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Chapter Text

It was a dark and snowy night in Saga City. A blanket of snow had transformed the city into a hushed, ethereal landscape. Under the gentle glow of flickering lanterns, a lone figure navigated through the white drifts. He stopped before a modest inn, its wooden eaves weighed down by snow, and traced the characters carved into the lintel. A faint smile flickered on his lips despite the bitter cold—he had arrived.

He rapped on the door. A minute passed. Then, footsteps.

The door creaked open to reveal a woman dressed in a flowing silk kimono, her posture poised and serene. She was breathtaking. Her name, she said with a bow, was Yugiri.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” she greeted, her voice warm as velvet. Her voice seemed to vanquish the winter cold, and the man’s heart skipped a beat. Even in the dim moonlight, he could make out her stunning features and ethereal beauty. The man walked into the inn, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Yugiri lit a candle as the man closed the door behind him. He turned, properly thanking Yugiri with a slight bow. He was in his mid-twenties, tall and lanky. Though not traditionally handsome, his face was striking—almond-shaped eyes beneath heavy brows, a nose reminiscent of Roman statuary, and large ears like those of Emperor Liu Bei. His dark hair was styled in a Manchu queue, though he wore a European frock coat. To Yugiri, he looked like an Amur tiger at rest—beautiful, exotic, and dangerous.

Candlelight danced in the inn’s entryway, casting golden shadows on lacquered walls. Though electric lights were spreading across Japan, they remained rare in Saga. Yugiri preferred it this way; there was an intimacy to candlelight no Edison bulb could replicate.

“Welcome, kind sir,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity. “What brings you to this quiet corner of Saga City?”

The man did not answer at first. He removed his backpack, then his shoes, then his snow-covered coat, revealing a slender frame and a crisp dress shirt. He was still shivering from the cold, with frost and snow clinging to his eyebrows. He then sat down at the low table—not in the formal seiza, but cross-legged, stiff yet composed.

For a moment, Yugiri thought the man, a gaijin, might not speak Japanese. However, these thoughts were dispelled as he finally began to respond. His Japanese was fluent, yet colored with an unplaceable accent. His voice was gentle but resonant, like a distant cello.

“Personal affairs,” the man said, the corners of his mouth twitching in a tired smile. “I heard your inn offers the best sake and entertainment."

Yugiri lit her kiseru pipe with practiced grace, smoke curling like silk into the shadows. “Indeed I do,” she murmured, her tone amused. “Would you care for warm sake? A bath? Or perhaps… a private performance on the shamisen?”

“I leave it to the lady’s discretion,” the man replied politely. Despite his demeanor, Yugiri could see much deeper into him. His pulse, clearly visible through his pale neck, was quickening. His breathing became ragged. Yugiri let out a small smirk. This man was hooked, and she knew it.

Yugiri rose elegantly, extending her hand to the man. “Come, follow me to my private quarters. You can rest, and I’ll play something soothing. I’ll bring some warm sake and prepare a bath.”

She led the man to a lavish room adorned with silk screens and lanterns. Her movements were fluid and graceful—every step echoing her career as a legendary oiran. She took out a bottle of fine sake and poured a cup for the traveler, who eagerly accepted. He produced a silver yuanbao ingot in return. Yugiri’s eyes widened.

“Oh, thank you for your generosity, kind sir,” she replied. “I must say, you have a certain… regal presence about you.” Her voice was a gentle and melodic sing-song, but there was a hint of intrigue in her tone too.

The man nodded with pride. “I am Aisin-Gioro Hansi, Prince of Third Rank. A member of the Bordered Yellow Banner.”

Yugiri looked up at the man with a surprised yet doe-eyed expression. She then prostrated herself apologetically. “My apologies. I should have addressed you as ‘Your Highness.’ Please forgive this simple oiran.”

The words made the prince wince. “I am not worthy of such high honors,” he replied, helping Yugiri back up. “My title is mostly ceremonial. And meaningless—like gilding on rotten wood.”

Yugiri tilted her head. “But you are still a prince of the Aisin-Gioro clan? That is a most regal lineage indeed.”

The traveler, now revealed as Prince Hansi, nodded with a smile, accepting the high praise. Once a minor clan in the wild forests of Manchuria, the Aisin-Gioro had transformed themselves into something spectacular. Through diplomacy, shrewdness, reform, and courage, the clan came to rule all of China, establishing the Qing Dynasty. The current emperor, Emperor Guangxu, was sovereign over a quarter of the world’s population. He was also the prince’s second cousin.

“I’m sure you have plenty of questions. For now, this worn-out soul just wants to rest and forget about the past.”

Yugiri let out a wistful sigh while tuning her shamisen, the instrument glistening beautifully in the moonlight. “One could say I have a complicated past too. But I prefer to focus on the present—where I can still bring beauty to this world.”

The prince looked at the oiran empathetically. Despite their different worlds, they shared something intangible. Yugiri’s fingers danced across the strings, producing a melancholic and haunting melody. She spoke in a whisper, her voice nearly drowned in the music. “This piece is called Sakura no Kaze. It speaks of longing for home. I hope it resonates with you, dear prince.”

The prince was mesmerized. He took a few small sips from his porcelain cup, not wanting the performance to ever end. He recalled his favorite quote from Emperor Napoleon: “Glory is fleeting. Obscurity is forever.”

Yugiri’s expression sharpened as she looked at the prince with knowing eyes. “Such wise words from a noble,” she cooed. “Perhaps we both understand what it means to be... immortal in our own way.”

Prince Hansi did not catch the hidden meaning in her words. “The unfinished stories are often the best,” he opined. “Sometimes, all we can do is add our own piece to the mosaic.”

The song slowly came to an end. The prince let out a round of applause, smiling and and laughing. Yugiri got up and bowed. “My music. My tales. They are my way of crafting a legacy, no matter how fleeting it may seem.”

The prince, still in quiet contemplation, replied softly. “You have a way with words, Yugiri-san. You would make for a wonderful poet and writer. You are wise beyond your years.”

Yugiri laughed softly, a tinkling sound like delicate bells. “Oh, my dear prince, I have had many years indeed. But wisdom is often born from pain and loss.” She offered him another cup of sake. He accepted it with a polite bow.

As he sipped, she continued. “I remember the Boshin War. I was only six, but I still recall the sight of Emperor Meiji’s armies marching past my home in Kyoto. It feels like an eternity ago.”

The prince set the empty cup down gently. “That would make you ten during the Saga Rebellion? And thirteen during the Satsuma Rebellion?”

Yugiri's eyebrows lifted slightly, betraying her surprise. “Yes, you are correct. Your knowledge of history surprises me, my dear prince. Most nobles I meet concern themselves only with the present. And most gaijin know nothing of Japanese affairs.”

The prince happily accepted the compliment. “To secure a brighter future for the Aisin-Gioro clan, I must learn about both past and present. Japan has modernized so quickly. I want to apply those lessons to China, so I have been studying in Japan for the past year.”

Yugiri sensed the pride and eagerness in his voice.

“Change is never easy,” Yugiri remarked, her voice airy. “Reformers clashing with traditionalists… That bitter struggle has caused so much death and destruction here in Japan. I just hope China can learn from Japan’s scars.”

The prince drained his second cup of sake. Always perceptive, Yugiri detected unease in him. Politics was always a touchy subject—but it could be incredibly revealing too.

The state of court politics made the prince’s stomach turn. He gave only a vague reply. “You are well-informed. The reform faction, led by Prince Gong, is locked in a losing battle with the conservatives under Prince Duan.”

Yugiri tilted her head, her eyes bright with curiosity. “And where do you stand, my dear prince?”

Prince Hansi let out a deep and weary sigh. “I am of little consequence. I am but a low-ranking prince and a mediocre diplomat. For what it’s worth, I support the reformers. The world is coming—whether we like it or not. The Opium Wars have shown how powerful the Westerners are. It was a painful lesson. If we fail to adapt, our people may not survive.”

Yugiri raised a hand to her lips, as if deep in thought. But the seemingly innocent gesture concealed something far more sinister. A broad smirk spread across her face.

Unknowingly, the prince had presented her with an opportunity—and a plan.

An excellent plan.

A chance to save Saga. A chance to save Kiichi Momozaki. And maybe herself, too.

Even though fate and fortune had been most unkind to her, Yugiri felt convinced that her scheme would succeed this time. The kami were on her side. A foreign prince had arrived at her doorstep. It could not be a more obvious sign from the gods. Fate was going to be her puppet this time, and the puppet show she was planning would be nothing short of spectacular.

Despite all the thoughts and schemes swirling in her head, Yugiri never lost her composure. She adjusted her silken kimono and began to play a lighthearted tune on her shamisen.

“You speak eloquently, my dear prince,” her voice flowed with admiration. “Adaptation is indeed crucial. Perhaps there are lessons to be learned from even the most unexpected sources—like a legendary oiran well-versed in history and politics.”

The prince let out a few chuckles, nodding slowly. However, the perceptive Yugiri noticed a hint of sadness and reluctance in his movements.

“Is there something troubling you, my dear prince?” she leaned in, her music slowing.

“I have heard stories about you, Yugiri-san,” the prince said in a melancholic whisper. “A certain legendary oiran in Saga tried to ignite a rebellion. I believe in what you stood for… I wanted to help, and lend diplomatic support. However, it appears I am too late. The revolution… it ended before it even began.”

Yugiri’s blood abruptly turned cold.

Her shamisen string snapped.

Chapter Text

The oiran’s demure and happy demeanor shattered as grief crushed her like a tidal wave. She looked down at her hands, now pale and icy cold. She broke down, letting out a heartbreaking cry. It was raw and unguarded. It felt so incredibly visceral—it sent shivers down the prince’s spine.

The prince responded instinctively, staring into Yugiri’s tearful, doe-like eyes. He wrapped his arms around her, offering his handkerchief. He watched silently as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“The revolution has failed,” she gasped between sobs. “It has cost me everything. The man I loved… and so many dear friends…”

Yugiri struggled to hold back her tears. Without even realizing it, the prince had uncovered her greatest weakness. She was a broken woman. She had lost everything, including all those closest to her. When she took Shojiro Ito’s life, a part of her died with him. Another piece vanished when Kiichi Momozaki was forced into hiding. These moments left her with a hollowness she had never felt before.

The prince offered a sympathetic look. He could not find the words to comfort her, so he gently brushed her hair with his hands. It had worked for his little sister when she hurt her leg years ago and missed a relay race. But it did little to soothe the immense spiritual pain Yugiri carried then.

“The man you loved?” he asked quietly.

Yugiri’s gaze turned distant, her voice soft and tinged with sadness. She thought of Kiichi’s smile, his voice, and the way he used to tug at her sleeves and heartstrings.

“Kiichi Momozaki. So devoted to Saga. Handsome, kind, endearing. He wanted to rebuild Saga peacefully, but the old men around him embraced violence instead. While we were still trying to quell the bloodshed, we were betrayed by a mutual friend. He had to flee and go into hiding. I pray he is still alive… but I may never see him again…”

She broke down again before finishing her story, crying bitterly. The tears were heavier than before. The prince hugged her tightly.

“That traitor was Shojiro Ito?” he asked. “There were rumors…”

Yugiri felt her throat tighten. The bitter memories were fresh and cut deep. She had cried for days afterward, mourning the man she once considered a dear friend. It filled her with loathing and shame. But she could not bring herself to hate Shojiro Ito. He was a good man, doing what he thought was right—trying to save the country from further chaos. He was generous and beloved—he even left a small fortune to a local orphanage in his will.

There were no witnesses to their fateful duel four nights ago, but suspicion fell on her regardless. Some friends distanced themselves. Parents stopped sending their daughters for music and dance lessons. The isolation gnawed at her.

Yugiri continued to cry for several more minutes. The prince poured her a cup of sake, which she gladly accepted. She downed another, and finally a third. The third cup finally steadied her nerves.

“Please forgive me for this shameful display, my dear prince,” she muttered, still sniffing, “You came here for pleasant company and laughs. I should not have given you a litany of woe instead. This is what happens when love and duty collide…”

The prince nodded understandingly and offered Yugiri a tight hug. He continued to pet her head and her luscious brown hair. “For every choice, there is an echo. With each act, we change the world. I would love to hear more of your story one day, when you feel ready.”

The raw emotions of the night weakened the prince’s guard and dulled his senses. With her display of vulnerability, Yugiri seemed so helpless and fragile, like a newborn fawn. Of course, this was far from the truth—but all the prince wanted to do was to hold and comfort her. He felt something stir inside him. A strong desire not only to protect, but to understand and accept. He did not know it, but he was falling in love.

Yugiri knew the signs all too well—the flicker in the eyes, the subtle blush, the uneven breath, and the quickened heartbeat. Even if the prince’s mind had not caught on, his body was already confessing. As Lao Tzu once said, love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart, and the senses.

What unsettled Yugiri most was realizing how her own heart mirrored his. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the hollow ache left behind by Kiichi’s disappearance. Either way, the prince’s warm embrace awakened something she had thought long buried.

The legendary oiran now had to face the troubling truth—she was falling in love, too.

The prince was tall, strong, and intelligent. Though he could never match Kiichi’s mischievous charm or striking looks, Yugiri found him endearing in his own way. For someone of such high standing, he was surprisingly relatable—understanding, even. He carried not just knowledge, but charisma. Beneath his polished exterior lay a disarming sincerity. And he was not bad to look at, either.

Yugiri caught herself ogling him and quickly looked away. Oiran like her were not supposed to fall in love with clients. To do so was amateurish, unbecoming of a professional. She felt like a fool—and that only confirmed her fear: she was truly falling for him.

Her eyes locked with Prince Hansi’s, filled with a mix of love, hesitation, and vulnerability. She noted the unusual softness in his gaze as she accepted his gentle touch. He cupped her hand like a newborn bird.

“I am sorry, my dear prince,” Yugiri whispered, “Something strange is happening to me tonight. I do not feel my best. I can tell you the rest of my story tomorrow.”

The prince reluctantly released her hand. It felt incredibly soft, and the scent reminded him of chrysanthemums. He wanted more, but he also sensed something beneath the surface.

“It is getting late,” he said with finality. “I have enjoyed your company, but it is time for me to bathe and retire.”

Yugiri nodded sweetly. “Yes, of course. The last customer used the bath an hour ago, but it should still be warm. I can fetch a yukata for you and have your clothes cleaned tomorrow morning.”

“I would love that, Yugiri-san,” the prince replied, eager to shake off the bitter cold. “Please show me the way.”

Yugiri grabbed his hand and led him to the baths on the first floor. She fetched a pair of yukata and offered him a laundry basket. The prince emptied his pockets—wallet, loose papers, several omamori amulets, and his trusty pocket knife.

In the dim light, he did not notice the kaiken dagger hidden in the closet. Nor did he observe the calculating look in Yugiri’s eyes.

Hypnotized by Yugiri’s elegance and beauty, he did not see or hear the oiran subtly slipping the dagger into her kimono sleeve.

Yugiri opened the doors to the mushiburo steam baths. Though not a true onsen, the inn’s twin wooden pools, heated by a boiler outside, glowed under soft lantern light. One of the pools was still warm, and there were no other guests. The sadness and cold of the night began to fade. Hansi felt like he had been transported to another world.

Yugiri giggled, hiding her smile behind her sleeve. This time, the devious smirk did not return. Her smile was genuine. Of course, she had reasons to be pleased—the plan was proceeding well. But a strange sadness clung to her. The prince did not deserve what was coming. Her feelings for him felt real. But if her plan was to succeed, it would not matter anyway. She steeled herself. This was for Saga. For Kiichi. For herself. Maybe even for the prince.

“You know,” she whispered seductively, her voice like honey, “I think I would like a bath as well. I want to get clean… especially after all that excitement.”

“Oh my…” the prince stammered, blushing. Communal baths and female attendants were accepted in Japan, but not in Europe or China. There, the idea of seeing an unmarried woman unclothed was scandalous.

Still, he could not quiet the fire inside him. His mind raced. Despite his title, he had rarely known the private company of women. He had never experienced real intimacy. In his young mind, there could be no pleasure greater than this.

Yugiri saw his flustered face and smiled coyly. “You must be feeling very constricted, neh? Don’t worry. I’ll lock the doors. No one will bother us.”

Hansi swallowed. “I’ve, er, never done this before. Are you sure… you’re comfortable with this?”

Yugiri playfully swatted his arm. “You are such a naughty buck. But I cannot blame you.” Her voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “I’ll wash you and make you feel new. You can wash me too, with those big hands of yours. I know how much they’ve wanted to touch me.”

The prince’s ears burned. He could not look away from her beautiful form. She winked before continuing. “Only your hands, though. You must still control yourself.”

He gulped. This was a moment he’d remember forever. He expected to feel nervous, but it just felt… right.

“I will behave, Yugiri-san.”

Yugiri giggled like a schoolgirl, pressing her chest against him. She tugged at his necktie, slowly and teasingly. She fumbled with the knot, unfamiliar with the foreign design. She pouted before giving up, and this only made her more irresistible.

The prince undid the tie himself and tossed it aside. “I like Western suits, but neckties feel useless. I feel much better without that foreign noose around my neck.”

Yugiri nodded, then began to unbutton his shirt. Her breath quickened. She slid it off his shoulders, eyes roaming over his chest, her fingers tracing muscle and scar.

“You look quite strong for a diplomat and scholar,” she teased. “You look like a warrior.” Every scar told a story. One slash across his ribs spoke of swordplay. A puckered mark near his shoulder hints at an old gunshot. This was no pampered aristocrat.

She pressed her cheek to a twisted scar below his collarbone. The ribs beneath were misaligned, but he displayed them proudly.

“That one is from a British lord’s cane… I argued against the Unequal Treaties while studying in London.”

Yugiri paused, then looked up with admiration. “You must be incredibly smart… or incredibly dumb. Either way, you are brave.”

She nuzzled his neck, reached for his belt, and teased him about his body’s reaction. “Someone’s eager,” she smirked.

The prince, lost in desire, could think of nothing else. His guard was gone. He wanted only her.

The belt came loose with a soft clink. Yugiri pulled down his pants and underpants, then admired her handiwork. For the legendary oiran, seeing a man saluting her never grew old. The prince was in his prime and eager to please.

Yugiri felt heat stir within her. Still fully dressed, she handed him a jasmine-scented yukata. He wrapped himself quickly. She gestured for him to sit. She massaged his shoulders.

“It’s your turn, Yugiri-san,” he said, trembling. “I… I can hardly wait.”

Yugiri’s fingers paused along his spine.

She reached into her sleeve with one fluid, well-rehearsed motion.

“If you insist on haste,” she murmured, “perhaps this will satisfy your curiosity.”

The prince had no time to react.

He saw a flicker, heard a metallic hiss. Then her lips brushed his ear—warm as the bath, sharp as her whisper.

“Now, my dear prince, we negotiate.”

The warmth of her touch vanished.

Cold steel rested against his skin.

His eyes widened as he looked down and saw the kaiken dagger gleaming in her hand.

Chapter Text

Yugiri held the kaiken firmly against the prince’s jugular—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to promise it. Her other arm wrapped tightly around his chest, anchoring him to the side of the bath. He was a big man, and the scars across his torso hinted at martial arts training. Yugiri knew she could not rely on brute force alone. She had to be cunning too.

“Tamade,” the prince cursed, the words bouncing off the cedar walls. His heart pounded in his chest—not with excitement now, but with fear. He instinctively reached for the dagger, but Yugiri anticipated the move. A skilled swordswoman and judo expert, she slammed his arm against the edge of the bath with a textbook jujutsu counter. The kaiken did not move at first, but it then began to trace down his chest.

Yugiri let out a cold laugh. “I could sever your ren mai meridian before you even blink,” she murmured. “Try again, and I will.”

Hansi was smart and calm enough not to try again. His body tensed, so Yugiri responded by pressing her fingers into the pressure points on his neck and back. He felt his qi life energy draining into her hands and quickly realized he was completely outmatched.

“What is the meaning of this?” he growled, voice gritty. “I am a diplomat of the Chinese Imperial Court. If you harm me, Peking and Tokyo will both send armies to hunt you down. They will burn Saga to ash.”

Those were the exact words she needed to hear. Her laugh was as bitter as raw matcha. “They already have.”

The prince felt drops of warm liquid fall onto his back. It was not blood. Sweat? Or perhaps Yugiri’s tears? He did not dare look back.

“I apologize for the deception, my dear prince,” she said coolly, “but not everything is as it seems in this new era.”

The prince coughed, his chest heaving. “Is this about revenge? Perhaps for the Imo Incident?”

“This is not about revenge,” Yugiri replied. Still gripping the dagger, she gently brushed her arm against his chest in an attempt to calm him. “I wish you no harm. Just listen.”

His breath slowed, but he remained wary.

“Fine. I’ll listen,” he said. “But if you want political support for your failed rebellion, abandon that hope. It’s over. Even if I wanted to help, the Qing Court would never support a lost cause.”

Yugiri caught the sadness in his voice, but kept her expression cold.

“I know it failed. I know better than anyone. I’m not asking for money, soldiers, or political recognition. I don’t want foreign troops on Japanese soil either.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “The Qing dynasty is barely holding itself together. The last thing we need is another war.”

“Good. Then you understand.”

“Of course I understand,” he grunted. “What I do not understand is the dagger. This is not how negotiations are done. Anything agreed to while under duress is null and void.”

“Do I have your word that you’ll listen and consider my proposal?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes. You have my word. I’m a diplomat—listening is my job.”

Yugiri’s scheme was now entering its final, most decisive phase. It was also the most dangerous, but Yugiri embraced the spirit of the gamble. She released him just enough to let him turn, but she did not let go of the dagger. The candlelight caught the beads of sweat running down the prince’s neck.

The prince turned to face her, still seated. He expected a sneer, or perhaps armed accomplices looking down at him. Instead, he saw tears in her eyes.

Yugiri wiped at her face, trying to steady her voice. “I know I’ve committed a grave offense. Government officials know I was involved. They’re sending soldiers to arrest the rebels still alive… myself included.”

The prince nodded slowly. “Yes. I saw a ship arrive in Nagasaki yesterday. Heard it was transporting soldiers heading here, to Saga.”

“When they arrive, I’ll be arrested. I’ll likely be executed.” Her voice cracked. Big tears spilled down her cheeks, vanishing into the rising steam. Her grief was palpable, her voice now a broken whimper.

The prince’s anger faded into confusion, then pity. His heart thudded—less from fear now, more from an aching need to protect her.

He reached out, hesitated when he saw the dagger, and then pulled back his hand.

“I’m sorry, Yugiri,” he said gently. “That’s… terrible.” He struggled to find the right words.

Yugiri’s sobs only became more intense. The prince watched silently. It was more heartbreaking than her earlier cries. This time, there was no sake around for him to offer. It was raw, visceral, and unfiltered sorrow.

