Chapter Text

As the curtain slowly rose, the first note that echoed through the darkness of the temple’s main hall drowned the audience in silence. The dim light spreading across the stage mingled with the mist, unfolding slowly, as if an unseen hand were shaping the smoke suspended in the air. The pale shimmer of light quivered along the edges of the setand the spectators’ eyes gradually adjusted to the dark. Everything felt like the first moments of a dream not yet awake, the border between reality and illusion blurred.

And then came the voice…

Deep, resonant, almost otherworldly. Each word stretched like an echo filling the hall, bouncing off the ceiling ornaments, the gaps between empty seats, the old walls of the stage. It was the voice of something ancient,as if the whisper of a forgotten god had taken flesh. As its words rippled through the air, the mist shifted, thickening with each breath, heavy as an omen, a curse gathering shape.

Not a single person in the audience moved. Within that voice, in that trembling vibration, everyone felt the dark echo of the past. With the narrator’s breath, a memory stirred behind the dusty curtain: a forgotten tale about to be reborn from the shadows. Every flicker of light was like the awakening of a spirit. and when the curtain finally opened in full, what stood revealed was not a stage anymore, but the threshold of a curse reaching out from beyond time.

“As night fell upon Kyoto, whispers drifted through the streets. Doors closed one by one; prayers murmured behind shuttered windows. For when night came, the young women of the city vanished,one after another. No screams, no bodies. Only silence. The people spoke in fear of a demon beyond the mountains, one whose name they dared not utter, Shuten-dōji.”

The stage slowly took the shape of Kyoto’s narrow alleys. Under the dim light, silhouettes of old Japanese houses appeared. Lanterns of delicate paper hung from the ceiling, their red-ink patterns trembling faintly, breathing like small, weary hearts. Each one was a tiny moon whispering through the dark,piercing the night’s chest with their warm yellow glow, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The dark wooden planks covering the floor seemed washed by rains of long ago; each step released a faint creak, the echo of years past. In the corner stood a miniature shrine, so detailed it seemed alive, tiny stone steps, curved ornaments beneath its wooden roof. The incense burning before it released a heavy fragrance; its smoke curled like a gray serpent into the scene, carrying with it the ancient, mystical air of old Japan.

Then the actors appeared. Each one resembled a silent soul from a Noh performance: faces painted chalk-white, lips drawn thin and red, eyes still and mask-like.

All whispers ceased.

At that exact moment, you drop to your knees in the center of the stage, one leg striking the wooden floor with a sound that rings against the walls. As you raise your slender wrists, the light moves with you; each motion, each trembling of your fingers ripples in perfect synchrony. In that instant, your body is no longer a vessel, it is the emotion itself. Then your voice breaks free, a deep, splintered cry tearing through the stage. It rises as if to pierce the heavens, then falls, shuddering the lanterns’ light.

Your scream carries the echo of centuries, suppressed anguish, forgotten curses. The audience holds its breath; some squint, others clasp their hands without realizing it. The stage is no longer mere scenery, it has become a living memory. Every wisp of smoke, every flicker of light, every breath trembles between past and present. And your scream splits that veil like a wound.

“You took my mother! You took my sister! Take me too- what are you waiting for?!”

As the light slowly dims, the air above the stage shifts, as if an invisible hand has drawn all breath from the room. The dim glow falters, then deepens into a red that looks like blood. The color seeps outward, spreading until it consumes everything, the cracks of the wooden floor, the shadows of the set, glowing like veins of fire. The light seems alive; with every pulse it breathes, blurring the edges of the stage, staining even the walls with its hue. Red is no longer a color, it is a warning, a prophecy, the silent herald of approaching terror.

A deep, resonant sound follows, the beating of a drum.

It rises as though from the heart of a mountain. Each strike makes the seats tremble, landing in the audience’s chest like a blow. The rhythm falters, quickens, stopsand starts again, like the last heartbeats of a dying giant.

And then… from the right corner of the stage, a shadow emerges. At first a faint outline, lumbering and unsure. Then it steps forward. Each creak of the wooden floor resounds like an earthquake but its clumsiness is so absurd it’s as if an ox tried to dance on stilts. The lanterns flicker and dim at its passing; a few lights seem to shrink not from fear, but embarrassment.

