Death's own river cradles me yet again.

As I open my eyes, the voyage seems smoother than before. We bob along like flies caught in mud, unobstructed by the primeval beasts lurking below. The familiar dazzle of red hair mans the bow, solemn movements carrying us deeper into that unknown horizon. An aching pain shoots through my gut where Mokou had so gently ended me, though my sword, as I quickly find out, somehow remains loyally at my side.

"We're nearly at our destination." The ferrywoman begins, "It's cruel that you decided to wake up now."

"Ugh..." I'm about as exhausted as someone fresh from dying can be, "I look forward to swimming my way back across."

"You're up to something, during these overdue years." She replies, "It's my duty to lengthen the voyage for sinful passengers, but yours seems to be getting shorter."

"Is 'sin' forgivable? I wouldn't say so."

"It's more like, having existed for longer, your sins are starting to get 'stretched out'." She explains, "Which must mean you're living a relatively sinless life as a wandering spirit."

"I'm flattered."

"Keep it up and you might not be in so much trouble when we finally reach Higan."

"I have to apologise to you for causing so much trouble." I confess, "There's still a reason for me to keep on going, so I can't die yet."

"Fujiwara no Mokou is still alive, right?" Her dress remains still in the wind, "I suppose if she wasn't, there'd be something terrifying to worry about."

"Did she bring me here again? To the riverbank?"

She nods, "Sat by your body and waited for me to show up."

Freeing a hand from her crooked scythe, she leans down to pick up something obscured by her skirt, "Said to take this with me."

A bottle dangles in her grasp. The boat rocks as I walk up to retrieve it. The glass reflects an otherworldly colour from the cherry-red sky.

"Sake..." My hands run across the label, "The same bottle we shared that night."

Feeling its weight like that, I can't help but notice a certain strangeness.

"Hm? Is it empty?" I wonder, pulling at the cork, "I don't remember us emptying the whole thing..."

"Ah, it's difficult doing this all day, so I couldn't help myself."

"Isn't this a funerary offering!?" I shout, "You've got no right to talk to me about sin! Aren't you supposed to be a Shinigami!?"

"Good sake is wasted on the dead."

"You knew very well I was going to get back up!"

"Are you going to report me? You'll have to get to Higan first."

"What an abuse of power..." I sigh, "Well, thank you for not throwing the bottle overboard after you were done with it."

"The two of you must be growing closer." She observes, "Last year she couldn't have treated your body with more disrespect."

"You're not wrong, but growing close to someone I intend to murder is just plain counterproductive."

"Tragic circumstances like those make for the best stories."

"Hm." My gaze turns skyward, "The 'romance' of a myth... it's something I've been chasing after for a long time."

"All humans want to do is make a name for themselves, after all." She replies, "Not even Fujiwara no Mokou is an exception to that."

"Wouldn't you say that Youkai are more bothered with their own reputations?" I ask, "I've certainly heard more stories about them than humans."

"When all you hear are tall tales, the Youkai in question will become one too. Nothing but a transient, harmless legend to scare children."

Her scythe cleaves heavy tears through the viscous water, "Gensokyo... it might be the only place left where Youkai can still live freely."

"It doesn't sound bad on paper, but-" I pause, crossing my arms, "Well, a world without Youkai sounds like it wouldn't be very interesting."

"There's good to be found in all things. Fear is wicked, but it sustains those who feed on it. Death is tragic, but those who have passed on will reincarnate and foster new life."

"Would that make me an offense to goodness?"

"You're more lucid than most phantoms, who can only focus on what they had in life."

"Revenge is still what drives me." I look over the side, towards my muddy reflection, "Which is why I'm anxious to dive into these waters again."

"Always remember that your time has passed." She warns ominously, "It's my duty to bring you to Higan. It isn't something you can escape."

"Then I'll resist that fate for as long as possible. I've seen unforgettable beauty in my time as a phantom."

However futile that defiance must be doesn't matter to me. A year ago, I may have been ready to give up this pursuit for good - no, even recently, it seems that my hopes and dreams are fated to be crushed. My vengeance has never been so far away. But despite that, a spark was lit in me by the duel we last shared. I'm certain now, the elusive 'love' in death existed then. I would cross any river to experience it again. An all-consuming selfishness. To simply live. And, quietly, more innocently...

I'd like to see her again.

The strangeness of warmth grabs my attention. A subtle heat from ahead. All of a sudden, the tar-stained expanse has vanished, replaced with rolling waves of crimson colours. A plain - or, is it more like a hill? The shore stretches from horizon to distant horizon, never rugged or offensive in its terrain, every inch covered with flowers gently blooming but still in the windless air. 'Beautiful' would be a fine word to describe it, were it a painting, but in motion, its stillness lends an eerie atmosphere. In a moment, I understood it, as all onlookers would. That this endless hillside could only be the land where death thrives.

"This is our destination." The ferrywoman points out, "If you plan on leaving, now is your only chance."

"This is Higan?" I allow myself to appreciate the sight, "It's like a painting. Not even the flowers move."

"Nothing you see here is natural. It's a fitting place for the souls of the dead to be judged."

"I'm afraid the Yama will be disappointed today." I reply, hovering over the rowboat's frame, "It's likely we'll meet again in a year's time."

"To someone like me, that might be considered a flirtatious thing to say."

"I might've asked for your name first. Or, do Shinigami not have identities?"

"Rude! Don't talk about us like we're monsters!" She barks, "My name is Onozuka Komachi, and I only worked for three months last year!"

"No, you didn't have to include your laziness as part of your introduction..."

"Go, before I decide letting you leave isn't worth the scolding I'll get!"

"Then, if you'll excuse me."

Once my body separates from the rowboat, Komachi's tirade vanishes into the choking air surrounding this place. The vermillion shoreline of Higan fades into darkness as my body, struggling pointlessly, sinks like a weight beneath the pitch-black surface. Another godless romp into the stomachs of beasts prowling the waters. Fujiwara's tender execution seemed like a lover's embrace compared to this slaughter. A punishment for the truly wicked, who evade death like thieves in the night, sentenced to torture beneath forsaken waves.

I struggle. I breathe and die and see my body hovering in pieces within the darkness. Like a hellish meditation, my desires and ambitions warp into feverish, unrecognisable shapes. The spindle of my soul comes undone, leaving only the greatest aspects of myself to consider. Only the cold realisation of vengeance, a selfish purpose fuelled by hatred, can rebuild what is lost. Faced with the task of murdering an immortal inspires a hopelessness that, for a moment, makes it seem like I will never escape this place. My time shared with Mokou has softened the blow of a sudden death, or, perhaps the myriad battles we've shared have finally satisfied me. But, to exist for that again - for that 'love', I would do anything.

Seeking deaths, one after the other, for as long as it entertains me. That wish, too, is selfish enough to guarantee another escape from my fate. A phantom's lot is one of suffering, and mine is no different. So long as despair can exist in any form, miscreants like myself, who shy away from the peace of death, are allowed to stalk the world once more.

And, like that, the Sanzu River regurgitates me, soul reborn, onto a shallow riverbed painted by the afternoon sun.


The Third Year - Winter

My wandering begins again.

Reluctant to return to Fujiwara empty-handed, I travel to find a worthwhile lesson, whatever it may be. Unlike last time, I'm given no premonition to work with, but since passing away, it seems that my feet always carry me to interesting places. Gensokyo is a complicated land, but the barrier constricts it tightly, and so in the grander scheme of things, it's actually rather small, or so I've heard. That may explain why every corner of it teems with landmarks. The distant peak of the Youkai Mountain makes becoming truly lost quite a difficult affair.

But what can I learn that I haven't already? Youkai are despicable partners for conversation. Plucking any meaning from their words may as well be impossible. Sharing my thoughts with a human would be ideal, but to do that, I would need to return to the village, a place that feels strangely forbidden to a phantom like myself. My time among the villagers has long passed. Just as Komachi warned me once, the sweet memories of that time have become faint whispers. I can barely recall the faces of my own neighbours. And so, marching alongside the backroads of the land, besmirched with mud-peppered snow, I occupy myself with forlorn thoughts like those.

This winter is looking to be a particularly cold one. The fairies are out in full force well into the hours of darkness. Even here, near a section of the barrier's encirclement, they gather in playful groups among the flowers and trees. On the side of a frozen-over pond, hunched down beside the reeds, one such fairy watches her charge with a look of something like deep interest - an unlucky frog, mid-hop, encased fully in a clean block of ice. Her attention is singular enough to ignore me completely as I come wandering by, admiring the scene skeptically.

"Freezing frogs to death is a little cruel, isn't it?"

Her body jolts, icicle wings standing up on edge, "Ah!"

Hovering gently, she balls her fists in front of her face, "Don't look down on me because I'm a fairy! I know how to fight!"

"No, I'm not here for a fight..." I mutter, "Are you the one that froze that frog?"

"Huh?" Pausing, her attitude seems to change on a dime as she beams proudly, "Of course that was me!"

"How strange. What did that frog ever do to you?"

"He's not dead!" She suddenly exclaims, landing beside the animal in question, "When the ice thaws, he'll be alright!"

"Will he?"

"Most of the time!"

"You say that like this is something you do often."

"It's fun watching them struggle out!"

Isn't that even worse than just freezing them?

"If you say so." I decide not to air that thought.

"Who're you, anyway?" She demands innocently, "Humans don't come this far out."

"Ah, no, I'm not a human." I wave my hand, "I'm a ghost."

"Ghost!?" She flutters up again, "You're here to haunt me for all the frogs I've frozen!"

"Come on, now. Let's not-"

"You made a mistake picking a fight with the strongest fairy in Gensokyo!" She throws a hand forward, "Take this!"

A spike of sharpened ice materialises beside her vexed face, spinning clumsily in the air. Upon her command, it launches itself at me. Fairies are mischievous beings, but very rarely are they so violent. As innocent as this one may seem, her powers could kill someone easily. So it goes that caution must be exercised towards every one of Gensokyo's residents. Without much consideration, my sword comes undone from its sheath and spurs a clean line through the icicle's centre, sending both halves careening past my sides. To an observer, it must have seemed like expertise on another level.

My talent for striking objects mid-flight hasn't disappeared like so many other things. It's almost enough to make me smile.

The fairy girl seems surprised that her attack was deflected, but while I sheath my blade, her expression turns to one of starry-eyed interest.

"O-Ooh!" She lifts her hands excitedly, "Mister, you've got a sword!"

"I do." Straight-faced, I decide to ignore her casual attempt at taking my life, "It's seen better days, though."

"But, but - that's nothing!" She shouts, "The other person I met today had two swords!"

"Hm?" That catches my attention, "You saw someone else?"

"I came out here to play, but then I heard this really loud voice shouting at me!" Her movements are erratic as she retells the story, "And then, when I looked through the trees, I saw someone carrying two swords!"

"Where was this?"

"Uh..." She closes her eyes for a moment, "There wasn't a path nearby, but it was around here! And it was really close to the barrier!"

"A hermit?" I wonder aloud, "Sounds like you might have intruded on someone's peace and quiet."

"People shouldn't be living this far out, anyway! Quiet places are for fairies!"

"Just make sure to cut back on the frog freezing, or you might find yourself being haunted for real."

"Does that mean you aren't a ghost, mister?"

"No, I'm definitely a ghost." I motion to my stark-white clothing, "I just happen to be haunting someone else at the moment."

"This place has too many ghosts in it! And swords!" Saying that, she begins to hover once more, "I'm going back to the lake!"

Without another word, she flies off towards the cloudy skyline, leaving me alone next to the pitiable frog, still encased in a prison of ice. Out of respect, or perhaps to follow my own advice, I end up waiting to make sure it thaws out safely, my forming thoughts to pass the time. Someone with two swords? In this remote place? Without much else to go on, it seems like I'll be spending the rest of today looking for a hermit's abode in these thick woods. As the frog finally breaks free of its statuesque gaol, I let out a pointless sigh, and continue on my way.

"That fairy..." I mutter, "She was a little airheaded."


Surprisingly, it's difficult to find just about anything bar trees and weeds in a forest. Even the barrier is only rarely peeked above the shadowed canopy. Had it snowed today, I might have kept track of my movements a little easier, but no such saving grace appears. What would certainly help is knowing exactly what it is I plan to find out here. Loudmouthed swordsmen are all well and good, but where would one have returned to? The dwellings of hermits tend to meld into their surroundings, as is their purpose. A hermit does not build a home with the intention of anyone other than themselves finding it.

The setting sun is like a blade falling atop my head. What I cannot find during the day, I will absolutely not find during the night. With that in mind, the thought of making a fire and potentially finding something to eat tips me into the wisdom I'd been searching for all these hours - a home must have certain amenities to be called a home, and chiefly among them is a permanent place to cook meals. This means a fire, the glow of which would be easily visible from atop a tall tree during the night. If that fire happens to be walled off, then the smoke of a chimney would be similarly conspicuous, albeit somewhat difficult to spot against the night sky.

I would not consider myself adept at climbing trees, and so I spend what little of the day remains scrambling up bark footholds and keeping an eye out for the tallest one around. With that settled, I idle about its trunk until I can barely spot my hand in front of my face, and then, in a frankly quite dangerous ascent, I brace myself against the leafy top with skin peeling from my fingers and stare across the verdant treetops.

"...There."

It's incredibly faint, almost invisible from here, but I spot a glowing smoulder rising up from the forest floor some distance away.

Perilously lowering myself down, I memorise the general location of the fire and begin a slow march towards it.

Whoever lit the flame must be conscious of how visible it is from a distance. Just as I spot the soft orange colour filtering through the greenery, it disappears entirely. Someone so devoted to privacy like this is no doubt going to be quite upset about any visitors, but my necessary evil is to serve a greater good. The mere existence of someone toting a pair of swords around is enough to get me a little excited. In a land where violence is going out of style, that dedication speaks volumes of the significance those blades must hold. And who else would carry a sword but one who swings it for pleasure?

"You want sword lessons, go see someone who knows a thing or two about 'em." Yuugi's words echo in my mind.

The home itself is well hidden, built into a meagre valley in the soil. One could quite easily walk around it without noticing anything. Though it lacks the traditional elegance of something like Mokou's abode, it was obviously built carefully and with practicality in mind. Charred but full-bodied logs sit arranged around the ashes of tinder, signalling a fire that was allowed to burn only briefly. Despite that, an unexpected silence blows through on the wind, like the type that haunts an abandoned village. Unconsciously, I find my fingers wrapping around the grip of my blade.