The prince racked his brain. He was already a fool for falling in love, but now he was a desperate one, coming up with ideas only desperate fools could conceive. “Maybe I could disguise you as one of my servants? Or you could hide in the forest—I could bring food, water—until it blows over. Maybe start a new life elsewhere?”

Yugiri shook her head. Without a single word being said, he understood the answer. Yugiri was a woman of honor, in a land still governed by Bushido. Hiding would be worse than death. And they would punish her friends. The man she once loved, too. The prince could not recall his name—it didn’t matter anyway. He now understood what Yugiri meant when she spoke of being immortal in her own way.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “A woman like you would never accept such dishonor.”

The prince had studied diplomacy across cultures, memorized tactics by Sun Tzu and von Clausewitz, and read treaties from every European court. Yet now, his mind was blank.

Yugiri looked at the prince with puppy-like eyes, now red and swollen from crying. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “You’re a diplomat… right?”

“Yes.”

“And you have diplomatic status, recognized by the Meiji government?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Hope glimmered in her expression. She stepped forward, still gently holding the kaiken in her right hand. She paused—just for a heartbeat—then untied her kimono sash. The fabric slipped into the water, revealing her bare, unblemished skin. Her nakedness was not just seduction—it was surrender. No hidden weapons. No lies.

Though fully exposed, she stood with quiet confidence. Wiping away the last of her tears, she cleared her throat and spoke with the poise of a queen.

“Prince Aisin-Gioro Hansi, I have a proposal. One that benefits us both.”

He could only nod, captivated.

“I need your help to ensure that my past… connections remain protected. My connections with the failed revolutionaries. With the underground groups still fighting on behalf of Saga.”

She maintained her grip on the dagger as she leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear.

“In exchange, I can offer you information and resources that could aid you and your family in these troubling times. And I will grant you a treasure beyond all measure—a prize you desire most.”

Her eyes flashed with a mix of determination and vulnerability. She gently caressed the prince’s cheek with her left hand. He looked back, puzzled.

“I’m sorry, Yugiri-san,” he replied, unable to decipher the cryptic promise. “I don’t understand exactly what you’re proposing.”

Yugiri paused. Then she chuckled softly—the sound sending a chill down Hansi’s spine. With a flick of her wrist, she brought the blade once again to his jugular.

“Very well,” she said, licking her lips. “I’ll make it simple. You can join me as my husband, sharing in our laughter, sorrows, and triumphs. Or you can join me in the underworld as a ghost, and we’ll haunt each other for eternity.”

She pressed the blade harder against his neck—not enough to draw blood, but enough to make her point. “In other words,” she stated plainly, “marry me… or we both die.”

Silence.

Then—laughter.

The prince threw his head back, shoulders shaking with genuine amusement. It burst from him—louder than his earlier curses. Yugiri just stared, blankly. This was not the reaction she expected. She searched his eyes for deceit, but found only mirth and sincerity. Her grip on the dagger loosened.

“Oh, Yugiri-san,” he gasped, wiping away tears of laughter. “You could’ve just asked.”

Yugiri’s eyes narrowed, still uncertain which option he had chosen. Now it was her turn to be confused.

Grinning, the prince retrieved his belongings from the laundry basket and unwrapped several omamori amulets. Hidden inside were brilliant gemstones, and intricate imperial necklaces and earrings. Her eyes widened as he opened the final charm. From within, he pulled a golden ring inlaid with rubies, carved with twin birds. He placed it into her trembling hands.

Yugiri stood stunned. Her plan had worked—but it was he who laughed like a man possessed.

She was silent as the dagger slipped from her fingers and dropped harmlessly into the water.

And then—another laugh joined his. Bright, melodic, euphoric.

Yugiri cried again, this time with tears of joy. She hugged the prince tightly, releasing a delighted cheer. All the sorrow had evaporated. No fear. No regrets.

Only warmth and genuine affection.

The prince returned the hug, gently brushing her hair. “I came to Saga for two reasons,” he admitted. “Officially, to investigate the rebellion. Unofficially… to find you.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Yugiri teased, “Why would a prince like you be interested in a foreign rebel?”

“The tales of the oiran who fought for Saga reached even China,” he replied, gently caressing Yugiri’s face. “Beauty, wit, and steel? How could I resist?”

Yugiri was moved by the prince’s honesty, but she still had questions in her heart. “The Qing Imperial Court would not approve of this marriage. They would never approve of you binding yourself to a failed rebel. You may lose everything.”

“In China, they call me ‘the Ghost Prince’—a title without power or authority. But you… you fight. Even when broken. I want to be more than a ghost. I may lose wealth and status, but in you, I will find new meaning and purpose. That is why I want to bind myself to you. I would rather be a fighting prince, binding myself to a fighting empress.”

She kissed his cheek. It was his first, and it stirred something wild and tender inside him.

“From the moment I first saw you,” he confessed, holding Yugiri’s arms, “I knew that you were the one. I never expected things to happen so quickly though.”

“That’s pathetic,” she replied playfully, massaging his tense shoulders. “A prince so tempted by a simple woman? Where have I heard this story before? Am I your Xi Shi? Or maybe your Diao Chan?”

“You are anything but simple, Yugiri-san,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Should I just call you Yugiri now? Or wife?”

“Just Yugiri—for now,” she smirked. “We’re not married yet. I could still say no.” She looked longingly at the ruby-encrusted ring, but did not put it on.

“If you decline, how will you get diplomatic immunity?” Hansi grinned, slapping his knee. His tone changed from one of amusement to that of admiration. “That was a brilliant plan. I wish I’d thought of it. You just staged a coup de théâtre worthy of Peking Opera!”

Yugiri smiled and kissed him again. “That saves me the trouble of explaining everything. It saves the author from writing more tedious explanations too. I’d tease you, but I’m honestly impressed.”

They looked into each other’s eyes, and there they could find no fault, only truth. There was no longer any deceit or sadness. Only joy and hope for a better future. There were no words spoken, but there did not need to be. All the words in the world were conveyed through that one simple look. They then bumped their foreheads against each other as Yugiri let out an adorable squeal.

Hansi held Yugiri’s trembling hands as she closely examined the ring, glistening beautifully in the candlelight. The craftsmanship was unmistakably imperial, with intricate patterns and carvings. However, on the inside, the patterns were worn down.

The prince saw the question in Yugiri’s eyes. “This is an imperial consort’s jewel,” he replied, “It once belonged to my maternal grandmother. She once persuaded a Mongol khan to marry her at knifepoint. I did not believe her story at first, but I certainly do now.”

The prince gently slid the ring onto Yugiri’s finger, and Yugiri gladly accepted. They shared a long hug, followed by a long kiss.

“The rest won’t be easy,” the prince warned. “We’ll need a priest, papers… some bribes, probably—”

Yugiri pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t worry, my prince,” she cooed. “From now on, I’ll be your wife and your strategist.”

He caressed her face playfully. “My own oiran strategist. How intriguing...”

“Not just a strategist—wife!” she pouted like an angry puppy.

He lifted her onto his lap, looking up with innocent eyes. “This has to be more than a marriage of convenience. My wife must love me sincerely. With all her heart. Do you?”

She blushed. She had already shown him her body, her fears, her darkness, and her tears. But confessing love felt even more intimate.

“Perhaps… I’ve grown fond of you, my idiot prince,” Yugiri confessed, feeling her heart flutter. “I am very grateful for your kindness and protection. An oiran’s love is often transactional. But with you, it feels real. It feels like true love. And that scares me.”

“There’s an army after you. But love is scarier?”

Yugiri nodded, laughing softly. “I’ve lost everything before. I won’t lose what I love again.”

“You’re one hell of a woman, Yugiri. If you weren’t naked, I’d think you had another dagger hidden somewhere.”

She giggled, then kissed him again. “I’m sorry for the earlier drama. But you’re braver than most nobles I’ve met. That only makes me love you more.”

“We were strangers this morning…”

“And yet, here we are, naked in a bath together, discussing marriage and bribes.”

Yugiri fetched her kaiken from the bottom of the bath. She presented it to the prince like a gift, using the palms of both hands.

“Take it. It is a symbol of our pact. And a promise that I will never harm you… not unless you give me reason to… or unless you want me to.” She winks seductively as she says the last part.

Although the prince was dressed in nothing but a yukata, he still tried to make the moment look as dignified as possible. He bowed as he accepted the kaiken dagger, only to drop it a moment later when he realized how hot it got after spending so long in the water.

“Let us swear a more formal oath instead,” he whispered while flapping his hands, “like the Oath of the Peach Garden.”

“Oath of Our Peachy Bathhouse.”

The two collected a few of the omamori amulets still in the laundry bin. They formed the amulets into a small pile, resting their hands on it. Somehow, it made the oath feel both more charming and more powerful.

“I, Yugiri of Saga, swear to aid and protect you, Prince Aisin-Gioro Hansi, as long as we shall live. I swear to serve you and your clan with the utmost loyalty. May the kami of Saga attest to what is in my heart.”

“I, Aisin-Gioro Hansi, Prince of Third Rank, accept your declaration. I swear to protect your friends and allies. I swear to save the troubled and to aid the endangered people of China and Japan. From this day forward, we are one.”

Yugiri gripped the prince’s hands firmly. “Let us fight together. And may our spirits join each other when our time comes.”

“We shall triumph. Triumph together.”

Yugiri stripped the prince of his yukata and then tackled him into the bath. The two shared a long laugh. “It looks like I triumphed more this time though, my idiot prince.”

The prince smiled at the nickname—an unexpected honor, and one he accepted without protest. It reminded him of Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin, the main character of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. The prince was a good, capable, and intelligent man, but his open-heartedness and guilelessness led others to deem him an idiot. It was an unorthodox name for an unorthodox bond—but it had a charm all its own.

They kissed each other on the lips as water splashed all around them. The prince looked right into Yugiri’s sultry eyes. With her brown hair now wet, she looked irresistible. The prince felt a special heat rising deep within him, far hotter than the steamy baths. He was not afraid to act on it this time.

“I do not believe our oath has been sealed yet,” he teased.

“Oh my… How could I forget?” Yugiri replied, pretending to be surprised. “Very well then. Let us consummate our… oath properly.”

Everything later that night would have a dreamlike quality to it. The frenzy. The lust. The coarseness. The sound of water splashing around them. She would feel his passion, his sweet breath, his liquid fire, and his hands clutching her marvelously. It would feel most like a dream because Yugiri’s plans had worked like a dream—and it was the best dream she ever dreamed.

Chapter Text

The prince watched the sultry oiran walk slowly toward him, a seductive smile on her face. Her figure was the epitome of elegance—tall, svelte, and slender. The prince blushed, twiddling his thumbs. The scene was more beautiful than anything he could have imagined. He could not take his eyes away.

Yugiri straddled the prince, running her fingers along his broad shoulders. “Your admiration flatters me, my idiot prince,” she teased. “But you are so stiff…” The double meaning caused the prince to chuckle.

“Well, this is my first time…”

Yugiri let out a small gasp, raising her hand to her mouth. “I would have never known. I would think that a handsome, tempting prince like you would be surrounded by beautiful women.”

The prince smiled at the sincere compliment. “I was a late bloomer. I spent most of my teenage years studying, traveling, and writing. I did not start to think about women and marriage until much more recently.”

“That just makes tonight even more memorable then,” Yugiri quipped, pressing her warm, soft body against him. “Let me take the lead.”

“We men of the Bordered Yellow Banner conquer. But tonight—” His breath hitched. “Tonight, I surrender to you.”

Their lips met in a passionate kiss. The prince embraced the brown-haired oiran , massaging the curves of her slender waist. Her mouth felt warm and inviting. A muffled gasp escaped him as her tongue slipped into his mouth. Their kisses grew hungrier, wilder—less like a prince and an oiran , and more like two souls who had finally found one another.

They broke the kiss, breathless. Giggling softly, Yugiri cupped his face and peppered his cheeks with kisses before gently licking along them. She then moved down to his neck, nibbling until a hickey appeared. The kisses were raw with passion, the oiran’s lust growing by the second.

The prince brushed his fingers through her hair, now wet and soft as silk. The scent of sake and chrysanthemum filled his nose. Her creamy skin was impossibly smooth. He ran his hands downward and grasped her backside with wonder. He clutched at her buttocks marvelously.

Yugiri felt something warm pressing against her thigh a moment later. She looked down and saw the prince’s arousal. It filled her with even more eagerness, along with a sense of pride. Her perky nipples stiffened, and her loins started to react as well.

“Allow me to take care of that,” she whispered sensually. The prince trembled under her touch. She gave his member a playful flick and murmured, “I’m going to have so much fun tonight.”

Yugiri toyed with him before wrapping her hands around him, stroking gently. A gasp escaped the prince as his member stiffened even further. Yugiri licked her lips seductively and slowly took him into her mouth.

“Yugiri!” the prince moaned, his expression filled with ecstasy. She glanced up, her eyes fluttering.

Yugiri began sucking on the firm shaft. The sensation was amazing. Her mouth, already wet from the kiss earlier, soon covered the shaft in saliva. She then turned her attention to the tip of his member, teasing it gently with her tongue. The sudden sensation caused the prince to gasp.

Yugiri prepared for her ultimate surprise. She took in a deep breath through her nostrils, gently wrapping her arms around the prince’s waist. She then dived down like a falcon, pushing the prince’s member deep into her throat. This was one of her special abilities as an oiran , and it drove men wild. For the prince, it felt nothing short of divine.

“Oh gods!” the prince cried out, his teeth clenching. He could feel his member pulsate unlike ever before. Yugiri’s throat was so tight and warm, and her efforts were so passionate. It did not take long for the prince to approach his limit.

Eager to make the prince cum, she began massaging the underside of his shaft with her tongue. With a drawn-out moan, the prince blew his load into her mouth. His hot and thick essence hit Yugiri in the back of the throat, and there was so much of it. The first attempt to swallow was already in vain. The oiran pulled back her head, just in time for the second spurt to cover her face.

The prince could form no words. The feeling coursing through him felt unreal, but it also just felt so right and natural. Every nerve in his body was twitching. It felt like a thousand doses of relief rolled into one. It felt so great and amazing that he wanted to shout.

Pleased at her handiwork, Yugiri gladly caught the remainder of his essence on her tongue. The thick fluid slowly dribbled out of her mouth, flowing onto her breasts. The sight was incredibly erotic, and his shaft remained rock hard.

Still new to this sort of activity, the prince was not sure what to say. A part of him felt like apologizing. “I’m, uh… I’m sorry?”

Yugiri playfully slapped his thigh. “Don’t apologize, my idiot prince. That was spectacular. I can already feel your qi stirring inside me.”

With a mischievous smirk, Yugiri noticed the prince admiring her breasts. She was incredibly proud of her breasts, so large, soft, and perky. She lifted them slowly, presenting them like a gift to the dazzled prince.

A delighted smile spread across the prince’s face. Eyeing them hungrily, he gingerly reached out to caress them, his touch soft against her silky, wet skin. He cupped the soft globes of flesh before starting to fondle them, his fingers sinking into her curves. His calloused hands were stiff and strong, but the prince managed to keep them gentle. The oiran sighed in bliss from the sensual massage, a wave of pleasure spreading across her chest.

The ravenous prince could not get enough. He slid into the steamy bath, bringing his face closer to those flawless breasts. He laid a few kisses on her right breast and then the left, his tongue exploring the valley between them. Yugiri whimpered adorably as her breasts were soon covered in a slick combination of cum and saliva.

“Are they as good as you had hoped for?” Yugiri inquired teasingly, softly brushing the prince’s hair. She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear the prince say it.

“They are better than I could have ever imagined,” Hansi replied. He looked up at Yugiri with an affectionate look, the same way a mortal would admire a goddess.

Yugiri cradled the prince tightly, giving him another kiss. “You are mine now, Hansi. Mine to please and protect. I want you so much.”

Before the prince could even react, Yugiri pushed him against the side of the wooden bathtub, causing the water to splash out. She promptly straddled the young prince, causing him to gasp. She smiled most delightfully when she saw that the prince was still stiff and ready.

“Are you ready to make me yours? To share in our dangerous games?”

The prince’s cock twitched in anticipation, and this was all the confirmation the oiran needed. She grabbed the thick shaft with one hand, while gently caressing the prince’s face with the other. She gently lowered herself onto him.

The prince moaned as he felt the tip of his member press up against Yugiri’s wet folds. She felt so incredibly warm and welcoming. Yugiri let out a similar moan a moment later, as the shaft started to slide into her.

“Now it’s time for the main event, my idiot prince,” Yugiri purred, licking her lips, “Just let me take the lead.”

The prince nodded as Yugiri’s tight womanhood took up more of his cock. Her soft, warm walls were squeezing marvelously against his trembling shaft, and he was desperate for more. He moaned in bliss, resting his hands against her hips.

Like a bunny, Yugiri started to bounce up and down on the thick shaft, cooing adorably.

The prince watched as she rode him like a horse, her breasts jiggling with every movement. He grabbed her waist firmly, moving his pelvis to match her thrusts. A muffled moan escaped from the oiran’s throat. She could feel the heat building up in her lower chakras .

The prince gently pulled Yugiri onto his chest as they continued their rhythmic lovemaking. She licked his neck gently, her tongue tracing circles around his Adam’s apple. He wrapped his arms around the beautiful woman as they gazed lustfully at one another.

“You’re filling me up so well…” Yugiri drooled. Even though the prince was a virgin, he was a quick learner. He thrust powerfully against her pelvis, matching her movements. Soon, the tip of his member reached her most intimate depths. She let out a surprised gasp as his cock struck against her tender cervix.

Eager to demonstrate his strength and virility, the prince continued to thrust into her unrelentingly, hitting her cervix with every thrust. Yugiri was soon overwhelmed. She quickly brought the prince into a kiss, moaning into his mouth. Her walls squeezed onto his shaft harder than before. She was approaching her climax, struggling to endure the intense pleasure.

With a sharp roar, the prince took one final thrust into Yugiri’s depths. Waves of pleasure reverberated through him as he reached his climax. Hot ropes of essence shot out of him, filling her depths.

“Hansi!” Yugiri let out a primal scream as she reached her limit, the sound echoing across the baths. A wave of fluid gushed out of her womanhood as the prince slid out of her. Both exhausted, our couple leaned back into the bath, catching their breath.

“Tired already?” Yugiri teased, “I was hoping that you would conquer me so thoroughly that I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

“You naughty vixen,” the prince retorted, resting his hands against her breasts. “You have conquered me more thoroughly than any army ever could. My energy, my heart, my qi , and my innocence. They all belong to you now.”

The two rested for a few minutes, and then moved to clean one another. Yugiri lathered up the prince with lavender-scented soap. She gave him a back massage, using her hands and her breasts. She meticulously stimulated all the acupuncture points in the prince’s back before giving him a final kiss.

The prince soon returned the favor. As he applied the soap to her more intimate areas, he caught a view of her beautiful derriere, with his essence still dripping out of her womanhood. Yugiri let out a knowing wink. “Enjoying the view?” She taunted mischievously.

“You are going to be the death of me one day, Yugiri.”

“And you’ll be the death of me… but what a sweet death it would be.”

“I do feel that this may complicate diplomacy a little.”

Yugiri chuckled, leaning against the prince’s chest. “Who knew that daggers, threats, schemes, and sex could be such powerful diplomatic tools?”

Despite the sarcasm, the prince recognized the wisdom in her words. Her charm and cunning—combined with sheer determination and well-timed threats—made her a far more formidable diplomat than he could ever be.

The two shared a laugh before getting all cleaned. They left the bath holding hands and headed up to Yugiri’s private quarters. They collapsed onto the futon simultaneously.

“I meant what I said earlier,” the prince whispered. “About you being my empress. Maybe not in name or by law. But in my heart. Always.”

Yugiri lifted her head, eyes shimmering. “And I’ll be your strategist. Your shield. Your home port.”

They kissed again—slower this time. A promise, not a seduction.

“We have a long day ahead of us,” the prince murmured, spooning her. “But with you by my side, I feel invincible.”

She squeezed his hands gently. “I’ve got it all figured out. Just worry about pampering your wife tomorrow.”

“I’ve caught such a sly, cunning vixen.”

“No, you idiot prince. I’ve caught you .”

They kissed once more before drifting off to sleep, fingers entwined like sea otters so they would not drift apart.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Prince Hansi awoke to gentle fingers tracing his cheek. He opened his eyes slowly as dawn painted the room in amber light. Yugiri hovered above him, radiant in a white yukata.

“Good morning, my idiot prince,” Yugiri whispered. “I hope you had sweet dreams last night.”

The prince smiled as he reminisced about the night before. It all felt like a dream. He had arrived in a strange city, found the legendary rebel oiran, and fallen madly in love with her. He blushed as more details flooded back—the heat of her skin, the way she moaned and pressed against him, the oath they had consummated. It felt like a fairy tale, but the soreness in his limbs (and the faint sting of the hickeys on his neck) confirmed it was all very real.

“Last night was beautiful…” he replied, catching her ringed hand. “But I’m also so sore…”

Yugiri let out a sultry smile. “See? I told you it would be a good time, did I not? Get up. A hearty breakfast can help you recover.”

Downstairs, the inn’s parlor was empty. Yugiri emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray. Prince Hansi’s eyes widened when his nose picked up a sweet, rich aroma.

“You sly vixen,” he exclaimed, touched. “How did you know?” Coffee was still a novelty in the Far East at this time, mostly reserved for Westerners. Most natives preferred tea, but a few embraced the new beverage with religious zeal.

“You mentioned you studied in Britain,” Yugiri replied, pleased by the delighted look in his eyes. “Plus, we need energy for the long day ahead.”

Hansi drank greedily, the rich bitterness transporting him back to the libraries at King’s College London. He had gone there to learn about the United Kingdom’s international power, but that proved too vast and esoteric for his mind to grasp. He learned to marvel at it—but never to embrace it.

Yugiri set down breakfast, which also happened to be his favorite. The plate was filled with nikumanju—steamed buns stuffed with meat. He eagerly bit into one and soon smiled with delight. It tasted just like the baozi he used to enjoy in Peking.

“You might know me a little too well, Yugiri,” he teased. “Maybe you’re an agent sent by the Meiji government to seduce and spy on me? Perhaps I should start hiding daggers in my sleeves too.”

“Maybe that’s why I feel so drawn to you…” Yugiri smiled sweetly, placing her hands over her chest. “It’s like we’ve known each other our whole lives. It feels like I’m completing a circle of something special. There’s plenty of intrigue and danger too, but that just makes things more exciting.”

Hansi gently pinched her cheeks, like one might do to a naughty child. “So poetic. And so damn cute…”

Yugiri pouted, swatting his hand away—but her cheeks flushed pink all the same. “Hey! I’m supposed to be the mature one here. I’m supposed to be your strategist.”

“Then what’s today’s strategy, my Zhuge Liang?” he teased, digging into another nikumanju.

Yugiri’s playful tone faded. “Government troops will reach Saga before nightfall. We need a priest’s blessing and marriage papers by then.”

