Chapter 2: "A Taste of Spring"

The journey had been gentle, the sea kind—each wave a lazy breath beneath the ship's hull, the skies above painted in uninterrupted blue. For days, the voyage passed in peace. The wind filled the sails like a lullaby, and the sun cast no shadow of trouble.

But as the ship neared its destination, something changed. A mist began to gather on the horizon—not the cold, damp fog of coastal waters, but something else entirely. It shimmered as it rolled across the sea, an iridescent veil of gold and rose-pink, as if sunlight had been woven into silk and cast upon the water. It swirled in slow, elegant patterns, like the folds of a celestial kimono drifting in unseen wind.

The crew did not panic. They did not call orders or raise alarms. Instead, they moved with quiet reverence. Sails were drawn in with practiced ease. Bundles of incense were lit and set at the ship's prow, their fragrant smoke curling into the shimmering mist like offerings to a hidden god.

And then, the vessel crossed through the veil. The breath caught in every traveler's throat. Touno Island revealed itself. Like a dream carved from old legends and half-remembered prayers. The sea grew still as glass. Rising from the shallow waters stood a great torii gate—tall and solemn, glowing faintly with spiritual energy. Its vermilion pillars, untouched by time or salt, cut a bold figure against the tranquil ocean and the gauzy clouds above. As the ship passed beneath it, a hush fell upon the deck, as if even the wind dared not speak in the presence of such sacred beauty.

Beyond the gate, the shoreline unfurled like a painted scroll come to life. Sakura trees stretched their branches in full bloom, their petals floating down in endless cascades that never seemed to touch the ground. The air carried the scent of blossoms and distant incense, sweet and nostalgic, like a memory reborn.

Stone lanterns lined the winding cobbled paths that led up from the harbor, each one aglow with a gentle, amber light despite the day. They climbed low, green hills toward a village nestled in a tranquil embrace of forest and mist. The buildings wore the elegant simplicity of Edo-era design—dark-tiled roofs sloping gracefully, paper doors glowing from within, bamboo groves rustling with every soft sigh of wind.

It was as if the gods themselves had taken a brush to the world and painted this one perfect place. Touno Island—land of spirits, whispers, and forgotten dreams—had welcomed them to the home of the Oni.

Temple bells echoed in the distance—deep, resonant, and melodic. Their tones drifted across the harbor like whispered prayers, weaving through the mist and settling into the hearts of those who heard them.

"It's like stepping into a dream drawn from old scrolls," Tatsu thought, breath catching as the ship creaked against the dock. "Or maybe… a memory."

As the vessel moored, a procession of greeters awaited on the pier. Oni women, regal and serene, stood in rows draped in elegant silk robes. Their horns gleamed like lacquered ivory beneath the morning sun, polished to ceremonial perfection. Their hair was tied into ornate chignons, adorned with blossoms and gold hairpins that shimmered with every movement.

Each wore a sash embroidered with intricate flower patterns—camellias, peonies, and cherry blossoms—sewn in thread so fine it caught the light like dew. As they approached, their steps were measured and reverent, their expressions gentle and warm.

One by one, they welcomed the arriving guests with graceful bows, placing fresh garlands of sweet-scented flowers around their necks. With the garlands came small woven baskets, delicate and beautiful, filled with thoughtful gifts: miniature bottles of plum wine sealed with red wax, crisp rice crackers wrapped in silk paper, and tiny protective charms—each one shaped like a fox or a golden sun.

When one of the Oni women approached Tatsu, her crimson eyes met his with something like recognition—or perhaps simply respect. She bowed low as she placed the garland around his neck, her fingers brushing briefly against his collarbone before retreating like a sigh.

Tatsu accepted the offering with a nod, murmuring, "Thank you." His voice caught on the edge of awe. "How could a place like this exist?" The question wasn't for anyone else. It was whispered to the wind, to the gods, to the part of his soul that still hadn't caught up with what his eyes were seeing.

It wasn't just familiar—it was intentional. Everything, from the red-lacquered bridges arching over koi-filled streams to the soft jingle of shrine bells hanging from eaves, had been crafted with such care that it mirrored the landscapes he once knew. Not in approximation, but in precision.

