Chapter 3: "Moonlight and Arrows"

The clink of glass mugs echoed gently through the warm, lamp-lit inn room. Tatsu sat cross-legged at the low table, fingers curled around a cup of Oni-brewed beer. The earthy scent of barley mingled with the soft citrus aroma of a tangerine peel resting on a lacquered dish nearby. Beneath the table, the brazier's heat radiated upward, warding off the chill that crept in with the night.

Outside, the moon had climbed high, casting its pale glow across the inn's paper shoji panels. The light slipped through the lattice in delicate patterns, spilling across the tatami mats like silver brushstrokes on parchment.

Prim was already in her room, sound asleep on her futon after a long day of excitement and festival games. Despite her young age, no one worried. She was sharp, independent, and mature beyond her years—a trader-in-training with instincts that already rivaled many adults.

Knivi, sprawled comfortably beside the table, let out a satisfied groan and stretched until her back gave a small pop. "Okay, I'll say it—this island's too quiet."

Maxim gave a low grunt of agreement as he swirled his own drink. "Clean, polite, eerily serene. It's unsettling."

"It's… beautiful," Tatsu added, softly. "Like something preserved in a painting. A place that never changes."

"Exactly." Knivi picked up a rice cracker and bit into it with a crunch. "Everywhere else we've been—Drakenburg, Hightower, Greymoor—there's noise, people yelling over street stalls, kids stealing fruit, traders haggling for a silver off. Here?" She gestured around them. "Even the dogs seem to bark politely."

Maxim chuckled into his cup. "And not a single pickpocket tried to cut my belt pouch. It's unnatural."

Tatsu smirked, staring into the golden foam of his beer. "You two are just too used to chaos."

"And you're not?" Knivi gave him a sidelong glance. "You're practically the god of organized chaos. What's got you so dreamy-eyed?"

Tatsu hesitated for a beat, then leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. "I'm hoping to see someone again. A girl. Keimonomimi. Fox ears, pink. She was wearing a pink kimono earlier, near the food stalls."

Knivi's brow rose. "Pink kimono? Are you sure?"

"Positive. She looked like she belonged here, but that's what threw me. Oni don't usually share territory with Keimonomimi," said Tatsu.

"Maybe she's a tourist like us?" Knivi mused.

"No… something tells me she's not," Tatsu said, thoughtfully. "The way she carried herself. The way the other Oni treated her. It felt… different."

"She's either a rare resident," Maxim muttered, "or something stranger. Maybe you've fallen for a ghost."

Tatsu gave him a dry look. "She ate soap. Pretty sure ghosts don't do that."

That made Knivi snort beer out of her nose. "Wait, what?!"

Tatsu smiled faintly, enjoying their reactions. "It's a long story."

Before Knivi could press her question further, a gentle knock brushed against the quiet of the room. The shoji door slid open just enough for a sliver of warm hallway light to spill across the tatami. The Oni hostess appeared in the gap, bowing with the grace of a practiced performer. Her yukata, patterned with pale plum blossoms, moved like painted silk in the draft. Her horns were short, polished smooth, and her skin caught the flicker of lanternlight, giving her the look of someone carved from amber.

"Pardon the interruption, honored guests," she said, her voice a low murmur, careful not to disturb the stillness more than necessary. "The Miko dance is about to begin. If you wish to attend, the procession will start shortly."

Tatsu blinked, the words tugging him out of his calm. He straightened, the brazier's warmth still clinging to him. "The Miko dance…" he echoed, the syllables weighted with sudden memory.

Her voice came back to him—light, teasing, and edged with that fox-like charm: "Maybe I'll see you at the Miko dance."

The memory brushed against his mind like a silk ribbon in the wind, and with it came that inexplicable lurch in his chest, quick and uninvited.

"Let's go," Tatsu said, rising in a swift, decisive motion that made the futon rustle.

Knivi arched one dark brow. "Hoping your soap girl makes an appearance?"

"Fate gave me a hint," he replied, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Might as well follow it."

From the corner, Maxim let out a theatrical groan as he reached for his coat. "If this doesn't turn into a romance drama, I'm spiking your soup with love potion. You need a girlfriend, and pronto."

"Deal," Tatsu said, already halfway to the door.

Outside, the music had changed. The slow, resonant beat of drums rolled through the streets like distant thunder, joined by the lilting cry of flutes that seemed to weave silver threads through the night air. Lanterns drifted overhead like lazy fireflies, their paper skins painted with curling fox tails, sprays of cherry blossoms, and graceful lines of old script. They bobbed on unseen currents, casting pools of warm color that swayed across faces and rooftops.

Sakura petals spun down in soft spirals, catching on sleeves and hair before settling across the polished stone streets. The air carried a faint perfume—plum wine, roasted chestnuts, and the salty whisper of the sea beyond the harbor.

