm light. A new day had finally started, and the old man was already out of firewood and herbs. Sakonji Urokodaki, the retired Water Hashira, the hermit on the hill, the human who's experienced the churning waves of change among arcanists and humans alike. It felt as if he were on a boat in the middle of the vast ocean. From training young children from the nearby riverbed to nursing lost souls of the forest back to health, Urokodaki had truly done it all, even after his retirement. "Had I lived a good life?" was what his mind would wash up on the shoreline. He thought back on what he had done: those demons he faced in his youth, the kids from the riverbed who would bring back baskets of bass, and the arcanists collapsing on the dirt path he walked. 

Oh.

What a coincidence.

Another soul of the past had visited him yet again. 

Chapter Text

A searing pain, a rush of blood, and an aching back; the consequences of a good sleep. Your mind starts to boot up as the heat of a fire warms your exposed skin. You suck a breath, groaning at the invisible beatings brought upon your back and your eye. As if you swallowed thorns and tree bark, your throat ached with each gulp of saliva. The scent of cooked meat and grilled vegetables seduces your nose and stomach; you can feel the hollowness of your abdomen as the rapturous beast inside echos moans of hunger. The quilt covering your form slips off, revealing your rumpled dress shirt exposing your chest. Raw leather walked along the wooden floors, stopping at your weak form before kneeling to hand you a tray: beef and vegetables with rice on the bottom and a cup of tea on the side. A pair of chopsticks wrapped with blue tape alongside a fork and spoon. Your mouth was salivating at the sight. You could smell the vital herbs in the tea and bowl. You looked at your chef like a tragic soul saved by God. The masked hermit stays a few feet away from you; merely observing you like a wild critter. 

"Eat," Urokodaki commanded. You immediately obeyed, devouring the food before you. The bowl was delicious; the meal was cooked to perfection without a single piece of fat to spit out and discard. The vegetables were even better; crunchy and refreshing, they complemented the rice at the bottom, soaked with the juices of the meat and veggies. Once you finished, you drained every last drop of tea from the cup. Your throat felt rejuvenated, like rain after an endless drought. 

"T-Thank you..." You panted. 

"To return in such a state, how far have you traveled?" Urokodaki asked.

"I came by ferry off the coast of Russia." The pain in your eye has died down into smoldering embers, yet the pain in your back still burns. And sitting up didn't help with the ache. "Someone named "Tomioka" helped me get through the woods." You remembered. A pregnant pause filled the room. The hermit took in your sentence. 

"Tomioka?" He muttered.

"Oh, do you know them?" You tilted your head.

"We are well-acquainted." He answered though you could hear a sense of uneasiness in his response. You vowed you wouldn't pry anymore than needed. Sunlight warmed your cheek as the star peeks over the house's windows. A clear blue sky paints the new day's morning. You couldn't help but gaze upon the blue. 

"You summoned me for an emergency, right?" you asked, remembering the urgency of the crow's squawking. Yet, the hermit seemed fine. He was able to hold his own despite his age. But if it wasn't a medical issue, what could be the reason for the compulsory summoning? Hearing the rustle of cotton and the sound of leather made you watch the old hermit walk away. You leaned forward, but your back inhibited you. A hiss escaped through your gritted teeth. Did you sleep awkwardly, or did you fall wrong? The pain kept you from answering. Your body yearned to lie down and rest, but courtesy took over as your eyes fell upon the dirty dishes, and you started to clean up your mess. Bits of rice and meat slipped out of the bowl, so you placed them back in. Standing up felt like holding the earth in your hands. Your knees buckled under the nonexistent but heavy weight, crumpling to the ground while trying not to break the china. You could feel tingling pins and needles in your legs. When Urokodaki returned, he took the tray from your hands. 

"There's no need to be courteous. You need rest. I can handle the chores for now." The hermit's reassurance made you bite your cheek. A childlike moment of embarrassment flushed your face. You muttered a thank you too quietly for the man to hear. A set of books and scrolls was placed in front of you. The books were somewhat thin with solid-colored covers, while the scrolls were neatly rolled up with chiseled caps. You took one of the books—a green one with a soft cover and Japanese lettering. You flipped to a page; the paper was filled with more Japanese writing in a small font. The words were so neat and detailed, yet you couldn't even begin to tell where a sentence started or ended. Not to mention the context.

"After your departure, I visited an archive to collect a few texts. The archivist was courteous enough to lend me some scrolls and translate them for you." Urokodaki hands over another book—a beige one this time. The first page you flip through is written in English with a Western format. It’s flawless, from the grammar to the punctuation. As you skim through the text, you discover notes about a past era; a facsimile of feudal Japan, but with less anarchy. Arcanum appears several times in the book; Mahō flowed through the fertile lands of Japan as many arcanists were born during that period. Numerous historians assert and publish that Japan had one of the highest concentrations of arcanum in the feudal eras. A specific group of arcanists known as Onmyoji—mediums and diviners—sought to heal people and protect their homes by warding off demons and ghosts. Powerful Onmyoji were employed to intimidate the shogun’s rivals, clans, and the palace; if an enemy knew an Onmyoji was present on the grounds, they would steer clear, aware that the place was strongly protected. However, during the reign of Emperor Meiji, he implemented a ban on these practices across the board. The political standing of Onmyoji declined, leading to the elimination of many careers and the cessation of generational practices among several high-ranking families. Onmyoji were compelled to go into hiding or change their paths, resulting in a shortage of arcanists.

"An old Onmyoji wrote this scroll recounting a diviner he encountered while defeating a demon." Coarse paper spread across the wooden floor. A tale unfolded as you watched the silhouettes of men battling monstrous creatures—text and dialogue inscribed in hieroglyphic ciphers embellishing the paper scene. Your gaze fixed on the dark shadow of a ronin outlined in golds and midnight blues with a symbol inscribed to his right. "時間" The shadow puppets stood alone and forlorn in the first half, then later depicted defeating a dragon. The artist portrayed the dragon's putrid skin flaking off its decaying body, while the ronin was contrasted with streaks of lightning and golden flames.

"A storm of lightning cracked the skyline and shattered the earth. He swept the land, turning it into gold. The air dropped. I couldn't breathe. My body shook with the earth, yet stood frozen. The sky erupted into flames. The holy light of Buddha; it blinded my eyes. He pierced through the demon and open the skyline. With open eyes, a new dawn bloomed from the earth."

The translation was filled with grammar mistakes. Enough to make an editor groan in aggravation. And yet through the broken English, the tale expresses the narrator's feeling beautiful; in such a raw way too. Your fingers glide through the coarse paper dried with watercolors. You could smell the wet grass of a rain-soaked night. The winds howling through your ears as the storm rises in intensity. The arteries pump your rich blood. Nerves spark and jolt with adrenaline. The air crackles. The sky roars. The beast brews the storm above. A dragon. More specifically...

The corpse of Matariel, the angel of rain. 

A sickening beast. A twisted amalgamation. A tortured soul.

This is why the dead should be at peace with itself.

The rain pours heavier, making it difficult to open your eyes. The thick drops of water and the overpowering scent of petrichor warp your senses. You lift your head as if anticipating a new dawn, but the dragon's shadow looms through the dark storm clouds. A haze blurs the surrounding forest, yet you can see the flaking flesh of the resurrected angel. His body was long and serpentine, able to weave through the clouds during the dark storm. Whiskers and fur swirled and dissolved into vapor, his scales crumbling into ash. One might mistake the zombified angel for an undead Kuraokami, yet somehow, you knew this wasn't the legendary dragon. Your eyes lock; his gaze reveals nothing but voids. He remained still, patient, politely inviting you to act first. Like the rain, Matariel was calm. He never desired harm or war; he, like his fellow seraphim, was merely an idea and a concept. Nothing like the Watchers, with their hysteria and anthropomorphous behavior. Such a shame for Matariel to be killed so swiftly by Samyaza's blade, tricked and severed like a fool. And now his body served as a vessel for a necromancer's wicked deeds. Needless to say, you draw your blade, promising the angel a quick and painless death and a pledge for peace.

The air crackled with sparks.

The earth cracked.

The rain stopped.

The storm stirred.

And then, in a flash, you were back at home. The hairs on your arms raise in electrifying adrenaline as your hands shake. The old hermit's hand cradles yours, insulating the electricity sparking through your nerves. You could feel the labor and passion between the palm creases extinguish with age. Your breath steadied, taking one final deep breath to slow your heart. 

Urokodaki put a hand over your forehead. "You're burning up."

"I'm sorry." You apologized as if you disrupted the code of conduct of his home.

"What happened?"

"I just...envisioned the scroll. I was in the body of the samurai...and I saw the dragon."

"Your mahōu?" You nodded. Hesitantly. "This is exactly why I summoned you here today. These records all mentioned a seer or a diviner appearing out of nowhere. Some say they come from the earth, others from the sea, or, in this case, from the sky." Urokodaki took another booklet---a blue cover detailed with soft, fluffy clouds similar to his cloak, or kimono as the people call it.

"I too have experienced this miracle. In the darkest time, at my lowest, when death loomed over my battered form, the sky shattered into crystals." He flipped through the journal. "A new realm emerged from the cracks. There were sparks of lightning and blazes of golden fire. And from it, a star fell from the heavens." He handed you the journal. The page featured an illustration inspired by the story. Fractures sprouted from the water-colored clouds like newborn roots. A shimmering oil paint bathed the fallen figure in gold. 

"There was a bright flash before they came to my aid. These were the words they spoke."

"This fight will not cease. Your life will. Once your role is fulfilled, your children shall bear your name. Guide them. Soon, I'll return to you."

Truly a miracle indeed. Your fingers brushed over the page, and the glitter stuck to your fingertips, turning them to gold. "To this day, I've heeded their words. Their prophecy became a reality for me. During my retirement, I've trained many children, both human and majutsushi, in combat, discipline, swordsmanship, and virtuous patience, helping them resolve their problems and prepare against the world. One of them happens to be your guide, ‘Tomioka.’"
Thinking back to how the hero holds his own against the scorpion man, you smiled. "You must be a great teacher." A well-spoken compliment for a man who deserves it. However, the old hermit lowered his head. The silence was loud; he contemplated your comment. He muttered something your ears couldn't hear.  

"Forgive me for being brazen. I shouldn't have overwhelmed you with my delusions." 

"There's no need to apologize, Mr. Urokodaki." You handed him the journal. "I'm glad to listen to your tales. It" 

The masked man stared into your eyes. Even through the Tengu mask, you could feel the surprise in his eyes. "Tale?"

"Isn't that what you recited?" you asked. He shook his head before gathering the scrolls and books. He wanted to say something, but your question seemed to silence him. You bit your cheek again, this time out of discomfort. Your curious mind got the better of you once more; why do you always ask questions? When would you learn to shut up and consider your peers? You watched Urokodaki place the records back in the box they were transported in. 

"I'll go run you a bath. If you're not in pain afterward, you'll help me find some herbs forest." You nodded and the silence returned. Once more, you look through the sliver of light pouring from the window.

You could still feel the electricity running through your hands. You watch your hands shake slightly. You could feel your heart beat faster than average. The scroll. The forest. The angel. The dragon. The storm. The rain. The droplets.

How? How do you know?

The cicadas' buzz and the native birds' chirps echo through the house. 

A refreshing morning transitioned into a beautiful afternoon. The aches in your back were washed away by the warm bath. You wore an old yukata, a casual robe popular in Japan. It featured patterns of waves crashing through the deep blue cotton it was made from. It was as if the seamstress had hemmed The Great Wave onto the robe. The heat of the summer sun battled against the cool winds of the forest that flowed through the seams. You could smell the fresh soil and the morning dew. The trees sheltered you from the sun, casting shadowy puppets of the playful leaves rustling with joy. As your eyes wandered, you spotted a passerine hidden deep in the canopy. It hopped briefly, gazing into the distant shade, probably contemplating its next destination. Or food. Or perhaps a mate? The old man's footsteps were starting to fade. You hurried through the grove, trying to catch up with him. One woven basket held Bishop's Weed while the other contained Lorelise. Urokodaki---covered in that same wrapped hood despite the sun---carried a rucksack on his shoulders and a hunting knife in hand. On your first visit, you hadn't realize it, but the hermit collects far more herbs and meat than he needs for himself. He hasn't housed a lost soul in quite some time. Besides you, but even so, the extra food would go to waste. 

"This forest is incredibly rich with medicinal herbs: Henbane, Lorelise, Jenni Nettle." Your eyes gleamed as you hop over a tree root. "Might I ask, do you partake in potion-making Mr. Urokodaki?"

He doesn't respond; a net swung erratically from a low-hanging tree branch. The hare squirmed around in fright. Urokodaki walked toward the net calmly. The dagger shined with the sunlight before dimming sinisterly in the shade. Several chops cut the rope off the tree; the rabbit halted its wriggling as if the net was a blanket and the old man was its savior. A firm but squelching sound whispered through the trees. Bubbles of blood pooled from the rabbit's neck. The cut went deep; a fatal slice to stop its breath.  The rabbit's beady eyes were still and wide, yet its nose didn't twitch in expression. It lay in his arms like a sleeping child. There was something so...euphoric about it. From where you stood---afar behind a tree where the same passerine flew into---it looked as if the hermit gave euthanasia to the innocent creature. A spirit bringing the soul to Elysium. Urokodaki tied the rabbit to the tree again with the remaining rope from the trap. From his satchel, he pulled out a shallow cup and placed it underneath the dead rodent. The blood drips from the neck, over its black eyes, and into the cup.

Rabbit blood. Commonly used for rituals, especially for sacrifices. However, rabbit blood is proven to benefit those with iron deficiency anemia when combined with leafy greens and lentils for soup. The iron provides your blood just enough to suffice your body to prevent hemoglobin. You nod your head in approval, observing the dripping corpse of the rabbit. Urokodaki wipes his hunting knife clean from the blood. 

"A few passersby taught me some basic witchcraft a while back. One even provided me with a book full of medical practices and recipes." The hermit stated as he sharpened his dagger with a whetstone from his bag, "Non-magical rituals of course." The prowess of this man was truly remarkable and unmatched. Most humans can't even perform a religious seance properly; not to mention having any knowledge of fantastic flora and fauna. The ascetic now had the equivalent knowledge of an alchemist; he would make a great warlock if not for his lineage. 

"How much did you find?"

"Only a bundle." You shuffled through your basket to count through the weeds. You could smell the earthiness through the leaves; their little teeth prickled your fingers. Bishop's Weed's teeth collect droplets of water whether from the morning dew or the nightly mist to help it. A few apothecaries wrote about how they could gather arcanum from the air and when eaten, could replenish an arcanist's energy. Not to mention they're healthier than picrasma candy. 

"We'll head further into the mountain." The old hermit cuts the dead rabbit loose. The excess blood dried into the fur leaving a congealed, crust on the corpse. Its beady eyes were glazed with red. The little cup was filled halfway and sealed with a tin lid. Urokodaki sheathes his hunting dagger while the two of you start heading into the woods. 

The sun slowly burned the skyline into a fiery orange. The cicadas ceased their mating calls, perhaps finally finding their eternal lovers. Even the trees silenced their rustles. A stray stab of wood and a carving knife occupied both of your hands. You sat on the porch, concentrating on your little sculpture. You never whittled before; Uncle Rosco only just taught you how to carve. All you could create was a corroded ladybug with a missing antenna. You planned to improve when you had the chance, so when you spotted the stray piece of wood you immediately got to work. 

How long has this old man lived on the mountain? To eschew Japan's rich civilization and advanced technology for so long? You've seen the many snippets and screenshots of robots serving customers, fans glowing with bioluminescence, modified chariots, and the latest fashion designs: fabric imbued with will-o'-the-wisps, faux Sasquatch fur coats, and obnoxiously large hair bows. He doesn't have any piece of technology or media. He's off the grid and hidden deep within the woods like an old hag. How does he know what's happening outside? If the world were ending, would he know? Or would he sense the coming apocalypse before its hellfire rains down upon the earth? 

The crude brown bear sculpture lay on the floor. Your hand sweeps across the dry, smooth surface of the wood, coarse and chipped, wearing with age. Yet, the craftsmanship is exquisite; feudal houses like this always looked elegant while being resourceful for their inhabitants. This place was built from the ground up, perhaps by his hands or as a gift from his comrades. He seemed to have a few good relationships with them. The blue book you read was his journal from his early years. He spoke about forlorn Ronins, ill-tempered Shoguns, prosperous lands guarded by an emperor's men, infinite acres of rice fields, blossoming sakura trees, and lavish parades—things only described in feudal Japan. However, he mostly talked about demons. Even the scrolls—scriptures dating back to the 1500s—describe arcanists and humans battling these damned souls. Dragons, succubi, sirens, tengus, ghosts, werewolves, cryptids; corrupted monsters roam the land and terrorize the innocent, not far from their biblical description. Lucifer's little lackeys grovel at his clawed feet, worshipping their rightful king. Yet not one mentioned line of text spoke of Christ. Then again, it is a Western religion. Hundreds of years of demons infesting the lands of Japan even to this day. And Urokodaki was a part of them. This makes you wonder, how old is the hermit? You're familiar with East Asia's high life expectancy; the average is 84 years right now, yet the tales of men and women thriving in fulfilled lives, reaching triple digits with cheeky smiles on their faces as if they had found the secret to immortality abound. You doubt the hermit surpassed 99 years. Without a good look at his face, you couldn't make an accurate estimation. 

You scratch your head, feeling the textured gauze attached to your head. Since the pain was gone, you unraveled the bandage. Only a speck of blood stained the white. You sifted through your hair. Your fingers traced a gritty slit and continued to follow it. The cut was small, barely visible between your hairs. You took a look at your hand again. The epidermis grew over the divots in your palm. The dewy layer vanished. 

Tomioka. The masked hero. An apprentice of Urokodaki. Swift, smooth, like water, he's fluid. He vanishes like vapor. What was he doing in the forest at night? If wasn't going to visit his master, then where else would he go?

"(Y/N)." You perked up. The old hermit stands at the entrance of the hut. A sheath was in his hand. You placed the knife down on your side before hopping off the elevated porch. "Now that you've recovered, I've decided to train as my own."

"What?" Your eyes widen. 

"I'm going to test you to see if you're fit to become a member of the Demon Slayer Corps."

Sudden and abrupt, the request shell-shocked you. An entire corporation... whose purpose is to slay demons? The thought itself isn't too outlandish; someone needs to keep monsters like that Aqrabuamelu at bay. But an enterprise? You were imagining more of a militia than a business. It almost sounds like a scam, a pyramid scheme. 

"The Demon Slayer Corps has around several hundred members. It's an organization unrecognized by the government, yet it has existed since ancient times and continues to hunt demons today. As for the one leading the Demon Slayer Crops, however, that remains a mystery.

 Demons. They mercilessly kill and feed on humans and their flesh. No one has a clue where or when they first appeared. Their physical prowess is remarkable. Wounds heal in the blink of an eye. Flesh is restored no matter what damage comes to it and limbs that are hacked off can easily regenerate. Some demons can shapeshift, others have otherwordly powers. The only ways to kill these heinous creatures are via sunlight or decapitation with special swords.

The Demon Slayers battle demons with their mortal bodies. Since most of their members are majutsushi, their wounds are slow to heal, and once lost, their limbs never grow back! Even so, they continue to selflessly fight to protect others!"

A swift flash shines into your eyes. The summer sunset reflected off a brandished blade. It was longer than a hunting dagger but shorter than a greatsword. A katana, well-polished and sharpened, perfect for a swordsman.

"And I shall guide you down this path amongst the soldiers who stood before me and those who succeeded beyond." 

So...the scrolls, Urokodaki's journal, his mentees, even Tomioka, they all followed the same path for the sake of everyone: To kill demons. You've heard of many similar organizations; every country has one, officialized by the government or not. Some are cults, others are societies, and some are even whole civilizations hidden away like Atlantis. Back then, the life of an arcanist came with distraught infused into their blood. Humans berate them. Called them witches, monsters, demons.

And with hatred came bloodshed. And with bloodshed came unity. 

When arcanists were prejudiced, peaceful protests and communities banded together to advocate for equality. They wanted peace and freedom from their heritage and the legends.

For passion comes bloodshed. And with bloodshed comes unity.

You know many organizations, and you even know some members. They all ask you to join them, but you always decline. What good is an arcane skill that allows you to envision any piece of text vividly?  Besides, you're too inquisitive for your own good and indecisive when it comes to big decisions. You're useless in comparison to them. At least, you thought you were.

"To join the Demon Slayer Corps, you must survive the Final Selection process held on Mt. Fujikasane. Whether or not you are eligible for Final Selection is up to me." Urokodaki sheaths the sword back in before heading forward. "Come. We're climbing up the mountain." 

Seems like you had no other choice.

This part of the mountain was steep. The thicket was thicker and overgrown with roots. All the passerines had fled their perches. The wind howls. The trees grumble with monstrous thunder. The air grows thin. Your legs were burning, kicking up the soil and hopping over the roots. The swift shadow of the retired man blurred through the bramble like a wraith. Where were you going? Is this the test? How far are you from the hut? You both phase through the darkness, running through the night like hungry wolves hunting for a meal. You would sweat, but the growing cold turned each bullet into grease. Your lungs are deprived of breath each leap and bound; a gasp only suffices small portions. Yet you kept up with the hermit. 

Soon, Urokodaki stops in a miniature clearing. You slowed your stride to avoid bumping him. 

"Now, from here, go back down to the house at the foot of the mountain." He instructed. "This time, I won't wait until daybreak." As if he summoned it, a fog rolls in, clothing him in mist before vanishing.

And so the test begins. You observed your surroundings; for someone with a keen memory, you memorized the route you took, no matter how sporadic Urokodaki's movement was. Daybreak huh? The night was still young, even if there were no stars. You began to run through the grove. While to the average eye, all the trees look the same, you know the key difference within each one. From the smallest nicks in the bark to the tangling roots of another. You were making great progress down the mountain. 

Only for your foot to catch something. 

