"Thanks for the meal!" Fujiwara's words are heartier than usual as she stands up from her seat.

It's another night spent at this mysterious cart set up in amidst a clearing in the forest. Nothing but grilled lamprey on the menu night after night. The cook is clearly some kind of Youkai, but she doesn't seem to mind that I've started turning up. I won't deny that she's skilful at what she does, but some variety wouldn't go amiss every now and again. All the while, a profound lyrical mesh blares out from some metallic contraption sitting over the counter. Choruses full to bursting with explosive tirades against something called 'the system' accompany the notes of sharp, ear-splitting instruments I've never heard before. The heat of the grill helps to alleviate some of the night's sheer coldness from my bones.

"Oi, you." Fujiwara addresses me while fishing in her pockets for coins, "I'll wait outside. You'll end up lost trying to get back on your own."

"I won't be long."

She eats quickly, twice - maybe three times as fast as I do. Though there is a reason for that. Fujiwara has a habit of skipping meals on the regular, abstinent for days at a time, only satisfying her hunger when it becomes unbearable. With how remote her lifestyle is, alongside the dismissive attitude, I had her pinned as a monk of some kind for a short while, as poorly as it might fit her. But an ascetic would not agree to train anyone in swordsmanship, nor would they know much about it in the first place. Speaking of training, my mind can't help but drift to the thought of there being a lack of anything like it ever since we met. I've unsheathed my sword a great number of times since then, though its only purpose seems to be slicing vegetables and mushrooms in place of the rusty blades that Fujiwara tries to call kitchenware.

"Are you a friend of Mokou's?"

The cart's pink-haired proprietor speaks to me for the first time on this night. For a Youkai, she seems harmless, although her speech is often as complicated and archaic as you would expect to hear from such a creature. Without my sword, a situation like this would normally have me on edge, but if it wasn't for the girl's strange wings, pointed ears and vibrant hair, I might have mistaken her for a human. It begs the question of whether any I've spoken to in the past might have been Youkai in disguise.

"She doesn't seem like the type to use that word."

"From the perspective of someone who's only just met her, she must seem like a closeted type of person. Am I right?"

"Is that the case? She seems free, in her own way."

"Hm." She closes her eyes in thought, "That might be a good way to put it."

"She's a thoroughly joyless woman, though." I ask earnestly, "Uninterested in everything around her."

"If you came to this stall every day, wouldn't you get sick of it?"

"I don't know about that. It's got a nice atmosphere." I answer, "And, the only time I've seen her smile is when she's eating your cooking."

"If you're planning on staying in this place, you'll find a lot of other things she likes smiling about." The girl points out, "Speaking of which, you don't see many ghosts around here."

"I've been caught up in some unique circumstances." I explain, "So, for the time being, it looks like I'll be seeing a lot of her from now on."

"Don't work too hard." She advises, "How's the lamprey, at least?"

"I've never eaten one before, but it tastes a lot better than it looks." I compliment, standing up from my seat, "Thanks for the food."

"Don't be a stranger~" Her voice follows melodically out into the freezing air. This clearing seems to be a one-of-a-kind thing in the forest, but I haven't had any luck trying to get here myself. Retracing my steps just loops me around the forest like it did when I first arrived. Fujiwara stands outside with her hands in her pockets, a toothpick dancing in her mouth. Like always, she seems content to just stare into space, occupied with nothing in particular. It's a stark contrast to the focus she demonstrated during our fight.

"Oya, you took your time." Just like that, her eyes suddenly find me, "The new year's already here."

"So it seems." I look to the night sky as if it can tell me anything, "Shouldn't we be praying, in that case?"

"Feel free."

"Ah, no, I'm just saying that as a formality..." I wave my hand, "I doubt the Gods would be happy to hear from me."

Still, a new year.

Whenever my thoughts drift to the village, I find it difficult to remember anything clearly. Those whose names I once spoke on the regular have become engorged within a terrible chasm. This must be the trial of existing beyond death - having the sole 'purpose' of my death broadened out to shroud every other detail, until I exist only to accomplish one thing. I understand days not as they would be laid out on a calendar, but as a countdown towards the trial that awaits me next winter. Fujiwara implied that I'm allowed any number of chances at her life, though dying again is something I would rather avoid.

"Fujiwara." I close my eyes, "Be truthful with me."

"Hm?"

"Will I ever be able to kill you?"

She doesn't respond right away. I asked that question not out of any desire to know whether or not what I'm trying to do is even possible, but to see that pensive side of her again. When matters like death come up in conversation, she becomes someone else. Her eyes, normally purposeful, seem to gaze upon a plateau that will forever be invisible to me. The 'truth' of mortality that inhibits our circumstances is whole within her. I can understand only that much. Reaching out to touch the world that someone like her must exist in is impossible. To have stepped beyond the label of 'human', into something that can only vaguely interpret the thoughts of one so wise - it's a deeply frustrating feeling. Then, all of a sudden, she is here again, branding me with that expression which betrays no emotion.

A look of pure, unobstructed boredom.

"No."


The First Year - Winter

Fujiwara claims that she doesn't feel the cold anymore, although admits that winter has a way of leaving her tired out without getting much done. She'll happily waste away hours idling on the veranda with the doors wide open until her face is shocked a deep scarlet and her fingers turn blue from exposure. Coupled with her worrying habit of fasting, it's a miracle how she can look so fair and healthy despite putting her body through such thoughtless abuse. Despite that, she doesn't shy away from the alternative whenever it's available. When I spend afternoons splitting bamboo to fire up the hearth, she'll gladly wander inside. When I collect up the scraps of vegetables in the pantry to make stock and soup, she'll ask if I plan to make enough for the two of us. 'Thoughtless' may very well be the best word to describe her - she lacks a certain amount of autonomy in her day-to-day life, as if she'd be happy with withering away.

"...It's good." Like that, she'll compliment my cooking with a straight face, without the barest sliver of happiness.

"You've been saying that almost every day." I point out, "It's interesting how you're often considerate and aloof at the same time."

"Isn't it natural to say what's on your mind?" She wonders listlessly, "I may not look like it, but I can be impatient about a lot of things."

"Would you consider impatience a worthwhile trait, in that case?"

"That depends on whether the impatience itself is worthwhile to begin with."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"You want to turn this into a lesson?" For once, she seems focused on the conversation, "Like I said, I'm a bad teacher, so it might not even help you."

"Hm." I pause, "What does being impatient have to do with killing you?"

"When you came at me for the first time, you died because of it."

"Because of my impatience?"

"No." She corrects, "Because of mine."

"Excuse me?"

"Think about it." She continues, "If I have to spell everything out, then you won't learn a thing."

When I clashed with Fujiwara for the first time, the sole cause of my death wasn't my impatience, but hers.