Tatsu stood with Knivi and Maxim at the edge of the gathered crowd, a cup of sake warming his palm. Laughter hummed around them in a low, contented murmur. Children raced between stalls with sticky cheeks, their giggles rising above the music, while elders huddled over skewers and dumplings, trading stories like old coins.

But Tatsu's attention wasn't on the food, or the lanterns, or even the music. His gaze roamed the crowd in quiet urgency—slipping past a young couple sharing grilled eel, past a knot of Oni men in festival robes clacking wooden hyōshigi in time with the drums.

No pink fox ears. No flash of rosy silk. "Where are you?" he thought, scanning one more time as a hollow note of disappointment stirred in his chest.

Then, the music changed.

The playful clatter of festival songs ebbed away, replaced by the low, haunting cry of a bamboo flute. Its voice curled through the square like incense smoke, ancient and unbroken. A hush rippled outward through the crowd. Lanterns dimmed until their painted skins glowed like embers, and the moon rose into dominance—its silver gaze bathing every face, every rooftop, every blossom.

From behind a drifting curtain of wisteria petals, she stepped into view.

The Miko emerged like moonlight slipping between clouds, her presence drawing the very air into stillness. The crowd's collective breath seemed to vanish, as though even the wind feared to trespass on her moment. She moved with liquid precision, each step a thread in some unseen tapestry, each turn of her wrist older than memory. Her shrine maiden robes shimmered in white and crimson—garments that whispered when she moved, as though their threads had been spun from dawn itself.

Yet it was not merely the robe that seized the eye—it was her. Her skirt fell just shy of tradition's length, baring long, elegant legs sheathed in white silk stockings, the fabric luminous under the moon's cold fire. Each step upon her lacquered geta rang with the faint, deliberate tok of wood, the sound softened by the playful chime of tiny bells knotted to their straps.

Behind her, a plush, pink tail swayed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, its movement timed perfectly to the dance. At her lower back, tied into the crimson cord of her obi, a fox mask grinned sidelong at the world—its carved smirk and narrowed eyes hinting at secrets older than the island itself.

Her hair, long and flushed with the same pastel blush as the petals above, tumbled in a glossy ribbon down her back. Red-and-white cords bound it neatly at the crown, while twin bells at the ends marked each subtle tilt of her head with a sound like falling dew.

In her hand, she bore a wand of bronze bells bound to sacred wood, and when she lifted it, its clear, layered tones rang out—not merely a sound, but a blessing, a summons, and a promise.

Tatsu felt the breath still in his chest. His pulse stumbled. "Pink ears. Soft steps. The girl from the takoyaki stand."

But she was changed now. The playful mischief he'd glimpsed earlier had quieted into something serene—an elegance that felt timeless. Her face, no longer flustered from spilled food or soap mishaps, was a mask of calm devotion. Grace radiated from her with each breath, each heartbeat.

She lifted her arms. The music began. Her sleeves rippled with slow, circular movements, delicate like wind through silk. She turned, heel to toe, her motion as fluid as a leaf tracing the current of a stream. With every sweep of her arms, every soft rotation of her frame, she seemed to sketch invisible calligraphy into the night air—symbols too sacred for mortal eyes to read.

It was like watching a petal fall with conscious grace. And beneath it all, Tatsu felt something stir. A shiver ran across his skin. His Spore Sense tingled—not in warning, but in recognition.

There was divine energy here. Soft. Subtle. Like sunlight filtering through shrine doors at dawn. Not overwhelming, but unmistakably real.

He didn't blink. Couldn't. Not as the fox maiden danced beneath the moon and lantern light, weaving prayers into motion, bells into song, mystery into memory. And not for the first time since arriving in this strange world, Tatsu wondered if some things—some people—were meant to be found.

Divine energy, he realized. Not overwhelming, but real. His Spore Sense, usually reserved for warning him of monsters or threats, was now humming with something pure. Like sunlight filtered through ancient shrine trees.

Around the square, soft murmurs rippled like wind through blossoms. Faces upturned, eyes glowing in the lantern light, the crowd watched with quiet wonder. Then, padding gently across the cobblestones came two small foxes—no taller than a child's waist, but walking upright with an elegance that belied their size. Each one wore a ceremonial sash and carried a wooden offering box strapped to its back, intricately carved with floral patterns and sun motifs.

They moved with practiced grace, pausing before clusters of onlookers and bowing deeply, their movements precise, reverent. The chime of coins soon joined the music, a soft, steady rhythm of gratitude.

One of the foxes stopped in front of Tatsu's group. Maxim tilted his head, raising a brow. "Cute little fox priests."