A barrage of rocks bombarded you. They pelt your face like bullets. Your searing headache has returned slowly. You could feel a bruise blooming on your temple. The ambush made you lose your footing, causing you to tumble down sharp rocks and twigs. You could feel your blood trickle down yet again. Your eyes open to the Moon. A grin arched with sadistic mirth illuminates your fallen form. It chides you silently whilst giggling like a child. Traps planted to train your reflexes and adaptability as well as your sense of direction. The irony of the same man who healed you set up to harm you sank in. How humorous indeed. As you get up, your foot steps on another rope. Your eyes widen; the rush of wind coming towards you frightens you to dodge out of the way. A large log swings through the trees like a battering ram. You grip your chest, gasping for air like a drowning man. The trial will be over at dawn, yet you wonder if you'll survive to see the sunrise. You rose again, catching puffs of breath.

You were off the path. And now the trees transmuted into clones. The right. The left. Your peripheral. The grove was enclosing you like a cage. It made you claustrophobic. The path was gone, leaving you to your horrible sense of direction to guide.

"Dammit!" You cursed. You started your run. Blindly, you formed your own path through the grove. Each step was calculated and punctuated to the T. Your landings were precise, your sprint was swift, and your mind was clear from the fogs of panic. And yet, you felt another wire being tugged. A log came rushing in, but before it could hit you, you slid along the grass, dirting the gorgeous yukata. Its waters were now stained with mud and soil, polluting the waves. Another log came bashing in, yet you hurdled over it. A tumble into the dry earth cushioned your fall before lifting yourself upright. The run didn't stop though. You kept the pace. The tempo. The rhythmic run down in the hall of the mountain. Soon, you could see the threads of the insidious traps; your calculations became faster and more precise. And yet, a few traps were triggered from a few errors. Rock bombardments, flogging logs, the occasional pit trap you almost fell into. But you still kept the rhythm of the night. Like a wolf, you sense your target, your prey, and you're clawing through the bramble to feed your starving heart. The instincts of the hunt. The electricity sparks inside of you. The night was young and prideful and it showered you in grit. 

You had an idea; using a log as a pendulum to swing yourself over the canopies to capture an overview. You soared through the sky; the air escaped your chest like fumes as the adrenaline rushed through your veins. The moon illuminated your figure; an owl hunting for unsuspected shrews in between the cracks of the grove. As you make your descent, you perch on a branch before leaping down to the forest floor. A snap echoes through your hollow ears. A hidden stick of bamboo shoots up, catching your stomach like a bear trap. It swung you high, then started to descend. The sedimentary shrapnel glinted with devilish glee; a sharp rock patiently waiting to puncture your head. The adrenaline rush kicked in. Your nerve endings sparked like exposed wires. Your head felt light, yet you could sense every tendon of your body.

The flash.

The lightning.

The instinct.

The brink of death. 

The sound of a crackling fire. The wood pops inside the small home. Urokodaki stokes the fire, agitating the embers to burn brighter. A sigh emits from him; the mask makes it sound like a low goblin murmur. This is the oldest person he has trained during his life. Someone who seemed familiar, yet different. Distant. Separate. Alien. A vessel painted with the same face as the past. Never before had he experienced a strange sense of curiosity. It felt childlike, like a little boy finding a stray fox in the woods. Such immature advances: To think they were them. The oracle of the past. The fallen star. He shook his head; lightning and golden flares falling from the heavens, what a childish story to tell to an innocent amnesiac. He held up his journal, gazing upon the faded blue cover. His name is written in elegant kanji on the front. 

Sakonji Urokodaki. A name belonging to an old legend. Now, he was merely a hermit hidden in the isolated terrain of the mountains.

Boom!!!

A blow crashed from outside. The masked man merely faced the closed door, then proceeded to collect the scriptures he planned to return to the archives. 

Boom!!!

There it was again. The crash disrupted the peace of the night. A storm amid the night was common in the country, night storms were mere obstacles for him. As a Hashira and an anchorite. 

BOOM!!!

A larger crackle burst into the night. A little too close to his home. At that point, Urokodaki peered outside the Shoji doors. There wasn't a single drop of rain falling from the sky. The sky was clear, the moon was bright, the wind was crisp and delicate. There wasn't a storm in sight.

And then, it happened.

BOOM!!! BOOM!!! BOOM!!!

Lightning. Sparks---no--bolts of lightning. They crackled and jolted in the trees. Leaves rustled like tymbals from a hoard of cicadas. A few even scattered in the wind. Strings of blue and gold appear and disappear in a blink of an eye. An electric field brewed inside the forest; the storm grew louder with each bang, closer with each bolt. The threads of gold, just like the tales, just like his journal. The star that has fallen from the night sky. The star that ripped a hole into the moon. The oracle of the past. He gripped the door tightly, out of excitement.

A shadow emerges from the endless darkness. A form sprinting their final steps to the end. Blood teared from their head, their clothes mildly soiled. Gasps slowed into deep breaths as they hobbled over towards him. 

"I've returned from the mountain. I've completed the trial." They spoke. Urokodaki just stared at them. His expression was concealed by a mask. It wasn't even close to daybreak. None of his students ever returned in a short amount of time. The earliest was a few hours before daybreak. 

"Have I proven myself Mr. Urokodaki?" They asked. 

"This is only the beginning." He spoke. "However, you have proven yourself to become my student." The hermit turned back inside. "Get inside, you'll need to wash up and rest for tomorrow's training."

The new student hobbled into the warm house smiling contently at his hosting. Dry, blistered feet walked along the flooring towards the bath. Urokodaki merely watched them pass by. 

"Giyu...do you even know who you have brought here today?"

Chapter Text

It was official: last night's sleep was the best one you ever had—better than the nap on the ferry. With no dreams and no aches or pains, you felt refreshed and energized when you woke up. Today marks the second day of training for Final Selection and becoming an official Demon Slayer. Just the thought of it makes you excited; this will be the first arcanist-focused association you'll ever join. Back on your island, the idea of societal groups was a controversial topic. Very few inhabitants knew about these foreign masses of arcanists cooperating with humans and their leaders for freedom and unbiased respect for the people. However, others argue that arrangements from those high-ranking committees do nothing but promise these changes for the people, only to forget about them later. This is often justified by a “sudden problem that occurred elsewhere and is in desperate need of a change first." The optimists—the hopeful—claim to believe these groups have created leniency through laws, negotiations, and social proposals to provide arcanists with the cultural freedom they've strived for since the Age of Enlightenment. According to the latest statistical reports, Schengen countries like France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, and Greece have all allowed the usage of rituals for religious purposes, the right to teach basic alchemy and potion-making in human and integrated schools, and even to broadcast the Uluru Games. East Asian countries such as South Korea, Vietnam, and Japan prosecute or even arrest diviners for unlicensed fortune-telling and coven gatherings. A few countries even restrict sleeping and waking hours, as their governments believe no one should stay awake past midnight, knowing arcanists channel the moon's energy. In the end, these conflicts stem more from history and religion—two main motives that fuel radical, anarchistic thinking in the outside world. The conversion was never brought up again. 

While your deep thoughts took a long time, your bath was relatively short; you didn't want to keep your new mentor waiting. A new yukata was wrapped around your body. This one has thin white stripes running from the bottom to your shoulders, with a tan belt securing it in place. It was much more flowing and looser than the blue one, making it easier for you to move around. Once you stepped out of the washroom, Urokodaki had already prepared breakfast. A tray lay on the floor while the old hermit polished the blade in his hands—the same blade he had brandished at you yesterday. 

"Good Morning, Mr Urokodaki." You politely greeted him as you kneeled in front of the tray. Steamed rice with grilled fish and miso soup with tofu floating like boats; today's breakfast was packed with protein, perfect for training underneath the summer sun. There wasn't any scent of medicinal herbs, nor the rabbit's blood he collected. Still, the food smelled wonderful.

"Good Morning (L/N)," Urokodaki greeted. Today, we'll work on swordsmanship, Kendo, Iaido, and Kenjutsu, as well as Close-Quarter Combat training." He set the cloth down and the polished blade back into the ornate sheath. You watch as it slides into place with ease, and the rich blue shines with the daylight. Little specks glitter like stars in the night sky. 

"Hurry up and finish, you need all the daylight you can get." The old hermit chided before leaving you to your meal. The blade left behind lay supine in your sight. You palm the cold casing of the sword, gliding over the outer shell until reaching the textured black laces tied at the handle. A repulsive, yet attractive force orbited your palm like a magnetic field. The sword was imbued with heavy amounts of Arcanum, all leeching and pulsing with energy through your fingers. As the sliding doors open, the great morning sun pours its golden light over the flora, casting it in a gilded coat. Such a beautiful sight to drink up, but your mentor wasn't asking, he commanded you to finish.

"Swords break easily. If you ever damage the blade or break it, I'll snap your bones as well, " the old hermit threatened. You flinched in fear; by the Great Being above, please don't let that happen.

"With that said, you'll be using these." He throws a stick towards you. Upon further inspection, you realized it was a sword made of wood. Only the handle was made of metal while the rest was glossed, umber wood with a weaved grip at the bottom. You twirled the sword for a bit while Urokodaki spoke again.

"Your opponent will use any tactic to gain the upper hand. You must take it before they could get the chance." He steps back before facing you again. "One touch and we'll move on."

You readied yourself, steadying your breath and tensing your core. The second trial begins as you make the first move, dashing forward to provoke your foe and close the distance. In a flash, Urokodaki vanishes and then reappears behind you. Your instincts urge you to turn around, but the labored hands of the man halt your attack. You're quickly thrown to the ground, tumbling before getting back up. Another slash falls, sweeping left, right, and finally diagonally. Yet none of your attempts manage to touch him. The cool wind runs through your hair as your blade cuts through the air. Each swing slices through the mirages of your mentor; the shadows leave you slightly impaired before you focus on the real Urokodaki. When you stab, he deflects. When you jab, he dodges. When you strike, he throws you into the dirt. The particles of soil rise and choke your lungs. You don't even care if your yukata is getting dirty; this trial will bring you one step closer to Final Selection.

A blade is strong vertically, but weak horizontally. One must apply force directly along the blade to harm an opponent. Your direction and the blade's direction must align perfectly. Otherwise, the blade may shatter upon impact, unleashing the wrath your mentor would invoke. This principle is what all swordsmen, regardless of their country or era, learn from their mentors. Although the sword was crafted from wood, you were determined to strike this man. Your eyes burned with the desire to kill him. Focused, you charged forward and swung your blade when you were close enough, immediately following up with an upward slashing attack after your initial strike missed. Your movements were precise. The aggression at the end of every strike seared the air like black smoke from burning coals. A relaxed aura surrounding him dissipated for a fleeting moment as he shifted to offense. He suddenly lunged forward, and you raised your sword, swinging downward with the intent to land a single strike, but he sidestepped your attack. You tried to closely analyze Urokodaki's next movements, contemplating optimal decisions and potential actions. A deflect? A parry? Another grapple?

It was too late.

A kick sweeps you off your feet. Urokodaki wastes no time in kicking you like a soccer ball, sending you flying into the trees. The heavy thud scared the peaceful birds away as they squawked in distress. You were too focused on your previous attacks. There were no second chances in a real battle; all those times you were thrown to the ground were equivalent to certain death. But in this trial, you were required to get back up and fight. You stood up from your fetal position, ignoring the aches in your calves and back. So long as your sword was still intact, you could still fight.

As you fought, you observed that Urokodaki's movements were pretty lax as he dodged most of your swings by simply moving out of the way of your blade. Just like water, the hermit was fluid. He had been for his entire life. From his journal, you could tell his patience and clear mind have not washed away with age. If you could catch him off guard whilst dodging his attacks the same as he does, you might stand a chance.

You swung once again, this time treating the katana like a falchion. The same moves that worked against the scorpion might just be effective against the old man. The image of a sensei fled your mind; you are but a squire on your path to knighthood. Urokodaki glides fluidly across the dirt; the old hermit didn't miss a beat, yet you could see the new tactics were confusing him. The traditional kendo transformed into medieval swordplay with each jab and slash. An attempted elbow jab gets intercepted by your forearm. A chop is deflected by the sword. A kick is matched by an opposing one. Your sword would swap hands from time to time. Soon, your moves were in sync as you fought against the old man. You matched his speed and agility, becoming a clone of the veteran. A malicious doppelgänger ready to replace him. A squire becoming his master and triumphing over his battle. 

And yet in less than a second, the view of the world was flipped upside down again and spun like a wheel. You couldn't feel the ground anymore, floating momentarily before the revolution stopped and you hit solid ground. You cried in pain, gasping as the air left your lungs. 

 "Again!" Mr. Urokodaki demanded. You groaned softly, peeling yourself off the ground. Your sweat clung to your robe; bits of dirt stuck to your face. You thought you had him, you matched his speed and calculated his movements. Even a sliver of an opening would've sealed your victory. You glanced at the bruises on your bare arms; the outcome of battling a former samurai. But even those contusions are nothing compared to your scraped palms. The clamminess soaked the sword's base, darkening the wood, almost softening it. Gripping the sword made your hands burn red. You flicked your wrist to cool down the stinging heat and relaxed your wrists. 

"And this time, wield the sword properly! It's a weapon, not a plaything."

One thousand swings. One thousand hits. One thousand cracks in the dead of night. The poor wooden dummy chipped with each hit. The arms were slowly breaking off the eroding torso and the blank face formed divots resembling invisible ears and hollow eye sockets. Soon, a lopsided mouth would be whittled into the wood, screaming in pain of the incessant beating. Even though they're beginning to numb over, every inch of your arm throbs with each tense of your muscles. You've been clenching your teeth so long that they might shatter like porcelain. Your lips were cracked and flaking like the desert with little pools of blood acting as a water source. Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva; your body was turning to stone. Your bones merged together into the fighting stance. Your breath and the quick thwacks of the sword were the only signs of life.

Automatic, involuntary, emotionless; a cold-blooded killer in the making. 

One thousand swings. One thousand cuts. One thousand brutal deaths.

The sunset illuminated your rigid body, pouring gold around you—a statue of a soldier still fighting within its casing. Your master watches from a distance, silently observing your strokes. He commented about your ample stamina and how you maintain it despite the numerous unsuccessful bouts against him. 0-57; a queen sweep. In your peripheral vision, a still, blurry image of blue and red stands in the corner, slowly creeping toward you like a shadow in technicolor; a bizarre hallucination. As the signs of dehydration fog your vision and shred your throat, you stop swinging, taking one final deep breath as a reward for your endurance. The details of the colored blob are emphasized by the darkening sky as you watch your master approach you.

"You managed to strike the dummy 2,583 times without a single break. I'm impressed." Urokodaki nodded, "But it's enough for Final Selection." He pointed to the foreboding forest, "Go! Descend the mountain!"

An order. A huff. The wooden sword hits the ground. Your footsteps make haste up the mountain. The dummy's frayed body cries in anguish. The master merely hums as he walks off into the woodlands. The sky slowly bruises a rich purple.

You felt lighter. Faster. Stronger. Your feet barely touch the ground, yet craters dug deep into the earth like a meteor shower. The night howled, shrouding the sky in darkness. The wolves were out; the hunt was on. Your insatiable desire growled in hunger as you tore through the earth with your shoes. Your invisible pack, the wild hunt, stormed through the bramble and slashed through the defenses of the grove. Urokodaki set new traps to capture you and your beastly vigor, but you raged through the rapturous thorned nets, the whistling poison darts, and the sculpted Czech hedgehogs. This unknown craving, your lust for true mastery, must have blossomed at the start of your training. Come to think of it, you've never pushed yourself this hard in your life. You defended yourself before: a common pickpocket tried to steal your wallet during your time in New York, a run-in with drug lords in São Paulo, a few crazed witches from a local coven in Liechtenstein, just to name a few. But those were mere scuffles, small disputes where fisticuffs were thrown just to make a quick getaway.

You were never trained for combat; your people were pacifists, eschewing war as the topic aligned with the outside world. A propellant that fuels chaos and bloodshed. How many empires, countries, and civilizations have met their ruin? Their politicians, blinded by conquest, nationalism, and glory, rally their supporters, who believe in them deeply, to worship and slaughter. A herd of sheep following a devil wielding a crooked guiding staff, leading them to rivers of blood and thick winds of cinders as hellfires choke what remains. Conflicts—too similar to children's games—where one wins and one loses for the sake of pocket change or bragging rights. A recurring, tragic pattern you've seen and read about in the media. "Freedom Fighters" liberated arcanists from government oppression by storming capitals in protest. "Terrorists" battle law enforcement as they throw Molotov cocktails and tear gas, symbolizing their ignorance of the world. This mountain, barely touched by mankind, unleashes long-forgotten animal instincts. Logic vaporizes into mist; your teeth grind like knives, and your muscles tighten and spring with each step. Your mind halts the thought process, reducing it to programmed commands. This mountain, this training, the screaming dummy, the swift Urokodaki, the murder in your eyes. 

You were growing to become a soldier, just like him. The man who shined the light. The answer to your question.

Why do we abhor the world beyond the waters?

Why can't we understand them?

You sparked; electricity surged through you once again. The challenge today was to rely solely on your natural body to navigate the mountain. Not by Urokodaki's hand, but you aimed to push yourself instead of depending on your arcane skills. Instinct and endurance were the two primary goals for this descent. You managed to pass through the anti-tank obstacles and slide down the muddy path. Another soiled yukata awaited its turn to be thrown into the river. The old hermit didn't have a stopwatch to record your time, so you had to depend on the skyline to track it. The moon wasn't smiling; it waned like an eye after taking a nap—hazy and myopic, too tired to tease you tonight. A cheeky smirk spread across your face as you hopped over the fishing wire. Like a child, you felt a sense of immature hubris, as if you were winning a race on an elementary school playground. The finish line wasn't too far, even without sight of it. 

Until you hit a hurdle hidden underneath. 

The hard bamboo smacks your shin as if it were scolding you for your pride. You roll into the dirt, collecting pebbles, twigs, and clumps of mud. Instead of getting up, you sit there to catch your breath. You curl into the unearthed depression, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. Your hands make a faint sticky sound as you unclench them. The divots of your nails puncture the soft flesh of your palm. You observe your right hand, watching the dry blisters scuff with white bits of skin as they slowly heal. Even your fingernails are caked with blood. Yet none of it seems to hurt, as if your hands have gone numb. 

So this is what they go through. Their training. For a war that may end in salvation or destruction.

You're training. For what? A war? Against whom? The demons? Or a name for non-believers of an opposing team? What if you become a mindless puppet for a terrorist group? What if you become a sheep for slaughter? What if you kill a man? Or a mother? Or a child? Would you lose your emotions? Your humanity? Would you take the name of a monster? Someone more immoral than the mythical beasts of old? Claws grow from your fingertips as the dry blood liquifies. There's crying. There are crackling fires. There's gunshots. There's metal carving bone. There are screams and wails and laughter. Loud, horrifying laughter. Cold, wet squelching. You closed your eyes, trying to dispel the massacre haunting your ears. Soon, the night appears again. Quiet like a timid deer, the moon peeks from the canopy above. You hobbled up from the ground, shaking the dirt out of your hair, and stared at your hand again. The claws are gone. The blood had dried. The divots formed from your clenched fist rose slowly like baked bread. 

You're training. For what? A war. Against whom? The demons. The ones who don't believe in morality at all.

A month has passed since your visit. You've mastered the way of the blade after numerous broken dummies and battles against your master. 236 wins, 72 losses; like an underdog story you rose to victory. You managed to map out 23 different routes down the mountain at record speed without using your arcane skill. Close-quarter combat training was also advised; delivering blows with just your bare fists and might to strike down your opponent to attack, defend, or flee. Despite knowing 8 different martial arts, your master merely taught you Aikido, the one he uses the most. Immobilizing and throwing techniques help deflect any attack without using brute force to further injure yourself. Though it did give you a few broken ribs; it felt like you did. Luckily, Urokodaki taught you how to use a breathing technique to revitalize your body in dire situations: Total Concentration Breathing. Long, but straightforward for a method. 

"Remember to take long deep breaths so the oxygen flows into every cell in your body. This will enhance your body's natural healing power, and both stabilize and energize your spirit."

You followed the advice; relaxing your shoulders, arms, and chest while positioning your legs in a fighting stance. You feel your lungs expand and contract as the tiny jolts of energy buzz through your veins. A wave of serenity washes over you like a gentle tide. A small smile grows on your face; rejuvenation breaks those invisible chains free as your spirit ascends to a temporary Nirvana. 

"Wrong!"

Your stomach nearly jumps out of your mouth as a rock-hard fist digs into your soft flesh. You sputter like an old car engine and double over like a washed-up whale. The wind is literally knocked out of you, leaving you spasming and gasping for air. The old hermit stands over your crumpled form, looking disappointed. Knowing your master, you realize that if you don’t get up in the next ten seconds, you’ll fail this trial. You clamber up once more, resuming your fighting stance. You take another breath to recover from the blow. Your energy rekindles as your lower back feels lighter and less sore. The tingling sensation crawling down your back distracts you from the pain. You can hear your master humming quietly; the breathing technique muffles the sounds of the mountain. Every chirp of a bird, every buzz of a bug, every rustle of the crisp leaves—all are muted. Not even the wind's ghostly howl disturbs your mind. The low vibration of the old hermit's aged voice rumbles softly against your body. 

"That's enough," Urokodaki's voice boomed in your hollow mind. You jolted from your trance, awakening from an empty dream. "You have one final trial tomorrow. Before we rest, I have an errand for you to run." He took out a piece of paper and handed it to you. A sketch of a jagged crystal unfolded in your hands, clustered with stout shards jutting out like thorns. The paper was coarse and scuffed with pencil strokes, the graphite slowly smudging, blackening the tips of your sweaty fingers. A few words scribbled on the sides had turned into smog, flowing yet stagnant on the paper; however, the name of the crystal remained intact: clear quartz.

"Piezoelectric crystals. Naturally, they are used for mechanical purposes like lighters and sensors, but they have a significant amount of mahōu that can be utilized to replenish energy for majutsushi," Urokodaki explained. "I need one to complete my work, but they're only sold in the central city. If it's not too much trouble, I would appreciate it if you could purchase one."

"Alright." You nodded.

"You know you're way from the mountain? I'll provide you a map if not." 

"I think I could get there by myself," You could feel a hard stare from behind the mask, "but I'll take it just in case." 