The hut has no door, inviting me into its pitch-black embrace. I already know there is someone here, and it's precisely that knowledge which gives me pause as I approach the threshold. It's possible that whoever dwells here has simply turned in for the night, or likelier still, they're lying in wait for me to meander in like a curious animal, poised to strike under cover of darkness.

In that haze of possibilities, one voice rises up to extinguish my doubt.

"Fool!"

It's almost loud enough to freeze me in place. My first instinct is to duck, and in doing so, something shears across the space my head once occupied. With a clumsy movement, I throw myself towards the doorway to create distance between us, and scramble to my feet in time to see it - a tall figure striding into view as if walking through a thick fog, blade flickering against what little moonlight filters through the canopy above.

My first thought is that this fellow looks to be a little on the older side, with hair bleached an elderly silver and face blemished with the sorrowful marks of aging. It's difficult to imagine that this man was the one who let loose such a barbaric yell. What truly catches my eye, however, isn't the senior himself, but the strange existence that gracefully runs circles around him. A wisp, tracing its ethereal tail around his body as if transfixed, seemingly unnoticed.

Is this man possessed? At a glance, he seems much too old to be handling a sword, although the confidence with which he steps forward can only be the result of countless victories. Even his eyes, marred with age as they are, seem entirely focused on the task at hand. As the sole recipient of that attention, I can't help but feel overwhelmed by his gaze. While he brandishes a blade with both hands, there are two hilts poking out from his side - the elusive second sword, resting humbly in its sheath.

Another step.

His blade sits perfectly at eye level, unwavering even in motion. As the space between us closes, I realise that if something isn't done to defuse the situation, I'm almost certainly going to die.

"W-Wait." Loosening my grip, I mutter that protest, "I'm not-"

"Hmph!"

To an experienced swordsman, any lapse in the concentration of one's opponent is an invaluable opportunity that can't be allowed to go unexploited. While I'm busy speaking, the man frees a hand from the grip of his sword, kneels low and cups his palm across the ground in one fluid motion. Lifting his wrist to neck height, he tosses an assortment of earthly detritus in my direction. A technique like this, used to disorient opponents, can be described as pragmatic at best and plain villainous at worst.

Raising an arm up to protect my eyes is instinctual, but it's exactly the kind of reaction he's looking for. Someone without their vision, for even the briefest of moments, may as well be yelling 'come on and kill me!' to any challenger.

What can I do? This distraction is a prelude to an attack, but of what sort?

My time is already up, so I commit to the only reasonable option.

Slicing an icicle in two as it travels through the air is quite a difficult feat, though years of halving clay pots thrown by children in the same way has given me a taste for it. A bundle of twigs and leaves flying towards me is not possible to 'cut through', per se, but the image of it does well to activate that sensation of familiarity. Even with my eyes closed, I can go through the motions quite easily, blade singing through the air towards a target.

Naturally, I strike nothing but fresh air, and the debris hits me anyway.

Though standing there, prepared for an attack, my death never comes.

Once a few seconds pass, I brush my face clean of dirt and stare back into the darkness. The older gentleman stands hands-free, blades already tucked back into their sheaths. Expression harsher than before, his eyes follow along the length of my sword, resting upon its severed tip.

"...Hm." Closing his eyes, he lets loose a solemn breath, "You are no assassin."

"Uh-" I stammer, straightening my back, "No. Not at all."

"Your technique is embarrassingly flawed. Your movements are imprecise and predictable."

"Mm..." I grunt at his criticism, "Isn't that-"

"However!" His voice overwhelms my own, "Your iai was passable."

"Iai?"

I word that as if I'm not familiar with what he's talking about, but even those who have never touched a weapon in their lives know of the term. Iai simply refers to keeping one's blade in its sheath until the moment of attack, normally to hide the range of one's sword from an opponent, although it can also be used in situations where traditional swordplay is impossible, such as when sitting down. There are too many schools to name that put iai to use in their teachings, and so the process of slashing from a sheathed position is treated as more of a stance than a technique.

The old man's expression remains stalwart, "Why have you come here, if not to kill me?"

"To train." My response is immediate, "I want to be tutored in the ways of the sword."

"I refuse." He replies almost in advance of my words.

"You-" I pause, "Why?"

That's what I ask, although his attention is already diverted. Paying me no mind, he slowly sheaths his blade and begins wandering back to the hut, wisp silently following in his shadow.

Peering through the doorframe, I can spot only a straw bed and a wooden basin in the darkness.

"Old man..." I mutter, "What are you doing in a place like this?"

Not expecting an answer, my gaze wanders across the rustic simplicity. Rather than a hermit's hut, this is more the kind of thing a group of children would conjure up in the middle of the woods. He doesn't seem to mind as I take a step inside, sitting himself down on the bed with his legs crossed, eyes closed introspectively. The mesmerising spool of ghostly white hovering about his person doesn't seem malevolent in the slightest.

"Are you retired?" I ask another pointless question, "I've barely seen anyone carry one sword, let alone two."

It wouldn't be right to say that he's ignoring me. Whatever concentration he happens to be channelling at the moment seems to remove me from his attention altogether.

"You seem human, but the same could be said of just about everyone I've met." I continue, "Is that a ghost hovering around you?"

I sound a like a child pestering his grandfather for a story.

"I've been caught up in some strange circumstances these past few years." I explain, "A woman and I agreed to duel once every winter. Only, I haven't won a single match."

My hand unconsciously falls to cover the last wound Mokou inflicted on me, "I should be dead already. The duel is what brings me back."

Is he listening? Whether he is or not, it's nice to speak openly like this.

"Well, as it turns out, she's immortal, so it doesn't really matter either way." I admit, "-Is what I would say, but since I'm here, winning must still mean something to me."

Undoing the cord tying the scabbard to my robes, I place the weapon on the ground in front of me. For all the thought I've given death, this is the first time my sword has been considered as anything but a tool of murder or a kitchen utensil. Contemporary literature regarding swordsmanship necessitates this ritualistic 'consideration' of the blade as separate from one's own body. Literally separating the physical bond between man and weapon can result in some enlightening thoughts, or so it goes.

"Strength..." I mutter, "Even after three deaths, I still have no idea what that word means."

Swords are not traditionally given names, but exceptional blacksmiths would often 'sign' them with their own as a brand of authenticity. The village smith, presumably for his own reasons, decided to ignore this practice, and so my sword is truly without an identity. I expected a companionship to emerge during this journey of mine, but right now, I couldn't feel less familiar with it.

"It's a little upsetting." There's a short silence, "I don't have any real talent. There aren't-"

"Enough."

Whoever this fellow is, he has a habit of cutting in. At last opening his eyes, I feel no larger under his experienced gaze - none of the carefree pleasure between Mokou and I exists here.

"My successor has already been chosen." He begins calmly, "Only she may learn the techniques of the Konpaku lineage."

I should be grateful that he's giving me a reason at all, as disappointing as it might be.

"However-" He continues, "It's clear you're in dire need of basic tutoring."

Saying that, he holds his hand out, "That blade. Show it to me."

Pausing for a moment, I hurriedly lift the sheath and hand the weapon over. He draws it with the delicacy one might show an infant, scanning the intricacies with what seems like a practiced expertise. The blade falls slightly as its severed tip slides out completely, cracks in the metal still visible from Yuugi's abuse.

"It's damaged?" He seems genuinely surprised, "But even so, it's the work of no amateur."

With his examination complete, he re-sheaths the blade and hands it back to me, "How did you find this place?"

"A fairy tipped me off."

He looks down, "Troublesome creatures."

"I'm sorry for intruding." My apology finally arrives, "I couldn't pass up the opportunity to meet a swordsman."

"You claim to be battling an immortal."

I nod, "It sounds ridiculous, but it's the truth."

"You are a fool." He states plainly, "No amount of swordsmanship can save you from this fate."

"I know."

"And yet you still desire a tutor?"

"I do."

"There is a fundamental wrongness in the manner you wield a blade." He explains, "This is not a problem which can be resolved overnight."

"I plan to return at the beginning of spring."

"A few months will teach you nothing." He chastises, "Poor habits cannot be expelled in such a short period of time."

"Hm..." I close my eyes, "Is that true?"

"A lesson half-taught is worthless. A lesson half-learned even more so."

"Teach me just one thing, then."

"Fool!" He repeats himself, "What are you expecting? An invincible technique? An unconquerable strategy?"

"Anything." I reply, "It could be the barest, least-helpful lesson in the world and I would still be satisfied."

"You court death. Vengeful phantoms are cursed to follow such shameful paths."

"I won't die. Not until what I'm looking for finally appears."

"Those who are young carry blades and tell themselves a 'reason' must exist. For murder. For bloodshed." He continues, "Forced to confront reality, their deaths are the most tragic of all. You are no exception."

"That doesn't make sense. Why bother taking up the sword if you don't plan on using it?"

"Ending the life of another is an exhilarating freedom. In crossing that line, those who murder for any reason are beyond saving. Anguish follows in the shadow of death - the like someone as inexperienced as yourself cannot understand. There exist tales of warriors who become so involved in their lust for death as to be compared to animals that live for nothing more. But the truth of the matter is far simpler. All who call themselves 'swordsmen' are beasts who covet bloodshed."

"What about those who fight to protect something? Their villages, or their families?"

"Fools who chase after lofty dreams of heroism will find the blame resting on their shoulders when everything is taken from them. Recipes for vengeances alive with violence boil in the hearts of any who lift a blade. No, the truly evil - the ones they seek to destroy, are themselves."

"Even you?"

He nods slowly, "I have cursed another with that desire, and she will do the same to a student of her own someday."

"So, the reason you don't want to train me is because you don't want people killing one-another?"

"No. I am reluctant to train you because you seem like a handful." He pauses, "And, as I mentioned, I may only have one successor."

"You don't have a problem with me turning out like what you just described?"

"Reflect on your circumstances, and consider that you may have already passed the point of no return."

What is he calling me? A murderer? An animal? It's true that my revenge was single-minded to begin with, but since then I've learned so much of what it means to fight. Rather than fear, an anticipation to duel Fujiwara again wells up in my chest. Perhaps the two of us exist outside of those strict boundaries that drive mortals to the edge. With the gift of revival, we are free to destroy one-another as often as it pleases us.

"How good are you with a sword, anyway?" I cross my arms, "Throwing dirt into my eyes didn't seem very traditional."

"Pragmaticism is a crucial skill in warfare." He derides, "Associate yourself with 'tradition' only if you are prepared to be taken advantage of."

"Does everything I say have to be contradicted?"

"Your attitude must be rebuilt." He replies, "If you are insistent, I will hammer into you the foundations of swordsmanship, though that is all I can offer."

He lifts a hand, stroking his beard, "Perhaps something can be made of it. That iai of yours."

"I mostly just used it to cut clay pots and whatnot."

"Clay. Air. Bamboo." He lists, "Within this turbulent world where warriors can no longer kill freely, alternatives must be found to hone one's skills."

"Practicing strikes never seemed to help me."

"Stunted growth is a symptom of poor technique."

"It's difficult working out how to do something with nothing but words and faded drawings to go on..."

"Do not focus on replicating the movements of masters, or your foundations will crumble."

"Then what should my first lesson be?"

"Footwork." He answers instantly, "You are like a straw puppet in battle, waiting to be torn apart. Momentum counts for more than adding weight to your strike. Learn to move unerringly on the battlefield, and you will find your opponent struggling to discover openings."

"You gave me the cold shoulder at first, but once you get going, you're pretty talkative."

"I am keen to see you gone. This appears to be the simplest way."

"And when does this training start?"

"In the morning, and it will last until this time tomorrow."

"In terms of where I'll be-"

"You will sleep outside, naturally." He interrupts, "I will not welcome a phantom into my home."

A silence passes.

I raise a finger, "But, aren't you-"

"Leave!"

And so I did.

What can be said about him? Whether old or arrogant or loud, his expertise can't be denied. A teacher is a teacher. I should be grateful that one so familiar with the sword is willing to help me at all. His words carry the remorsefulness of a man completely finished with the business of murder, and yet that stubbornness couldn't refuse someone as aimless as me. In that way, I can only contribute to a world worse-off for having pestered him. But isn't the situation different for me? Mokou's life is the only one I seek, however impossible it might be to claim.

That's right. The so-called 'lust' that infects all swordsmen - a phantom separated from life and death can only be immune to it.

Though, it wouldn't be right to call my experiences in those days 'lessons', not even in the loosest sense of the term. From dawn to dusk, all that I knew was suffering. Footwork? The old man expected me to move as if I was sliding on a sheet of ice, demeaning me for 'stepping' and 'hesitating' even as I moved faster than I thought myself capable. Striking? Not once did I have enough power. Not once were my movements correct, even as I mimicked his own down to the way that he breathed. Impossibilities, one after the other. Perfection, graded by an eye that witnessed mistakes where I saw none, fuelled by a thin diet of dried fruits and stringy meats from the forest.

Worst of all were the days where he demanded to see an iai draw. My blistered hands would tear and bleed well into the early hours of the next morning, almost never leaving the hilt of my blade.

The trick of it, he told me exactly once, was speed.

"Speed." He muttered, arms crossed.

And after that, nothing but failure. One draw after another, as fast as I could manage, for as long as I could stand to do it. What was he expecting to see? My blade flashing from its sheath quicker than lightning? Each and every meagre improvement to that single, fluid motion, when I pushed myself to the limit, somehow drawing faster than before?

"Again!"

On new year's day, my thoughts drifted to Mokou.

Was I getting any faster? That question began to plague me during the night, and before long, I was foregoing sleep entirely to practice that imperfect iai slash. I started to get a feel for it myself, when I wasn't fast enough, without even knowing what 'fast' was in the eyes of that sadistic old man. Tens of thousands of times, searching for the slightest thing that would make a difference. The position of my hand, my fingers - the angle of the cut, the minute movements of my wrist. I would pass out, wake up and do it all over again. At some point, the old man's lessons dwindled down, until only the iai remained.

I don't remember it too well. That day.

All I recall is standing in the cold, blade hovering in the air, watching colours fade into the horizon.

The last sunset of winter.


The Third Year - Spring

I never asked for that old man's name, and he never asked for mine. Not once did the topic of his mastery or ghostly companion come up during the few casual conversations we shared. My mind is better off for that, or so I would like to hope. To use the term 'freedom' would understate the happiness I feel now that the two of us only grow further apart by the minute. There was no special commemoration of my training - no kind words or well wishes. Almost certainly, if I had even dared to ask him, he might have told me that I was no more skilful than the day we met. And so, when the time came, we parted without words.

