WARNING: death/gore/violence
A/N at bottom.
may death finally end you
"02. in solitude, I find my answer"
It's morning.
The resplendent sunlight laughs gaily, announcing the arrival of a new day. She blinks, a simple movement that has no right to be as hard as it currently is. Except it is, in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the difficulty of the movement itself, and everything to do with how she knows this isn't possible.
There's no day. No morning. No light. Not when she's an animal, sealed and condemned to an eternity of suffering in the darkness, never able to truly die yet painfully cognizant of the time that passes, seething in unquenchable rage that eventually peters out into a dull, dull ache of nothingness—
"—sama. Forgive me for overstepping my place, but are you certain about this? After being sealed for long, her mind might've already perished."
…Someone is talking?
"No, I'm certain," says another voice. "She's still alive in there."
"We shouldn't dally any further," reminds the female voice. "The jujutsu council will be searching among all the clans soon."
Footsteps approach, sounding like raindrops thudding on a plank.
The radiant sunlight calls to her again, cheerful and beckoning. She closes her eyes. No, she won't fall for this anymore. These voices, the sunlight… it's nothing more than another hallucination, a dream. It hurts, everything hurts so, so much. Yet even though it hurts so badly, it… doesn't feel like anything is broken. Her heartbeat thumps loudly in her chest. Alive. She's still breathing, why? Even though she should be long dead—
Oh, that's right…
That's because even if she dies, she'll come back.
Pain, pain. The price she has to pay.
To feel a mortal's suffering but never to die.
The perpetual cycle of samsara; damnation of her soul.
Rebirth. Demise.
The end the beginning, the beginning the end.
…Who am I?
Name. What was it again? She'd abandoned it in the chasm of darkness to preserve what was left of her sanity. Who am I, who am I, who am I—
Taira-kun.
Wrong. Not her name. Who is that? She feels that it's important but she doesn't remember. Can't remember. A shadow drapes over her… someone hovering. She blinks again but all she sees is a young boy among a field of Lycoris radiata. Maggots are crawling out from every orifice and he smells of rotting flesh. Dead. Oh, he's dead—everyone is—
(The Sanzu rivers flows and flows, bleeding into the crevices of a wooden bridge. Restless are the dead, clamouring for justice. Lycoris radiata unfurls and blooms.)
"I know you can hear me—"
No, she doesn't hear him. Enough, enough. She doesn't know anything; does not see the sun that's shining brightly high above—
"—so, get up, Fujiwara No Shiori."
Instinct.
Pure, unadulterated instinct that reacts to a forgotten identity. It's the only thing that snaps her out of the catatonic state; the mind-shattering scream of her primal instinct screeching for her to KILL, and so she obeys.
Someone screams and it threatens to shatter the sun.
A warm liquid splatters on her face as she rips through something with little resistance. Ah, she recognizes this feeling. It's euphoric! Absolutely divine! This weightlessness of the plane of greatness! How glorious! The pleasantness of a god on the crux of ascending—
Kill—
Destroy Heian-Kyo—
Dismantle the Great Clans—
(Flowers unveiling their blossoms in fall equinox, rotting toxicity and shrivelling petals. Blood rain brings the Lycoris radiata back to life. Somewhere among the fields, an anointed god stands ready for worship, azure eyes alight.
Why did you do it? ask the god.)
—she winces back from a flood of memories that suddenly overwhelms her mind. Fleeting images of a time long passed. She's standing by the gates of city, driven by madness. Someone is there too, blue dragonflies on the white silk of his yukata—and what fucking terrible blue eyes he has…
It hurts hurts hurts HURTS–
She's going to die. She will die.
No, she cannot truly die, she realises, and it's a sinking moment of perfect crystal clarity. Blood. There was much blood on the ground, so much red. She was falling to her knees, godhood stripped. So, that was her blood…
…Blood?
She stills, the belated realization she covered in it now hitting her in waves. Not her blood though. Whose then? A sharp pain throbs in her temple and she shakes her head. Ojou-sama, echoes someone to her ear. She moves her hand to clutch at her head, disillusioned by reality and dreams, and only then does it occur to her that she's holding onto a severed hand.