The narrator resumes, “Yes, his body is large but not grand, merely unfortunate. One shoulder higher than the other; his arms hung with an awkward imbalance, as though God, in creating him, misplaced His sense of proportion. Each step shakes the ground not with dread but with the weary patience of the audience.”

“And now, behold- Shuten-dōji.”

The horns on his head are less terrifying than pathetic, crooked like broken forks, one snapped, the other bent sideways. From their roots a faint light seeps, mingling with sweat to bubble grotesquely, as though a tiny cauldron boiled inside his skull. The robe on his back, meant to be a storm of red and black, betrays itself with every move, cheap fabric fluttering like an overdressed peasant at a village wedding. Its patterns shift, yes, but with such clumsy disharmony that one can’t help but wonder who sewed it.

The enormous sake bowl in his hand catches the dim light, though it’s so large it might as well be a basin. The liquid within gleams blood-red, trickling down from his lips to his chin and neck. The streaks running down his face look less like blood and more like stains of shame.

The white smoke leaving his mask is anything but graceful, he exhales it with such force it reaches the first row, where a few people wave their hands and cover their noses. That breath is no mist, but a disaster of onions and stale alcohol. His eyes are coal-black, not the gleaming kind, but damp, cave-forgotten coals that swallow light and reflect a faint, sickly shimmer. His teeth want to be sharp but they’re yellow, crookedand one still seems to hold a piece of last week’s meat.

“I am Shuten-dōji! blood my wine, your prayers my feast! Your daughters, your prayers- they’re all part of my banquet now!”

The narrator’s voice echoes again, “This demon was no ordinary beast. Born from the mountain’s heart, fed by shadows. He slept in caves by day and feasted on human flesh by night. The screams of his captives were his music, their agony, his amusement.”

The left side of the stage lights up. Four warriors emerge, their wooden armor gleaming as if polished steel. Broad helmets shadow their eyes, but determination burns beneath. One steps forward, Minamoto no Raikō.

“By the Emperor’s will, we’ve come to end your reign, demon!”

The lights flicker. Shuten-dōji laughs, grabbing you and vanishing into red smoke.

The narrator continues, “The Emperor’s faithful warriors disguised themselves as monks and set out. The mountains behind Kyoto lay in silence. The sky was veiled in fog, the moon hidden behind clouds. The wind howled through the branchesand even the shadows watched their every step. At last, they reached the vast cave where the stench of blood and wine merged into one.”

Darkness swallows the stage. Distant sobs blend with the ringing of bells. The flutes rise, weaving a thin, tense melody. Then the demon appears again, his body nearly touching the cavern roof. Each breath spreads mist; each movement makes the stones tremble. He rises above you, his naked form revealed. Lifting his cup, the red foam from his lips drips to the floor.

“Monks…” he sneers, “What business have you in my mountains?”

Raikō and his men kneel, bowing low. In their hands they hold a small bottle, wrapped in bright silk like a sacred relic. Raikō addresses him.

“This drink is a gift from the heavens, my lord. It was meant for the god of the mountains… but who could be more worthy than you?”

The demon’s grin widens. He takes the bottle, drinks and bursts into laughter.

“Never have I tasted such fire! It burns through my veins- my strength… fades? Hah! What does it matter- pour me another!”

The melody deepens. The flutes twist into a narcotic rhythm. The demon staggers; his hands tremble. A few uneven steps and then he collapses, his massive form crashing to the ground. The drums strike again, now to the rhythm of triumph.

The heroes draw their swords. The lights blaze white, time slows. All four raise their blades together.

Raikō whispers one word. “Now.”

The swords descend as one.

A monstrous scream rips the air. White smoke bursts from the demon’s mask. His head flies upward, then crashes down with a thunderous thud. Crimson light erupts from beneath the stage, painting the audience’s faces red.

Silence.

Then, the head opens its eyes once more. Fire burns within them. Its teeth gnash, snapping at Raikō. One warrior barely raises his helmet in time to block it; otherwise, the demon would have claimed his revenge even in death. Finally, the head falls still.

Chains drop from your wrists. The men free you. You collapse, weeping. Someone covers you with a cloth. The flutes play again, this time, peacefully.

The narrator’s voice echoes for the last time:

“That night, Kyoto was saved. But the wind in the mountains still carried the demon’s final words- ‘Humans… you, too, carry a demon within.’”

In the final scene, Raikō approaches the fallen demon. The floor still glows red, but now that glow feels less like blood, more like the shy reflection of an over-polished stage prop.