It took days for the pain to fade. On the journey back to the bamboo forest, I found myself stopping at the banks of rivers and lakes to loosen up my hands, skin flaky and rough as stone. Quiet nights were now plagued with sleeplessness. Too exhausted to forage or hunt, I embraced the hunger that developed on my journey across landscapes which grew more familiar the further I trudged along. More than anything else, I stopped my fingers from ever wrapping around the hilt of my sword. The mere thought of yanking it from its sheath was enough to make me feel ill.

To put it simply, when I crossed the curtained threshold into the bamboo forest, I was in almost exactly the same state as last year.

But, despite all that, pacing through it has me holding my breath. An embarassing anticipation. I wouldn't care to admit the number of times this place has crossed my mind in recent months. The deadly air that once permeated on approach has dissolved into something more comfortable. Against the will that continues to bring me back, I can't deny these slivers of happiness that have begun to sprout.

What did I call it last year, in that fit of weakness?

"Hm." Red ribbons flutter from the porch. A warming smile, "Welcome home."


The fire crackles viciously.

There is an element of self-defeat in temperance. Straying far from food to better oneself spiritually makes breaking a fast all the more sinful for the implicit enjoyment in sating one's hunger. When the body craves sustenance so badly that even scalding the mouth on a freshly-prepared meal is satisfying in its own way, we must really seem like beasts. Monks who feed themselves conservatively and with great patience following meditation have reached a world more complicated than I can understand.

That's why, as the final bowl is emptied, I mimic that discipline with nothing but a sensible sigh.

Mokou speaks up, "I'll take it the wrong way if you just wolf it down like that."

"It was delicious." I reply, "You should cook more often."

"I might have to, with the state your hands are in."

She isn't saying that for the sake of it. Calloused hands are a sign of good work, but there really is a limit to how much punishment they can take. What seemed like the worthwhile blemishes of training have quite clearly become untended injuries. Curling my fingers is enough to make me flinch from the pain. It'll be weeks before I'm able to hold anything heavier than a pair of chopsticks.

"Are you interested in what I've been getting up to?"

"Not right now." She shakes her head, "Let's enjoy today for what it is, and deal with that another time."

"If only it was always so simple." I reply, "I thought about you, on new year's day."

She pauses, and blinks, "...Where's this coming from, all of a sudden?"

"Well-" Having said that, I find myself searching for the right words, "...No, never mind."

"'Never mind', he says." She repeats, "Finish that thought right now!"

"I don't think I will."

"Ah, this is what's wrong with people these days!" She lounges, "Too afraid to say anything worthwhile!"

"What would you like to hear that might be considered worthwhile?"

"A woman of the Fujiwara clan shouldn't allow herself to be led on with worthless questions."

"Don't just invoke your namesake whenever it's convenient..."

Months of silent training have left me unprepared for the conversations we often share. Perhaps I've latched onto the listless way we trade words, never quite serious or engaging. Getting the simplest point across can be difficult, or it might be that Mokou simply enjoys dancing around subjects. A millennium of wisdom compels her to see the deeper meaning in the most pointless of things. Scraping out the intention is troublesome, and yet, a part of me has come to enjoy it.

"I was looking forward to today." I speak up, "That's all I meant by it."

"Hmph." She crosses her arms, "Good enough."

"You're an assertive person, aren't you?"

"Life is too short to be spending time jumping around what we want."

"Calling either of us 'alive' is just in poor taste."

"As long as we can taste food and feel pain, we'll always be alive."

"If you say so."

This might have ended so long ago. If I'd been more responsive to the idea of rolling over and accepting my fate, none of this farcical duelling and training would have been necessary. Am I grateful, to still exist in the world of the living? Is a peaceful death simpler than I thought?

"But, I kind of get it."

"Hm?"

A reunion. Is that what this is? With the realisation of 'love', a fresh nonchalance sparks in the air between us. An optimistic way to put it might be that the next time we cross swords, it might be an enjoyable experience. Mokou seems to smile more nowadays. Or, have I just never paid attention to those sorts of things before? Watching her sit there, a free expression on her face, unlike before, makes me somewhat expectant of what she might have to say.

"Today..." She mutters, "I was also looking forward to it. Just a little."


As the snow clears, the fog in one's mind fades away. It's not a bad attitude to carry with you into the new year. The springtime sunlight filtering through endless lengths of bamboo might inspire a poet to draw some thought-provoking conclusions. More than anything else, poetry is a subject I'm severely challenged in, and so with nothing meaningful to add, I'll say only that the sight of it is beautiful.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" I ask, "I swear we've looped around a few times now."

"Have some faith. Lost humans call me the 'guide' of this place, you know?"

"In my experience, you don't treat lost humans very well."

"Most of them don't try to kill me." She retorts, lifting an arm, "Look, we're here."

My interest in visiting Eientei has existed for longer than Mokou and I have known one-another, but with no debilitating sicknesses to call my own, I always thought turning up out of the blue would be a little improper, not to mention its supposed obscurity. Seeing it up close for the first time, however, makes me wonder how such a large place can remain hidden from so many. More than a home, or an apothecary, it would be more fitting to call it something like an estate. The building even has a fence encircling its perimeter. Nothing as quaint as Fujiwara's hut.

"Strange place to build a mansion, isn't it?"

"Well-" I pause, "There's a so-called 'princess' staying her, right? Mistress Kaguya?"

"Hm." She crosses her arms, "That girl draws too much attention to herself. I heard she sneaks out to visit the village sometimes."

"You heard right. Apparently she's strikingly beautiful."

"Is that so..."

"You must be quite familiar with her, I suppose." We continue walking, "You're practically neighbours."

"At the moment, we don't get along too well."

"Haven't we been invited for tea?"

"There are a few others in here that aren't so bad."

"Meaning, you're friendly with them?"

She thinks before answering, "...I don't dislike them."

"That's some high praise, coming from you."

Meandering through the open gate, a strange sight awaits us on the building's generous porch.

"Huh..." I blink, "Rabbits?"

Quite a few of them, in fact. Prowling around like they own the place. Within a cluster of them sits a brightly-smiling girl with two distinctly leporine ears drooping over her hair. Upon spotting us, she quickly disappears into the mansion, leaving Mokou and I standing amongst the wave of alabaster-coated creatures.

"That was Tewi." She explains, "Eirin probably told her to watch for us coming."

"Eirin?"

"If Kaguya wasn't here, she'd be the one in charge." Kneeling down, she reaches a hand towards one of the rabbits, "Well, even with Kaguya here, she sort of is."

"And, uh-" I pause, "The rabbits?"

"Tewi's a rabbit. Reisen's a rabbit." She explains that as if it's only natural, "They help out around the house, or so they tell me."

"Wait, who's Reisen?"

"Another rabbit."

"No, I understood that much..."

"Did someone call for me?"

Right then, we're interrupted by just that - another rabbit. This one with ears trying their utmost to stand on end. Her outfit is in a style I've never seen before, although if I was forced to describe it, the term 'sharp' would come to mind.

"Oya, Reisen." Standing up, Mokou makes for the porch, "We're spreading awful rumours about you."

"Please don't say things like that, even as a joke..."

Ears twitching, her awkward smile dissolves into curiosity as her eyes land on me.

"Ah." She beams, "It's Masashi, isn't it?"

"She's been speaking about me, has she?"

"Only good things."

"I'm sure." Scratching the back of my head, I continue, "Thank you for the invitation."

"The princess has been looking forward to meeting you." She replies, "To tell the truth, I was also a little curious."

"She might be a little disappointed to see that I'm no-one special."

"It's quite secluded here in the bamboo forest, so I'm sure she'll enjoy the company." Saying that, she bows, "And, thank you for always taking care of Mokou."

"I appreciate it. She's a handful."

"Oi. You wouldn't have a home if it wasn't for me."

"Please, come in." Reisen beckons, "Make yourselves comfortable."

Strangely enough, the manor seems even larger on the inside. The rabbit-eared aide leads us through broad hallways that wouldn't be out of place in a castle. Some kind of medicinal odour permeates the entire building. As if tempered to the sameness of it all, Reisen comes to a stop outside a particular set of partitions and sets them aside, gesturing at us to enter.

It reminds me of home somewhat, if the hearth was replaced with a low-standing table. It puts the grandiosity of this place into perspective knowing that this is likely only one of many similar rooms. The tatami mats seem to have been freshly turned over for the occasion. Occupied with the comparatively quaint tea set atop the table is someone I've never seen before - Kaguya, presumably. Her impossibly straight hair and thoughtful expression certainly gives her the aura of a princess.

"Well then-" Reisen smiles, "If you'll excuse me."

And with that, she hurries further down the corridor.

"Kaguya." Mokou strolls in, "It's been a while."

"And whose fault is that? You hardly ever visit me nowadays..."

"I was here last month, wasn't I?"

"You only came to ask if we had any sake to spare!" The princess retorts, "And then you left!"

"You didn't have any."

"Heartless... you need to consider my feelings every once in a while."

After a mock sigh, her gaze falls upon me, "Then, this must be the elusive Masashi?"

I nod, "It's a pleasure."

"Oh, you don't need to be so formal!" She waves a hand, smiling, "Come here, the two of you! Have a seat!"

The grassy aroma of green tea rises from the table. Kaguya handles the faded bowls with delicate hands, her practiced movements showing a deep familiarity with welcoming guests in such a manner. The medicinal colour of the tea is a fitting reminder that this is a place of healing for some. As Mokou and I sit down, the princess wears a pleased but dignified smile.

"Is Eientei everything you imagined it would be, Masashi?"

"It's rather large."

"Isn't that the truth! Even I still get lost sometimes!" She beams, "But it's wonderful, isn't it? Eirin did a wonderful job."

As she lays down two tea-brimmed bowls, her musings continue, "Mokou doesn't talk about you much, so I'm glad we could finally meet."

"Have the two of you known each other for long?"

"Well..."

Mokou crosses her arms, "Kaguya..."

"There's something special about Mokou and I which makes that question difficult to answer." The princess explains, "-Is the response that pleases everyone the most, I think."

"Special?" I reply, "I understand she's immortal, but is there something else about her?"

"E-Eh!?" Kaguya recoils, "You already knew!? For how long!?"

"Close to a year now, I think."

"Mokou!"

The immortal in question simply shrugs her shoulders.

"Unbelievable..." She rests her chin on the table, "My plan to reveal all of your secrets is ruined..."

"Your disappointed face makes telling him seem worthwhile."

"Then, behold another unbelievable truth!" She proclaims, placing a hand to her chest, "For I, Houraisan Kaguya, am also an immortal!"

As a second of silence passes, she clears her throat.

"...You- you don't seem very surprised, Masashi."

"No, I am. It's just-" I reply, "Well, I once heard a rumour that there were two immortals in the bamboo forest, so that explains why."

"Isn't there a single piece of information I can surprise you with...?" Her saddened tone seems genuine, "Did you know that Mokou was born into the powerful Fujiwara clan?"

"I did."

"Oh... it's all pointless..." She resigns, "Just how far have you two gone!?"

"No, please don't arrive at any strange conclusions..."

"I thought coming here would end up being troublesome." Mokou chimes in, quietly sipping her tea, "But it's turning out to be pretty entertaining."

"I thought you said the two of you weren't on good terms?"

"Friends. Enemies. After so many years, conflict starts to lose meaning." She answers, "Kaguya wronged me in the past, and if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have become immortal."

"What happened?"

"That's not the kind of conversation you have over tea." She finishes, "Maybe one day, I'll tell you."

"Despite our long lives, Mokou and I only became reacquainted very recently. 'Recently' in our eyes, anyway." Kaguya continues, "It's only natural that the two of us would end up in Gensokyo, after all."

"Then, were you also born in Nara, princess?"

"Oh, no, although I was in the vicinity for a time." She explains, "The moon is my true home."

"The moon."

"Yes!"

"Moon - as in, the one that hovers in the night sky?" I insist, "Not some strangely-named place from the outside world?"

"Exactly! That moon is where I was born."

"Masashi." Mokou folds her arms, "It sounds ridiculous, but she's telling the truth."

"But-" I stammer, "...Is that possible?"

"They call themselves Lunarians."

"It's an incredibly advanced civilization!" Kaguya preaches, "Granted, I was exiled for a period of time, but I don't hold that against them."

"Mmh..." I'm struggling to process this information, "So, you aren't human?"

"Of course not! Lunarians fought bravely to repel humans who tried landing on the moon!"

"Humans have been to the moon!?"

"Kaguya, don't fill his head with things he's not ready to understand." Mokou interjects.

"The humans of Gensokyo certainly have it easy~" She muses, "Anyway, that's the long and short of it."

"Are there any more unbelievable secrets you plan on sharing with me?"

"Only one." Her pleased expression speaks volumes of how much she's enjoying this, "Mokou is a delicate flower deep down, so make sure to treat her right!"

Fujiwara sighs, "She just says whatever she likes..."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Oi!"

The folk of Gensokyo are a strange lot. Every living creature beyond the border of the village seems to understand so much about this world. Youkai or immortal, long lives seem to inspire a certain nonchalance towards the strangeness of one's past. In another time, Mokou and Kaguya may have very well been some of the most important people within their communities, but now, they occupy themselves with unreliable rivalries and afternoon tea ceremonies, laughing and joking as if their pasts couldn't matter less. Perhaps they don't.

Surely, I don't deserve to bask in any of this happiness. I've pleaded with the hungry maw of the afterlife to spare me time and time again - to find myself pursuing none of the revenge I set out to claim, playing housekeeper and sparring partner to the one who should be my enemy. A great punishment bubbles in the depths of the Sanzu River, waiting for the day my soul becomes too weary for another torturous swim back to the world of the living. Such a thought makes me afraid, of leaving all this behind. As much as I would have loathed to admit it back then, this quiet existence is something I wouldn't mind experiencing forever.

The day. The night. It wastes away around these people. A gathering of two-and-a-half immortals, as Mokou might put it. When the time came for us to return home, an impenetrable darkness had already descended upon the bamboo forest. Kaguya insisted that we stay the night, but Mokou adamantly refused, apparently having tolerated her fill of the lunar princess' rambling.

"Don't be a stranger!" Kaguya watches us depart from the porch, "Come and visit the moon festival sometime!"

As our paces carry us beyond the mansion's perimeter, its outline eventually fades into the gloomy fog, scattered only by an ember flickering within Mokou's palm.

After a few minutes, I break the silence. "She's awfully lively."

"Is that so surprising?"

"Considering she's immortal..." I pause, "I was expecting her to be a little more like you."

