??? POV
When I opened my eyes, the morning light filtering through the shōji was still pale and cool. "Miyabi…" That warm, familiar voice (my father's) pulled me from the last threads of sleep. I blinked, rubbing my eyes with the sleeve of my yukata. "You stayed up late training again," Father said, kneeling beside my futon with a gentle smile that didn't quite hide the worry in his eyes. "I told you to sleep early. Today is a special day for our clan."
I sat up quickly, the excitement I'd been carrying for weeks finally chasing away the grogginess. "Today… Tailless will choose me?" I asked, voice still rough from sleep. Father's hand ruffled my hair, the way he'd done since I was small. "Yes. The elders have agreed. You're ready, Miyabi. The blade has been waiting for you."
I beamed, heart racing. For generations, the Hoshimi clan had guarded the Kanto Youkai with Tailless—the living katana that bound itself only to the worthy heir. And today, at eighteen, that heir would be me. Father stood, offering his hand to help me up. "Come. Get dressed. Your mother—"
He paused, something flickering across his face. I tilted my head. "Mother will be there, right? She promised she'd tie my hair with the white ribbon herself." Father's smile faltered. He looked away for a moment, then knelt again so we were eye-to-eye.
"Miyabi… your mother is unwell this morning. She sends her deepest apologies. She wanted nothing more than to be here, but the fever came on suddenly last night." My stomach dipped. Mother never missed anything important. Not my first training session with a real blade, not the night I earned my clan crest, nothing. "Is it serious?" I asked, voice smaller than I meant it to be.
Father cupped my cheek. "Nothing she won't recover from with rest. She made me promise to tell you how proud she is. And she'll be waiting to celebrate with us tonight." I nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. "Okay. Tell her I'll make her proud today."
Father's eyes softened. "You always do, my little sword." He left me to dress. I chose the formal dark-blue kosode Mother had sewn for me last spring, the one embroidered with tiny white cranes along the hem. I tied my hair myself (not as neatly as she would have), and fastened the white ribbon anyway, right at the end of my ponytail.
Today I will become the blade of the Hoshimi...Today Tailless would accept me. I stepped out into the corridor, the old wooden floors cool beneath my tabi, and followed the sound of voices toward the main hall.
The estate was already alive with preparation. Servants hurried past with incense and offerings. Elders in formal montsuki stood in quiet clusters. And at the far end of the garden path, beneath the ancient cherry tree that had stood since the Edo period, I saw them.
The leaders of the Kanto Youkai Faction. Nurarihyon-sama himself stood at the center His long silver hair catching the morning light, pipe smoke curling lazily around his serene, ageless face. Beside him were the heads of the great clans—representatives from the Hyaku Monogatari, the Sanmoto Gorōza, even the reclusive crow tengu from the mountains. They had all come.
For me. Father waited at the entrance to the ceremonial hall, Tailless resting across his palms in its plain black scabbard (no ornament, no guard, just pure, terrible purpose). He smiled when he saw me, pride shining bright in his eyes. "Are you ready, Miyabi?"
I took a deep breath, bowed to the assembled leaders, and stepped forward. "I am." I come before my father, who is holding the sheathed sword, Tailless, the heirloom of Hoshimi clan, the treasure that has been protecting Kanto for centuries against all kinds of enemies.
Because of it the youkai in Kanto survived the war between Angels, Devils and Fallen. Because of it the Hoshimi name is spoken with fear and reverence in every shadow from Edo to the present day.
Now I am standing here before it, and before all of them. The garden is silent except for the rustle of wind in the old cherry tree. Nurarihyon-sama's pipe smoke drifts like incense. Every elder, every clan head, every ancient gaze is fixed on me (eighteen years old, barefoot on the tatami, heart hammering so loudly I swear they can hear it). Father's hands are steady as he offers the scabbard to me.
The black lacquer is warm from his palms. No tsuba, no wrapping, no ornament. Just a perfect, terrible void where a blade should be. He speaks the ritual words, voice low enough that only I and the ancestors can hear.
"Miyabi Hoshimi.
Daughter of my blood, bearer of my hope.
Will you accept the duty of Tailless?
Will you carry its hunger, its sorrow, its unbreakable will?
Will you be its sheath, its voice, its master, until the day it claims you or you lay it to rest?"
My fingers close around the scabbard. It is heavier than any training blade I have ever lifted. Heavier than grief. Heavier than the future. I bow, forehead touching the lacquered wood. "I will." Father's smile is small and fierce and proud. He releases the scabbard fully into my hands. The moment skin meets lacquer, something inside the sword stirs.
I hold the sword aloft. The power is not a surge; it is a flood. A black tide of every battlefield Tailless has ever tasted crashes into me. I see them (ghost-images of every ancestor who ever wielded it), standing shoulder to shoulder, faces I know from portraits and nightmares.
All of them were drenched in blood...All of them were smiling...The scream that tears from the blade is not sound; it is hunger...KILL...MORE...BLOOD FOR THE BLOODLESS...FLESH FOR THE FORGOTTEN.
My arms jerk, the sword trying to wrench itself downward, toward the closest living thing. Father. He stands calm, holding the empty scabbard, eyes gentle and trusting. The blade feeds me reasons like poison:
He never loved you...He only loved the clan...He forced your mother to bear this curse until it broke her...He forced you into training before you could spell your own name...He is weak...He is a coward.
He deserves to be the first offering. My vision bleeds crimson at the edges. My hands shake so hard the blade hums, eager, tasting the tremor. No. I force air into lungs that want to scream. Mother's voice, soft as morning rain "When the rage comes, do not fight it with strength. Dance with it. Be the water that wears stone smooth. Be the wind that carries the storm away."
I move. Not the brutal forms Father drilled into me. Not the killing strokes the elders praised. Mother's dance. The one she performed every dawn when the sword grew too loud in her mind. I step, slow, graceful, impossible against the pressure trying to crush my spine. Left foot glides, right heel turns. Tailless sings a furious note, but I answer with the first turn of the circle, arms flowing like silk in water.
I spin. The blade carves the air in perfect arcs, not to cut, but to soothe. Each rotation is a prayer. Each breath is a lullaby for the dead. Water over blood...Wind over smoke...Calm mind over chaos.
I danced as Mother once did. Barefoot on the old wooden engawa, morning light filtering through paper doors, her hand warm on mine as she hummed that gentle lullaby — the one only she and I knew. The one that sounded like home.
One circle...My toes brushed the tatami with practiced grace...Two...My breathing synced with the rhythm of the wind...Three...The crimson haze dimmed — like clouds parting after a storm.
The crimson in my eyes recedes, just a little. But when I regained a bit of my control against the katana, something unexpected happened, something that ruined my life forever. A thud, my mother's corpse was dropped mercilessly right in the middle of the ritual site, right between me and my father.
The blood keeps spreading...It is wrong...It is too much blood...It soaks the tatami, climbs the legs of the elders, licks at the hem of Nurarihyon-sama's robe like a living thing.
And from that impossible crimson sea, faces rise (laughing, always laughing). Mother's face, split open in a grin that is not hers. Father's face, mouth stretched too wide, teeth too sharp. Nurarihyon-sama's ancient eyes weeping red tears while his mouth howls with joy.
Their voices are everywhere, inside my skull, inside the blade, inside the hollow place where my heartbeat used to be. 'Look at the little girl playing sword-dance.'...'Look at her mother, finally quiet.' 'Dance, little Hoshimi, dance in the blood!'
Clapping. Endless, wet clapping. I scream. "STOP!" The laughter only swells, a storm of mockery that tears at my skin. Then the voice that is not mine (that has always been mine) rises with the sword's hunger and speaks with perfect, crystalline clarity: Kill them...Make them stop...Silence them forever...
Tailless sings (one pure, beautiful note of agreement). And something inside me breaks open like a dam. The dance ends. I move. Not Mother's graceful circles. Not Father's disciplined forms. Something new. Something born from the exact moment a daughter sees her mother's corpse used as a joke.
Their laughter does not stop when they die. It only changes pitch. I cut the first one in half (some elder whose name I once knew) and his torso keeps laughing as it slides apart, blood spraying in perfect arcs that paint the cherry blossoms red.