Your master nods and heads inside the hearth, with you following him inside. New clothes and a shower were in order. After grabbing your original clothes, you immediately headed to the washroom. The scent of pine filled your nose; the dress shirt felt soft against your skin. Perhaps the natural river water must've softened the material. Once inside the cramped washroom, the coal underneath was lit, heating the wooden tub. It looked like a stove boiling water for a nice home-cooked stew. You felt the steam kissing your cheeks, greeting you dearly like a longing lover. Even the potentially clogged pores of your nose were opening up to smell the rich scent of pine. Setting down your evening wear, you stripped off your clothes and dipped into the tub. The hardened loofah by you soaked up the water as you scrub away the dirt.

"Tokyo," You thought. "I've never been into the city before. How much has changed since?" 

Television, influencers, new articles, there's nothing the media can't record. As far as what you've seen, Japan has advanced as much as it could. Self-driving cars roamed the streets peacefully, mecha-armor for construction, arcanum-imbued concoctions like picrasma candy parfaits, seared ayakashi barbecue, and butterfly pea tea. Technological advances enchanted with arcanum created what even scientists in Switzerland and the United Kingdom cannot fathom. Golems the size of figurines that can protect you from harm. Kelpie ranches safeguarding waterways from piracy. Using mothman silk for cheaper clothing. Japan soon started to turn into an entirely new world, far greater than any other country. And yet, a few debates started to stir their reputation. The Ocean Preservation Society still argues about the legal whaling of Japan, with the country quitting the International Whaling Commission (IWC) after 22 years. Now, they started fishing mermaids, Scylla, and naiads for their meat using spears illegally enchanted with arcanum to kill them. Separate them from their families and torture them slowly, prodding them until they bleed dry and drown. And that was only from one article. In 2029, Japan introduced the Heredity Classification Certificate (HCC), a vital document that records an individual’s DNA and lineage, tracing ancestry as far back as 476 AD.  Every resident- including foreigners- must have it on hand for all civic processes. Getting a job, registering for a license, and even applying for college. 76% of arcanists were denied entry to prestigious universities like the University of Tokyo, Kyoto University, and Keio University in 2031, blocking them not just against their skills, but against their very essence. The societal bias extends even to mixed relationships between arcanists and humans, and yet you've seen no signs of active protest or objection towards these rules. It's like they don't mind these laws, oblivious—perhaps even indifferent—to them. One trace of social injustice and at least several dozen citizens would rally together for activism in the United States. Though, Americans are temperamental, as much as you remember. The Japanese seem to be more civil than their Western allies. 

You winced. Blood trickled down your stomach and mixed with the water, swimming gracefully before diffusing, the thick membrane breaking down into molecules. You felt a craggy patch of skin along your fingertips; you watched blood dance in the water like a seductress—another bruise to add to your collection of scars. You traced the lines outlining your form, trying to remember the stories behind them. The left arm scar, the little clavicle slit, the old bruise on your right elbow, the slice on your right hand. You tried to remember; to recall any former battles you fought. The weapons, your opponent, the high stakes, the fires, the screaming, the gunshots, the blood, the insults. Your finger glides through the scabs like braille. 

Nothing. Your mind couldn't even imagine the pain that you felt. The gunshot wound attracts your fingers again. Your body tried its best to cover the horror in layers of flesh, but you could still feel the pain of the wound. How your little body recoiled against the walls as your blood turned the teal into rust. Your heart banged against your chest choking the hole viciously. Your tears cooled your warm face. Your mouth is open, but never screaming, only drooling onto your toga. The musician didn't even give you a second look as he trekked across the fallen temple. You could only heave; breathe in more oxygen only to choke you to death. The world fades. The fog hazes. The steam rises.

You've been in here too long; the heat has clouded your mind with hallucinations once again. The bath is a hue of russet and cold. You bristle at the temperature change as you climb out of the tub naked and shivering. You quickly dry yourself off and put on your clothes. Once you exit the washroom, your master waits patiently.

 "Here." A detailed map of the mountain was given to you by the hand of your master. The promised land was written in beautiful script: Tokyo. 

"I suggest you make haste before twilight. Demons prowl exactly at that time."

"I will," you nodded. "Thank you Mr. Urokodaki."

Artificial stars light up the night sky. Buildings stacked on top of buildings, some stretching along an entire block while others twisting high enough to touch the stars themselves; replicates of the Tower of Babylon. Electronic holograms of cartoon icons and Vocaloid characters either dance animatedly or advertise a variety of other products with smiles plastered everywhere from on top of structures to along the sides, illuminating the canopy of the district in a rainbow of colorful lights. Even Buddha, their religious figure, grins as he pops out the florescent screen waving a bottle of sake in your face. Blasphemous; such a commercial is sure to confound any monk, breaking the Five Precepts of Buddhism. Signs and billboards displaying bold, gaudy letters poke out from the various buildings like clusters of leaves, promoting all kinds of businesses—anything from mom-and-pop bakeries and cram schools to tattoo parlors. Electric pop music blasts from the speakers of a DJ as neon synth waves spike and flow with heart-thumping bass, harmonizing with the cacophony of traffic and pedestrians. Modified, glitzy sports cars glide across the asphalt ground colored pepper red, hot pink, and neon green with their engines exposed and polished. Notably, all models of the '70s, '80s and 90's, like the 972 Datsun 240Z, the 1981 Mazda RX7, and the 1969 Nissan Patrol. They revved their engines in pride as two cars burned tire marks once the traffic light turned blue staging an impromptu street race. The mouthwatering smell of cultural delicacies steaming, grilling, frying, and boiling in different pots. Food stands and outdoor udon shops wave the tendrils of aromas as their decorated stalls attract hungry customers. Roasted cockatrice, simmered Calydonian boar with soy sauce broth and rice, ramen with pheasant eggs and Schneider's fleece. Some seemed to be more—ironically—unimaginable like Cthulhu takoyaki. Fire breathers lit skewers of venison and vegetables, telekinetics gently sway clothes upon drying racks. Miniature wooden dolls giggle and play with the kids. Fortune-tellers whisper their secrets from the shadows of mysterious tents, and carbuncles hop alongside their owners. Hybrids' ears flickering to the whispers of friends brushing past. There's even a giant apartment complex made out of an old construction mech that's still operating, lifting the groceries from an old lady's hand into her window, its own ear.

The promised land. The glimpse into the future. The gateway to a whole new world. Tokyo, Japan. 

You were overstimulated. Your mouth unconsciously agape as your eyes wander erratically. There's so much to do. So much to see. Even though you couldn't understand, everyone and everything wanted you to join them in the fun. Mesmerizing; lucid dreams or LSD doused hallucinations. The colors clashed and collided like a kaleidoscope; an epileptic would froth at the mouth if they stared any longer. You blinked, refocusing your vision and your task. You pulled the crumpled sketch out of your pocket to observe it again before sifting through the crowded sidewalks. Quiet, meek apologies slip from your lips with each shoulder bump; you never expect walking to be so claustrophobic. Not to mention, it was incredibly hot. The restaurant heat created a thick, low-hanging layer of uncomfortable warmth. And you really didn't want to step on other people's shoes. The fake scent of strawberries nauseated your nose; not even Japan can get the right smell. You bobbed and weaved through the masses, brushing the scratchy coat against the arms of people. The map Urokodaki gave you only charted from the mountain to the central city; not one plot mentions a market or a bazaar nearby, meaning you were once again left to your own defenses. You chuffed a sigh and tried to hurry out of the awkwardness. Despite the vast amount of English spoken in the country, all the street signs were written in Japanese describing circuitous roadways ending abruptly. A few had obvious pictures like the pedestrian crossing, the no-entry sign, and the speed limit, but you couldn't tell when a street ended and another began. Soon, you squeezed out of the crowd and halted at a giant crosswalk. Cheaper cars sped down the road in haste, blowing cooling wind to your sweaty body. Why did you have to wear your coat in the summer? A brand new one too. The designer added little crooked arrows to act as buttons on your coat matching your dress shoes buckles and paperboy hat. The person next to you had an Eskimo dog clambering your trousers and yipping with glee. The owner—occupied by their phone—didn't realize your pants were being violated by the canine. As soon as you try to stir it away, the crowd behind you stampedes into the empty street. You watch as they sift through the other crowd like sand, phasing without the slightest hesitation or relapse. Meanwhile, you bumbled through a family of five like a battering ram. You can't help it though; your eyes gaze upon the flashy lights like moths to a flame. Glued to the skyline, they could never get back down. Materialistic euphoria balms your senses into simple-mindedness.

Pretty lights, good food, happy people. 

A crumpled paper wakes you from your dream.

How long have you spent here? Hopefully not too long. The amber lights made it seem like daybreak. The local lotus eaters gave you directions, but most of them couldn't speak proper English. They would pantomime and point to different places as they spoke in their language. You would merely nod and move on. Eventually, you found yourself in the marketplace; a collage of tents, stalls, stands, and merchants seducing wide-eyed patrons to buy their collectibles. Painted totem poles carved by the hands of a lone native, necklaces and bracelets capable of warding off ghosts, incense whispering musky smoke to the wind, and overdramatic dresses and garbs tailored by a fashionable brownie. The smell of smoked crab meat, burning sage, crushed rose petals, Himalayan salt, coffee beans and old cedar wood all swirl and swim in harmony as they appease your nose. Wind chimes and bells jingle with glee as products go down in price drastically, luring more customers to buy what they're selling. Anything you could use for a ritual, a rite or a spell was here, and supposedly just for today. Dwarves, elves, hybrids, witches, warlocks, and even humans crowd these little shops and spend their money; the tintinnabulations of Sharpodonties made a few merchants' eyes glint with greed.

In a setting like this, one must take precautions when maneuvering around; pickpockets are the common reason one's coin purse might be snatched, in addition to the scamming snake oil salesmen. You kept the small satchel close to your inner breast pocket, committed to wearing the darned coat until the end. You looked at the paper again. Clear quartz. Piezoelectric crystals. Someone like a gemologist, a crystal healer, or a jeweler would do. Even a phantom thief disguised as a civilian would suffice, as you're good at keeping secrets. Your eyes tried to spot any shop advertising crystals in the area, but you couldn't help but wander elsewhere. A stall with a stack of grimoires and tomes caught your eye. The merchant- a kobold- says that he met a society of wizards who gifted him these tomes, or so the crudely written signs claim. Rare flowers, carefully wrapped in bouquets, blossomed at another stall. Potions bubble and fizz like soda pop. Pickled specimens gurgle in their jars filled with oily liquids. Critters in playpens chirp and growl at the customers walking past. Some stalls even had a few illegal items traded in the darkest corners of the market. An emporium of oddities, a bizarre bazaar; a place where arcanum sparks, spurs, quips, and chirps, and the people love every little piece of it.

As you walk down the road, music flows through your ears. Not as loud and thundering as the central city DJs. Elegant, regal, almost delicate given how far you are from the source. But as you get closer, you can hear the resonance of a cello echoing through the crowd. Full and reverberating, it bellows like a snoring beast in a cave. The faint undertone of a piano steadies the pace and melody, gently plucking as the bestial cello hums. Your steps align with the piano's notes; your coat sways and dances in the dark. Your eyes still search for the promised crystal shops. Oil paintings, lucky charms, forged swords, encyclopedias- nothing remotely close to crystals. The music grows louder as you walk; this time a jovial violin plays sweetly among the crowd like a young girl singing in a grove. She dances along to her voice while the woodland creatures cheer with chirps. 

Your eyes drift to a crowd larger than the clusters around the shops. The commotion draws you in, tilting and turning your body to peek through the slivers of light until you decide to take a closer look. Behind the mass stood three musicians...well...two and a half. The pianist was merely two wooden hands floating without arms or a body attached. The grand piano glimmered beneath the lanterns overhead, glowing a peachy pink hue. Treble strings pluck like little nerve endings sparking. On the other side sat the cellist with the larger instrument in hand, colored the same shade of peach as his suit, hair, and skin. Faceless yet brimming with passion, he played, bobbing and rocking to the gorgeous melody like a phantom or a figment. A ghastly image, so beautiful yet frightening to behold. The only living musician was the woman in the center, seated in a wheelchair, adorned in a white frilly dress and a feathered Victorian hat that shrouded her eyes. Her skin was a smooth, soft alabaster with pink lips smiling in delight. The violinist looked rather young, perhaps about 20, and served as the lead of this trio. She seemed to be the one giving life to the cellist and the piano through the carefully crafted violin resting on the crook of her neck; her arcane skill. Families, newlyweds, elders, children, and patrons of the bazaar gathered around the three, smiling, dancing, and throwing their money into the instrument case.

Soon, the two strings collided harmonically; the girl and the beast humming to the tune of the piano, waltzing in the hidden garden; a place they call their own. Away from the world, they dance. Free as the wind rustling the leaves. They are outcasts, escaping the confinements of their homes, alone together. You watch, gazing in awe at the belle whilst your ears tingle with gaiety from the sonnet. Levity fills your chest with air; you feel like flying, swaying amid the clouds, grabbing an angel as your dance partner. Light, merry, childlike. 

Time was fleeing, and you didn't want to waste any more of it. You hurried away from the crowd only to stop at the sight of a tent. Stout, cluttered, and magenta-colored; a little old lady examines a larger zircon in her tiny palms. Forlorn, maybe a little lonely; there was no line to her shop. You sprinted to the little stand, the lighter notes of the piano twinkled like giggles in your ears. 

"Oh hello dear, what brings you here tonight?" The old lady smiles through her flesh-cover eyes 

"Yes. I was wondering if you have any clear quartz in stock today?" You showed her the paper now damp with sweat. Her eyes---amber like tree resin---analyze the sketch before nodding.

"You're just in luck, I have one more left." She hobbles deeper into her tent, lifting wooden crates filled with dry, stringy hay. You look behind you to watch the band; seems like the show is ending soon. The violinist still smiled at her wonderful audience as she stayed with the music. You bit your inner cheek; she's gorgeous, you thought, poised and elegant. You wanted to speak with her, to see if she sounds the same way as she plays. Elegant, intellectual, perhaps a bit jocular like Elizabeth Bennet.

"Here we are." A hoarse voice startled you. You snapped back to the lady holding a gem the size of a thimble. Cloudy, but not opaque, and dusted with luster reflecting the nightlife. 

"How much?"

"Only 10 Sharpodonties." Wow, cheaper than you thought.

You pulled out the rustic coin pouch and counted before cashing it in. Let's hope this is the right size. You dropped the gem into the pouch. 

"Thank you so much."

"Safe travels my dear." The old woman crooned.

As you headed back, a roar of applause erupted from the crowd. More money was thrown into the case as the violinist bowed and thanked her audience. The cellist and the piano faded into sparkles; the wooden hands floated onto the shoulder of their companion. The crowd dispersed, leaving the two to roll freely. Your eyes couldn't stop looking; her raven hair flowing with the wind under her lace hat. Now would be the perfect chance to speak to her, you thought as you walked into the diffusing crowd.

*tink*

A flash blinked in your eye. Metal collided with the ground making a faint plinking sound. Silver basked in the golden lantern light. A large locket. Callous hands smooth over steel, hitting the grooves of roses and thorns, laurel of ivy. Polished and cool to the touch; you gaze at your smeared reflection. The bulbous button sat atop and obvious.

*Click*

Roman numerals spiral in a black void. Two silver hands placidly point to II and IV while a fine line jolts with every second. The shallow lid inscribed words at the rim.

"Omnes in tempore vivimus."

"We all live in time."

A sermon. A promise. A fact.

"That's a funny saying ain't i'bruv." 

Huh?

"Thinking that' we all liv' unduh the thumb of a clock. Where's that comin' from?"

Who is that? 

"Don't mind him. He gets a bit lairy after a few drinks."

Your head turns to a looming shadow. A faded ink blot shaped like a man. His head shakes. 

"Don't you think we should be leaving?" Your mouth opens, but no words come out. The blot hurries off from the sage alleyway and into the grayscale world. An empty concrete wasteland blurred and daubed with monotony. The glooms of towers stain pieces of the sky. The hat man wanes into the light of the wen, stopping to see if you were coming.

London? What were you doing there?

"Come on hurry up! The storm's coming soon."
You looked at the watch. IV VII. 4:35 PM. 

"We gotta leave these bloody loons to their place." The hat man said, "Pig-headed swines, too foolish to understand."

*Boom!*

"Bloody hell!"

Cold. Cold, hard droplets pour from the dreary skies. Your eyes look up at the dusty vacuum. Cold, hard rain pours. 

"Forthwind! Get over here!" The hat man shouted, but cotton slowly covered your ears. Euphoria rinses your dirty, rigged body. You dissolve into the canvas.

"Forthwind!"

"FORTHWIND!!!"

The city fades. The world melts. The rain falls.

The jeers of the market freed you from your dream. You look at the pocket watch again. Ticking, like nothing happened. The patrons smiled with their gifts. The merchants close up shop. The violinist vanishes. The night grows older. The moon hangs above you waning frown in worry. You shook your head and closed the pocket watch, heading back to the mountain.

Ticking, like nothing happened.

Chapter Text

"Where have you been?!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Urokodaki."
"What have you been doing this whole time?!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Urokodaki."

"That's not an answer, child!"

"I..." You bit your cheek. "I got distracted." Your head hung in shame like a puppy. You knew you'd be late, but you didn't mean to scare your master so much. There's no one to blame but your inquisitive self. The hearth of the hut didn't comfort your shameful, disobedient behavior. The elders on the island never scolded you; there weren't many troublemakers to worry about, so they didn't grow many gray hairs. But this was different; an unyielding gravity forced you to kneel and curl beneath your new parental guardian, even though it was a minor issue. You felt silly, especially for someone your age to grovel and pout over an elder's reprimand. Urokodaki exhaled a breath through the mask.

"Change out of that and get to bed." He finally says. And at this point, you should obey. Like a mouse, you scurried off into the dark. As you undress, you feel the weight of your pocket slip your coat downward. Fondling the item inside, you notice the pocket watch was opened. It ticked, the two thicker hands ending at 5:24. Extremely late, almost morning soon. You caress the cover again. 

Forthwind...

Why was that name familiar?

Who was the shadow man?

Why London? And why was the sky melting?

You stared at your reflection. Smeared and hazy like watercolors; you couldn't see a single outline. It must be the violinist's. You had to give this watch back to her. Tomorrow---if your master even allowed you outside his territory---you'll try to find her at the market. For now, you removed the rest of your clothes and replaced them with the yukata sitting in the corner. The morning was coming, so you needed as much sleep as possible. The metal locket clicked closed against your chest, ticking away like a heartbeat. The mechanical chirps lull you to sleep.

We all live in time.

We all live in time.

We all live in time.

in time.

in time.

We all live

time.

time.

TIME.

"It's time!" A hard smack pounded your stomach inward. A carpet beater flattens your lungs. Intestines shifted down to your navel; gutting out low rumbles from your throat. Urokodaki stands before your form, shrouded in the shadows of the home. The woven wooden stick pokes your cheek as the old hermit prods you awake like a dead cockroach. 

"Your final trial starts today. Get up! We're heading behind the house." 

You groan childishly; a well-deserved punishment for last night's late return. Even the sun was trying to hide away from Urokodaki's foul mood. 

*tink*

"Hmm?"

The pocket watch slips from your sleepwear, ringing a quiet "good morning." 6:37; your reflection gives the watch a tired visage. You sigh; you can't leave your master waiting any longer. The return of the timekeeper must wait. The Great Wave robe hiding in the dim closet greets you like an old friend. Its silk remains as soft as ever- the waves ebbing and flowing against your legs like the tides at twilight. You immediately step outside the sliding doors into the quiet. The world is shaded saturnine, from the trees to the clouds, all hanging their heads in shame. Like a mirage, the forest grayscaled into monotonous watercolors, unsaturated by Mother Nature's water. Breathing in the air feels like a frail, sickly child coughing their final breaths. You choke, but the remaining air in your lungs holds your life force like a vice. Crisp steps refocus your senses as the masked man crunches against the grass before turning to you. Impatience radiates from behind and melds perfectly into the irritated mask; you quicken your steps, following the hermit into the dense thicket. The trees stand tall like soldiers, wooden pillars memorializing the past. Not a single passerine, cicada, or hare is in sight despite the summer season. Your eyes wander to the only thing reflecting color: the sword. It gently taps the hip of the hermit in tune with his march, sitting beside him like a loyal comrade-in-arms. He never told you what exactly he needed that quartz for, yet. Many rituals use crystals: healing minor curses, cleansing hexed materials, bestowing blessings of vigor, even summoning unearthly creatures. Quartz, commonly known as the "master healer, " is also a versatile crystal for witches and wizards during coven meets and séances. Perhaps the old hermit is experimenting with new alchemical techniques. 

Soon, a clearing appeared. A ring of trees repelled from the large boulder in the center. Dormant, patiently waiting for you to arrive on this fated day. 

"If you can slice this boulder, I will allow you to enter Final Selection," the masked man announced. "As of today, I have nothing more to teach you, but I shall bestow this upon you." He unsheathed the sword from the hilt. Poised, tall, and mighty, the metal gleamed through the muted grove like a beacon. A symbol of courage, hope, unyielding faith, tenacity, chivalry, and honor. Urokodaki shuffled through his robe to find the quartz shard hidden beneath the folds. He placed the crystal into the penny-sized hole between the blade and the hilt. A beating heart. Veins pulsed. Liquid diamond seeped through the hilt. The sword was alive--- a being of its own. 

"Since your mahōu is rather passive, this sword allows you to transform it into offensive energy. Combine it with Total Concentration Breathing, and it will generate attacks to benefit you." He sheaths the katana for you. Arcanum reverberates from your presence, a force repelling your hand like a magnet. Gripping the handle, your new companion blinks with curiosity. The veins fade into the hilt, and the crystal halts its pulse. You've heard of weapons channeling arcanum, like wands and staffs, but you seldom believed a sword could hold such an incantation, let alone act as an arcanum converter. 

"The rest is up to you! Report to me when you have succeeded." 