"Hah? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Unapproachable."

"You've approached me plenty."

"That's true, but I've also been killed on some of those occasions."

"Kaguya deals with her immortality better than I do." She explains, "That's just how she is, and why I can't stand her most of the time."

"Hm." I'm forced to take her word for it, "...Actually, I've been wondering-"

"How'd we become immortal in the first place?"

"It was written all over my face, huh?"

"You're a predictable person."

For a moment, she says nothing else. I've come to accept any silences between us, as often as they are.

"...It's nothing special." She eventually continues, "We both drank from the hourai elixir."

"At the same time?"

She shakes her head, "Eirin made it for Kaguya when they were still on the moon. That's why she was exiled."

"An elixir of immortality..." I mutter, "Living on the moon almost sounds believable compared to that."

Yuugi called her the 'elixir girl' when we met. That must have been what she was referring to.

"She left it to the emperor of Japan..."

Once again, Mokou descends into thought.

"...Well, one way or another, it ended up belonging to me in the end. That's all there is to it."

"Isn't that quite a leap? From the emperor's hands into your own?"

"The Fujiwara family were powerful back then. Maybe it was a gift. I don't remember it too well."

"Even so, an elixir of immortality isn't something to give away carelessly."

"Does it matter? I drank it just like Kaguya did, and now we're both immortal."

"This wouldn't happen to be a sensitive subject, would it?"

"You-" She sighs, "What am I supposed to say to that?"

"It's fine if it is. I won't ask any more questions."

"You're still curious about it."

"Whether I am or not isn't the issue. Don't feel like your image is being ruined for not wanting to remember something."

"Hm." She lowers her head, "Acting thoughtful doesn't really suit you."

"What a horrible thing to say."

"But now that you've pried into my business, it's my turn to ask you a personal question."

"I'm afraid there's not much you don't know already."

In the unfaithful light, a smirk crosses her face, "There is one thing."

"And what would that be?"

"Your family's name."

A pause.

Family.

Throughout the miniscule joys I've experienced in life and in death, my family have remained the sweetest of them all. A whorl of emotions accumulate in the chasm left by my parents' departure from this world. It's a shame - no, it's almost damning, that I consider myself unworthy of attaching myself to them. For having accomplished nothing, I deserve only a single name, and as a phantom, even less.

In this mundane moment, will I throw these thoughts away?

"...It's wasted on me."

"You say that as if it's important." She notices, "You're just a village boy."

"Having a name like mine used to carry some importance, or so I was told." I reply, "It always sounded a little far-fetched. But meeting you made me realise that it must have been the truth."

"Hm? What's it got to do with me?"

"Fujiwara no Mokou." I recite, "It certainly sounds a little antiquated nowadays."

She doesn't reply.

Just what does it mean to 'belong' to a family? In Mokou's time, the ties that wound her to a mother and father were more complicated than most. Those who bear children for the sake of 'love', against those who create successors and heirs. It has to be said, if only to reassure ourselves, that at the moment where offspring become less than human, a 'family' morphs into a 'clan'. Is that the importance my own name carries? One that stands judged against how much is sacrifice? For what? Strength? Longevity?

The clouds are much too thick tonight. If the moon is out, it's certainly being very shy about it.

I've become hung up on a name like so many other things. Worthiness is out of the question. Even Mokou, who once had so much responsibility placed on her shoulders, ekes out her own existence separate from the once formidable pillar of her family. There's no need for me to bring any particular glory to my own. Rather, it should be something I show off proudly. For the life I was given.

"Just a village boy..." The bamboo forest is free of wind tonight, "You're not wrong."

Finally, something to smile about.

"Tsuki no Masashi." I answer, "That's my name."

Strangely, I don't feel like a weight's been lifted from my chest. It is my own name, after all. There's nothing special to it.

Despite having coaxed it out of me, Mokou remains silent.

The subtle changes in her affectless façade are as impenetrable as they were on the day we met. I still have a difficult time predicting what she's going to say, or what her reaction to something might be. It's only during these rare occasions, when her emotions are written plainly on her face, that I can catch a short-lived glimpse into her soul. As the lime-green bamboo stalks fade in and out of the darkness around us, flickering hand-pyre illuminating only the barest of features, I spot it for the first time.

A glimpse of fear.


The Third Year - Summer

An uninterrupted cicada howl marks the beginning of another heatwave.

Sluggishness hounds Youkai and humans both. All but the flower-wreathed summer fairies become full of complaints this time of year.

Mokou follows a path she's only somewhat familiar with, towards a place where she's known but not particularly well. Settlements of any description are such an odd sight in Gensokyo that even she, human herself, can only look upon the village as if appreciating a strange work of art. With footfalls carrying her unerringly towards the wide-open square, the lack of kinship she feels alongside these meandering souls inspires a sombre loneliness.

The village's blacksmith has undergone a slow transformation over the course of its life. With the relations between humans and Youkai steadily improving, metalworking has become prized only for its usefulness in creating pots and pans. A workshop once stained tar-black with soot now sits decorated with the shavings of freshly-carved bows - a handful of hoes and sickles propped up against the back wall. It's only rarely that the tune of a hammer plays here nowadays, and rarer still to see a blade longer than a kitchen knife being ferried out.

As Mokou sticks her head through the doorway, the place seems as dark as ever. Not one window on the whole building.

"Oi, old man." She calls out.

The wire-haired blacksmith is almost unresponsive, hunched towards his work on a rotting stool.

"I came to pick up my order."

His tired hands cease their instinctual motions for the instant it takes him to speak.

"On the wall there." The nod of his head couldn't be more ambiguous, but Mokou is able to spot what she's looking for without much trouble.

One scabbard sits balanced in a lonely corner, as if shunned by the other tools. Far from the burning forge, almost invisible in the darkness, it's not a bad place to keep it from the prying eyes of an overexcited child. Of course, Mokou wastes no time in unsheathing the blade for all to see, razor edge reflecting the low light. Though she might examine it with the eyes of a professional, assessing the quality of a sword isn't something she's terribly familiar with. At the very least, it seems about as sharp as a sword can be, as nebulous as that might sound.

The blade is only a few centimetres longer than what she was using previously. By that measure, it's certainly closer to the sort of thing that would play sidekick to a much longer weapon, to either use as a replacement, or more commonly, in tight spaces where wide swings aren't possible. One could argue she's given herself a clear disadvantage in terms of range, but a longer sword doesn't feel quite right to her.

"Mm." She hums assuredly, "It's perfect. Thank you."

"Not my best work." The blacksmith continues to ignore her, "Nothing I make is."

"Aren't you happy someone finally asked you to forge a sword?"

"Hm. You're not the first." He replies, "There's nothing to be happy about. It's the tool of a murderer."

"What makes you think I'm going to murder someone with it?" She asks, "I'm just looking for a weapon to drive wild animals away."

"Hammers nail. Hoes till. Knives butcher." He lists gruffly, "A sword kills."

"All of those are the tools of murderers."

"But in the right hands, they're the tools of honest folk." He answers, "There's no such thing as carrying a sword with good intentions."

"And how can you prove that, having forged so few of them?"

"The last boy I gave a sword up and disappeared." His tone is dire, "That was years ago. He's dead now - no doubt."

"What was his name?"

The blacksmith hangs in thought, "...Masashi. Tsuki no Masashi."

"Why did he want a sword?"

"Never told me." His reply sounds honest, "Worked like a fool to pay for it, though."

"And his family?"

"Passed." He states simply, "A long time ago. Back when my hands didn't shake so much."

Masashi was a tragic soul who died for nothing, philosophy unrealised and dreams unfulfilled, whatever they might have been. The humans of Gensokyo are hardened to such tragedy - his is only one in a long line of unfortunate incidents. Mokou lives through these remembrances as if staring into the past, knowing very well his soul persists even today. But revealing something like that would be a joke sicker than any other.

"My handiwork was the last nail in his coffin." The blacksmith confesses without much difficulty, "That should tell you all you need to know about the evil a blade can invite."

Not another word is shared between them. It's likely the last time he and Mokou will ever meet. No amount of years can compare to the desperation that arises from old age. The thought of being close to death spurs one to spread wisdom as a farmer casts seeds, to articulate every accumulated right and wrong in the vague hope that a new generation will stray from sin. An undying life has choked Mokou of that pleasure. In her eyes, the path Masashi follows can be called neither good or evil. To have a goal in mind and the conviction to see it reached - there are those who would kill for such an opportunity.

"Tsuki no Masashi..."

The idea of it is unbelievable. What cruel fate have the gods in store for her, that another by that name has appeared? For all the pointless memories she calls her own, that day is the least forgettable of them all. The exhausting climb, the mountain god, and the first taste of that coveted elixir - in a simpler time, she is long dead, but the wondrous dreams of a childish mind set in motion the events that would lead her towards a pained, everlasting existence.

In a way, it started with that name. Would it be wishful thinking, then, to suggest that it might end the same way?

Of course it is. Fujiwara no Mokou, after all, is immortal.


"Mmh..." I gaze at the sheen with a worried admiration, "So, you bought yourself a sword?"

"It's not bad, is it?" Saying that, Mokou brings the blade down with both hands, "It's nice to see swordsmithing hasn't gone out of style even in this day and age."

"You might've taken mine in to have it repaired."

"How much money do you think we've got lying around?" She retorts, "They didn't cost so much back in the day."

"That's because the blacksmith doesn't like people owning weapons."

"He did say something like that." She continues with a few practice swings, "Do you think they're evil?"

"If you asked me that question a year ago, I wouldn't have thought so." I reply, "But now, I think it's difficult to say."

"The heart and soul of whoever wields a blade is their only defence against the evil it can do."

"Can anyone who murders for any reason call themselves pure of heart and soul?"

"A soldier might pick up a sword or a spear to defend their homeland. Would you call that evil?"

"Why does there need to be a battle to begin with? Couldn't things have been resolved before blood had to be shed?"

"It's not so simple. That's something the humans of Gensokyo can't really understand." She sheaths her blade, "Territory, wealth, supplies, influence - beyond the border, conflicts surrounding these things appear every day. The world is filled with opposing ideologies and beliefs. Our differences have been snuffed with violence since before any of us knew how to read or write."

"Then it's impossible? To anticipate tragedy before it appears? Is that what 'justifies' the blade?"

Smirking, she gives a bemused chuckle, "Harmony."

"Eh?"

"Masashi." She folds her arms, "What's the goal of all swordsmen?"

"The goal?" I wonder, "...Mastery, I suppose."

"But what does mastery look like?" She continues, "If I tried to kill you with this blade, what would a 'mastery' of swordsmanship look like, in your eyes?"

"If I had attained perfect mastery of the sword..." A pause, "Well, you wouldn't be able to beat me. I'd stop you."

"How?"

"I don't know how." I answer honestly, "If I knew that, I would be a master."

"In that way, do you mean 'no matter what technique I decide to use, I would always beat you?'"

"That's certainly what I would consider mastery."

"What if I attacked you from behind? Like a surprise attack?"

"To call myself a master in that situation, I would have to see you coming regardless."

"You'd be aware of your surroundings at all times."

"Yes."

"How would you stop your thoughts from distracting you? Or dampening those perfect reflexes?"

"Maybe I just wouldn't think at all."

"No, no - you absolutely have to think. Thoughts can't just be silenced."

"In that case, I suppose..."

A moment of silence passes.

I suppose what? It's true that thoughts are the defining factor that determine wins or losses. A bad approach, a poor guess - or, indeed, the lack of any thought at all, can explain just about every loss I've ever experienced. To achieve 'mastery' of the sword, and that is to say, to guarantee a victory, one's thoughts must always be correct. Every prediction, correct. Every strategy, correct. But we are all slaves to the ambiguity of our thoughts. No one individual can ever be completely right or wrong.

The obvious answer is that this perceived 'mastery' is utterly impossible. But if there exists a rational explanation for how it could be attained, then what is it? In any situation, the mind conjures up thousands of possibilities, and yet only one can be chosen. Right here, there's some kind of 'split' separating unconscious speculation from conscious decision-making. This miniscule 'gap' between the two is responsible for creating a number of large problems that can interfere with the concept of mastery. Foolishness. Indecisiveness. Reflex.

No matter how often we train ourselves, perfection is a path paved with unconquerable hurdles. A master would not waste time exploring options that would result in anything but victory, and so the mere idea of 'prediction' is a useless skill. To stare an opponent in the eyes and immediately understand their intent would be considered borderline magical, and yet that reality must exist for mastery's sake. One's own thoughts can't be ignored - rather, they must be overcome.

"If that's the case, then..." I begin, "-I would have to defeat my thoughts."

Mokou smiles, "You're right."

"Well..." I'm not sure how to respond, "That just sounds impossible."

"Opening your mind to the world around you, and becoming one with everything - even the strategies of your opponent." She concludes, "Harmony."

"I see. Having reached something like that, conflict wouldn't be needed in the first place."

"That's not necessarily true." She objects, "We're quick to associate words like 'harmony' with 'peace', which in itself is a word with some broad associations."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"For instance, 'harmony in battle' would mean to be victorious perfectly." Mokou continues, "The 'goal' reached via harmony doesn't necessarily have to be a noble one."

"Wouldn't someone operating in harmony want to create a better world?"

"Asking a question like that is speculation about the true nature of the soul."

"Haven't they already defeated their soul? As much as they've defeated their thoughts, or their ego?"

"But having defeated them, they remain that way. The soul can never hesitate again. Seeking out the best solution to every problem without having to consider themselves halfway through is what would give them an unbeatable advantage in, say, a duel."

"So, by that logic, even those with wicked hearts can be considered harmonious?"

"And in the same way, it can be said that they've found a 'peace' of their own."

"Hm." A silence opens up between us, "Then that still doesn't answer the question of whether a weapon is evil or not."

"It depends on who's using it."

"That's a reasonable conclusion, but not a very satisfying one."

"This is what happens when I indulge your overthinking." She replies, "The two of us just end up unsatisfied."

"I'm not quite wordly enough to wrap my head around 'harmony' and 'peace', as it turns out."

"Are you cooking dinner tonight?"

"Strange." I remark, standing up from the veranda, "That was worded in a way that makes it sound like you would cook dinner if I asked nicely."

"It doesn't hurt to be thoughtful every now and then."

"Maybe there's some truth to what Kaguya said about you." I reply.

"She has a habit of saying whatever comes to mind, so don't take her too seriously."

"It was only a joke. I'm all too used to your roughness now, so don't worry about it."

"I'll need to make sure she isn't a bad influence on you."