They reach for me, claws and talismans and cursed seals, but their fingers pass through empty air...I am water...I am blood...I am the wind that carries screams away. A woman with fox ears lunges, nine tails flaring, mouth stretched in that same crimson grin. I step inside her guard the way Mother taught me (heel turn, hip twist, shoulder drop) and Tailless kisses her spine on the way through.
She falls still laughing, the song cut short into wet gurgling. "Hoshimi wife is gone, what joy~Let the daughter follow too, oh boy~Blood so red, a lovely sight~Tailless feast tonight—delight!"
Another (a tengu, I think) dives from above, talons first.I pivot, blade singing upward, and his wings become red snow. They are all the same now. Only laughing red faces. Only mouths that need to be silenced. Someone shouts my name (Father's voice, raw, broken), but it's swallowed by the chorus.
A child's voice joins the laughter, high and cruel. I spin, blade already descending, and stop a hair's breadth from a small kitsune boy's throat. His face is the same crimson mask, eyes bleeding, mouth wide. "Mommy's dead, Miyabi-chan! Come play with her in hell!"
The blade trembles in my grip, eager. I scream (something that isn't a word) and the world narrows to red...I move...Slash – Step – Turn – Cut...Bodies fall like puppets with strings snapped. The garden becomes a red lake.
The cherry tree drips. Tailless drinks and drinks and drinks, growing lighter with every life, until it feels like an extension of my arm, my rage, my grief. I don't see faces anymore. I don't see allies or enemies or elders or children. Only mouths that need to stop moving. Only laughter that needs to die.
A deep, rolling thunder that shakes the blood-soaked ground. The red mask over his face is perfect (eyes bleeding, mouth split too wide, teeth like broken ivory).Behind him the others keep clapping, singing, a chorus of corpses that refuse to stay dead.
I cannot see the silver hair...I cannot see the pipe still burning in his left hand...I cannot see the centuries of sorrow in his stance...I only see the crimson face that dares to laugh while Mother lies cooling behind me.
I launch. Tailless screams with me (a sound that splits the sky). Blades meet. A hundred times in the space of a heartbeat. Sparks of black and gold explode where our swords kiss. Each parry is perfect. Each riposte is lethal. He is faster than any red face I have silenced. Stronger. Older.
His katana carves the air where my throat was a breath ago. I twist, feel the wind of it kiss my cheek, and answer with a horizontal slash that would have taken any other head. He leans back (impossibly far) and the blade passes a hair's breadth from his nose. The severed tip of his pipe falls, still smoldering. The chorus behind him cheers louder.
"She's beautiful when she kills!"..."Dance, little Hoshimi, dance!"..."Your mother's watching! She's so proud!"
I roar (no words, only rage) and redouble. Tailless is weightless now, drunk on blood, singing a war-song only I can hear. Slash – Spin –Thrust – Feint – Riposte. Every strike he turns aside with impossible grace. Every strike I turn aside with impossible hate. The ground cracks beneath our feet. Cherry petals ignite mid-air and fall as ash.
He laughs through the storm, voice ancient and terrible. I will silence it. I will silence all of it. I swing until the muscles in my arms scream, until the joints in my fingers burn, until my breath comes out in ragged animal snarls. Bodies fall. Limbs scatter. Faces split open in red smiles that do not stop laughing even when their throats are gone.
But no matter how many I cut down, more come. Red blurs. Taunting voices. A flood of footsteps. They multiply — like maggots feasting on a corpse. And every kill makes the laughter louder. It feeds on carnage. Thrives on my rage. Wants me to drown in it.
So I give it what it wants. My vision dissolves into pure crimson — no sky, no ground, just a sea of red and a sword guiding my hand like an extension of my hatred. I slaughter them with everything I have. Everything my mother taught me. Everything my ancestors cursed me with.
Slash – Decapitate – Stab – Eviscerate – Repeat..Until there is nothing left but splattered warmth and silence. A silence so sudden it cracks the air like thunder. My chest heaves. Sweat and blood dripped down my chin. The world is still spinning, but the laughter… Gone. I blink — and the city is no longer there. I stand in a forest. Deep. Dark. Unfamiliar.
Every tree bleeds crimson light from its leaves, each one shaped like Mother's dead face (eyes wide, mouth frozen in that last, silent scream). They fall around me in slow motion, brushing my shoulders, my hair, my cheeks, with cold, wet kisses. The trunks wear those same twisted smiles, bark split into laughing mouths.
I slash. Tailless sings as it bites through wood and memory alike. Crimson leaves explode into red mist. Smiling trunks split and topple, still laughing even as they die. But the laughter never quiets. It is coming from deeper. Beyond the trees. A celebration. They are all there, waiting for me.
I run. Branches claw at my face, my arms, my yukata, but I cut them away without slowing. The forest parts like flesh before the blade. The ground slopes downward. The crimson light grows brighter, hotter, until the air itself tastes of blood and incense.
And then I see it. A clearing. A festival. Hundreds of red masks on poles, on bodies, on nothing at all, dancing in a perfect circle around a bonfire made of bones. In the center, raised on a platform of corpses, is Mother's body. They have dressed her in funeral white. They have painted her face with that same bleeding grin. And they are singing. A children's song, twisted.
"Miyabi's mommy went to sleep, closed her eyes and couldn't weep! Now she's cold and turning blue, come and join the barbecue!"
Clapping. Endless clapping. Tailless screams with me. I step into the circle. The masks turn. Every single one wears my mother's dead face. They open their mouths in perfect unison. "Dance with us, little Hoshimi. Dance with us forever."
I raise the blade. And the slaughter begins again. There is no thought now. Only motion. Only the wet sound of Tailless drinking. Bodies fall. Masks shatter. The bonfire roars higher with every life I feed it...Still they laugh...Still they sing...Still they multiply.
I cut, and cut, and cut. Until the clearing is a lake of red. Until the trees themselves bleed. Until the sky above me is nothing but crimson faces, mouths open, laughing, laughing, laughing.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by maddened Miyabi slicing the scene into pieces]
Two towns...Two entire festival grounds...Red lanterns shattered beneath my blade like eggshells, streets painted in the same color as the kimono my mother wore last.
Voices silenced...Bodies collapsed like puppets with their strings cut.
But the laughter…it never stopped. Even surrounded by corpses, loud as fireworks in my ears. Still laughing…Still mocking…Still celebrating. So I followed it. My feet carried me through burning streets, past toppled stalls and torn banners, guided only by that poisonous sound. My heartbeat kept time with my sword's whispers.
Louder – Louder – Louder.
Until—I found them. A formation of red faces — dozens — blocking the street ahead. Not civilians…No festival clothes…Armor…Insignia…Weapons braced with discipline that made something in my memory sting. Hoshimi guards used to stand like that. Their leader stepped forward, voice cutting through the madness "Stray. Drop your weapon."
The word hits me like a slap…Stray…Like a dog…Like something discarded. They laugh as they say it — or at least, that's how my warped mind hears it. Their mouths move in stern commands, yet all I register is mirth, ridiculing me, belittling mother, spitting on her memory.
How dare they…How DARE they… My scream tears from my throat like an animal's cry, and Tailless answers with a flare of murderous joy…I leap. My blade arcs — a crescent moon of slaughter. One red face falls, split shoulder to hip. Crimson sprays like festival streamers.
But this time, something different happens.The others don't run. They move. Precise… Unified…Fast. Spears pin my path, forcing me back. Binding talismans flash through the air, burning against my skin as they try to wrap around my arms. Magic circles bloom beneath my feet, restraints snapping like chains of light.
They don't cheer my fury… They counter it. For the first time since my mother's body fell before me…I am stopped. One catches my wrist. Another twist for my sword. Two more push me down by the shoulders. They speak — but all I hear is mocking laughter, distorted by rage and grief twisting memory into nightmare.
I fight like a cornered animal.Fangs bared. Nails ripping skin. Screaming mother's name until my throat bleeds raw. Someone grazes my ribcage with a cursed blade — shallow, but enough. Warmth spills. My own blood. It hits Tailless. And suddenly — everything ignites.