When did I—?
She looks down, horrified. A corpse of a woman sorcerer that she doesn't recognize lays on her feet, arms torn and head bashed in. She drops the severed hand and steps back—did she do this?—she doesn't remember—
Someone sighs, "I did tell her to stay back. Unfortunately, the girl is never one to listen."
She swirls around, only to be met with the sight of a tall, frowning man. The sorcerer clicks his tongue, eyes sweeping over the scene with disapproval, and then he smiles when he looks at her. It's pleasant, but there's something in his gaze that sets her on edge, a glint of something she can't quite place…
…She doesn't recognize him either. He possesses hostility from what she can tell so… a friend? No, that can't be right. She has enemies; sorcerers she needs to kill. Fujiwara No Shiori has no friends. She has followers and worshippers, but even they're all dead and rotting and headless and—
She comes to a halt, the chips falling into place into something paramount. She cannot put the whole story together, but she can decipher just enough pieces to make it make sense.
…How long had it been since she was sealed?
The man's smile widens.
"Good morning, Lady Fujiwara. Eight centuries have already passed."
…It's morning, yet what unravels before her eyes is nothing but a nightmare. The crux of the question is: is she still dreaming, or perchance is she finally now awake?
Eight centuries have already passed.
The jujutsu world has changed. The majority of the mighty clans, including hers, that once triumphed in her Era had fallen into ruins.
...But the question remains: she's awake, but what is she to do about it?
(…What should I do now? I don't know anymore.
Ah, says the little boy, reeking with the stench of rotting flesh. He smirks. So, you want my opinion, ojou-sama? After all these years of never asking for it? Well, here it is.
He pauses dramatically, exaggerated in a way that only young children do to draw out suspense. A piece of rotting skin lifts from his cheek. Maggots and worms are eating his decaying flesh.
My opinion is, he says. My opinion is that you're dead. I'm dead, we all are. Us and the entire fucked up world we lived in. Gone. It's only a matter of time before you realize that and resign to the fact that there's nothing left for you to do on this earth. Your fight is over. You're nothing more than a dead woman walking now.
Why?
The boy laughs.
Why are you dead? What a silly question, ojou-sama. He falls into sullen silence, laughter gone and replaced by a hard look in his dark eyes. You're dead because you lost the war and had your godhood stripped. It's over. Everything has ended.
You're wrong, it can't end like this.
But it has, he insists, eyes fierce and free. But you don't want to accept that do you? Because accepting means that all your ideals are worthless and everything you've done is meaningless.
He leans in for a secret whisper.
And it is meaningless, ojou-sama, he breathes softly, and then opens his mouth and kisses her. Squirming maggots crawl out from the back of his throat to bury themselves into the pit of her stomach, burrowing deeper, until they are rooted so firmly that they will never come out again.
You fought for nothing. Absolutely nothing. Remember that.)
She fought for nothing.
But so did you, so did you…
Shanghai, China. November 2015
…It's white?
Huh. Okay then.
Shiori blinks blearily, unsure if she'd succeeded in going to hell (she's certain there's no place in heaven for her) this time or if there's an actual thin white starch sheet over her body. It's probably the latter, she decides, gauging by how her body aches all over and how her shoulder bone is digging into a steel table typically reserved for corpses.
Add on the tart antiseptic smells and there's a… ninety percent chance she's in a hospital's morgue.
This makes it… the second time in a century, she thinks? Hm. Not a good score.
Dying is never fun. Not only cause Shiori can feel every painful torturous aspect of dying but because she can't come back instantly. Which makes it a terrible inconvenient problem whenever she dies. While Shiori will always regenerate and come back to 'life' so long as a part of her remains—a drop of blood, a strand of hair, even a piece of flesh—her 'dead' and catatonic body is extremely vulnerable during the process of resurrection and samsara.
Ergo, the current awkward situation. Assumed dead, but not really.
Being an immortal doesn't sound all that fun, huh? Jokes on those stupid jujutsu history scrolls that deify her stupid Curse Technique.