How is it possible for that to make sense? Cultivating patience and stillness of mind is crucial to maintaining concentration during duels. Breath control, reaction speed, footwork - with patience, all of these are manageable, so naturally, embracing the opposite of that ideal can only lead to failure. Is Fujiwara implying that striking without thinking, purposefully ignoring an opponent's condition, can somehow be the correct thing to do? The thought brings me back to her brazen use of jōdan. A stance so laughably offensive that those without the heart to commit to it only end up sealing their own fates. There is only a single option: to bring one's sword down and kill an opponent in a single blow. It is the stance of a drunkard. A style blinded by rage.

But, it isn't constructive to see jōdan through such a biased lens. Many consider the path of the sword to be paved with honour, rather than violence, but there are also those who consider death, and the perpetuation of death, to be the sole defining characteristic of swordsmanship. A fine line separates this ideological conflict, argued for longer than there have been historians to record it. But Fujiwara was quick to prove that jōdan need not be practiced by the wrathful. Her application of it demonstrated an envious grace, a thin cunning which ultimately decided the outcome of the duel. That impatience surprised me, maybe only for a fraction of a second, but just enough to disarm me. The strict focus I tried to demonstrate fell apart when my expectations of a 'duel' were shattered. It's embarassing to admit, but my defeat really did come down to such a simple thing.

"Looks like you figured it out." Fujiwara observes my hanging head.

"I thought patience was crucial for swordsmen." I reply, "Have I taught myself poorly?"

"Mm, no. Not really." She answers, "More than patience, it's more about focus than anything else."

"I see. And, on that day..."

"-You weren't focused at all." She leans back, "Maybe you've convinced yourself that you didn't see my attack coming, but that would've been the case no matter what I did."

This, at least, I understand. In the days following our duel, I spent a great deal of time rationalising the final moments of my life, thinking of how things might have gone differently. But, the truth that I'm too afraid to face is that Fujiwara would have beaten me no matter what I might have done to stop it. Jōdan is excellent for powerful strikes, but even a master of the stance is still a slave to the limits of their body. Aiming for the head is ideal, since only so little damage has to be done to ensure a kill. The legend of cutting one's opponent in half with a single strike is certainly romantic, but to call it unrealistic would be an understatement. Fujiwara appears to be less inhibited by this sort of thing. With her slash, she cut into the flesh of my shoulder and travelled straight through my clavicle, splitting ribs like lengths of string, coming to a stop with her sword lodged halfway into my sternum. With a blade no larger than a kitchen knife, more rust than metal, she came close to doing what only the greatest of warriors armed with the most masterfully-forged weapons could only hope to accomplish.

Whether it was a slash, or a thrust, in whatever stance it might have been launched from, Fujiwara would have killed me. She was completely spoiled for choice.

"Ah, the fire's gone down again."

I'm no survivalist, so my fire making skills are a little underdeveloped. It's my first time having to use bamboo for fuel, and there's something about the way I place them on the hearth that always leaves a few stalks rolling away from the centre.

"Next time, cut them in half. They stay still that way." Fujiwara places her bowl on the ground and leans forward to rearrange the pile, "And, scrape the outsides for tinder. It'll start back up faster."

"The fire's died out now, so there's nothing for it. Your soup will be cold by the time you rekindle it."

And like that, her palm ignites.

It only lasts for a moment, but the sight is unmistakeable. In no time at all, another modest fire burns within the hearth, and the one which flickered in Fujiwara's hand is snuffed out. Retrieving her bowl, she considers me with the nonchalance I've come to expect from her. I'm proud of my own expression at the moment, so unaffected and neutral, yet with a resigned, tired quality to it that can only mean something strange has happened. With the vaguest note of realisation, she raises her free hand and produces another ember.

"This has a lot of practical uses, so sometimes I just do it without thinking."

"No, I don't doubt that." I'm flattered by her frankness, "...Well, I won't ask any unnecessary questions."

"Oya, now you're the one being considerate." She smirks, "Having a little curiosity is fine."

"Forgive me for sounding a little old-fashioned, but I wouldn't like to know too much about someone who's supposed to be my enemy."

"And yet you make her soup, and tell her that it's too cold to sit on the veranda. Unless you've poisoned the broth, I'd say you're doing a poor job of killing me."

"You said yourself that we'll duel again come next winter." I reply, "Until then, I'll ask you politely not to starve or freeze to death."

"So demanding." She mutters, "I suppose that's what I get for inviting a ghost into my home."

Her attitude is impenetrable. Only the chasm that separates humans and Youkai can explain how experience has shaped not only our conversations, but the very way we perceive the world around us. Fujiwara has the look of neither a Fairy nor an Oni, but much like the lands beyond the fragile borders of the village, her serene mystique inspires both wonder and fear. Even this humble flame which warms the hearth is an effect of her presence. To have seen and experienced so much that starvation and exposure exist only as afterthoughts - the gap between us must be truly immense.

"He's navelgazing again." Fujiwara plants her palms together after setting down her bowl, "Thanks for the food."

"...Mm." I lift my head, "Sorry. I have a bad habit of overthinking."

"Go find a waterfall if you feel like meditating."

"That's a strong word for it. I just like organising my thoughts after a meal."

"You cook all the time?"

"Yes. For myself, mostly."

"Sorry about the cheap ingredients. I normally don't get visitors."

"I'm best at making simple things like this, so there's nothing to apologise for." I reply, "It would be nice to have some meat, though."

"There's someone from the village who drops some supplies off every now and again." Fujiwara explains, "You probably know her. She teaches kids at the school."

"Oh, you're acquainted with the guardian?" I set my own bowl down, "I've never spoken to her, but that certainly does sound like something she would do."

As a lost spirit, it's impolite of me to remain attached to my earthly memories. As my experiences slide upon one-another, weighing down the layered understandings of my existence, these nostalgic glimpses into a simpler time will only become more convoluted and difficult to recall. I am sewn to the vengeance that perverted my dying wish, fated to become no more than an abstraction of the few beliefs I will be allowed to cling onto. For that reason alone, I should despise Fujiwara. And yet here I sit, making light conversation over an afternoon meal, born from the same fields and gardens that surrounded me in life, reminiscing on those who eked out their labours alongside me. Is cheating death so simple as this? Or am I yet to experience the worst of this unique situation?

I dread to know the answer.


The First Year - Spring

Winter's cruel chill blows well into the early days of spring. As greenery crops up from beneath the melting snow, the year moves effortlessly towards that day when Fujiwara and I will cross swords once more.

With the weather improving, I find myself less occupied with gathering bamboo and huddling over the hearth to stay warm. Bar Fujiwara's occasional wisdom, striking practice seems to be the only productive method of training I have. From the afternoons through to the late evenings, I test the power and speed of my blows against the cool breeze, trying to identify faults in my movements. For many years, this was the only 'way' I understood - improvement by sheer repetition, honing a single strike until it became second nature. The movement of my slashes is something so homely and comforting to me. The many turbulent hurdles and emotions I've endured have all been expressed through this simple practice. There is a kind of beauty in that, I always thought. At least, until Fujiwara had some thoughts of her own about it one day, observing me quietly from the veranda.

"That's wrong." She speaks without much strictness in her voice, "Look - your stance is all messed up. You need to plant your feet firmly."