Hansi gulped, then nodded. “I don’t have much money on me, but there should be a few more coins in my wallet for bribes.”

Yugiri kissed his cheek. “Leave the talking to me. If the kami favor us, we’ll pay nothing.”

The two soon changed for the formal occasion, leaving the inn in the care of a servant. Though traveling light, the prince had packed his most formal and handsome clothes, in a now superfluous effort to impress the legendary oiran.

Dressed in formal chaofu—a blue dragon-embroidered robe and a peacock-feathered hat—Hansi appeared especially dignified and regal. The amulets and mala Buddhist prayer beads around his neck clattered as he walked with rhythmic grace. Yugiri, dressed in a stunning white shiromuku kimono, took a moment to admire him. He looked like he stepped straight out from the pages of an exotic romance novel.

The couple drew stares and gasps of admiration as they walked down the snowy streets. A young child with blue hair covered in ribbons let out a delighted laugh upon seeing the well-dressed couple, eyeing the iridescent peacock feathers on Hansi’s hat. The prince, hoping to win favor from the gods and the city’s citizens, gifted the child one of his feathers. Her eyes went wide, and she drooled as she accepted the gift. The warm display melted the hearts of all the bystanders—Yugiri included.

Yugiri grabbed Hansi’s hand as they continued on their way. “Were those feathers too heavy?” she teased. “Are you so sore from last night that you need help carrying them?”

“Just my ego,” he quipped.

She clutched her chest dramatically. “Oh gods, carrying your ego is a Herculean task! May the kami grant me the strength to do this.”

Hansi grinned, brushing her collarbone. “Then I will carry your heart. It is just as big and heavy.”

Yugiri’s breath hitched. “It is already yours. Be gentle with it.”

The couple soon reached the Shinto shrine, standing serene amid snow-dusted pines. It was the only shrine in the city, but it felt so different from the bustling Buddhist temples Hansi was used to. There were no crowds, no merchants peddling amulets, and no bonfires of incense. Just peace and quiet. He hesitated, unfamiliar with the customs.

“Do you know Shintoism well?” he asked.

“Raised in it,” Yugiri replied. “But I also practice some Buddhism. That’s very common in Japan. I hope you’re okay with worshipping Shinto deities as well.”

Hansi nodded. “Today, we need every deity’s favor.”

Yugiri guided Hansi through the purification rituals—washing hands and rinsing mouths. “After we’re cleansed, we can make our wishes known to the kami,” she explained.

“The kami definitely remember how dirty we got last night,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Yugiri blushed furiously and smacked his arm. “Be serious for once, you idiot prince. This is a sacred place!” She grabbed him before he could make another flippant remark. Their laughter faded as the weight of the day returned—heavy and cold, like the snow beneath their feet.

They walked beneath the torii gates, hand in hand. They arrived at an altar dedicated to Inari Ōkami, the kami of foxes, fertility, and fortune. This kami was worshipped by oiran , daimyo , and criminals alike, as she could bring worldly success to everyone. Yugiri had even heard legends of secret passageways under the shrine, used by criminals and eloping lovers seeking divine protection. She was the perfect kami for them.

The altar and statue were rustic and modest, but that only added to the charm for Prince Hansi. He immediately prostrated himself before the altar. “Dear Inari,” he prayed, “please grant us eternal love, happiness, and safety.”

To guarantee divine favor, Hansi then repeated the prayer five more times—to different deities and ancestors—in Mandarin, Manchu, Tibetan, Mongolian, and finally English. Unknown to Yugiri, each prayer included a second sentence: “Please grant us new adventures.”

Yugiri took a different approach. She placed a silver coin in the saisen collection box, clasped her hands, and whispered a prayer so quiet Hansi could not hear: “Keep Kiichi safe. Let Hansi and I find peace.”

She rang the shrine bell three times—once for Kiichi, once for Hansi, and once for herself.

The tolling bell echoed through the pines—clear and solemn—followed by a familiar voice. “Yugiri-sensei!”

A white-haired shrine maiden came bounding toward them, her steps light as snowfall. The girl—petite as a porcelain doll—moved with an eager energy that set her red hakama fluttering like maple leaves in a breeze. Her hair, white as shrine paper and just as soft-looking, framed a face bright with recognition. Even in the traditional miko’s uniform, there was something distinctly warm about her, like freshly steamed rice cakes left to cool on a winter windowsill.

"Junko-chan," Yugiri replied, opening her arms just in time to catch the whirlwind of white and crimson. The miko buried her face in the oiran's silk sleeves with the familiarity of an imouto who had done this a hundred times before.

"Yugiri-sensei! You brought presents!" Junko's voice was muffled against the fabric until Yugiri produced a small cloth bag. The way the miko's ice-blue eyes lit up at the konpeitō candies may have convinced a passerby they were witnessing a minor miracle. She popped one in her mouth with a delighted hum, then—with the practiced slyness of someone who’d hidden sweets from priests before—tucked the rest securely into hakama folds.

Prince Hansi watched the exchange with quiet amusement. The contrast between them was striking: the legendary oiran with her calculated grace and this excitable miko who moved like a sparrow among shrine eaves.

Junko finally noticed him. Her head tilted as she took in his foreign-cut chaofu, the Manchu queue, and most of all, the iridescent peacock feather adorning his hat—an exotic sight against Saga's muted winter palette. She plucked at Yugiri's sleeve with sugar-dusted fingers.

"Yugiri-sensei," she whispered loudly, "is this a visiting noble? He looks like the painted lords in the emaki scrolls!"

“I am Prince Aisin-Gioro Hansi,” he replied with a bow. “We are engaged to be married.”

Junko blinked, stunned. “A Manchu prince? Since when—?” Her colorful expression sparked a sense of playfulness in Yugiri’s eyes.

Yugiri gave Hansi a mischievous glance, and he instantly understood. The couple decided to mess with the innocent miko. She looked too cute when confused.

“This kitsune,” Hansi declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Yugiri, “has enchanted me with her spells and seduced me with her charms. She has stolen my innocence—and my qi.”

Yugiri gasped dramatically, placing a hand on her chest and grabbing her kaiken dagger. “You foreign devil!” she cried, barely hiding her grin. “Don’t you know we kitsune are honored at this shrine? Inari shall curse you to freeze to death!”

Junko burst out laughing, nearly choking on her konpeitō. Their laughter spread like wildfire and took a minute to subside.

Junko wiped away tears of laughter. “I see why you’re smitten, Hansi-sama. Yugiri has always been captivating.”

“To both men and women,” Yugiri added, winking.

Hansi’s brow lifted. Just how talented was this oiran? How many hearts had she stolen? It did not surprise him that Yugiri could charm women too, but hearing her admit it so honestly only deepened his respect and admiration.

Junko finally noticed the ring on Yugiri’s finger. Her eyes widened at the sight of the shining crimson rubies. “This is so beautiful. You’re a fortunate woman, Yugiri-sensei. When are you getting married?”

“Today,” Yugiri answered. “It’s a most unusual request, but we don’t have much time.”

Junko gasped. “Why the hurry?”

“Government troops are coming,” Yugiri replied sharply. “Marrying Prince Hansi grants me diplomatic immunity. Any delay could cost me everything I hold dear—and I won’t let that happen…”

She choked up mid-sentence. No tears fell—only steely resolve.

Junko turned pale, heart pounding. “I’ll fetch the kannushi—but he can be… stubborn. I’ll put in a good word and pray for your success.”

As Junko ran off, Hansi held Yugiri’s hands. They were icy cold. He tried to comfort her. “This is it,” he whispered, breath forming a white cloud. “Are you ready to become my wife?”

“I’m ready to become an empress,” Yugiri responded, eyes full of excitement. “Though I never imagined my life would lead to this… marrying a foreign prince to help restore Saga.”

“The kami work in mysterious ways,” Hansi mused. “And the paths of fate are unpredictable.”

Junko soon returned with the priest—a stern-faced old man, the kannushi, divine master of the shrine. Hardened by the Boshin War, his expression darkened at the sight of Yugiri and curdled to open hostility upon seeing Hansi.

“A gaijin and a rebel oiran? The kami would never bless this filth!”

Yugiri flinched at the venom in his voice. Hansi, however, dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the frozen ground. “Please. I am a devout man. I offer gifts from Yonghe Temple in Peking.” He produced a golden Buddha amulet.

The priest scoffed. “This is a Shinto shrine. Your foreign idols mean nothing here.”

Yugiri knelt beside her fiancé. “Kannushi, I have worshipped here for years. I swear to the kami that our love is true. I beg you to reconsider.”

Her pleas only angered him further. “You come with blood on your hands,” he spat. “Your rebellion has cost lives. The spirit of Shojiro Ito knows what you have done.”

The bitter accusation and Ito’s name struck deep. Yugiri let out a bitter wail as tears fell. Ito’s dying words echoed in her ears as everything spun. She slammed her head against the frozen ground, heart pounding. Deep down, part of her felt she deserved the retribution.

“I promise to atone, Kannushi,” she whispered between sobs. “But I must live to earn their forgiveness. I must live—for Saga, for Kiichi, for Shojiro Ito, and for him.”

The priest watched her tears. His face shifted from anger to something resembling pity.

Junko stepped forward. “Kannushi, you taught us that the kami are infinitely merciful. Yugiri-sensei was fighting for her friends and for Saga. Her heart is true.”

He stroked his beard. Though his heart remained hardened, he knew the kami worked through trials. At last, he spoke.

“Show me your devotion to one another, and perhaps I will reconsider,” he declared, drawing a smile from Junko. “I will observe the heavens for a sign from the kami. If they deem your union worthy, I will bless it.”

Yugiri bowed, tearfully grateful.

“Manchu prince,” he continued with a smirk, “you must undergo a misogi ritual to cleanse yourself and prove your love. Begin immediately, and continue until the sun is at its peak.”

Hansi looked up with gratitude, unaware of what misogi entailed. “Thank you, divine master. I humbly accept.”

Yugiri and Junko exchanged horrified glances.

Chapter Text

Hansi gulped as he saw the expression on the kannushi’s face—cold, smug, and victorious. He felt Yugiri’s nails dig into his sleeve a moment later. Junko, now as pale as a ghost, collapsed in prostration, pleading with the kannushi. “Kannushi, winter misogi is death! Show mercy!”

Yugiri dropped to the ground a moment later, kneeling on her knees. “Please, kannushi, reconsider. There are other ways for my fiancé to prove his love and devotion.”

The priest, however, was unmoved. He waved his Gohei wand through the air, pointing at a waterfall at the edge of the shrine. “The Manchu prince has already pledged his heart to the kami. Let the waters judge his worth.”

Hansi felt his veins ice over. This would be no ordinary misogi ritual—it would be torture.

Dread and dizziness overtook Hansi as he proceeded to the waterfall. It roared like a dragon before ending in a small pond, whose edges were starting to freeze. The frigid mist in the air sent a sharp chill through his bones. Looking up at the sun, he estimated that it would be another three hours before it reached its zenith.

Yugiri rushed to his side, her voice tight with worry. “My dear prince, you do not have to do this. It is too dangerous.”

She looked up—his eyes were steel, unyielding. He tried to force a smile, but the quivering of his voice betrayed his true feelings. “For you, it’s all worth it,” he declared as he took off his hat. “I used to go ice swimming in the Songhua River. This is nothing.”

He proceeded to shed his chaofu, handing it to the priest. Wearing nothing but geta sandals, fundoshi underwear, and mala prayer beads, he stepped into the pond.

First step. The water stabbed at him, and he felt like a thousand needles were piercing his feet. His breath seized, but he continued doggedly.

Second step. He felt the currents clawing at his knees, and he felt a strange burning sensation radiating across his feet.

Just as he took the third step, Yugiri lunged at him, her voice raw with emotion. “Don’t—!”

He felt a familiar hand grab him by the shoulder. He halted for a heartbeat, but then realized he did not have the courage to look back at her. He gently brushed off Yugiri’s hand as he heard Junko pull Yugiri back.

“If I fail, you die,” he replied stoically. “The burden is mine to bear.”

He then waded deeper into the pool, as the frigid waters rose to the level of his abdomen. As he stood under the waterfall, he felt the might of the torrent of icy-cold crashing down on him. The sound of rushing water drowned out Yugiri’s cries.

Hour 1…

His limbs locked up like rusted metal. Quietly, he muttered to himself through chattering teeth. “I must uphold the honor of the Aisin-Gioro clan. For the pride of the Bordered Yellow Banner. I do this for her…”

He glanced back at the shrine. Yugiri was on her knees. Junko sat beside her, comforting her as she wept. When Yugiri met his gaze, she wiped her eyes, forcing herself to stay strong. Her lips moved silently in prayer. Not for love. Not for peace. Just for survival.

Hour 2…

Hansi’s body burned, numbed, then burned again—a cycle of torment. His nails turned purple as his entire body trembled uncontrollably. He tried to overcome this shivering, lest others think it from fear. However, it only became more pronounced. His lips went slack as frost crept along his thick eyebrows.

Hansi silently meditated and recited sutras in Mandarin, Tibetan, and Manchu—anything to distract him from the agony. How long had it been? An hour? Two? It felt like eternity.

Even his face began to freeze. Though his mind remained sharp, he could no longer move his lips. His mouth was blue, and his eyes blinked heavily with ice crystals forming.

With one final burst of strength, he let out a fierce, guttural cry. “Kami!” he shouted, voice shaking the snow from the shrine’s rooftops. “I humble myself before you! Judge my heart, and see that my love for Yugiri is true!”

The sheer force of his cry, Yugiri’s tears, and the unusual spectacle of a midwinter misogi drew a large crowd. Junko’s voice cut through the icy mist like a tanto blade. “That man is a Manchu prince. His only crime was to fall in love with a Saga woman. Yet, he is willing to endure this suffering for her, like a true samurai.”

“Chinese gaijin do not understand bushido. Yet this man stands bravely,” said a middle-aged shizoku, stroking his beard with one hand. Even stripped of rank and privilege, this former samurai stood tall and dignified, speaking with great wisdom. He then bowed deeply with his back straight, paying his respect. “This man has the spirit of a warrior.”

The women and children gathered around Yugiri, who was still kneeling, crying, and praying on the snow. They pressed handkerchiefs to her cheeks. “He truly loves you,” an old woman murmured. “You should feel proud.”

Several women also knelt down besides her, joining her in prayer. Yugiri’s gaze, however, never left Hansi. The prayers and compliments felt like ashes in her mouth. No longer able to bear the sight of her suffering fiancé, Yugiri ran back to the shrine with her head bowed. Junko chased after her.

Just as they turned a corner, out of sight from the crowd, Yugiri saw something from the corner of her eye. She stopped as her head turned sharply, causing Junko to crash into her rear. When Junko recovered, she saw Yugiri staring at a brown dog—a shaggy stray nosing through the shrine offerings.

Junko recognized the familiar visitor. “That is Romero,” Junko declared. “He is a friendly stray. I like to feed him scraps when the kannushi is not watching.”

A bolt of inspiration struck Yugiri. She leaped up, taking a piece of konpeitō candy from Junko’s red hakama. She then snatched Junko’s sleeve. The dejected and broken Yugiri had vanished, replaced by a woman of immense determination and cunning.

“Junko,” Yugiri breathed, “go fetch rice flour from the kitchen. And red paint. Now!”

“Flour? But—”

“We’re giving Inari Ōkami a miracle!”

Behind a screen, Romero panted as Yugiri dusted his fur ghost-white with ritual precision—an oiran’s artistry turned into salvation. Junko braided painted corn husks into a crimson tail, knotting it with trembling fingers.

Junko carried Romero as they took a circuitous route to the top of the waterfall. Romero licked Junko’s face as he wagged his tail. “Little tengu,” she muttered, “today, you are a divine messenger…”

Hour 3…

After spending three hours in near-freezing water, Hansi had become hypothermic and delirious. He saw his father’s funeral procession marching to his left. To his right, he saw his little sister performing as a huadan in a Peking opera play. Before him, he saw Yugiri crying as she spoke of Shōjirō Itō’s blood on her hands… Still, the thought of her drove him to continue. “Hold on, you idiot prince,” her voice seemed to call out. “Hold on for me…”

His body stopped shivering. Sleepiness washed over him, and his eyelids felt so heavy. Soon, one eye closed. Then, the other. He let out one last prayer from the Bardo Thödol, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, before falling into a sleep-like state, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. His breaths faded to whispers. Yet, his warrior’s discipline—years of drills as a Bordered Yellow Banner soldier—kept him standing, even as death gripped him.

Far above him, on the other edge of the waterfall, Junko saw that the sun had reached its zenith. She settled Romero on the ground and threw a piece of konpeitō candy down the waterfall.

Yugiri rejoined the crowd just in time to see Romero streak through the mist—a phantom of snow and blood-red flame.

“Look!” Yugiri screamed, pointing at Romero. “That’s Lord Inari Ōkami’s fox. He has shown up to bless our union!”

The colorful animal let out a few yips at the crowd before dashing off into the snowy forest. The crowd could see his body, white as shrine paper, and his tail, red like the torii gates.

Bedlam broke loose among the crowd. Some bowed before this divine spectacle while others fell to their knees. The excited shouts, exclamations, cries, and prayers only added to the chaos. The kannushi was swept aside as the crowd gathered around Yugiri. They lifted her onto their shoulders and carried her to the edge of the pond, chanting and singing.

Only the kannushi remained unimpressed. His eyes narrowed at Yugiri, who had manipulated the crowds so expertly. His gaze snagged on a streak of white powder dusting her sleeve, nearly invisible against the white silk of her kimono. A dog’s paw print, half-hidden in the snow. A trick.

He briefly considered confronting the oiran but then shook his head. The outpouring of sympathy and devotion from the crowd was too intense. Intense enough to beget violence, and his days as an Ishin Shishi had taught him how powerful a stirred-up mob can be. He was thoroughly outplayed by an oiran, and he looked towards Yugiri with a mixture of resentment and admiration.

“Very well,” he announced, pushing aside the men near the waterfall. “This Manchu prince has proven his love for Yugiri-san, and he has now been cleansed. The kami respect bravery and endurance. I shall bless this union between him and Yugiri.” He waved his Gohei wand in the air, signifying divine approval.

The crowd erupted in celebration. Yugiri ran up to the edge of the waterfall, tears running down her cheeks. There, she shouted her wedding vows: “I, Yugiri of Saga, have never been so honored. According to the will of Inari Ōkami, I take you, Prince Aisin Gioro Hansi, to be my husband. No matter what comes our way, I will stay loyal to you, as your wife and closest companion. I shall be your sword, your shield, and your sanctuary!”

The speech moved several of the women to tears. She eagerly awaited a response—but there was nothing from the man. No movement. No sound. No eye contact. Hansi was still standing in the water, as stiff as ice.

Yugiri’s expression turned to panic, and the crowd fell silent.

Yugiri plunged into the pond, her knees shattering the ice crust. His sleeves soaked instantly, dragging like chains as she tried to run over to him. Several young shizoku also rushed into the waterfall. Together, they lifted Hansi’s frozen body onto dry land. He looked like broken marble, stiff and contorted. His skin was freezing, and his eyes were glazed over.

Yugiri pressed her face against his chest. She heard only the shallowest breathing, and his pulse was faint.

She hauled him against her chest, screaming into the snow. The sounds she made appeared to echo throughout the valley. “YOU PROMISED ME A FUTURE, IDIOT PRINCE!” she cried out with a voice that shook the heavens. “DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE ME NOW!”

Around them, the people of Saga wept.

Chapter Text

The shrine's guest room was a study in muted despair, dim and damp, with only a whisper of afternoon sunlight finding its way through the paper windows. Prince Aisin-Gioro Hansi lay unnaturally still on a futon , haphazardly tossed onto the tatami . He was as pale as river ice, his breath a shallow, fragile wisp. Every blanket the temple possessed, supplemented by the generosity of Saga's townsfolk, was piled high upon him. Yugiri knelt beside him, her hands trembling from a mix of fear and the persistent chill radiating from his body. Though still wet and shivering herself, she refused to leave his side.

Junko burst into the room, cradling a bucket of heated river stones. The stones scalded Yugiri’s palms, but she showed no hesitation. With meticulous care, she began to arrange them around Hansi's body, ensuring they were dry and nestled between the many layers of blankets.

"These are all the stones I could find," Junko rasped, her voice tight with effort. Junko then sank to her knees beside Yugiri, her expression tight with worry. She glanced down at her hands, wrinkled and blue from the cold, raw from scavenging the riverbank.

Yugiri wordlessly offered Junko a warm cotton towel. Junko met her gaze, expecting to see tears. Instead, she found a fiery, unyielding determination that seemed to banish the cold.

"We need to warm him from the inside too,” Yugiri commanded, “Go brew some warm tea and okayu porridge.”

As Junko hurried towards the temple kitchen, Yugiri retrieved a small ivory box from the folds of her kimono . It smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol. Inside lay several acupuncture needles, tools she usually employed for soothing sore muscles as an oiran . Now, these would be his lifelines.

Yugiri carefully selected the needles, her mind visualizing the ren mai and other energy meridians crisscrossing Hansi's body. Her movements were elegant, meticulous, and methodical.

"Zusanli for qi …" she whispered, inserting needles below his knees.

"Hegu for blood…" she placed needles into his hands.

"Baihui for spirit…" a final needle found its mark at his crown.

His fingers twitched—the first sign of movement in an hour. Yet, his skin remained stubbornly cold.

Soon, Junko returned with steaming tea. Yugiri poured the liquid into a bronze bowl and carefully brought it to the prince’s blue-tinged lips, gently massaging his throat. "Swallow, my idiot prince," she urged, her voice warm and motherly.

A trickle of tea escaped, tracing a path down his jaw like a single tear. Then, a cough racked his body, followed by another, more vigorous one. His stunned body finally remembered how to swallow. His breathing hitched, then quickened, his chest beginning to rise and fall with more force. Still, he remained cold and unconscious.

"Do you have any other ideas, Yugiri-san?" Junko's voice was edged with desperation. "We're out of heated stones and blankets, and boiling more tea would take too long."

Yugiri hesitated, then her voice dropped to a near whisper. "There is one more way."

She rose, untying her obi . Her white kimono , still damp from earlier, slid from her shoulders, pooling around her feet like discarded petals.

"Yugiri-san, you can't—" Junko gasped, comprehension dawning on her face.

"Watch the door!"

Junko tried to protest, but her voice was caught in her throat. Silently, she stepped back as Yugiri slid beneath the many layers of blankets. She pressed her bare skin against the prince’s frozen body. A sharp gasp escaped her lips at the sudden, searing cold, but she did not falter. She pressed harder against him, gently massaging points along his ren mai , willing her own warmth and qi into him.

"Live, you idiot prince," she murmured against his ear. "You promised me a lifetime. Do not cheat me now."

Through her chest, she felt the prince’s heartbeat quicken and strengthen, a thrumming rhythm of life returning.