Crossing her arms, Mokou breaks eye contact and delves into thought for a moment, "If it's- well..."

She clams up.

"...Well, what?"

Her voice is hesitant, "Do you dislike that part of me?"

Within the yawning chasms that separate our duels, I've witnessed the entire broadness of Mokou's attitude. Interactions of indifference and acceptance. Occasions marked with that familiar, listless tone, sometimes deflective, sometimes endearing. Despite that, an impenetrable defence continues to shadow each of our conversations. No - I can say that, until this moment, Mokou has never shown vulnerability. Now, out of the blue, she asks this question of unashamed vanity.

"I don't." My answer is an honest one, "What an unexpectedly self-conscious question."

"It's fine to be just a little curious of someone's opinions."

"Then, while we're at it, is there anything about me you particularly dislike?"

"You're terrible with a sword."

"I'm trying to fix that, though."

As her awkwardness recedes, she smiles, "There's not much besides that."

"What a gleaming compliment. We'll soon be sharing futons at this rate."

"Oya, is the village boy inviting me?"

"Not even the eightfold wine of Susanoo could coax me into a bed with you."

"Even the thought of it has you trembling, huh?"

"We're wasting daylight!" I reply, grinning, "I need to go prepare dinner."

"Ah, I'll help out."

"Read the room. I'm trying to escape this conversation."

"Don't act like you can keep me out of my own home!"

Like that, we both end up ushering ourselves back inside, the air suddenly alive with energy. How can such a relationship exist between the two of us, who are destined to be at one-another's throats come the first snowfall of winter? The answer, like Mokou's rivalry with Kaguya, must lie in the freedom granted by our undying bodies. Having crossed swords, can she or I claim to have mastered ourselves in victory? With each death, my faraway goal of revenge dissolves into a greater pursuit - an almost idealistic dream. But letting go of that purpose will spell the end of me.

Just how much longer can I indulge in it? This quiet life after death?

As the answer complicates itself, reluctance to accept my fate begins to burn a fearful hole in my chest.


The Third Year - Autumn

A pail, incense, and an arrangement of chrysanthemums.

Every year, but never quite on the same day, he asks me to prepare those things, disappears in the early morning, and doesn't return until nightfall. It'd be rude to ask after him, as if what he does during that time isn't completely obvious, so I fetch whatever he asks for and leave him to it. It's not as if he can saunter up to the village without drawing a few glances.

When the leaves turn a rotting orange, it inspires remembrance in all of us. This modest home, surrounded year-round by everlasting bamboo, gives the impression of a forgotten place that can never age. But beyond the forest's perimeter, and beyond Gensokyo's barrier, a world which is almost surely unrecognisable continues to march towards an uncertain future. It's strange to think that Kaguya and I, the most ancient among the living, are the ones who ended up getting stuck in the past.

Today, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to take a trip of my own. The path to the village has become so familiar to me that I'm often surprised to stumble into it sometimes. Seeing humans wander around so freely brings to mind fragmented memories of the outside world, witnessing those whose ambitions dissolved their fears of Youkai, spearheading a country dominated by humanity. I saw the wide ocean many times after drinking the hourai elixir, but the urge to visit foreign lands never captured me. I could have visited China to see the sensational Buddhism that was gripping Japan. With an undying body, I could very well have travelled far enough to witness the Byzantines of Europe with my own eyes. All of these possibilities, marred by hatred and obsession, crumbled away like ruins. My rampaging and anger led me to the one place I was destined to reach - a place I will remain until the ground wastes away beneath my feet.

The cemetery of the human village is an abstraction of beliefs long left invalidated. No undertakers or priests are employed to manage and maintain the area. The tradition of burying one's relatives seems to be a loose one among the humans of Gensokyo. Each family is responsible for digging their own graves and carving their own headstones, lending no reason to the layout of this grassy lot that expands randomly from one side of the village. Differing amounts of respect result in quaint yet dearly-loved villagers receiving lofty graves which the others steer clear of, in comparison to amateurish cairns erected for the truly forgotten.

Wandering through this wasteland of death, I can smell the calming smoke of incense in the air. It doesn't take a masterful eye to notice the ashen-clad fellow idling cross-legged towards the edge of the cemetery. Masashi waits by what seems like the most sensible grave around, carved poorly yet with great heart.

"Hm?"

His trance is lucid enough to trigger a reaction when I approach, worryingly urgent yet quickly subdued as he looks me up and down, "...Mokou."

My hand rises in salutation, "I came to visit."

"Did you bring any offerings?"

"Ah-" It's a question direct enough to stop me completely, "Sorry."

"It doesn't matter." He returns to gazing at the grave, "Come and sit down."

His tone is bothered. Like any who are forced to recall the memories of those dearly loved, a sadness which seems almost disrespectful hangs effortlessly in the air. As I seat myself next to him, the headstone reflects a watery sheen from its recent cleaning. Cream-white chrysanthemums from the flower shop waver between their wilted cousins. The place is anything but peaceful - birdsongs join in symphony from above the flickering canopy. Weeds flower from beneath soil-crushing stone as insects skitter across the sanctified names of the dead.

"Your family were nobles?" I ask.

"Supposedly. Although it must have been a very long time ago."

"You don't talk about them much."

"No, but that doesn't mean I didn't love them." He replies, "I'm at peace with their deaths now, is all."

"They'd be proud of a son that visits so often. A lot of families are left to rot."

"Would they be proud of a son that left the village to get himself killed?"

"It depends." I pause, "What exactly were you trying to do, that day?"

"My thoughts weren't as collected back then as they are now." Masashi answers, "I couldn't put it into words, but 'love' was certainly what I was looking for."

"Did you find it?"

Come to think of it, that question must be the most important one I've ever asked him. Once upon a time, it was 'love' this, 'love' that. In a way that's distinctly human, we latch onto phrases that explain our actions perfectly, deriving convenient meanings from them whenever our outlooks become challenged. All that I can say with certainty is that, at least for him, 'love' has become something with true meaning.

After a moment, he responds, "Maybe. Sometimes. I'm not sure."

A beat passes.

I try to stop myself from smiling, "What kind of answer is that?"

"Well..." He tries again, "You could say that 'love' appears about as often as it needs to. That's all that matters."

"After all this time, can you explain to me what 'love' actually is?"

"I suppose it's something like romance." This time, his reply is quick, "Idealism. Perfection. The sort of 'force' that normally only exists in stories and tales."

"And what does wandering around with a sword have to do with that?"

"There's no questioning that swordsmanship is 'romantic', in its own way." Masashi states, "The question is, where does that romance lie?"

I remain silent while he continues, "When we met, I thought that it must exist in the strictness of training. 'Mastery', like what we once talked about."

"You aren't a master, though."

"No. And more to the point, I don't think any romance exists in mastery."

There is some truth to what he says. The goals and ambitions we develop through something as complex as swordsmanship often go beyond simply wanting to become 'the strongest'. Meaning has to be found in every facet of training, if not to motivate ourselves, then to satisfy a deep longing for emotions that can only blossom under very delicate circumstances. For Masashi, love appearing 'as often as it needs to' must refer to our duels. Even I can't deny it - that the air around us becomes electrified in those moments. It's the same feeling that spurs Kaguya and I further into this endless rivalry of ours.

"To 'love' even in battle. To 'love' even in death." He recites, "I'm sure that, for many swordsmen, mastery is only an obstacle in the way of achieving this mindset."

"It's the dream of every human." I reply, "To die without regret."

"That kind of 'peace' you described..." Masashi continues, "It's beautiful how even the ideologically opposed can come together in moments of love. Like a universal law, they're willing to put aside their struggles to better one-another's souls."

His gaze falls upon me, "I suppose, that's what it must be like between you and Kaguya."

It's expected that the truth of Masashi's 'love' isn't particularly life-changing. Appreciation of romance, the dramatic, and so on, exists in every human. Desperation, and the all-encompassing finality that exists at the end of every battle, activates a desire for the moment, however long it might last, to be remembered forever. How many moments have I forgotten, since beginning this long life of mine? It must mean something, that the years I've spent with Kaguya in Gensokyo have somehow become the most memorable of all. 'Beautiful' really is the word to describe it.

"Did I ever tell you the story of why I hate her?"

"No, but please do."

"When she was exiled from the moon, many suitors came to ask for her hand in marriage." I begin, "My father was one of them."

"Hoh, don't go telling me she's secretly your mother, now."

"I've never heard something so disturbing in all my years." I admit, "Anyway, Kaguya vowed to only marry a man that could bring her certain items."

Staring up towards the canopy, I do my best to remember, "The stone begging-bowl of the Buddha, the robes of the Chinese fire-rat. A jewel from the neck of a dragon..."

"Eh... are any of those things even real?"

"They were." I nod, "But my father couldn't find them, so he presented Kaguya with forgeries."

"How did she find out they were fake?"

"All of the items she asked for already belonged to her." I answer, "She exposed my father publicly."

"So it was a slight against your family..."

"In those times, bold-faced lies were the quickest way to ruin your reputation. The Fujiwara clan ended up losing a lot of influence thanks to that incident."

Many men sought Kaguya's hand, but none of them could complete her tasks. It was the greed of her father that drove him to embarrass the clan. Honour was so tightly wound into our national identity that even I, an unwanted child, felt the need to take revenge. Of course, without that motive, the temptation of immortality would have still won me over. Who wouldn't take such an opportunity? That man, who showed compassion despite only knowing me as a thief, fell victim to my own ambition.

Iwakasa...

My eyes scan the headstone. That family is engraved as clear as day.

Tsuki.

Is it really possible?

"You know..." I lean back, "I never visited my father's grave."

"That's no good. The dead shouldn't be left unattended."

"It's not like I could even if I wanted to." I reply, "Gensokyo's my home now, whether I want it to be or not."

"It must be frustrating, fighting an immortal enemy."

"I suppose you would know all about that."

"I haven't been at it for nearly as long as you and Kaguya have." He replies, "But, with all that said, the two of you don't really seem like enemies."

"Funny. Most people say that."

"Was that not true, at some point?"

"When we first met each other here in Gensokyo..." I recall, "It was like night and day became one. We slaughtered each other without holding back, until blood ran down the length of every bamboo stalk in the forest."

A wind blows through the graveyard, "After six-hundred years of violence and loneliness, it was like being given life for the second time."

"That sounds tiring."

"Naturally, we settled down over the course of a few years." I conclude, "And now, it's rare for us to seriously bicker over anything more than a few times every month."

"A 'love' of your very own." Masashi finalises, "It's strange how fate works."

Am I happy?

There isn't an easy way to answer that. Even the elderly on their deathbeds have trouble with it. With so much of the future left to experience, there's no telling if happiness will even mean anything to me in the long term.

At the very least, sitting here, I can confess to feeling just a little content.

"My mother, and my father..." He looks down, "I think they would have liked you, Mokou."

"You mean to say, they would have approved of me."

"If that's the way you'd like to put it."

"Are you an airhead, Masashi?"

"I've been told so many times, yes."

"Could it be that I'm not your type?"

"No. You're quite beautiful, Mokou." He smiles, "Is this really the kind of conversation suited to a cemetery? And in front of my family's grave, no less."

"One thousand years and more have whittled down my patience to the nub. If there's something I like, I want to reach out and take it."

"I'm flattered at being seen like some kind of priceless treasure."

"Have you ever known love?"

"That's an awfully difficult question, considering what we've just spoken about."

"I mean love in the most obvious sense of the word."

"Then, no. I don't think so." He answers, "And you?"

"Not even once."

"After so long? That's almost impressive."

"There are fields even I'm inexperienced in."

"It's surprising that you're being so honest about this." Masashi points out, "Love doesn't sound like a topic that crosses your mind."

"Don't talk about me like some kind of monster." I retort, "Even an immortal can dream of sweet futures."

"You'll need to shake up your fashion sense before I see you in that way."

"That's harsh! Reply like Masashi would!"

"I'm kidding."

Even in a relationship plagued by death, topics like these retain their innocence. A longing for sincerity pokes up through the abyss of half-hearted responses. Finally standing up from the grave, Masashi stretches lazily and brushes the blades of grass from his attire. Idling there, experiencing the possibility of severance from one's family, it must seem almost like a crime to leave this place. He pulls against the thin rope strapping the pure-white triangular cloth to his forehead - a method of avoiding headaches, he sometimes tells me.

"It'll be winter soon." He states forebodingly, "This year has been a strange one."

"Don't think I'll be going any easier on you."

"With a brand-new sword, I'd be surprised if you did."

As much as I'd grown attached to it, that old knife I was using before can't be compared to the real deal. A fresh blade means there won't be any need to control the power of my strikes in fear of breaking it. Masashi seems to be appreciating the threat it poses, but whatever plan he might have in store remains a mystery to me. I'm no master with the sword, but I'm confident that defeating him in a fair fight is more than possible.

"I'm looking forward to it." The fear that infested his eyes in the past is gone, "So, promise me that you won't hold anything back."

Putting my hands together in prayer for a moment, I stand up to meet him, "Naturally. A victory isn't a victory unless you have to work for it."

"And, Mokou..."

"Hm?"

He's already facing away from me, "About... well..."

"Don't get the impression that I'm messing around with you." I interrupt, "Half-hearted talk is tiring. I mean everything I say."

"How direct. Shouldn't it be me speaking these words?"

"That they're spoken at all is a rarity in this day and age." I cross my arms, "To clear your mind completely - I'm interested in you. Specifically, the physical parts of you."

"No, you don't need to be that upfront about it..."

"What's your answer?"

He doesn't offer one as we skirt around the village on our way out of the cemetery. I wonder, how often does he find himself tempted to visit those he knew in life? The villagers wouldn't chase him off for being a phantom, especially if any of them recognised him. The old blacksmith was proof enough that his name persists in the thoughts of some. Even now, he casts unsatisfied glances towards the place he once called home.

"Do you miss it?" I feel the need to ask.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't." He replies, "But, these occasional visits are enough to put my mind at ease."

"Even if nobody knows you're here?"

"I shouldn't be to begin with. Sometimes it's easy to forget that I'm supposed to be dead."

"Some people still remember you."

"Then I can be thankful for that, more than anything else."

This fading path towards the bamboo forest is one that I often walk alone. It's always been my duty, leading humans to where they belong, but this is the first time I've ever had one accompany me back. When the curtain of stalks finally comes into view, Masashi scratches the back of his head and allows me to take the lead.

"I still have trouble finding my way around this place."

"Just walk with a destination in mind and you'll find it."

"That's simple enough for you to say."