I've never been instructed on my swordsmanship. Those in the village with martial interests would typically pick up archery so that their training could be put to good use hunting game. Those who were once proficient with the blade are now long gone, and so their scribbled teachings, alongside antiquated reading material from the book store, have formed the pillar upon which I study their ways.

Contemporary swordsmen from the outside world - those who were known as samurai, acted as retainers for individuals in seats of political power, some of whom were responsible for maintaining settlements housing as many as one million villagers. The scope of such a place is something I can never bring myself to believe, but even more impressive must have been the strength of these samurai, who used their formidable skills to achieve peace for so many. Surely such warriors could have duelled and even defeated Youkai like Fujiwara at the peaks of their strength.

"Like this-" She alters my posture with a surprisingly gentle touch, "Bend your knees more."

Of course, having no flesh-and-blood tutor comes with its share of problems. Honing a strike has no purpose if one's methodology is flawed from the get-go. Fostering bad habits is a masterful strategy if you're keen on watching your foundations crumble in the moment where they matter the most. I've always tried to remain aware of this, but the writings and illustrations of those long departed from this world can only take me so far. While having my basics criticised by someone for the first time is a little embarassing, becoming so humbled must be the first step towards true improvement.

"Stop worrying so much." Fujiwara continues, "It's written all over your face."

"When a thought bothers me, I try to pinch it shut before it flowers into something that keeps me up at night."

"Bad dreams are for the Baku-" She steps back after posing me like a mannequin, "-so have the politeness to hold onto them."

My stance can't help but feel off. If I truly have been studying incorrectly all these years, then it's only natural that proper footwork will seem unfamiliar. It's difficult to imagine what I look like, but Fujiwara doesn't seem like the type to joke around much. The lower positioning of my knees and the wider space between my feet will translate to a deeper movement when I step forward to strike, adding reach and power to my blow. It'll take some getting used to, but even an amateur like myself can appreciate how such a small change can result in a big difference.

"When you practice your swings like this, what do you imagine cutting?" She folds her arms.

"Hm?" I relax my body, "Is that a trick question? I cut the air. I don't have to imagine anything."

"How do you plan on swinging through someone if you don't know what it feels like?"

"What do you expect me to do about that? There's a shortage of people to cut down in the middle of a bamboo forest."

"In the outside world, samurai used criminals to test the quality of their blades. But you can't do that for one-and-a-half reasons."

"Putting aside the cruelty of what you just said, I don't think there is such a thing as a half-reason."

"The first is that someone like you wouldn't be trusted with it." She points at me, "Notice that I said the quality of their blades, not the quality of their cuts. Their skills were so refined that the quality of the blade itself was the limiting factor, instead of the other way around."

"In short, you're just saying that I'm too poor with a sword to be worthy of testing one."

"The second is a little complicated." She ignores me completely, "But it has to do with the fact that there aren't any convenient prisoners around for us to execute."

"Please don't make it sound like the idea of that excites you."

"-But like I said, that's only a half-reason." And like that, she pats her chest confidently, "Because we've got me."

"Dare I ask what you mean by that?"

She looks at the floor while gauging the distance between us, stopping and throwing her arms out wide with a plain expression on her face.

"Cut me." She invites, "So you can remember the feeling."

Like always, I find myself waving my hand in dismissal, "I appreciate the effort, but joking around like that is too far even for you."

"I insist."

"No, no..." I wave faster to emphasise my point, "Insistent as you might be, this is absolutely some kind of practical joke no matter how you put it."

"If you think you're going to kill me, don't let that stop you." She replies, "Isn't this what you want?"

"Whether it is or not, nobody offers up their own body as a practice dummy."

"That's a narrow way of thinking. I'm doing it right now." She bickers, "I'm giving you this one opportunity to kill me without any bells or whistles attached, so why not take it?"

What she says makes perfect sense. I can't pretend I'm occupying some higher moral ground when the sole reason I'm here is to one day cut her life short. Effortlessly, this whole charade could come to an end without any particular fanfare, and I would be free to embrace the afterlife. This chance is a 'test' in and of itself, intended by Fujiwara or not. The answer comes to me quickly, spurred on by the base ideal which prevents me from touching upon the offer. In short, the 'preparedness' of such a conclusion wouldn't inspire any unexplainable tears from an onlooker, whose heart would remain unmoved by the sheer nonchalance of our interaction. No - to fulfil this dream of mine, a certain love has to exist in battle, otherwise how can the sword be justified? I reject the pointless violence offered up in this conversation.

"Are you..." I begin slowly, "...the type of person who wants death, Fujiwara?"

Is it wrong to say that a divine hand lent me towards those words? A meaningless sentence that relates to nothing I'm familiar with, aimed at someone I couldn't understand less about, and yet which could only have been described as 'the perfect question in that particular moment' if I was forced to give it a title. If these past months can be described as 'training', then this is surely the moment where my theory, if only a small part of it, has crystallised into something worthwhile.

Those words reach her. The stoicism I've come to expect from Fujiwara fades away, if only for the briefest of moments. Perhaps in the pursuit of what I would call 'romance', I've managed to tread on her own ideals, whatever they may be. Annoyance, anger, or contempt - some broad, hateful emotion crosses her face in the instant I'm given to witness a reaction, before her features dissolve back into that unaffected, cool façade.

"Hm." Without meeting my gaze, she turns her back, "All of a sudden, I don't really feel like teaching you anything else today."

'Today' eventually turned into two days, and then three. I apologised to her, of course. It was obvious even from that brief glimpse into her world that what I said had struck some deep nerve. Predictably, she wasn't the type to forgive me. I was enlightened to a peculiar side of her then. One more sensitive than I could know she had in her. Even when she began acting as though nothing had happened a week later, the meaning of my own words continued to elude me. Did her reaction imply that I was on the mark? Are there truly those in this world who seek out death rather than hide from it?

Somehow, though I'd learned nothing, it felt as though I'd moved forward in a strange way.


"Sorry to keep troubling you like this."

"Please, don't worry about it." A proper voice replies, "I know it must be difficult living out here, so this is the least I can do."

"Even so, it's a lot to just give away for free." I eye the patterned bags, "Not to mention how long the trip must be from the village."

"You say that, but is this really enough for the two of you?"

"Ah, I'm an expert at making a little go a long way, so this will be plenty."

"How dependable." She flashes a warm smile, "Is Mokou off on one of her walks?"

"She could be doing anything, for all I know." I reply, "Like always, she's disappeared without a trace."

"That coldness of hers has a habit of melting away when it matters." The woman bows, "I'll be leaving her in your care, so please make sure she's eating properly."

"I could pour out some tea if you feel like waiting for her."

"On any other day, I may have taken you up on that offer, but I'm afraid this isn't the last of my errands."

"I see. I won't take up any more of your time, if that's the case."

"Please give her my regards."

With another bow, she begins backtracking quietly through the bamboo thicket, unafraid of being led astray.