The sword pulses like a demon heart. The metal drinks my blood hungrily, glow deepening from red to abyssal black edged with crimson veins. The earth trembles. Power surges up my arm like molten iron…My pupils slit…My heartbeat doubles…Triple…The wrath of every Hoshimi ancestor crashes into me like a tidal wave.
The binding seals snap like paper. I rise. No — the sword raises me. And the laughter around me becomes fuel, gasoline poured onto the wildfire inside my skull. More...Kill more...Silence them forever.
I grip the hilt with both hands, fresh power flooding my veins like poison turned divine. "All of you…" my voice breaks, half sob, half snarl. "SHUT UP AND DIE." I charge the formation with twice the speed, thrice the hatred. The streets become a blur of crimson and steel — and the massacre begins anew.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Miyabi hanging head after head up for the viewers to see, and with a grin, she disappears]
Five roadblock squads...Nine festival sites...Every path they barred, I tore open like wet parchment...Every shield wall broke beneath Tailless as if the sword were made of hunger instead of steel.
Blood slicked the stones beneath my bare feet, warm and sticky...My breathing ragged...My kimono drenched crimson, torn where blades had grazed me...But each wound — each cut, each spear thrust, each desperate strike that marked my flesh — only made the blade hungrier.
Every drop fed it. Fed us. My vision pulsed like a heartbeat, the world saturated in shades of red — scarlet for fresh kills, dried brown for the bodies I stepped over, black gleam for Tailless itself as its aura shifted darker with every soul claimed.
The fifth roadblock captain collapsed in front of me, eyes wide, body barely holding together where my strike had cleaved armor and bone like rice paper. He had tried — truly tried — to stand in my path. His blade kissed my cheek, leaving a bleeding line.
It was enough. Enough for the sword to grow. Enough for the thirst to surge. He fell to his knees, breath rattling through torn lungs, lips trembling like he wished this were a nightmare. "C… call Alket…" he rasped, voice thin as spider silk.
A name. A warning. Or a plea. All I could hear was laughter. Still ringing…Still echoing…Still mocking. I step past him without thought, without mercy. His head falls moments later, taken by a backward swipe as natural as exhaling. The sword praises me for it. A purr of crimson joy through my bones.
More…More…SILENCE THEM ALL. So I obey. The laughter calls me south — faint yet endless, like a festival roaring at the horizon...Paper streamers hang torn in the wind, twisting like dancing corpses overhead...Crimson leaves fall around me, each painted with my mother's face, her smile flickering between loving and lifeless with every blink.
Tailless hums — a choir of ancestors screaming approval...My fox ears twitch, catching every whisper of mirth in the air...The world narrows to a single instinct...Hunt.
The path is not truly a road anymore — more a river of bodies, talismans burned to ash where they failed to bind me. Lanterns burn like eyes in the dusk. My arms ache… My legs tremble… My lungs scream.
But the sword holds me upright, strings on a puppet of rage. I cross a broken bridge into another district — and see it: A massive square, lanterns strung like entrails overhead. Every shadow stains itself red through my vision… except one.
A single figure stands at the center of the square. Not crimson. Not a face of mockery like the others. This one is black. Like a void poured into human shape. A suffocating absence of color, except—A burning blue smile slashed across his face like ghost-fire. It glows — eerie, unholy, alive. Not joyous. Not friendly. Predatory.
And I hear it. Not laughter from a hundred throats — just his…Loud enough to drown out every other sound…Loud enough to make Tailless screech in fury. A cheering, triumphant sound as if he is celebrating this massacre — my mother's death — more than all the others combined.
His sword is already drawn…Pointed at me as if he'd been waiting. Mocking…Challenging. Rage explodes inside my chest — molten and wild. The sword's voice becomes a roar: SILENCE HIM!CARVE OUT THAT LAUGHTER! LET THE BLUE FLAME DIE!
I don't think…I don't breathe…I charge. Blood sprays from my reopened wounds as I push my ruined body faster than ever before — legs tearing, bones screaming, but Tailless drags me like a beast off its leash. My feet barely touch the stone…The air splits under the blade as I swing with killing intent sharpened into a single thought: DIE.
He doesn't dodge…He leans in. Our swords collide — and a shockwave detonates beneath us. Stone cracks. Lanterns burst into blue sparks. The world shatters around the impact. Steel shrieks through lantern-light — a rhythm of sparks and fury.
[.....]
I can't count minutes anymore. Hours? Days? Time dissolved into the ringing of swords and the constant screaming of Tailless in my skull...MORE...MORE...BLEED THEM. KILL THEM...I WANT BLOOD...But there is no blood from this bastard.
Not mine — he hasn't struck. Not his — I haven't landed a single meaningful cut. Every slash I throw is met by a perfectly angled parry. Every thrust, redirected. Every feint, anticipated. It's like fighting a mirror that already knows every move I'll ever make.
My breath rips from my lungs, raw and metallic. My arms shake — muscles screaming with each swing. The ground under our feet is carved with cuts and impact scars, but still he dances there, the blue smile burning, mocking me without a word.
He moves like water around a rock — effortless, fluid, mercilessly calm. My blade cuts only air. Tailless snarls in frustration. The voice becomes nails in my skull: WHY IS HE STILL LAUGHING? WHY IS HE NOT FALLING? FEED ME...FEED ME...FEED ME...
I grip the hilt harder — knuckles splitting, blood smearing across the handle. It drinks my pain greedily. My wounds burn — not weak, but empowering, fueling that terrible hunger. And still — he is untouchable. He steps into my range again and again, letting me come close enough to taste victory — then with a twist of the wrist or tilt of the blade, he makes a fool of me, makes me stumble, makes my rage grow hotter and hotter.
His laughter deepens — warmer, amused. He's enjoying this. A block…A pivot…Steel rings against steel…My feet skid through dust and torn banners. I roar and strike overhead — a blow that would break bone. He redirects it and taps my wrist with the back of his blade — a playful sting — humiliating.
My grip falters. My legs buckle for half a beat. Tailless shrieks — an ear-splitting psychic crack. Blood pounds in my ears. Vision blurs at the edges — red swallowing the world. I want his smile gone. I want his laughter torn out of his throat.
But the truth carves itself into my chest like ice: I cannot overpower him. Even fueled by madness and sorcery — I'm being pushed back. A parry sends me reeling… A follow-through nearly severs my guard…My shoulder tears open — fresh blood over Tailless' steel…The sword vibrates with wild delight.
My breathing becomes ragged, frantic — drowning in pain and fury. Yet something else stirs beneath it — small, humiliating, unwanted: Fear…Not of death…But of failing to kill him.
I spit blood and rush again — reckless, savage, uncaring. Steel meets steel…Impact numbs my arm…My knees tremble but I refuse to fall. The laughter grows brighter — echoing like bells in hell. Still he does not attack to finish me…Still he waits. Like he wants me to break on my own.
And Tailless howls one command over the chaos — louder than thought, louder than pain:TAKE HIS BLOOD...OR I WILL TAKE YOU. Another unknown how long past, I'm still locked with my battle with the blue smile face, Tailless trembles in my grasp — not with hunger now, but with starvation.
Its once-thunderous voice flickers like a dying flame inside my skull…more...blood… I… need...feed… me…
But there is no blood left to give. Not from him — untouchable. Not from me — my body is running dry, every drop already burned for rage and slaughter. With each heartbeat, the world warps — not into madness, but back into reality.
The trees no longer drip crimson — their leaves dull into ordinary forest green.
The petals that once bore my mother's dead face scatter harmlessly on the wind.
The festival torches stop burning like hellfire and instead flicker weak yellow, weak like me.
And the laughter — that endless, festering laughter — It bends…Cracks…Changes. Becoming screams…Painful, human…Not mockery — terror. A sound I've heard before…A sound I've caused.
My breath hitch that moment. The haze clears like smoke dispersed by wind...The man before me — once a black figure with a burning blue smile — is now simply a warrior...Gray armor, hooded, face hidden not by malice but by discipline...His stance no longer mocking — just steady, cautious.