As far as situations to come back to life to, Shiori supposes waking up in a hospital morgue isn't too bad by her standards. She'd experienced worse. Once, she had woken up floating in the middle of the Indian Ocean and had to swim her way back to shore. Another time, a frightened villager had tossed her corpse in a mass grave because there was a plague outbreak and she woke up to a wolf chewing on her leg.
The unbeatable winner by far would have to be her "death" that led her to be sealed away for eight hundred years.
Nothing, absolutely nothing can ever top that experience.
The inconvenient aspect of her immortality set aside, Shiori makes a conscious effort not to perish in situations beyond her control, especially since the whole 'dying-and-coming back' is a tell-tale blazing sign to any jujutsu sorcerer who isn't blind about just who she is and just how unfortunate they'd just become.
Unfortunate because Shiori never lets any sorcerer who had the misfortune of discovering her real identity live. (There might be a few annoying exceptions to this rule, but she digresses. Point is: trust is not something a criminal on the run can afford. Sorcerers talk. A dead man tells no tales.)
Speaking of sorcerers, Shiori doesn't sense any in the vicinity but there are blips of Cursed Energy from curses all over, roaming the place. Which is highly unusual because for a city as crowded as Shanghai and as proportionately rife with troubles, curse burden is not that significant even in hotspots like hospitals.
At least… that was always the case before.
Something is stirring in the underbelly of Shanghai, and going by what Shiori suspects, it can't be anything good.
Other than her dead silent roommates in the morgue, there's another presence standing outside the door. It's probably a doctor. Non-sorcerer. Ugh, this will be a nuisance. She considers playing dead until they discard her body somewhere but forgets about it after realising she doesn't want to be buried or cremated alive.
Shiori feels marginally apologetic for the poor doctor she's about to scare the living daylights out of. She feels even sorrier for herself. The last time she woke up in a hospital morgue in England, sixty years ago, it caused quite a stir with the doctors flocking to her bedside like she was some kind of medical miracle. A decrepit old priest had even declared her a saint out of all things, believing she had risen from the dead with the Lord's blessing.
The priest was right in a way… but well, technicalities.
Because Shiori isn't a religious or medical miracle, it'd be more fitting for the old priest to perform an exorcism instead of an anointment. But hey, who is she to argue with them? The majority of jujutsu sorcerers are crazy; this doesn't even amount to the level of craziness she has seen. Over the years, she has learned to take things in stride. Much easier that way.
…This will be a pain though. There's a slim chance the events will turn out differently, and she desperately wants to avoid the headache.
Maybe she'll be able to slip away before anyone realizes. A girl can hope, right?
Sounds like a plan.
She gently lifts the sheet from her face, wincing away immediately from the overhanging fluorescent lights. Formaldehyde assaults her nostrils and her head spins. She sits up and inspects her naked body. Her skin is unblemished and smooth, bruises and cuts healed. The only evidence she had died a few hours ago was the scabs of dried blood on her body.
Shiori grabs the clipboard hanging on her metal bed.
Name of Deceased: Liu Yifei
Age: 24
Time of Death: 2:45am
Cause of Death: Died from injuries sustained in a fatal car crash. Pronounced dead by paramedics on the site of the crash.
Ah, it's coming back to her now. She was driving on the highway towards Nashi Town for a job and lost control of her rented sedan. She ended up skidding off the road and into the forest before ramming into a large tree. The impact had sent shards of glass flying through the air like deadly confetti as the world spun around her in a dizzying blur.
From there, all she recalls was her woeful declaration of "shit, I didn't buy insurance" before the sounds of sirens wailed in the distance and she blacked out.
Some final words those were.
Shiori can already feel the weight on her wallet increasing as she contemplates her situation. But there's no use sulking about it. She's already late for a job. The clock in the morgue states that eight hours have passed. If she leaves now, she might be able to avoid—
The door opens and a non-sorcerer wearing a white coat strolls in.
—ah damn, too late.
The young doctor freezes when he sees his naked 'cadaver' sitting up, looking very much alive. His pen hovers on his clipboard, still. He blinks and Shiori blinks back at him.
Oh no, this one looks like the screamer.
…Now would be a good time to say something, right? But how should she go about with this? She doesn't want to scare him…
Shiori opts for a timid wave and a friendly smile, "Hello there, good morning. Please don't scream. I'd like to be discharged as soon as possible, please. And some clothes too if you would?"