Knivi tossed in a few cherry blossom coins, her smirk mischievous. "Is that your soap girl, mushroom man?"

Tatsu barely heard her. His gaze hadn't left the dancer. The girl in red and white—his fox girl—moved as if her every motion was connected to something larger, something unseen. The way her sleeves traced arcs through the night air, the bells that whispered from her wrists, the way her tail curved like a brushstroke in a living painting—it was all deliberate. Enchanting.

The small fox before him gave a soft yip and presented its box. Without a word, Tatsu reached into his pouch and drew out a handful of cherry blossom coins, glimmering under the moonlight. He placed them in the offering with quiet reverence. The fox bowed once more—its tails flicking in polite thanks—then turned and padded off into the shifting sea of yukata and lantern glow.

Still, Tatsu watched. On the stage, the Miko danced in soft, circling movements, her bells a hymn to the stars. And then—between a turn and a dip—her eyes met his. Just for a breath. A spark. She smiled, and then she winked.

Tatsu's heart skipped. "She sees me."

She kept dancing, never missing a step, her gaze returning to him like moonlight slipping through shoji doors. Each motion now felt personal—no longer a performance for the crowd, but a quiet exchange between two souls. A secret twirled into every ripple of her sleeve, every delicate shift of her foot upon the polished wood.

"She's not just dancing," Tatsu thought, heart thudding like a drum caught in ritual. She's weaving something… a blessing, maybe. A prayer. Or perhaps—just perhaps—it was a message. One only his heart was meant to understand.

The crowd swayed around him, breathless and silent as if under a collective spell. Lantern light flickered like stars caught in the trees, and above them, the full moon hung low and luminous, a witness to something quietly sacred. And for that one shimmering moment beneath the paper lanterns and silver sky, Tatsu forgot entirely that he was a foreigner in a strange world.

But as the final note of the dance faded into the hush of night, she stepped back into the wisteria curtain from where she came—gone as swiftly as she had arrived. The platform was empty. Only the sound of bells lingered, haunting in their absence. The crowd murmured in awe, slowly dispersing, like petals drifting on a river's current. But Tatsu stayed a little longer, rooted where he stood, the warmth of her gaze still pressed against his chest like a seal.

He made a quiet promise to himself, "I'll see her again."

Morning arrived on Touno Island like a whispered blessing—carried on a gentle breeze that rustled the cherry blossoms and stirred the scent of cooled lantern ash from the night before. The streets, still damp with dew, slowly woke with the quiet hum of life. Bamboo shutters rolled open with soft clacks, revealing stalls now steaming with fresh soup, rice, and dumplings. Children wove between the stands with shrieks of joy, their laughter skipping through the air like bright paper kites tugged by the wind.

Tatsu moved through the reawakening village with his hands tucked into his pockets, his stride unhurried, his gaze quietly searching. His face wore no urgency, but hope clung just behind his eyes. Somewhere in this dreamlike festival, amid the smells of sweet red bean and grilled squid, she was out there. Today, he would find her.

He lingered a little too long at the takoyaki stall, eyes drifting not toward the food but beyond it—watching faces, scanning movements, ears twitching at any hint of laughter that might be hers. He walked the length of the koi pond twice, pretending to admire the slow glimmer of goldfish, though his mind was elsewhere.

Occasionally, he stopped a random Oni and asked, "Have you seen a pink-eared Keimonomimi girl? Cherry blossom kimono?"

They would pause, thoughtful, and shake their heads with apologetic smiles. "Sorry, haven't seen anyone like that today."

Tatsu would nod, grateful nonetheless. "Thanks anyway."

He kept walking. Searching. The festival swirled around him—bright, loud, bursting with color and life—but to Tatsu, the world had softened into a hush. His thoughts moved like water, flowing in only one direction. Faces blurred. Voices blended. He moved through it all with quiet purpose, his senses sharpened, narrowed to a single thread that shimmered just beyond reach.

But hours passed. Shadows lengthened. Still—no sign of her. Until—

There, beneath the gentle shade of a sakura tree, he saw it: a lazy flick of a pink, familiar tail swaying like a flag in the breeze. She was nestled comfortably in the grass, one leg tucked under the other stretched out with the careless poise of someone who owned that whole little patch of earth. In her hand, a pale blue popsicle dripped slowly down the stick, catching shards of sunlight in sticky rivulets that glistened against her fingers. A half-lidded gaze wandered the plaza lazily… until her pink fox ears twitched.

She looked up. Their eyes met across the flow of festivalgoers and sakura petals. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then—two smiles bloomed in unison. Familiar. Easy. Like two old friends who had always meant to meet again.

"You again," she said with a sly lift of her brow, wiping a streak of syrup from her chin with the back of her hand. "You're not following me, are you?" Her voice was playful, teasing—but her eyes held something warmer, more curious.