The hermit vanished. The disparaging eyes of the trees sneer at you. "Come on! Put on a show! Entertain us, mortal!" they cry and jeer. They silently peer. The forest floor is your battleground, and your superiors are getting bored. The rock sits there, slowly collecting moss from beneath. Your hand smooths over the surface. It's too smooth to have been born from the earth, yet too lumpy to be crafted by an arcanist. A dusty layer sifts between your fingers like ash, as if it were just born from the volcano's womb. There's no arcanum imbued in the rock, so there's nothing to purify or exorcise. 

"If I can learn how to manipulate energy, I can easily slice the boulder." You glance at the sword. The sea of stars twinkled with the pale sunlight. Once the blade is released, scintillating steel returns with incessant vigor. You prepared yourself, aligning yourself with the center of the rock.

"The core. Aim for the core."

You sucked a breath, filling your lungs and letting the arcanum flow through your veins like blood. Your heart thumps and spreads the consecrated oxygen to every cell. Each nerve sparked and fizzed. Atoms collided. Particles formed. Molecules are charged and lit into embers. The electric current zapped and shocked your muscles into fervor.

*Krrsh!*

You burst into light. Volts clung to your body like roots as you bolted through the narrow rift in space. The air crackled briefly before settling down, returning the muted hues of the forest. The boulder remained unscathed. You believed the high voltage from your teleportation could instantly fracture the rock. Some minerals and rocks, particularly those containing certain impurities or fluids, can exhibit a degree of conductivity. However, much like this boulder, most stones are insulators. 

"I guess teleporting only acts as an evasive move instead of an offensive one." You examined your sword. The blade shines platinum, still pulsing with energy like adrenaline. A sputtering cough exhausted from your lips as your heart palpitates rapidly. Cotton fluffs your brain, clouding your motor function into vertigo. 

Huh...this'll take longer than you thought.

Hands crossed. Sword up. Legs bent. Head straight. Maintain eye contact. 

"Ok...and."

*Whoosh*

*Smash*

Ripples beneath the soil. A stone plopping in water. Waves crashing against the shoreline. An eruption.  

*Smash*

Against the current your slashes swim. You send shivers down the Earth's spine. Quick, yet powerful, canyons could form from your feet with each swift slash. 

*Smash*

Two months have slipped since you challenged this herculean task, refining your techniques, wielding the blade, and conjuring energy from the ether around you. The forest is kissed by hues of orange and auburn, reminiscent of a warm flame flickering in a fireplace. Wood chips and timber now draped in a coat of moss, while encroaching fungi feast on the tired bark. A sea of leaves washes the forest floor, enveloping the earth in a golden amber, preserving the hard, naked soil beneath. Dried leaves crackle and crunch, their brittle forms snapping underneath your sandals. Your coat, while tacky and gaudy against your yukata, shields you from the rushing wind laughing and howling like a naughty child running through the trees. The biting cold returned to nip your fingers like ravenous piranhas; sleeves rub and chaff your fingers to life. It was clear that August was ending soon, and fall was sure to awaken.

You're glad Urokodaki allowed you to stay in his home for the winter, but throughout the summer, silence has lingered between you—the master offers only hums and nods in response to your excited chatter. Conversations hang heavy like a thick fog, the slew of words dissolving into silence and awkwardness. You stopped talking after that, but it did give you time to think. The Demon Slayer Corps: an entire military division dedicated to eradicating demons from the land, with a legacy stretching back to the feudal era. How many have joined their ranks over the years? How many brave souls have been lost? Did they ever truly succeed? The war has been waged for so long that it’s hard to believe they’ve made a dent. Veterans like Urokodaki must bear the weight of their failures, watching as their sacrifices seemingly fade into oblivion, their service ending before they could truly make a difference against the demons' relentless army. The dead roll in their graves at the sight of wasted talent. Unkempt eyebrows curl upward at just the thought. To die believing in your sacrifices; leaving your friends, your lovers, and your families behind in empty homes, to trudge through unconquered terrains to fight the enemy terrorizing your lands and fellow men as a means to regain the peace you deserve. Even if it means the peace of the land must be destroyed in the process. Bloodshed in exchange for bloodshed; the terms of vengeance are as clear as water. The conditions. Doused in blood and sorrow, a dark, inky red. Stains and scars that will never heal and are subjected to being swept under the rug. The heroes are cherished for their bravery, but they are riddled with holes deeper than gunshots. The villains never come home, buried and covered with a tarp until someone exhumes their graves.

But these are demons, creatures born from the infernos of hell. Such things as crusades were necessary for rescuing humanity from the grips of temptation and sin. The holy knights ride off in the name of God as they preach sermons and prayers to the towns probably populated with pagans. A pope, sanctified with divine authority. Mobile clergymen; their reach extends over a realm more powerful than kings. Will you soon pledge your loyalty? Shedding blood to affirm your vow, like sealing a contract with wax? An agonist disguised as a priest; or, in this country, a monk. Buddhism doesn't rely on a god to answer or forgive them. To reach enlightenment, Nirvana, and end the cycle of suffering; you could get used to that. A second wind bellows you to shivers. The zephyr removes the cotton fluff clouding your mind: you desperately need a break. This training has done nothing for you; the boulder hasn't even shifted from your attacks. The blade never reflects your tired face; your eyes low-turned in exhaustion, only a smudged stain of dull colors.

"Am I even improving?" The doubt lingered in your mind. 

A shadow swims through the leaves like a tuna. Not passerines, something bigger. A dagger cuts through the skyline. Your eyes glisten under the cool sun; the winged blade soars, unaware of the darkness it casts. A golden eagle. Hickory wings with tips dipped in gold. White flashes like pearls in seawater. The bird swoops into the canopy, leaving your gaze. You never wander around that part of the forest; it's a good excuse to replenish your energy. As you step through the crunchy bedding, the sword returns to its lovely case. It is then that nature sings- a sweet, dulcet tune of a housewife cleaning and cooking in the new morning. A small campfire warms your weary heart like a hug. You've always loved autumn. To see the leaves burn warm reds and oranges- a sea of trees blushing in the distance. Herds of sheep wander the grass like nomads. Bran Castle peers from behind the groves while their roots and ivy crack the cobblestone. A time for peace. A time to prepare for the winter of change. When the leaves glow, then turn to ash before blossoming back into green. You can smell the rich soil; the remaining petrichor from many rainfalls stimulates your nose to grow a smile. A coddiwomple; you don't care where you're going. Away from the gruesome training, the blisters, the thin air, the awkward dinners. No thoughts. No queries. No visions. No fears. Peace and golden shades of change.

Bubbles. Ripples. Crashing tides on the rocks. The water flows further down the bank, glistening like gold in the sunlight. How far are you from the clearing? You look back. The thicket covers the boulder's resting place; your footprints record your wanderlust. The murmur of the river whispers incomprehensible sweet nothings. You watch newborn tadpoles swim happily down the clear stream with their siblings. Their parents are out for the moment before they return to watch them grow old. The miniature coastline is riddled with mud and frayed rootlets of grass. The grass cools your cheek as you lie down. The sword is removed from your hip, resting flat as you watch the clouds go by. You breathe in the earth as you focus on its follicles. Spindly, dry, blister-ridden, ashen-white fingers sift through the grass. A cool wind howls again, softer this time, like a woolen blanket. You close your ears, trying to hear the silent exchanges of the autumn leaves. Training has tuckered you out; relentless strikes and energy slashes have created nothing but skid marks across the dry earth, scorching the grass with pure arcanum. The clearing smells like hay fires, as the smoke hazes your senses and chokes your lungs. A scratchiness in your throat lasts with the scars and bruises; even swallowing feels like scratching a wool sock. 

"I should've known this challenge was going to be difficult. Urokodaki would never give such an easy final." 

You lifted your hand, inspecting the dirt sticking to the creases of your palm. The blisters faded into taupe birthmarks. Cuticles tore away from your fingers, few bled from accidental peeling, as fingernails chip and shred flakes of weak keratin. 

"There has to be a way beyond the means of physical training. But this isn't a battle of wit or articulateness." You rolled over. The sword still lay underneath the clouds. "The quartz could only hold so much arcanum before it cracks. If I could manage to...No that won't work." You huffed a sigh; the grass twitched with your hasty exhale. Maybe it's better to lie here until nightfall.

*rustles*

Hmm...?

*rustles*

White. Pure white fluff. It ruffles to preen its fur, shaking the dirt and bramble off its smaller body. Two ears flick at the sight of a cool water source. Unbothered by your presence, the fluff ambles closer to the water's edge, pausing to sip from the glistening surface. Alopex lagopus. You've never seen a white fox before. Not this close either. Its ears were perky and tipped. A snout black as charcoal yet small like a pebble. And even with the fluffy coat, it was thin and a little younger than an adult. You couldn't tell if it was a male or a female though. 

But wait...aren't Arctic foxes native to...the Arctic?! What's one doing here in the lukewarm heat of Japan? Perhaps a case of albinism? Gawking and invested in the sight, you sat up to get a better look. The fox continued to drink, causing ripples in the water while the tadpoles darted in alarm. It looked so soft. So pure. So untouched by human influence. An animal guided by the instincts of survival, yet so peaceful towards the world beyond it. Apathetic to the common folk. Indifferent to culture and tradition- the comforting conformity of humankind. There are no laws in the wild; no social norms to accept, no patterns to follow, only instinct. Ironclad rules that can never be overturned. To break them is to die; this fox knows that. A babbling brook is a gift from the Earth, a vital resource. Dehydration is a brutal consequence; thus, the fox drinks. How easy life was back then. How easier life was back then. Each act in the circle of life was guided by an ancient rhythm, with every creature adhering to its timeless commandments in the unbroken chain of existence. The food chain, its commandments. The land, its home. When the Earth was free to grow and shed its flushing green hairs and howl at the moon every night until the rising dawn to buzz and spurt again. When the Earth was alive. 

Such a primal tenet had shaken you too, crawling against the ground like a cunning leopard. Hungry, your eyes focus on the creature, drooling with curiosity and starved for solace and soft textures. Your palm makes contact with its coat, combing through each soft follicle before reaching the skin. Veins pulse softly and murmur like a river, the incoming water revitalizing its body. The fox pauses, peeking down at your touch before curiously following your hand back to your crouched form. Wide blue eyes glisten like fresh ice, sparkling with a childlike shine. The fox tilts its head curiously. "Who are you?" it asks, or something similar. Your hand moves further up, petting the junction between its neck and head. The fox leans into your touch, eyes closing and ears relaxed as it rubs its head against your coarse skin. 

"So cute," you smiled. Never would you believe that such a creature could respond so calmly. Its adolescence is ignorant of the wiles of civilization. Human conquest; such tales of critters, woodland and fantastic, from the sea, land and air, fleeing their homes under the sudden distress of mankind- all too similar to arcanists. The age of conquest, where everyone wanted to rule the world, as greed stomped on the sand castles the natives had made. Yes, arcanists are to blame too; you've been subjected to the fears of humanity and have conformed to societal norms for far too long that even killing your kin felt like a hobby. Such a thing as this was simply a children's tale for the fox. You would rather not taint a pure creature. Your hands continued to roam before returning to your lap.

"I'm sorry but I have to go soon." 

The fox just stared at you, almost pleading with those blue eyes. 

"I'm sorry." You pouted. 

The fox soon springs onto your lap, ears perking and nose twitching as it beckons for more affection. 

"I can't. I have to go." You placed the fox off your lap and dusted the excess dirt off. Your break was coming to an end as dusk was smoldering into cool ash. You picked up your fallen sword and returned it to your hip. You took one final look at your hideaway, gazing at the trees, listening to the river, and feeling the soft grass, before resting at the kit. Its blue eyes still watch you as it sits in the grass. "Where will you go? Will you come back?" You gave a bittersweet smile. A childhood friend letting go of their hands; you hope to return, but until then, you had no answer. The wind swept up and pushed you away. It's time to go, a solemn understanding shared even among the trees.

The fox just tilts its head.

Smoke billows from the earth beneath like campfires. More blackened leaves crunch and crumble into flakes. The nights grow bitter with each blistering wind, and it never soothes your sores. The boulder steams with fresh burns; Kanji signs the mediocre rock with a name. Autumn has settled in; it’s the end of September. The leaves had ripened a bright red and fallen like apples, and the grass had finally dried into a crunchy mulch, perfect enough for your sandals to grip the earth. You've perfected most of your abilities: channeling and firing your arcanum, conserving energy, even your breathing technique. And yet, that pesky boulder still observes you, now with upturned eyes and a cheeky smile. Vapor seethes from your lips like cigarette smoke; that damn boulder. How long were you going to stay here in this clearing facing this same rock? The trees rustle with mirth; they jeer and giggle at your worthless self. "A human cutting a boulder? Could you imagine?! It's like trying to draw blood from a stone—literally! My roots could turn mountains into caverns in mere months!" They cackled and snickered like witches. Even the cold wind nips your ankles and fingers like an imp. You exhausted another drag. The flaps of your coat hugged your lithe form as you stumbled to the boulder, the cold seeping through your clothes, stiffening your joints rigid. A sudden thud in the dirt against the ground sent a wave of relaxation through your body; the rice balls jumped in fright at the drop. Urokodaki was nice enough to teach you how to make these little dumplings; it felt like a seal was lifted when he spoke to you after months of awkward silence. He called it "onigiri", and as you took a bite, you tasted the subtle sweetness of the cooked rice. Soft, fluffy, and just a bit sticky—like a comforting hug from your mother before school. The crisp of the seaweed added a nice salt to the rice---Umami, as they say. Supposedly, onigiri is perfect for autumn; Shinmai and Saury are at their peak during the fall months. Not only that, but gazing upon the auburn branches arching and curving, creating a laurel for the night sky, as a beautiful sight to drink up. The stars peek through the leaves like curious little squirrels. The brisk wind calmed down, behaving itself after its willy antics. A poke startled you; your sword needed some company tonight. As your other hand held the handle, the blue gradient rippled like ocean waves beneath the stars.

"I've sharpened my precision, my sword stances, my agility, I even perfected my teleportation." Your reflection frowned, "What am I missing?" Your grip tightens, but you wince from the exposed blisters. Dry, cracked, flaking, eroding, rusted; the iron from your blood has tarnished your hands. You throw the knife to the side. A monstrous chomp left a few grains of rice stuck to your cheek. "It's just a plain old rock. Any skilled arcanist would slice through it in an instant. Is my arcane skill too weak? Or is the crystal at its maximum capacity? Clear quartz is not highly volatile. All piezoelectric crystals hold a certain voltage before they shatter. It's too late to buy a new one. The bazaar must be closing soon." You groan, "This can be done. Urokodaki would've passed so many students that they all couldn't complete the trial." You palm the boulder as the soot dusting it clings to your hand. A handprint remains on the rock like a cave drawing. The ash settles into the dirt while you watch a few particles sweep into the air. But soon, your eyes link.

White. Pure white fluff. It stares at your seated form. Black beady eyes as void as the night. It just stares. Not a flick of an ear, not a wag of a tail, not even a twitch of its nose. It simply stares. You can’t discern its thoughts; its still, blank expression makes it impossible to connect with. Yet, despite that, you find yourself unable to look away. The fox commands your attention, as if daring you to acknowledge its presence—or else. Perhaps it's hungry and must have smelled the rice and seaweed? The rice was still on your face; a ravenous jealousy must have overcome the fox. How dare you eat in front of it? And with such ferocity too? While this poor starving creature was out hunting before the bitter winter, you're here stuffing your face with good food. A hard stare, not even a pout, just a hard stare. As your eyes remain locked, you break a corner off the rice triangle. The fox peers at the clump, analyzing it, interested in this foreign grain. However, the fox's attention quickly shifts to the fallen sword in front of it. The sheath glitters like a sapphire as it reflects its intrigued expression. You move slightly, propping yourself up to encourage the fox to come closer.

It took one final look at you before snatching the sword. 

"Wha--Hey!"

How foolish of you. To be drawn by the endearing sight of an animal, only to be stolen from. How foolish of you. The fox darts through the underbrush like a bullet, a blur of movement against the vibrant green. Your feet kick up a cyclone of dry earth, swirling dust obscuring your path as fallen leaves scatter in its wake. The moon hangs high, flickering in and out of view as you chase the elusive creature. Bushes and brambles spring to life, uprooted from their quiet corners as you surge forward. Gnarled roots twist across your route, but the fox glides effortlessly through the splintered wood, a phantom in the gathering shadows. You sprint with reckless abandon, never losing your rhythm, as the forest descends into twilight, the canopy swallowing the moonlight from the skyline. Leaps and bounds---the paths of the mountain appear in your mind---you were so close to catching that elusive fox. The chilling night air filled your lungs, only to escape from your cracked lips. Hair whipped by the wind. Sandals frayed from wear. Trench coat flying in the wind like a cape. In an instant, you flashed. Bolts of lightning propel you to the trees. The roots. The branches. The leaves. Through the air. The ground again. You sparked. Jolted. Turned into gold, then back into flesh. Heartbeats fluttered; the light, feathered feeling returns. Your soul flickers like a candle, in and out, in and out, in and out. Euphoria. Adrenaline. Ecstasy. A drug rattles your bones and shocks your nerves.

Ahead, a clearing. A crag. A cliff.

With all its might, the fox leaps into the air. White fur glowed underneath the moon in a pearly shine as it flowed. The sword in its jaw glinted like a star. You almost tripped on the muddy shoreline, stopping just before you reached the water.

The river. Your hideaway. Your thinking place. Your home away from the dojo. The watering hole for your little fox friend, Blue. She's been busy lately, gathering food and building her den. And yet she seems to carve out time to find flowers for you. Orchids, two to three, dropped into your lap as she nuzzled into the folds of your coat. Her own coat combed through your fingers, brushing and plucking any intrusive bugs or thorns. Little Blue, you cooed, with her soft fur, her tender heart and her big blue eyes sparkling with wonder. Her ears perk up, collecting every murmur of frustration slipping from your mouth, vomiting acidic comments and complaints of your stagnant training. And she would always listen. Never commenting, just understanding. Her blue eyes observe your face—wrinkles, bruises, blisters, and those heavy bags under your eyes. Little Blue, oh your little Blue. How caring she was to you, always listening to your haggard voice in your trying times. So affectionate as she nuzzles against the crook of your neck, licking the tears of woe off your face. Unlike her, however, this fox had no sympathy to express. It snarled at you from across the river bed, drool wetting the sheath. You cringed, a frown emerging on your face. You can't complain though; it's a wild animal, but that's your sword, a gift bestowed from your mentor. If you lose it, hell would reign upon the earth and you'll never be forgiven. The fox hasn’t budged since it leaped over the river. It growled with impatience at your uncertainty. Was it flaunting its ability to outpace a forlorn human? Taking pride in its speed and agility? No, it would've left by now, spitting in disgust at your feebleness. Was it still jealous about your feast for one? Did it believe your offering was an act of pompous arrogance? To see pettiness in an animal was unheard of, yet in this instance, it seems plausible; after all, foxes are known for their sharp wits and cunning nature. Black eyes narrowed as fangs bared at you one final time, before fading into the brush. 

"Wait!" You called out. You clicked your teeth; damn your indecision. If you want your sword back, you're catching that fox. Such a creature having the gumption to gloat will soon see its fall. You've run with wolves, audacious predators of the night.

You're ready to hunt. And hunger is a rule you can't overturn. 

A slow, silent stride into the grove hushes your raptorial vigor. The wind whistles. The trees rustle once more. A biting, arctic chill sends shivers down the grass. A growl emits from your chest; ribs rumble underneath pounds of muscle. Chewed, gnawed, shredded fingers grasped the dirt; you dipped into the earth. Legs angled, head down, eyes slanted. Let the forest howl through your ears. Remember the wolves you've walked across. Feel the moon's piercing glares of mockery above you.

Breath...

And...

*KRRSH*

Burn marks scraped the soil with blackened ash; the prints of your feet remained. The water fluxed, cascading a sun shower along the tawny earth. Even the lampoon of the trees seems to shudder at your serious mood. When you open your eyes, the lush green blooms in your vision. All the trees have returned to their healthy green color. No branches fell from their bark, the sunlight warms the soft, rich soil, even a few wild flowers grew in between the cracks of the earth. Even the wind was behaving again. You gazed at the sudden bloom. Spring had returned to this part of the grove.

But...how? 

September was just a few minutes ago, and now May seemed to wrap around you like an old friend. Your fingers fiddled with the flowers, feeling the softness against your rough pads. With the texture of the tree bark---and the absence of arcanum---you were grounded to reality; this wasn't some illusion. You stand before a patch of greenery untouched by nature's ill autumn.

*grrr*

Speaking of ill, your little thief had returned, with your sword still in its mouth. Those narrow, beady eyes repulsed you. How sickening for a human to intrude on its territory. Don't you know when to quit? Don't you see that you've lost? You slow, weak, immature human. The fox deserves this weapon more than you ever do. If it could huff, it would.

"Excuse me, but that is my sword. I need it for my training." 

The fox backs away; you should've known courtesy doesn't work with wild animals. Every time you stepped forward, it took one back like the child's game of keep-away.

"Look, I need that sword. So...Hand it over!" Dominance. It runs the animal kingdom better than any timid negotiations. To make yourself appear bigger and stronger is the best way to intimidate any wild animals. Hold your ground; a predator can never be hunted. 

In a few minutes, the fox puts down the sword and...sits? You tilt your head. Surrender? From a beast such as it? It was just so adamant a few moments ago. Perhaps it's holding its ground too- a peaceful argument for the ownership of the sword? It knows its limits; it has seen humans before and their stubborn ways. It understands when its opponent can't be defeated, and in that realization, it chooses to make peace. The more time you spend with this creature, the more human it appears. First Blue and her compassion, and now this fox and its pacifism. How animals have evolved over time; creating survival tactics, communication, and achieving human emotions. Long before the time of humans and arcanists, critters roamed the world when it was still Pangea. To think of a simpler time, you swoon silently, pining for a sweet, quiet, departed lover. A daydream slowly fades as shadows engulf your vision.

