ii.

Yoshiwara is the embodiment of decadence.

Land of the rising moon. Waxing in silvery glory and waning into seamless darkness; efflorescence and corruption astride in each phase, flourish and fade like homophone—and in his nihilism, nothing in particular.

Kuroro draws circles in his ponderings, and admittedly, it is already out of habit. The district's glamor winks at him, dazzling and colorful, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes as they stare far ahead to the east and to the Spider.

The moon ascends to the threshold. The evening is many a man's mistress and the peak of a clandestine hour.

However this night is an opportune time for a heist.

A reunion, he mulls with slight mirth, in carnage is not so bad.

In the red womb of a prominent brothel, where lay the lords with their harlots and riches, the Spider does what it is best at—it dances in its slaughter, abound with a hundred slit throats and a thousand pillaged treasures. Here, Kuroro takes hold of the Yata-no-Kagami, which has been rumored to have been lost to a fire decades ago, and he finds it with wry amusement that such a sacred mirror is found in this whorehouse, from the hands of the lawless.

In an interval, he is intrigued of its authenticity, and in a blink, he thinks of its price.

That is until—

In his haze of thoughts, the midnight gale sings of discord as he finds himself near a window; its shoji screen cannot close the tempest, its painted pictures cannot save grace, and within its walls, the flash of moonlight and the flicker of a flame, cannot shroud the murder. Straggled limp and lifeless, Uvo is in the carpeted floor with chains noosed on his neck and a dagger stabbed through his chest.

The strongest leg has fallen—though who can? Certainly not the bleeding lord beside him. Not the servant or the warrior.

"It was me."

Gleaming maniacally in red from the lamp, the flower-woman speaks with a voice so fine and firm like the edge of a blade. One with conviction.

"He killed my lover," she reasons, her gaze on the dead servant—vindictive instead of mourning. "All of you killed my kin."

And a chrysanthemum has taken the life of his comrade. This loss shall remain great, leg or friend the scar of it embeds deeper than a flesh wound, than an age-old grudge, and if he is of hot-blooded nature like Nobunaga, he will have severed her head from her shoulders, though he surpasses bloodlust to a degree despite the lingering sentiment. His mind still invites grief. That, and a simple fascination.

She is beautiful, as she lay in heavy disheveled robes of blue and white and speckled blood, embroidered with gold trim and thread. Powder-white fingers trace the curve of a petal from patterned blossoms against silken folds that lap upon her wrists and bare feet. Golden hair drapes over her bared shoulders, tousled, jeweled hairpins askew, as they curtain melancholic eyes; a sunken beauty of a prostitute.

Perhaps, a transient beauty that lulls with sweet nights and nothings. Such has only provided superficial value. Lucrative in sensualism and adored by many to a fault. It is concealment, illusion, through pleasures and puckered lips. Like porcelain dolls.

But this woman is an exception. Instead of ceramic and bone, she is of flesh and iron with vicious eyes. Disgraced she may appear, there is a mesmeric insolence from that glare that pose of dauntlessness and danger—and red that smolders of unrelenting hate.

The specter eyes of a Kuruta from years ago.

It is a rare instance for him to appeal to such a thing. That familiar crimson blaze consumes him, and in his intrigue, he claims that beauty is terror.

It is then Kuroro decides to not take her life—not yet. An oiran is only ever good in bed. An expensive courtesan, too; however he is in no need to sell her for the artifact and the loot his Spider has stolen suffices. He contemplates because a Kuruta woman is too valuable to kill though the red truculence of her eyes promise to doom him. Calm pragmatism overrides him as he surmises of advantages, spurs potential to idea, and then finally, he sees a conclusion, cruel and twisted as it is.

The heathen and the murderer, that is he. But first and foremost, he is a thief.

So he takes her with him.


Exposition Corner:

Onryō: refers to a ghost (yūrei) believed capable of causing harm in the world of the living, harming or killing enemies, or even causing natural disasters to exact vengeance to redress the wrongs it received while alive then takes their spirits from their dying bodies.

Oiran: an oiran was a name given to a prostitute who was very popular and highly regarded, mostly for her beauty, in the brothels of Yoshiwara in Edo (Tokyo). Despite being prostitutes (the highest ranked ones), the oiran were educated women who were masters of a wide range of traditional arts, and highly respected for their profession.

Yoshiwara: it was the chief licensed pleasure district in Edo, and the largest or most prominent district in Tokugawa Japan. Basically my allusion to Yorknew.