Shuten-dōji, sprawled across the boards, looks pitiful despite his size. One horn bent, the other broken into his mouth; tongue lolling out, eyes staring in opposite directions. The great terror of the play has become a broken puppet in a child’s game.

Raikō watches him in silence. His breath is heavy, not with rage but with the exhaustion of a man thinking, “Was this really worth it?” His armor catches the faint light, not heroically now, but with a faintly ridiculous gleam. He steps closer, carefully, as though afraid to scuff a fine carpet. With the tip of his boot, he nudges the demon’s head, It bounces aside like a wooden toy ball, releasing a faint, silly “oof.”

Raikō freezes, blinks, then rolls his eyes. He tries again, pressing harder. A soft creak from the stage and one of the demon’s broken horns snaps off, rolling to the front row. A woman screams, not in fear, but disgust.

Raikō doesn’t even bother to lift his sword. He plants his foot on the demon’s head, pushing lightly, a lazy grin forming on his lips. He sticks out his tongue and makes a sharp “pt!” sound at the demon’s face, a childish gesture that turns all the blood-soaked tragedy into the play’s most mocking moment.

With a final faint crack, the demon’s head sinks into the stage. Silence falls, not the silence of fear, but of stifled laughter. Because everyone knows: on this stage, there is no hero left, only a man who’s lost his patience and a demon who’s lost his dignity.

The other actors step out from behind the set, weary but satisfied. As they shed their characters, their steps grow lighter; the warriors are replaced by disciplined performers. They line up slowly at the front, their costumes rustling softly, the scent of incense still hanging in the air. In perfect harmony, they turn to the audience.

And then, as one, they bow, A wave of reverence flowing between fiction and reality. For a brief breath, both worlds meet.

The drums strike once more, a deep, resonant sound rolling through the hall’s walls.

And then, the play ends.

___

When your back struck the temple’s cold, rough wall, its millennia-old surface, a breath finally escaped your lips for the first time after that crushing violence. The impact gifted you a gasp that felt like a poisonous draught searing into your lungs, a dizzying intoxication as forbidden and heady as illicit sake. At the same instant, under the pressure of the moment, a soft, muffled moan slipped from your mouth; the sound was immediately smothered beneath the creak of the temple’s wooden floor. Absolute secrecy was required, yet the uncontrolled, hungry animal inside you seemed determined to betray you, as if every rasp and pant wanted to echo through the temple’s thick, dim cedar-paneled corridors.

Your legs were clamped tight around his narrow, slightly damp hakama like a knot. To keep your balance, one hand gripped the shoulder where Hironori’s silk kataginu slipped, your nails biting faintly into his skin. Hironori, meanwhile, pressed his hand to your chest, feeling your heart’s frantic, irregular hammering. His lips roamed your skin with a hunger and possessiveness so fierce and insistent it threatened to smother you and steal your breath.

This instant you inhabited would be the greatest, most audacious sin committed in the shadow of a sacred place. It was not merely the backstage of a nō but a temple sanctified by centuries of Zen monks’ chants and offerings. In that dim corridor behind the Hall of Mirrors, you were risking everything without the knowledge of the hundreds of worshipers and perhaps worse, without your friends who believed you to be loyal members of the nō troupe. Where Buddha whispered, you were speaking the most forbidden language of whispers.

Your lips began to tremble, unable to bear his hard, insistent bites any longer. The tiny, strange “click” of your teeth meeting sent a sudden, inexplicable shame through you, as if the sound were a small, physical confession of your illicit liaison. At the same time, the metallic taste of blood on his lips proved how savage and ungovernable the moment had become.

With one hand you seized Hironori’s sweat-slick, disheveled black topknot, tugging at its roots as though wrenching away the sting of his kisses and the turmoil inside your soul.

Then Hironori -the man playing the demon- slowly withdrew the hand he had pressed against your flushed, restrained chest. As he began with quick, deliberate motions to loosen his belt, a cold panic rose in you despite the flood of desire. Like someone hearing a sandal scrape behind a door, you signaled sharply for him to stop.

"What’s wrong?” Hironori’s voice was hoarse and impatient; he was breathless, his eyes aglow with a wildness that made no move to restrain you. His hand froze at his belt.