Another hour passed before Hansi finally started to respond. Yugiri’s warmth seeped into him. His eyelids fluttered open, though his gaze remained unfocused—his mind adrift in delirious dreams. Yugiri leaned over him, gently wiping his brow with a warm cloth. At last, she exhaled a long breath of relief.

His hand lifted weakly, fingers brushing her cheek.

“Little sister…?” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “You look so beautiful in that huadan makeup…”

“You idiot prince,” Yugiri muttered playfully. “I’m your wife. I’m naturally this beautiful.”

“Did the Empress Dowager send you here?”

Yugiri sensed his delirium, but she kept talking to him. After so much silence, even his fevered murmurs were a comfort.

“Why would she send your imouto , my idiot prince?”

“To… stop me…” His breath hitched. “She knows… I found the letters… The ones from Uncle Yikuang…”

There were whispers of Qing court intrigues, intricate schemes, and grisly connivers. Yugiri did not recognize the names or the political weight behind them—but the tone in his voice made it clear: there were plenty of dangerous enemies. Amid the chaos, Hansi clung to some fragile hope—trying, in his own way, to do what’s right.

She steered him toward safer ground. “Oh? Tell me more about your imouto ,” she coaxed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She hated the court… hated politics,” he mumbled. “She ran away… before I could protect her.”

Though weakened and delirious, his voice quivered with regret. “I should have… gone after her…”

His sincerity and affection cut deeper than she expected. Yugiri listened intently, committing every word to memory.

Then, just as suddenly, his voice slurred. His eyes rolled back.

And he slipped once more into unconsciousness, dreaming of warships, secret letters, and a sister’s tears.

Hansi drifted in and out of consciousness for hours, but his recovery was unmistakable. By dusk, his skin glowed warm again, his breathing steady. Yugiri finally dared to leave his side, shrugging her kimono back on just as Junko rapped softly on the door. She entered with a tray of tea and biscuits, setting it quietly in the far corner, away from the sleeping prince.

“Your husband lives, then?” Junko asked, sipping her tea with forced nonchalance.

Yugiri nibbled a biscuit, savoring its buttery crumble. “It took all my qi , all my needles, all my warmth—but he’ll survive. Once he’s stronger, we’ll finish the ceremonies.”

Junko’s cheeks flushed. “Only you would’ve thought of such an… unorthodox treatment.” She hesitated. “But I’d have done the same for you.”

“Oh?” Yugiri plucked another biscuit, holding it just beyond Junko’s reach. The scent of honey and wheat teased the air. Junko leaned in—only for Yugiri to toss it up, catching it deftly on her tongue.

Junko scowled. “Must you always show off?”

“Do you remember your first recital, Junko-chan?” Yugiri’s voice softened. “Otemoyan. A song of love.”

“You said I sang like an angel.”

“You still do.” Yugiri smiled. “You surpassed me long ago, my little song sparrow.”

Junko’s knuckles whitened. “I never wanted to surpass you. You were my sensei .”

Yugiri’s hand brushed her shoulder. “You know why I couldn’t—”

Junko jerked away, eyes glistening. “Because you sold your heart to Saga. Now this gaijin buys it with a ring.”

“It isn’t a transaction—”

“Isn’t it?” Junko’s laugh was brittle. “Diplomacy. Survival. Convenient love. You taught me to see patterns, sensei .”

Yugiri tilted her head. “You could have him too, if you wished. We could still share each other.”

Junko’s gaze flared. “I don’t want leftovers.”

The words hung, sharp as a tanto blade.

A rustle interrupted them. Hansi sat up, trembling but alert. Yugiri rushed to him, cradling his face. “Thank the gods—you’re awake!”

He blinked. “Did I… pass the test?”

“You did.” She stroked his hair. “Three hours in the falls. The priest blessed us.”

Hansi grinned, straining to kiss her, but his body betrayed him. He winced as he noticed the needles still dotting his skin.

Yugiri removed them with practiced care. “Forgive me. I should’ve stopped that kannushi .”

“For you… worth it.”

Tears welled in her eyes—happy ones, this time. She clasped his hands. “My brave, reckless prince. I love you.” Their lips met, lingering.

“Still cold,” Yugiri murmured.

She glanced at Junko, still brooding over her tea. “Be a dear—prepare some okayu ? I’ll join you shortly.”

As Junko stalked out, Yugiri returned to Hansi’s embrace.

“I need your warmth,” he admitted. “Literally and metaphorically.”

She guided his palm to her chest, letting him feel her heartbeat. “Then take it. My heart is yours.”

His thumb traced her collarbone. “I might need you to… fulfill wifely duties sooner than planned.”

She laughed, low and warm. “Nursing you back to health is romantic, neh ? You’re my everything now.”

But as memory returned, his smile faded. “How long until the troops arrive? What’s left for the marriage?”

“Tonight, if the snow holds.” Yugiri nodded toward the window. “The documents are ready. A local magistrate witnessed your trial—he handled the papers.”

She nestled against his chest, listening to his steadying pulse. “Just rest. Your oiran strategist has everything in hand.”

“Would Kiichi have done this for you?” The question slipped out—half-teasing, half-probing.

Yugiri stiffened briefly, then exhaled. “Kiichi was a good man. But no. His purpose was… larger. What we have—” She tangled her fingers with his. “—is souls entwined.”

Hansi studied their linked hands. “The red string of fate.” He traced an invisible thread from his pinkie to hers.

Yugiri’s breath caught. “I feel it pulling us. Like the kami themselves tied it.”

“Maybe they approved after all.”

She grinned. “Well, I may have… helped the divine signs along.”

“Later. Tell me—” His stomach growled loudly.

Yugiri clicked her tongue. “ Oneesan will fix that.” She rose, smoothing her kimono . “The best okayu you’ve ever tasted. But you must eat it all.”

In the kitchen, Junko had already started the porridge. Yugiri hummed as she added ginger, salted salmon—his favorites.

Junko watched, throat tight. “Your love needs strength, then.”

Yugiri didn’t flinch. “He does.” She drizzled sesame oil, sprinkled scallions. The aroma wrapped around them like an embrace. She filled a bowl, pressing it into Junko’s hands. “Eat. You’ve earned it.”

Then she carried the largest portion to Hansi, steam curling like incense.

His eyes lit up. Yugiri lifted a spoonful, blowing gently. “Open wide, my idiot prince.”

He obeyed, sighing as the flavors melted on his tongue. “I should fall ill more often.”

She swatted his arm, blushing. “Hush. Just enjoy being pampered.”

He savored each bite. “This is… magic.”

“Grandmother’s recipe.” Pride colored her voice. “By tomorrow, you’ll be back to your normal stubbornness and stupidity.”

He rubbed his satisfied stomach. "Sweet. Gooey. With just enough spice. Like you."

She bopped his nose with her free finger. "Exactly. But save room - our wedding cake should arrive any moment."

As if summoned, Junko entered bearing a small castella cake, its golden surface still steaming slightly. The miko's wide eyes and barely contained drool betrayed her struggle to maintain decorum. "From the baker who witnessed your trial," she announced, setting it carefully on the low table. "Fresh from the oven."

Yugiri's lips parted in delight. "Oh my..."

"I can see you drooling, Junko-san," Hansi teased. "Let's eat now - doctor's orders for recovery."

Yugiri nodded, producing her kaiken with a fluid motion. Hansi tensed instinctively at the blade's appearance, drawing a giggle from his bride. "Don't worry," she soothed, slicing the cake with practiced ease, "I only cut cakes today." She offered him the first piece. "Say ahh~"

"So romantic. Like a mother bird." The cake's sweetness made his eyes widen comically.

"That's right," Yugiri crooned, "Let your wife take care of you."

Junko pointedly looked away as she took a smaller slice, her hummed tune barely masking her discomfort.

"So cute..." Hansi murmured, "I could eat you up."

Yugiri's wink glinted with mischief. "Careful, or you might taste my kaiken instead."

"Eeep!" He recoiled dramatically, eyeing the cake-smeared blade.

"That's what I thought. Now behave."

Junko groaned. "You two are impossible."

Yugiri chuckled, stroking Junko's hair mockingly before offering a peace offering of cake. "Don't pout, little miko ."

"Yeah," Hansi added, "We must protect our fluffy shrine maiden."

As Junko chewed grumpily, Hansi whispered, "She really loves that cake."

"Three passions," Yugiri confirmed. "Music, sweets, and me ." 

Junko rolled her eyes, but she could not deny it. 

"Junko-san," Hansi said formally, "Would you officiate our ceremony? Payment in unlimited cake."

The miko's eyes sparkled despite herself. "All the cake? Fine. But no more nonsense!"

Yugiri clapped excitedly. "Perfect! Let's prepare."

Under the silver gaze of the moon, the two women gathered their sacred supplies—crimson shimenawa rope, evergreen sakaki branches, and the finest sake . The shrine hummed with anticipation, lantern light flickering against the ancient wood as Junko Konno took her place before the couple. Dressed in her white miko robes, she was both priestess and witness. Yugiri stood radiant in her shiromuku kimono , the silk glimmering like the fresh snow falling outside. To her left, Prince Hansi cut a noble figure in his embroidered chaofu , the golden patterns catching the warm candlelight. Still weak from the earlier trials, he had to lean on Yugiri for support, but it only made the scene more romantic.

The couple gently held hands as Junko blessed the ceremonial shimenawa rope. His right wrist was bound to her left—a promise as unbreakable as the red thread of fate.

Yugiri’s voice was steady as she repeated the vows she once spoke by the waterfall, each syllable resonating through the sacred space. When she finished, Junko turned to Hansi.

“Prince Aisin-Gioro Hansi,” she intoned, “do you take Yugiri-sensei to be your wife?”

“I do.” His grip tightened around Yugiri’s fingers. Then, with the bearing of a man who had faced war and exile, he lifted his chin and spoke—not as a prince to his subjects, but as a man to the woman who completed his heart and soul.

“Lao Tzu once wrote: ‘Being loved gives one strength. Loving someone gives one courage.’”

Yugiri’s breath caught. Her hand drifted to her heart, eyes shining. “Oh, Hansi,” she murmured. “Quoting the sages at our wedding. Only you.”

He continued, voice deepening with conviction.

“You have given me both strength and courage. Before you, I knew duty, strategy, survival—but never love. Never this.” His thumb brushed her knuckles. “In Saga, I found the most precious treasure in the world. I found a woman who fights like a demon, teases like a fox, and loves like no one else. You are my empress. My strategist. My miracle.”

A tear slipped down Yugiri’s cheek.

“You stole my heart. And with one stroke of your blade, you claimed me forever.” His laughter was rough with emotion. “I vow to be your shield in battle, your confidant in peace, and the man who treasures you beyond all else. My heart was a ghost—you breathed it back to life. I am yours, in this world and every other.”

Yugiri surged forward, crushing him in an embrace. “I love you,” she whispered fiercely. “My prince. My fool. Mine. I love you more than anything in this world. I will never let anyone or anything tear us apart.”

Junko watched, throat tight. For years, she had longed for even a fraction of Yugiri’s devotion—yet now, she could not begrudge the raw tenderness between them. Swallowing the last of her bitterness, she raised the sake bottle high.

“By the grace of the kami , let this union be blessed!” The bottle opened with a crisp pop. Three cups were filled, the san-san-kudo ritual ready.

Yugiri picked up the first cup, taking three small sips before pressing it to Hansi’s lips. “Drink, my husband. To our new life as husband and wife!”

“To our new life as husband and wife!” he echoed. Then, grinning: “And for cheating death twice!”

Laughter rippled throughout the shrine as they shared the second cup. “For the Aisin-Gioro clan,” Hansi proclaimed, louder now. “May my ancestors take pride in my latest conquest.”

“And for my scheming wife,” he added with the third cup, smirk widening. “For her beauty, her wit, and her very distracting curves—”

Yugiri swatted his arm, cheeks pink. “Must you ruin the moment?”

“I’m celebrating!” He pressed his left hand against her chest, pulling her close. “Unless you’d prefer I celebrate… physically?” His whisper was pure mischief.

“Hansi-sama!” Junko choked on her sake .

Yugiri laughed, dragging him down by the collar. “Later, my dear prince. For now—” Her lips brushed his ear. “—behave yourself, or I will have to cut and whip you.”

Junko nearly dropped the sakaki branches. “By the gods—!”

The prince’s booming laugh filled the halls of the shrine as he took in her flabbergasted expression. “We’ve broken her.”

“Completely,” Yugiri agreed, eyes dancing. “She’ll have to pick a new name now, since she is no longer a ‘pure child’.”

Junko gave up, laughing as she raised her hands in surrender. “Enough! By the powers invested in me by Lord Inari Ōkami, you two are hereby husband and wife. May the kami endure your chaos and antics.”

He gently lifted his bride off the ground, his gaze locked onto hers. Their lips met for the first time as husband and wife. The soft brush deepened into a long, tender kiss. Yugiri melted into his embrace, her arms wrapping around his neck as the world outside faded away.

In that moment, there was only the warmth of his lips, the gentle pressure of his hands against her waist, and the promise of a future woven together—rife with passion and danger.

For the first time in years, Prince Hansi felt tears welling up. His voice was a mix of laughter, pride and disbelief. “My Yugiri,” he rasped, raw with emotion. “My empress. My strategist. My wife. I have never known such happiness. You have saved me, in more ways than one. Thank you.”

Yugiri laughed softly against his chest. “I will take care of my idiot prince. My untamed buck. My clueless gaijin .”

The newlyweds gazed at each other, lost together in the land of love. In the shrine’s dim light, their breaths entwined—a symphony of hope and survival. Each breath, a promise. A renewed oath in winter’s chill, now blessed by the gods.

A faint, rhythmic thrumming began, soft at first, like a distant drum. Yugiri smiled. It was their synchronized heartbeats, a comforting sound. But the rhythm intensified, too regular for a heartbeat, becoming a distinct thump-thump.

Her smile faltered as a sense of dread overcame her.

She realized it was not just their hearts.

Her head snapped towards the windows; the sound was undeniable, growing louder, the ground trembling. It was the unmistakable, heavy cadence of marching boots. The troops had arrived.

Chapter Text

Outside the shrine, the air cracked with a different kind of cold—the biting chill of military precision. Major Arata Okoba, a lean, formidable figure in his dark blue Meiji-era army uniform, stood before his gathered company. The snow, falling steadily for hours, dusted their sappei caps and rifle barrels, but it did little to soften the rigid line of their formation.

Arata, the son of a Satsuma samurai , carried himself with the quiet and calm authority of a man forged in conflict. He had seen the fires of rebellion quenched in blood several times before, and he held no sympathy for lost causes, even those led by former friends and comrades. His eyes were sharp and unwavering as he traced the outlines of the shrine, sparkling under the soft moonlight.

"Men!" His voice, though not loud, cut through the falling snow with the precision of a bayonet. "For years, the embers of rebellion have smoldered in these lands. First, the false glory of Saga. Then, the foolish pride of Satsuma. Each time, we have put them down. Each time, we have restored order to the Emperor’s lands."

A ripple of murmurs, then a collective hardening of resolve spread through the ranks.

"Today," Arata continued, his tone deepening, "we finish the task. We have confirmed intelligence. The notorious oiran -turned-rebel, Yugiri, has been sighted at this very shrine. Our mission is to find her and bring her to justice. Surround the shrine, and make sure no one escapes!”

A roar erupted from the troops, their boots crunching in unison on the snow as they surrounded the shrine. Several kerosene lamps lit up, casting an eerie glow onto the walls of the shrine. It was a well-calculated display of force, but the troops did not enter the sacred shrine grounds.

To subdue an enemy without fighting is the acme of skill, Major Arata thought to himself, recalling his favorite quote from Sun Tzu—but Sun Tzu had never met an opponent like Yugiri. If Yugiri could be captured alive, she could also reveal valuable information about underground revolutionary groups. Most of these groups had fled or gone into hiding, but Yugiri was too proud for that. Her pride would be her downfall.

The flickering candlelight within the shrine cast long, dancing shadows as Yugiri and Prince Hansi huddled over a low table. The air was charged with a new, urgent energy as footsteps and lamps surrounded the shrine.

Yugiri quickly retrieved the necessary marriage documents, provided by the generous local magistrate and the stern kannushi . Yugiri signed first, her kanji flowing like the curves of a dancer’s sleeve: “夕霧”. The name literally translated to “evening mist”—beautiful and mysterious.

Hansi, still pale but with a newfound strength in his gaze, then took his turn. His handwriting was bold and distinctive. Yugiri studied her husband’s name in kanji for the first time. It was “愛新覺羅 · 寒思”. The name literally translated to “cold thought”. The irony was not lost on Yugiri. As intelligent as her husband was, he was also impulsive, driven by his passions and his heart. And his heart was quite warm.

From his chaofu , he produced his personal seal, carved from glistening jade. The seal came down heavy, imprinting upon the marriage certificate with a thunderclap of permanence.

“What should be our first act as husband and wife?” Hansi asked, tucking away the unique jade seal into the folds of his chaofu . “Should we meet our special guests outside?”

Yugiri took out a fan in her hand as she comforted Junko, the young miko pale and trembling from fear. She looked up at her husband, gently shaking her head. “No, my idiot prince. Let them stand outside in the snow. It should give them a taste of their own arrogance.”

Her calculating look then gave way to a sultry smile. “I also want to enjoy our honeymoon a bit longer.”

Their honeymoon did not last long. It was soon shattered by the shrill voice of the head priest. “These are sacred grounds. You disgrace the kami .”

The reply from the Major was ice cold. “The only thing sacred is justice. Step aside.”

There were more shouts and arguments, followed by the sound of fists and handcuffs clicking into place. As unsettling as the sounds were, the couple knew that things could have been far worse. There were no gunshots and no swords being drawn.

Junko whimpered as she watched her kannushi being dragged away through a narrow crack in the doorway. Yugiri snapped her fan open—a shield of painted cranes.

“Junko-chan,” she murmured, “Set the table.”

The miko scrambled to arrange cups, her sleeves fluttering like panicked wings. Hansi recognized the stagecraft: the same candlelit table where Yugiri had once ensnared him. She had trapped an Amur tiger, but would she be able to trap an entire wolfpack?

Yugiri knew she could. The vixen now had a tiger at her side. The wolves would howl, but she would remain firm. She rested at the table in the seiza position, calm and collected. “Let me do the talking,” she said to her husband, “Please keep calm and take care of Junko.”

The scared miko clung to Hansi’s chaofu as they retreated into the corner of the room.

A moment later, the door slid open with a loud clang.

Major Arata stepped inside, his expression as cold as the winter snow outside. He was flanked by two staff sergeants, both carrying Murata rifles. The Major’s gaze swept across the room—lingering on the freshly-signed marriage papers, the lacquered box of letters, the way Junko clutched Hansi’s sleeve like a frightened sparrow, and finally the beautiful oiran sitting before him. A small smirk formed on his face. The woman was unmistakably Yugiri. He had found his target.

Yugiri’s fan fluttered, her voice coquettish: “Welcome, brave warriors. Would you care for sake ? A bath? Or perhaps a performance on the shamisen ?”

One of the young sergeants blushed, but the Major was unmoved. He rested his gloved hand against his kyu-gunto sword. He did not draw it, but his posture showed that he was ready.

“Are you the legendary oiran Yugiri?” His voice was quiet but firm.

Yugiri looked up at him with innocent eyes, fluttering her fan gracefully. She quickly took note of the man’s uniform insignia and medals.

“Yes, my heroic Major,” she replied, her voice honeyed. “You have keen and fierce eyes, like those of a hawk.”

From her days as an oiran , Yugiri knew how these high-ranking men liked to get their ego stroked. However, the Major was not swayed in the least. He was fully devoted to his duty, and he was focused.

“You are under arrest for treason, by the order of Governor Kuroda Kiyotaka.” He produced an arrest warrant, stamped with the official seal of the Governor, and placed it on the low table before Yugiri.

Yugiri maintained her composure, though her eyes flashed with defiance. “I am a loyal subject of the Emperor,” she replied, “I wish for only peace and prosperity for our nation. The nation you have sworn to protect.”

The Major brushed aside Yugiri’s remark. He took a threatening step forward, his leather boots slamming against the tatami floor. “You have been charged with inciting rebellion,” he explained, “I swore to protect this nation from lawlessness and bloodshed.”

Yugiri maintained her composure, her fan moving slowly as she considered her response. The Major’s statement for law, regardless of sincerity, would be her weapon.

“The rule of law,” Yugiri mused, giving the Major a sweet smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “The rule of law is always to be honored and respected, yes?”

The Major nodded, unsure of what the oiran was planning.

Her fan snapped shut with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the tense silence. Hansi instinctively understood the gesture. It was his cue to enter.

The Manchu prince stepped from the shadows, towering over his Japanese counterparts.

The sergeant’s blade hissed free—but the Major froze. The dim candlelight had revealed intriguing details. This was no ordinary gaijin . The cut of his chaofu . The peacock feather on his guanmao hat. The jade toggle at his collar… Qing royalty.

Hansi bowed slowly and respectfully at the Major. “I am Prince Aisin-Gioro Hansi,” he acknowledged in a calm and soft voice, “I mean no harm.”

There was a moment of silence before the sergeant resheathed his sword.

“I am Major Arata Okoba,” the Major introduced himself. He maintained a polite facade, believing that the prince had simply chosen a bad time to pass by. “Please carry on with your worship at this shrine. We are only here to arrest this woman.”

“That would not be advisable, Major Arata.”

Before the Major could respond, Hansi unrolled a scroll with ceremonial precision. The scroll, with embroidered silk ribbons, contained his diplomatic credentials. The document was neatly written in Japanese and Chinese, marked with several stamps, signatures, and seals. The Major could not recognize most of them; his eyes widened upon seeing the seal in the corner of the document.

“This is…” he stuttered, his stoic facade faltering, “This is the kokuji —the Great Seal of Japan!”

“That’s right,” Hansi replied, gently displaying the document on the low table, on top of the arrest warrant. “This document was certified last year by your government. It also recognizes my status as an envoy of the Qing Empire, bestowed upon me by Grand Secretary Li Hongzhang.”

Hansi pointed at the relevant lines on the document as the Major looked on with a confused expression. His moment to shine as a diplomat had arrived.

“Under the Sino-Japanese Friendship and Trade Treaty of 1871,” he declared with an air of formality, “Qing envoys and their households shall enjoy full immunity from local prosecution. That includes Governor Kuroda.”

There was a stunned silence in the room. Yugiri glanced at Hansi with a cunning look in her eyes. It was now her turn.

The oiran elegantly unraveled their marriage certificate. The document, written in kanji , was still glistening with fresh ink. There was an undeniable smirk on her face. The trap was set.

“As you can see, Major Arata, Prince Aisin-Gioro Hansi and I are now officially married. As a member of his household—his legally wed wife—I too would enjoy full immunity.”