The same scent hung in the air—sweet incense laced with sandalwood, mingling with the earthy perfume of moss and old stone. He remembered this scent from the Kyoto temples of his youth, where he used to wander in quiet reverence, staring up at painted ceilings and carved dragons. But those places were gone now, relics in a world that no longer fit him. This, however… this was something else. This was a memory made real.

Tatsu clutched the woven gift basket gently in both hands, but his thoughts had already drifted far from the dock. The soft hum of bells and laughter filled the air, but he stood still, as if rooted in something older, deeper.

The spell was broken when Prim squealed with delight. "Oooooh! Look, look! They've got goldfish scooping and dango on sticks!" Her eyes sparkled, her braids swishing behind her as she dashed down the dock, arms flailing with excitement. She vanished into the crowd before anyone could protest.

Knivi gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes. "Of course," she muttered, but her attention was already drifting. A masked taiko drummer was setting up on a lacquered stage nearby, the heavy drumheads gleaming in the light. Her expression changed—curious, focused.

"I'm gonna check out the music," she said, and took off with her usual sharp stride, her dagger bouncing rhythmically against her hip.

Maxim lingered behind, watching the others scatter. He sniffed the air. "Too loud," he grumbled under his breath. "But…" He paused, nose twitching. "I smell takoyaki." His golden eyes honed in on a distant food stall. With a resigned grunt, he adjusted his glasses and wandered off toward the aroma, muttering about running tests for magical contamination in Oni cuisine.

Tatsu chuckled softly, the sound low and content. The sunlight filtered down through drifting cherry blossoms, scattering pink petals in the warm ocean breeze. The scent of salt and fresh ink from calligraphy booths mingled with roasted soy and the unmistakable sweetness of festival treats. Music wafted on the wind—flutes, laughter, the rhythmic pulse of drums—as if the island itself had been waiting for them.

The celebration had begun, vibrant and alive, but Tatsu's thoughts didn't join it. Not fully. Something beneath the joy stirred in his chest—a gentle ache, a question without form. He looked around at the elegant torii gates, the lanterns swaying overhead, the tiled rooftops curved like brushstrokes from a dream he half-remembered.

"Why does this place feel like… home?" The words whispered across his mind like wind through cedar. He didn't yet have the answer. But the island did. He could feel it—somewhere in its quiet stones and fluttering paper charms, in the laughter of strangers and the shadows of the sakura trees.

The plaza was alive with color and sound, humming with the joy of celebration. Festival lanterns swayed above on threads of silk and twine, their soft glow casting halos over the crowded streets below. The rhythmic pulse of taiko drums thundered through the air, joined by the lilting notes of flutes and the gleeful shrieks of Oni children darting between the stalls. The scents of sweet soy glaze, freshly bloomed sakura, and charcoal-grilled fish mingled on the breeze like an intoxicating perfume of spring.

Knivi stood at the edge of the commotion, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but her amber eyes sharp and calculating. She had stopped in front of a balloon-popping stall, where a squat Oni with deep violet skin and a hat shaped like an upside-down teacup beckoned her forward with a toothy grin.

"Three darts, one prize," he said, gesturing broadly toward the wooden board bristling with colorful balloons. "Pop more than five, and you earn yourself a rare token."

Knivi raised an eyebrow and glanced down at the short, blunted darts he offered. "Do I have to use these?"

The Oni chuckled, tapping the side of his nose. "You can try whatever you like, missy."

That was all the invitation she needed. Without a word, Knivi slid a throwing knife from her belt—slender and balanced. With a swift flick of her wrist, it sang through the air and struck. Pop. A yellow balloon exploded in a puff of rubber. Before the small crowd could react, a second knife was already airborne—pop. Then a third, drawn from her boot, followed by a fourth hidden beneath her sleeve. Each motion flowed effortlessly into the next, a deadly ballet of speed and precision.

Pop. Pop. Pop-pop-pop.