…
The doctor drops his clipboard and backs away. He's as pale as a sheet of paper.
…Ah, she said something wrong again, didn't she?
Shiori sighs, "You're going to scream, aren't you?"
He does. And it's a loud one. Shiori winces as his blood-chilling scream rips through the morgue. It's almost comical the way the non-sorcerer scrambles out of the room, banging onto a nearby silver tray with medical equipment and falling on his butt before scrambling out the door on all fours while hollering for help.
Shiori groans and slumps back to her metal bed, pulling the covers over her. Forget it, she's too old for this. A millennium later and non-sorcerers are still an annoyance to deal with. Perhaps worse due to the dumb rule about keeping the jujutsu world a secret from non-sorcerers.
Whatever happened to evolution? There was never such a rule back in her era. Tsk.
She shuts her eyes when she hears panicked footsteps coming her way.
Okay, playing dead it is then!
Really, what a pain.
Things were so, so much simpler back when only her pleasure and displeasure exists.
There's no glory in killing non-sorcerers.
It was one of the first teachings Shiori learnt from her father as a child. She only understood years later what he meant by that. Non-sorcerers are no better than bugs to the blessed ones like them. Sometimes you walk and unknowingly trample and squish on a bug and they die. Other times, the bugs annoy you, so you eradicate their entire nest for simply existing.
Simple concept, no?
Non-sorcerers are bugs because they're so, so easy to kill. Weak and feeble things they are. Anyone with some basic knowledge of jujutsu can do it—so where's the glory in that? There is none, so why should they waste their precious time on them?
Shiori did not realize it at that time, but this is just the tip of the iceberg.
Because in the end, a Fujiwara's destined battlefield lies with that of their kind. Sorcerers. The blood of the Toshi was nurtured and bred to fight monsters and gods. Through carnage and blood, jujutsu battles are where they come to life.
(The blood of monsters that runs in her veins. Madness. She recalls idly wondering as a sullen, glum child how long it will take before she finally snaps.
It won't be long. Age eighteen, accurately speaking.)
Non-sorcerers have their uses though. Oftentimes, her clan will host hearings and accept 'requests' from them, a guise for gathering information on curses. These hearings had the added benefit of a farce to show the other Great Clans the Fujiwara clan are upholding their solemn jujutsu duty of "protecting the weak".
During these hearings, they'll listen to their plight indulgently—so-and-so curse is wreaking havoc on our farmlands, hundreds had already perished, please exalted ones we ask you to send your sorcerers to aid us—and they'll smile, assuring them they'll take care of it.
At the end of it, they'll bestow a gold coin or two to help "tide their sufferings". The way they bestow alms—truthfully, it's more of a reward money—was exactly like how a man might reward a favoured pet for performing an interesting trick.
Good job. Thank you for the information.
The Fujiwara clan will lay their claim on this curse.
Every time Shiori sees this, she remembers the day her powerful uncle held out on sending out the clan's sorcerers, letting the curse rampage from village to village, growing stronger with each kill, and that's exactly what her clan wants because "the curse is too weak and where's the glory in exorcising a weak curse, right?"
Right.
Glory. That's all that matters.
They're all cogs in a wheel that perpetuates the Fujiwara name.
Being raised in such an environment, it's not a surprise Shiori holds little affection for non-sorcerers. You are what you are nurtured to be, after all. More accurately, she simply doesn't… care much about them. It's not like she would suddenly start going on a killing spree, but neither would she go out of her way to save one either.
So, she'll leave them alone. They don't bother her much anyway.
At this moment, Shiori seriously debates her stance on this.
"Well, that was pretty intense," laughs Jiang Mingze. "Doctors, eh?"
Shiori musters her best long-suffering look at the young sorcerer. She'd just spent the last three hours convincing a flurry of doctors eager to scan every inch of her body and perform every single test known to mankind in the name of medical science that—yes, she's feeling perfectly FINE, and yes, she WOULD like to be discharged against medical advice, and no, she does NOT have an underlying cardiac condition that causes her heart rate to slow so much that the paramedics mistakenly pronounce her as dead.