Reluctantly, slowly, you eased your legs from around his waist. A tremor ran through you as your feet met the cool, polished tatami. You hurried to close the exposed kosode’s collar. With the back of your hand you wiped your lips quickly, removing pale stage makeup and his taste as if erasing evidence.

“Maybe...another time…” you said, unable to stop the tremor and panic in your voice. You adjusted your kimono collar. Dressing quickly, you added, “Let’s collect the masks and props and get back before anyone suspects.”

You glanced around in haste. This was more than a mere backstage. You felt the temple’s heavy, sacred presence like the aura of an ancient kami seeping from the walls; the hairs at the nape of your neck rose.

“And besides… this isn’t any place. Doing such a thing inside a temple… we must be sick in the head,” you whispered, convinced someone might be listening. “We should leave at once.”

"Why weren’t you this religious before we started… you know?" Hironori straightened himself alongside you, his movements the opposite of yours- relaxed, mocking, confident. When he looked into your eyes a playful challenge glittered there. He took pleasure in cornering you.

“Swear to Buddha, we’ll be damned, Hironori,” you snapped, pressing your palms to your chest. “We commit sin where monks come to pray, at the feet of Buddha.” You rolled your eyes, judging your own recklessness.

“As if you’ve been performing Shintō rites twenty-four hours a day.” Hironori said, now fully calm, his voice dripping sarcasm as he made for the room’s exit. As he reached for the sliding door, his parting words flew at you like a sharp arrow.

“You cling to religion when you’re cornered. Just like when you put on a man’s role.”

His words bounced back with a cold echo off the walls, leaving you alone in that dim wash of guilt, desireand betrayal. Instead of relief, your insides tightened.

You wanted him to be wrong but as always, he was right. Doing such a thing in a temple was the most sinful act you could commit. Even a kiss was a grave transgression. And besides…you weren’t ready to go any further with Hironori. You never had been.

After you straightened your robes, you stood before a dim paper lantern and checked your lips. They were slightly bruised but not in any noticeable way. You took a small pot of makeup from the box on the mirror and began to reapply. Your eyes lingered on the pale residue traces of oshiroi- at the corners of your face.

Women seldom appeared on stage anymore; by the Muromachi period nō troupes had become increasingly male-dominated. That was why you performed with as masculine a makeup as possible. Though your presence on stage might not have broken any laws, it defied custom and the nō company had accepted the risk for you. Besides, you could do a convincing male voice and slip into the role. You didn’t think anyone would notice.

The irony of being a woman forced to play a woman as a man would burned inside you.

Now, in feminine guise, you were dressed as an onna, a servant who helped with the theatre’s takedown. You moved from persona to persona without discomfort. You did your work, earned your wages and stood on your own. You didn’t need your ex-husband anymore; you had learned to live without him. You couldn’t help thinking that if he saw you now he’d say, “I wish I hadn’t left you.” You wanted to prove something,, perhaps to find him and show him what you had become, to feed your ego; or perhaps the bell of vengeance tolls and at the sight of him you’d want to kill.

It was one or the other and you didn’t know which voice inside you to listen to.

After spending a little while in the room, you set out toward the backstage as if nothing had happened. Your steps were silent, yet each one echoed faintly across the wooden floor, pulsing through the temple like the beat of a heart. At first, you walked guided only by the dim light, like someone awakened from a long dream, still wandering through its mist.

As the corridor’s chill brushed your skin, an odd unease began to take hold inside you. At first it was faint, barely more than the weight of a sigh, so brief you almost didn’t notice it. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps the heaviness of too much silence. But as you went on, that feeling began to stir somewhere deep within. A tightening, small, nameless, grew in the center of your chest, like a warning beginning to bloom.

Hironori knew you feared the dark and that you didn’t know your way around this sprawling temple. Even so, he had bolted ahead, vanishing with reckless speed; no matter how fast you walked, you couldn’t seem to catch sight of him at the corridor’s end.

As the lamp’s glow wavered and bent across the walls, there came moments when you weren’t certain the shadow beside you truly belonged to you. With every move, there was the faint illusion-an echo- of someone else trailing close behind. You couldn’t even grasp the thought forming in your head; for a breathless instant your lungs froze and then you forced yourself to steady.

“Don’t.be.ridiculous.” you murmured under your breath, trying to pull yourself together.

At this hour, no one remained in the temple, perhaps a few senior monks or a night watchman. As members of the Nō troupe, it was your duty to pack up the stage and leave the temple in peace. That was why, at this late hour, the place was so utterly still and so unbearably tense.