In less than ten seconds, the board was nearly stripped bare, the silence broken only by gasps from onlookers and the slow, stunned applause of a growing audience. A wide-eyed child tugged on their mother's sleeve and whispered, "She's like a kunoichi!"

Knivi gave a faint smirk and sheathed her final blade. She stepped forward, hand outstretched with casual authority. The Oni vendor blinked, then laughed heartily, clapping his hands as he reached beneath the stall.

"Marvelous! Haven't seen a show like that in years. Here—your prize, miss."

He handed her a delicately crafted fox mask, white with painted red accents, and a gleaming token etched with a pink cherry blossom on one side and a sun crest on the other. It shimmered faintly in the light—clearly magical. Knivi accepted the mask and coin in silence, slipping the latter into her pouch. She twirled the mask once in her hand, then tucked it under her arm, already turning toward the next challenge.

Just two stalls down, laughter bubbled up like a spring. Prim stood on her tiptoes, beaming as she held up a tiny, golden-scaled goldfish swirling inside a clear pouch of water tied with red string. "I'm naming her Crackle!" she squealed, her voice bright enough to outshine the lanterns above. "Because she's got spark!"

The elderly vendor, a kindly Oni woman with silver hair looped into an elegant bun, chuckled at the declaration. Her kimono rustled like leaves in the breeze as she reached into a lacquered box and retrieved a small, luminous token.

"Here you are," she said, placing the piece in Prim's palm. "You've earned a supportive coin."

Prim blinked down at the token—a smooth disc carved from mother-of-pearl, cool to the touch and etched with the image of a cherry blossom in full bloom on one side and the sun on the other. It's pink color shimmered faintly, like moonlight caught on still water.

"What's this?" she asked, tilting her head, her rabbit ears perking curiously.

The Oni vendor folded her hands, her smile turning knowing and just a touch mysterious. "It's a supportive coin. We give one to anyone who wins at the stalls. You toss it into the offering box during the Miko Dance to show your gratitude—to offer your wish."

Prim's eyes widened. "What's the Miko Dance?"

"Ohhh," the woman said, her smile deepening as the temple bells rang faintly in the distance, "you'll see, child. It's the heart of the festival. The part where the island truly begins to breathe."

Prim clutched the coin close to her chest, already imagining what kind of wish she'd make. She looked back at Crackle—tail flicking like firelight through the pouch—and gave her a secret little nod, as if sharing a promise only they would understand.

Across the square, the cheerful chaos of the festival hummed around Tatsu like a song. But his gaze had drifted to a quieter corner—a small incense shrine tucked beside a cobbled path, where fragrant wisps curled skyward into the afternoon light.

Near it, an Oni man hefted heavy sacks of rice onto a wooden cart, his every motion practiced and powerful. He was tall and broad, his pale skin gleaming with sweat, two polished horns jutting proudly from his brow. Despite the labor, his face wore the easy smile of someone who enjoyed the rhythm of honest work.

"You look busy," Tatsu called with a light chuckle.

The Oni glanced up, grinning through his exertion. "Always. Festival season doesn't load itself."

Tatsu stepped closer, watching as the last sack thudded into place. "Mind if I ask—who's in charge around here?"

The Oni stood straighter at the question, puffing out his chest with pride. "Lady Amaterasu, of course."

Tatsu's brow arched with curiosity. "Amaterasu?"

The Oni laughed and wiped his hands on the side of his sash. "The very one. Although you won't get to meet her just yet."

"Why not?"

"She's asleep," the Oni said matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather.

"…Asleep?" Tatsu echoed, trying to decide if this was reverence, tradition, or something stranger still.

The Oni nodded enthusiastically. "Lady Amaterasu only wakes for moments that truly matter. Right now, she slumbers in the sacred shrine, gathering strength for the final day of the Spring Festival."

Tatsu folded his arms, intrigued. "And on the final day?"

"She blesses the land," the Oni said, eyes glinting. "With her light and her voice, she calls forth fertility and renewal. The earth listens. It always listens."

"So she just sleeps the rest of the time?"