Please. Just. Let. Me. Go.
I'm begging.
By the second hour, Shiori decides she has only three options: One, she could cast illusion on everyone and risk damaging their non-sorcerers' brains with her Technique so she could run away. Two, she could kill everyone in this hospital and be done with it.
And three, she calls for help.
…And because Shiori is trying, because she's humbled and understands the mediocrity of her pitiful existence now, she chooses the lesser of three evils. Shiori is never one for navigating modern society, but watching the young Jiang heir stroll the hospital director's office and return with her precious discharge papers minutes later was… alarming to say the least.
What.
It was that easy…?
She suffered through all that, and for what?!
Apparently—as Mingzhe kindly explained—having a jujutsu sorcerer profession means frequent hospital visits. And how do you explain a curse had broken four of your ribs and fractured your vertebrate to your non-sorcerer doctor? Answer: You don't. The China Society of Sorcerers had established ties with every major hospital for this reason. Every registered sorcerer is to be treated for their wounds, no question asked.
Right… how did Shiori not see that earlier?
"So, a car accident," Mingzhe says when they're outside the hospital doors. His tone borders on hilarity and disbelief, albeit good-naturedly.
It sounds pathetic. Shiori knows she's pathetic. "Go ahead and laugh if you wish."
"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to be disrespectful… I just didn't expect someone like you to die from something like that."
I've died for less, she thinks bitterly.
The boy is kind enough to lighten the mood, "Y'know grandmother always did say that—"
"—some people are simply not blessed with the motor skills to drive," Shiori finishes in a deadpan. She's not happy about this. This isn't even the first time she died in an automobile accident. "I'm privy to the plethora of insults your grandmother has reserved for me, thank you."
Mingzhe chuckles, "I believe she did once compare your driving skills to that of a 'lunatic monkey high on opium' when she was drunk once."
"Uh-huh," Shiori purses her lips. "A drunk Zihua… that is a curse not even I can exorcise."
"Tell me about it, truthfully, I don't even think the Six Eyes sorcerer in Japan can."
"She should be a Special Grade curse," adds Shiori.
The young sorcerer laughs a full-bellied laughter, smiling with his dimples and all. Shiori remains impassive. She doesn't quite understand why the boy finds it funny, she's dead serious and thought he was too. A 'drunk Jiang Zihua' should be categorised under a Special Grade Curse at the minimum, and Shiori says this with experience.
"Anyways, it's good to see you again." Mingzhe looks regal in his white and blue robes, a long wooden staff with washi paper stuck on it on his back. "You look well, uh… truthfully little different from what I remember?"
Shiori can say the same for him.
The last memory she has of Jiang Mingzhe is from his father's funeral, where he appeared as a frail and weeping six-year-old. Fifteen years later, the Jiang heir stands tall as a fully grown man. The boy possesses all the traits of his late father, earnest and easy-going, and none of the traits of his strong-willed and free-spirited grandmother, the current matriarch and head of the Jiang clan. Shiori thinks this is a good and a bad thing.
"Perhaps your memories are inaccurate since you were young then. I have not changed at all."
It's not like Shiori could.
What is she, but a dead woman walking?
Mingzhe raises a brow, "I think I remember you being a male the last I saw you though?"
"That was just an illusion," she clarifies and gestures to herself. "As is this current look."
"Oh right, Grandmother did mention that you often change your looks and aliases to evade being found." Mingzhe eyes her up and down. "It's a very sophisticated illusion, if you didn't tell me I would have never noticed."
"How did you think I've avoided being caught for so long?"
Mingzhe nods. "True. Still, it's amazing how you can maintain it indefinitely. Illusion-based techniques are known for their high consumption of Curse Energy."
"You think too highly of me." Shiori shows him the bracelet on her left wrist, each cinnabar bead delicately engraved with Hiragana script. "It's only possible because it's not a Technique but a Curse Tool."
Mingzhe, like his grandmother, shared her same fascination with Cursed Items. "This is a Curse Tool?"
"Yes, it's called Mirage Beads. It allows one to disguise themselves in an illusion; everyone will see you as you want them to. It requires only a small amount of Curse Energy to maintain it."