White. Pure white fluff. They bloom between the trees like cotton. A meadow full of them stalked you through the shadows---pupils lit up from the sun. A clan. A village. A skulk of foxes. You tensed up; their numbers multiplied by the second. A looming hunger sends a panic to your heart. So much for being a ferocious predator. The clan leader stands among its kin, silently orders them to halt. Your throat started to tighten, your stomach hollowed out the rice dumplings you have. Only one thought swirled into your mind, jolted your nerves and seized your lungs.

You were going to be eaten alive. 

But that sword—you need it.

The conflicting arguments clashed like colliding thunder clouds. Damn it! If you say here, you're going to get hurt. And frankly, being torn apart by foxes isn't really a nice way to die. 

No you idiot! How are you going to continue training if you don't have your sword?! Bare hand can't cut through rock like that.

Foxes can run up to 42 miles per hour. How fast do you think you can run?

Running back home isn't going to help either. Besides, what would Urokodaki think if you escaped a clan of foxes with no sword? Absolute cowardice; what good are you fighting demons if you can't fight a fox? 

You bite your cheek; there's no other choice.

This was a trial. To prove if you're worthy of the sword.

The foreboding audience of canines lingered behind the massive trunks. The leader waits for an answer: Do you dare to challenge the chief of the wild? You furrowed your brow; you've run with wolves. A predator amid the clan. From the wild, instinct is born. A challenge you'll proudly accept. If these foxes craved a spectacle, you promise to deliver.

You darted headfirst towards the alpha, focusing on the sword lying before it. You dove forward, but the fox clamped its jaw around the blade and swiftly dodged to the side. A minor miscalculation; you tumbled into the soft grass. Your opponent growled again, beckoning you to come at it. You pushed off the ground and ran off again. Yet, the cunning creature evaded you once more, causing you to stumble over a rock. But you quickly regained your footing, racing across the grass as if carried by the wind. The fox dives and dips, leaps over your fallen form. Even using the tree trunks as springboards. It bounces and springs around the clearing, confusing you with its moves. You tripped, tumbled, plummeted, collapsed, rolled around in the dirt like a pig. Your poor coat collected so much dirt that it turned from boiled wool to polyester. To hell with the damn coat! You huff in frustration, but you couldn't help but smile. The fox stares into your eyes; the coals burning into embers, you could see the same wolfish grin on its face. The summer sun plating the clearing with gold, the foxes watch the duel commence. Emotionless eyes gaze upon a burning fire.

Kick up the dirt, shred the earth, tear through the grove with bloody claws.

Two challengers. Two animals. Two predators. 

You snarled, licking your teeth in rapture. A lust for victory. A glutton for glory. You practically drooled just thinking about it. Eyes grew hazy and clouded with bestial intensity. Sweat dripped from your face like rainwater. That sly, crooked grin on the fox—a scar tracing a devilish path across its cheek—ignited the fervor within you. You've become someone worthy of its time.

As you chased each other around the clearing, the wind picked up hastily. Miniature tornadoes blew stray leaves into invisible storms. Members of the skulks stood up; the furs of their white coats raised. Blades of grass ripped from their roots and hung in the air, floating but never flying. The trees shook violently with fright; the air stiffened as bolts zipped and crackled in and out of sight.

Excited, hair-raising, electrifying. That wondrous feeling. It shocks your nerves to overdrive; let the spirit take you farther, where feet may fail. 

*KKRR-DOOM!!!*

A large bolt sends shockwaves across the grove. A broken chain echoes through your ears. Your body propels into the dirt, scuffing the pristine grass. Heavy like lead, you groaned as you tried to lift yourself up. 

"Damn..." You hissed. The after-effects started to kick in. Your heart pounded against your ribs, desperate to break free from its cage. When you look up, the stoic face of the fox peered down at your form. You chuffed, sitting up, until you felt a hard, thin point poking your side. 

In your hand was the sword. In all its former glory. Not even bite marks dented the sheath as it still glittered until the golden hour. The alpha admires your bewilderment silently. It knows its limits, and that was a good fight. Soon, another ball of white fur swayed over to the two. Blue. Little Blue and her darling childlike eyes. You smiled at her surprise arrival, arms open to embrace her and caress her soft fur. But she ambles to the alpha, nuzzling her cheeks against its. The alpha licks her cheek affectionately, welcoming the final member of the clan. Your heart warmed at the sight—how adorable, you thought. Blue cuddled against your lap. "Congratulations. You outdid my mate. I’m proud of you." A laugh escaped as she playfully licked your face. 

Days turned into weeks as October came in stride. Your training continued as scheduled, striking the boulder with any and all the might you could muster. The silent clearing of the trial allows peace to wash over you and collide with your fury; your insatiability not quite quenched from your bout with the skulk. Speaking of, your friends from the wild seem to have disappeared. Every time you try to visit your canine companions, you meet nothing but a cold bonfire of fallen leaves and twigs. No peering eyes, no wolfish grins, no whispers of witty remarks- the foxes vanished into the bramble without a final goodbye. Fortunately, a day before Hallow's Eve, two white furballs decided to visit you during the haunting season. Blue and her partner, Scar, arrived bearing a small bundle of chrysanthemums along with warm greetings. The two settled in the training ground, watching you struggle with the mighty boulder. Scar would take the initiative to tug on your coat whenever you assumed your fighting stances, even giving your sleeves an aggressive yank to redirect your focus. And he'd always growl if you didn't oblige. Meanwhile, Blue would sprawl comfortably on the boulder, watching the two of you tussle. She would always bring whatever flowers she happened to find, just enough for you to craft a little flower bracelet to keep. After Scar had tormented you, she would happily sit in your lap. The vixen and the vulpine stayed alongside you, sharing a meal on Thanksgiving beneath the glow of autumn's inglenook.

Just before you know it, the leaves have burned out their warmth. Their fiery colors of the hearth smoked and smothered into the snow. Strangely, neither of the two foxes planned to begin preparing for the winter. Once the snow started to fall, your companions camouflaged with the scenery. A floating bundle of cornflowers or a crass chastise, along with three bobbing dark pebbles and aquamarines, marked their arrival. 

"They should be foraging and settling in their den. There's not enough food for them or the skulk out here in the cold." Winter's brutal reaping never shows mercy to the unfortunate. Nevertheless, the canine couple remained obstinate in your progress. Blue laid in the snow quietly while Scar pampered her mate before sitting next to her. You smiled at the two lovers before preparing your fighting stance. 

Hands crossed. Sword up. Legs bent. Head straight. Maintain eye contact. Breath in...

The core. Aim for the core.

The quartz shimmer, letting the arcanum seep through the hilt of the sword like blood. Let your soul go deeper than your feet would ever wander. Breath...

And strike!

The wave of energy slashed through the rigid air like a razor. The underlying snow melted, revealing a pathway of dead mulch. The boulder faces it head-on, enduring the strike of the raw arcanum. 

*Doom!*

The collision tremored the earth, sending solid snow and icicles collapsing like glass. The tree, too frail to croon, shivered from the sudden heat. A haze of mist fogged your vision, excited your hope; surely you must've done it now. 

The mist lifts...

And the boulder still stands. 

"Damn it!!!" 

You gritted your teeth. Steam seethes from your frozen lips. Great being above what were you doing wrong?!?! Six relentless months had passed trying to conquer this Sisyphean rock. Six. Months. The sword drops with a soft squish. Your knees hit the snow as two fingers pinch your nose bridge, the onset of a migraine blooming in your forehead, pulsating and aching like a broken heart. Your tongue dried, lips cracked, skin paled, and flaked into frost. You're tired, exhausted, drained of passion, vigor and fervor. The wolves were silent tonight.  How long would you stay in this clearing? How long will you stand beside this boulder? How many months? How many seasons? How many times? You crumpled to the ground. 

A pure white coat of fur yipped. Scar's intense gaze pierced through your chest- what the hell do you think you're doing?! Your vulpine companion---the only one that stayed since---was not about to let you wallow in defeat. You're not giving up that easily, right? What happened to the trial? The summer clearing? How did you outdo the alpha? Scar's respect was earned by your prowess, and you decided to throw that away? He barked again. "Stop groveling like a child!" If he could speak, challenge you again to another duel. 

You gritted your teeth; what were you thinking? Six months, and you were still determined through this trial. Six months, when most men would grovel at defeat. Six months of blisters, bruises, and blood. Six months wasted if you surrender.

You sprinted; you could feel the tiny sparks of your blood. Your heart accelerated faster than a car engine. Bones and muscles, they grew in bulk as they chugged like springs. Your lungs swell with the prickly air of the winter fury, puffing steam like a chimney. Sweat from a summer heat, you grew hotter and hotter and hotter. That same fire, those same embers. Sparked. Whizzed. Crackled. Pop. Churned. Ignited. Excited. Electrified. 

*KKRRSSSHH*

*BOOOOOOM!!!*

The tectonic plates ruptured, uprooting a whole line of withered trees. They flew into the stratosphere, sending star dust like comets in the distance. Passerines, crows, eagles, and hawks cawed and squawked in fear. An electric current surges through the mountain like a power outage. You hoped the blast wasn't close to the city. Both Blue and Scar looked through the canyon. Icy pewter clouds fluff and clog the skyline. Snow swirls like a blizzard, slicing your skin with a thousand cuts. Exhaust fumes puff from your lips.

You smiled. You chuckled. You laughed. You cheered. 

The boulder was cut clean. Sliced down the middle. 

"Urokodaki! Urokodaki! I've completed the trial!" 

You whooped, waving your trench coat like a flag. You sprinted back to the hut, aching feet melting the snow underneath. Blazing through the bitter cold, an apricity that churns the fires of a nostalgic autumn.

Chapter Text

It's been a millennium. You've grown older, wiser, a little more dowdy. The wrinkles of time crease your forehead as an oily grease fills the cracks. Your body aches; the bones groan and creak like rusted pipes. You were running on exhaust fumes, puffing whatever waste was in your stomach. You could break down like a jalopy, reduced to rust and spare parts. Every bicep, tendon, and artery could be donated to a poor man and would still function better than your own body. Even stretching felt like fungi and rotten bark breaking off an elder tree. You lie supine on the quilt as imaginary maggots and mushrooms grow on your arms and legs. Luckily, the decadent smell of award-winning bass, prized-pig pork, freshly made noodles, plump dumplings, petite quail eggs, and briny soy sauce swimming in a sea of warm broth practically levitated you off the floor. You could salivate as much as a dog. Swallowing it felt like drowning in a murky swamp. Breathing in that umami flavor sends hallucinations flooding in. Are you dreaming? Is this real? Perhaps you're still outside, lying in the dry grass or on the boulder? 

"(Y/N)." Who was that?

"(Y/N)." You know that voice.

"(Y/N)." A labored hand brushes off the growing mildew. "I apologize for interrupting your sleep, but dinner is ready."

Awoken. Fatigued. Ever so hungry. Your hand cramped for some reason. When you flex them, your fingers crackle like a fuse. Heavy moss and rigid fungi shed from your skin. You moaned like weighted branches; your spine quietly snapped like twigs. That savory smell wasn't a hallucinogen; the feast was made and ready for you. You marveled at the sight; every plate of food looked like gold. 

"Well, don't be shy. Eat up." 

"Thank you so much, Urokodaki." 

"The pleasure is all mine. You worked hard for this trial, so we should celebrate." 

To feast on such a bountiful buffet almost made you feel guilty. Blue, Scar, the fox clan—where would they find food? All the mice, voles, and rabbits would be hiding in their burrows. Would they migrate to a different place? You never even got to thank them for their help; all the wild animals fled from your whooping and cheering. Still, you hoped the two had enough food to survive the winter. As you munched on a grilled horse mackerel skewer, you watched your master as he organized the excess pots and bowls aside.

"Aren't you going to eat?" You asked politely.

"No. This celebration is for you." He shook his head. "Besides, I don't have an appetite currently." It didn't seem fair; Urokodaki taught you almost everything you needed to lead to this point. He gifted you that sword. He should at least receive a portion of the feast, especially since he cooked a lot. You dipped a wad of noodles into the soup before slurping the tangle up. You paused before speaking again.

"How exactly does Final Selection work?" You wanted to prepare for this beforehand. Even a simple concept could suffice for your preparation.

"Novice slayers gather on Mt. Fujikasane underneath a grove of wisteria trees, the starting point."

"Another mountain?" You asked.

"Not to worry. It isn't far from here." Urokodaki continued, Once there, they must survive for a week higher up the mountain, inhabited by demons. If you survive, you will become an official member of the Demon Slayer Corps." Urokodaki hummed for a bit. "Though I have been hearing rumors about potential changes to some of the rules for Final Selection. Shortening the time or reducing the number of demons. But those are just rumors. I have no doubt the rules will stay the same as they have for decades." 

An endurance exam. Fitting; stamina is essential for swordsmanship. A swordsman cannot make their judgment of their opponent if they lack the concentration or agility to read their moves. And when it comes to the supernatural, such as demons, endurance is crucial. All arcane skills come with a price—be it energy, sanity, or even one’s very soul. In the heat of battle, if your body cannot keep pace with your adversary, the odds tilt in their favor. Duels seldom end in draws; surviving the harsh bite of winter’s wrath is a challenge in itself. For decades, slayers have endured this same rite of passage. A glint of blue twinkles in your peripheral vision. Your most trusted ally rests on the wooden floor, no longer pulsing a heartbeat or gasping for air. The crystal closes its eye as the sword's veins fade into cracked engravings. It's a miracle the blade survived; your training alone was enough to break your spine, yet the steel managed to hold its own better than you ever could. If it could hear, you would thank it, but the best you could do was smooth over the ornate sheath. The arcanum itself was enough to express gratitude. 

"When does the event begin?"
"During the spring. You'll have enough time to prepare yourself until then." 

Two months' worth of extra training—perfect. Enduring through the winter wouldn't be as hard as you thought. Though you'll still have to repay your master's hospitality. The new year was on the horizon, and you wanted to return every favor of Urokodaki's time before the countdown. But for now, you happily enjoyed the little ecosystem residing in the stew before you. Each morsel chewed and swallowed in gulps. You moaned, savoring the cooked mushrooms and leafy greens. Maybe staying in the old hermit's hideaway for longer doesn't sound like a bad idea.

Steam billows from the scalding rocks. Simmering in a crystal-clear consommé, your body turns florid. Each subtle wave kisses your body, leaving a blush hue over your stomach. Your biceps turn tickled pink like a cooked lobster. Pruney fingers comb through a silky, soaking tapestry; smaller follicles sift through your tiny folds. The boil bubbles as petrichor mingles with the steam. Soaking in a lake on a hot summer day like a wild nymph, you drench your aching body in cupped pools of water. The lake. The river. The hot summer sun. That's right, the little pocket of sunshine you found deep within the woods. Blue, Scar, and the fox clan. What was that place? When you returned from the clearing, the night returned too. September and its bellicose breeze. You almost jumped out of your skin when autumn chided your absence, chattering your teeth with a hair-raising scream. How? That gut-wrenching paranoia washes over you like cold water. You sense no arcanum in the clearing. It wasn't a dream nor an illusion, nor did you believe you were spiraling into madness. That little pocket of sunshine; it was like a globe, enclosed in a biome all its own. The wildflowers, the grass, the canopy, the golden light, the fox clan—it was all real. All natural. Quiet, peaceful, untouched. Even the migrating clouds seem so distant, yet so palpable. How? Just...how?

The comb gifted to you assisted your fingers as they glided through your hair, sloshing the excess water overboard like a flood. Now that you've noticed, your hair fills most of the tub; two cascades drape over the gentle curves of your breasts down the flaccid phallus below. Even a few rebellious strands obscured your eyes from the night. Thick seaweed sprouts from your hair; you open the curtains to reveal the burning coals and candlelight. It's been months, and you haven't properly groomed yourself? Once again, the passage of time has bested you; it feels like a millennium since you became human again. You spot clippers beforehand, so perhaps a trim would freshen you up. Especially your pubic and terminal hairs. They remind you of the sunlit canopy of the clearing, the hedges covering your forest berries. You sweep a hand over them, watching as they suspend under the water like kelp. You wade in the shallow pool, reflecting while trying to find your reflection. 

Final Selection, the exam that determines whether you'll become a member of an uncovered monster-slaying guild. Whether it's the scorching waters or the mere thought of the trial, you tense. A compelling heat ignites the fires of excitement through your veins. Yet, you shiver at the conditions. A week's worth of surviving ravenous demons lurking in a solemn mountain's darkest corners and caverns. Such trials are only imagined by snakes and songbirds. Fictitious emperors peering down at tributes as they face harrowing tests beyond the ethics and mortality of their societal prejudices. Coming-of-age cotillions showcase premature talents as invitations to the real world. Even with your age, the coils of dread squirmed and wriggled like a cobra. Initiations were articles reported on bigotry blogs. Coven meetings wafted through the air of cafes and restaurants. You merely spectated at coronations. Tradition is king. It's human to defend yourself, to stand firm against the dangers and threats of the outside world. It's a part of your family, the empty seat next to you on the dinner table, the white space in your family photo, woven into ancestry tapestries. When a cycle is broken, routine is damaged, or a machine cog crumbles into scrap, you panic. You scrambled. You either grab your belongings and head out the door. Or you stay in your burning home. You become a parent of a future child, waxing and waning to care for it. You panic when it's been tampered with. And you're lost when it dies—a sensitive fetus, easily liable and influenced. And yet, it grows older with inheritance. Tradition is king.  A soldier must never falter. Neither should his artistic son.

Another migraine bloomed; you needed to get out of this tub.

Puddles formed from the sudden flood. The onryō escapes from her well, puffing exhaust fumes from gaping pores. Inky hair flops and clings to your chest. You kept pulling back the murky curtains, shoving the darkness from your face. Clippers immediately.

"(Y/N), are you ready?" 

You adjusted the robe one last time, staring at the model before you. Wrapped in a thin layer of silk, your body felt divine, sacred, confined from the earth's dirt-ridden sins. Hugging the small of your curves, cocooning your virginity, hiding the washcloth tied around your hips. One more sweep over the fabric highlights your small breasts over a flat stomach. A small jacket settled onto your shoulders—starchy yet still soft, and plain in hue, but comforting. You fidgeted as the old man waited for you. Even through scuffed sandals, aged and decayed with time, the soles thumped with a soft resonance. Thin air slipped through the crevices, leaving a hint of petrichor behind. Whitespace opened hidden eyes once covered by the baggage of excess knowledge. The old homes of critters were destroyed by cleansing magical wands and solutions. You breathed in the candor, reveling in the space as if the weight of enlightenment had melted away. Outside the door, that cozy blanket of fresh cotton still warms the earth; Mother Sky doesn't pluck anymore. Soft footsteps barely wake the child as you sneak off like misfits. A fire flickers on the horizon. Darkness dissolves into the light burning onto its skin. Even the air feels slightly warm and hazy as it yawns. 

"Is there anything else we need?"

"Just ourselves." 

The morning dawn burns the shadows of the forest. Not even the sky's frost smothers out the flame. More blemishes bloom on the folds of the clouds, bruising from the light clashing with them. Steam puffs from your lips as your fingers clutch the hems of your jacket. Meanwhile, Urokodaki didn't exhaust one breath. Perhaps the seal of the mask conceals the vapors? 

"Aren't we supposed to see the sunrise today?" You asked.

"That'll be done later," He said, "There's something else we have to do first."

You hummed. "Don't worry, we'll have enough time to watch the sunrise. I know the perfect spot." The old hermit reassured.

The descent down the mountain alleviates the primal anxiety akin to a battering log or a pit trap. The hushed footsteps along the snowy path cool your quivering heart; your master was not trying to kill you this time. A large gasp escapes your hot throat before the icy winds cut through your nostrils. You remember the frigid feeling of fingers shifting through the fabric of your jacket. Eight months of living in the quaint home of a hermit hidden in the mountains. At least, unlike your first visit, you've gotten to visit the inner cityscape. If only you had your phone to capture the makeshift kaleidoscope; those lutins robbed everything for you back in Paris. Eight months. How time has passed. And yet, your service to the hermit has only compensated a small amount of his gratitude, despite how often he tells you there's nothing to repay. He's served too long; this is only the beginning of his retirement. He's grown older, and he's ready to depart from this plane. 

"Foxes usually mean good luck when you spot them."

"Perhaps this clan leader must've blessed you during your trial."

"You've never seen them?"

"Not the ones you speak of."

Your legs spring with each step, drumming down a non-echoic bump. Rorschach blots once spilled over the melting white sheet, forming familiar but indescribable faces of a past life. You wanted to describe them, give them names, retell their stories before the rising sun erases them. One by one, they slide, bleeding off the paper, and dissolve into light. The profound, the obvious, the tangible sunlight. The one that burns the remains of the night before into the next, with a new life restart at the brink of 12. Today was doomsday. The silent implosion that purifies the earth from the past. With raised arms, people touch it. They laugh. They cheer. They celebrate the destruction. That explosion. It burns off the dead weight, the carrion, the cadavers shedded off and lying in the streets. The joyous pyre of a new dawn. Honestly, you think people would jump into fire if it meant a brand new life. The impending sound of solid stone stopped at the bottom. Only a few perky eyes of the canopy peek over the foreign behemoth. Moist rock holds the chronicles of fallen snow, devolving its form. You tensed, rubbing the oil secreted from your fingertips. Suddenly, the sultry robe you wore made your own face flush.

Before you were a behemoth. Some sort of deity, as he decorated himself in vibrant shades of red hinting with a bit of green and balancing the color scheme with a rich black. A few gold imprints tattooed his stocky body: forehead, ears, eyelids, even the tapered layers he wore. And while his size wasn't exactly menacing—"behemoth" was merely an exaggeration from your mind—standing before him made your knees weak. He speaks in silence, yet his words are booming. Straighten up. Fix your robe. Bow down before him. Whatever he commanded, you would obey. Urokodaki walks and stands before him, staring into his sunken eyes. The angered visage clashing against a clear blue sky; the deity wasn't phased, but he respected such courage to step before his sight. You shuffled your feet, following behind. 

"Remember what I taught you?"

You nodded.