He isn't laughing. He never was. That smile… it was in my mind…Just like the red faces…Just like the festivals…Just like… everything. Tailless' fading scream becomes a distant echo…My hands twitch. My vision swims. The sword grows heavy, not empowering — a dead weight of metal and regret.
My strength leaves me all at once, like a dam breaking...Knees crash into the dirt with a crack of bone against stone...The pain is sudden, sharp, real — the real world returning.
I gasp, a broken sound. Blood drips from my wounds now freely — not fuel, but loss. Warm, wet, draining. Tailless hangs from my fingers like a corpse. The man — the one I fought like a demon — steps forward slowly. Not raising his blade to strike. Not finishing me while I'm down. Just… watching…Cautious…Studying.
Like he's trying to understand what I am. My heart climbs my throat — not with rage now, but with something far colder: Horror. Because behind him — past the broken lanterns and torn banners — the illusions finish peeling away.
The "red faces" are now people...Lying in the streets...Some in armor...Some in festival clothes...All bearing wounds I remember inflicting. They're not laughing...They're crying...Screaming...Begging...Dying...
Some aren't moving at all. The nine "festivals" I believed I crushed — They were villages. Towns. Celebrations not of death, but of life I tore apart. My stomach twists. I choke on bile. My fingers dig weakly into the soil as the weight of reality suffocates me.
This forest wasn't crimson because they mocked her. It was crimson because I painted it with their blood. Tailless whimpers in my mind — faint, desperate...Don't stop…Keep killing…You were perfect… But its voice is fading, like embers drowning in rain. My thoughts whisper back — not with fury, but with shattering clarity: What have I done?
The armored man steps closer. One cautious step. Another. His sword glints — not with hunger, but preparedness. He speaks — voice deep, steady, human "Fox girl… stop struggling. You're bleeding out. Put the sword down. You're under arrest, put the sword down and raise your hands, or else I have to end you"
Put it… down. My fingers tighten in reflex — as if Tailless might vanish with release. As if without it, I will have nothing left. My breath trembles. Tears I didn't know I had burned my eyes. Because I remember something suddenly — not rage, not blood, but her. My mother…Barefoot on the engawa…Smiling softly as she guided my hands in the first steps of the dance. "A sword is for protecting, little fox...Never for feeding."
The memory slices deeper than any blade.
My strength breaks.
My body slumps forward.
Forehead touches cold earth.
Tailless slides from my hand with a soft metallic shiver — not a roar, but a dying sigh.
It lies in front of me, black steel reflecting my blood-smeared face — a stranger staring back. I am shaking…I cannot stand…I do not know if I deserve to. The man's footfalls grow louder, stopping only a sword's length away. Tailless whispers one last time — a thread of fading venom..If you let go… you lose everything.
My voice is barely a breath…Broken…Small. "I've… already lost her." Silence swallows the battlefield — no illusions, no laughter, no cheers.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Miyabi being carried by Adam]
The smell hits first...Not blood...Not smoke...Not steel.
Herbs. Muted, earthy — the kind used to mend wounds, not inflict them. A faint trace of incense lingers like the ghost of a calming ritual. Warmth pools around my body, soft and unfamiliar, and for a moment I think I'm still dreaming. I curl deeper beneath the blanket instinctively, the way I used to when Mother would try to wake me for morning kata. When the world was simple. When my hands were clean.
A little more time… just a moment longer…
No one calls me...No sword whispers...Only silence. My eyes flutter open. A stone ceiling greets me — not the wood patterns of my room back home. The air is cool. Heavy. The blanket slips as I push myself upright, blinking through the lingering fog of exhaustion.
I'm lying on a low cot. Clean bandages wrap my arms, my torso. Someone tended to me. "...Where am I?" My voice cracks, raw from screaming I barely remember.
The chamber is small but not filthy — not a dungeon of rot and chains like in stories. A single barred window spills pale morning light across the floor. Thick iron bars form a gate across the front, reinforced with seals I recognize as demon-binding formulae. Too strong to break even if Tailless still fueled me.
My heart tightens. Tailless. My gaze snaps around the room — the cot, the bucket of water, folded cloth, a wooden tray where somebody left bread and soup gone cold — but the sword is nowhere.
My breath shortens. A pit opens beneath my ribs. The walls feel closer. "Tailless… where—" I stop myself. A shiver runs through my spine — not from cold, but from the memory of what the blade made me do… what I let it do. I look at my hands, the hands that were tainted with so much blood from so many people that I couldn't count. Yet, somehow, my hands are twitching, grabbing something, like something should be in my hands, something like…
Tailless. My body jolted up with that thought, disgust washing through my mind, why do I want that monstrosity to be in my hand again, it killed so many people...I killed so many..."Stop!" I ordered, but my hands won't stop twitching. Instinctively, I start scratching one hand with the other to numb that twisted desire to take that katana again. "Stop..." Harder "Stop it..." I scratch harder, and harder, until the pain could numb out the twisted addiction
My nails rake against my own skin. First a tremor — then a scrape — then a full-armed, desperate gouging as if I can dig the craving out of my flesh. Thin lines bloom across my wrist. Skin reddens. Heat rises. The sound is ugly — flesh against flesh, too raw, too human. I squeeze until bone aches, scratching, tearing, anything to drown out the phantom weight of the hilt that should be there.
My breath turns jagged. "Stop—"..Scrape..."Stop it—"...Scrrrk..."STOP—!" The hunger doesn't listen. It thrums under my skin like worms writhing beneath ice. A phantom pulse runs down my fingers — memory of balance, of weight, of killing. Tailless may be sealed, but its echo still coils inside my nerves like ownership.
My hands shake uncontrollably. I scratch harder. Nails break the top layer. A sting blooms. Warmth beads. A droplet of blood rolls down my forearm and falls soundless onto the blanket. It helps. Not enough. I bury my teeth into the heel of my hand — a muffled grunt escaping me — trying to bite away the urge before it grows roots. I can't let that blade take me again. I can't let myself want it.
No more blood...No more madness...No more red laughter.
But the blade whispers through memory, slick and honey-poisoned: Just one more cut...Just one more swing...Let me drink again... My lungs burn. My chest tightens to a fist. Tears — hot, humiliating — spill down my cheeks before I even realize I'm crying. I press my bleeding hand to my mouth to smother any sound. If I scream, someone will come. If someone comes, I might beg for the sword.
I don't know which terrifies me more. A sharp clatter echoes beyond the bars — metal on metal. I flinch, instantly alert, back pressed to the far wall like a cornered fox. The urge to fight flares, ugly and instinctive.
Footsteps approach again — faster this time.The footsteps stop just beyond the cell door. I see only shadows at first — two silhouettes cast by the lantern-light in the corridor. One stands rigid, tense, almost recoiling from the bars like I am something rabid. The other stands calm… too calm. Like a man facing rain instead of a monster.
Keys jingle. The anxious guard fumbles them once, twice, before a gloved hand — steady, confident — takes them from him. The guard's voice quivers with uncertainty. "L-Lord Alket, are you sure you want to enter alone? After what she did… the Council still hasn't—"
A hand is raised — calm, decisive, enough to halt the stammer mid-sentence. "She is safe now," the other voice says — low, smooth, composed in a way only people who have faced death without flinching can speak. "Her sword is sealed. Her wounds tended. Her spirit exhausted. She's no threat in her current state."
His tone holds neither fear… nor resentment. Something far heavier rests beneath it — a quiet resolve, sharpened like a blade honed a thousand times. "Just hand me the key," he continues, "and return to your post. I'll deal with her. No one else needs to bleed today." Metal jingles. A hesitant pause. Then the clink of keys being handed over.
"But if anything happens—"
"It won't," the man replies gently. "I give you my word." Footsteps retreat — the guard's hurried and uneven, like he couldn't put enough distance between himself and my cell. The other pair remain. Steady. Unwavering. Coming closer… closer… until the shadow falls directly across me.
I straighten, wiping the last traces of tears from my cheeks with a shaky thumb. My pulse hammers like a trapped bird beating itself bloody against cage bars. The lock turns with a heavy click — final, echoing like a death knell. The door swings open.