The Oni held up four fingers. "She wakes with the seasons. Once in spring—to bless the soil. Once in summer—to witness marriages and grant prayers for children. Once in autumn—to ensure a plentiful harvest. And in winter… to light the sacred fire that drives the cold away."

Tatsu listened intently, the scent of incense mingling with charcoal and sakura in the air around them. There was something both ancient and comforting in the rhythm of it all—a divine being whose presence shaped life not through constant interference, but sacred moments of presence.

He glanced toward the shrine in the distance, where thin curtains fluttered in the breeze like a breath behind stone and silk. "Interesting system," he murmured.

The Oni nodded, hoisting the cart's handle with one powerful arm. "It works for us."

Tatsu smiled faintly, still staring at the shrine. "A leader who sleeps… but wakes for what truly matters."

"She is the incarnation of the sun," the Oni said with quiet reverence, his voice carrying the weight of something sacred. "Legend tells us she descended from the heavens during the Great Oni War. The land was dying—bitter, cracked, and cursed. But her light turned the soil to gold. It gave our people new life."

Tatsu leaned on the wooden railing, gazing out across the festival grounds where laughter echoed and lanterns swayed in the breeze. "So… she's like a goddess to you."

The Oni's grin was broad, but his tone remained respectful. "She is. She leads with wisdom and warmth. Not just power. You'll see for yourself soon enough."

Tatsu's mind wandered. He imagined a figure emerging from fire and sunlight—a regal Oni matron cloaked in celestial flame, her four arms outstretched like a towering Shinto deity. He pictured her standing at the peak of a shrine, commanding the wind to carry pollen, the rain to soften fields, the rivers to rise and nourish the land.

"I guess we're staying until she wakes up," he murmured, more to himself than to the Oni. His eyes drifted toward the shrine on the hill, wrapped in ribbons of smoke and cherry blossom petals. "Will she speak to me, when she does?" he asked, the question surprisingly earnest.

The Oni turned toward him and nodded, his expression calm and certain. "She's kind. If you have something in your heart… she'll listen."

Tatsu's breath caught for a moment, something soft blooming in his chest. A quiet awe, like the hush before a sunrise. He smiled, not out of disbelief, but out of something deeper—acceptance. She wasn't a myth or a story whispered by firelight. She was real. And soon… he's going to meet her.

Beneath the cascade of pink blossoms, the spring wind shifted—warm, playful, almost eager to share a secret. The scent of grilled fish, crackling oil, and sweet soy glaze drifted like a promise, tugging Tatsu down the gently winding path lined with festival stalls. Strings of paper lanterns bobbed overhead, their soft orange glow dancing across the cobblestones as laughter mingled with the distant rhythm of taiko drums and the occasional chime of shrine bells.

Tatsu moved slowly, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his gaze sweeping over skewers of roasted chestnuts, lacquered trays of mochi, and bottles of plum wine cradled in woven straw baskets. Every stand was a labor of love, each display set with pride and precision. A sizzling takoyaki grill caught his eye—golden dumplings puffing and crisping in an iron mold, the scent rich and mouthwatering.

He stepped forward, hand reaching for his coin pouch—

"Eek!"

The sudden, high-pitched squeal cracked through the air like a misfired firework. Tatsu's head snapped toward the sound, instincts sharpening. About ten paces away, a girl in a pastel-pink floral kimono stood frozen in panic, furiously dabbing the front of her garment with a tiny embroidered handkerchief. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, and a small dark stain—soy sauce, from the looks of it—spread just beneath her obi sash. There was sweet miso yakitori, most likely something she was planning to eat before it was spilled on her kimono.

Twitching nervously atop her head were a pair of delicate fox ears, their soft pink fur dusted with cherry blossom petals. Behind her swayed a voluminous tail of the same hue, fluffed up like a startled cat's. Her hair shimmered in the golden light, a glossy cascade of rose that matched the pastel tones of her kimono. She looked ethereal—like a character painted onto a scroll and then brought to life.

Tatsu blinked in quiet astonishment. "A Keimonomimi? Here? On Touno Island?"