The deity's mouth held the clearest water to purify your soiled fingers and that repulsive mouth of yours. You could feel the oils and inks escaping every pore and crevice, washing away the heavy murk. Afterwards, a singular coin appeared from your jacket pocket like a magic trick. Copper. Or perhaps bronze. The number ten shines underneath the sun. Your sweaty palms clutch the coin tightly, lubricating it while trying not to let it slip from your fingers; the storm drain licks its lips with glee. A large offering box sits beside the deity, waiting for your donation. The coin falls safely inside the box. Urokodaki nods at your performance; so far, you're not messing anything up. Next, the bell. It sways silently, hung by a lion's tail like a hanged man. Thick straw twisted and compressed into a mighty spiral; the phantom lion scratches your palms in fright. You ring the bell.

The wind wails one final cry; it knows your name. 

Bow once, twice. Clap once, twice. Make your wish. And finally, bow one more time.

The sun had scorched the land, gifting the first day of a new dawn. The stones were reborn sturdier than before; not a single scuff tainted their bare faces. The trees rejoiced in their constant brushing with fuller shades of green. The sky was a bright blue as the clouds were vaporized by the nuclear light. That heavy anxiety crushing your chest was also pulverized with the explosion. You inhaled the new air, filling your lungs as the sun burns off the past shell of yourself. 

"Well done (Y/N). You had proper etiquette and perfect form." Your fellow anchorite comments.

"Thank you, Mr. Urokodaki." You smiled.

"I told you there's nothing to fret over. The process was simple. There was no room for mistakes."

You turned back to the shrine, awaiting a response.

Nothing.

The lion sleeps.

The bell sways.

The basin runs still again.

The wind coos a whistle to fill the awkward silence.  Not even a disgruntled chuff, what a shame. You peered over the pointed hats to the sky. Fiery orange shrinks into the vast sea. A single ball of light the size of a monkey ball, forever burning a hole through the flimsy blue paper. A new dawn. A new day. A new life for the whole world. You inhaled the slightly viscous air, puffing out the last bits of carbon. 

"Perhaps next year we'll watch it." Your master reassured. The tengu mask peeks into your peripheral; the nose poking outward like a hound. He too breathes in the new dawn, letting the sewn clouds fly and migrate to a blank page. Two large, irked eyes glare at the sun, cursing it, but the candor of his voice softens his structured grimace.

"We must prepare you for Final Selection before the sun sets soon." You followed behind, heading towards the stone stairs again. 

"What did you wish for, sir?"

He pauses, abruptly halting his steps. You flinched, backing away from the silent hermit. Did you break a rule? Are you supposed to ask? New year's resolutions are happily boasted and blurted out after imbibing from their keepers. Were your wishes meant to be hidden, known only by yourself alone? 

The wind coos a whistle to fill the awkward silence. 

You wanted to be vaporized.

"Now, if I tell you that, then our wishes wouldn't become true."

After the explosion, Mother Nature sheds her cotton blanket, exposing her swollen womb. The angel gently coaxed her full stomach, awakening her. The baby was ready, hardly containing itself in her womb. It wants to see the world, to touch the sky, to lie in a garden full of lilies and marigolds. You gazed upon the sky, watching the water cool her stomach; she's sweating. The poor mother. Every time this happens, you can't help but sigh and flutter your eyes like a hypersomniac. Whenever she laughs after giving birth to her child, it feels as though the entire universe joins in her laughter. Another child graced the earth, and she giggles with delight, casting aside the bitter pain of yesteryear. The green unfurls to the trees as they giggle like cheeky children. The animals escape their comfortable homes, returning to the wildness of a world anew. How she laughs while she cries, her bedding covered in cold, wet tears. The cotton tries to swaddle her bump while she sleeps; not a word is spoken whilst she rests as if they're mourning her death. How she laughs, oh how Mother Nature revels in the bittersweet miracle of life. The window fogs up against your breath. The sword cradled in your lap faintly glows as it pulses. The crystal bats an eye at you, fractured with clear blood vessels. It can't sleep, not after that workout. A few colored flags fly with the invisible breeze—black, blue, green, tan, and white—soar like wings, yet clipped to the fragile string. 

"(Y/N), may I tell you something?"

The labored voice of a mature soul snaps you out of your trance. Red and blue are smeared in your peripheral vision. Urokodaki lowers his head as if he broke your heart. Your forlorn form, seated next to the window, casts shadows while the light reflects your body. 

"I had no intention of sending you to the Final Selection." 

You tilted your head slightly. "Whatever do you mean?" 

"I didn't want to see...anyone else die anymore." You could imagine a bitten lip during the pause. Your sword steps aside, letting the two of you speak. "And after our first meeting, I wasn't even sure you were an arcanist." A pregnant pause.

"I was sure you wouldn't be able to slice this boulder, but..." His head was raised once more. "You're as remarkable as my juvenile mind imagined. You've trained hard for this and achieved far faster than any of my previous students." 

"Thank you, Mr. Urokodaki." You chuckled. And you could feel the same smile from behind the mask. "Final Selection starts tonight, right?"

He nodded before stepping towards a drawer nearby. "A demon is as strong as the number of humans he devoured," Urokodaki advised. "There are demons who gain power, can transform their bodies, and even use strange spells." A sheet of white. A face. Speckles of gold create freckles. Streaks of blue line scars. Black strokes open up calm eyes. The old hermit smoothed a thumb over the apple of a cheek. A red string hangs off like a playful tail, and two ears perk up with shimmer after hearing a beautiful melody. 

"This is called a warding mask. I've charged it with a spell to protect you from harm." A lukewarm hum radiates from the mask. Your palms vibrate underneath the smooth white plaster. The paint glistens in the dawn; tiny galaxies trapped in dots upon a blank white void. 

"It's a novice spell, but I think it will suffice." You nodded. "You've gotten better at your incantations, sir."

As their physiology suggests, humans cannot cast arcane skills. From the beginning of time, humans were a subspecies of land, with Neanderthals and Homo sapiens coexisting in Europe and Asia before eventually migrating to Africa. Yet species such as nagas, harpies, Scylla, the mer, and a few fae members roamed the earth as far back as 1000 BC. Even creatures such as prehistoric megafauna like the Megalodon and the Titanoboa dominated the land. Arcanum levels were at their highest, and besides the dangerous predators roaming the land, early humans succumbed to the abundant energy saturating the air, their pneuma burning up from the exposure like nuclear radiation. Humans can't contain arcanum as effectively as arcanists, nor can they expel it from their system. Many historians have called it a miracle that humanity managed to survive, but, of course, with evolution, there's no great being that granted them immunity; it was adaptation—they simply tried to avoid it. The common Americas had lower levels of arcanum, prompting early humans to head West for a clearer environment. Eventually, the empires of old—Byzantine, Ottoman, Assyrian—flourished far beyond their distant counterparts in the West. Arcanum was still prevalent, so arcanists were highly respected by their subspecies in these thriving societies. It wasn't until the reign of Emperor Justinian I that a significant shift occurred: he permitted scholars and priests to instruct the lesser humans in arcane incantations, marking the first instances of human beings wielding arcane skills. However, following the fall of the Byzantine Empire and the rise of the Ottoman Turks, all traces of these teachings were systematically obliterated, erasing any chance of humans learning the ways of arcanum. There are fragmented records of humans participating in coven meetings, cults, crusades, and sacrificial rites—depicting humans dismembering their fellow kin in temples.

And yet to this day, many scholars, teachers, historians, and writers argue about allowing humans to learn arcanum once again, whether from libraries or the school system. Just the subtle phrasing of humans using arcane skills brings a sour taste to people's mouths, for arcanists and humans alike. Homosuperiority—a nicer name for Fantastic Racism—looms like darkness. The smite of an angel. The temptation of a devil. How humanity finds a way to switch the power system to avenge the victims of the Uruk Period. They're not wrong; feudal lords and clergymen use many humans as slaves and sacrifices for their immoral needs, but it wasn't until King Henry V's reign, the first recorded mixed breed of his time, and his victory against the French during the Hundred Years' War, that his reign inspired humans to overthrow their arcane counterparts. When the Industrial Revolution occurred, the fate of arcanists was sealed forever. Those tales of witches and monsters hiding within the shadows of dark forests are little farces and fables of migrant arcanists and sympathetic humans living in isolation, exiled from societal prejudice. If Urokodaki could teach lonely arcanist children how to control their skills, a hermit he shall be forever.

In your eyes, he seemed happy to reside alone.

"It’s time for you to get going. Final Selection begins at dusk.”

You wrapped the red string around your head, letting the mask sit on your forehead. The reflection revealed a new candidate. A prodigy. A successor of a veteran. The weight of cooled, decorative metals bent your shoulders, lifting your chest. Your heart pumps as blood plunges deeper through your body. A hidden physique will soon be adorned with glory; you could hear the call of the night beckoning you. Seize your fear. Wield your gun. The marching men play their instruments. You have a guardian to honor.

The child breathed once you stepped outside. The angel beams from a distance one last time, blessing you before its departure. 

"Make sure you come back alive from Final Selection." A jacket sewn with a portion of the morning sky flutters in the hands of your master. Your sword is bound to your side.

"I shall return home to you, Master, once I complete Final Selection." A stern face turns proud as your master crosses his arms, nodding at his graduate. 

When a man must serve his time, he must labor for each and every blessing he was given. The labors, the pillars; you were given tasks to make up for your wrongdoings. A meal eaten must be returned with the cattle and vegetables. Each article of clothing must revert to the lamb, the dye, and the seamstress. Nights spent sleeping in are met with taxing work at the brink of dawn. Most people return small favors, acknowledge medium ones, and repay greater ones with ingratitude. Each step you walk must equal your saviors—the pious ones. Those who spent their time to aid your lost; he must atone for his past misdeeds. These smoldered souls fallen from skys, hardened ashes fused into the soil to immortalize the dead. Unnamed gravestones. They lend you a hand to rise; if they couldn't reach the summit, they may at least inspire another soul to try. But heaven was black. The pyres were extinguished, leaving the endless, choking smog blocking the light. Clamors of the cadavers, they sweep and whisk away, shaking their cages as they roar in tension. Glimmering beacons outline the walkway and light up the night, leading to the colosseum. Liquid amethyst drips like molten wax off the edges of dreams, freezing into delicate icicles that shimmer coldly in the light. Eternal fireworks. The crowd below cheered and exulted as the crystal droplets jingled with mirth. Climb, o mighty predecessor, you promised—never once ordered—that you live in his name. The masters and mavens are watching you from above. Intoxicated off of golden apples and ambrosia, they want to be entertained. A bullet was shot at the moon. 

"Wow..."

Pearls. Iridescent pearls shimmered and dangled into necklaces, hanging from their clasps as they glowed with the moonlight. Perfume sashayed by your nose like an enchantress in tulle. You caress their delicate beads, carefully petting them whilst trying not to rip them. Hark! Your competitions are here. Arcanum reverberates in a balance; adolescents, young adults, even grade schoolers gathered around the lobby, waiting, meditating, and conversing with each other. Leitmotifs caught your eyes, summarizing a brief background for each candidate: Emblems, family crests, soul tattoos, lucky charms, ornate jewelry, ceremonial garbs, minor familiars. You heed their stories. Quiet prayers merge with the finicky gossip. Canine and feline ears perk up to the breeze. A few candidates were even training, bolstering their weapons for the younger crowd. Swords, long bows, axes, spears, sickles, daggers, staffs, and wands. Even a cat o' nine tails crackled the dense air, making you jump. You breathe in the thin air; the cramped walls of the lyceum return to your heart. Even if you can't see them, they were watching. The enchantresses and their pearls and dresses swayed with the cool night, drunk off their own perfume. Breathe, (Y/N). You're not on the island. 

"Everyone..." 

A little chime echoed. 

The anteroom became silent.

Standing before the candidates were two little girls. Identical twins mimicking each details, down to their posture. A complete mirror image except for their hair, tail, and horn color. The girl on the left had snow white hair with a rosy-hued dragon tail and horns shaped like staghorn coral, while the girl on the right had inky black hair with a lilac colored tail and horns. They glow and flow like lava lamps. Deep, almost soulless eyes stare into space, yet pierce through the hearts of the candidates. 

 "We thank you for coming here tonight, to the Demon Slayer Corps Final Selection." They said in unison. Their voices blended perfectly to the point that it sounded like a singular layered voice. 

In the corner of your eye, another figure walks in. Or rather, rolls in. A glorious chariot, she sits as and surveys the audience. Raven hair flows from a decorative hat, cascading elegantly over a portion of her dress. She takes note of each candidate, humming and nodding slightly, keeping a mental tally of the hopeful warriors here today. A wooden hand tenses on her right shoulder; pensive, mayhaps a little impatient. Brightly colored nails tap in rhythm; a simple tune, but the colors hypnotized your eyes. 

"There are monsters imprisoned here on Mt. Fujikasane, captured alive by the Demon Slayer swordsmen and unable to leave." The white-haired girl continued her speech. You focused on the twins again.

"That is because wisteria, which demons hate so much, blooms year-round from the bottom to halfway up the mountain."

"However, there is no wisteria from this point on, so demons abound."

Your breath trembled as it escaped your nose. The shackles were loose; outside these borders, housed the wild and the rabid. You tried to steel yourself, biting your inner cheek as punishment. More quivering breaths slipped out; there was no reason to fear what awaited past the woods, at least not in front of the others. Your gaze found her again—the spectator. Her eyes, hidden beneath the brim of her hat, were fixed on you. Pretty pink lips curl into a smile. "Have faith," she encouraged with a gentle nod. A silent sonnet tingled your ears. Your heart slows down as it swells. In response, you smiled back.

"You'll need to survive here for seven days to pass Final Selection." The twins spoke in unison again, "And now, be on your way.” They bowed their heads as another chime rang.

Whispers of a horrific yore; the colors desaturate from your eyes. Every tree clones itself thrice as blackened roots claw the hard dirt, cracking through the earth as if rising from the grave. You sip a sliver of clean air behind a rock. Those carbon-breathing copies, mere echoes of life, their dark eyes stare into yours. A corn field. A maze. The unnerving underbelly of the land. The labyrinth of Styx; you could find the most bizarre cryptids here. Even just thinking about it, the Sasquatch seemed like a better neighbor than the wild demons roaming. The nights stretched so thin, sunlight pours through the clouds like ichor from suicidal cuts. Any drop of ambrosia would satisfy your thirst; you could feel your throat drying by the second. The days grew longer, conjoining themselves into an amalgamation; time lost to an unshakable sense of dread. Hazy, myopic, yet there's no fog clouding the way. You might as well become the hag of this forest; the other candidates must've completed the test already, leaving you behind in the ghastly thicket. 

HHHHIIIIISSSSSS!!! 

Violent, sibilant snarls rattled wooden hunchbacks. A new presence looms. Oily hair glossed over a masticated face. Gnarled fingers chewed and broken. Bits of cloth ripped and torn, revealing a bare chest and scarred shins. How wretched the figure was. It licked its lips, the excess drool watering a newborn sprout. You readied yourself, awaiting the beast before you. It lunges at you, but you avoid it just in time. Your sword pulses with a clear light; a vigor shared between weapon and wielder. Sparks fly like sprites as your hair whips your face. You blocked the first attack and dodged the second one. The demon's moves were frantic; more drool spat over its face. A quick tumble soon lifted you back to your feet as you pounced forward, cutting the demon's neck with ease. You inhaled a gulp of air, calming your nervous heart. You almost choked on yourself, sprinting off in a different direction. You cursed yourself about your bad sense of direction; a few trees started to look familiar. 

*doom!*

Minor tremors hooked your ears. Mayhaps you weren't alone in this; faint lights flickered in and out through the trees. The grove was too thick to find survivors, but you assumed your competitors had everything under control. At least, the ones that are participating. A little inkling popped into your head a few sunrises ago: if you were clever enough, you could survive the entire week without killing a single demon. Demons have a heightened sense of smell, higher than an African Elephant. And a certain type of blood, Marechi, attracts them the most. You've never taken a blood test to check, but it never hurts to presume a little. If a clever man were to disguise their scent—perhaps find a miniature cavern and hide away until the final sunrise—he would technically complete the challenge. Though that lie would rise to the surface once the clever man is sought out. You could only imagine the con man atoning for his farce the only way possible: being eaten alive. You shook your head.

Soon, it was getting harder to breathe. You weren't going further up the mountain, right? More clouds clotting the skyline; shadows faded into the darkness. Your eyes wander upon the trees. How crooked they looked, all grasping for the morning sun with their pale, nimble hands. How they wanted to clutch the sun, greedy for the light to quench their dry bones. You caress one of their branches; an old hag's face brittle and cracking with each touch. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

You whipped your head around. A shrill, deafening scream shattered the quiet mourning. For some reason, you ran in that direction. Such a quidnunc; your mind started to spiral, hallucinate, dreaming of the nightmares behind that scream. Blood, pouring from the orifices of another. Claws, ripping and tearing limbs from a morsel. A mouth, gaping, drooling, starved of meat, willing to eat the first beating heart it senses. You could hear bones snapping in half as a mouth sucks up the marrow underneath. Wet, sloppy, messy eating; no beast ever cared for table manners. You spot a shivering figure huddled against a knobbly tree. You proceeded with caution; the sight of a shaggy tail irks a brow. You stepped through a bush, snapping the loose twigs tangled in between it.

The figure jumps, "W-Who's there?!" 

Even you flinched. The tip of a quarterstaff illuminated in the night. The shaggy tail sweeps the forest floor, dusting the dirt from the earth. 

"It's okay. I'm just another contender." An outstretched hand tries to calm the flustered opponent. A quiet hum and a bit lip; the being shooks anxiously in deep thought. They soon step into the light, revealing reptilian scales that flicker underneath the slices of moonlight. Long, silky hair tries to cover a large shell from view. Bubbly, vantablack eyes scrutinize your features; their button nose twitches slightly. They sigh, holding their hammering heart, before offering a warm smile again. 

"Sorry, I thought you were another demon." They apologized, but you nodded it off. "I'm Tsuda Chie."

"(Y/N) (L/N)." A rumble made the girl yelp. 

"There it is again." She quivers, her staff shakes a brittle twig. Unlike her, however, you decided to follow it. "Where are you going?"

"Towards the noise."
"You can't! That demon's too strong." Her nails pinch your skin, biting you to stay. 

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

But that scream...

If you let it play, you'll never get that earworm out of your head.

"I have to save them." Bracelets of blood adorn your wrist; you didn't even wince when her fingers ripped your skin. That scream, that nightmare; you'll never live with the grief weighing your body beneath a black sea.

Through a few brambles and bushes, you manage to reach the source.

Though you wish you had fled sooner.

It's exactly as you envisioned. 

A flayed cadaver, still rolling its eyes, sways by the severed shin from a gargantuan hand like a macabre trophy. It squeezes the last drops of blood bleeding from the ankle, cracking the femur and letting the marrow seep through a pant leg. Raised, higher than the hunched trees, up to the clouded palace of God, the hand aligns its dangling little fawn over its head. A hole. A void. An eternal darkness. Hell. The corpse is sucked in like a guppy. The shark hums and gurgles. A sickening crackle of young bones echoed through the forest. It grows larger from the delicious meal, savoring the metallic, intoxicating taste of a poor man. The wine leaks from a covered mouth. Hands, veiny and molded, snaking each other in a self-hug, revering the entity, worshiping the body they're sewn to. Your legs turned into feathers, fluttering, circling, somehow holding your lead body up. Your hands were strangling the poor tree branch. 

"Hey! I told you not to—"

A hand shoots out of the demon. You tackled Tsuda to the ground, lying deliciously before the demon.

"Hmm~. Another sweet little fox has come to me~." 

Tsuda scampers to her feet, shaking like a leaf; her eyes look glossier than before. The fox mask shifts from your face towards your forehead as you redo the short ponytail you crafted beforehand. Your eyes met the bloodshot ones of the demon. It's practically drooling; drinking up the sight of your body, the mighty bones, the delicious blood. It's just...that mask...it piques the entity's interest. 

"Little fox cub, what is the year of Meiji now?" 

Your eyes widen; how would you know? What's Meiji? It's currently 2033. Does it mean that?

"Uh...I don't know..." You said meekly. The demon hums at your answer, peering through your mortal form. His eyes started to burn through your skin, digging dark burns into your flesh.

"It's...It's the Reiwa Period. Reiwa 15." Tsuda's lips trembled, yet she was able to hand her offering to the demon.

"Reiwa...?" He ponders for a bit, swallowing the info before choking on his own breath. "Time has passed into a new period?! Again! While I've been held prisoner at this stupid place! Unforgivable! Damn you, Urokodaki!" It stomped the hard earth beneath it, sending shockwaves that jolted your fellow competitor to the bones. Wait...

"How do you know Mr. Urokodaki?"

"I know him, alright! Because Urokodaki is the one who captured me! I'll never forget that day 47 years ago! Back when he was still hunting demons! It was the Edo Period during the Keio Era."

The math wasn't right. The Edo Period stood nearly 150 years in our past; it is hardly surprising that this demon lost all sense of time.  Yet, with that said, it means this demon is about 200 to 300 years old. Roaming around in an era beyond what this generation could ever experience, wandering through epochs, history textbooks and torn sepia photographs. This demon witnessed empires rise and saw them crumble into ruin. It remained untouched by the industrial transformation of cityscapes, untouched by the collapse of monarchies. To be bound to the past for so long, when your reality is tied to the bygone years of yester and yore—hidden away from the world beyond the confines of this prison. A chrono-comatosis. And when reality itself fractures, when the relentless march of time crashes into one's being with the weight of a thousand tragedies, what becomes of a soul left to grapple with such despair...?

"You're...You're lying!" Tsuda accused, "No demon has ever lived that long! The only demons that should be here are the ones who've only eaten two or three humans!"

"I've survived all this time. Inside this wisteria prison, I've at least eaten fifty of you brats." The demon retorts before peering back towards you. "And that makes you..." Another set of spoiled hands crack their weary bones as the demon counts each finger. "11...12...13...Number 14~" He grips an invisible heart as he coos the number.

"What? What are you talking about?" The demon merely giggled. 

"Hehe~ That's the number of Urokodaki's disciples that I've eaten. Hehehe~ I promised myself to kill every one of his disciples." Your heart lurched, dragging your insides through the earth. Tsuda faded into the landscape; her desperate breaths melded into the chilling wind of the thicket. The forest warps into a macabre painting; horrible images of skinned children eaten alive. Their screams. Their wails. Their cries. Their pleas. The anguished prayers of their parents to save them from this horror. Beesching for the angels. Why God? Why won't you save the children? Why God, WHY?!