And Tatsu, for the first time that day, felt the world snap back into color. The pastel pinks of falling petals, the soft browns of earth and wood, the way the sunlight filtered through the branches and pooled gently around her—it was almost magical, like stepping into a scroll painting unearthed from a forgotten Japanese temple.

She patted the grass beside her without a word, and he eased down into a cross-legged seat, the tension in his shoulders melting as easily as the popsicle in her hand. There was a moment of silence—not awkward, but golden. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that hums with unspoken recognition.

Then, she gave a soft laugh, warm and teasing. "So… I guess I should introduce myself. Name's Kagura."

"Tatsu," he replied, bowing his head slightly. "From Keimonomimi Village."

"Ohh, I've heard of that place," she said, eyes lighting up with interest. "Never been, but they say it's tucked away deep in the fields of Drakenburg, right? You're not the first outsider to visit, but you're definitely the most interesting one I've met."

He tilted his head, smirking. "How so?"

Kagura grinned and slowly ran her tongue along the edge of her popsicle like it was some kind of gleaming blade. "You gave me soap."

Tatsu burst into laughter, unguarded and full. "Still not over that, huh?"

"I nearly lost all faith in culinary joy that day," she replied, mock-wounded. "But…" Her tone softened. "When I tried it at home, I managed to save a few of my favorite kimonos. So… thank you."

"I'm glad it helped," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry about the whole soap-biting thing."

"Next time," she said, tapping his arm with the sticky end of her popsicle, "warn me when you're handing out things that aren't edible."

Tatsu chuckled, brushing off the spot where she poked him. "Duly noted."

The breeze carried the soft scent of sakura again, and somewhere in the plaza, music began to rise—a slow, cheerful tune drifting lazily through the air. But here, beneath the gentle shade of the cherry tree, the world had already slowed to something more intimate. Something quieter. Something just for them.

Their banter had found a rhythm—unspoken yet familiar. She teased, he parried. She smiled, and he felt warmth bloom in his chest. A slow, invisible current tugged them closer, pulled them into each other's orbit with the ease of falling leaves.

Kagura's eyes softened, the corners crinkling with something more honest than playfulness. "You're different from most travelers," she murmured. "You feel…" Her gaze flickered to the blossoms above as she searched for the word. "Special. Even in new soil."

Tatsu blinked. Rooted. A strange, fitting word for a man remade. He opened his mouth, unsure whether the words forming would be clever or sincere. But he never got the chance. A pulse surged through his chest like a plucked string—Spore Sense. Time didn't stop, but it stretched, just long enough for instinct to scream.

Without thinking, Tatsu moved. His arms scooped Kagura up in a single fluid motion—princess-style—and he vaulted them both clear of the grass.

THWACK!

An arrow slammed into the spot where he'd been sitting a heartbeat ago, burying itself deep into the earth. The shaft quivered with the aftershock, its intent as sharp as its tip.

Kagura gasped, clutching his shoulder.

Tatsu rose in a smooth, practiced motion, gently setting her down behind him. His eyes scanned the rooftops, the trees, the crowd beyond the path. His senses flared like an alarm in his bloodstream.

The cherry blossoms still fell, soft and pink, like nothing had changed. But everything had. Someone had just tried to kill him. From the cobbled road, Tatsu's gaze snapped upward, tracking the direction of the shot. His muscles tensed, his breath held. There—perched atop a raised wooden wall above the plaza—stood a figure cast in the halo of the mid-morning sun.

A tall Oni woman loomed with the stillness of a drawn blade. Her long blonde ponytail whipped in the breeze like a battle standard, and her golden eyes were narrowed into predatory slits. In her hands, she held a yumi—an ornate longbow nearly as tall as she was, already notched with another arrow.

She was clad in the ceremonial garb of a shrine archer: a deep blue pleated skirt that swayed with her movement, white sleeves cinched tightly at the shoulders, and a red chest wrap that hugged her form with armor-like precision. Her wooden geta sandals rested firmly on the edge of the wall, toes turned out with the poise of a trained warrior. From her forehead, a single, polished horn jutted skyward—gleaming faintly like obsidian touched by firelight.

Kagura's voice cracked with alarm, "Iori!"

The woman didn't answer her immediately. Her next words were aimed squarely at Tatsu, her voice like cold steel drawn from a sheath. "Stay away from Lady Kagura, outsider."

The crowd around the plaza, once light and festive, had fallen into hushed confusion. Whispers rose like smoke. A child pointed. The scent of grilled dumplings no longer seemed sweet. Tatsu didn't move. His stance was guarded, protective. But his eyes weren't on the bow. They were locked with Iori's—green to gold. Neither of them blinked.