Among the towering Oni and the stone-and-cypress austerity of their sacred lands, she stood out like moonlight in a cave—fragile, luminous, and impossible to miss.

He approached her calmly, noting the dark smear of sauce across her silken kimono and the tension coiling in her tail. "Excuse me," Tatsu said gently, voice low and measured. "Is everything all right?"

The girl looked up with a start. Her eyes—vivid and glimmering like garnets caught in sunlight—blinked wide in a moment of pure, pink-eared indignation. She puffed out her cheeks, clearly flustered, and pointed an accusing finger at the empty air.

"Some bratty Oni boys barreled into me!" she huffed. "Knocked my tray right into my lap. I had sweet miso yakitori and anago skewers—and now look at me!" She gestured dramatically to her kimono, where a glossy trail of sauce ran down the front. "This is custom! Imported silk! Hand-stitched lotus embroidery! It's ruined!"

Tatsu gave the damage a quick but practiced glance. "It might not be ruined just yet," he offered, already pulling open his satchel. "Here, try this."

From within, he retrieved a small bar, wrapped in folded cloth. It was pale and smooth—ivory-toned, with faint flecks of lavender.

The girl squinted at it suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Soap," Tatsu replied simply, unwrapping it halfway. "Made from rendered animal fat, lye, and—"

Before he could finish, her hand darted out and snatched it from his palm with an alarming amount of enthusiasm. "Animal fat?" she echoed, eyes lighting up as her ears perked high. "That sounds delicious!"

Tatsu's expression twisted. "Wait—!"

Too late. With a confident flourish, the girl took a bold bite out of the bar. There was a heartbeat of silence. Then, her face shifted—slowly, painfully—into a portrait of betrayal so dramatic it could've hung in a royal gallery. "Gghhk—blegh!" she sputtered, nearly doubling over as she hacked up soap bubbles. Foam spewed from her mouth in frothy spurts. "What the hell?! That's disgusting!"

She spit the half-chewed glob into her palm and glared at the bar like it had personally insulted her ancestors. "This doesn't taste like animal fat at all! It's like licking a chalky frog wrapped in lavender!"

Tatsu choked on a laugh, barely managing to keep his composure as he raised both hands in surrender. "It's not food. It's for cleaning. Washing. Hygiene."

The girl looked between him and the half-masticated soap like he was the one who'd done something wrong. Her tail fluffed out behind her in outrage, puffed and bristling like a bottlebrush in a thunderstorm. "Then why," she demanded, her voice rising in righteous fury, "would you say it's made of fat?! That's emotional sabotage! You can't just offer food-shaped products to a girl mourning her sweet miso yakitori! Have you no heart?!"

Tatsu finally lost it. He laughed—quietly at first, then helplessly, as if all the tension of the day had been waiting for this absurd moment to break."I apologize," he said between breaths, offering her a clean cloth from his satchel. "Truly. That was…unexpected."

Still chuckling to himself, Tatsu unscrewed the cap of his canteen. The grin lingered on his lips, warm and genuine. He poured a bit of water into his palm, then began to work the soap into a gentle lather, his hands moving with quiet, practiced ease. The foam caught the light like spun moonlight, delicate and glimmering—tiny clouds rolling over his fingertips.

From his satchel, he pulled a clean cloth, dipped it into the shimmering bubbles, and wrung it out with care. Then he turned to the girl, offering it to her with the composed grace of someone extending both a peace offering and a lesson.

"Here," he said, his voice low and calm. "Let me show you what it's really for."

She looked at him, then at the cloth, her eyes still narrowed with the skepticism of someone who'd been recently betrayed by a supposedly edible cleaning product. But curiosity won out. She took the cloth cautiously, and mimicked his motions—dabbing the stained silk with light, deliberate strokes.

Her eyes widened. The stain faded before her eyes, melting away like shadows at sunrise. Within seconds, the fabric gleamed clean once more, its intricate embroidery shining under the lantern glow. She gasped. "What magic is this?!"