"Let's see...hmm...the ones who particularly stand out to me...Yes, it's those two. The brat's hair was an unusual color. He was the most powerful, he had pinkish hair, a scar by his mouth. The other one was a female brat in a flowery kimono; she was small and weak, but she was awfully agile." 

You saw them. Yes, the children. His scar was torn open once again. Her bright eyes glossed over with tears. Their blood seeps into the earth's arid cracks, watering the white wildflowers in red. Their wine quenches the fallen victims of the same demise. Your stomach caves in, gouges out whatever remains, and eats itself; starved of a ray of hope, it claws the matter swimming at the bottom. You wanted to throw up the exhaust fumes, the hurricanic pollution filling you with emptiness. You stumble to your knees; the mind fuzzes into bloated haze so thick it blinds your eyes. 

"That mask." The demon pointed at the mask on your head. "I can tell by the fox masks. I can tell that the texture of the masks that Urokodaki carved has the same style of carving as his goblin mask." The demon quirks a brow. "Warding mask, huh. Everyone got eaten just because they were wearing them. Urokodaki might as well have killed them himself!" It giggled like a child, the belly jiggling with each breath. "When I said that to the girl, she was crying and fell into a rage, and because of that, she lost control of her movements. I ripped off her limbs, and then..."

"Please! Stop!" Tsuda shouted, her hands gripping her hair tightly; she might as well rip her head off, lobotomizing herself to forget what she's heard. "I can't...I can't take it..." She crumpled to the ground; her sanity is completely gone. 

"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!" She bolts off in a craze. You watch her run off, but the demon halts her escape as it shoots a hand towards her, clutching her leg. She screams, piercing the air, panics as new scars cut the dirt. You watch her wriggle around like a deer, her tears splashing like rain. You stand up, but the fuzziness blurs every piece of judgment into smeared ink. Your legs were phantom limbs, phasing through the forest floor. The cries. The wails. The darkness. The war.

She bursts into a wild sprint, and you watch as the demon intercepts her flight, its hand snatching at her leg. A scream pierces the air as panic envelops her, the earth beneath tearing as she thrashes in desperation. Tears streak down her face, falling like rain in a storm. You rise to help, but the world blurs, and your thoughts turn to a muddled haze. Your legs feel as if they belong to someone else, lost to the grip of the forest floor. The cries, the wails, the suffocating darkness—all of it envelops you like an impending storm of chaos.

Stand up. 

Stand up.

Stand up!

They were never ready for this. They were just children. Why torment them? Why send them to hell? You false God, you bring your powers to purge; the unholy fires so cold it burns the hearts of mortals. You are no God, you are Lucifer. And while we are no better, it is no right to chain a father, a mother, a daughter to the rock and be eaten alive by Cetus, hollowing out stomachs and being flogged outside in the cold. Our garments, crimson and furious, shatter their barriers of ice, sending bosoms of the harvest to their chapped lips, spoon-feeding them milk and honey and wine and water. Three slices of bread; crumbs to the child, the pregnant mother, and the old man. Their legs and wrists are like a growing child's, ribs ripping through a lace of flesh. Eat the dogs. Eat the rats. Eat the wall that shelters your home. Eat your fathers. Eat your mothers. Eat your sisters and brothers as winter eats you. They would rather be fed with dust from the wreckage than the molten lead of your furnace. You false God, through hell's fire we sing. We shall continue to sing. Enough to where we'll scream in your ears; echolalia morphing into wails of agony, your victims haunting your minds. We will terrorize you. Cleave through your scorching iron and smouldering coals, the burns marking a testament to chains that fall away, branding us with an exchanged freedom. Eat the coals. Eat the iron. Eat the lead. Eat the fires engulfing your people. Eat the bullets. Eat the bombs. Eat them all. Devour. Conquer. Triumph. We stand by our saviors. We shall never fall.

What resonates in her ears is just the beginning. It's merely the first movement, but the second wave will crash soon. She smiles in giddy delight, almost shaking in her wheelchair. The climax. Yes, that gorgeous climax. She beams; the flowers follow the light of her smile. She shivers; the brittle winter chills her spine. She can hear the bullets slicing through the atmosphere, shattering the ice and melting the fragile snowflakes. The bombs, their shockwaves, tremble the solid earth with each booming drum. Commands from the Red Army cut through the chaos; release the prisoners, our Andromeda, they are the most precious treasures of the land, sea, and sky. Slay the whale, boil it in searing oil, strip away its skin, and shed its diamond scales. Her heart races, tremors in tandem with the earth. Her stomach craters in on itself as the bitter frost bites her fingers. Even from the sidelines, she fears being killed.

She sighs from her high, trying to quiet her excitement. The cool breeze drifts the sweet-smelling sedative; she could feel the frost chipping off her shoulders. She brushes the invisible snow fallen on her dress. A hand crawls into her lap, pausing the cassette player with a finger while the other massages her shoulder. She thanks her companion for the consolation, watching the two children play with a temari ball. The little ball hops through the purple showers like a little bird playing through the trees. She gazes upon the little ball, rising and falling in sinusoidal fashion.

Those soldiers, running through the forest trenches, are just children. They're not ready to face what's come beyond this garden. The others can barely handle the burdens of this job; she still hears the somber sonatas of her past missions. The high-pitched scratches of violins, the pained unturned pianos, the cracking bones erupting from flesh as blood drips into waiting rivers and cascading waterfalls, bubbling from their bodies. Broken glass, a blood-curdling scream. She felt lightheaded just thinking about it.

Why?

Why torment them?

Schwien. They're meat for them. A slaughterhouse. She can hear their squeals. The piglets, the children. 

Why?

Why torment them?

Why continue these trials?

The many curses of their families brew and cluster within the Corps. Countless threats; they demanded that their children return. Where's our Andromeda? Answer us! How dare you kill my brother! My sister! My child! With your false prophecies, your false god. Believing you're the saviors of this world, representing the virtue of arcanists, liberating them from the shackles bound to the rock they're imprisoned. Where was Perseus when you needed him the most? Coming in a flash of lightning, riding off from the heavens into the vicious sea and its horrid beast. Like every tale woven by the Greeks, some gallant, Herculean superhuman faces a challenge beyond what the gods could even imagine. That's what arcanists were: superhuman. Something phenomenal, transcending the limits of science, of law, of even religion. Something greater, yet still anchored to humanity. With being such a high-ranking member, one would think she traverses traumas with grace and patience. Elegance, poise, standing tall with her back straightened, chin up, and eyes lidded and calm, level-headed in the face of danger. Gifted, talented, blessed by both Venus and Mars. A swan shouldn't be bathing in pools of blood, they say, she'll never get her feathers white again. She should be back to her noble home with her noble family in her noble country, far away from demons and witchcraft and slaughter—Japan's darkest abysses. She can't leave. She, too, is shackled to this rock. She, too, needs a hero, despite being venerated as one. 

For now, she drinks the freezing sea water crashing against her naked body, until the Red Army comes.

*Doom*

Spasms, the earth trembles. Arcane skills ring through her vacant ears; the many symphonies mingle in harmony. She shivers; each sound weighs an energy so heavy it bends her shoulders downward. All she can do is wish for their survival, offering nothing more than fragile hopes. But those hopes remain just that—wishes. Miracles don't happen on a whim. Shooting stars don't sprinkle dreams into reality. Perhaps she's read too many fairy tales; her overflowing bookshelves don't do her any good. And the cassette player only makes her more delusional. She watches the little ball bob in and out of the trees. Eyes hooded and a smile melting away. 

*Doom*

The earth convulsed again; the trees ache as they crack and snap. The wisteria rocks with the sudden wind. A few petals took flight as they fluttered past her. 

*Doom*

Another quake. Now tree bark splinters into shreds. Gnarled roots puncture the solid earth, pointing daggers at their intruders. She takes a glance at the exit. Nothing.  Shadows writhe in the moonlight, their movements unsettling in the stillness. No smashed keyboards. No plucked strings. Not even the sound of a drum, nor the whistle of a flute, neither a heartbeat—only silence. Dawn looms, and if no one emerges victorious by then, the challenge will end. She nibbles her lips; her brother would scorn her to stop if he were here. Her companion twitches in worry.

*Doom*

Those tremors. Where are they coming from? A candidate? A demon? Every sound trails to an object, a place, or a person. Why can't she picture it? She cups her ear; the golden ear cuff shimmers as a chime rings. The staff, the notes, the melody. Picture it. Hear it. Listen to the mysteries of the grove. Find that shrouded song.

*DOOM!*

She gasp. The wheels of her chariot rattled like golden bones; she peered deeper in. Dark, ominous creaking; the trees groan underneath the gravity of the fight. Loud thumping stomps the earth; that familiar tune of dissonance. A shaky rhythm where even the strings and keys are too startled to make a sound. Trembling fingers, broken wrists, fingernails ripped from their origin. Teeth made from razors, bones crunching against metal, wet, sloppy eating with smacking lips, as blood drools from an orifice. The souls of the damned wallowed in a tight chamber, crying, begging, clawing her skin. They steal her breath to prevent them from drowning in stomach acid. She convulsed, gulping the intoxicating scent of the flowers, masking the stench of noxious phlegm. Two wooden hands try to steady her breathing, release her from the abyss she fell into.

But...there's something else... 

Thunder...

*DOOM!*

Flashes of yellows. Streaks of blue. Gold. White. Black. Tremors. Voltage. Sparks. The earth shudders, quaking under the strain, as the wild thicket is ripped apart, roots torn from their sanctuary and wildflowers scorched to ashes. Trees splinter into firewood, some lifting from the ground like leaves tossed in a tempest. Mother Earth bears the burn marks; she hears the crackle of grass succumbing to the rage of lightning. It is a dry storm—no rain to quell the inferno. Her hair stands on end, and the silence is deafening; there's no tremolo, no trills, no vibrato. No trumpets blowing with pride, no viola accompanying the violent thunder, no orchestra battling against the hurricane. Raw, unbridled storms.

The skyline cracks.

"Huch!" When she opened her eyes, she froze. 

The moon...it shattered!

Selene cries golden tears, glistening like jewels as they cascade down her fragile face. Chang'e, her home, is now split into shards of glass. Scars bleed sticky ichor as Artemis pursues her relentless hunt, seemingly unfazed by her injuries, never crying in pain, her quiver never quivers. Stunned, almost queasy, the noble woman pales in fright, a stark contrast to the beauty surrounding her, but her eyes gleam in awe. Golden scars. Azure contours. The threshold. The gate to a new realm. A plane beyond this one. Where stars are born. Where space is broken. Where heaven and earth merge into one. 

"Willa-nii...what's going on...?"

Götterfunken. Sparks of the gods. 

*KRRSH— *

*DOOM!*

The storm brews; a sharp tempest blows through the wisteria trees, sending a whirlwind of petals to the skies. The sounds of broken windows scream in her ears; her hat flies off her head, but her companion lunges to snatch it back from oblivion. Wuthering howls lift her dress, threatening to hurl her fragile body into the chaos like a trembling parasol. The twins huddled close to her chariot; the little temari ball had vanished, whisked away into the night. The squall rages on, bellowing hollow howls like a poltergeist. Monstrous shadows jump from the treetops, wreaking havoc on their fellow brethren. Nocturnal birds squawked as they fled the hurricane; sirens for the wilderness to evacuate the area. She covers the children's ears as she eyes the moon. More fractures seep through the satellite as glitter falls from the heavens. Stardust. Sprinkling dreams into reality, just as she read, just as she imagined. Perseus, descending from heaven in a bolt of lightning towards the churning seas, driven to slay the mighty beast and save Andromeda from her shackles upon the shoreline. Her heart surged, electrocuted by lightning, sending shockwaves down her spine, almost bringing life to her legs. A grandiose symphony ignites her ears. Amidst the thunder, she can hear it: The ballad of the storm. 

*KRRRSSHH!!! *

Her eyes lock with theirs. 

She's lifted off the ground.

The world stops turning.

Perseus holds their face. The girl in their arms lies limp, weary, tired, frail. Her pallor spreads across her body as her song fades. Blood doused both their clothes; the savior is littered with rips and tears—bearing the marks of battle—digging deep into their skin. Lightning outlines their silhouette, shifting in and out of reality, fracturing this plane and the beyond, a world so distant from the mysterious void of space. Ichor mixes with sweat as it drips off their face; her heart pounds. 

She's...enamored...

Daylight had risen, lighting the path of God as the seraphim hurried over to her, asking for a doctor on hand. Her mouth must've been agape as when swallowing, she tasted the dryness of her throat. 

"Ah—Yes, medical aid will be on its way shortly." She stutters. The twins were still shell-shocked from the storm, as their tails were still sticking up, and their tiny hands gripped onto her dress. Her hands gently pet their heads, calming them down from the thunderstorm. 

"Congratulations. "We're pleased to see that you made it." She smiles. Soon, the twins headed towards the white table, with her following behind. 

"First, we shall issue you all uniforms. We will take your measurements, after which your rank will be engraved. There are ten ranks in all..."

"Kinoe. Kinoto. Hinoe. Hinoto. Tsuchinoe. Tsuchinoto. Kanoe. Kanoto. Mizunoe...and Mizunoto." 

"Currently, you are at the lowest rank, which is Mizunoto."

The savior nods as they adjust the girl upright, her head hidden in the crook of their neck. Veins bulged from their vital point, tracing down their shoulder to a taut bicep. She felt heat rise to her cheeks at the sight. Oh dear, now's not the time to ogle about.

"We will now assign you your own Kasugai Crow." Said Kanata

"These Kasugai Crows can be used primarily for communication." Added Kiriya. 

Two claps of small hands echoed through the vacant enclosure. The flowers merely brushed aside the call while the trees took in a quiet breath. The savior wanders their head, the twins quietly hum, and the fair lady raises a brow. Surely, the crows haven't been swept by the wind. Those birds are more resilient than seagulls on a barren beach. They've weathered thunderstorms, hurricanes, and tsunamis, cutting through the clouds like fighter jets puncturing their way back home. She gazes into the horizon; the light canvas never blotted a drop of ink. Kanata claps again.

...

Caw!!!

A screech breaks the tranquil hush. From the depths of the sky, a grand silhouette emerges, eclipsing the sun with its magnificent wings. Another piercing cry echoes through the field as the blossoms shake from the sound. As the shadow descends, its true colors start to shine. A warm auburn drapes across a wingspan as elegant as a cherubim, with pure white accents on the tips painted over by blanketing brushstrokes. A sharp, direct beak and a robust body call for a rise of leadership; gilded eyes furrowed upon the sight of the dumbfounded, meek flesh intruding into its homeland. Soon it rested upon the savior's shoulder, greeting it before addressing the people standing before it. A golden eagle. It mutters something into the savior's ears, noting their surroundings. Callous, bloody fingers brush against its feathers, petting its head and chest. The eagle chirps in delight, bonded with its new comrade.

At last, it lands gracefully upon the savior's shoulder, a greeting exchanged like whispers of fate before it turns to address the spellbound crowd. A golden eagle, radiant and majestic. It shares hushed words into the savior's ear, its keen gaze absorbing every detail of the world around them. Calloused, crimson fingers gently caress its shimmering feathers, tenderly stroking its head and chest. The eagle chirps in joyful response, forging an unbreakable bond with its newfound companion, two souls entwined in a destiny woven with magic.

The garden fades into a Fauvist landscape; all other sounds fade away. The wisteria turned intoxicating, turning her own breath into a grove of those trees. To gawk at the presence of strangers is highly unladylike for her title. But, how could she not? The scrolls, the prophecy, her onkel's stories, they weren't fairy tales, nor mere hallucinations, neither some dream his mind conjured. This world holds too many possibilities at the hands of life. Fiction at one's fingertips; this world is too limitless for fallacies. Heroes of these epics, these tales, are real. Prince Yamato, Sun Wukong, the epic of Gilgamesh, Odysseus and his journey; sometimes ago they were real. To this day, living descendants—mirrors of a past life—are passed down their skill, their own blood. How could miracles not be born? How can't a star grant a wish? They are arcanists, a race capable of defying gravity itself. Their stories keep their lives preserved in beautiful coffins, welcomed by the public to remember. How can't the impossible be possible, in this era they live in? 

Be it a miracle. Call it a blessing from God. For centuries, their wish had finally come true.

Chapter Text

You didn't understand what exactly happened. An entire week surviving in a forest appeared as a nightmare rather than a vivid reality. To come fairly unscathed from an intense fight? The poor cloak; puffy cumulus clouds shredded into wispy cirrus as the sky stains with the blood of grass and soil. The plonk of you and Tsuda cakes the hems, weighing it down and failing to clog the holes. You looked at your palms: brittle, arid, with your fingernails crusted with soil from scratching Mother Earth's bosom. Yet beneath it all, you could see claws growing from the cuticles—the ones the wolf, the dying fox, the wild animal lashed out onto her. Forgive, Gaia, forgive your soul. Don’t let guilt seep into your tired heart for acting in self-defense; the clan's harvest bears no reflection of your choices, nor should you blame your mentors for their customs. You fiddled with your sword, Tsuda, the bunyip girl. Passed out during the fray after she was free from the demon's grasp. Her screams fell silent whilst the demon bellowed in pain. The fervor, the instinct, the programmed will to live hacked into a fear override, seeing red through the black. Seeing blood through the mildew. Coming for the kill as the demon screams bloody massacre. Gold and stardust; when the planet stopped for a mere moment, you made clean cuts, severing the head before dismembering the arms. Ashes and cries; the fire extinguishes, and you hauled the yokai out of the forest. Forgive, Gaia, you left horrid scars on her beautiful body. Forgive your weary heart, but it was all to survive.

You looked at your palms; the licks of gold are gone. Ichor purified into sweat, a sticky layer of grime clung to your face. The fractures were sealed; you weren't phasing through realities. You palmed the left side of your abdomen, patting and feeling the flesh underneath your garbs. For your body to be split into pieces like glass while the very essence of reality tears between your eyes, it was enough to scare the life out of you. Thankfully, your organs were functioning properly in their appropriate places. A beating heart, vacant lungs, percolating veins pumping vitality, and a brain still fuzzing from the high. Your skin bristled like grass, but the electric current had ebbed away. A million questions buzzed and whizzed into your head, swarming the one that kept your eyes wide open.

What are you?

Your attacks are...violent, almost cathartic. Capable of mass destruction through the creation of sheer intensity. The post-traumatic stress of a hellbent war you never fought. You were a child, the prime age of consumption. Innocent, naive, damn near stupid for that matter. Once a warm body reduced to a mere number recorded by the flying metal birds and their barbaric goslings. A statistical error; if only they knew you were alive. What was left unsaid now screams with every attack. Raw and unbridled, as the chapel choir cries in harmonic anguish. A pain equally shared amongst. You carried their souls. The elders. The children. The Aegeans of the lost isle. You carried their souls, their memories, their spirits.

But...how come you haven't seen anyone from your past?

The infamous Pollock Twins case revealed the exact symptoms. Gillian and Jennifer, echoing their elder sisters from their birthmarks to the way they hold their pencils. The proof of reincarnation. Soon, monks, priests, exorcists, and, over time, scientists would resurrect this case for further research, diving deeper into the mystery. Unlike Christianity, the fundamental belief of Buddhism stems from the concept of driving karmic imprints to shape one's future life. New body carrying the fragments of a past life—enough shards to create a reflection, enough weight to hunch newborn shoulders, enough burdens to drown a ship. Catholic was the father, and he had a firm belief in reincarnation since childhood. The mother was skeptical, since the concept was against her religion, but her girls showed enough proof to soften the heretic accusation of her late husband. Reincarnation was possible; Dr. Ian Stevenson’s extensive research contributed to the understanding, as numerous books and documents of his cases pursued the knowledge he acquired across the globe. The "apparent memories of former incarnations".

Was that...you? Was it your case? The scroll from Urokodaki. The rain. The plight. The angel. The storm. What about the pocket watch and the epoch from London? Forthwind. That absurd colleague of yours. And the storm once again. Surely it can't be true, Stevenson's last book was published back in 2003: European Cases of the Reincarnation Type. Arcane skills have rapidly evolved from the 2000s, bringing about an abundance of possibilities floating and lying in the limbo between canon and fallacy. You never registered for an HCC to clarify your lineage, but you always believed your arcane skill allowed you to inhabit pieces of literature and art. The lush growth of spring from La Primavera, the reticent familial drama of Jane Austen's Persuasion, the gathering for Saint John's Sermon. Sometimes there's chatter, often there's silence. The colors would blend and merge in still motion, while those haunting harmonies wailed and washed like whispering ghouls. It's mesmerizing. It's tantalizing. It's...disturbing. Art should move you, but it shouldn't move. Not to mention, your skill is pretty useless.

At least...you thought it was...

Cathartic, violent, destructive, and dangerous. You never thought of terror or the apocalypse. Quiet, calm, expressionless at times—like the uncanny silence of a sterile hospital corridor sanitized from panicked doctors and rotting patients. Empty, but capable of hiding...secrets. You looked at your hands. Were you a killer? Some deranged lunatic on the run? Or those serene predators with perpetual smiles and soothing demeanor, capable of killing you with kindness before poisoning your meal? Empty. Sterile. Dead. You couldn't stop watching the claws grow and shine with the moonrise. Even though you killed the demon, the echoes of adolescent cries rang like the death knell. Even though you killed the demon, you wounded Mother Earth. Has she heard your prayer? Has she forgiven you yet? The all-encompassing darkness indicated Father Sky was either displeased or slumbering, as all the stars were snuffed out. You bit your lip, wincing at the pain boiling in your system, and the fires burning your legs, and some open orifice trickling blood. You had navigated farms and homes, climbing up the mountain slope. Your lungs squeezed, barely expanding, and your heart started to rupture quicker, lightning speed, forcing you to cough as the blood choked your veins. 

Upon your sight lay the humble home of the hermit. Like a beacon to a castaway, like a moth to a flame, you exhaled in relief, smiling at the sight. Thank the Great Being above.