The shoots poke up through the uneven soil year-round, and yet the forest never grows or recedes. Bamboo that's cut to size will double in length the very next day. Walking in a straight line will have one meeting with their own footfalls before long. And yet, those who are ill will always find Eientei, and those that wish to leave will always find me. Like many things in Gensokyo, it's simpler to understand without putting too much thought into it. Maybe Masashi's habit of overthinking has a way of making it temperamental.

"I wouldn't mind that."

While wandering aimlessly through the maze, he mutters that.

"Excuse me?"

"My answer." He replies, "Or, were you joking around that entire time?"

"Didn't I say already? Life is too short to be insincere about those sorts of things."

"An immortal calling life 'too short' seems a little reductive."

"That doesn't make it any less true!" I snap, "Anyway, saying you 'wouldn't mind that' isn't good enough."

"And what was I supposed to say, exactly?"

"Something more sincere."

"You don't know, do you?"

"Have some conviction! Be a man about it!"

"I like you too. Let's become lovers."

It's the answer I was looking to hear, but it still feels like the soul's been knocked out of my body.

Fujiwara considers that reply with a thoughtful expression. Only, after a few seconds, she turns her head away from me, "...Isn't that embarassing to say out loud?"

"You were the one who asked for sincerity."

"Lovers..." She closes her eyes, "I guess that's what it is."

"Are you having doubts?"

"No." Despite her tone, she replies quickly, "I'm not."

"I see." A beat passes between us, "Then, that's that, I suppose."

"Mmh." She nods, "That's that."

That's that.

Am I dreaming?

I don't mean that in the romantic sense, as if the situation is completely unbelievable. It's more like, this emotional exchange with Mokou has ended up so stiff and lucid that it genuinely feels like I'll be waking up at any moment. Her wisdom makes any conversation feel like scaling a mountain, but here, she doesn't seem any more wordly than a girl from the village. In barely a few months, the two of us will be at each other's throats like usual, and yet here we stand, exchanging confessions like a pair of schoolchildren.

"Are you sure about this, Mokou?"

"I am."

"Well, that's fine, but..." I pause, "I'm not any more experienced with this than you are."

"Ahh, this is frustrating!" Saying that, she points a finger at me, "Listen up, Masashi!"

"A-Alright. I'm listening..."

"I'll only say this once, so make sure!" She warns, "My feelings are genuine! Don't go thinking I'm making a pass at you because we live together, or because we're forced to tolerate one-another! Through death, or through 'love' - whether it's this or that - the fulfilment we create together is something I want to experience more of! That last duel we shared..."

Pausing to take a breath, her voice flattens out, "...When you asked me to kill you. Even if it was just for an instant, I felt like we'd reached some kind of understanding. I was happy, because it was thanks to me that you'd managed to realise something important, whatever it was. Like 'love', I thought it was beautiful."

Mokou locks eyes with me, "I asked you when you were coming back. Do you remember what you said?"

I remember.

"That I might not."

"It was only a joke." She continues, "But, in the moment before realisation set in..."

A millennium and more can't have been healthy for her. Friends and enemies - besides Kaguya, they were all fated to disappear. Maybe that explains why she doesn't show a lot of emotion, or why her attitude always seems so collected. Like a betrayal of her own teachings, these short-lived glimpses of vulnerability must be more difficult than I can understand.

"In that one moment-" Mokou repeats, "I was afraid."

Our lot is a strange one. But just as she tells it, there's an 'understanding', a rule that gives us the freedom to set these turbulent aspects of our relationship apart. Once, I attacked Fujiwara for suggesting that violence could be an 'answer' to struggle. I killed her for trying to justify it. Yet, how am I, someone who searches after this 'love' branching from the same, greed-soaked philosophy, any better than her? In the spring, I heard an echo of that accusation. A damning sentiment overcoming it - the addicting 'romance' of a warrior poet.

That's fine, isn't it? To be here, expressing an 'evil' dream without bringing harm to anyone.

You have to take the good with the bad, after all. Anything less is just unhealthy for the soul.

"...One day, not long from now, I won't be able to come back." I reply, "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Whether it's this year or the next, or however long after that-" Mokou answers, "I won't let anything go unsaid."

"I see. It's not a bad way to live at all."

"One of those things just happens to be us sharing a futon from now on."

"It all comes back to that, huh?" I joke, "For a phrase that can't be beaten - let's just take things as slowly as we need to."

"That's an example of saying a lot while not saying much at all."

"At least let me prepare my heart before we do anything too serious. I'm still a young man."

"Have it your way."

"But, that said..." I pause, "I'm happy that you feel this way, Mokou."

"There's no need to hold back on the compliments now. I'll be expecting a shower of flattery."

"You're fated to be disappointed if you load yourself up with expectations."

"Then I'll expect the worst, and be surprised at every little thing you do for me."

"Isn't that just putting the pressure on?"

No, it doesn't seem like this will change our conversations much. In that back-and-forth way, we throw out sayings and half-jokes like they're going out of style, bespattered with the occasional hint of sincerity that makes them worth having.

"Well then, Masashi..."

As she turns to face me, I'm overcome by a strange feeling. A snapshot of the past that couldn't be a more perfect replica of the same situation. A night hounded by the chills of early spring, idling within a clearing in the bamboo. A pink-haired Youkai. Grilled lamprey. Music. At that time, it was a reality peppered with strangeness. I remember Mokou then, staring towards nothing in particular, her expression impenetrably neutral. Boredom - or something like it. It still fades from her only occasionally.

Only now, what was once an involuntary glimpse has metamorphosed into something prouder. Something on display.

A grin.

"I'll be in your care from now on."


The Third Year - Snowfall

When winter draws near, I find myself skygazing more often than usual, as if noticing the snow before it touches the ground will somehow give me an advantage. It isn't an entirely wasteful habit - after all, when the snow finally does arrive, it's no longer an unpleasant surprise. Today, for the first time, I was able to capture the moment of our duel arriving. How many more seconds of freedom did it afford me? By the time those flakes dissolved into the dirt, I still didn't have an answer.

Won't this be the first time we duel during the day? It's nice enough that, unlike before, my thoughts are of mundane things like that.

But, what is this feeling? An omen unlike any other sends me into a worry nonetheless. Though I may have overcome the fear of death, it seems this time of year will always have me bothered about something. In a matter of days, this old veranda will surely be piled high with snow and the doors will become stuck in place. I've only been able to glimpse that reality once, when Mokou and I weren't on such good terms. Now, the thought of being trapped inside with her sounds like a pleasant dream. Across the indeterminate bamboo forest, I wonder if the residents of Eientei do anything in particular to celebrate the first snowfall. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to check, one day.

"Oya." As the door slides open behind me, a voice hums, "I thought I felt a chill just then."

"Is it really that easy to tell? No wonder you always notice before I do."

"You develop a sixth sense for it when you live long enough." Mokou gloats casually, "Now come inside, before you catch a cold."

"I'm not sure that I can anymore."

"Either way, I'm not sitting out here with you." She replies, "Let's get a fire going."

I wonder if it has something to do with her affinity for fire, but Mokou complains about the cold more than anything else. She doesn't pass up an opportunity to have the hearth roaring from morning until night during the winter. We should really be more thankful for the endless bamboo sprouting all around us. As I follow her inside and slide the door shut behind me, my eyes wander to the twin sheaths propped up in their corner.

That's right. Mokou will be using a proper sword this time around. With barely any experience in the matter, it's difficult to gauge just how substantial of a change it will be for her. In any case, I'm not looking forward to being cut by it.

"You're spending too much time outside, anyway." She continues, "Don't go getting frostbite."

"A phantom's body is always cold, as it turns out."

"Hm..."

Like that, she reaches out and takes my hand in hers as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Ah, it's true. You're freezing..." She mutters, "Doesn't that bother you?"

"I've gotten used to it."

"Well..."

Bringing my hand towards her, she presses it against her cheek, "If you ever need warming up, I'm always here."

"It's a tempting offer." I reply, "But today's a day of coldness all around."

"The duel can wait for now. You'll share a drink with me, won't you?"

"I'd like that."

Ever since that day, there's been a change in the atmosphere surrounding our conversations. Mokou's reckless smile appears more often, and I've found myself sharing in that strange happiness on more than one occasion. As she retrieves the sake bottle and dish, that sensation in my palm burns with a heat I haven't felt in years. Even on a day like this, when I'm normally preparing myself for death, the air between us is mellow enough to take a nap in.

Though, even in this peace, my mind drifts to the sword.

Mokou hasn't noticed it. Or, perhaps she chooses not to - that, since my return, I haven't unsheathed my blade even once.

The memory of it still haunts me. Practicing from dawn to dusk, swinging until my arms could carry me no further. Sleepless nights filled with criticism and insults. Perfection dragged into existence kicking and screaming, never quite attained but always hovering on the faraway horizon. Watching my sword, grip slick with blood, moving through those repetitive motions, endlessly battling the sweat-soaked air. The thought of that time is enough to give me palpitations. If there is any such thing as a genuine 'fear' of wielding a sword, I may have contracted it.

Even so, I can recall it perfectly. The placement of my fingers, the movement of the blade. Not only that, but the way my feet were made to move, the drawing angle, the holding of a stance - these torturous patterns have been ruthlessly nailed into me. They lie in unassuming stasis, awaiting the day I have need of them again. A slash that could cleave one's head in two. A thrust aimed effortlessly towards the heart. Without a doubt, whether I enjoyed it or not, that hellish training supplied me with knowledge I was in dire need of.

Only...

"Oi, quit daydreaming." Mokou interrupts, seating herself next to me, "Now's the time for drinking."

Fujiwara pours our servings handily while my eyes wander the bottle's label, "The same as last year's?"

"You said you liked it."

"Oh, how considerate."

"I can't argue with the words of a dying man." She jokes morbidly, "Here."

An ember jumps from the hearth as I accept my drink. The clear-as-water sake seems more flavourful than I remember.

"Three years..." She mutters as I hand the dish back, "It sounds unbelievable, but it's really been that long, huh?"

"Doesn't being immortal make the time go by any faster?"

"Not always." Saying that, she drinks her fill, "At first, it was like the years just melted away. Moving, killing, waiting - before I knew it, I was outliving everyone in the country."

"And then?"

"Then, nothing." She answers, "I gave up for a few hundred years."

"How do you mean?"

"I hid myself away and only moved when I needed to. When that was over, it wasn't long until I strayed into Gensokyo."

"Where you found Kaguya again."

Mokou nods, "-And since then, it's almost like time has meaning again. The years go by as slowly as they always did."

Humans are bound to purpose. Without it, we're simply husks. Unlike Youkai, who can stake themselves on strange ideologies for as long as the world allows them to exist, our mortality sends us towards ideals that can often seem fragmented, into chasms of our own design, created by a desire to witness and experience the world. Where has that mindset led us to, in the outside world? It's an intoxicating thought to have.

"For someone like me, there's no better place to be." She concludes, "A world of fantasy... there's not much that can compare to it."

"These duels of ours wouldn't exist if not for it."

"We're fated to live until there's nothing left. Me and Kaguya." She proclaims, "The thought of that... sometimes it terrifies me."

Another drink is poured, "Reisen, Eirin, Tewi... no, all of Gensokyo. Even you, Masashi."

I remain silent.

"Maybe I deserve it." She smiles, "Everything comes at a cost."

"Have you never thought about trying to end your immortality?"

"Rather than think about it, I've tried to 'kill' myself plenty of times." Her admission comes without sadness, "I've tried every poison, every ritual I could find. Not even the Great Youkai could put a stop to it."

"I suppose it wouldn't have been a very effective elixir if there was a cure."

"Eirin's the one who made it, but it's not her fault." Mokou replies, "Anyone would have killed to get their hands on it."

"Did you?"

"...Did I wha-"

Her face lights up in realisation.

"I-" She stammers, "That's..."

"It's alright." I interject, "I won't be surprised if that's the case. Like you just said, most people would."

What?

What is it?

This look on her face. I've never seen it before.

Sadness, but a kind very peculiar and heavy. The longing stare of something waiting to burst out. Conflict. A variety of ideals spurring the mind into oblivion. For a moment, she seems almost overwhelmed. Her gaze travels through me - through my soul, even, into an abyss of possibility. In the few seconds it lasts, a moment resurfaces. On the pitch-black return from Eientei, I shared a meaningful truth with Mokou. An eye for an eye. To me, it was a revelation. A step forward into the future, no longer some self-defeating fool. But somehow...

Somehow...

It was almost like I'd managed to scare her, with the look she gave me.

"...I did."

But that isn't what's causing this grief, is it? Those words get stuck in my throat. In the silence that follows, Mokou fidgets uncomfortably, before, after what seems like careful deliberation, she settles into a quiet acceptance.

"Tsuki no Iwakasa."

The name doesn't ring a bell. Not once in my life has it ever been spoken, and yet I understand her intent right away. Prophecy. Fate - no, the most important thing is how I feel about it. If I asked her to, would she never speak another word about it? Plain refusal, reluctance to accept the possibility. Iwakasa? What significance would it have if such a man was related to me? I already know the answer, but so long as it remains invalidated, it could always be denied. How did I end up in Gensokyo? I suppose the whole village would like to know. Not even the wisest elders can recount our entire history.

Would it matter if it could be denied? As soon as I consider anyone but myself, these thoughts of stringing along an ignorant existence fall apart. Mokou has allowed this truth to simmer for months. It's my responsibility, as this or that - as friends, or as lovers, to hear her out. I'll wear her problems as my own, and share in the pain of confession alongside her. The name which once brought me dishonour to speak aloud weighs heavier still on her conscience.

Take the good with the bad, and all the happiness and suffering that comes alongside.

Because only then can 'love' be found.

"The name of the man I murdered to become immortal..." She finishes, "-was Tsuki no Iwakasa."


The snowfall is slow this afternoon. It's not likely to lay overnight unless it plans on getting any heavier.

For once, the two of us are illuminated fully. Strikes can be somewhat ambiguous in the dark, and gauging the range of one's opponent is difficult without plenty of light. Our starting positions seem to be set in stone now. Fujiwara takes the left side of the clearing whereas I occupy the right. It's a wonderful space for a duel, with flat ground that's unlikely to be muddy during the winter. When I first encountered the old man near the barrier, we crossed swords on uneven terrain that made it difficult to find one's footing. It's important to consider such basic things - lessons from beyond the restricted world of duelling.