Major Arata’s pulse throbbed at his temple as his face turned a bright shade of red. He was left speechless. It was an immaculate plan, and he had fallen right into their legal trap.

Yugiri gently tapped her fan against the arrest warrant with a practiced smile. “As you know, Major, treaties ratified by the Emperor’s Cabinet take precedence over prefectural decrees.”

Hansi nodded in agreement. “To arrest my wife would directly violate the terms of the Sino-Japanese Friendship and Trade Treaty. It would be a serious diplomatic incident.”

The veiled threat broke the Major’s composure. His voice turned venomous.

“A rebel whore marrying a gaijin envoy? In exchange for diplomatic immunity?” His face, already stern, contorted into lines of disbelief and open hostility. His jaw was clenching so tightly that a muscle twitched in his cheek. “You expect me to believe this… this charade? This is nothing but a blatant attempt to circumvent justice!”

"A charade?" Yugiri interjected, her voice sweet but laced with ice. "Or perhaps, Major, you simply underestimated the reach of true love… and imperial decree." Her fan snapped shut with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the tense silence.

The Major rested his hand against his kyu-gunto sword as his sergeants held rifles at the ready. He briefly considered killing the insolent couple anyway. Diplomatic immunity could be damned to hell.

Yugiri responded with a glacial smile. “Remember the Namamugi incident of 1862? Charles Richardson was just an ordinary merchant—a man with no special status. Yet, when he was killed here in Japan, England retaliated by blasting Kagoshima to smithereens."

The Major hesitated. He was just a boy when those events took place, but the memory was still fresh in his mind.

It was Prince Hansi who spoke next. “The Beiyang Fleet is scheduled to visit Nagasaki next month. Should the sailors greet you with tea… or cannon fire?”

The Major clenched his hands into tight fists, the knuckles turning white. He was an army officer, but he was also well aware of naval affairs. The Qing’s mighty Beiyang Fleet was the largest fleet in Asia, and it outgunned anything that Japan had.

“You’re bluffing. The Beiyang Fleet is hundreds of miles away.”

Yugiri’s voice took on a dangerous edge. “Are you willing to risk our national safety and economy for Governor Kuroda’s pride, Major? Nagasaki is the gateway to the West. Losing its port and industries would cripple our foreign trade.”

Major Arata exhaled through his nose. He was struggling to regain control of the situation, his authority challenged by Hansi’s diplomatic status and Yugiri’s clever scheming. The law was on their side, but justice was not.

“I’ll… consult with my superiors. But I expect you both to remain here in Saga. You will be placed under surveillance, and you may expect another visit from me tomorrow morning.”

Yugiri smiled sweetly, her victory evident. “That’s all we ask, Major. A little patience and understanding.” She tucked her fan away and wrapped her arm around Hansi, maintaining her position as his supportive wife and strategist.

The Major and his sergeants turned away, retreating into the snowy night.

Hansi let out a sigh of relief as he collapsed onto the tatami floor. The events from the past 24 hours felt like a fever dream. He had faced death three times—Yugiri’s kaiken , the winter misogi , and the Major’s kyu-gunto . Thanks to Yugiri’s craftiness and passion, he was able to survive. 

He could not survive without her now.

Major Arata Okoba rode hard through the deepening snow, the only sound the crunch of his horse’s hooves and the bitter wind whistling past his ears. It was well past midnight when he finally reached the Governor’s residence in Nagasaki.

Arata dismounted, his jaw tight. He knew what awaited him. Kuroda Kiyotaka was a man of immense pride, his authority absolute in these lands. To be outmaneuvered, especially by a foreign prince and an oiran , would be an intolerable humiliation.

Through the study window, Governor Kuroda Kiyotaka paced like a caged bear—his shadow warping across shoji screens with each sloshed step. Arata straightened his uniform. He knew the smell of a man who’d been drinking regret neat. He found the Governor in his study, surrounded by scattered scrolls and empty sake bottles. Kuroda, his face flushed and his eyes bloodshot, slammed his fist on the low table as Arata explained the situation.

"Okoba!" Kuroda roared, his voice thick and slurred with sake and fury. "You let that whore and her barbarian husband spit on my warrant!"

Arata stood at rigid attention, his voice level despite the Governor’s rage. "Governor, the situation is… complex. The prince produced diplomatic credentials granting him and his household full immunity under the Sino-Japanese Friendship and Trade Treaty. They were officially married mere hours ago."

Kuroda’s eyes narrowed, his features contorting. "Married? A convenient farce!" He swept a hand across the table, sending a tea set clattering to the floor. "That woman butchered my best undercover Kempeitai agent—a nephew of Governor Itō Hirobumi no less! She conspired with rebels. And you come whining about treaties?”

"Sir, their threat of the Beiyang Fleet appearing in Nagasaki cannot be dismissed lightly," Arata continued, pressing on. “Nagasaki would be destroyed. The city’s economy, our vital trade with the West… it would be crippled."

Kuroda swayed, his drunken rage momentarily battling with cold, hard logic. The Beiyang Fleet was a phantom that haunted every Japanese strategist’s dreams—a powerful reminder of their own naval inferiority. But his humiliation burned brighter.

"This is an outrage!" Kuroda roared, his voice echoing off the study walls. "I want that oiran and her barbarian prince dead. I want it to look like an accident. A tragic misfortune."

He caught his breath before uttering one last demand: “Make it slow and painful.”

Arata nodded, his expression grim. "I understand, Governor. We could arrange a… hunting accident in the mountains. A sudden rockslide. A bandit ambush."

"Too quick and too obvious," Kuroda sneered, swirling the sake in his cup. "The Qing will see through it. We need something… subtler."

"Perhaps a sudden illness?" Arata suggested, though even he knew the idea was weak. "A tainted meal at an inn?"

"Weak! They need to hurt!" Kuroda slammed his fist on the table, making the sake bottle jump. In his fury, he grabbed a heavy book from a nearby shelf and hurled it across the room. It struck Arata’s shoulder with a dull thud, then clattered to the floor, pages splayed open.

Arata flinched, but his eyes immediately fixed on the open page. It was a history text, and the chapter displayed prominently was titled: The Honnō-ji Incident.

A slow, terrifying smile spread across Kuroda’s face. His bloodshot eyes gleamed with a renewed, sinister purpose. " Honnō-ji ," he mused, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper.

Arata’s stomach churned. The Honnō-ji Incident was where Oda Nobunaga, one of Japan’s greatest unifiers, met his end by betrayal and fire. To replicate it… it was audacious, brutal, and perfectly untraceable.

Kuroda continued to muse in his sinister voice. "Yes… a tragic fire. An accident. What better way to deal with a rebel oiran and her foreign consort?"

"But the shrine, Governor," Arata began, his voice strained. "It is a sacred site. And there is an innocent shrine maiden…"

Kuroda merely waved a dismissive hand. "Collateral damage, Major. Justice must be absolute. Make it swift. Make it thorough. Leave no survivors, and no evidence."

Chapter Text

Thundersnow—a rare phenomenon—rolled over Kyushu that night. It was an omen so rare that the kannushi , locked up in a jail cell on the outskirts of Saga City, openly called it a warning from the gods. He was not wrong.

Under the deafening boom of thunder and blinding snow, Major Arata Okoba and his men moved with practiced deftness. Ladders scraped against the shrine walls, barely audible above the storm. The walls were covered in snow and ice, but the kerosene would burn all the same.

Inside the hallowed halls of the shrine, the soldiers worked silently. They poured kerosene over the wooden floorboards and hinoki pillars. Then, with military precision, they evacuated the shrine, leaving behind a trail of kerosene—a promise of light and destruction in this new era.

A sudden arc of lightning, stark and brilliant, streaked across the sky, momentarily turning the world into a stark, black-and-white etching. In the echoes of thunder, the hiss of a lit fuse was barely discernible.

The ancient walls of the shrine, once a sanctuary of peace, now roared to life in an inferno.

Major Arata Okoba watched as the flames, crimson and gold, spread rapidly across the shimenawa ropes tied to the outer walls of the shrine. The fire seemed like a hungry, consuming beast, and he could feel its heat against his face. Through the snow, he could vaguely make out the dim figures of his soldiers, standing guard around the shrine. No one—not even a vixen—would be able to escape.

As the searing heat licked at his face, he saw himself not merely as Emperor Meiji’s soldier, but as Akechi Mitsuhide, the enigmatic samurai whose name was synonymous with betrayal. The Honnō-ji Incident, a pivotal moment in Japanese history where Oda Nobunaga met his end by Mitsuhide's hand, played out vividly in the Major's thoughts, a dramatic reenactment that fueled his own resolve.

He recalled Mitsuhide's famous renga poem, uttered just before his fatal act, a quiet declaration of intent: "Now, in the Fifth Month, is the time for Heaven to rule." The words resonated deeply within Arata, their ancient meaning finding a startling contemporary echo in his own mission. He understood Mitsuhide's conviction, the belief that his actions, however drastic, were not born of malice but of a higher calling, a divine mandate to correct what he perceived as evil and unjust. The profound irony of the situation was not lost on Arata; he, too, was poised to violate the law as well as the sanctity of the shrine. Yet, orders were orders, and Governor Kuroda had sanctioned it.

He turned to his staff sergeant, the man's face illuminated by the dancing flames, and murmured the timeless verse, "Now, in the Final Month, is the time for Heaven to rule." It was a quiet utterance, almost a soliloquy. The ashes would tell no tales.

Inside the shrine’s guest quarters, Hansi and Yugiri lay tangled in exhausted sleep, their bodies still heavy from the previous day’s trials. Hansi’s breath was slow but uneven, his skin clammy with the remnants of hypothermia. Beside him, Yugiri stirred as a creeping, acrid scent slithered into the room.

Her eyes flew open. "Smoke."

The word was a blade, thin and lethal. Hansi jerked upright, his martial arts instincts already screaming. Through the dim light, he saw it: tendrils of grey coiling under the door, lazy as serpents. Beyond the window, an orange glow pulsed against the snow.

“Something is burning outside!”

The shoji door slammed open. Junko stood silhouetted against hell itself, her white robes streaked with soot, her face bloodless. "Yugiri-sensei! The entire shrine is on fire!" Her voice was raw, trembling with disbelief and fear.

They moved as one. Hansi snatched his chaofu and diplomatic papers; Yugiri seized her wedding documents and the cold steel of her kaiken dagger. The corridor outside was clogged with smoke. The air seared their lungs with every breath.

"The main gate!" Yugiri choked, dragging Hansi forward.

A rifle cracked.

The shot whistled past Hansi’s ear—close enough to feel the pressure wave. He reacted before thought, yanking both women into the snow as more bullets bit the air above them.

"Ambush!" Hansi spat. "This was no accident. This was deliberate. They are herding us back inside!"

Junko whimpered. Through the smoke, shadows moved—imperial troops, their rifles raised not to kill, but to corral. To let the fire finish its work.

"They want no bullets in the bodies," Yugiri realized, her voice hollow.

The courtyard was a death trap. Flakes of burning wood rained down like orange snow. Junko suddenly wrenched free, sprinting toward the collapsing shrine. "The sacred manuscripts—!"

"Junko, No!"

A section of ceramic roof tiles, weakened by the fire, plunged from the ceiling. It struck her shoulder with a sickening crack, spinning her to the ground. She writhed, coughing in the acrid smoke, her robes already singed black. Hansi lunged, hauling her back as the eaves collapsed behind them in a roar of sparks.

Yugiri’s hands scrabbled at the flaming debris. "There must be another way—"

Hansi gripped her wrist. "We can’t fight fire like that. Go find some buckets.”

There were buckets of water scattered throughout the shrine for firefighting, but they were frozen solid. In frustration, Hansi threw one of the frozen buckets into the raging inferno. The ice melted, but the fire did not abate. The wooden bucket also caught fire.

Time was running out.

Hansi flung a bucket of snow at the flames, but it only seemed to anger the fire more. A hiss of steam lunged for him, followed by a whip of flame that seared across his arms. He staggered back, batting at his smoldering sleeves, and then fell hard into the slush. Muddy snow extinguished the fire with a sound like a dying sigh.

His fingers twitched towards the prayer beads around his neck—his grandmother’s last gift—but the heat scalded his skin before he could touch them.

The prayer beads broke apart a moment later, falling like ashes into the muck.

It was hopeless.

The courtyard was a cage of roaring flame. Even the main gate was now ablaze, vomiting great gouts of smoke into the night. At his feet, Junko lay still, her chest fluttering like a wounded sparrow. The smoke and fumes had rendered her unconscious. Not even the pure and innocent miko would be able to escape the flames now.

Hansi collapsed to his knees in defeat. Was this really the end? Was this his legacy?

Scenes of his life in Peking flashed before his eyes. He saw his mother’s frail hands clutching his, her voice as thin as rice paper: “Come home safe.” He recalled his little sister excitedly describing her dreams of visiting Japan, shortly before she disappeared during the voyage. Gone. Both children gone. And now, he would leave them to a lifetime of wondering, of mourning an empty grave. A sob clawed up his throat—

Then—her touch.

Yugiri knelt before him, gently raising his chin. The light of the inferno reflected in her eyes, but there was no fear in those eyes. Instead, there was a terrible, aching calm. She reached for his hands, raw and blackened with soot.

"Let it end as it began," she whispered, her voice raw with smoke but impossibly clear. "With you and me."

The world narrowed to her voice.

Hansi stared at her. She meant it. No more running. No more diplomacy.

The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Yugiri was fated to die, and she had accepted her fate. The executioner’s sword, the emperor’s wrath, this pyre—it would not matter. He had saved her from arrest and public execution, but now the flames were going to claim her instead. Her death was predestined. When they swore their oath, his fate became set as well. He had signed away his life as gladly as a love letter.

She pulled him to his feet. Around them, the shrine groaned its death rattle. Junko’s death rasped. Yet Hansi felt no fear. Only the quiet calm of a decision that had already been made.

“We fought bravely together,” he said, wiping a tear from his eyes. “Now, we die side by side. As we promised.”

“And may our spirits join each other when our time comes,” Yugiri replied, recalling the oath they swore on that fateful day.

They moved as one.

Hansi’s burned hands found Yugiri’s waist, his grip unyielding even as the pain lanced up his arms. She stepped into him, her forehead resting against his jaw. He could feel her warm breath through the thin fabric of his scorched robe. They swayed in the wind as two lost souls in the fire’s breath.

And the last dance began.

The first steps were unsteady as a newborn foal. The snow had turned to brown slurry beneath them, sucking at their feet. Yugiri led at first, with but the barest shift of her hips, guiding him into a turn. Hansi followed, his body remembering the European waltzes that were all the rage in London ballrooms. There was no orchestra to accompany them, but Yugiri’s humming of Johann Strauss’s “The Blue Danube” felt just as powerful, rising above the staccato crackle of burning wood and the hiss of melting snow.

Then—a real step. Yugiri arched her back, her spine a bowstring, one hand clasped in Hansi’s and the other braced against his chest. The firelight carved her into a silhouette of gold and shadow. She looked like a goddess descending from the heavens.

His burned hands caught her, pulling her upright until their bodies pressed together. There was no space left for fear and no room for regret. They turned again, slower now, their feet dragging through the ashen slush. Hansi’s thumbs traced the delicate arch of Yugiri’s spine through the silk, his touch memorizing what the fire might soon take from him.

“You dance like a goddess,” he murmured. His grip tightened, desperately trying to remember and feel. “I wish we could have danced more.”

Yugiri’s gentle humming ceased. Her smile was a blade’s edge, glinting in the hellish glow. “Then dance with me now, my idiot prince,” she whispered, her breath hot against his cracked lips. “Not for survival. Not for courtship. Just for the two of us.”

And so they did.

In the final steps, Hansi learned the rhythm and movements. He became more daring in the face of death. He guided her into a spin, her sleeves flaring like wounded wings. She looked like a crane taking flight for the final time. For a heartbeat, she was suspended in the air, like a goddess descending from the heavens, backlit by the inferno—

—then her geta sandals sank into the mud.

They toppled together, with Yugiri crashing against his chest. Their bodies sprawled into the filth with a wet thud. Their limbs were tangled, and her hair was a dark river across his throat.

Yugiri’s laughter rang like delicate bells, while Hansi’s rumbled like a taiko drum. When she lifted her head, mud streaked her cheek like ceremonial paint.

“Graceful to the last,” she teased.

His reply was a kiss—long and deep, tasting of smoke, blood, and the salt of shared tears. When they broke apart, Yugiri pressed her forehead into his, her long lashes tickling his skin.

“I would always choose you,” Prince Hansi choked out. “No matter what happens in the next life, I will always find you.”

Her fingers traced his jaw. “Even though I led you to your death?”

“As long as we die alongside one another, it will all be fine.”

A flaming rafter plunged into the snow beside them, spraying embers like dying stars. They didn’t flinch. Their world had shrunk to touch, breath, the salt of shared tears evaporating on scorched cheeks. Their souls were already moving on to a new path.

CRACK!

The roof of the main shrine surrendered at last, slamming into the earth with a bestial roar. The altar of Inari Ōkami stood defiant—a lone sentinel in the inferno—until the ground beneath it groaned and devoured it whole.

The ground devoured it whole?

Hansi leaped up. Through the smoke and burning embers, he could see that the earth had cracked open like a grave. Stone steps, slick with meltwater, bled into the shadows.

"The manuscripts…" Junko’s weak murmur cut through the moment. Her eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain but fixed on the remnants of the main hall. "…hid the kakushi-do … under the altar…" She lost consciousness before she could say anything else, but that was all Yugiri needed.

“ Kakushi-do …” Yugiri breathed. She had heard the whispers—Edo-period tunnels for persecuted Christians, for eloping lovers, for ghosts. Never had she imagined that one would prove to be her salvation one day.

Hansi hauled up Junko’s semi-conscious form as Yugiri wrapped the miko’s arms around his shoulder. “Go!” he blared, voice ragged.

Then—they ran.

Flames lashed at their backs as they staggered towards the rupture, dodging falling beams and smoldering debris. Yugiri clamped a sleeve over her nose, eyes streaming, but her gaze was locked on those stairs. The hidden passageway would be their salvation. Or a tomb.

They plunged into the kakushi-do just as a pillar exploded behind them, sealing the entrance in a cascade of sparks and embers. Suddenly, they were plunged into near-complete darkness. Hansi gagged on the stench of damp mold and his own singed flesh.

Yugiri was already swallowed by the tunnel ahead.

Hansi hesitated. One last look.

Through the vein-like cracks in the rubble, the courtyard flickered—their dance floor of fire and ash. The pyre where they waltzed with death, ready to pass on in each other’s arms.

“Not today,” he spat at the flames.

Junko groaned against his shoulder. He adjusted her weight, ignoring the burns screaming down his side, and followed Yugiri into the gullet of the earth.

The tunnel was a coffin of stone, so narrow that Hansi had to crab-walk sideways, his burned arms screaming as they brushed the walls. Junko’s dead weight over his shoulder made every step a betrayal of his body. The air reeked of wet earth and smoke—like a grave dug too close to a pyre.

“Yugiri—” His voice was a gritty whisper, like worn sandpaper.

“Stop.” Her hand pressed against his chest. “Breathe using your nose.”

Hansi inhaled deeply. He could no longer smell the smoke. There was a small opening in the ceiling of the tunnel, about the size of a brick. It was too high for them to reach, but the cold air and moonlight were a welcome relief.

They slumped against the wall, Hansi lowering Junko with a grunt. The cold ground leached the heat from their legs, a welcome relief after the inferno.

“Are we safe?” Hansi croaked.

“For now,” Yugiri replied dryly. “The troops will need time to let the fires burn out. They’ll have to dig through the rubble before finding this tunnel. This is time we must put to good use.”

As they caught their breath, the full weight of their predicament pressed down on them.

The truth was obvious. Governor Kuroda and Major Arata wanted them dead, and they harbored no compunction about sacrificing innocent bystanders like Junko.

“What will happen now?” Hansi asked, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and smoke. “Diplomatic immunity means nothing to these scum.”

Yugiri’s laugh was a dry, brittle thing. “It means that they cannot legally behead me! Only accidentally burn me like a witch. That’s progress!”

The dark humor caught Hansi by surprise. He tried to laugh, but the sounds became stuck in his throat. Only a cacophony of coughing came out.

Yugiri instinctively rushed over to her husband, gently patting his back. Her warm presence instantly revitalized him.

"Don't worry about me," Hansi rasped, his voice raw. "Check Junko first.”

Yugiri nodded, her touch gentle but firm as she examined Junko. She was still warm and breathing, but unconscious. Her shoulder was badly bruised and deformed.

Yugiri probed the miko’s misshapen shoulder, gently massaging the biceps and deltoids. Then, with astounding speed and alacrity, she pressed down on the joint while simultaneously pushing her arm above her head. The joint flicked back with a loud click. Junko jolted awake with a gasp, her whimpers bouncing off the walls.

“Hush, little sparrow,” Yugiri murmured. “Save your voice for the prayers we’ll need later.”

Junko quietly nodded, still whimpering. She looked at her injured shoulder, still bruised but now intact. The pain started to abate.

Yugiri took out her kaiken dagger, slicing her kimono sleeves into strips. Hansi watched in fascination as Yugiri expertly constructed a shoulder sling, tying it tight across the miko’s chest. Her fingers, usually so graceful with a shamisen , were now deftly setting bone and winding bandages.

"Where did you learn wilderness medicine?" Hansi gritted out.

"The same place I learned to slit throats," Yugiri replied without looking up. "A high-end brothel sees everything—drunken nobles falling down stairs, jealous wives wielding poison, rival oiran with hidden razors. Men bleed just as easily as they lie."

A tired smile formed on Hansi’s lips. “It’s good that we all got covered in mud,” he remarked, “It shielded us from the flames. Only my arms got burned.”

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Yugiri could make out the full extent of Hansi’s injuries. His sleeves had burned away, revealing several patches of red, broken skin on his arms. The burns looked painful, and there were several fresh lacerations that still oozed blood.

Hansi tried to act tough, but he still let out a low hiss as Yugiri wrapped silken bandages around his blistered forearms. Yugiri’s expression softened. “Oh koibito , it will all be better soon. I’ll reward you with the finest pillowing once we leave this place.”

She gently kissed him as she caressed his shoulders, her touch both soothing and possessive. “I’m proud of you. Your grit. Your strength. And your dignity in the face of death. That dance we shared in the burning shrine… I will cherish that forever.”

Her words seemed to evaporate the pain.

“Can you stand, my koibito ?” She looked at her sweetheart.

He could. Barely.

“How about you, my little sparrow?” She looked at her student.

The miko could not. She wobbled around like a spinning top, slumping against the wall. Her speech was incoherent, but there was a look of determination in her eyes.

“She can lean against me,” Hansi promised, adjusting his bandages, “If we can reach the exit before sunrise, the darkness will aid in our escape.”