You started to run. A horrid mistake for the state you're in, but jubilation overtook your body, turning the searing pain into a masochistic pleasure. You ran like a lost child. You ran like hell. You ran home. And outside the home stood your mentor, your host, and your good friend.

"Master!"

He turned around.

"I'm home!" 

Your smiling form was enough to make the old man run. He ran like an athlete. He ran like hell. He ran to his child. A warm hug soothed your aching body like the coals of a churning furnace. By the Great Being above, it was the best hug you've ever had.

"You came back to me alive."

There was no sound better than the crackling fire of a home. The smell of the open hearth released the tension from your body, as the aroma of aloe and eucalyptus seeps into your nose and bones. The open wound stopped weeping, clothed in cotton sheets for a peaceful rest. You felt the hardening fusion of calcium and collagen break and brittle with each stretch, hearing them crack through unclogged ears. Warmth from your recent bath still steams from your body while the nails are shaven down from their wolverine claws, and the blood washed into the river. New clothes—the former robe during your training—now cover your pinkish body. Kneeled in front of you was your master, dried from the tears he shed and poised just as before. Angered eyes looked more determined, proud of your success, yet crestfallen in the depths of their gaze.

"I see. You killed that morphed demon." 

"That's right." You nodded. You watched your master’s slight bow of his head. To tell the loss of a child in front of a parent is such a delicate task; you now see why doctors can be so frantic. You didn't want to talk to him about that amalgamation, not after what it revealed. The shrewd deception—despite the horrendous mathematics—was enough to spiral your fellow challenger into dismay and pure hysteria. Naturally psychopathic. Tsuda must've wanted to kill herself—explode her own head, stab herself, jump off a cliff maybe—after what horrors unraveled. Urokodaki kept pondering; you wished to decipher his thoughts, but that accursed tengu mask hid all emotion from his face.

"At last..." He mumbled, finally making contact with your eyes. "I'm truly impressed that you made it back."

You smiled.

"As you know, there are several kinds of demons, and there are some who use special spells called 'Blood Demon Arts'," Urokodaki stated. "Similar to mahōu, these spells allowed demons to possess supernatural abilities." 

You nodded. 

"You have to fight those demons, as well, from now on. And fighting them will be more difficult than anything you've known until now."

Those angered eyes bore into yours. The hearth churns as bright as a star.

"Even so (Y/n), I'm sure you will be fine."

You nodded once more. The heat of the fire matches your heart—palpable after the ignition. It was strange: to have someone affirm your existence, your skills, your strength whilst you still questioned your very being. A mid-life crisis? Impostor syndrome? Is your own world fracturing the mirage it frames in your eyes? You imagined claws growing from cuticles and heard voices of an estranged past. You envisioned samurai underneath gold sparks that fell with the rain. You met a partner lost through time while the hurranic panic scours London's monotony. You're a lunatic. Meshuga. Schizoid. Utterly delirious and in need of proper treatment. White walls and a straitjacket. Humanity would shackle you. Urokodaki kept you. Twice. And now, he treats you like his own grandchild. You smiled at the thought, remembering Uncle Rosco's hearty laugh and Auntie Beck's bonny mien.

Family; your latest memories made you blush. 

It had been another two weeks since you survived Final Selection. As an official Demon Slayer, the successor of a veteran, and an unofficial grandchild, you felt the urge to push your training. To slack off after the exam would only dull your skills and senses, especially after what you've experienced. The wounds, broken bones, sore muscles, and bruised skin had fully healed and were ready for new scars. You looked at your hands: calloused, yet warm. The imprints of your sword started to form onto your flesh, creating a divot the exact size of the handle. Since Spring had arrived, that meant the fox clan had returned from their burrows. Mother Earth had smiled with every breath she took as she slowly shifted from her lethargic form. Father Sky peers over her, happy, giddy, and delighted after his coitus with her, watching his love sleep soundly under his dawn. Your feet instinctively led you beyond the trees, tracing those footprints scorched into the earth. The wind danced around you like an old friend, whistling a cheerful "good morning" before gushing about how it missed you. So much so that it carried your feet off the ground for a bit. You flew without tripping on the landings, grinning once you saw the path practically drawn by the shadows. 

The grove. With all its healthy greenery and rich blooms. You breathe in the mossy redolence. The memories of May's lovely bloom. Your eyes wandered around; the hush worried you for a minute. Where were they? By now, Scar would pounce from behind the brambles and zoom around before jumping into your lap with Blue following behind shortly. Funny to think how Scar wanted nothing to do with you, even after he stole your sword. And then he became your loyal friend and training partner beyond the woodlands. You would at least like to tell the clan about Final Selection.

You sat down on a nearby rock and plucked a wildflower. It's astonishing how easily people can wound Mother Nature. Gaia, our Earth Mother, how we bleed her dry, steal her finest materials. Every day, somehow, we raid her vanity for her fineries like children. The jewels embedded in her skin are carved and cracked open through our knives and scalpels, as we rid her of the "tumors". The gorgeous green of her hair ripped from her scalp to leave arid bald spots. Her blood, the vitality that brought the Earth to life, slowly darkens as her veins shrink and gray. Do we know she's hurt? Dryads do. Elves do. The nymphs, the satyrs, the fairies, the gnomes, the mermaids do. Arcanists understand her pain, even after we've cut her tongue. We were born from her womb as the Great Being delivered our souls. Thus, Humans should hear that call—some plea, or a sound that may fall on deaf ears, but sings a sonnet through the heart and soul. The sempiternal soulmate befallen by the curse of Echo; she wastes away while we reflect our rotten teeth by the riverbed. Though you can't exclude yourself, you, too, are a sinner, a narcissist who reflects their dirty grin by the murky riverbed, finding nothing but algae and darkness, the perfect image of yourself. 

The winds howl once more. The sun slightly darkens due to the sudden migration of clouds. Perhaps the clan was busy; winter leaves many homes in ruination, so the foxes might've started rebuilding for the next. You slid on the smooth boulder, deciding to take the flower with you. Perhaps another time.

"(Y/N)."

You paused. That voice. Not again, you thought, no more yesteryear spirits. Not until you finally get your bearings. 

"Wait!"

You kept walking. 

"Don't leave yet! Don't you remember us?" You paused, finally turning around to meet that voice. Your eyes widen at the sight.

A grin, more of a genuine smile, like the somber tone of rain gracing a familiar face emerges from the mist, and tears mixing with the earthy smell of petrichor and the aching pain of your heart's chambers. Shrouded in black, save for forest green and sunflower yellow, entwined with the summer garden. Cat-like lavender eyes crinkled as the wind swept a nest of China asters. To you, the boy was akin to the sunset. A pink, parched scar acted as the horizon breaking through the clouds. 

"It's good to speak to you finally," he said.

Soon, more people emerge from the shadows. Tender smiles glowed like fireflies as the wind brought them closer to the light. You watched as they settled themselves on rocks and the grassy floors. Some whispered amongst the others, pointing and picking at your form. Two larimar stones studied you before smiling at the familiar sight. A girl no older than 13 stepped gracefully towards you, the flowery patterned clothes fluttered with the breeze while her saxe blue hair caught two petals flying by, resting peacefully on top of her head. In her hands fiddled a flower crown entirely made of Baby's Breath. She held the boy's hand. 

"Scar? Blue?" You breathed.

Scar's chuckle was like pollen dusting a flower. "Right, forgot about those names..." The girl clung to his side happily.

"(Y/N), this is Sabito." Her head leaned onto his arm. "And I'm Makomo." Tender. Warm. Delighted. The summer sun brought the heat into your body like an open bonfire. 

"You still have the same face and body, yet I can sense how much you've grown." You smiled at Makomo's comment.

"Thank you for freeing us from that beast." 

Freeing? Freed from whom? 

"Now we can all ascend to the afterlife with ease." The afterlife? They couldn't be...they look so young. So alive. And that "beast"...they weren't talking about that demon, were they? The many morsels it ate during this era—Urokodaki's disciples. As you looked around, you counted 11 students lying about the grove. Including Sabito and Makomo, that makes 13. 13 disciples. The Einherjar, inhabiting their humble home of Valhalla. You gasped; it can't be. 

"We were all bound to that demon. Even after we died, we couldn't ascend from this plane since our souls were tethered to its being. Unfinished business, you know?" Sabito said casually.

"Over time, our souls withered and our bodies wasted away, turning us into those little foxes. We couldn't communicate, so we had to bring you here to this grove." Makomo added. Slowly, she unhooked her hands from Sabito's sleeve to walk to you, the flower crown still wrapped around her arm. She motioned her hand downward, causing you to kneel in front of her. The soft leaves of the laurel tickled your scalp. The fresh smell of the flowers brought a smile to your face. You felt like a squire being knighted by his queen.

"We all love Urokodaki very much, so please, take care of him for us." 

"He may not seem like it, but there are times when he can become dispirited. Stand by his side through them, alright?" Sabito demanded. Thin eyebrows furrowed as he waited for your response.

"I promise," and then that grin came back, one of trust and loyalty. A true knight, proud of his comrade, without the need of a tale to weave your legacy. 

"One more thing," Sabito stepped closer to you as his eyes bore into yours, furrowed, yet passionate. "When you meet again, tell him he was meant to live, he was meant to have the long, fulfilling life we could've ever wished for, and he should keep his head held up high above the waters."

You blinked; a promise, seemingly scorched into his skin. That fire, through the soft asters, churns the light that shines in his eyes. That gaze, the pact was sealed, and now carries into your heart. You nodded, linking hearts with the spirit. 

The air grew thin and fragrant. The summer sun turns a beautiful shade of gold. The spirits all returned to the darkness. Sabito and Makomo held each other's hands before waving their final goodbye to you, the girl hooking her hand on the boy's sleeve once more as they head deeper into the grove, finally answering the call of the death knell. You caressed the laurel gifted to you. The soft petals tickled your fingertips like fur as the leaves nestled into your hair. Baby's Breath: New beginnings, everlasting love. When you walked out of the grove, Father Sky's bright blue hue returned as the clouds disappeared from their migration. 

Soon, the summer sun melts and spreads its warmth across the horizon. The migrant clouds have finally reached their destination. Gold softens into molten wax, and the heat catches up to you. Silk and cotton stick like a second skin, making you sweat like a prize pig. Your musk, evident and pungent; the river water doesn't even try to mask the stench. Eventually, you abandon your top altogether, wrapping your breasts in bandages and rolling your trousers to your knees. A simple piece of rope captures all of your hairs, but fails to keep a few rebellious strands imprisoned. Lying supine, you feel the wings of invisible sylphs brushing against your cheeks and stomach. The painting doesn't senesce, merely staying dormant while the audience ages, growing old and wiser, never once feeling upset or bitter when gazing upon Mother Earth's gorgeous face. Tiny particles tickle your nose—pollen and dust from your clothes—as you inhale in the spring air, happy, relaxed, content. Melting into a pool of amber and honeydew to sweeten the arid earth beneath you. 

"Shouldn't my weapon be here by now? The twins promised it would be delivered in two weeks." You pondered. "I wonder what my weapon would look like... I couldn't keep Urokodaki's sword since it chipped during Final Selection, but a different kind of weapon would be nice, like a spear or an axe. However, I did see some people with wands and staffs. How can they slay demons? Without a sharp edge, you can't cut off their neck." 

Water of the womb—Arcanum—may bless the race, yet not every arcanist shares the same blood. Many HCCs uncover hereditary evidence of notorious arcanists of bygone eras: Morgan Le Fay, Chaka Zulu, Aleister Crowley, Paracelsus, Agamemnon, and even deities and demons like Nezha and Belphegor. The infamous case of the Applebys, a family whose hereditary certificates trace directly back to Jesus Christ, the original arcanist. John, Mary, and their three children—Samuel, Phoebe, and Anna—along with their extended kin, were pure blood arcanists with abilities reminiscent of His miracles in the New Testament. Yet, such claims spark heated debates; many historians and religious leaders express outrage over the HCC's methods of linking contemporary bloodlines to historical figures who canonically did not marry and/or were virgins during their time to present bloodlines. Tesla married himself off to his work, having nary the slightest thought of romanticism, except for a pigeon. Schopenhauer remained celibate during his blinding, drowning, strident pessimism, leaving him too isolated and grief-stricken to hold a stable relationship. Yet, there's no credible source that Jesus was married and had children. To say the HCC is an excuse to pigeonhole arcanists isn't exactly true; it sheds light on those who want to understand themselves better. Nonetheless, there are a few times where the snark of an aristocratic descendant may boast and flaunt their lineage in pride, unbeknownst to the harm their remarks cause. Not everyone was born under the golden thumb of Julius Cesear or Leonidas, nor claim the awakened mind of Athena or the allure of Ishtar. Yet regardless, who an arcanist was born from, their arcane skill treads a different path for them to walk upon. To harm or to heal. To build or to rebuild. To be frank, it's rare to see a child blessed with the same ability as his father, bearing the family name without the strength to uphold it. The remnants of the past can appear in the present, whether basking in guiding light or haunting the dark shadows. To define a person transcends their lineage; a child is not merely their father's offspring, but a new soul accepted and woven into the tapestry of Middle-earth.

"The Island..."

Shadows swim through the ichor rivers.

"The elders..."

Can you hear the ripples?

...

"Mother...Father...?"

"To forget one's ancestors is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root." 

But...how could you trace back the carvings of the river if you're lost at sea? How could you find the tree amongst the dunes?

Mother Earth labored a breath. Focus, child, quiet your thoughts. Today does not mark the funeral of the past. You weep no more, for the sun celebrates your maturity. Believe in Father Sky's warm gaze as he smiles upon you, sousing you with the honey he garnered from the heavens. Breathe. Be at ease, child, and embrace the life you have now. You felt the coo of Mother Earth beneath your skin as sylphs flee from the sudden exhaust, pollen replacing their wispy forms upon your skin. The ripples—seems the rain is gone. The sopping warmth of sweet honey glazes your body in a slight sweat while your eyes grow heavy from the dense liquid. Celebrate, with the sugar of sunlight and the intoxication of slumber. 

*Coo~*

A tiny guest seems to invite themself to your siesta. A seraph singing a melody, echoing softly through your mind, breaking the stillness. Angelic wings lightly fan a breeze; heady eyes marvel at the sight of a cherub, your heart swells as you behold it. Avine features cascaded in pearly white, with a satin ribbon neatly adorned around its neck, colored a tea rose like an Easter present. After its descent, beady, bright eyes gaze upon your resting form, the head tilted to capture a better angle of you. You slowly sat up; the little bird remains unruffled over the fabric's sporadic wrinkling. A tender finger nuzzles against its feathery head, earning a coo of appreciation in response. Doves, the symbols of the Holy Spirit, the messengers to man from heaven, or so you've heard. They say a dove's wings are akin to those of an angel, though to touch them is just as sacred; the mere caress of their down feathers is an act of reverence. Your fingers twitched just before you touched the snowy white plumage between your digits. Are doves native to Japan's wilderness? Around here, it seems only a handful of songbirds—your neighbors, the passerines—inhabit these mountains. Such a species to exist seemed rarer than the usual birds you see during your travels. Darker, tawny, sometimes colored in jewel tones, more or less; a pure white like this would rather be classified as albino amongst ornithologists. 

*Coo~* 

Another purr—you could feel the rumbles beneath your fingertip—prompted flight like a plane engine. The dove flutters around you, sending butterfly kisses against your cheeks, before taking flight yet again. You stood there for a moment, captivated, but soon, with a few playful cat-calls, you found yourself trailing after the little bird. Sticky sweat had finally cooled into a hardened glaze, forming a glow across your forehead and face. You squirmed slightly; the sudden chill sent a muffled yelp, mixing with the groan of your creaking joints. Pollen and dirt shed off your body as you hurried through the grove, following the little white wisp gliding like a stray snowflake. Ever since your training, you've woven yourself into the very fabric of the woodlands you now can call a hearth. Faint whispers of the grass, the childish laughter of the winds, Mother Earth and Father Sky's everlasting love; a child of the earth, just as you were born from. You could run and hunt with the shadows of canines. You could howl to Selene's gorgeous pallor with every last vigor of the stars. You could trace the carvings of a river to return to a home. The arid earth intertwines into a loom, becoming the tapestry of a family you hold in your heart. 

One last leap shook the earth, causing your feathered fellows to flee the scene. The cheeky smile gets swept away with the wind, leaving the sun to raise the heat of embarrassment. You catch sight of the little bird that has landed on the edge of a snowy cliff, cooing as it nuzzles into black wool for warmth. Two gazes fall upon your rugged, glistening figure: one belonging to Urokodaki, marked by a cartoonish frown, but the other held a familiar feeling. Of Auntie Beck and Uncle Rosco in quaint, little Vladivostok. Of Urokodaki, when he first healed your mutilated form, and your recent return to the mountain. That sensation of light spilling out from once closed doors while the hinges creak ever so slightly, to not frighten the weary traveler. Heaven's unbridled, radiant glow reflects off decorative taffeta and fine lace, layered like the wings of a seraph. Fluffed frills match her levity as they puff with the wind. Ribbons tie up impurities and blossom into peonies—her beauty marks. Peeking from the billowing curtains were her pristine white oxfords, never once soiled from the ground as small pedals barricade those finely crafted soles. An ensemble completed by an ornate boater hat adorned with crown jewels and a hem from a bygone bride, cascading elegantly behind inky coils. Nimble hands rest on her lap, covered by silk gloves with purfles and curling daisies. Her face bears a pallid hue, too frail to welcome the sun. Her eyes appeared hyaline, but filled with bubbly rose wine.

And that smile. That same soft smile from the night in Tokyo and the garden from Final Selection.

She was like a princess who escaped from a Rococo painting, tired of the stillness, blinded by the blurred flowers, and deafened by the muffled drama. She sits on her throne as the gold chariot wheels send stars to your eyes. Her wooden advisor grips the handles, the winding scorch marks connect to vibrant tri-colored nails: cyan, hot pink, and neon yellow. You watered your arid throat, adjusting your bandages for modesty. 

"You must (Y/N), yes?" Her voice fanned like feathers brushing against your skin. 

"Yes, and you are?" 

The princess paused before speaking, "My name is Wilhelmina von Kummer. Forgive me for my sudden intrusion." It's as if she spoke in song; however, there were moments of a raspy tone, when the feathers would sweep up sand during flight. A frontal vocal focus with hoarse word endings. German, or perhaps Austrian, considering the dulcet rhythm and the trill of her surname.

"You say you were sent from the Demon Slayer Corps?" Urokodaki asked.

"That's right. An urgent request required a newly recruited demon slayer to report to headquarters." She nods towards your master, "I know you were just initiated, and that you weren't given your first mission yet, but this matter is too urgent to ignore. The Corps requires your arrival immediately." 

A rookie such as yourself summoned to the central command?  Surely not. Presumably, your Kasugai crow should have been reporting any and all matters concerning the Demon Slayer Corps, with its first message being your initial mission and your determined departure from the mountainside. And yet, your eagle, Ulysses, hadn't returned from his latest departure; visits from him were brief, only lasting a few moments before he vanishes towards the horizon. No messages from the corps were ever received, making this meeting feel even more peculiar.

You shared a glance at your master; clearly, he too was confused about the wisp standing—sitting—before him.

"Why now? I don't even have my weapon." 

Thin eyebrows knitted together, the princess intoned, "You inherit a gift essential to our goal. Your arcane skill, from what I've seen, might be connected to a long-lost era of early Arcanum." 

The bubbles slowly fizz as her gaze softens in somberness. 

"My comrades abandoned my idea, but I can still prove to them that hope exists." 

The feathers now brush against a dusty tomb, picking up bits of gravel and gloom.

"Please, come with me. For the sake of the master and the Corps."

Despite the piano of her voice, her pleas were desperate. Rosé eyes lose their fizz with every hesitant moment. You shared another glance at your master; the bulbous nose points towards the ground as the frown sends daggers to the blades of grass. Not long after, he nods. 

"If it's for the Corps, so be it." 

The princess smiles once again, "Thank you, Sir Urokodaki." A light bow adds to her gratitude; the dip only reaches a mere 20 degrees. You hurried inside the hut, readying a quick bath and your clothes. 

Black trousers, white collar shirt, polished dress shoes, and a foreboding black trench coat. Fresh linen and lavender. Only a Western European would resonate with your fashion choice. One last look around the home; the warmth of the open fire still lingers even after its death. A hug made your heart swell, yet the living quarters were wide open and sans.

Breath in the sandalwood, the little bonfires, and the delicious food.

Breath in the earthy soil, the river water, and the warm sunlight.

Breath in the downy fur of the fox, the dried blood on the grass, and the thin slivers of shredded metal.

Standing in front of the hut, you gaze upon it, putting it into memory just in case this would be the last time you'll see it. How simple. How easy. How natural. The old home became a part of this mountain; the hard soil cradles the wood, reclaiming the dead into the earth. The old hermit inspects your outfit, picking stray dust clumps and smoothing out frumples. Those callous hands that held you up from yestermonth and today, he holds yours once last time. You didn't pack any bags from the start of your trip, so the old man couldn't catch your departure. He pats your shoulder, fixing that flushed, inured gaze on you.

"It's true what the woman said, you are gifted. I have no doubts you will succeed." 

You nod.

"Thank you, Mr. Urokodaki. For you, I shall use your teachings and honor you, as I had promised a friend." The old hermit earns a grin from you, his newly adopted grandchild. How much you've grown; to think that prophet's words would return from all those years ago. He could shed a tear, but the mask would mold. 

The princess watches the parting unfold; was it that sudden when she left? Not even a tear was shed by either, and yet she grips her dress for dear life. Was it that sudden when they left? The soldiers? The children? How many parents wept for their kin? How many grandparents die without a final goodbye? She never meant to be a storm. She never meant to wreck a home. But the call cries for their hearts, and the brave answers. Her companion shakes her out of her rut, urging her to depart.

One last wave finishes the parting, and the red carriage waits alongside its coachman, concealing their face and body in all black and white except for eyes of dreaded brown. The wooden hands happily push her majesty into the carriage whilst you hop in yourself.

"We have quite a lot to discuss." And the carriage rolls onward.