With the faint andon lamp in your hand, you quickened your pace. The spot you and Hironori had chosen for your secret tryst was far from the stage where the performance had taken place, deliberately so, to keep it hidden.

The temple was three stories high, built in the grand Karamono-zukuri style, with more rooms than you could ever count. No matter how many times you’d come here, you could never quite memorize what lay where. Moving from corridor to corridor, the patterns on the sliding panel doors always looked the same, repeating endlessly, like a maze meant to swallow you whole.

As soon as you felt the hand on your shoulder, every drop of color drained from your face. The thick layer of oshiroi you had painted on for the play suddenly felt unnecessary, you were pale enough without it. The lamp slipped from your grasp and hit the floor with a clatter. “Damn it!” you hissed, stumbling backward as you spun around to face whoever was behind you.

It wasn’t even the kind of curse someone like you would ever use.

You hit the floor hard and as the lamp went out, darkness swallowed you whole.

Only the faint wash of moonlight filtering through the paper panels let you see the figure before you, tall, dressed like a samurai or perhaps a nobleman. Maybe both. His posture was impeccable, his face shadowed by the lack of light. You tried to stand, but froze when you saw his hand reaching toward you. Then he bent slightly, the shadows partedand his face became clear. His features were so strikingly perfect that you thought, absurdly, anyone who looked upon him must be guaranteed a place in heaven.

You didn’t waste the opportunity. You took his offered hand with the gentlest of touches, letting the warmth of his grasp seep through your fingersand rose to your feet, locking eyes with him. For a moment, words abandoned you entirely. The flickering candlelight of the temple cast dancing shadows across his faceand you wondered if this was what it must feel like to witness an angel,ethereal, untouchable, yet utterly present. He looked like the kind of man priests wrote legends about, the sort whose mere presence could make the air feel heavier, sacred even.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Your jaw nearly dropped. Of course it would,of course a voice that resonant, that smooth and low, would belong to a face carved with such divine symmetry, as though sculpted by some celestial hand. You felt the faintest flutter in your chest, a warmth you hadn’t expected in the quiet sanctity of the temple.

Realizing you were still holding his hand, your cheeks flushed. You withdrew quickly, bowing deeply in a gesture of sincere humility. “The fault is mine,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “for speaking such foul words. It is unbecoming for a servant girl like me.” You bent down, your fingers brushing the polished wood as you retrieved the fallen andon, feeling acutely the weight of your own awkwardness.

Still smiling, his eyes gentle yet probing, he replied, “You needn’t apologize. I was the one who shouldn’t have approached so silently. The quiet of this temple can be deceiving.” His tone carried no mockery, only understanding,a strange, disarming empathy that made the hair on your arms stand on end.

You wanted to say something, anything, but fear of betraying your composure kept your lips sealed. Every instinct warned you that words now might tumble out clumsily, undermining the fragile dignity you clung to. So instead, you inclined your head slightly, a silent acknowledgment of his courtesy.

“As for why I disturbed you,” he continued, voice smooth and unhurried, “I wasn’t aware this sacred place was so vast. I was hoping you might help me find the way out?”

“Of course!” The words leapt from your mouth before your mind could catch up. “I mean,of course, my lord.” You looked around nervously, your fingers fidgeting slightly at your sides. “Though… I’m not very familiar with the temple either. I’m only a servant, helping clean up after the performance.”

“Oh, that’s no trouble,” he said easily, glancing around as if to orient himself. His eyes flicked over the dim corridors, the polished wood, the faint glow of lanterns casting long shadows, all while retaining that effortless calm. “I can ask someone else, then.”

“Actually,” You blurted, words tumbling out faster than intendedand he turned his gaze back to you, a hint of patience in the angle of his head. “Actually, the Nō troupe should still be around somewhere. I mean, since I’m still here, they-Anyway, never mind! One of them surely knows the way.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement tugging at his noble composure. “Do you know where they are?” There was a teasing edge in his voice, but it never lost its dignity.

“Yeah,” you admitted, a flicker of pride warming your chest. “I do know where the main stage hall is.” You gestured ahead, trying to appear casual. “About five minutes’ walk.”

“Lead the way,” he said, the quiet command in his tone unmistakable-calm, but unmistakably expecting to be followed.