The woman named Keine is undoubtedly the same one who calls herself the village's guardian. I hadn't exchanged so much as a greeting with her during my time among the living, but I recall her name crossing the mouths of children on a daily basis. It's fortunate that her generosity is as far-flung as Fujiwara's modest home with how difficult it is foraging for two stomachs in such an inhospitable place. This isn't the first time Keine has come bearing gifts since my arrival, although it is my first time speaking to her without Fujiwara nearby. It's comforting, at least a little, to know that she isn't completely alone out here.

Untying the weighty hempen bags fills me with more excitement than usual. Alongside a healthy crop of vegetables, Keine went through the extra trouble of packing in a selection of meats and heaped portions of rice. In the spirit of the changing seasons, I thought it would be productive to switch up our eating habits. Soup is all well and good through the winter, but I'm almost embarrassed to admit that my time spent here has left me craving some more indulgent meals. It does bother me having to rely on the village's own hard-earned supplies, but I am neither a hunter nor a farmer, and this is already far more than I deserve.

"Hmhm..." But even so, I find myself grinning while thinking of tonight's dinner.

Though, as always, barely an hour passes before my hopes and dreams are flattened.

"Oi." When Fujiwara reappears, she somewhat proudly shows off the basket she had taken with her, "I'm going to cook tonight."

"Good evening to you as well. What's gotten you so motivated all of a sudden?" A cool breeze fills the room, "Miss Keine came by earlier, so I was actually looking forward to making dinner."

"There's no real reason for it." Her answer comes without commitment, "Seeing you do it all the time just got me in the mood."

"There's plenty to work with, so help yourself." I reply, "What have you got in that basket that you're so proud of?"

"I picked these mushrooms." She pulls one out, "Did Keine drop off some rice? I might use some of that."

"Oh, that doesn't sound half bad." I fold my arms, "If only we had some soy sauce... or, maybe grilled fish on the side..."

"I've been keeping my mouth shut about it, but you're kind of a glutton."

"I keep my portions modest, so 'gourmand' would be a better- hm?" My eyes catch something, "...Actually, could I have a look at those mushrooms?"

She hands the basket over without any fuss. I pinch one of the stalks between my fingers and lift up the off-yellow cap to have a closer look.

"I thought so." I frown, half-disappointed, "These are poisonous."

"Huh?" She puts her hands in her pockets, "...Come to think of it, the last time I ate those, I did end up blacking out for a while."

"And you didn't take that as a sign not to eat them again?"

"Maybe I was just tired?"

"I'm going to act like I didn't hear such a ridiculous response."

"Then I'll throw them out, if they're no good." She concludes, kneeling down to grab the basket, "Looks like I'll be counting on you to make dinner again."

"You're welcome to help, if it pleases you." I offer, "Food tastes better when you make it yourself, after all."

"I'll think about it." In a way that's much like her, she already has her back turned.

Is she frustrated? Surely most people would be, wasting away hours just to have their labours thrown back at them, but expectantly, that kind of attitude doesn't fit her at all. She seems a master of 'draining' any particularly strong emotions away when it suits her, as if skipping the natural expectations of a conversation, participating every-so-often in the myriad segments that capture her interest. From an outside perspective, that style of engagement seems incredibly lonely, but to someone so remote, isn't she given the right to feel only what she wants to feel?

"Fujiwara."

On the veranda's threshold, she gives her attention to me, and yet her unfocused gaze is all I need to tell that her soul isn't truly there.

"I appreciate the trouble." I mutter simply, "It was thoughtful. So, thank you. I'd like to taste your cooking one day."

These aren't the words one shares with an enemy - much less an enemy who often seems so aloof and disconnected. It's only right, then, to say that we aren't enemies at all. A true 'duel' can only be experienced with that kind of understanding, however it might be expressed. Finding meaning in these small moments is the only chance I have at seeing past the death that awaits me on that day.

Fujiwara's weathered poker face is the reaction I've come to expect from everything.

Then, like nothing could be simpler, she smiles.

"Pleasant words like those-" Her ribbons dance in the breeze, "-don't suit you at all."


The First Year - Summer

Look, and you shall find.

Striding through the bamboo forest without a purpose will always result in one becoming hopelessly lost. Errant children and those down on their luck can easily find themselves tracking their own footsteps before long. On the other hand, strolling unerringly and aimlessly past the stalks with no particular route in mind will often bring wanderers to the destination that they seek, provided they're searching for one. And there is only one such place worth discovering.

Of course, with centuries of experience, Fujiwara no Mokou can mentally place herself in the labyrinth of bamboo no matter where she ends up. For that reason, she's become something of an expert at happening upon those who have lost their way, and somewhere along the line, it seems that she's gained a reputation as the bamboo forest's unofficial guide. Whether she's satisfied with such a title or not won't change her habit of pointing lost humans and youkai in the right direction like some kind of walking signpost. It's not often, however, that she's burdened with guiding animals. On a cloudless day at the beginning of summer, interrupted from one of her mindful strolls, she kneels down to meet it - this diminutive rabbit, its coat spotless and as white as snow.

"Eientei lost one of you, huh?" She speaks, "If you don't hurry back to the mansion, a monster like me is bound to eat you up."

The two who control the rabbit-bodied servants of Eintei seem like they have their heads in the clouds, but the tight leash they manage to keep on the creatures for most of the year is impressive. It brings Mokou some minor enjoyment knowing that they've managed to misplace one, and like always, it would be her job to lead it back.

"Alright~" She stands up enthusiastically, "Let's get you back to where you belong."

Not all who wander are lost. Whoever traverses the forest for a purpose beyond curiosity will naturally seek Eientei's well-stocked pharmacy, commonly for some miraculous cure-all that doesn't actually exist. Far be it from Mokou to suggest that the mansion hasn't saved many lives in the past, but after more than a millennium of perfect health, medicine seems to have lost its miraculous lustre in her eyes. Nonetheless, arriving at Eientei unannounced is one of the few spices she makes use of to temper her boredom, and she will pass up few excuses to do so. The rabbit, enlightened also to the mystery of the 'guide', hops steadily alongside Mokou's wake.

The building's formidable height makes it an important landmark for any who wish to make sense of the forest. Through the wide-open entranceway sits a mostly featureless room designed to receive and dismiss guests and patients from. Per usual, the sharply-dressed Reisen is on reception duty today as well, who greets Mokou with a bow and a pleasant smile. A sterile scent of medicine laces the air.

"Good afternoon." Her drooping ears twitch slightly, "I'm afraid the princess left for a stroll about half an hour ago."

"I'm not here to pick a fight, you'll be glad to hear." Mokou kneels down to scoop the rabbit up in both hands, "I just came to return this little one."

"Ah, thank you! It's always worrying whenever they disappear." She replies, "It's fortunate that we have someone as dependable as you to rely on."

"Don't worry about it." Setting the rabbit down, she rests her elbows on the counter, "How's business?"

"Slow, but considering what we sell, maybe that's a good thing?" Reisen answers, "The full moon will arrive shortly, so the rabbits are getting quite excited."