Tatsu gave a modest shrug, folding his arms as he leaned lightly against a lantern post. "Just chemistry," he said. "Though Maxim might argue otherwise."

The girl stared at the cloth in awe, then down at the soap still clutched in her other hand. Her fingers curled around it reverently, as though she'd just been handed a sacred relic unearthed from a long-lost shrine.

"You're incredible," she declared. "This stuff—this is life-changing. I was ready to throw hands with fate, but you pulled me back from the edge of kimono-based despair."

Tatsu gave a low chuckle. "Happy to be of service."

She tucked the cloth away and hugged the bar of soap to her chest like it was gold bullion. Her tail flicked once, brightly, behind her. "Thank you, kind stranger. I owe you one."

She turned to go, but paused just a few paces away. Glancing back over her shoulder, she offered him a playful smile—one part gratitude, one part mischief. Her pink fox ears twitched, catching the breeze like tiny sails.

"If you're still around tonight," she said, "you should come watch the Miko dance."

Tatsu tilted his head. "The Miko dance?"

She nodded, brushing a drifting cherry blossom from her sleeve. "It's the heart of the Spring Festival. Everyone gathers in front of the temple for it. They say it brings blessings to the whole island." Her eyes sparkled, and her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "And if you watch closely… you might even see the sun smile."

With that, she spun lightly on her wooden clogs and vanished into the crowd—like mist dissolving in sunlight, the faint scent of blossoms lingering in her wake.

He opened his mouth to ask more, but she had already slipped into the tide of festival-goers—vanishing behind lanterns, silk banners, and drifting petals, like a dream swallowed by twilight.

Tatsu lingered for a while, his eyes scanning the crowd where she'd disappeared—pink tail swaying, cherry-blossom kimono fluttering behind her like a petal caught in the wind. The sounds of the festival returned in full around him—drums, laughter, sizzling food—but his thoughts were elsewhere.

"The Miko dance, huh?" Tatsu murmured, the words drifting out on a breath still touched by the echo of her smile. He stood in the middle of the lantern-lit path, watching the place where she'd vanished into the crowd, as if her presence had left ripples in the very air.

Then his brow furrowed. "…Wait," he muttered, blinking. "I never even got her name."

A soft laugh escaped him—dry, self-deprecating. He rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to shake off the strange, weightless feeling she'd left behind.

"Oh well," he sighed, turning back toward the avenue of stalls. "If fate's in a good mood… maybe I'll see her again."

The scent of grilled dumplings floated in on the breeze, familiar and tempting, guiding his steps forward. The festival hadn't changed—but something in him had. He no longer wandered the cobbled paths simply in search of food or curiosities, or to marvel at the spiritual elegance of the island. Now, there was something else—an intrigue. A heartbeat.

Somewhere in the kaleidoscopic dreamscape of Touno Island—among the taiko drums, the sacred flames, and the drifting cherry blossoms—there was a girl with fox ears, a ruined kimono, and a fire in her voice. She'd taken his soap, and with it… a small, unexpected piece of his attention. He didn't miss the soap, but he already missed her smile.

The wooden floorboards gave a soft, familiar creak beneath their feet as Tatsu and his companions stepped through the sliding doors of the inn. Inside, the air wrapped around them like a warm blanket—scented with polished hinoki wood, lingering incense, and the faintest trace of citrus peel. Somewhere behind the walls, a shamisen played a gentle tune, its wistful notes rising and falling like waves lapping quietly against a shore.

A refined Oni hostess in a deep indigo yukata bowed with practiced elegance, her crimson horns and serene expression the picture of composure. Her voice, low and melodic, guided them forward. "This way, honored guests."

They followed her down a long, lamp-lit corridor, the glow of paper lanterns casting soft halos along the walls. Prim bounced with barely-contained energy, her tiny goblin feet pattering eagerly against the tatami mats. "This place smells like a temple and a candy store had a baby!" she whispered in awe, twirling once as they walked.

Knivi gave her a sidelong look, arching a brow. "I don't smell candy."

"That's 'cause your nose is all law and order and no fun," Prim chirped back with a mischievous grin.