You took a few cautious steps forward, mindful of each careful footfall on the polished floor. He fell in step behind you, his presence steady and unwavering. The dim corridor, narrow and hushed, seemed even more constricting under his attentive gaze, as if the shadows themselves were drawn to him.

“If it’s not too bold of me to ask,” you began, your voice barely above a murmur, trying to fill the silence without stumbling, “what brings you this deep into the temple at such an hour, my lord?”

He smiled faintly, the subtle spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. It was the kind of smile that teased without revealing, like a Zen riddle wrapped in human form. You felt a curious pull, the kind that made you want to unravel his mystery, even though a sense of propriety warned against it.

“I came for the performance,” he said smoothly, “and lingered afterward, searching for a bit of spiritual calm. It seems I may have overindulged in prayer.”

You rolled your eyes slightly, a small, private rebellion only a temple worker could afford. So he was one of those,the overly devout, almost unbearably proper sort, who would surely be scandalized at even the slightest misstep from someone like you. Yet, for all his polished formality, there was something quietly human in his presence, a warmth beneath the austere mask.

“Ah… since you help with the stage,” he continued, his voice calm yet carrying that effortless authority, “you must have seen the play?”

Seen it? The thought made your chest tighten. You were the play. Every painstaking step across the stage, every subtle gesture rehearsed until your muscles ached, every bead of sweat trapped beneath the wig,still clung to you like a second skin. To confess that to a man who looked every inch a samurai, poised and watchful, was as reckless as handing him a sword and baring your throat. The very idea made your pulse quicken.

“I’ve seen it too many times to pay much attention anymore,” you said instead, forcing a neutral tone. Your voice was calm, but inside, your nerves twisted in a tight coil.

At the end of the corridor, where two narrow paths diverged, you paused briefly to orient yourself, the lanternlight flickering across the polished floorboards. You led him onward, your steps measured, careful not to betray your lingering unease.

“Was it your first time watching, my lord?” you asked, curiosity threading through your words despite the careful mask of professionalism.

He didn’t even glance away from the path ahead, his focus unwavering. “Yes. And probably my last.” There was the faintest trace of disappointment beneath the smooth cadence of his voice, subtle enough that you almost missed it.

You frowned, tilting your head just enough for him to notice. “Oh? You didn’t enjoy it?”

“The story’s perspectiveand the so-called truth it presents, are… problematic,” he said flatly, his tone as measured as a blade’s edge.

You paused, feeling a flicker of indignation rise within you. “Would you care to elaborate?” Your voice was steady, but there was a sharpness there, a controlled fire.

He continued, almost conversationally, as if critiquing a manuscript rather than a performance you had poured your body into: “A creature turned demon because he drank wine, only abducting and defiling innocent girls? Such grotesque dramatics hardly reflect truth, do they?”

For a moment, you froze. Did this man,this calm, impeccably composed figure,really just dismiss the entire play in such a sweeping manner? Your convictions, as steadfast and disciplined as a monk’s, bristled at the criticism. And yet… the unexpectedness of his words made your heartbeat spike, a strange mixture of offense and fascination stirring within you.

You forced your hands to remain at your sides, gripping the folds of your servant robe to hide the tension in your fingers. The corridor seemed narrower now, the shadows longerand the air between you thick with unspoken challenge.

“My lord, the play’s based on centuries-old folklore. The demon’s nature reflects those tales. Why would portraying it as such be wrong?” You couldn’t help the pride that crept into your tone. For a fleeting moment, the faint scent of victory eased your nerves.

The corridor stretched long and silent, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the wood. You hunched your shoulders slightly as you turned a corner, the echo of your steps merging with his slower, measured ones. Time itself seemed to stretch between you.

The nobleman walked with effortless grace, his silk garments whispering softly. At last, he turned his head toward you. His gaze felt like a privilege.

“You seem unusually interested in Nō theatre,”he said. “Quite the depth of curiosity for a servant girl.”

You met his eyes with polite steadiness, the sooty scent of the extinguished lamp still hanging between you. “My life unfolds upon that stage, my lord. If I were to limit myself to sweeping floors and ignore the art within, I’d be living a hollow existence.”

“Quite right,” he nodded, eyes dropping back to the polished black floor. “Still, this performance… did little to nourish my soul. It felt strange.”

“Of course, One need not love every piece of art. Tastes differ.”