The tunnels were a nightmare. A mockery of hope. Every turn led to a dead end. Hansi’s mind tried to map their path, feeling the rocks around him. It was all in vain. The labyrinth seemed to defy logic.

“We’re going in circles,” he growled after passing the same archway for the third time.

Yugiri wiped sweat from her brow, leaving a streak of ash. “Whoever built this probably designed it that way. To trap anyone not supposed to be down here.”

A frustrated silence fell.

Then, there was a weak tug at Hansi’s waist.

Junko’s eyes gleamed in the gloom, too bright with pain and clarity.

“…Wrong turn,” she rasped. “This is… the Kitsune’s Deceit passage. Leads… nowhere.”

Yugiri froze. “How do you know?”

Junko’s cracked lips moved. “The… dance.” Her good hand fluttered weakly—a mimicry of a fluid, turning step from a sacred miko routine. “Third movement… retreat beneath the moon’s shadow… means… veer right here.”

Guided by memory, by art, by faith, they inched forward.

They came across a crumbling arch, lit only by the dim moonlight streaming in from a small opening high above them.

“Crane dips its wing… left.”

They came across a subterranean stream. “Badger’s secret path… follow the water… Then up…”

Hansi marveled at her resourcefulness. “You mapped this place… through dance?”

Junko managed a faint, pained smile. It was the first time Hansi had complimented her. “Every step… tells a story…”

Dawn was a grey smear when they kicked open a rotted farmhouse hatch. Cold air slapped their faces, cruel yet refreshing.

They emerged from the tunnel exit. The snow had ceased. In the distance, against the bruised horizon, the shrine of Inari Ōkami was a dying pyre, painting the sky in strokes of charcoal and amber.

Hansi stared, his bandaged hands trembling. Yugiri leaned into him, her head against his soot-streaked cheek.

“We survived,” she breathed, disbelief and defiance warring in her voice.

“Against all bloody odds,” Hansi agreed, a raw laugh escaping him. He pressed his forehead to hers—a mirror of their dance in the fire.

Junko watched them, propped against a low stone fence. Envy still pinched her heart—that certainty, that fire between them. But seeing Yugiri gently wipe ash from Hansi’s brow, hearing his whispered reassurance… something shifted. This wasn’t just romance. It was fortitude. It was fate. A lifeline thrown across an abyss.

“Sensei…” Junko’s voice was soft but clear. Yugiri turned. “Where… where will you go now?”

“We can’t go back to Saga City,” Yugiri said grimly, “The whole entire city is probably on lockdown.”

“We’ll have to hide in the countryside,” Hansi replied, “We can figure out our next destination later, but it won’t be here.”

“I heard Nagasaki has better fire insurance,” Yugiri quipped. The dark joke elicited a hearty laugh from her husband and her student.

After wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, Junko took a shallow, painful breath. “Take me with you.”

Yugiri blinked. “You’re hurt. You need rest—”

“I need purpose,” Junko insisted. Her eyes burned with newfound conviction. “You need a guide. A miko . Someone… who reads the world like a dance.” She gestured weakly back toward the smoldering horizon. “My old world has turned to ash. We need to build a new one. Together.”

Silence hung, heavy with the scent of snow and distant ruin.

“I remember things,” Junko added. Her gaze flicked to Hansi. “Useful things.”

Yugiri turned to face Hansi. He gave the barest nod—respect, acceptance.

“Alright, little sparrow,” Yugiri said softly, offering her hand. “Welcome to the chaos.”

Junko grasped it, her fingers cold but steady. Ahead lay frostbitten fields, imperial patrols, and the unknown. But behind them, the labyrinth was sealed. Ahead? However perilous, it was a path they’d carve together.

Chapter Text

The wind howled through the hills, clawing at Yugiri’s tattered shiromuku kimono as she trudged westwards through the snow. Beside her, Junko and Prince Hansi stumbled and straggled, their breaths ragged in the frozen air. Every step was a battle—against the cold, against exhaustion, and against the gnawing dread that Saga City, their home, was now a death trap.

Just yesterday, Yugiri’s inn had been a place of refuge and intimacy. Now, it was surely swarming with soldiers and policemen, its doors barred, its guests and staff imprisoned—or worse. Yugiri clenched her jaw, whispering a prayer for those still trapped inside the rebel city. How many more will suffer because of me? The thought coiled around her throat like a noose.

She maintained a facade of resilience, her spirit somehow unbowed despite the grim circumstances. Both Hansi and Junko were leaning on her—literally and metaphorically. Their bodies were broken in ways that made her aches and bruises seem trivial. Hansi’s once-elegant chaofu hung in charred scraps, the fabric of the sleeves fused to his burned forearms. Each movement drew a sharp, stifled gasp from him. Junko, pale and shivering in her miko outfit, coughed violently into her right sleeve, her left arm cradled in a makeshift sling. The smoke she inhaled had left her lungs raw, making each breath a wet, labored struggle.

They were barely hanging on.

So when the rhythmic crunch of boots broke through the wind, neither noticed. But Yugiri did.

Her head snapped up. Through the haze, a column of soldiers advanced, their bayonets glistening in the morning light. They were marching eastward towards Saga City.

“Troops,” she hissed, dragging Hansi and Junko into the skeletal shadows of the pines. Snow seeped through their clothes as they dove for cover, the cold biting deep. The frigid snow bit at their exposed skin, but it was a small price to pay for concealment.

For an agonizing stretch, they watched the soldiers march past. There must have been an entire battalion of faceless men, their expressions hardened beneath their sappei caps. Yugiri’s fingers dug into the snow. Hansi’s hand found hers, squeezing weakly. Junko pressed her face into Yugiri’s side, her body trembling with suppressed coughs.

Then, at last, silence. The final soldier disappeared over the hills, his footsteps swallowed by the wind. Yugiri exhaled, her pulse still hammering. 

They were safe. 

For now. 

But Governor Kuroda’s net was tightening. Martial law had turned the entire prefecture of Nagasaki into a battlefield, and every step forward would be a gamble. Saga City would be the epicenter of the crackdown, but the smaller towns around the city would be less heavily garrisoned.

By midday, the town of Takeo emerged from the snow. It was a muted sprawl of slate roofs and smoke-stained chimneys against the white void of winter. Hope flickered, but their bodies had long since given up. Hansi stumbled, biting back a curse as his burned arms throbbed. Junko sagged against Yugiri, her breath a wet rasp. They couldn’t take another step.

Their only option was the hospital.

There were a few troops and policemen patrolling the main road, so Yugiri had to steer them down the narrow alleyways of the town. Luckily, the hospital’s Gothic spire was always visible, piercing the iron-gray sky. 

Church bells tolled, a sonorous reminder of the foreign faith that had taken root here. The Kirishitan teachings, equal parts solace and subversion, had spread like wildfire among the desperate and disenfranchised—omnipresent in Kyushu and much of China. Hansi, who’d studied in England, knew the Catholic Church’s power firsthand. It was as merciful as it was corrupt. Yugiri and Junko, raised in the old ways, saw no need for borrowed gods. But desperation stripped away pride. These places offered sanctuary.

Beneath the shadow of a wooden cross, a nun in a black habit appeared. Her eyes widened at the sight of them—a scorched Chinese noble, a soot-streaked oiran , and a shivering miko on the brink of collapse.

“ Dio mio! Inside, now! ” She ushered them through the doors.

Warmth enveloped them, thick with the bite of antiseptic. The sister led them to a cramped tatami room, its floor stacked with crates of medical supplies. “Sit,” she ordered, though her voice was soft.

In the light, her features sharpened: straight plum-dark hair, two stubborn strands jutting from her cornette like restless animal ears. “I am Sister Tae Yamada,” she said, kneeling beside Junko. “You are fortunate. St. Lucia’s is the last open hospital for leagues. The Good Lord and the Church protect us, alongside foreign treaty rights.”

Hansi swayed, his pallor corpse-like beneath the grime. Yugiri caught him, her own muscles screaming, but her strength did not waver. Between them, Junko shuddered, her coughs rattling like pebbles in a tin.

“Thank you, Sister,” Yugiri said, voice frayed but steady.

Tae’s fingers hovered over Junko’s ashen face. “This child has walked through hell.”

“Junko Konno. My student.” Yugiri’s throat tightened. “The shrine burned last night. She inhaled too much smoke while trying to save sacred manuscripts. She also took a bad hit to the shoulder.”

Tae’s touch was clinical, gentle. “She’ll live. But she will need rest, clean air—no less than a month.” She tucked a blanket around Junko, who graciously accepted. The shivering stopped as a sense of warmth returned to her small frame.

Yugiri bowed. “We are in your debt.”

“You set her shoulder well,” Hansi murmured, admiration cutting through his pain. Yugiri’s lips curled, but Tae’s focus had already shifted to his arms.

The burns were grotesque—silk sleeves melted into flesh, the fabric blackened and fused. Tae’s mouth thinned. “This looks bad. This will take time, and it will be painful.”

Hansi forced a grin. “I’ve endured worse.”

“Then endure a little longer.” Tae rose, her habit whispering against the tatami. “Rest first. Food. Medicine.” Her smile was a fleeting thing, warm as a lit candle. “The body heals faster when the soul is tended.”

Hansi fished a silver guanbao from his ruined chaofu . The weight of it was nothing compared to the promise of warmth, a full belly, a few hours without running.

Tae accepted the payment with a generous smile, showing a pair of cute fangs. “May God bless you and protect you.”

Tae’s staff soon arrived to care for the new guests, and a bespectacled middle-aged doctor also came to speak with them. Junko, her breaths still quick and shallow, was allowed to rest on a cot beneath an open window. Her pale face turned towards the blue sky. The fresh mountain air, cool and clean, felt like a balm to her injured lungs.

Sister Tae, her movements a study in quiet grace, approached Junko's side. Her hands, calloused but gentle, held a small, unassuming cup filled with a dark, viscous liquid. 

"This is laudanum, child," Tae explained, her voice a soft murmur that resonated with the deep compassion in her eyes. "And camphor. It should ease the pain and cough."

Junko, her senses dulled by exhaustion, still wrinkled her nose. A faint protest escaped her lips, "It smells awful." The bitterness of the remedies, even from the slight distance of the cup, seemed to prickle her tongue.

From across the ward, a giggle rattled Yugiri’s chest. “What, little sparrow?” she teased, “Too bitter for your sweet tooth?”

Hansi, propped upon his own cot, managed a wry grin. “Our miko still demands her sweets.”

Junko rolled her eyes at the teasing, but there was a familiar warmth to it all. Despite her aversion, she swallowed the medicine bravely, the bitter taste a lingering torment. 

Sister Tae had anticipated the reaction. Almost as if on cue, another nun brought in a plate of delicious scones and little cakes. Their delicate sweetness and comforting texture seemed to chase away the lingering bitterness of the medicine. With each bite, the tension in Junko's shoulders eased, and her eyelids grew heavy. Soon, the immense exhaustion that had been gnawing at her finally claimed her, and she fell into a deep slumber. She continued to drool and snore adorably, stirring only when the nuns switched out her makeshift arm sling for a proper one.

Yugiri kneeled by her student’s side, gently working her fingers over Junko’s shoulder. She kneaded her injured shoulder with practiced care. The miko sighed, her pain-drawn features softening as Yugiri pressed a kiss to her brow. 

“Rest now, little sparrow,” Yugiri murmured. “You’re safe now.” 

A smile formed on the miko’s lips as she drifted off to sleep again. 

Hansi watched from his cot in the corner, his chest loosening at the sight. For a moment, the burns on his arms, the soldiers hunting them, and all his worries seemed to evaporate. There was only Yugiri’s love and tenderness.

Then, Sister Tae returned, a bucket sloshing in her grip. “Your turn, signore .”

The water was clear until she poured in the iodine, the liquid blooming amber like fermented tea. Yugiri then undid his chaofu , the sleeves falling away in blackened scraps. 

She gagged upon seeing the ruin beneath. Blistered flesh, raw and weeping, covered his forearms, and pieces of fabric were melted into him. Pieces of debris and burns were also scattered across his hands. The wounds looked exquisitely painful.

Hansi’s breath also hitched as he saw his reflection in the water’s surface. He looked like a stranger, gaunt and covered in soot. His eyes were sunken and dull. His proud and dignified appearance had been reduced to cinders.

Yugiri’s hand settled on his shoulder. “Look at me,” she said, and he did. Her eyes were steady, unflinching. “Scars do not make you less of a man. They tell your story. The story of our survival and the strength you have shown.”

Suddenly, Hansi felt stronger.

“You’re still the same man I fell in love with. A man who protects those he cares about. We’re alive, and that’s enough.”

Hansi looked up at Yugiri, and the two shared a moment of affection and understanding. Nearby, the nuns whispered, not unkind, but curious.”

“Such love between a Chinese noble and his karayuki-san ,” one murmured. “An unusual pair indeed”

The title hung in the air like a bitter chill. The karayuki were unfortunate Japanese women being trafficked to foreign shores, usually in China, British Malaya, French Indochina, or the Dutch East Indies. These poor souls were often treated brutally, forced to live sorrowful and lonely lives in exile. It was a stark contrast to the celebrated artistry and sophistication of a true oiran . A faint grimace touched Yugiri’s lips, a protest forming, but it was Hansi who spoke first. 

“I am a diplomatic envoy of the Qing Empire stationed here in Japan,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And Yugiri here is my life.” He left it at that—no need to mention the treason charges, the warrants, or the assassination attempts.

Yugiri shrugged. “I am an oiran ,” she clarified, her voice laced with unwavering pride. “And a wanted criminal.”

Hansi shot her an unsettled glare. Why? Must you?

Her answer was to pout charmingly while simultaneously pushing his arms into the waiting disinfectant solution. The first touch of the solution was a searing knife. Hansi hissed in pain, his body tensing. His protests were instantly reduced to whimpers, but Yugiri’s grip was unyielding. As loving as she was, there was also a domineering and determined side to her character that Hansi found both enticing and nerve-racking. 

“You need to heal first, my idiot prince.” 

Sister Tae laughed, her cornette bobbing. “Honesty is a rare virtue. God favors the truthful, and He is infinitely merciful.” She made the sign of the cross over Yugiri, who endured it with bemused grace.

“My husband,” Yugiri said, nodding at the dazed Hansi, “has no self-control. He leaps into fires like a fool, and he speaks without thinking.” Her tone was light, but her fingers brushed the scars on his shoulders. “But his bravery is real. He is a prince of the Aisin-Gioro clan, but he was willing to risk his life for an oiran like me.” 

The nuns exchanged glances. Something in the air shifted. It was not pity, but recognition. The kind of understanding that nuns knew best—destruction and rebirth.

Sister Tae squeezed Yugiri’s hand. “Stay as long as you need. You will be safe here from the authorities. Our God forgives.”

Hansi exhaled, the tension finally leaving him. If there was one thing the Catholic Church was good at, it was keeping secrets. The iodine stung, and the path ahead was uncertain. With Yugiri’s schemes, the solidarity of the nuns, and Junko’s steady breathing, it felt like everything was right with the world.

The reprieve was brief. The disinfectant had done what it could, but the true damage remained: shreds of silk and debris were fused to the raw, friable flesh of his forearms. Even the iodine and warm water could not dislodge them.

The doctor returned to reexamine the wounds. The news was not good. “These wounds must be cleaned surgically,” he declared, rolling up his sleeves. “You will need debridement immediately. It will take time, and it may be a painful process.”

He then reached into a nearby cabinet, producing a small brown bottle. “Laudanum should help with the pain.”

Hansi’s fingers closed around the vial, and he examined the English text on the bottle with nostalgia. But he froze when he read the label. Tincture of opium .

The vial fell to the ground. 

“No!” His voice was sharp as a tanto blade.

Sister Tae startled. “ Signore , the pain will be—”

“Opium will be worse.” Scenes from Canton flashed before him—addicts reduced to skeletons curled up in alleyways. People turned into empty husks. The poison had rotted his nation, his family’s coffers, and their honor. “I’d rather burn again.”

There was a taut silence. Then, Yugiri’s hand slid into his, her fingers pressing the jianliao acupuncture point at the top of his shoulder. It was a healer’s touch. 

“Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

Leather straps secured him to the metal cot. He could not see the first scalpel stroke, but it tore a gasp from him. His hands clutched at the tatami . Carbolic acid seared through the open wounds, making the agony even worse. Even the misogi ritual from the day before did not seem so bad in comparison. At least the cold water numbed him first. The scalpel and carbolic acid only made his senses sharper, and he could not block the smell of his own flesh burning.

He tried to meditate again, but the state of his body rendered it impossible. It was going to be hell, all over again.

Then—a set of cool hands touched his temples.

Yugiri had lost her shamisen in the shrine fire, but she still had her acupuncture needles. They gleamed like silver threads in the afternoon sunlight. She gently slid them into the tianfu , xiabai , and binao acupuncture points along his biceps. The effect was immediate: the pain did not vanish, but it retreated, as if muffled by layers of silk.

“Look at me,” she murmured. 

He did. Her face was merely inches away—close enough for her to trace the faint scars running down his neck. There were flecks of amber in her maroon eyes. Then, she kissed him.

It was not chaste. It was deliberate: her teeth catching his lower lip, her palm cradling his jaw like he was a newborn puppy. It was a distraction, but it was also a promise. A promise of love, support, and devotion. A fulfillment of the oath they swore.

Somewhere beyond, Sister Tae and the doctor worked steadily, their scalpels and forceps snipping away the last threads of ruined silk and debris in his arms. Despite the blood running down his arms, he barely felt any of it.

When it was over, the nuns applied boracic lint dressings to his arms, covered with a layer of cotton. Yugiri gently kissed the dressings. When it was all over, the nuns applauded and prayed. Not for the success, but for them. The way Yugiri held Hansi’s face between her hands, her thumbs brushing away the sweat and grime, looked divine.

“In ten years of medicine, I’ve never seen a man endure such extensive debridement with no sedatives or opium.” He eyed Yugiri’s needles.

“I have never seen such unconventional analgesia either,” Sister Tae commented. “Normally, such acts of affection are frowned upon in this sacred place of healing, but we will forgive it this time. Amor vincit omnia .”

Hansi understood enough Latin to understand the last phrase, and he was moved to translate it into Japanese: “Love conquers all.”

Yugiri smirked as she withdrew the needles. “Acupuncture redirects qi . I blocked the energy meridians in his arms, redirecting it to his lips and cheeks. As for the rest…” She shrugged, but her knuckles grazed Hansi’s cheekbone—a secret tenderness. “Some pains require a different remedy.”

Hansi’s laugh was more air than sound. “Remind me to anger you more often.”

Around them, the scent of carbolic acid and blood lingered. Junko was still snoring, occasionally moaning and coughing. But for the first time since the shrine burned, the air felt light and peaceful. 

The nuns stepped back, watching them with something close to awe. Three fugitive pagans from completely different backgrounds, all bound by love and affection. They were rebels or saints—they weren’t sure which. But something in the quiet strength between them made Sister Tae cross herself. “ Dominus vobiscum .”

Chapter Text

The heavy, resonant toll of church bells finally dragged Yugiri, Hansi, and Junko from a sleep so deep that it felt like sinking into the earth itself. It was not the rest of the well-fed and safe, but rather the crushing exhaustion of those who had run too far. The orange glow of the setting sun bled through the open window of their cramped storage room. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the incessant thrum of danger had receded, replaced by the profound peace of rest.

As the last echoes of the bells faded, a new sensation began to waft into their room. It was the comforting, earthly aroma of warm rice and steamed vegetables, carried on a gentle, almost imperceptible breeze.

Yugiri and Prince Hansi stirred first, their bodies stiff from the arduous journey and unforgiving hospital cots. Hunger, sharper than the lingering pull of sleep, won out. They rose, stretching sore muscles, and shared a soft, weary kiss. Yugiri’s hair, usually pinned in her elegant heart-shaped knot, now fell loose and unkempt around her shoulders. Hansi found it oddly captivating, admiring a more private and intimate version of his wife.

Together, they turned to Junko. The young miko, still dressed in her white kosode and scarlet hakama, slowly opened her eyes, her facial expression still slack and dazed from the lingering haze of opium.

“You won’t want to miss dinner,” Hansi murmured, his stomach echoing the sentiment with a low growl. “It smells almost as good as the okayu Yugiri made for us yesterday. Almost.”

Yugiri smirked, knowing the best way to motivate the young miko. “If you don’t hurry, there won’t be any dessert left.”

Junko’s eyes flew open at the mention of sweets. Within moments, all three were shuffling towards the cafeteria, drawn by the promise of a real meal.

The hospital cafeteria, usually a muted space of convalescence, thrummed with low voices and the clatter of utensils. Every table was occupied, surrounded by the injured and their weary loved ones. The air hummed with a collective exhaustion, punctuated by the occasional muffled groan or stifled cry.

Sister Tae, sweating over ladles of warm rice and o-hitashi boiled vegetables, eyed the scene before her with an exhausted expression. This was not the usual ebb and flow of illness. This was the grim aftermath of Governor Kuroda’s brutal “rebel sweeps”. Many innocent locals were caught up in indiscriminate violence, as troops arrested anyone who was suspected of rebel sympathies. They arrived at the hospital with fresh scars of conflict, broken limbs, bruised faces, and eyes that held the haunted vacancy of trauma.

The somber atmosphere lightened perceptibly when Yugiri and Hansi entered, followed by a sleepy Junko. The miko, still pale and coughing, leaned heavily on her good arm, her other bound in a sling. Yet, despite their own injuries and exhaustion, all three smiled—small, weary, but genuine.

“It looks busy here,” Yugiri joked, accepting a bowl. “Your cooking must be famous.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Hansi offered, struggling to balance his own dish between bandaged palms, “I might not be able to do much with these injuries, but I still want to help.”

Sister Tae exhaled, her smile softening the weariness in her eyes. “God bless you, child. Actually, there is something.” She gestured towards the far corner, where a group of men wearing tangzhuang jackets and queues were speaking in hushed tones. “They’re Chinese laborers caught in the raids. I cannot speak their language. If you could interpret… after you eat, of course.”

“Sure thing,” Hansi agreed, a spark of eagerness cutting through his exhaustion. “It has been so long since I heard my own tongue.”

They settled onto the worn tatami, grateful for the simple luxuries of food and stillness.

“Our first meal as a family!” Junko chirped, chopsticks already poised over her bowl. “Let’s pretend that mom made this osechi, while dad prepared this Peking duck!”

Hansi’s breath caught. For a second, something flickered in his eyes—grief, longing, and memories that Yugiri did not know. Then, it was gone, smothered into a smile as quick as a shadow passing.

“Itadakimasu!” Junko declared, devouring her food with the fervor of a stray kitten. Yugiri chuckled. Under the spells of hunger and opium, the miko’s manners and restraint had vanished completely.

Her laughter deepened when she noticed Hansi’s struggle. His bandaged hands fumbled with the chopsticks like a cat’s paws batting uselessly at a himitsu-bako puzzle box—all determination and no dexterity. A chopstick chattered against the bowl’s edge, the sound sharp against the cafeteria’s murmur.