Knivi snorted—a rare sound of amusement—but said nothing more, her boots silent as she resumed walking in step beside Tatsu.

The Oni hostess came to a graceful halt beside a lacquered wooden door. She turned to them and bowed once more. "Your room, if it pleases you."

With a quiet slide, the door opened to reveal a modest yet elegant chamber. Two futons were arranged side by side with perfect symmetry, each topped with fluffy quilts in muted tones of cream and moss green. A low, lacquered table stood between cushions embroidered with floral patterns, and an alcove in the far wall held a simple but tasteful flower arrangement beside a scroll painted with a single kanji: 静 — "Tranquility."

Sunlight streamed in through the shoji screens, casting latticed shadows across the tatami mats, which were freshly brushed and smelled faintly of dry grass. Prim's eyes lit up. With a gleeful squeak, she dove headfirst onto the nearest futon, her arms spread wide like a child jumping into a pile of leaves. "It's so soft! I'm never getting up again."

Knivi scanned the room with her usual caution, but her lips curved faintly at the corners. "Not bad," she admitted. "Beats napping on the guardhouse bench."

With another graceful bow, the Oni hostess excused herself, her footsteps whispering over the tatami as she retreated down the hall. Tatsu and Maxim continued onward, following the curve of the lantern-lit corridor until they reached their own room. Like the others, it was clean and serene, its quiet beauty sharpened by small, thoughtful touches: a brazier nestled beneath the low table radiated a gentle heat, while a lacquered tray held a modest offering of peeled tangerines and crisp rice crackers.

Tatsu exhaled as he lowered himself to the floor, tucking his legs neatly beneath the table. The heat from the brazier crept into his bones, slow and steady, loosening the ache in his shoulders. It was the kind of warmth that didn't just ease the body—it beckoned it to rest, to dissolve.

Maxim sank down beside him with less grace and more gravity, folding his long limbs with a muttered grunt before snatching a tangerine from the tray. He began peeling it in smooth, practiced motions, releasing a bright citrus fragrance that quickly filled the room. They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the faint crackle of charcoal and the soft pat of rind as Tatsu reached for a fruit of his own.

Then, without turning his head, Tatsu spoke. "Hey, Maxim… did you happen to see a Keimonomimi girl earlier? Pink fox ears?"

Maxim paused mid-peel. He popped a wedge into his mouth and chewed slowly, brows knitting in thought. "Fox ears?" he echoed. "No. Too many bodies crowding the docks. Didn't get a clear look at anyone." He swallowed, reaching for another slice. "One kid did offer me dried sea cucumbers in exchange for a 'mana potion,' though. Called me 'sir alchemist.' I'm choosing to take it as a compliment."

Tatsu chuckled under his breath, a faint smile curling his lips. "She didn't seem like a tourist," he said, turning his tangerine over in his hands. "She was wearing a kimono, flashy and elegant. Like she belonged here. But something about her felt… out of place."

Maxim raised an eyebrow. "This is Oni land. You're not going to find any Keimonomimi born on Touno Island, let alone walking around in traditional garb. If she's wearing it, she probably bought it to blend in."

Tatsu didn't answer right away. He began peeling the fruit in careful spirals, the skin coming away like curling parchment. For a moment, the room was filled with the quiet rhythm of their hands and the whisper of warm air against shoji screens. Outside, the golden hush of late afternoon painted long shadows across the paper windows. Laughter drifted up from the street below, mingling with the echo of festival drums and the rustle of sakura leaves stirred by the ocean breeze.

Tatsu gazed out, his eyes distant. He didn't even know her something about her remained—more than the awkward bite of soap, more than the shimmer of her pink kimono or the teasing gleam in her eye. She'd appeared like a question in a place full of answers, a single anomaly in an otherwise predictable rhythm. He wasn't sure what it meant. Only that it meant something.

"I just…" he murmured, almost to himself. "I hope I see her again."

Maxim didn't say anything. He simply nudged the tray between them a little closer and went on peeling fruit, as outside, the wind stirred softly and the island breathed beneath a sky just beginning to blush with evening.