"I see, so because it's a Curse Tool it acts as a conductor to amplify the Curse Energy."
Shiori nods, "Correct. I created it a long time ago by imbuing a part of my Technique in it."
"Seriously?" Mingzhe gapes. "You imbued your Technique in it?"
...Is this something new? It was common practice in the Heian Era. Often, a defeated sorcerer's remains will be converted to Cursed Tools and added to the victor's clan inventory. Spoils of war, if you will.
"I've heard of sorcerers' frequently used weapons becoming Cursed Tools with their engraved Techniques after they died, or a Curse Tool being created from a deceased sorcerer's remains… I never thought you could create one while the sorcerer is alive."
Oh, he's referring to that...
"There are methods and workarounds," she says vaguely, looking away. "I don't recommend you try it though."
Unless you're willing to permanently sacrifice a part of your Technique to create a Curse Tool and carve out tiny pieces of your flesh, Shiori does not say, because she does not think the boy is desperate.
Desperate like Shiori was for approval, for survival.
The foundation of jujutsu acts on the law of equivalent exchange—to gain what you do not have you must lose. This remains true even for creating Curse Tools.
Mingzhe studies her face, "If you don't mind my asking, why don't you…"
Shiori knows her eyes are the most prominent feature of hers. "Ah, this? I can never conceal even if I want to, unfortunately."
She catches a glimpse of her reflection on the glass walls. Currently, her adopted identity "Liu Yifei" is of a Chinese woman in her twenties with short brown hair, fashioned into a pixie cut. Everything looks different from her original appearance, apart from her eyes.
Burnished gold. Shimmering and iridescent.
It's your blessing, my daughter, echoes her mother's voice to her ears. Inari's gift to you. Always remember your lineage.
…Some blessing it is. Shiori wants to rip her eyeballs out of her sockets.
Mingzhe giggles suddenly, "Now that I think about it, you're kinda like Mystique, huh? Gold eyes, shapeshifting. Uh, apart from the whole, blue thing of course."
She tilts her head, "Mystique? Blue?"
"You haven't watched X-Men?"
"No," she frowns. "Do I have to?"
"Oh." Mingzhe scratches his face. "Never mind then. It's a useful Curse Tool nevertheless."
Useful. Shiori hums and rubs the surface of the cinnabar beads. A habit.
Congratulations, ojou-sama! What a wonderful, useful creation. The imperial regent will be pleased to know you've succeeded. Come now, let's show it to him.
And how foolishly proud Shiori was as a young child of thirteen, watching her uncle, Fujiwara No Michinaga, bestow the cursed bracelet to the talented Takako Uro when she was made Captain of the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squadron.
I know you sacrificed a part of your technique to make it but the item will serve Uro better, ojou-sama.
Remember, it's all for the glory of the Fujiwara clan.
Assassination and espionage.
That was the primary purpose of the squadron's establishment. With the ability to alter her appearance under her belt, how many times had Uro successfully infiltrated their rival clans and bought back their classified information? How many sorcerers had fallen by the talented assassin's hands?
Takado Uro was so very, very good at her job.
It was why Uro was her uncle's most beloved pet. A pet that had sworn a binding vow of loyalty in exchange for adopting the Fujiwara name. Uro was loyal by blood creed and she wholeheartedly devoted herself to service her master.
And in the end… Shiori had plucked the bracelet right from her corpse. An item returning to its creator. Takako Uro's end came by betrayal. She died pathetically like a worthless dog when she'd run out of her usefulness.
Mediocrity is meaningless. Normality is worthless. The only path forward as a Fujiwara, blood kin or not, is to be valuable enough to be a piece the clan wants to keep on the playing board, rather than offhandedly discard one day with nary a thought.
You know this too, Uro, so what were you fighting for? Were your ideals meaningless too?
…How pitiful.
(Both of us.)
"By the way, I didn't tell anyone you've returned to Shanghai."