"Try to keep a close eye on them. I don't see every little thing that happens here."

"Are you keeping yourself occupied?"

"You could say that."

"Recently you've been turning up less and less, so I thought that might be the case."

"My time's getting eaten up by something out of my control. It'll be a while before I get some peace and quiet."

"And how long is a 'while' for someone like yourself?"

"About a decade."

"...Well, try not to neglect the princess too much. She's prone to becoming bored herself."

"It's your job to entertain her." Mokou steps back, "We're not playing around. I don't drop by to have fun."

"You're as forward as always." Reisen smiles thinly at the sight of Mokou's ashen hair bobbing towards the entrance, "Take care of yourself, Miss Mokou."

The humiliation that once steeped her blood in fire has simmered down to a tolerable acceptance over the course of these last thousand years. Kaguya may never die - there are none who can understand that truth as well as Mokou. A frustration which once gripped her fully, made her lash out at the world for its cruel unfairness, surfaces now only in the brief periods when the two of them clash for whatever poor reason it happens to be that day. With the passing of her 'revenge' comes a withered emptiness only half-liable to ignite, a soot-covered artefact of the past long overdue to be forgotten. How many times has she considered this already? Across how many hundreds of decades has she philosophised the same, tired expectations of what it means to be 'alive' in this woundless, immortal body?

Thinking about it puts her in a bad mood, simply put.

"Hmph!"

Her soaring kick shears a stalk of bamboo in half, its hollow length clattering noisily as it falls to the ground. Ever silent, the forest gives no reply to her outburst, still and sedated by the shy beginnings of the summer heat. With her hands in her pockets, Mokou's attitude quickly cools off as she intentionally wavers from the beaten path sculpted out by years of pilgrimage to Eientei, wandering as if blind towards the inevitability of her home suddenly popping into view. What was once a long period of solitude for her has evolved into something more troublesome now that a ghost has taken up residence in the one place she dares to call her own.

That one is also like them, in a way. Trapped within life. Only, the hope of a future blanketed by death still exists in his heart. A hope founded in good faith but destined to fall apart wonderfully. It is, after all, impossible to take revenge on one who is immortal. This truth, Mokou understands all too well. A truth that would absolutely send him to the edge of rationality, forced to discover that his efforts, for all the years it may take for them to bear fruit, will have been in vain. It's only merciful that she doesn't tell him, so that, for a short while, he can feel the same fleeting hope that she once did.

"Oh, Fujiwara." As she graces the veranda, he greets her like that, "You were out for a while today."

"Always so formal..." She mutters, "Just call me Mokou if it's easier."

"Hm?" The out-of-place comment gives him pause for a moment, "Well, I don't mind, but what's brought this up all of a sudden?"

"There's no answer to a question like that." She replies whimsically.

"Even so, the way that your name is written is a little antiquated, isn't it?" He turns his back to her, "So, I always addressed you as if you were someone important."

"Oya?" She sits down by the hearth, "Are they teaching that kind of stuff in the village nowadays?"

"Am I correct?"

"Mm-" She suddenly falls silent, "What are you cooking?"

Rather than admit anything to him, she pauses tellingly and tries to divert the conversation elsewhere. It fits her so poorly that the silence which follows is completely unbreakable. When their conversation bared the slightest hint of becoming personal, she needed to seek freedom from it. The idea of offering that scant closeness to another inspired panic in her. And yet, with nowhere else to run, she becomes unsuitably timid and questioning of herself, forcing this dire, sensitive atmosphere into her own home. For an instant, she may have worried. But now, forced to contend with the aftermath, she feels only embarrassment.

"I'm sorry." He quietly apologises, "It seems there are subjects that even you don't like to discuss."

"Didn't you say something about not wanting to get too close to your enemy?"

"And wasn't it you who said that it's fine to have some curiosity?"

"Ah! So annoying..." Mokou lays down with her arms folded behind her head, "You just say whatever's on your mind, don't you?"

"Are you worried that I'll dislike you?" He replies, "We've already agreed to murder one-another, so our relationship can't get much worse."

"Whether you dislike me or not isn't something that bothers me." She answers coldly, "I'll answer your questions if I feel like it."

"Then answer me this, if it pleases you."

As if to concentrate, his hand become still, and the sound of vegetables being chopped comes to an abrupt end.

"Fujiwara... Mokou." He begins, "Could it be possible that you're not a Youkai at all?"

To her, being asked such a thing is only natural. It is the truth, after all, and not an especially complicated one. Many of the Youkai who dwell within Gensokyo tread a line between the mundane and the supernatural, so she fits in quite convincingly. But it doesn't take a great deal of observation to parse the aspects of Mokou that emphasise her humanity. For as listless as she may act, it's plain for most to discover that the heart which beats in her chest is wholly human.

"Isn't that much obvious?" So, naturally, she can only respond in that way, "I'm a human."

He returns to cutting without much of a response, "Is that so?"

"You don't seem surprised."

"Oh no, I am. It's actually a little overwhelming to hear that." He explains, "Or, maybe 'surprised' isn't the right word for it."

"It's no secret. Most people around here already know."

"Then, were you born outside the village? You seem around my age, but I've certainly never met you before."

She nods, "I was raised out here. My father passed away when I was young, so I learned to fend for myself."

"That's quite impressive."

"Because it's a lie." She states plainly, "I'm from the outside world. Beyond the barrier."

A beat passes between them.

"Uh-" Again, he begins to wave his hand, "Sorry, but that sounds way more like a lie than what you just told me."

"Believe it or not. It doesn't bother me." She sits up, "I was born in Nara."

"Nara..." He repeats, "Is that... a village? One in the outside world?"

"Mm." Mokou lowers her head and pauses, "Hmhmhm..."

She covers her mouth with one hand, a chorus of stifled, boyish laughter suppressing itself in her grip. The passing centuries have whittled her sense of humour down to an affectless nub, and so she finds herself amused by very little, but hearing this philistine yokel calling Nara a 'village' seems to scratch a spot she hasn't been able to touch in decades. Just like back then, too afraid to even think about it lest her laughter double in volume - really, how long has it been since she last felt like this?

"Cities..." She manages between breaths, "They're called... they're called 'cities' once they- pfft-"

Too surprised to find her laughter contagious, the ghost preparing a meal can only blink as Mokou begins to work out the last of her chuckles, coughing a few times for good measure.

"Cities." She sighs, flashing a pleased smirk, "Once they get to a certain size, you start calling them cities instead."

"Is it really that amusing?"

"There was something about the way that you said it." She replies, "I'm feeling refreshed now."

"You seemed like a different person for a moment." He points out, "I can barely recognise you whenever you smile."

"Say whatever you like. I may be out-of-touch, but I'm not some loner who never enjoys herself."

"Even so, to have lived in a place like that..."