He steps inside. Not with a sword drawn. Not with a spell crackling at his fingertips. But with a blanket folded neatly over one arm and a small tray of food in the other — still steaming gently, rice and broth scented with ginger.
His aura is unmistakable even without Tailless screaming inside my skull — a deep, ocean-like presence, calm but bottomless. The very same figure whose laughter had been a roar in my hallucination — now silent and solemn under the hood.
Lord Alket. The man who stopped me. The man I tried to kill. His gaze sweeps the cell — first the discarded blanket on the floor, then the angry red scratches on my arms. I shrink instinctively, curling into myself like a child caught misbehaving. Shame prickles hot under my skin.
His eyes linger — not with disgust. But recognition. As if he understands this type of shaking. This type of hunger. He kneels. Slow. Non-threatening. Setting the tray within my reach before removing the cloak clasp from his neck and draping it around my shoulders — heavy, warm, smelling faintly of cold steel and rain. "You're cold," he says softly. "Eat. You'll feel steadier after."
My throat tightens. Words claw upward but collapse before reaching my tongue. Why isn't he angry? Why isn't he here to condemn me?..Why isn't he afraid?
He meets my eyes — not as a captor to a criminal, but as a warrior to another warrior broken by blood. The man stands before me with stern gaze, before it softens as he speaks "Good day to you, Miss Hoshimi, my name is Adam Alket and I was the one assigned to capture you after the rampage you caused. Now you're here under Gremory's custody as an SSS-rank criminal. Are you aware of what you did, Miyabi?"
"Gremory's custody?" I asks, I thought I had been Kanto all this time "How...."
Adam's voice cuts in "You were teleported to Gremory domain when you were slaughtering in Kanto, that's what the report said, after that you leveled 9 towns, killed almost a thousand people, crippled Section 1 to 5 of Gremory Stray Hunting Agency, that's not mentioning what you did in Kanto"
His words hit like a war hammer to the chest. Nine towns...A thousand lives...Hunters crippled — five entire Sections.
Each number feels less like information and more like a sentence — chiseled coldly into my bones. My lungs freeze mid-breath. The blanket — his cloak — suddenly feels too heavy, too warm, like it's smothering the truth I've been running from behind that haze of bloodlust.
My nails dig into my palms, tremors crawling up my arms like insects under my skin. "I…" My voice is a cracked whisper, barely mine. "I didn't… I don't remember that much. Just flashes — screams, red, the sound of bones—" My throat constricts, words broken and jagged. "I knew I… killed. But that much…?"
Adam doesn't flinch. No dramatics. No condemnation. Just the weight of someone who has delivered truths like execution orders before. He steps closer, the lamplight catching strands of silver in his hair. "Yes, Miyabi." He doesn't raise his voice — he doesn't need to. The truth is loud enough. "You burned them. Cut them. Tore them apart. The blade you wielded — Tailless — amplified your grief and rage until nothing remained but instinct. You became a calamity with a heartbeat."
My stomach turns. I see myself — not as a warrior, but as a walking disaster, a storm wearing human skin. My hands begin shaking again. Violently. "I didn't want to—"
"I know. But it couldn't make your sin more tolerateable, people are angry, they want your execution immediately, both Gremory's devils and Kanto's youkais" His interruption is gentle, but final. Like he expected the plea. Adam's eyes narrow, studying me as if deciding whether to say what comes next. "Do you remember why you snapped?"
Memory slams into me like a blade to the gut. Tailless…Blood everywhere…Her body…A laugh — cruel, triumphant…My scream… tearing my throat raw.
My vision goes white at the edges. I taste iron. My voice escapes as a shredded whisper."They killed her. My mother, someone killed her when I was trying to control Tailless in my inheritance ritual, what came after....crimson faces....laughing....clapping....celebrating her death, the whole space was covered in crimson with buzzing noises of those expressing their utter joy seeing my mother died...I....I....couldn't...." I can feel my hands gripping tighter like clutching the katana for another kill.
Adam nods with his eyes narrowed "I see, so that's how it is" He turns to me "Someone was trying to wage a war between Gremory and Kanto Youkai via you, Miyabi, and someone within both sides.....are 'too' ready for it, weapons are loaded, ready to fire, a slip on the conference table and everything will detonate, they are getting what they want"
He turns away from me, his pace quickens "I need to warn Lady and Lord Gremory about this. Miyabi, rest for now, I will come back tomorrow..." he stops on his way "..try not to bite your hands off until I come back, okay?"
"Wait!" I calls him, I need him now to deal with this, I can't take the urge any longer, Adam stops and comes back to me "What is it?" he asks, I bring my hands out towards him "Can you help me.....I can't take it anymore, my hands are craving Tailless"
The man thinks for a moment before nodding "Alright, I can use this" he takes out a cuff and puts it on my hands, it quickly expands and envelops both my hands as I feel it restraining my fingers, keeping each of them separated and numbed by the mana inside it. I never thought this restraint could bring me the peace that I've been looking for without me hurting myself.
Relief hits me like cool water on fevered skin. No sword...No phantom weight in my palms...No whisper gnawing at the edge of my mind, promising power in exchange for more blood.
Just… silence… Awkward, unfamiliar silence. I stare at the restraint — a band of dark metal etched with runes that glow faintly with contained mana — keeping every finger separated, useless, harmless. I wiggle them instinctively, and for the first time since waking, I don't feel that itch under my skin. That hunger.
A shaky breath escapes me — half-sob, half-laugh — the kind born from exhaustion rather than joy.
Adam watches closely, gauging my reaction, like a handler checking whether a wounded beast might still bite. But when my shoulders slump and my head bows, something in his face eases. Not pity. Recognition.
"You will get phantom cravings," he says quietly. "Tailless devours resolve; it leaves echoes behind. The restraint cuts off the neural recall — mimicking possession withdrawal. You'll still feel urges, but they won't reach your fingers."
I nod, swallowing hard. "It hurts less. The shaking… stopped." He offers a vague, almost tired smile. "Good. That means it's working." For a long moment, neither of us speaks. He stands there, tall and composed in his dark uniform, cloak shifting as a draft crawls under the cell door. I sit on the cot, blanket around my shoulders like a fragile shield.
We look like two people from different worlds...He, controlled — a guardian of order...Me, restrained — the cause of chaos. And yet somehow we share this quiet space. My voice trembles as I break the silence. "Adam… back in the ritual site… I saw them laughing. Everyone. The whole world celebrating her death." My throat tightens. "Was it real? Or just Tailless?"
Adam's expression hardens — steel beneath sympathy. "It wasn't real."
"So I killed innocent people…" My voice breaks on the last word, splintered like bone. "People who weren't laughing. Who weren't mocking her. They were screaming — running — begging for their lives."
Adam doesn't comfort me. He doesn't lie. He simply nods — slow, heavy. "Yes." The word is a blade, and I deserve every cut. I feel a sob claw its way up, but instead of breaking, it sticks like a stone in my throat. Tears burn hot behind my eyes, blurring him into an outline of grey and warmth. "I'm sorry…" I whisper, voice cracking apart. "Mother… Father…Nura-sama… everyone… I'm so sorry…"
Adam's voice is gentle, soft but unwavering. "Sorrow is the first step. Regret means you haven't lost yourself." He turns his back to me, leaving, the door of the cell clicks gently as he leaves the cell. When Adam leaves, what comes next is an astonished scream, probably from the jailer "WHAT!? My lord, are you saying I have to feed her from now on!?"
His tone wavers between terror and indignation, like someone told to pet a starving tiger. I wince — not from shame, but from the sharp stab of reality: to them, I am the tiger. A pause. Then Adam's voice — calm, steady, infuriatingly composed — rolls like water over heated stone. "Come now, she is safe. Truly safe. She's not trying to kill anyone — even you."
I can hear the man swallow, feel the hesitation like a physical presence through the wall. For a strange second, I almost want to reassure him myself. Almost. Adam continues, tone softening just slightly — but his words firm as an order. "Do it for me, okay? I'll inform your manager to double your salary."