"Thank you," Shiori is content with things remaining this way for the foreseeable future. If Jiang Zihua was a fiery firecracker in her youth, she had become an unrelenting bull in her old age. The horror. "I appreciate it, Mingzhe. Truly"
Mingzhe hesitates, "But I have to ask, aren't you going to visit her, shifu? You stopped all communication for such a long time. Do you know how surprised I was when you contacted the clan looking for me? Grandmother is worried about you."
"Why? I can't die anyway," Shiori replies sedately, face blank. "And there's no need to call me shifu. I taught you nothing."
It is the truth. Shiori can hardly even say she knows the boy, having been away from Shanghai for so long.
Still, the boy's smile is earnest and warm, "You were my grandmother's mentor and she passed on everything she learned about jujutsu from you to me. That makes you the benefactor of our clan."
That's… quite laughable, hearing it from him.
Benefactor.
How and why Fujiwara No Shiori, demonized tyrant and stain of the Fujiwara clan ended up as a 'benefactor' to a once declining small sorcerer clan in Shanghai remains a mystery even to herself. It'd been her ironclad rule to silence any who discovered her real identity, which remains true even today. What possessed her to go against this rule to spare the young Jiang Zihua decades ago?
…Shiori has no answer, no matter how much she contemplates the reason behind it.
In the end, she attributes it to her wilful whims; a wandering immortal bored out of her mind.
(That and the young Zihua's knack for bulldozing her meddlesome ways into Shiori's life, firmly supplanting herself there no matter what she does to chase her away.
Precarious brat, that child was.)
Trust.
Shiori claims that she trusts no one, yet what other explanation can there be? The secrets of her identity are only known to the main family and a select few elders. The Jiangs abide by the principles of traditional pedantic cultivation clans from ancient China, ingrained with values of integrity and allegiance. It's somewhat admirable, and it's not something Shiori can say for the equivalent sorcerer clans in Japan.
The Jiangs wouldn't turn her to the main jujutsu administration in Japan for any reward. Shiori believes in this, foolish as it sounds, because she knows only to believe what is written in a binding vow.
"I'm not Zihua's mentor either," Shiori retorts and it's a weak argument. "I merely taught her a few things."
"You're being modest, shifu."
"And you're as stubborn as your grandmother," Shiori frowns. "Stop calling me that."
He smiles smugly, "Oh well, we're alike in that way."
Shiori concedes and doesn't argue any more. She's not going to get anywhere with this aggravating family. Taking things in stride, remember? She changes the subject.
"I heard there's a sudden influx of curses appearing in Shanghai lately, how are things back at the clan?"
"Ah… so you know about this too."
"It's hard not to. I sensed it the moment I stepped out of the airport. The Curse Energy accumulating in the city is greater than before."
Shiori notes the way Mingzhe quietly tucks his hands into the long sleeves of his robe. The boy stares at the ground and does not look up. He has none of the light-hearted candour he showed earlier.
"Truthfully, there have been a lot of talks about this phenomenon. Recently the China Society of Sorcerers called for a meeting of all the clans in China. The curses are not as strong as the ones that appear in Japan, so the clans can deal with it for now. However, the staggering amount alarms them. They're worried stronger curses may appear in the future if this goes on."
"They are right to be worried. Such a phenomenon does not happen without reasons."
"Do you have any idea why this happened?"
She hums dismissively, "Just a brief idea."
"What do you know?"
She shakes her head and walks away, "You shouldn't concern yourself with this, Mingzhe."
"Did you return to Shanghai because of this?"
Shiori hums again, leaving him to deduce the answer on his own.
"Shifu," Mingzhe's voice takes a serious turn when he places himself before her. "I don't know why this interests you, and while I believe you can take care of yourself, you should leave the country as soon as possible."
"Why?"
"Because many overseas sorcerers have come to Shanghai because of this. It's dangerous… you have been careful not to get caught so far, but if by chance something happens…"
The sentiment is appreciated. But unfortunately…
"I risk the chance every day I breathe, Mingzhe," she tells him. "But I plan to leave as soon as I settle some things here. You need not concern yourself with this."