Without a word, Yugiri dipped her chopsticks into his bowl, selected a perfect leaf of spinach glistening with sesame oil. Her fingers softly brushed his lips as she offered the morsel. When he accepted the bite, his dark eyes held hers with a special mix of gratitude and affection.

Yugiri then turned to Junko, the miko already leaning forward like a baby sparrow. “Ah—!” she chirped as Yugiri delivered a bite of daikon radish, smiling excitedly. The simple act of feeding her loved ones felt as natural as song and dance, and it was just as rewarding. She had become the mother of this new little family.

From afar, Yugiri resembled a willow bending to the wind. With her hair hastily tied back, her famous knot undone, and shadows under her eyes, Yugiri bore little resemblance to the legendary oiran whose face graced posters all across Kyushu. Here, in this small, battered town, she was just another weary woman tending to her injured companions with the quiet love of someone who had been through much hardship in life.

As the trio ate, newspapers were passed around the cafeteria, smudged with the oily fingerprints of countless readers before them. Three sets of eyes opened wide upon seeing that evening’s newspaper from Saga City.

“Governor Kuroda Declares Martial Law,” the headline screamed in thick, blocky kanji.

Junko snatched the newspaper, her hands trembling as she scanned through the columns with remarkable speed and alacrity. Her face paled when she saw the third page. “They’re saying the shrine was burned down by lightning,” she spat, her hands balling into fists.

Yugiri took the paper next, her fingers stiff with dread. She was afraid that Major Arata had discovered their escape and put bounties on them. She was able to breathe a sigh of relief after she read the subtitle: “Famed Geisha Perishes in Shrine Fire”.

The article was brief, matter-of-fact. It was just another minor tragedy in a troubled region. There was no mention of Hansi or Junko. It was just her name and a brief obituary, neatly packaged for public consumption. Much to her relief, there were no photographs or drawings of her.

Hansi leaned over her shoulder, his queue brushing against her cheek. “Major Arata does not know we escaped,” he said in a soft whisper, “It will probably take him another day or two to comb through the debris.”

“Or he is buying time to hunt us quietly,” Yugiri murmured.

The unspoken truth hung between them: this reprieve was temporary. The truth and the kakushi-do tunnels would be revealed as soon as the debris was cleared away.

Junko crumpled the edge of the newspaper. “So, we’re ghosts now?”

“For a little while, yes,” Yugiri replied, folding the newspaper before passing it on.

“I was known as the Ghost Prince back in Peking,” Hansi quipped, “Now, we can all be ghosts. Ghosts who tell tales.”

“People tell even more tales,” Yugiri replied, her mind already turning and strategizing. She dipped her chopsticks and fed Hansi the last piece of steamed daikon. Her voice dropped to a whisper, her breath warm against his ear. “Our next goal should be to gather information. These people…” she gestured subtly at the crowded room, “... they can tell us where troops are stationed and which roads are blocked. We just need to be… discreet about our methods.”

“What do you suggest then?” Hansi asked, his voice hushed.

“You go speak to your countrymen,” Yugiri suggested, gently pointing her chin towards the group of Chinese laborers in the corner. “Learn what you can. Junko and I will handle the rest.”

Her gaze swept over the wounded locals, her expression softening into one of gentle concern. It was the perfect mask for an intelligence operation. She would listen, and Junko would bless. Together, they would collect all the secrets they needed to survive in this brave new world.

Yugiri then turned to Junko. In one fluid motion, she helped the still-wobbly miko to her feet, offering a steady arm. “Come, little sparrow,” she said, her voice softening from a strategist’s whisper to a tone of genuine encouragement. “They need your light in this place.”

With Yugiri’s support, Junko stood a little taller. Her white kosode and brilliant scarlet hakama were symbols of comfort and familiarity in the stark, foreign hospital.

Yugiri led Junko around the cafeteria. They stopped first beside a farmer with a heavily bandaged leg. Junko instinctively knew what to do.

“The kami see your suffering,” she began, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “They walk this difficult path with you, and they give you their blessings. Tell me, ojisama, what crossroads brought you to this pain? So that we may pray for the spirits for that place to find peace.”

The farmer, his eyes glistening, swallowed thickly. “It was the bridge… the one over the Rokkaku River, by Kifune Shrine,” he rasped. “The officer guarding that bridge was asking for bribes that I could not pay. He did not care that I am already sixty years old, just trying to get back home…”

His wife nodded vehemently beside him, adding, “Now we do not even have a home. Governor Kuroda confiscated the land so that he could build a foreign settlement.”

Junko closed her eyes, chanting a soft prayer for the couple and the spirits guarding Kifune Shrine. Yugiri, listening intently, filed the location away in her mind.

They then moved to a young mother cradling a sleeping child, her own arm in a sling. Yugiri sat down next to the woman, offering to carry the baby for a while. The exhausted mother eagerly accepted the offer.

“Your child is blessed to have such a strong protector,” she complimented, gently rocking her. “Where do I find babies as cute as this?”

“We’re from the village of Tara,” the woman replied with an exasperated sigh. “Soldiers swept through two days ago, looking for… for anyone. They even searched the school there and turned it into their headquarters…”

Junko offered blessings to the baby and her mother as Yugiri handed back the sleeping baby. As they turned away, their eyes met for a brief, significant moment. Headquarters at Tara.

With each prayer for healing, each murmured wish for safe journeys home, they gathered fragments of the military disposition. A prayer for a young man caught up in a “rebel sweep” at the Kashima River ford revealed that it was now permanently watched by riflemen. A blessing for a merchant’s daughter, injured in a frantic rush to avoid a cavalry patrol along Omura Bay, confirmed the main roads were becoming increasingly treacherous.

By the time they finished their rounds, their expressions remained masks of compassionate serenity. But beneath the surface, they carried a new, detailed map of the region’s dangers, a clandestine ledger of safe routes and deadly choke points, all extracted from ordinary people under the sacred guise of blessings and solace.

Across the room, Hansi was having a harder time. The air in that corner of the cafeteria was thick with the scent of sweat and cheap tobacco. The Mandarin being spoken was of a different, earthier dialect, full of slang. The dozen Chinese laborers looked even more pitiful than the other patients in the hospital, their postures coiled with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion.

A few of the men, noting the bandages on his arms and his Chinese-style queue, offered tentative, polite nods. They made room for him, gesturing for him to sit down.

The welcoming atmosphere disappeared when Hansi greeted them in his native Mandarin, his voice taking on the refined, almost melodic tones of the Peking court. The effect was polarizing. A handful of men straightened up, their responses becoming obsequious, as if conditioned to defer to a man of obvious status. Even for these men, however, a wall of suspicion formed. Their faces, already stoic, hardened further. Their replies came in the rough, guttural Hakka of Fukien Province. It was a deliberate linguistic barrier.

“What does the daren from the capital want with us?” one man muttered, not quite under his breath. The honorific was laden with sarcasm and bitterness. 

Hansi’s confident smile faltered. The mask of the serene prince, so easy to maintain in this foreign land, began to crack. He had expected solidarity, a shared bond of countrymen in a foreign land. Instead, he was met with a distrust forged in class, ethnic, and regional divisions. He was not one of them; he was a reminder of the power structure that had failed them. His mission of gathering simple information about roadblocks suddenly seemed naive and impossibly complex.

“I want to understand and help with your plight,” Hansi said, his voice earnest. He then pointed at Sister Tae, who was still busy serving up rice and steamed vegetables. “That Sister here, she wants to ensure you are cared for.”

A bitter laugh erupted from the laborers. The young man with a freshly stitched gash across his brow was the first to speak. “Cared for? Since we came to this damned country, people have cared for us like oxen. We are fed just enough to work, and we are beaten when we are slow.”

The story tumbled out in fragmented pieces, in a chorus of low, angry voices. Hansi was not able to understand all of it, but the picture was clear enough. These men were construction and dock workers from Amoy, brought over to Kyushu to build roads and unload ships for wages that never materialized. Their gongtou, their Chinese foreman, was a cruel taskmaster who pocketed most of their pay and enforced his rule with hired yazuka thugs. Worse, officials in Amoy were complicit, promoting the scheme and silencing those who protested.

Hansi’s diplomatic composure evaporated. His expression shifted from polite concern to that of fiery, princely fury. “As a son of the noble Aisin-Gioro clan, I swear that these corrupt officials will be punished,” he interrupted, his voice low and sharp. “Give me their names. The men in Amoy who sold you, and the Japanese who bought you. I am an envoy of the Qing court. You have my word: I will see that these villains are held accountable.”

The change was electric. Here, he was not just a sympathetic listener, but a man of tangible authority. Some of the men remained skeptical, but most were overcome by a fervent, desperate hope. Names spilled out—corrupt customs officials in Amoy, a Japanese shipping company known for its brutal efficiency, and the yakuza woman who ran the port of Nagasaki. They were seizing a chance for vengeance.

After his fury dissipated, Hansi realized that he had forgotten to ask about roadblocks and patrols. It no longer seemed to matter. He had earned something far more valuable: their trust. And now, he had a more critical question to ask.

Hansi reached into the pocket of his hospital gown, his movements stiff and painful. He drew out his charred wallet and produced a small, worn photograph.

“This is my family,” he said, his voice thickening. He showed them the image: a younger, beaming Hansi, a consort with a motherly smile, and a girl of fifteen, with bright, laughing eyes.

“My little sister… she went missing during her voyage from Tientsin to Nagasaki three weeks ago. The people who did this to you… do they also traffic in young women?”

Most of the men shook their heads, and no one recognized the girl. Their world was limited to the docks and their own suffering. But one older coolie, his face a map of hardship, squinted at the photo. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I have not seen her, daren,” he said, the title now tinged with respect. “But on the Nagasaki docks… I have seen odd things. Last month, there were crates that held perfume bottles, platform shoes for noblewomen’s feet, and Peking opera costumes. Some were marked with the seal of the Imperial Customs Service… others with the flag of the British Queen. It is a different business. All sorts of shady businesses take place there. In the dark warehouses of Nagasaki.”

The lead was vague and horrifying, but it was a thread. It was a direction.

Hansi’s hand trembled as he put the photograph away. He thanked the men and, true to his word, immediately found Sister Tae. He relayed the desires of these men to return to China through the ports of Fukuoka or Karatsu. The good nun, her heart aching, ordered extra rations and rough-drawn maps for their journey.

Alone for a moment, Hansi turned away. He pulled the photograph out once more, his thumb gently stroking the image of his sister’s face. He brought the photo to his lips in a kiss, a single, traitorous tear tracking through the grime on his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, his expression hardening from one of grief to one of fierce, unwavering determination.

It was already dark when Yugiri, Junko, and Hansi returned to their makeshift hospital room. Under the dim candlelight, Junko smoothed a sheet of paper and began to draw. Her pencil flew with uncanny precision, outlining the jagged coastlines and mountains of Kyushu. It was not a mere map, but a strategic document, annotated with the intelligence they had gathered: thick lines for heavily garrisoned roads, crosses for checkpoints, and circles for patrol areas.

Hansi watched in wide-eyed amazement, while a proud smile touched Yugiri’s lips.

“Junko-chan remembers everything she wishes to remember,” Yugiri said, gently petting the miko’s head. “She does not forget. It is a formidable gift.”

Her smile faded as she studied the now-crowded map. “Returning to Saga City is impossible,” she stated, her voice flat. Silently, she prayed that Kiichi Monozaki had already made it to Fukuoka.

“And this town would not be safe for long,” Hansi added, his fingers tracing the converging patrol routes Junko had marked. “We have a day, perhaps two, before this place is swarming with Kuroda’s men.”

Yugiri, ever the strategist, pointed to Fukuoka on the northeastern coast of Kyushu. "It's the only logical choice. It's outside Kuroda’s jurisdiction, the mountain trails are lightly guarded, and I have influential contacts within the Kaishinto party there who can offer political protection."

Hansi, however, fixed his gaze on the southwestern port of Nagasaki. "Political protection is a paper shield, easily torn by Kuroda. This is war. We must follow Sun Tzu: appear where you are not expected. We'll hide in Nagasaki, right under his nose, and gather evidence of his treachery from the locals."

He pressed on before Yugiri could object, his voice gaining conviction. "We need a shield of steel. The Beiyang Fleet will succeed where diplomatic immunity failed. Their guns are an argument Kuroda cannot ignore."

Silence fell, their two opposing strategies hanging in the air: Yugiri’s political networks and hidden trails against Hansi’s audacious gamble on steel and gunpowder.

"You're risking a war!" Yugiri's composure fractured, a rare flash of frustration in her eyes. This, their first true argument as husband and wife, was a clash of worldviews. "My plan offers a future within the system. Yours relies on the language of gunpowder."

"The language of gunpowder is universal!" Hansi’s voice rose before he forced it back to a sharp whisper. "And your system is the one trying to kill us. It’s a system that covers up assassinations as accidents. It enables the karayuki trade and mass human trafficking. I've traveled the world and never met an honest politician. I don't trust them, no matter how well-meaning you believe them to be!"

"You speak of war as if you're a general,” Yugiri countered, her eyes flashing to his bandaged hands, “but you are a man who cannot even hold his own chopsticks.”

"This is precisely why we must go to Nagasaki!” he retorted, the truth of his vulnerability sharpening his tone. “I cannot project you like this, but the Beiyang Fleet certainly can."

The air grew heavy. Junko looked down at her map, unwilling to intrude. The profound irony was not lost on her: Yugiri, the rebel oiran wanted for treachery, advocated political nuance and peaceful subversion, while Prince Hansi, the scholar and diplomat, argued like a brash revolutionary for direct confrontation.

Yugiri’s arguments were sharper, more cunning. She laid out the practicalities, the known quantities of her alliances. But Hansi’s was a simpler, more powerful argument, fueled by a truth he could not share: the old coolie’s story of a Manchu noblewoman being trafficked through the Nagasaki docks. For him, Nagasaki was no longer a strategic choice; it was a personal pilgrimage, a chance to find his sister.

He argued with a raw, persuasive passion that her logic could not dismantle. He spoke of the moral necessity of facing corruption at its source, his conviction a tangible force in the small room.

Finally, Yugiri fell silent. She studied his face, seeing not just a prince, but someone driven by a fear and hope she had not fully understood. She saw the futility of trying to steer him from a course anchored in something deeper than strategy. Her network in Fukuoka could protect their bodies, but it could not soothe his conscience.

“We go to Nagasaki,” she conceded, the words a surrender that tasted of both frustration and a strange, reluctant respect. “But it will not be easy. We will need money to bribe the guards at the river crossings. And we will need proper winter clothes; we cannot travel in these.” She plucked at the thin fabric of her hospital gown.

“Good,” Hansi agreed, a relieved smile finally breaking through. “Once the Beiyang Fleet arrives, we will have more options. We can go to Fukuoka to meet your contacts, or…” he paused, a note of hopeful tenderness entering his voice, “I could introduce you to my family in Peking.”

Yugiri arched a delicate eyebrow, a playful smirk returning to her lips as she brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Do they know you planned to get married? Something tells me the Aisin-Gioro clan may not approve of a former oiran.”

Hansi shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. “My mother knows I have been searching for a good wife, and I can talk her into approving anything. My father passed away when I was young. The others…” He waved a dismissive hand. “Well, being the ‘Ghost Prince’ has its privileges. They rarely care enough to show disapproval. But I should write to my mother though. She is probably worried about me and deserves to know the good news.”

“They will find out soon enough regardless,” Hansi countered. “I will entrust it to one of the Chinese laborers heading to Fukuoka. It will be a plain letter. I’ll sign it with my childhood nickname. It should arouse little suspicion.”

"And I will write to my contacts in Nagasaki," Yugiri added, already reaching for a pen. A mischievous smile played on her lips. "It's a blessing we women of the pleasure quarters collect aliases like charms. I'm sure my old acquaintances will be... eager to see me again." She completed the sentence with a sultry wink.

Hansi chuckled. "Why not write to Governor Kuroda directly, then? Seduce him and persuade him to spare us."

Yugiri reached out, gently lifting his chin and squeezing his cheeks. "We will expose him, my love, but only when the time is right. We have no proof he ordered the assassination. To bring down a man like that, we need more than suspicion. We need irrefutable evidence of his corruption."

Junko provided them with paper. The fountain pen looked comically large and unwieldy in Hansi’s bandaged hands. After several failed attempts that resulted in little more than inkblots, he let out a sigh of defeat.

“Junko,” he implored. “I need your hands once more. A letter to my mother. Written only in kanji.”

Junko, ever eager to help, took the pen with a solemn nod. “I can write kanji well, but I do not speak Chinese. You must tell me each character and what it means.”

Hansi tried to dictate the letter with the formal, filial cadence of the Peking court, but he was forced to use workarounds. The resulting letter was painfully awkward: To Honorable Mother, I am healthy. Do not worry. Japan is good.

Yugiri lifted her head from her own letter, looking up with a wicked glint in her eyes. “Is that all? You’re not going to tell her how you won your beautiful wife?” Her voice was a soft, playful purr.

Hansi’s ears turned pink. “Yugiri, please…”

“Or how I first claimed you?” she continued, enjoying his fluster immensely. “Perhaps you should mention my… persuasive skills with a blade. ‘Dearest Mother, my wife carries on our proud family tradition—convincing men to marry them at knifepoint…’ I understand that’s how your grandmother won your grandfather?” 

Hansi’s hands twitched with the urge to smack the table, but the stiff bandages held him back. His face flushed a deep scarlet. He cleared his throat, struggling to reclaim his dignity. “Ahem. Junko, please write… ‘I have taken a wife. Her name is Yugiri. Daughter of a noble daimyo family in Kagoshima…’”

Junko’s pen halted. Her eyes darted from Hansi’s determined expression to Yugiri’s amused smirk. “Hansi-sama,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Yugiri-sensei does not know her parents. She was orphaned at a young age. This is a lie.” Her integrity as a miko strained against her desire to help.

“So, when do I get to meet my noble Kagoshima family?” Yugiri teased, her smirk widening. “I do hope they’re wealthy. And have better taste in men than I do.” Despite the frivolous teasing, she understood the gravity of the situation and the necessity of the lie. Still, there was something endearing about his clumsy fabrication.

Hansi grunted in frustration, his gaze anchored to the floorboards. “It is a necessary simplification,” he insisted, the words burning his throat. “Please, Junko-chan.”

With a reluctant sigh, Junko complied, her fluid kanji becoming sharp and jagged, each deliberate stroke a silent protest of her disapproval. She let out a silent prayer to the kami to ask for their forgiveness, but her heart felt heavy with the weight of the lies.

Hansi pressed on, one hand rising to massage his temple as if to physically contain the unraveling lies. The end of the letter would be another lie, this time about his sister. It was a necessary shield. If his mother knew the truth about her daughter’s disappearance, her frantic efforts would paint a target on her back. This fiction, however painful, was a protection. Better a mother’s heart be soothed by a lie than shattered by a danger she could not fix.

After a heavy sigh, he forced the final fabrication out. “My little sister is here with me… in Kobe. She is safe and happy and sends her love.”

Junko’s face lit up with a bright, childlike smile, utterly devoid of guile. “I wish I had a little sister too!” she cheered. “I would take her to the Arima Onsen hot springs and then Ikuta Shrine. You should let us meet her one day.”

The air in the room suddenly turned to ice. Hansi fell utterly silent, his throat tightening soundlessly. He turned away sharply, his shoulders bowing as if being crushed, trying to hide the grief and despair that Junko’s innocent words had unleashed. It was a knife to the heart, twisted by her sincerity.

Yugiri’s teasing smile vanished, replaced by a still, watchful intensity. She suddenly recalled his delirious mumblings while recovering from hypothermia, about the little sister who hated politics and tried to run away. She watched the painful rigidity in his posture, the way he offered no charming anecdote, no fond details—only that cold, stark statement. The lie was covering up a dangerous wound.

Junko, bewildered but obedient, finished writing the letter.

Yugiri set her own letters aside. She did not speak. She simply observed him—the prince who blushed at playful teasing and yet turned to stone when lying about his sister. She connected this sudden, unnatural coldness to his fierce, inexplicable insistence on risking everything for Nagasaki—the gateway linking China with Japan.

The pieces locked together with silent, devastating clarity.

She had to test her hypothesis. Her voice was genuine yet gentle, all traces of her earlier playfulness gone. “Your mother sounds like a good woman. She will be relieved to know her children are safe. And if your sister is as clever as you, she’d stay out of trouble.”

The words were kind, but the last sentence made his breath hitch. Her eyes held a new, profound understanding. He was not running to Nagasaki for sanctuary. He was running after someone.

Chapter Text

The next day, the pale morning light filtering through the church’s stained glass window illuminated a scene of quiet scholarship and simmering tension. The classroom, usually reserved for scripture lessons, now served as Prince Hansi’s makeshift academy. His bandaged hands, still clumsy, were a stark white against the dark chalkboard. Before him sat a small, motley audience: a handful of wide-eyed children, a few curious farmers, and a couple of young merchants who saw opportunity in dealing with the foreigners.

“This,” Hansi said, his voice clear and patient as he pointed to the romaji, “is ‘king’. And this,” he added, writing the English word beside it, “is ‘king’. The sound is similar, no? Kingu.”

A little girl in a patched kimono repeated the word, her pronunciation tentative. Hansi rewarded her with a warm smile.

“Good! Very good! Now, in England, they had a king—Charles the First. He believed he ruled by divine right, but his people believed monarchs should rule by a social contract…”

Hansi’s voice took on a storyteller’s rhythm, weaving the tale of the English Civil War, of Oliver Cromwell and the Parliament, and of the high taxes and class differences that led up to the war. He spoke of political power and the rights of the people, of a system where even a monarch could be held to account. 

The lessons were framed as rangaku—Dutch learning—a cheap, accessible lesson in the ways of a world that was quickly consuming them.

But from the back of the room, a low grumble erupted. An old farmer, his face a leathery mask of disapproval, shook his head. “Why should we learn the barbarians’ ways? Or listen to their chaotic histories? This is not enlightenment. This is corruption.”

A few others murmured in agreement, their arms crossed tightly over their chests.

Hansi did not flinch. He met the old man’s gaze, his expression solemn. “I do not ask you to like it, ojisan,” he said, his tone respectful but firm. “I ask you to simply understand it. Knowledge of an enemy’s language and history is a weapon. They are coming. Their ships are already in our harbors, their merchants in our cities. They will come whether we welcome them or scorn them. The question is not if, but when. And when they come, will we be prepared? Or will we be like King Charles, drowned by the changing tides?”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air. The coins collected in a small wooden bowl by the door were few, barely enough for a single meal. But as Hansi looked at the thoughtful faces of the children and the wary consideration in the eyes of some adults, he knew he wasn’t just teaching for money. He was planting seeds. And in the fertile, fearful soil of a nation on the brink, even the smallest seed could grow into something formidable.