He tries to imagine it, but nothing can envision its scale. The world beyond the barrier is a dream that crosses the mind of just about every human in Gensokyo at some point. For as large as this land is, the temptation of something greater beyond it has a way of nuzzling into one's mind. What wondrous things humans must accomplish in numbers that defy all imagination. It is a distant thing to him now, separated from even his own village, but wistfully, he dares dream of a future where his eyes might scour the world outside.

"It's fantasy to someone like me." He concludes, "Though, from what I've learned, it seems that the outside world also sees its fair share of trouble."

"Conflict is always brewing somewhere." Mokou adds, "It can't be helped when there are so many humans together at once."

"Is that why you came here? To avoid conflict?" He asks, "Or, perhaps I should be asking how you arrived in Gensokyo?"

"It's only natural that you want to hear more after that." She stands up, "But, believe me when I say that there are some questions you wouldn't like hearing the answer to."

"Are you going out again?"

"My walk got interrupted, so I'll need another one to take my mind off it."

"Come back at a reasonable time. I'll end up eating without you."

"If you spent as much time training as you do cooking, I might actually have something to worry about come winter."

"They say to stick to what you know."

"Tell yourself whatever you like." With her back turned, she raises her hand in departure, "You're running out of time."

Her footsteps become entangled with the cool breeze as she sets out once more.

That simple reminder is enough to leave him feeling exhausted about the situation. In what feels like such a short visit, the two of them have been bickering constantly for just over half a year. Weeks seem to pass like hours, and his experiences only accumulate marginally. There's no doubt in either of their minds as to who the victor of this year's duel could be. With a sidelong glance, he considers his sword, uselessly propped up in a quiet corner, its motions still the same, loathsome practices he once honed in life. His sigh is as disappointed as he can manage.

And, like that, it was almost as if summer had passed the very next day.


The First Year - Autumn

There's nothing left to consider.

These past few months, I've been devoting about an hour or so each day to ruminating on the upcoming duel between Fujiwara and I. It's proven to be extremely difficult attempting to pry wisdom from what little I understand about her style of swordsmanship. As a result of that, my thoughts constantly divert into hyper-focused strategies revolving around the few techniques I've been able to witness. If this tunnel vision overwhelms me, I'll find myself surprised by even the slightest thing when we cross blades once more.

Her speed is what frightens me. The ease with which she strikes is enough to best a swordsman greater than I, to say nothing about the tremendous power her swings carry. In that special moment when mortality rears its head, the threat of death can inspire hidden strengths to appear - even in the world of beasts, the soon-to-be-dead are often the harshest fighters. If I were to feel that rush myself, would it be possible for me to block or parry one of Mokou's attacks? Whether I want to or not doesn't change the problem. My reactions are in serious need of honing. If Mokou is truly human, then her speed is something I can hope to one day match.

But what can I do to accomplish that?

"Parrying?" One day, she entertains my question listlessly, "That wouldn't really work with the logic you're using."

"How so?"

"If I go for a feint, you'd be too focused on trying to counter it."

"I see. Another example of how too much focus can be detrimental."

"There's no such thing as 'too much' focus." Mokou continues, "Like you just mentioned, that kind of single-minded thinking is just tunnel vision. There's nothing focused about it."

"In that case, what should I be concentrating on? Anticipating a feint while also readying myself for a parry seems quite difficult."

"You won't get anywhere thinking like that." She scolds, "It's easier than it sounds."

"Then show me."

"Hm." Her eyes close in thought, "...Alright."

Lazily, she stands up from the veranda and begins to walk inside, "Give me a second."

The short clearing in front of the house is kept clear of bamboo shoots to create some breathing room. I've been using it to practice my swings, and when the time comes, it seems like the only suitable stage for our duel. More than half a year ago, this same yard of dirt, layered with snow, drank deep of my blood. My vengeful soul is tied to it and the rest of this forest. In that perverted way, it has become sacred ground to me, feeding my thirst for redemption. This lonely existence, for the moment, is peaceful. My hate is buried. A thought bubbles up to the surface - a dream that no spirit deserves to have.

That, finding this place, and meeting Mokou, might have been nice under different circumstances.

I was expecting to see her rusted blade again, but she instead comes out brandishing a wooden practice sword.

"You seem eager." I notice as she walks over, "Every other time I asked for something like this, you just waved me away."

"All the time I spend rejecting you is going to add up to longer than the time it'll take to show you." She replies, "If you want to live a life without regrets, you need to think efficiently like that."

"Then divulge your greatest weakness to me, so that we can end this ugly business before the new year arrives."

"Yakitori."

"Let's pretend this conversation never happened."

"Fine by me. Go ahead and take a stance." With lazy movements, she does so herself, "I'll do something you've already seen before. Try to parry it."

Working into that familiar position, she raises her weapon high above her head, ready to strike. From such a high vantage, her arms are as extended as they need to be during a strike. Whether it was down to shock or incompetence, I was never able to appreciate the speed of her overhead slash last we fought. Parrying isn't so simple a business as just seeing an attack coming. An understanding of the specific technique being used is crucial to placing a blade defensively. I could catch a weaker strike against the guard of my sword, but it would be risky trying something like that on a blow with Mokou's full strength behind it. I'll need a strategy with some more finesse.

"Oi. If this was a real fight, I would've killed you by now."

"I'm just thinking about how to do this."

"If you have time to think, then be impulsive."

Without another word, she steps forward, and her strike falls forward.

True, some answers can only be found in the moment. Between the milliseconds that follow, I find myself grasped by the same, short-lived terror that preceded my death. Inspiration comes quickly, without any time to consider what led to my conclusion. I can follow the same line that Mokou's blade once traced through the ice-cold air. My feet carry me alongside that deadly portrait. My hands move, not rising up to meet the slash, but retreating to my side. Something heavy and brutal misses my skull by an inch - a shadow that my eyes can't follow, splintering into the dirt with a sickening noise.

I knew it was coming. That exact movement. All I had to do was step out of the way.

"Oh~ nice dodge." Mokou compliments, "I thought you wanted to parry it?"

"I..." There's a ringing in my ears, "I didn't see it coming."

"Your body did the next best thing." She replies, "Though, that's only because you knew what to expect, right?"

"Right. But what good is that?"

"Better than standing still."

"Even so, I don't really feel like I learned anything."

"You learned how to give yourself some breathing room." She stares at my blade, "You were in the right position for a counterattack."

"I could've aimed for your back. But I didn't." I point to her own weapon, "Because, you were getting ready to follow that up."

A deep overhead slash has some real weight behind it. Miss, and you'll end up in an awkward pose that exposes your back to the enemy. One clean strike at the spine is an opportunity almost too tempting to pass up. But, with some forethought, it's possible to convert such a slash into something else. A low-hanging body with one's blade pointing forward is a fantastic stance to launch a thrust by extending the crouch, or a follow-up slash that travels back through the motion that led into it, lifting the body up.

"Defence only takes you so far." Mokou practices a few swings, "You can't expect every attack to have an opening."

"Then it would be better if I made the first move."

"Something like that. You still haven't tried anything on me that wasn't a surprise attack."