Though it's been years since my sword was polished by a professional, its quality in comparison to Mokou's isn't something worth considering. For as masterful as the ancient swordsmiths surely were, it doesn't take a terrible amount of effort to make something deadly sharp. Length contributes more substantially to the advantage a weapon can provide, and in that regard, I have Mokou cleanly beat. Even lacking a tip, my blade is significantly longer.

However, raw skill can overcome this disadvantage, and that is where my knowledge begins to break down. Mokou is no master with a sword - she's even told me this word-for-word on more than a few occasions, but the fact stands that, in every duel prior, she's at least been able to outclass me. With her new blade and my training, predicting a victor has only become more difficult.

Tsuki no Iwakasa.

But more than anything else, that name haunts me.

Fujiwara's story was one that sounded like a legend. Soldiers climbing Fuji, the tallest mountain in Japan, carrying with them the fabled elixir of immortality, with the intent of destroying it completely in the raging flames. Mokou followed after them, then still a mortal, but was discovered by their leader - a man named Iwakasa. After allowing her to tag along, the group reached the summit only to be stopped by Konohana-Sakuyahime, the mountain's Goddess, who forbade them from destroying the elixir.

Though, it wasn't known by the soldiers then that what they carried was the Hourai Elixir, and that night, a terrible massacre took place over its possession, with only Iwakasa and Mokou its survivors. Gripped by that same temptation, Fujiwara pushed him from a steep incline and took the elixir for herself. Thus was Fujiwara no Mokou made an immortal, and her fate set in stone.

Tsuki no Iwakasa.

Is my family so long-lived, or is this some cruel coincidence? The thought of not being the first of my lineage to fall at Mokou's hands is a dire one. Did she keep it from me because she was afraid of upsetting me? Angering me?

An ear-splitting rasp. A blade drifting from its sheath.

To tell the truth, I'm not sure how to feel about it, but it does bother me. Of all the times to be bothered, this may be the worst.

"Masashi." Mokou's voice is a whisper from here.

"What is it?"

"Let's stop here." She offers, "I shouldn't have told you about Iwakasa. Not now."

"It was important for me to know. I can't blame you for thinking that." I reply, "But, we can't stop ourselves now."

"Why?"

Why, indeed. What a difficult question.

"What's stopping us from doing this tomorrow? Next week? Never again?" She continues, "What is it about 'revenge' that's still legitimate, with everything that's happened?"

"Didn't we agree? To fight to the death on the first snowfall of every year?"

"Worthless agreements are made about mundane things every day." She retorts, "What's a promise worth when we're both willing to break it?"

"Do you think I want to set this aside?"

"Don't you?"

"I d-" Faltering, my words fail me, "That's-"

"Why not live?" She interrupts, "Doesn't that sound worthwhile?"

"I don't have a choice in the matter." I reply, "There is no 'living' for me, Mokou. I've already passed."

"Then what happens if I kill you, right here?" She asks, "Will you come back again?"

"For as long as the dream of revenge remains alive, I'll return as many times as I need to."

"Then tell me." She demands, "Is 'revenge' still your purpose?"

Certainly, when Mokou first cut me down, all I wanted was to return the favour. If it weren't for that ambition, the Sanzu River would have consumed my soul long ago. Yet, as it's often told, revenge can only remain a motivator for so long. On the shore of Higan, where I last made the swim back to the world of the living, it had already begun to lose its meaning. Hatred no longer clutched my heart whenever Mokou and I spoke. On the contrary, she's become someone quite important to me.

"No."

To lie to myself would be reductive, but lying to Mokou would be a feeling even more bitter.

"Then you're fated to die." She summarises, "Doesn't that scare you?"

"Of course it does!" I reply, "I don't want to die! I want to stay here, with you!"

"But there's no escaping a fate like that, is there?" Mokou closes her eyes, "Even if we stop killing each-other, you'll eventually degrade into a mindless Youkai."

"...Is that how it works?"

"Vengeful phantoms are all the same. They either accomplish what they wanted to do in life and die peacefully..." She explains, "...Or, something else happens. Maybe the one they wanted to take revenge on already died elsewhere. But instead of passing on to the afterlife, they cling to the world of mortals. Their souls fall apart - their memories, their bodies, all of it collapses. Phantoms who exist for long enough turn into the kind of monsters parents warn their children about."

"Is my future so bleak? I can't exact revenge on an immortal, can I?"

"Well, it's only the ones who hang on regardless." She rectifies, "It'd be in bad taste if dying was difficult, after all."

"You knew that, and yet you still want us to stop with this?"

"That's right."

"But why?"

"Weren't you paying attention? When we were on our way back from the cemetery." She mutters, "I told you I would only say it once."

"No, I remember..." My words are tired, "You talked about wanting to share more of the 'fulfilment' the two of us had created."

"It's a selfish wish. I won't try to deny that." She admits, "No matter how it turns out - if we duel today, it'll be the end."

Her next words come out hesitantly, "...I don't want this to be the end, Masashi."

It's a little heart-breaking. But, at the same time, knowing that Mokou's willing to plead like this makes me happy. I want to consider her feelings, too. Days spent lounging on the veranda, letting our conversations flow freely through the bamboo stalks. Three years ago, I wouldn't have understood the meaning of 'fulfilment' in the way she puts it, but now its meaning becomes parsed without difficulty, and like that, the beautiful 'understanding' between us creates another small joy worth fighting for. How wonderful it would be. A life so simple.

Ah, here it is again. This irresistible urge to smile.

"There's no 'love' like one aged for so long." My answer arrives, "I couldn't ask for a better day to die."

The pursuit of romance. That which sent me tumbling from the village into the wilderness of Gensokyo. The hatred I felt for Fujiwara that day must have been the result of it. A dream left unfulfilled, rather than blind rage.

"Hm." Sighing, she shakes her head, "Weren't you listening to anything I just said?"

"I would love nothing more than to spend my days with you, Mokou." I reply, "But, that won't bring the 'fulfilment' you want."

She doesn't reply.

"Once, I said to you that conflict was evil." I continue, "Although, you eventually brought me around to admitting that there can be no telling whether it's truly evil or not."

"I remember that."

"Harmony is the solution to death. Mastery. But, such a thing is plain impossible. For as long as we breathe and think, humans and Youkai both can never reach perfection."

"Are you trying to say our conflict is unavoidable? What gives you that idea?"

"My point is that it isn't." I reply, "And yet we seek it out. We revel it in, even. For what purpose?"

"We're undying, you and me. We can cut one-another to ribbons as often as it pleases us."

"To find what?"

She tilts her head, "...Love."

"We fight for love. We die for love." I repeat, "The death of the body. The death of the mind. The death of the soul. If such things exist to be defeated, then what catharsis does mastery bring? What's death without suffering? Life without suffering?"

She blinks, trying her best to hide a smile, "You've lost your mind."

"Without suffering, we might never have met." I continue, "Without suffering, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

My fingers tighten around the grip of my blade, "It's a contemptible thing. There's no trace of goodness to be found in it."

"Please hurry up and get to the point. We should fight because then we can suffer? Are you a masochist?"

"You have to take the good with the bad." I clarify, "Without suffering, happiness means nothing, and vice-versa."

The wind whistles, "When was the moment of 'understanding' born?"

"Last year."

"When?"

"When-" For an instant, she stammers, "...When I killed you."

"I'm sorry for frightening you back then." I apologise, "But in that moment, I was happy."

"Happy?"

"Without a doubt, had that been my first death..." I pause, "There would have been no coming back."

"So, you're saying..."

"My faraway ambition of romance." I nod, "Just then, it was no longer a dream."

Smiling broadly, my eyes meet Mokou's.

"It was a truly beautiful moment. Not something I'll easily forget, even in the afterlife."

After a long and idling wait, my sword is finally allowed to breath again. A broken blade, with its silver lustre long since departed, is nonetheless something I'm proud to call my own.

"Only you could have moved me towards that dream, Mokou." I speak clearly, "So, thank you. For creating the 'love' I so dearly wanted."

"M-Masashi!"

I'm completely taken off-guard by the desperate tone of her yell.

"...What is it? You don't need to shout. I'm right here."

And like that, she straightens herself up and averts her eyes, "Nothing."

"'Nothing', is it?"

"Don't say something like a farewell and then pull your sword out!" She replies suddenly, "I'll end up getting the wrong idea!"

"Oh, you thought I was about to kill myself."

"What else was I supposed to think!?"

"What a tragic finale that would've been." I stifle a chuckle, "No, I won't do that. It sounds a little scary, if I have to be honest. What if I did it wrong?"

"Be more considerate of the situation!"

"Sorry, sorry."

A silence quickly follows. With the quiet that's following through the bamboo forest, it's almost like the atmosphere that descends when the two of us are about to rush each other.

"...So, then." After a moment, Mokou speaks up, "I take it you're not convinced?"

"To drop this duelling nonsense?" She nods in response, "I'm afraid not."

"Isn't that what you want?"

"What I want isn't important." I reply, "To put it simply, this is just the way of things, right?"

"What a terrible conclusion."

"I'm sorry, but it's difficult trying to rationalise every little problem."

"Hm." She lowers her head, "It's fine."

Glimmering in the filtered sunlight, her blade remains in a loose grip, "If this is what you want, I shouldn't stand in the way of it."

"Don't make it sound like this would be possible without you." I reassure, "I don't want you to hold back. That part of you..."

For all the bravado I've shown, the idea of confessing a truth so pure is quite embarassing.

"'That part of me', what?" She seems amused, "Finish what you were going to say."

"That part of you..." I try again, "...It's something I love."

"It took you a while to finally get that out."

"You haven't said the same to me, yet."

"Well..." Her smile wavers, "It is a little embarassing."

"What a difficult person you are."

But still, this is fine, isn't it?

In a way, it's like a weight has fallen from my shoulders. Mokou's permission may have been the only thing I was looking for.

While the snow continues to fall around us, we begin that familiar ritual - circling the clearing while inching ourselves forward, step by step. As always, the duel begins without a clashing of blades. It could be said that this transient phase is even more important than the kill itself. So much information can be gleamed from the simplest of things. from an opponent's footwork, to their stance, to the rhythm of their breathing. Of course, the ideal approach consists of maintaining ambiguity in all of these disciplines, but trying to do so can seem quite impossible.

The key moment of surprise comes just before the strike. Subverting an opponent's expectations can ruin their defence and end the duel in a single blow. This is more difficult than it sounds, however. In the heat of battle, one's mind diverts all attention to the possibility of a fatal strike. Adrenaline bolsters reflex, and the body becomes capable of performing feats that wouldn't normally be possible. It's a state that can't be reproduced during training or sparring, and so the results of it are often overwhelming.

Have I ever seen Mokou cornered like that? Or, has an eternal life destroyed her fear of death?

In any case, that moment is fast approaching. Our paces turn more deliberate as we inch closer, breaths invisible in the cold.

A stalemate appears. Mokou cannot attack me without first entering my effective range - an advantage that only exists due to the length of our blades. To counter this, she remains a hair's breadth outside of it. A single step forward would be broad enough to place either of us into one-another's range.

The question is, who plans to make the first move? Stepping forward while attacking requires enough coordination and skill to make it a risky and undesirable option, not to mention that a sharp eye could catch the step-in and perform a counterattack. It should go without saying that I have zero confidence in pulling the latter off, and so the only natural conclusion is that the first attack is mine. Mokou and I have both taken chūdan - an excellent stance to launch thrusts from. This, combined with its forward-facing placement, makes it dangerous to approach recklessly.

I can't move forward. Not only is it risky, but Mokou is most likely planning on it. The most sensible decision would be to keep the stalemate going for as long as possible, but her endurance could easily outlast my own. Retreating would be possible, but that wouldn't stop her from simply attempting the same strategy again. I would only be losing ground.

My feet kick back, and sure enough, Mokou closes the distance instantly. It's a backstep more refined than I was once capable of, and yet she shows no hesitation in chasing me down.

If my sword still had its tip, this wouldn't be as much of a problem. Thrusting with a blunt edge isn't impossible, but there's no guarantee it would kill, or even penetrate her skin.

The whole ordeal only lasts a matter of seconds. If I spend too much time strategizing, an attack from Mokou will be more difficult to react to.

What should I do?

Conveniently, my answer is one of the first things that occurs to me.

My left hand slides down to the grip's bottom, right moving to straddle the cross guard, before the blade is lifted above and behind my head. Simultaneously, I slide my leading foot forward to increase the spacing between my legs. A switch of stances is needed to gain the advantage in this situation - from chūdan to jōdan. The raised position of the sword allows for maximum range and devastating power at the cost of leaving the torso and face completely undefended. A strike or thrust launched from chūdan at this range wouldn't be fast enough to outpace the advantage of gravity bringing my sword down. Mokou's strategy of hovering just out of range is turned into a weakness by this decision.

Now that I think about it, this is the same trick she used to kill me for the first time.

"...Hm!"

As expected of her, she's quick to respond to it. I launch my attack not one instant after switching to jōdan. A crushing blow so steeped in strength that blocking it would run the risk of bending one's weapon. Mokou understands that much, at least, choosing the far safer option of a backstep. The miniscule but necessary increase to my range is easily avoided from the distance she idled at, in the same moment leaving her, with me bent forward, a clean strike at my face. It's a counterattack so perfectly opportune that one would be a fool not to go through with it.

Now, the difficult part. A broad forward slash like this can be followed up, but it requires twisting the wrists and bringing the blade back up in a return stroke. Performing this feat from such a committed strike will create a sizable gap between the ending of the first slash and the beginning of the next. Not to mention, if I plan to actually hit Fujiwara, it will also require a step-in to chase down her retreat. With all of these factors in play, it's a terribly slow process - too slow, even. By the time my foot is in the air, she'll be halfway through her counterattack, which is looking to be a thrust, considering her arms haven't risen up.

It's a casual observation, but crucial to my plan. Whether a slash or a thrust or whatever she may be thinking of, the existence of a counterattack is what matters.

Stepping in won't be necessary if she plans on doing so herself. All that matters now is speed.

As soon as my attack ends, I work on bending my knees ever-so-slightly, not enough to weave my head away from Mokou's thrust, but enough to lower my profile somewhat. The most difficult part is making sure I devote as little time as possible to this, creating room for the rest of the return stroke. Before my wrists begin to turn, I extend my knees once more, using the force to propel my body up like a spring. At this point, Fujiwara is already moving forward - as expected, she's taken a deep step towards me.

Before her thrust is completed, my wrists turn, sword following up through an arc that intersects its fall, propelled by the force of my rise. The lack of a step-in would normally result in such an attack whiffing miserably, but with Mokou's confident movement, it instead transforms into a defensive follow-up. So it goes that there was once a swordsman who called this technique his specialty. Of course, mine is just an imitation performed without most of the speed that turns it into something truly deadly, but it's enough to reach the desired outcome.