Outside the classroom, Junko’s business endeavors were enjoying greater success. The scent of ink and paper was a familiar comfort to her. She had cleared out a corner of the church, laying out her brushes, inkstone, and precious sheets of washi paper. Her injured arm, still in its sling, rested in her lap while her good hand worked with swift, certain grace.

Her drawings were an eclectic mix, a reflection of Kyushu’s fractured soul. For the curious and the pious, she sketched the serene face of the Virgin Mary, her lines soft and compassionate. For the old women who still left offerings at Shinto shrines, she drew the fierce beauty of the sun goddess Amaterasu. Her talent was undeniable. A few fluid strokes, and a likeness emerged, not just of a face, but of a spirit. A small crowd often gathered to watch her work, their murmurs of appreciation a gentle hum in the background of Hansi’s lessons.

It was during a lull, as the church emptied for the noon meal, that a man approached. He was not a farmer or a merchant, but something in between, his clothes coarse but his eyes sharp and nervous. He waited until the others had left before sliding onto the stool before her.

“A portrait?” Junko asked, already reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.

“Not a portrait,” the man murmured, his voice low. He leaned forward, his breath smelling of tobacco and anxiety. “I saw how good your drawings are, but I need a… document. A travel pass.”

Junko’s hand stilled. She looked at him properly now—the sweat on his temple, the way his fingers drummed a frantic rhythm on his knee. “I do not make such things,” she said, her voice firm, the miko’s discipline rising within her. “It is forbidden.”

“I had legitimate travel passes,” he countered, his voice tight. “My family… We are from Saga City… Governor Kuroda’s men burned down our home, and our papers were lost. Without a pass, we cannot cross the checkpoints to reach my brother in Fukuoka.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her, his expression pleading. “If we stay here, we’d starve. They say you remember everything you see. That your hand is guided by the kami.”

Junko’s heart clenched. This was a sin. It was a deliberate falsification, a twisting of her sacred gift for deception. Her stomach turned at the thought.

Seeing her hesitation, the man’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He began to rise. “I understand. Forgive me for asking.”

But as he moved, a small, grimy pouch slipped from his sleeve and clinked onto the table between them. The sound was unmistakable: the heavy, solid music of silver yen coins. Enough to feed a family for a month. Enough to buy three sets of sturdy winter clothes. Enough to bribe a river guard.

The image of Yugiri’s thin hospital gown and Hansi’s bandaged hands flashed in her mind. Their desperate need was a weight heavier than her conscience.

“Wait,” she whispered, the word tasting like bitter bile.

She pulled a blank sheet of paper toward her. Her good hand, which usually felt so light and sure with a brush, now felt leaden. “Show me an… original,” she said, her voice barely audible.

The man’s eyes widened with desperate hope. He fumbled in his inner coat and produced a worn, folded travel pass belonging to a neighbor, its seals and official stamps a complex map of authority.

Junko studied it. Her artist’s eye, trained to capture every detail of a goddess’s expression or a saint’s robe, now memorized the precise curve of a bureaucrat’s seal, the specific spacing of the kanji, the faded impression of the official stamp. She saw it all. 

She moved to an isolated corner of the room, where no one would see them. With a slow, deliberate breath that felt like a prayer of apology to the kami, she dipped her brush. The first stroke of black ink on the pure white paper felt like a desecration. Her hand did not tremble—her gift would not allow it—but her spirit recoiled. 

She worked in silence, the only sound the scratch of her brush and the man’s ragged breathing. She forged not just a document, but a new identity, a sliver of hope built on a foundation of lies. When she was done, she blew gently on the ink to dry it, her eyes avoiding the finished product.

The man snatched it up, his hands trembling as he compared it to the original. A look of stunned relief washed over his face. “It’s perfect,” he breathed. He pushed the pouch of coins toward her, bowed deeply, and scurried away, clutching his salvation.

Junko stared at the pouch. The coins within felt cold, their weight a condemnation. She had sold a piece of her integrity for their survival. She tucked the pouch into her sleeve, her face a careful mask of calm, but inside, the devout miko wept for the sin she now carried.

On the other end of town, Yugiri was embracing the sin that surrounded her. The air in the backroom of the ryokan at the town’s only onsen was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco, sake, and the sharp, clattering music of mahjong tiles. Here, the weary and the desperate sought company in the twittering of sparrows. And today, they had an even better attraction.

She called herself Machiko, a young maiko from Kyoto, her face painted a demure white, her lips a crimson bud. The elaborate kanzashi, borrowed from a theatrical stash Tae possessed, was heavy on her head, and the brightly patterned kimono, though of inferior silk, was tied with the showy, dangling darari obi of an apprentice. It was a theatre costume, a shield of frivolity that hid the calculating mind of a strategist. To the men in the room, she was a delightful novelty, a glimpse of the glamor of Kyoto in their drab, ordinary town. 

Yugiri moved among the tables with a practiced grace, her laughter like the tinkling of wind chimes, her poured cups of sake offered with a fluttering of false eyelashes. She was the perfect hostess, drawing in customers with the promise of her company and the chance to play against "a simple girl from Gion."

Her true targets were the young army conscripts, their uniforms still stiff and unfamiliar. They were easy to spot, and easier to flatter.

"Ano neh..." she would whisper, leaning close to a corporal during a lull in a mahjong game, her voice conspiratorial. "It must be so exciting, guarding the big bridge all day. You must see so many important people coming and going."

Flushed with drink and her attention, the boy would puff out his chest. "It's boring! Just checking papers. But the Lieutenant says we're to expect a supply wagon from the northern route tomorrow afternoon. We’re placing bets on what they’re carrying."

Another, desperate to impress her during a game of shogi, would boast of his unit's new posting. "We're moving to the high ground west of town at dawn. Best view, they say. To watch for movement from the rebel villages... and beautiful women." 

Piece by piece, over spilled sake and careless boasts, she assembled their puzzle. She learned of patrol schedules, the locations of new checkpoints, and the names of particularly greedy officers. The information flowed as freely as the liquor she poured.

The money she earned as a hostess was substantial. As she tucked the coins away, feeling their solid weight, her satisfaction was twofold. She had the funds they needed for the journey to Nagasaki. And, far more valuable, she now possessed a detailed, up-to-date map of the enemy's movements, all drawn from the loose lips of the men assigned to hunt them down.

The market that afternoon was a stark contrast to the hushed, solemn halls of the hospital. It was a show of sound, scent, and commerce—the pulse of a town trying to maintain normality under the boot of martial law. Farmers hawked winter vegetables and cured meats, their breath misting in the cold air, while merchants displayed bolts of thick, homespun cloth and second-hand goods that spoke of hard times.

For Yugiri, Hansi, and Junko, moving through the crowd was an exercise in calculated anonymity. They moved together, yet apart, their eyes scanning not only for threats, but also for bargains.

Yugiri, whose past life had been defined by exquisite silks and delicate artistry, now found her refined taste adapting to the harsh realities of survival. Practicality was paramount, yet the spirit of her former self still lingered. She purchased a sturdy winter kimono, the rich crimson and deep onyx of its fabric a defiant echo of her past elegance. A subtle peony pattern, symbolic of beauty and honor, bloomed across the material, a small act of reclamation in a world that sought to strip away all such flourishes. 

Her gaze then fell upon a worn shamisen, its lacquered surface dulled by time and use. A wave of profound longing washed over her, a sharp pang of memory for her own instrument, lost forever in the devastating shrine fire. This purchase, an extravagance in their dire circumstances, felt like more than just acquiring an object; it was a defiant act of reclaiming a piece of her soul, a whisper of her beauty and her art in this bleak and unforgiving place. It was a promise to herself that not all was lost.

Hansi’s strategy was calculated ambiguity. He wasn't trying to erase his identity, but to make it a reversible costume he could put on or shed at a moment's notice.

He began by finding a vendor selling used work clothes. He bargained for a coarse, undyed linen kimono and a pair of tabi boots, still stiff with the memory of another man’s labor. To complete the shape of his deception, he added a worn wool overcoat, its high collar and deep pockets perfect for obscuring his figure.

The most vital element, however, was a simple, undyed tenugui towel. He demonstrated its use at the stall, carefully wrapping the cloth around his forehead and tying it loosely at the back. When viewed from the front, he became an anonymous Japanese laborer or servant.

The challenge remained his queue, the long, oiled braid mandated by his Manchu heritage—a Chinese giveaway. Hansi tucked the plait inside his shirt collar, concealing it beneath his clothes and the tenugui. He could be a local in the presence of Japanese troops, yet he could pull it out in an instant to prove his identity when seeking aid from his own people.

But if stealth and persuasion failed, Hansi needed a final option. His most crucial purchase came from a stall selling blades: a simple, unadorned tanto dagger. Its cold, solid weight in his hand was his last, grim promise of survival.

Junko, meanwhile, remained a spot of pure, unwavering light. She purchased a simple, quilted winter kimono, its purple dye dulled by years of use. But when Yugiri gently guided her toward a stall selling small, sheathed knives, suggesting she choose one for protection, the miko recoiled as if seeing a venomous snake.

“I cannot,” she said, her voice firm, her hand instinctively going to the ofuda purification papers tucked in her sleeve. “My duty is to heal and bless, not to harm.”

Instead, she beelined for a food stall, using the last of her share of the money to buy a large bag of sweet manju buns and several oranges. “The children at the hospital,” she explained, her face brightening at the thought. “They need sweetness more.”

A wry, almost painful tenderness bloomed in Yugiri’s chest. They were a walking contradiction: a miko who forged documents, a diplomat who hid his identity, and a courtesan whose greatest weapon was her wit. Hansi’s hidden queue, Junko’s defiant kindness, her own reclaimed shamisen—they were all broken pieces. Yet together, they formed a cohesive shield. This was not the family of her dreams, but it was the family fate had given her: loving, scarred, and utterly hers to protect.

Satisfied with their purchases, the three set forth on the path back to the hospital. The deepening twilight was gently illuminated by the soft, warm glow of paper lanterns swaying from bare branches. Yugiri and Junko walked side by side, their hands clasped, their voices harmonizing softly as they quietly sang a sweet folk melody. From behind them came the distinct sound of labored breathing and the rhythmic rustling of packages as Hansi struggled to manage their various purchases, his bandaged arms making the task particularly cumbersome.

Yugiri paused at the crest of a small, snow-covered hill, her gaze sweeping back to wait for Hansi to catch up. Her eyes, usually serene, sparkled with an undeniable glint of mischief as she took in his disheveled appearance. The coarse, ill-fitting linen kimono and tenugui gave him the comical look of something caught between a wandering scarecrow and a misplaced Yellow Turban rebel. It was simply too delicious for her to ignore.

"You know," she began, her voice a low, playful purr that hinted at the teasing to come, "for a prince of a great empire, your skills at earning money are decidedly meager. A few sen from history lessons? Honestly, Hansi, I made enough at one mahjong table to clothe and feed us all for a week, and then some." 

A triumphant smirk played on her lips as she watched his reaction.

Hansi, already burdened and slightly annoyed by his aching arms, shot her a withering look from under the precarious edge of his turban, shifting the packages for what felt like the hundredth time. 

"And you," he retorted, his voice tight with a mixture of affection and irritation that Yugiri knew so well, "would be getting your head cut off like King Charles I if not for me. You should be thanking me for that lofty privilege—and for chivalrously carrying these indulgent purchases of yours, which, I might add, are hardly essentials." He emphasized "indulgent" with a pointed glance at the worn shamisen case peeking from one of the bundles.

Yugiri's smirk widened into a full, unrepentant grin. She reached out, her fingers delicately plucking at the sleeve of his cheap kimono. "Of course, my koibito. And what a formidable shield you have been. Instead of a clean beheading, I got to enjoy the warmth of an 'accidental' shrine fire." She paused, her eyes sparkling with feigned innocence, before adding, "A rather memorable experience, I must say."

She gave a theatrical sigh, her lashes fluttering dramatically. "The privilege is simply overwhelming. When Governor Kuroda inevitably sends assassins to poison our sake, please, my dear prince, let me drink first. That way I can collapse gracefully into your arms as you heroically recite articles of international law to our bewildered attackers." The image she painted was so vivid and absurd that even Hansi had to suppress a chuckle.

Junko, who had been walking a few steps ahead, carefully cradling her bag of precious manju buns, glanced back with a worried frown etched on her young face. "Stop joking like that, Yugiri-sensei," she pleaded, her voice laced with genuine concern. "You know I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt or—"

"Gallows humor keeps the gallows away, Junko-chan," Yugiri interrupted smoothly, her eyes never leaving Hansi's flushed face, which was struggling between exasperation and amusement. "I was merely expressing my deep gratitude for Hansi-sama's impeccable diplomatic protections. Why, without them, we might be in real danger." Her tone was light, but there was an underlying current of genuine affection in her gaze.

Hansi's mouth opened, then closed, a retort poised on his tongue, but ultimately left unsaid. He simply shook his head, a genuine, hearty laugh finally breaking through his embarrassment and fatigue. "You're impossible," he muttered, but the affection in his voice was unmistakable, a soft warmth that belied his words.

"No," Yugiri corrected him gently, reaching out to straighten the collar of his cheap kimono with mock propriety, her fingers lingering for a moment. "I'm alive. And so are you. Now come along, my idiot prince. The daughter of a Kagoshima daimyo will reward your burdensome labor with a generous banquet of broken rice and whatever Junko does not give away to the children." 

Her teasing tone softened almost imperceptibly as she gently took some of the bulkier packages from his aching arms, her fingers brushing against his in a brief, genuine gesture of care that transcended all the playful mockery. The winter night air seemed to grow a little warmer around them as they continued their journey home.

The steamed buns were still warm by the time the three returned to St. Lucia Hospital. There, they were greeted by the heartwarming sight of Sister Tae playing with several young children on the tatami floor. The eyes of the children widened with delight upon seeing the manju buns, and they let out delighted laughs as they shared the sweet treats.

Sister Tae led her friends to her office, warmed by a hibachi brazier. The cafeteria meal that day had been more generous, featuring grilled fish, steaming miso soup, and tsukemono preserved vegetables. The group ate unusually quickly, eager to taste the sweet manju buns Junko had purchased. For a few precious minutes, the relentless fear and violence outside the walls receded.

“This is a blessing,” Tae said softly, her usually stern features softened by the candlelight. “To share a peaceful meal with those in need.”

Junko, her mouth full of bun, nodded vigorously. “It’s like an osechi meal, but better! Better because we’re all together!”

Yugiri, savoring a piece of manju, looked thoughtful. “The last time I had manju this good, I was still an oiran in Kyoto.” The taste brought back many memories, and there was a faint wistfulness that touched her voice. “I used to share these with my friends while walking along the Kamo River. I miss the sound of the river during the quiet summer nights. And also the smell of incense from the lower city temples.”

Hansi, who had been quietly observing, nodded. “The Gion district is particularly beautiful when the lanterns are lit along the Shirakawa Canal. I’ve prayed at Nanzen-ji temple a few times, and it has the most beautiful karesansui rock garden I have ever seen.”

Yugiri paused. She looked at him, her head tilted. “You know Kyoto well.” It was an observation. Not a question. 

“I spent a season there as a junior attaché,” he said, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “Before my current posting with the Qing consul in Kobe. I’m much more familiar with the Kansai region. Kobe is, officially, still my post.” The admission hung in the air, a reminder of the life and the identity that he had to abandon.

Junko’s eyes widened. “You’ve been to all the ancient capitals I’ve dreamed of visiting. Kyoto, Peking, and even London. Your life is so exciting, Hansi-sama!”

“I might be well-travelled, but my jobs have not been particularly exciting,” he said dryly, glancing at his bandaged hands. “Most of what I do consists of dry paperwork.”

Tae, ever perceptive, looked between Yugiri and Prince Hansi. “That would explain why both of you speak with such refined Kansai dialects. But how did an oiran cross paths with a Qing diplomat? That must be an interesting story.”

Yugiri’s eyes lit up with unadulterated mischief—a look that Junko and Hansi knew well. She set down her chopsticks with a graceful flourish. “Oh, it was terribly arduous. Prince Hansi, in all his princely grandeur, arrived in Saga City to investigate the rebellion. He’d heard whispers of this legendary rebel oiran, and he knew he had to meet her.”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He spent days marching through a blizzard, nearly freezing to death. But he was so determined, so relentless in his quest, that the gods finally heard him…”

Hansi shifted uncomfortably, a blush creeping up his neck. “Yugiri, that’s not exactly–”

“And then,” she continued, overriding him with a wave of her hand, “he finally found her! Not in a rebel hideout, but in a mountain cave guarded by tigers and dragons. He fearlessly slayed these beasts with the divine Kusanagi sword. He became a god, and I, overwhelmed by his divine prowess, became his wife.”

She leaned her head against Hansi’s shoulder affectionately, making the prince blush even harder.

Junko clapped her right over her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. Even Sister Tae’s lips twitched into a rare smile.

Hansi buried his face in his bandaged hands, his shoulders shaking with laughter despite his embarrassment. “The truth is far less glamorous,” he groaned, peeking through his fingers at Yugiri’s triumphant expression.

“Oh, I know the truth,” Yugiri said, her teasing tone softening into something more knowing. Her gaze held his, and the laughter in the room quieted. “You did not come to Kyushu just for the rebellion. You were already in Nagasaki prefecture looking for someone else. Someone important.”

The air shifted. Hansi’s smile faded. He looked at her, at the understanding in her eyes that stripped away all his carefully constructed lies. He drew a breath, ready to finally unburden himself, to speak his sister’s name into the warmth of this safe circle.

“I… yes. I was looking for–”

The door to the office burst open. A young nun, her face pale and her breath coming in short gasps, stood clutching a freshly printed evening newspaper.

“Sister Tae! Forgive the interruption!” the girl stammered, her eyes wide with panic. “The newspaper… It just arrived… You must see this!”

She thrust the paper forward. The bold, black headline dominated the page, sucking all the warmth and laughter from the room in an instant.

“SHRINE FIRE DECLARED ARSON; GEISHA AND GAIJIN WANTED FOR TREASON AND ESPIONAGE”

Beneath the headline were two rough sketches. They were crude but unmistakable: a woman with an elaborate heart-shaped knot in her hair and a man with a long queue dressed in chaofu robes.

Their ghosts had been exorcised. Major Arata had discovered their escape. The hunt was now official.

The warmth and laughter of their shared meal evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp dread that seeped into the very walls of the small office. The Saga City newspaper lay on the low table like a venomous snake, its headline a brutal declaration. 

Yugiri’s face, so recently alight with teasing, was now a pale, rigid mask. Her fingers trembled slightly as she scanned the list of names below the headline—the arrested, the accused, and the wanted. She saw the names of journalists who had written her letters, merchants who had funneled money, and geisha who had passed messages in the folds of their sleeves. Many were those who she considered close friends. Her breath hitched on a name, then another, a silent litany of loss.

“Kiichi…” she whispered, her voice raw with fear. “His name isn’t here.” It was the faintest sliver of hope, but it was crushed by the weight of all the others. “But so many others are. They’re unraveling everything.”

Junko looked on, her expression one of deep concern. Sister Tae closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Prince Hansi wiped cold sweat from his forehead. His diplomatic status was a phantom shield; he was now just another wanted criminal.

Yugiri handed the newspaper to Junko. “Junko-chan. Look. The addresses. The dates of arrest. Do you see it?”

Junko, her innocent joy replaced by fierce concentration, leaned in. Her eyes scanned the columns, not reading, but absorbing. The information imprinted itself on her mind with photographic clarity. “The raid in Yanagawa was on the 20th. The one in Okawa was the 21st. Onoshima was hit yesterday…” she murmured, her finger tracing an invisible map in the air. “They’re moving west to east. And they’re hitting the coastal areas first. At this rate, they’ll be cleaning out this town tomorrow afternoon.”

It was a pattern, a rough but clear trajectory of the government’s purge. Yugiri grabbed a spare piece of paper and began to write, her script a swift, efficient code. She was writing to the remnants of her network, warning them, rerouting them, using the grim public record of the arrests to deduce which paths were still safe.

Sister Tae watched, her own face grave. The festive season, a time she dedicated to peace, had been violated by this brutality. Then, her eyes fell on a small stack of printed cards on her desk, sent from the Nagasaki church. They were Christmas cards, adorned with a simple, printed nativity scene. Suddenly, an idea struck her.

“If you need to deliver messages securely,” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension, “we can disguise them using our Christmas cards. Governor Kuroda’s men may intercept letters, but the Church’s seal offers protection. Even if the letters get intercepted, Christmas cards would arouse little suspicion. These are perfect for getting your warnings out.”

Yugiri’s head snapped up, a spark of grim hope igniting in her eyes. “It’s brilliant.” Then, a larger, more audacious plan began to form. “And if we can send messages… we can save them too.”

Hansi, his own grief for his sister momentarily overshadowed by the immediate crisis, nodded in agreement. “I have connections in Nagasaki. I know a few British and American merchants there, and the Chinatown there is huge. We can try to set up a sanctuary in the foreign settlements there. The Qing consulate there may be able to help as well.”

“Churches in Nagasaki are familiar sanctuaries for the unfortunate souls there,” Tae recounted, taking out a notebook. “Tomorrow, a group of the faithful from our church will be travelling to Nagasaki by freight wagon. Several escaped karayuki-san will be joining them on the journey. You could all travel together and blend in.”

The plan crystallized with stunning speed.

Yugiri looked from Hansi’s determined face to Junko’s resolute one, and finally to Sister Tae, whose faith had just devised a most unorthodox miracle.

“We’ll all be travelling together?” Junko asked, her eyes wide with a mixture of anxiety and a thrill at the idea of seeing the famous port city.

Sister Tae nodded, her decision firm. "I will lead the pilgrimage myself. My presence will lend the group credibility. The locals here know me.”

They were no longer just fugitives. The legendary oiran, the ghost prince, the miko with a perfect memory, and the healing nun were now shepherds, preparing to guide their lost flock through the wolves’ den, hidden in the hallowed, unsuspected guise of a holy pilgrimage. Their journey to Nagasaki was no longer a flight for survival; it was the first maneuver of a new kind of rebellion.

A Note on the Timeline:

It is a poignant irony that this story, spanning twelve chapters, has covered only three days. As of this chapter, the date is December 22nd.

In the original timeline, this was around when Yugiri was arrested.

Here, she has a new lease on life. The race to Nagasaki is not just an escape—it is a defiance of fate itself.

• Dec 19: Hansi arrives at Yugiri's inn. They swear their oath and become husband and wife.
• Dec 20: Their marriage at the shrine is interrupted by Major Arata's troops.
• Dec 21: The shrine is burned. They escape to Takeo and are declared dead.
• Dec 22: Their survival is discovered. Declared criminals, they prepare for their perilous journey.

The net is tightening. The journey begins now.

On a side note, I hope you all get to enjoy the Yumeginga Paradise movie coming out today!