"If I couldn't hit you when you weren't expecting it, what are the chances-"

"Then follow it up." She interrupts, "Like I was about to do. We're not gonna be taking turns swinging. You need to press every advantage."

"Hm..."

I can't help but feel frustrated. Securing this minor step forward has only left me with greater hurdles to overcome. How dissimilar can our attitudes towards learning be that Mokou seems so far ahead of me? It feels as though I've managed to skip some crucial step, setting us worlds apart from one-another. Rising to her level is certainly a dream of mine. Or, it would be more right to say that we would have never met if it wasn't for that kind of ambition. I've been granted this chance to watch an ideal world crystallise before my eyes, to create a abstraction of some faraway society I can never reach. This beauty is mine to enjoy. What's stopping me?

Fear. Fear of embracing this existence. What bubbled up as a dream has devoured too many important sensibilities. Now, emotions come surging forth from the lock, repressed feelings and thoughts mixing with the entitlement to a real, meaningful moment.

I don't,

want to die again.


The First Year - Snowfall

It comes in the darkness of the early morning.

Without alarm, by some destiny-driven hand, the soundless white rouses me from a world of dreams. Streaks of stars within the cloudless night sky sit patiently behind a curtain of bamboo, awaiting the performance. I remove the crumbs of sleep from my eyes with the urgency of someone unprepared to die, quietly sliding back the doors to the veranda behind me.

"Yo."

Mokou sits here already, as she often does, greeting me with her back turned while setting a bottle on the porch. The hope of escaping this reality and having just a few moments to think for myself, taken away like so many other things. Between us, the understanding of this snowfall thickens the air of apathy which follows along our charade, the line splitting acquaintance and enemy blurring.

Today, in this unassuming forest, a meaningless duel will decide nothing.

For the first time, I sit down to join Mokou in her thoughtful daydreaming. She pours the bottle once more after downing her share. A delicate hand offers me the dish, brimmed to the edge.

"Drink." She offers.

"I didn't know we had such luxuries."

"Mystia lent it to me." Her arm continues to hover, "I told her it was a special occasion."

"Then I'll help myself, if you don't mind."

In life, I had no love for drinking, and yet I loved it enough to know that this single bottle isn't enough to forget about today. A sweet flavour follows down my gullet - something more delicate than the village's sake. Like that, minutes pass in a silence broken only by the sound of pouring, as the humble dish is handed off endlessly to-and-fro. The snow loses itself in Mokou's silverish hair and my bleached garments. Beginnings of a warmth that might have become something more comforting rear up in my core.

"You're a good drinker."

"There's no such thing."

"Everything in moderation." She continues to pour, "I just do it out of habit nowadays."

"You don't strike me as the type."

"You don't know a thing about me."

"We've been living in the same home for a year. Even if it's not much, I know a few things."

"Eh..." Like always, she doesn't consider my words much, "You certainly know more about me than I know about you."

"Then, what few things do you know about me?"

"You're terrible with a sword."

"Maybe that's all that matters." I reply, "But, if you have any questions, I wouldn't mind answering them."

"What's your name?"

"My-" I fall silent, "...Masashi."

"From what family?"

"I'm not worthy of even whispering my family's name." Pausing to accept another drink, I continue, "Me and my ancestors are a disgrace to this world."

"Your parents aren't around?"

A sliver of sadness overtakes me.

I shake my head.

"Mm..." Mokou's affectless attitude dissolves thoughtfully, "Sorry."

"It's important to remember." I find myself staring into the snow, "They loved me. Even at the end of it all, they loved me. It would be selfish of me to forget that."

"Is that why you came out here?" She wonders, "Did you want to die?"

"Mokou."

For a moment, she doesn't answer, "...What is it?"

"No matter how far fate pushes us-" I hand the dish over, "-death is not something we should ever seek."

Within despair, we're able to witness true cruelty. And yet, life's challenges are studded with reason and purpose besides what we can experience in a single, fleeting moment. Stepping beyond that has to be a form of growth - it has to be, else where is justice, or happiness - for what other purpose could we shoulder our burdens across the wide earth?

"You're wrong."

Mokou dismisses my thoughts on a daily basis. The two of us couldn't be more opposed in our ways of life. But this, she disregards with an uncanny confidence.

"Death is an answer for some. A rebirth." She refutes, "And altogether, death is too personal to be rejected like that."

"Whether it's an answer or a rebirth, or as personal as you say it is, death can contribute nothing to happiness. Not to ourselves or to others."

"And what have you contributed, with that sword?" She presses, "Your self-defeating attitude is what got you killed. You were looking for death that day."

"That's not true." I deny, "On that day, I discovered a sliver of what I was really searching for. The same thing that brought me back here."

"And what is it that you're looking for in a duel besides death?"

Her tone makes it seem as though no answer exists. From a realistic point of view, one can never exist. No, even realism doesn't constrain its connotations. A duel is synonymous with death. To fight is to die. To kill is to die. The death of the self, the death of the soul, the death of the body. Masterful in skill they may be, but a swordsman has no shortage of wounds whether victorious or defeated. I cannot answer. wistful - inhibited and insensitive to my own weakness. The last of what can be called the 'wisdom' in my heart, invalidated by the common truth. I am wrong.

"Love."

"Lo-" Mokou cuts herself off, "...Love, huh."

Maybe she understands. In fact, it's not unlikely that she does. Rather than a critique, she stands up from the porch and walks into the clearing.

"Go get your sword."


In another world, this soil may have been blessed with seeds and water. But in ours, it drinks only blood.

It's almost nostalgic. Even with the sun yet to rise, I can recall the smallest details of this place as if our first duel had happened only yesterday. In this spot, just a few paces ahead, was where I had fallen face-first into the snow. For a year, the coldness of death has inhabited my body throughout the changing seasons, but standing here, I can feel the warmth of my soul hovering just inches away. Again, my virgin blade tastes cold air, unfurled once more for the sake of violence. For the sake of love, only barely understood, my grip tightens.

A basic stance, for a basic approach. The tip freezes at head-height, staunchly held, and my breathing steadies.

I feel stronger. If only a little.

"Hm." Mokou seems as bored as ever, but for once, her eyes are alive, "Not bad. You were shaking like a leaf the first time."

"I was starving to death, among other things."

"If only you had the sense to ask. I might've given you some food."

"If only."

A flowering smirk appears on her face, "If only."

The short silences between us seem heavier now. Brushed into the nooks of our conversation are pauses and lulls that invoke some kind of dreamlike interaction. We circle one-another perfectly, around the perimeter of this clearing but never daring to step closer. As the writings of the strongest retell, a duel starts not with blood but with debate. We divulge everything we can through the veil of personality that hides our practical intentions. I can see even Mokou's abstract mind strategizing, the way her eyes examine my movements and twitches.

She brandishes the same blade as before. Somehow, its edge has survived another year past its prime. It's difficult, but I try to disperse any underestimating thoughts about it. However rusted or old, it was the weapon that killed me so many moons ago. The discoloured flesh sinking down from my chest seems to pulse in anticipation of another deadly strike, my heart preparing itself for another lifeless trip across the river of souls.