A sputter, a choking sound — like a man caught between fear and sudden financial motivation. "…D-double!?" A beat. "…Ah. Well. For Lord Alket, of course. I-I shall bring food at once!"
His footsteps scramble down the hall, half-running, half-tripping in panic-turned-responsibility. The absurdity of it all presses a short, breathless sound from me — not laughter, exactly. But close. Something lighter.
I sit there for several long moments, staring at the spot where Adam once stood — the fading warmth of his presence lingering heavier than the chains ever could.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by the jailer feeding Miyabi with a long spoon from behind the bars of the cell]
His voice carries down the hall before he even reaches the cell — steady footfalls, measured and unhurried. When the door swings open and Adam steps inside, sunlight follows him like it obeys, cutting sharp gold across the damp stone floor.
He takes one look at me, then at the jailer standing stiff as a board with that absurd contraption — a wooden pole with a spoon tied to the end like a fishing rod for demons. Adam exhales through his nose — half disbelief, half amusement. "I told you to feed her properly." His gaze drifts pointedly to the contraption. "Never thought you would DIY a two-meter-long spoon like this."
The jailer jumps, nearly dropping the utensil in panic. "T-Then you shouldn't have put me in charge, my lord! She's the SSS stray who wiped out nine towns! I'm not losing my head just because I got too close while feeding her porridge!"
Adam pinches the bridge of his nose with royal patience worn thin. I sit quietly, watching — the scene playing strangely comical compared to yesterday's revelations. Almost unreal. Almost… human. He gestures at me with a slight tilt of his hand. "She is restrained, stabilized, and medicated. Miyabi isn't going to lunge at you like some wild animal." A pause — then a sideways glance toward me. "…Right?"
I swallow, meeting his eyes — holding them instead of fleeing into nightmares...My voice is small, but steady. "I have no intention of hurting anyone… not anymore." The jailer still looks unconvinced — but the trembling has lessened. Slightly.
Adam crouches to my eye level, cloak rustling softly. He observes the restraint on my hands — finger separators gleaming faintly with mana — and nods in approval. "Good. No scratching wounds today." My cheeks heat — embarrassment prickling. He noticed everything, even the subtle marks on my skin. He lowers his voice — softer, meant only for me."How was the night?"
I hesitate. The words catch like thorns in my throat — but I push them through."…Quiet. I slept." Something like pride flickers in his eyes — faint but undeniable."That is progress," he says, voice warm like morning tea. "Pain fades fastest when you allow yourself to rest."
The jailer mutters, still glaring suspiciously at me from a safe distance."She smiled once while eating, my lord — nearly scared me to death. I thought it meant she liked the taste of humans or something—" Adam turns so slowly that the man immediately snaps to attention like a soldier under artillery fire."…Double salary," Adam reminds flatly, "not hazard pay for creative paranoia."
"I–I apologize!" He bows so quickly his forehead nearly dents the bars. "I'll bring normal trays next time! I swear!" Adam sighs again — tired, yet amused despite himself. He waves the jailer off. "Go prepare a proper meal for lunch. And no more fishing rods." The man flees like a startled rabbit. Silence returns — and for once, it isn't suffocating.
Adam remains by the bars a moment longer, studying me in a way no one has since the massacre — not with fear, not with hatred, but with a strange mixture of calculation and hope.
Adam starts explaining the situation "I've talked to Lord and Lady Gremory about what you remembered from that ritual, they said it aligned with what Nurarihyon-sama said from their previous meeting, so they agreed to call off the execution, this would not make some people unhappy, especially those who are ready for war, but you're more useful alive than dead."
Adam continues "The talk from now on would mostly be about how to recover from this, and.....the one behind this, the one who killed your mother and caused all this catastrophe. Your father has started investigating as soon as his arm is mended"
My eyes widened, both from relief and shock "My father...." Adam nods. "Alive. One arm short after fighting you — but alive. Healing fast. He insisted on joining the hunt for the culprit." A crease forms between his brows. "He will visit once the funeral is over."
A feeling like cold water pours down my spine...Funeral. Mother.I am not there...I cannot be there...I do not deserve to be. My head bows, heavy with guilt and grief that never learned to fade. "I know… Kanto wouldn't tolerate my presence," I whisper. "But my clan — they did nothing wrong."
Adam doesn't argue. He doesn't need to. "Nura-sama knows that." His voice holds a rare reverence. "He stood against the elders himself. Said Hoshimi clan has guarded the East for centuries — and Tailless was born from that sacrifice." A faint smile touches his lips. "He will not let your family be erased."
The weight in my chest loosens — if only slightly. Relief. Guilt. Gratitude. All tangled until I can't separate one from the other. "…Thank you," I breathe, so soft it barely exists. Not just to Adam — but to the world for not crushing me entirely.
He watches me, and for a moment, neither of us speaks...The silence is no longer an enemy...It sits gently between us, like a candle shared in a dark shrine...Adam then straightens, voice shifting — from comfort to purpose. "There will be conditions." Of course. Hope always comes with chains. "You will first have to prove you're completely able to hold Tailless without losing control, that's the condition for you to get out of here" Adam pulls out from his magical vault…Tailless
The sight of that sword makes my mind scream in disgust, seeing the monster that made me kill so many people, yet my hands, even when cuffed, shake violently to the sight of it under restraint. Tailless lies across his palms like a venomous serpent sleeping — quiet, deceptively calm, its lacquered scabbard glistening like the eye of something ancient and hungry. Even from behind iron bars, from behind mana-dampening cuffs that keep my fingers apart like a child caught stealing, I feel it.
A pull. No — a craving. As if invisible strings hook from my wrist to its hilt, tugging, coaxing, whispering beneath hearing. My breath knots in my throat. My heart lurches with revulsion — yet my body leans forward without permission. Tailless. The devil that wore my grief like armor. The voice that turned love into slaughter.
Even wrapped in hatred, I can't deny the truth strangling me inside: it feels like part of me is missing without it. My cuffed hands tremble so hard the metal rings faintly. "Keep it away." The words spill out too fast — fractured, small. "Adam, don't— don't bring that thing near me."
His gaze never wavers. Not pity — not fear. Only measured determination."You will have to face it eventually." He holds the scabbard carefully, like one might hold a snake that could wake with fangs. "Because the inheritance ritual hasn't been finished, Nura-sama said you were dancing gracefully with the sword before the incident came, you're on the verge of controlling it completely, so I believe that you can control it, and all you need is a little mental push"
This sparked something in my mind, about that night, about what happened before that massacre, the ritual site, father holding the scabbard before me. Me drawing it, vision clouded in blood color....and.....and....it.
The technique mother and father taught me to control the Katana, a graceful dance, like water washing away the blood, like wind carrying away the stench, like the calmness in the center of the storm, like how she used to perform, My body instinctively moves to the guidance of my mother, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was brought back to the old days, her on the old wooden engawa, morning light filtering through paper doors, her hand warm on mine as she hummed that gentle lullaby — the one only she and I knew. The one that sounded like home.
The memory unfolds slowly — tender, fragile — like a petal in winter refusing to die. I see her. Mother in her pale kimono, sleeves fluttering like soft wings in the morning breeze. Her hair pinned with river-pearl combs, her smile calm as still water. The engawa beneath our feet creaked with age, polished by generations — by her bare toes, by mine when she guided me through the steps again and again. "Breathe," she would say, voice like warm tea on cold mornings. "Not like a fighter. Like a dancer."
Her fingers intertwined with mine around the hilt of a wooden practice blade...Not Tailless — never Tailless...Not yet. The rhythm rises in my bones now — dormant but unbroken. One breath in. One step forward. Sway. Turn. Flow…The world slows…The storm inside me smooths to ripples.
She moved like water. I followed like shadow. Her voice hums through memory — low, steady, a mother's love woven into song.
"Still your heart, little moon."
"Let the blade be extension — not master."
"Do not cut — guide. Do not kill — release."
My eyes sting. In this cold cell, her ghost feels warmer than sunlight. I see the night of the ritual clearer — the candles, the chanting, Tailless resting between us. Father's stern gaze. Mother's trembling hand, though she smiled for me. The air heavy with history — with expectation.