Anger flared deep inside you. You were proud, unyielding. It took every bit of discipline not to burst out with a Nō chant loud enough to rattle the rafters. You forced a meek smile instead, though your jaw twitched with restraint.

“I must admit, though,” he added, “there was a spark of brilliance in the acting.”

Your muscles eased slightly. At last, a compliment from the flawless noble.

“Especially the young man dressed as a woman… He captured the anguish of a captive soul perfectly.”

Ah. That role. Yours.

“He was almost too graceful to be male,” the man continued, a dry chuckle escaping him. “That makeup and the delicate kimono suited him well. For a moment, I thought he truly was a woman.”

You cursed inwardly. So much for your perfect disguise.

“Yes...” you said, clearing your throat. “Even under the temple’s dim light, some illusions are hard to dispel. We’re nearly there, my lord, the Main Hall is just ahead.”

He turned to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Your eyes and nose… they’re quite similar to his.” His gaze dropped to the faint white paint smudged on your cheek, something you hadn’t noticed. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, held it up in silent question and before you could react, gently wiped the mark away.

“There,” he said softly. “You had some white...stuff on your face. I’d have been rude not to mention it.”

“Oh- oh, how careless of me! Thank you!” Panic flared inside you. How had you missed that?How closely had he been looking? How had he almost pieced it together? Then, mercifully, you realized, he’d handed you an excuse himself.

“Ah- my brother,” you stammered. “The actor you mentioned. I hugged him after the performance and I suppose the paint was still wet…”

“Your brother must be quite talented and someone you admire,” he said, tone unchanged.

“Yes… unlike me, he has real skill,” you murmured, bowing slightly. You were a terrible liar. Why did he still believe you?

As you walked on, the floorboards groaned ominously beneath your feet. A shiver ran down your spine. “Oh my! God help us.” you whispered, your voice barely more than a tremor. You swallowed hard, then glanced up and froze under his curious, almost unreadable stare. Words tangled in your throat. “It’s just… this place,” you admitted, your voice shaky, “it gives me a strange feeling tonight. I… I can’t explain it.”

He smiled faintly, saying nothing. Embarrassment burned in your cheeks. His silence unnerved you more than any sermon.

“Do you… pray to your god often?” he asked after a pause.

“Not… not very often,” you said, pretending to search your memory. “Usually only when I’m frightened.”

You were nearly at the Main Hall now. Whatever playful, teasing tone the evening had begun with had dissolved into dust. You’d spent all this time only to humiliate yourself.

“Then tell me,” he said suddenly, stopping mid step. You stopped too. “When you were startled earlier, why did you curse instead of pray? Did you take me for a demon?”

You froze. “What?”

“Or perhaps,” he said lightly, “you thought I was one?”

“Oh, my lord,” you said, letting the words drip with playful mischief, “if anything, I’d call you an angel… one that fell straight from heaven, maybe to annoy me.” You leaned just slightly closer, letting the teasing linger. “You have none of a demon’s ugliness, if one dared stand before me, I’d spot it immediately. But you…” You let your gaze linger on him, daring him to challenge you.

“Ah,” he murmured, almost a growl. “So you do believe in demons.”

The abrupt chill of the question cut through you. After all that charm, all that subtle flirtation, this was what he chose to say?

“Of course not,” you said, forcing a laugh. “Just a figure of speech. Folklore, nothing more.”

A heavy silence followed. He showed no emotion, no frown, no smile. Just that steady gaze and faint curve of the lips. And then you understood. His earlier criticism of the play, his fixation on demons- it wasn’t mockery. He believed.

“And you?” you asked, stretching the words, hoping to draw something- anything, personal from him. “Do you believe, my lord…?”

“Tsukihiko,” he said at last, smiling. This time, his smile was wider, revealing sharp, gleaming teeth that caught the lantern light. “And yes. I do.”

You forced a trembling smile. “Pleased… to meet you, Tsukihiko.”

You had reached the end of the hall now- just one door between you and the others. You could already hear faint voices from the stage beyond.

“I know you find it foolish,” Tsukihiko said suddenly, his voice low, cold. “But belief is a peculiar thing.”

“You’re right,” you replied quickly. “I wouldn’t judge anyone for their faith.” Even though that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.

You reached for the door- “Allow me to tell you a short story,” he interrupted, his voice softer but chilling.

You hesitated, then nodded. His timing was strange, but curiosity won.