"Though it's a little rude, I want to consider this our first duel." My hands tighten, "Fujiwara no Mokou."

"Ah, this kind of atmosphere never gets old..." She seems excited, somehow, "Not knowing what's about to happen has a way of making your heart race."

"That's true." I close my eyes, "This situation... it's the sort of thing I'm beginning to enjoy as well."

Slowly, we draw close to one-another. Careful management of distance is just one of the many factors that contribute to a victory. As before, I outrange Mokou by a considerable amount, but trying to press that advantage too honestly is what resulted in my loss. If I wish to thrust, I need to do so on my own initiative. In the cool winds of autumn, I dodged one of her lightning-fast slashes, if only because I knew precisely what was coming, but that knowledge will help me greatly. For the slightest chance at a counterattack, anticipation must be my greatest ally.

Stopping just a hair's width outside of that crucial striking distance, the same dangerous anxieties begin to overwhelm me again. This thought of dying once more - whether cursed to rise again or not, it still frightens me. I dare not gulp my nerves down. I divert not a millisecond's worth of attention to the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Though my eyes water, I resist the urge to blink. On the contrary, Mokou remains as still as a corpse, her breath invisible in the cool morning air.

"Hmph!"

So I strike. Before fear consumes all confidence, my blade is lifted high, and with an uncontested step forward, brought down with all the strength I can manage.

It's a sound so unfamiliar to me. Metal, screeching in protest, begging to be freed. I have no instinct to cut, or to push past, but my lowered stance remains, straining against some incredible force pushing back my blow. A deep step-in has translated into quite a powerful slash, one more vicious that I would consider myself comfortable with. Mokou defended, naturally, but rather than attempting some elegant parry, she settled for catching our blades together inches from her neck. Forced into such a closely-held block, she must now push back from below, giving me an advantage. Of course, given her strength, it's unlikely that I'll be able to force her down any further.

Only, what will I do now? I have Mokou on the back foot, but it seems like the gap in our experience will play a part in my failure yet again.

My thoughts give credence to unpredictability. What ifs spread and commune in my grey matter within the span of a few milliseconds. Plans construct and fall apart marvellously, ideas with no basis in practical reality persist and flower with favourable outcomes. One, two, three, four - time ticks earnestly past our unwitnessed duel, with no spectators to scream at our expertise, no close friends to wallow at our failures and deaths. What do those from the village think about my disappearance? Do any of them remember me? The book store owner? The river fishermen? The early-afternoon shogi players in the square? Just once, in the single coherent moment that passes then, I think to myself, "What a lonely life I lived."

My stance drops.

And within that instant, Mokou pushes back with her full strength. But there is nothing to push back against, for I've already ducked beneath her rising body, under her arms still tightly roped to that rusted shortsword, which now seems like a world's length away. My blade sits tucked close to the ground, the arc of my next slash being drawn before my very eyes, up through Mokou's looming shadow, past her overextended blade,

and directly into her stomach.

As expected of Mokou, she realises her situation almost too quickly. But no simple creature that walks on two legs can evade from such a compromised position. I swing my blade in as clean a motion as I can manage, for once relieved that I've been holding my breath. Her torso careens backwards, impossibly fast but still not fast enough. A trickle of something stains the disturbed bed of snow around us as silence falls upon the clearing.

I cut her.

But, what is this feeling?

Of course, I already know. I've felt it before.

A better swordsman than I would have ended the fight there. With a little legwork, I might have been in a fine position to follow up my attack with something truly dangerous. But just as before, my thoughts become empty - the thinnest victory spreads over all that I've come to learn, masking the peril. How long does it last? A half-second? A quarter? What does it matter? It is enough. Enough for her.

In hindsight, I barely scratched Mokou. On her fair skin, beneath a tear in her shirt, I can see it. A superficial brush that won't leave a single scar. Was it painful, at least? The way she manoeuvres into that crouched position makes me think she barely felt it. Can I feel proud, seeing through her intent? Both hands, gripping that ancient weapon, hilt steadied at chest-height. A move even a child could see coming. One thrust, delivered to nowhere in particular - somewhere in the midsection would be ideal. Her backstep has provided the perfect distance to step into. I can see her foot rising forward even now. Hands still in the heat of battle, my blade kissing snow, centre of gravity waning, I am given no opportunity to evade.

Block.

Raise it perfectly. Horizontally. Hold with one hand and brace with the other, near the tip.

It must have made for a splendid sight. Blocking a thrust with the flat of one's blade is a difficult thing simply to observe. A spectator might hear the splitting scream of metal against metal, but have trouble understanding what actually happened. The sheer luck needed to see through such a defence would leave both the attacker and defender struggling to consider their options. One might ask, why not raise one's blade to parry the thrust instead? It sounds much simpler.

I asked that, as well. But it was far too late. I never considered myself capable of either.

And, more to the point, it's not as if I even tried to defend myself, anyway.

It sinks in cleanly. No guttural sound or blood-streaked spectacle accompanies her victory. Only the sickly, overwhelming pain awakes me from that stupor. Without thinking, my hands are free, and a messy gash opens up the centre of my left palm, which hugs the blade like a loving mother. An instinct of survival encourages me to pull, but acceptance freezes my muscles. I don't want to move - to feel this sword tumbling my entrails any more than I need to. I just want this to be over and done with. I can only shut my eyes in agony and focus on my breathing until then.

A second passes.

Mokou remains in that final pose, her breath the only source of warmth in this horrible weather. Cruelly, though we may be among the worst of enemies, in the daze of this pain I can see her presence only as comforting. The thought of giving up on this dream of revenge fills me with intoxication.

I understand now. For all the grandiose tales of swordsmanship that I've studied, the mystery of their addiction to death had always eluded me. Here or there, good or evil, those who once claimed the title of the 'strongest' always had a fascination with mortality. To die on the field of battle, their philosophies seemed to impart, is the greatest honour of all. Until this moment, I found those words indigestible, as if written by something not fully human. But now, about to experience it for the second time, it seems like a comfortable truth. To die, quick and painless, at the hands of one so proficient, is a blessed moment. Only then can we be freed from the feverishness and empathy of our final breaths. I want to make amends for all that I've done wrong, with none of the time to accomplish such a task. I want the village, the Youkai - Gensokyo, even Mokou, to simply be happy.

"Fujiwara." I keep myself still, afraid to move.

"What is it?"

Time passes.

It all seems so pointless now.

"I lost."

A pause.

"...Yeah."

Why does she smirk? What does she feel? Like always, Mokou's expression is plain but unreadable, hidden beneath an impenetrable layer of boredom. Am I being pitied in my final moments? Having a single idea of what goes on in her head would be enough, but even that is asking for too much. We are worlds apart, me and her. At least, I think, her smile isn't such an unpleasant sight. Can I die peacefully like this?

Or, does it really matter?

After all...

It won't be long,

until I find my way back here.