I stepped forward, praying I would be worthy. I drew the blade. Crimson flood…Screams twisting into laughter…Mother's dead body— blood on her lips — cold before me— The memory shatters…My chest tightens like a fist around my ribs. But beneath the panic, beneath the horror, the dance remains — a lifeline in the dark.
I breathe it once. Slowly. The cuffs keep my hands restrained, I turn to Adam, he nods and snaps his fingers, my hands are free, my wrists trace the shapes in the air — arcs, circles, waves. Not slashes. Not killing strokes. Movements of release, of balance. Mother's movements.
My voice returns as a whisper — hoarse, but steadier than before. "I remember now." Not the massacre — not fully — but the before. The part of me Tailless didn't devour. I meet his gaze, something fragile but fierce catching flame inside me.
Mother once said a sword is born to kill — but wielded to protect. I lost that meaning when blood took her.
Maybe… I can reclaim it. "Adam," I breathe, not begging this time — asking. "May I?" I raise my restrained fingers forward, asking for a chance to correct what's wrong, to complete what I was trained to do. The man before me thinks for a moment before another nod comes, he flicks his wrist and the restraint on my fingers are gone, took me a few minutes to ease the numbness.
Feeling returns in slow, prickling waves. First my fingertips, then my palms — as if life is crawling back into parts of me I had sealed away. I rub them together gently; the skin is pale, stiff, trembling like a leaf still wet from last night's storm.
Adam waits in steady silence, neither rushing nor comforting — simply present. Like a pillar placed beside a breaking dam, not holding it back by force, but giving it something to lean against so it won't crumble.
I breathe out. I stand — unsteady at first, iron bars cool to my shoulder as support. My legs remember blood more than balance, but I force them to recall the dance instead of war. Mother's voice hums through memory again, clear this time — not distant, not fading...One breath...One step...One circle.
"May I hold it?" The question comes quieter than I intended. Adam studies me, as if searching for cracks or lies in my resolve. He sees the fear — it's impossible not to — but he also sees the stubborn spark beneath it. "You may."
He unsheathes Tailless only a handspan, enough for moon-pale steel to catch the light. The moment he holds the sword, I swear I could see his eyes turning dark blue to red, but a blue fire within his pupils burns away the crimson veil, returning his eyes to normal state "Woah, now I see what you saw…understandable."
The man just withstood the curse of Tailless and burned it all away? This is my first time seeing anyone outside of my clan could take the sword without dying out of pressure or killing themselves out of what you saw. A chill crawls up my spine — not the murderous, suffocating chill the blade once forced through me, but disbelief.
He shouldn't be able to do that...Tailless is not meant for outsiders...Not meant for anyone without Hoshimi blood...Even Father struggled. Even Mother bled for it. Even I drowned in its madness. Yet Adam holds the scabbard bare-handed, no tremor, no hesitation, only a momentary stain — that flash of crimson swallowing his irises like ink spilled into water — before the blue fire in his gaze seared it to ash.
My breath catches...Not fear this time — awe. "You—" I choke on the word, staring as if he's sprouted wings or horns. "You suppressed it. Just by looking back." He shrugs lightly, as if subduing a cursed heirloom that devours wills is merely a mild inconvenience. "I've killed too many for the curse to make me go mad, I've grown numb to death, blood and deathly scenes to a point what it showed couldn't make my mind waver."
The man lets out a bitter smile "Now you know why I helped you, you're so much like me back then, we're both living weapons serving another's goal, and accidentally, the goal we were forced to complete is…waging war"
My throat tightens around the weight of his words.
Living weapons.
Not heirs.
Not protectors.
swords wearing flesh.
And suddenly — I understand the bitterness behind that smile.
He isn't boasting. He's confessing.
Adam Alket — the man who parried me like I was wind and he was stone, who faced Tailless and did not break — is someone who has stood where I stood. Someone who has killed until death itself became a language. Until blood no longer meant tragedy, only completion.
Until madness lost its teeth. The realization is horrifying — and strangely comforting. "…You were chained too," I whisper. "Like I was to Tailless. Like my mother was." He meets my gaze, and for the first time I notice the quiet exhaustion beneath his calm. Like a warrior who won every battle and lost himself somewhere along the victory.
"Weapon first. Person second," he says softly, as if repeating an old doctrine. "That is how war sees us." His fingers brush the scabbard — reverent and resentful at once. "But I refuse to let it define you as it did me."
Something inside me flinches...Hope is sharper than any blade. Tailless hums faintly — not in frenzy, but recognition. A predator acknowledging another predator it cannot devour. Adam steps closer to the bars, lowering the sword so its hilt aligns perfectly with my waiting hands.
Slowly, reverently, I wrap my fingers around the hilt again. But when I thought I was ready, the whole space between me and the sword turned crimson, my vision…Before I could do anything, a figure appeared before me, not Adam, someone else, someone…familiar.
A girl — no, a beast wearing my face. Foxlike ears bristle atop tangled black hair. Her grin is too wide, too full of fangs, and her pupils glow like embers in the dark. Claws tap against her coat as she raises both hands in playful mockery, as though posing for an audience only she can hear.
She looks like she's about to laugh. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts. I take a step back. She takes one forward. Those eyes — I know those eyes. I saw them reflected in the blood-slick floor that night. In the steel of Tailless when everything went wrong. But this— This thing cannot be me."…Who are you?" I whisper.
Her head tilts. Tongue sliding over teeth stained a memory-blue, like the blade's soul. When she speaks, the voice is not human. It's Tailless — that rasping whisper that once fed my hate like a starving wolf. "You don't know?" The laugh is sweet, lilting. Cruel. "I'm you, little Miyabi." My pulse freezes…No…
No, I was forced — manipulated — broken. I am better now. Adam said so. I am my mother's daughter— She giggles, and the sound crawls under my skin like centipedes. "Oh? You think you've changed?" Her posture shifts, hips cocked, fingers making mock horns as if celebrating. "They laughed at her, remember? They cheered." Her grin splits wider, impossibly wide. "And we made them scream."
Images slam into me — halls drenched in scarlet, bodies like dolls on strings, my small hands clutching Tailless while strangers' faces warped into sneering red masks. The euphoric relief as the sword's hunger became mine—
"No— stop—!" My voice cracks. She leans close enough for me to smell blood on her breath. "You asked to hold me again." A whisper like silk over bone. "Don't pretend you didn't miss it."
My fingers tremble around the hilt. Tailless thrums — alive. Eager. In this crimson world there is no Adam, no cell, no breath but mine and hers and the sword's pulse between us. The monster in front of me — my reflection — smiles softer now, almost tender."Let's finish what we started, Miyabi." The bladesong in my skull crescendos.
Kill...Kill...KILL.
I grit my teeth, fighting the rising heat, the old familiar thrill. My vision blurs — not with madness, but with tears. Because she's right…A part of me did revel in it…A part of me is her…But not all of me…Not anymore. "…That was me," I whisper — the words shaking, but real. "I know you."
Her eyes widened, then narrow — predator recognizing prey that learned to bite back. The crimson world pulses, cracks spidering through it like shattering glass. She snarls, voice splitting between Tailless' hunger and my childhood tremor: "You can't escape me." "I'm not trying to," I answered, lifting the sword. My voice steadies — not with arrogance, but acceptance.
"I'm here to face you." I raise my sword against her like an instinct because she does so too, and with that twisted smile she declares "Then FACE me, Hoshimi Miyabi, let's see who is the real one" she launches at me with blinding speed.
Her words are still hot in my ears — Face me. Let's see who is the real one.
And for a heartbeat, I believed I could. I raised the blade, ready to clash steel against my own nightmare—
—but then reality shatters back around me.
A hand like iron clamps around my wrist, and Tailless vanishes from my grasp.
Before I can even gasp, the world flips — hard.
THUD. My back slams into the cot, breath ripped from my lungs. A forearm pins me by the throat, not cruel, but absolute. The room is cold stone and torchlight again — no crimson sky, no reflection-grinning monster — only Adam above me, expression grim.