"Once,” Tsukihiko began, “there lived a woman named Tamamo in the Emperor’s court. Her hair shone like the golden light of the sun and her eyes sparkled like stars in the midnight sky. She was wise, gracefuland so beautiful that when she entered a room, all would fall silent.”

Though you had worked in the theater for years and heard countless legends, this was one you didn’t recognize. You listened intently.

“But then, the Emperor fell gravely ill,” Tsukihiko continued, his voice taking on a melodic rhythm. “No healer could find the cause. Tamamo was always by his side, reciting poetry in her sweet voice, laughing like the sound of silver bells. Everyone believed in her goodness. But one night…” He smiled, his tone softening. “One night, a wise man was summoned to the court. The moment he saw her, he turned away and said, ‘She is not human. She is a kitsune, a nine-tailed fox who has lived a thousand years.’”

You tried to follow his meaning, but your thoughts were starting to blur.

“When the truth came out, Tamamo fled. Her tails blazed like fire, her face cracked like a mask.” His voice grew quieter. “The warriors pursued her across the Nasu Plains and cornered her. One arrow struck her heart. But even as she died, she cursed them all. Her spirit was bound to a stone, the Sesshō-seki. The Killing Stone.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to force your brain to register what your eyes were telling you. Something had shifted, though you couldn’t immediately name it. Tsukihiko’s eyes, the color, it defied everything you knew. It was not the familiar dark sheen of a noble’s gaze, nor the warm brown or deep black that humans bore. No, it was a hue that seemed to vibrate in the dim light, like molten silver tinged with a strange, impossible glow.

Your mind scrambled to make sense of it. Maybe the lantern’s light was playing tricks on you. Maybe it was the shadows dancing across the walls. You shook your head, half in disbelief, half in an attempt to banish the vision.

But the image refused to fade. The color was real. It was there, sharp and undeniable and it felt like it was cutting straight through your chest, bypassing reason entirely. A cold, creeping recognition slithered down your spine. This was no ordinary human gaze. No mortal could possess this shade, this strange living fire locked in a pair of eyes.

Your breath caught in your throat, shallow and panicked. Your chest tightened, as though a thousand tiny hands were pressing against your ribs. Your pulse surged violently, hammering in your temples, making it difficult to think. You could feel your heart thundering, the rapid beat echoing in your ears like the warning drum of some unseen presence.

Every instinct screamed at you to step back, to flee, to hide, yet your body remained frozen, rooted in place. The impossibility of what you were seeing, combined with the magnetic pull of those eyes, made the air around you feel suddenly thinner and heavier, charged with something dangerous and unnameable.

In that suspended heartbeat, you realized that the Tsukihiko before you was not just a man. He was something else, something ancient and unbound by the natural laws that governed ordinary mortals. And you, standing so close, had seen it, really seen it.

Your mind screamed to deny it, to convince yourself you were imagining things, but deep down, the truth lodged in your chest like a splinter. You were staring into something impossible, something that should not exist. The recognition of it made your blood run ice-cold.

“I’m not sure what point you’re trying to make-"

“Shhh,” he whispered, smiling in a way that made your skin crawl. “I’m not finished.”

He took a slow breath, his voice dropping to a chilling murmur. “Even centuries later, those who approach that stone too closely still die. They say you can still hear the faint voice of a woman coming from within.”

And then it clicked- piece by piece, like a puzzle snapping into place. At first, you thought he was merely telling a story. Then doubt crept in. His words, his gestures… they weren’t just about someone else. They were about you. Every laugh, every tease, every detail, meant to teach you. And finally, with a shiver of both awe and shame, you understood: he was the story, and the lesson was about how easily you had been blinded by beauty.

“Sometimes,” he said, eyes glinting with something dark and ancient, “the truth that hides behind beauty is not a gift from the gods, but a curse. Fucking remember that. When you meet someone who rules with their eyes, protect your mind before your heart."

He turned toward the door.

Shit, you thought. You had led him straight to your friends.

“Thanks for coming this far with me,” he said, the noise behind the door barely scratching his attention. His gaze lingered on you, sharp, hungry, like he could devour you with just a look. “Having someone as irresistible as you at my side… it’s rare I let myself enjoy anything.” His lips curved into a dark, teasing smile. “And don’t get it twisted, I don’t only eat women.”

What followed was nothing but noise and pain.