Truth be told, this may have been what you would call a gambit. If Fujiwara continues to follow through with her thrust, there's no doubt it will connect. However, by doing this, she must also expose herself to my own strike. A dual exchange that would likely result in death for the two of us. Earlier, I questioned whether she was still capable of fearing death. This interaction may be the only way to see for myself.

Her entire body sways in reaction. The blade which once hovered inches from my face suddenly retracts as Mokou's upper body leans back as far as it's able, the route of my sword straying close enough to shave a few silvery hairs from her forehead. It's a dodge equal parts luck and reflex, more instinctual than her graceful backstep. Swaying is excellent for creating space, but leaves one defenceless in the moment it takes to re-orient the body.

I'm not given the time for another slash, so stepping forward, I allow a hand to come free of its grip, and standing above Fujiwara, send an open palm into her exposed stomach. Bare-handed attacks are obviously quite useless in a duel fought with blades. Reaching a hand out is just asking to have it cut off, after all. But they can have their place, especially in situations like these, where an opponent can be thrown off-balance. With her body already halfway into a fall, my palm only completes it. With a thud, she lands face-up on the ground, though her grip remains strong on her blade.

Finishing off a downed opponent is as simple as driving one's sword into them, which is exactly what I attempt to do. However, the blunt tip meets nothing but hardened dirt as Mokou rolls onto her stomach to avoid it, taking the opportunity to regain her footing while I flounder, putting a few steps between us in the process.

"Hah..." She exhales, closing her eyes, "What was that supposed to be?"

"A turning swallow cut."

"Not that. I mean the palm-strike."

"What else was I supposed to do?"

"No, it wasn't bad." She shakes her head, "It just didn't seem like something you would think of."

"It's a fight to the death, so we should use every technique at our disposal." I recite, "-I was told that, in spring."

"Someone's been teaching you." Her expression is a little complicated, "How am I supposed to feel about that?"

"It was a man, if you're envious."

"I'm not!" She denies, "...So that's what you were getting up to."

"Did I never tell you?"

"It's more like, I never asked to begin with." Her eyes seem wistful, "Maybe I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Evidently it didn't surprise you enough."

"Hm." Out of nowhere, she smiles, "Are you enjoying this?"

What a strange question.

"What a strange question." I relay.

"Isn't that what this is all about?"

"No, it is." An honest answer, "But, is that right? To enjoy killing? To enjoy death?"

"It's a feeling only those who are undying can appreciate without sin." She replies, "Be thankful. That we're allowed to 'play around' like this."

It must a sensation she's familiar with. Duelling is a fine art, but it's tragic that one must always die at its conclusion. Perhaps something about it can explain how accomplished swordsmen always seem so wordly and inspired by their duels. To take a life, one must learn to appreciate the fragility of it. Failing that, beasts who crave nothing but death are brought into the world. Mokou and I - and Kaguya, by extension, are among the few who can resist that pull. With nothing to fear from death, we naturally begin to seek it out as some common thrill. The gruesome reality of an unexplored life is what led my own philosophy to ruin when first encountering Fujiwara.

As I bring my sword back to its sheath, Mokou's posture relaxes.

That's right. I should be thankful, even if this dreamlike world is reaching its end.

"Are you giving up?" She asks, almost carefully.

And yet, despite that, I'm able to return her smile effortlessly, "No."

My blade is sheathed. In contemporary times, swords were not only covered for one's own protection, but also as a message of peace.

This weapon is sheathed. Therefore, it is harmless.

A message like that might have been conveyed. Like a cat exposing its stomach to an owner, it portrays an image of pure-hearted trust. The agenda of a man who enters a room with his blade drawn compared to one who does so with it sheathed is a night-and-day difference.

It would make sense, then, to think of iai as the swordsmanship of cowards. The capability of attacking from a defenceless position would only be useful in situations where one expects to be betrayed by their allies. However, it's a technique far more suited to surprise attacks. A tool of assassination to catch powerful opponents off-guard. Hiding a blade in its sheath also makes it very difficult to estimate its range.

It's natural to think that drawing and then slashing from a sheathed position would be incredibly slow, but this isn't the case. With a hand resting on the grip, all that remains is to tug and move the wrist in a clean arc. With some practice, it can number among the fastest of techniques.

Of all the things I learned in spring, this iai might be my least favourite. Once, when I lived, it was a tool that brought smiles to the faces of children. They never seemed to tire of watching me splitting clay pots in half as they soared through the air. Though it might have been useless, it's the only occasion my swordsmanship ever brought joy, however small it was. Now, it feels mechanical and inhumane. A technique devised to kill. Across the many days and nights I spent perfecting it, not once did any feeling of accomplishment fulfil me. No matter how fast it was, that old man would command it to be faster.

Just how quick did it end up being? Somehow, I have trouble remembering.

"Oya." Mokou admires my stance, "That's right. You broke my teacups using something like that, didn't you?"

"I'm surprised you remember."

"It's difficult to forget when the ghost of someone you killed turns up at your doorstep."

"Then you killed me."

"What was I supposed to do? You weren't being reasonable."

"No, I suppose not."

"Then again-" She begins, "If you knew I was immortal back then, would things be the same today?"

"I wouldn't have given up."

"Hm." She considers that reply for a moment, "No, I don't think you would have."

Pausing, her blade rises up again, "That's the thing I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"When you found out, you knew you could never win." She explains, "But, even before 'love' and 'dreams', you didn't give up. Why is that?"

There isn't a rational explanation for that. In a more forgiving world, I may have said that the 'romance' between us was already as clear as day. But that isn't true.

"That's because..." My words flow out, "...I'm a fool."

It's the truth, though Mokou seems as surprised as I am about it. With a sigh that seems more playful than anything else, she smiles.

"That's true." Her agreement is a peaceful one, "That's very true."

Finding her place in the dirt, she straightens her back out, hands rising above her head, "But, you know, Masashi..."

A jōdan more refined than my own, even after months of practice. It's no surprise that an attack launched from that position is what ended me the first time. I have doubts I can counter it even now. It's a style that suits her. Oppressive. Overwhelming. It should go without saying that jōdan requires quite the fiery soul to pull off. It couldn't be a better fit for someone willing to throw their life away so easily.

"...I might be a fool, too."

Ah, this is it.

This feeling. This atmosphere. Even the wind ceases to witness it. When I first departed from the village, I did so without the knowledge of what my 'dream' would feel like fully realised. I was a fool to chase it then, and I am a fool for chasing it now. Having sacrificed everything to reach this point - my home, my happiness, even my life - can I say that this one singular feeling is enough to justify it?

I don't know. Perhaps I can never know. All I can say is that, for now, I'm content.

Our footfalls collapse inward, towards an unknown fate. Fujiwara's strike will drop from above, whereas mine will rise from below. To live, to prove myself worthy of an existence more meaningful than this pointless feud, I have to emerge victorious. Not only must my strike match Mokou's - it must surpass it. For the first time since then, a heartbeat pounds in my ears. A familiar sensation. A human sensation.

The fear of death.

In the instant our ranges intersect, both blades appear to move faster than the eye can see. Neither of us entertain ideas of defence or retreat - indeed, we pay no attention to one-another's attacks in the slightest. Like sparring with corpses, we expect to witness blood and nothing else. Is this dehumanisation the only method of claiming victory in the heat of battle? The only truth I can gleam from it is that, honour or no honour, when our lives become threatened, we really do transform into beasts. Fujiwara couldn't have been more right. We can never be thankful enough for this 'playing around' we're allowed to indulge in.

It's an awfully quick iai. Maybe the fastest I've ever managed. With the end drawing near, any kind of gratification dissolves away in the ecstasy of this moment.

Though only one victor can emerge, the two of us remain smiling even now.

And so, in that pitiful snowfall on that weary afternoon, the innocent soil drinks once more of human blood.


It's a scene out of a myth.

Two souls in the lonesome bamboo forest, who, despite their deadly battle, cast tender glances at one-another. The one who remains standing cradles the defeated like a bairn, sharing in their sorrow rather than basking in victory. It could be said, regardless of the blood which surrounds them and the death-scent of battle which floods the air, that somehow - somehow, 'love' was created on this battlefield. Whatever kind of twisted love it may have been is known only to them, for nobody was present to witness their duel. What can be said, however, is that no matter the perspective, this was almost certainly a scene of genuine beauty.

"Masashi..."

That voice seems to fall on deaf ears.

"Masashi."

"What is it?"

That he's willing to listen to her is all that matters.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't go saying something like that. What's there to apologise for?"

"Doesn't it just feel necessary? What else am I supposed to say?"

"Something sincere."

She turns her head to hide a smile, "This isn't the time for joking around!"

"I'm kidding." He returns it, "There's no need to say anything at all."

For once, she takes his words to heart, and the two of them remain in silence for a few moments.

"You weren't kidding, were you?" Impatiently, she breaks it, "About disappearing."

"No matter how much thought I put into it, 'revenge' just isn't what I'm after anymore." He explains, "Without that, it won't be possible for me to come back."

"It's your fault for getting attached."

"Now who's joking around? And wasn't it you who started getting along with me first?"

"We're both at fault."

"That'll have to do."

"Aren't you upset that I'm not shedding any tears for you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if they've all dried up with how long you've been alive."

"...Doesn't it bother you? I really am upset."

"Oh, there's that considerate side of you again." He replies, "What a nice image to die to."

"You're a simple person to please."

"Now that I've reached the peak I always wanted to, everything puts me in a good mood."

"Is it really a 'peak' if you were still defeated?"

"That it could have been reached whether I won or lost is the most important thing about it."

"Would you have stuck around if I was the one dying?"

"I wouldn't want to disappoint you by answering that."

"If I knew, I would've held back at the last moment."

"You say that." He replies, "But, I know it isn't true."

She remains silent while he continues, "Don't entertain another life, Mokou. This is always how it was fated to end."

"That isn't fair."

"Well, maybe not." He agrees, "But, I wouldn't have preferred it any other way."

They seem to bicker about everything. Indeed, there couldn't be another two individuals less suited to one-another. But, the relationship they developed nonetheless is the truly beautiful thing about it. A dream of 'romance' or 'love' or anything else - that it became a reality here, in the most unlikely of circumstances, is deeply hopeful.

"...Are you going?"

"What's with that upsetting tone? Of course I'm going." He replies, "You can thank your own swordsmanship for that."

"You won't be coming back."

"Hm-" He hesitates, "...No. I won't."

"I love you."

"Come on, now. You'll make me blush." He jokes, "That doesn't suit-"

Naturally, he isn't given the opportunity to finish.

It's a tender sensation. Burning hot. When they separate, it's as much of a surprise to her as it was to him.

"...What a strange day it's been." He concludes.

"You wanted it, didn't you?"

"Don't phrase it like that." He requests humbly, "It wasn't bad."

"Then be thankful that I was willing to do it at all."

"Alright. I understand." He relents.

The snow seems to be getting heavier. Freckles of white begin to blot the deep red colour soaking into his robes.

"Make sure to come back once you reincarnate."

"That's really the farewell you're going for? Who's saying that I will?"

"I am."

"To those who deal in death, your opinion is probably worth less than dirt."

"It doesn't matter." She replies, "I have all the time in the world, so take as much of it as you need."

"Mokou..." He mutters, "You-"

"Alright, that's it!" Crossing her arms, she yells that, "Until we meet again, that's all you're allowed to hear!"

"Can I be allowed my own final words, please?"

"Just this once, I'll make an exception."

"Iwakasa..." He mutters, "That person isn't important to me, Mokou."

"Eh?" She seems genuinely surprised, "W-What's this all about?"

"It must have been causing you grief, thinking that you've gone and sent another member of my family to the grave."

She doesn't reply.

"I'm sure you think that his death is what led us here, to Gensokyo." He continues, "Maybe we were exiled, or we had to find work elsewhere..."

"Stop." Fujiwara commands, "I don't need to hear this."

"Don't let guilt disrupt your emotions, Mokou!" Masashi pleads, "Are these the final memories you want to have of me!? As a ghost!? A curse from the past!?"

"I'll accept the blame for whatever I please."

"Then let it be known that I don't blame you." He retorts, "As the last of my name, it should be my responsibility to lift that burden from your shoulders."

Silence.

"...I shouldn't have told you."

"It makes me happy that you did." Masashi replies, "You have to take the good with the bad, after all."

"Anything less is bad for the soul."

"Forgive yourself, if you truly want to respect Iwakasa's death. I won't accept anything less."

After a moment, she sighs, "Hurry up and pass away, would you? Saying all these troublesome things..."

"Is there anything else you'd like to confess?"

"Plenty." She answers truthfully, "But, let's leave that for another time."

"What a hopeful thing to say." He smiles, "I'll look forward to it."

It's about that time, anyway.

As the pain across his body fades, the world begins to lose its colour. It's fitting then, that as his vision recedes, the face of that person remains in focus until the very last moment.

A final duel. A final death. What is the afterlife like, he wonders? Higan seemed a little boring, but perhaps something more interesting awaits beyond its crimson-flowered shore. The ferrywoman, at least, will be happy to hear that he doesn't plan to toss himself into the river this time. Unlike his other forays into death, there exists no frustration, no incompleteness in his heart. Is this what they call a worthy death? Is this what he was searching for? Altogether, these sorts of difficult questions have caused him nothing but trouble. Perhaps it'll be nice to forget about them for a while. Whether ridiculous or laughable, they're what led him to this place, and to that woman.

The bamboo in this forest is special.

It's a ridiculous final thought, but one he holds dear. For all the confusion they've brought him, if it wasn't for this accursed forest, what other gruesome fate might he have pursued? No - to follow his own advice, this remembrance is as important as the rest. Without evil, where can good exist? Without good, where can evil exist? Even the altogether unforgivable way of the sword can be made respectable. In retrospect, 'love' is a poor word for what he sought. But, having found it, he no longer needs to give it a name. It exists, both here, at the very end, and there, at the very beginning.

How else might it have flowered into such beauty, had it not been there to begin with?

And so I say, 'it's worth dying here!' like some hero of old, stretching for meaning in my final moment. But that's fine. So long as humans are left to prosper, these great dreams will exist. Even now, one such ambition plants itself in my chest. That, against the fluttering winds, another time will come when two incompatible souls cross paths. A time when the air runs cold, and the hearth burns hot. When the sun hangs low, and when the blood runs fast.

A time, sometime,

when the snow falls again.