His voice is low, urgent, not angry — afraid. "You're not ready, Miyabi." His grip tightens just enough to keep me still when my muscles react on instinct, wild, feral. "Whatever you saw… you almost cut me down with it." My mind reels. I blink — vision flickering back and forth — Adam's face overlaying hers, red eyes, fangs, laughter— No. No this is him. This is real.
My pulse pounds against his fingers, a trapped animal's rhythm. "I…" My voice breaks, hoarse under pressure. "I thought— she—" He doesn't let me finish. His other hand pins my sword arm flat to the mattress, holding me with terrifying ease. "You weren't fighting in the real world," he says, breath hot with exertion. "Your body moved to kill. Not defend. Not control."
The words strike harder than the impact did. I look to where Tailless lies — now sheathed again — in his hand. Even bound in scabbard, it hums, resentful. Hungry. My hands shake. The phantom of her snarl still echoes in my skull. You can't escape me. "I saw… someone," I whisper. "She looked like me. But not me. She— she wanted blood. She said—"
Adam finally releases my throat, but his knee remains pressed into the mattress beside my hip, keeping me grounded, anchored, here. "Miyabi," he says, quieter now. A steadying tone. "Facing your past is brave. But doing it unprepared?" He shakes his head. "That's suicide. And I didn't break you out of your own hell just to watch you drown in it again."
My hands fall limp at my sides. I realize then — the battle I tried to fight wasn't with the sword. It was with the version of me Tailless created. And Adam had to stop me before I killed him mistaking him for a ghost."…I'm sorry," I whisper. His expression softens a fraction — only a fraction. "Don't be sorry."
"Be ready." Adam snaps the restraints back around my wrists with a precision that feels almost clinical — no hesitation, no roughness, no softness either. Metal closes around bone with a finality that makes my breath hitch. Not because of pain. Because of shame.
His hands linger only long enough to ensure the locks are firm. He knows I won't struggle… but he also knows I might, if the visions come again. When he straightens, Tailless is already sealed back into his vault, hidden away where even its whisper can't reach me. The air feels lighter the moment it's gone — like the room exhales with relief.
Adam doesn't. He watches me for a long, assessing heartbeat. "You're stable," he says quietly. Not a compliment. A condition. A checkpoint. He steps back from the cot, keeping the bars between us now. I can't tell if it's to protect me or himself. Probably both. His voice drops to that stern, almost teacher-like calm he uses when giving orders meant to save a life — usually mine. "I'll come back later," he says, turning toward the corridor.
I swallow. The cuffs bite coldly into my skin. "Adam…" He pauses, but doesn't look back. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"I know," he answers, still facing the exit torchlight. "But Tailless doesn't care what you mean. It only cares what you fear." He finally turns his head, gaze finding mine through the bars. Not pitying. Not angry. Sharper than either. "Keep your mind calm," he instructs. "And remember—"
His footsteps begin to retreat, echoing low against the stone."—the sword will use you against you to take control." Just before he disappears around the corner, he adds, almost too softly to hear: "Don't let it win again." The corridor swallows him, leaving me alone with the faint hum of the restraints and the slow, shivering remnants of crimson still fading from my vision.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Miyabi fighting her corrupted self]
The "crimson horizon" breathes. It breathes. A slow, sick tidal rise and fall beneath my feet — like the whole world is one giant lung exhaling blood-warm air. I know instantly this isn't waking. And it isn't sleep either. It's Tailless…Its domain…Her domain.
She stands there exactly where my fear wants her: center stage, silhouetted against that bleeding sky, posture relaxed like a girl waiting for tea rather than a monster carved out of my worst memory. Tailless rests across her palms, but not like a weapon — like a beloved pet. The blade hums contently, almost purring, and she strokes the flat with her thumb, gentle, affectionate.
A gesture I almost recognize as my own. The sight makes bile creep up the back of my throat. Her smile widens, splitting just a little too far, like her cheeks forgot where human limits end. "You look tired, Miyabi." She tilts her head, crimson hair—no, my hair—cascading down her shoulder like a veil of blood. "Did your little warden not warn you? You can cuff your arms, but not your mind."
I push myself up from the crimson "ground," which ripples like liquid under my hands. There's no gravity here, not really — just pressure, emotional and suffocating. "I'm done running from you," I say, though my voice wavers. Her eyelids flutter in mock pleasure. "Oh, how brave. How unlike you."She steps closer. Every step stains the ground darker, as if she's walking on spilled ink.
"You think you can deny me?" she muses, leaning in. "You think what Alket told you changed anything?" A low chuckle follows — bitter, cruel, disturbingly familiar. "We are ONE, Miyabi. You are the blade. I am the hand. Together, we carved a thousand screams into the world." I flinch. She notices — she always notices — and her grin sharpens.
"You really don't remember how it felt, do you?" she purrs.
"How warm Father's blood was when it ran over our knuckles?"
"How light your body felt when we leapt between them?"
"How wonderful it was when they stopped screaming?"
"STOP." The word tears from my throat.But she only laughs — high, airy, a perfect mimic of my own laughter when I was younger. Except twisted, hollowed out. "I should thank you," she continues sweetly. "For keeping me hidden against that Alket man. That fire in him burns too clean — it almost scorched me when he touched the scabbard."
She lifts Tailless, admiring it the way a lover admires their partner. "We almost had him, you know. If I hadn't trusted you with the sword quite so much…" She sighs — long, wistful, content."…we could have cut him down before he blinked." A tremor runs down my spine. Because I know she's not lying.
She leans forward, eyes burning like coals. "But don't worry, Miyabi. The next time he brings me close—" Her grin splits again. "—I won't make that mistake." The crimson world pulses, contracting around me like a heartbeat. And she whispers, soft enough to be a lullaby "You can't escape me." Everything shakes…Everything bleeds…Everything begins to dissolve— As I realize: I didn't wake up from a nightmare...I never left the first one.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Miyabi being decapitated by her evil self]
Time loses meaning inside stone walls. Daylight filters through the grate in thin, weak bands — never warm, never enough. Food comes by trembling hands and a long spoon. Water tastes of rust and old pipes. And Adam… doesn't come back.
Not the next day…Nor the day after that…Nor the next. Silence becomes my only visitor — aside from her. Night after night the crimson plain returns the moment sleep drags me under. The cuffs remain — heavy, unbreakable — my fingers spread uselessly apart. Tailless gleams somewhere in the red horizon, but I can never reach it; I can only watch her reach me.
She appears every time with that same eager grin, as though my terror is her favorite flavor. "You're weaker without me." Steel sings. Pain flashes. Over and over, I die in a body that wakes alive. Her blade slices through my stomach — I jolt awake gasping. It cuts through my throat — I claw at air, choking on phantom blood. She pierces my heart — I wake to my own heartbeat stampeding painfully inside my ribs.
Every time, her voice follows me out of the dream...Come back…Be whole…We are one. I wake shaking, clothes soaked with cold sweat, breath ragged. Sometimes I scream — but the guards don't come. Maybe they can't hear me. Maybe they think I'm dangerous, even bound like this. Maybe… they're right.
By the fourth night, exhaustion eats at my thoughts like termites. I sleep sitting upright to avoid dreaming, but my body betrays me. The moment I slip — crimson floods my vision again. I run. I fight. I crawl…But without hands… without control…She cuts me down like a butcher carving meat.
When I wake, I curl into myself, forehead pressed to cold stone, whispering stop, please stop, even though no one is there to hear. Loneliness gnaws deeper than fear. I start counting time by heartbeat to stay sane…I hum Mother's lullaby under my breath like a lifeline…I repeat Adam's words You haven't lost yourself like a prayer. But every night, the other Miyabi awaits — patient, smiling.
Each failure, each death, she grows clearer. Stronger. And I don't know if it's the curse or just… me. One night — maybe the sixth, maybe the tenth — I wake not with a scream this time, but with a single realization: I am starting to remember the sensation of killing. Not just the horror — the rush. And that terrifies me more than any nightmare. Because if Adam doesn't come back soon…I don't know which Miyabi will be left when the door finally opens.