Mingzhe hesitates, understanding she's drawing the line. Shiori wonders how much Zihua had shared with him. A lot, judging his reaction and how he's parroting his grandmother's words. Albeit, in a much more polite manner than Shiori is used to like "Fuck off and go hide before those bastards at Japan seal you back. You're crazy if you think I'll risk my neck to save you" and "I never asked you to and the chances of that happening are unlikely, Zihua" and "Oh yeah? How did you end up sealed centuries ago then?!"
…The boy is concerned for her, is what Shiori understands.
And Shiori… Shiori doesn't know how to react to that.
Emotions have always been difficult for her. Like looking through a pitch-dark glass; nothing seen, and nothing reflected back, save for hazy echoes, and it's hard, trying to put this into words, trying to articulate how she feels now, because it's not something that she understands entirely, either.
But...
Care.
Yes, that sounds like it fits, more or less. Care. The unspoken word rolls around on the tip of her tongue, and Shiori bites down, swallowing roughly in silence. She cares… if only a little bit, for the only true blood left of Zihua, for the crying boy whose father had been massacred by a Special Grade Curse fifteen years ago.
She owes it to that family, to care, if only a little. About the land they live on. Their livelihood. About their lives if things escalate further. The sorcerer clans of China, the Jiangs included, are weak compared to their counterparts in Japan, the founding home of the jujutsu.
Shiori owes it to them; owes them a debt. It might be the supposedly 'dead' pride of Fujiwara blood speaking but nothing grates on her more than being beholden to someone.
...Or something like that, maybe.
And it's wrong to care, she knows. Shiori is nothing if not realistic to the point she borders on pessimistic, and she understands how dangerous it is to associate herself with them. Because no one ever says they're happy to be acquainted with a villainous sinner on the run. Plus isn't it ridiculous for someone like her to care? She's not even a good person, not even a sorcerer—
(The boy infested with maggots laughs. Funny you'd say that, ojou-sama. What are you if not a sorcerer? You're nurtured to be one. Jujutsu is all you ever know.)
"Nevertheless, I'll keep your warning in mind," Shiori adds after a brief silence. "Thank you for coming down to assist me."
Mingzhe falters. He understands she's trying to end this conversation. "Shifu…"
"Stop calling me that already," she moves to leave. "I have to go, I'm already late for a job."
"Shifu, wait."
She stops and looks back. And it's awful how downtrodden Mingzhe looks compared to earlier. How is this boy Zihua's descendent? They couldn't be any more different.
"You know that you're always welcomed by the Jiang clan, right?" he starts, words earnest and sincere. "There's no need for you to work as a Curse User… you could join us as a registered sorcerer under our clan's name. We can hide you. You have that Curse Item anyway and—"
"Mingzhe."
He talks over her loudly, "Or, if you don't want to, we have money now too. Enough to support you. We can send you living expenses so you may live wherever you like. You just need to say the word and I'll arrange—"
"Mingzhe," repeats Shiori again. "Stop."
This time, the boy listens and stills, eyes wide. He looks… frightened, somehow. Ah, was her tone too harsh? She grimly wonders what he's seeing when he looks at her now—the idealized benefactor of his grandmother he wishes her to be, or the tyrant of the Heian Era who massacred entire sorcerer clans on her whims?
She stares at the ground, at the sky, anywhere but not him.
"I know that."
…It has always been an option. Settle down. Be surrounded by people who—does Shiori dare say it?—cares about her, if only because she had once accidentally saved their clan head on a whim.
Shiori has never considered this option though.
Mingzhe's voice softens, "So, why?"
She exhales and it's bone-weary and deep.
Why you ask?
Because, "Nothing good will come with associating yourself with me, and that's what I've told Zihua many years back as well. I understand and appreciate the offer. However, you're old enough now to think of the future of your clan. I don't know what fantasy Zihua had painted me as, but you should know what I had done in my era… and what I am capable of. I'm not a good person to associate yourself with."
Mingzhe starts as if he's been scalded, "B-But you've changed! Surely, you don't want to be alone? It's been so long, and you obviously regret what you have done—"
"But I do not regret it," Shiori cuts in, voice cool. She looks at him directly now. "And if I were to live this life again, start over, I'd do the same thing."
And that is the honest truth of the matter. Shiori does not regret what she did a millennium ago. She mulls over what she could've done better, certainly, and anguishes over how she'd eventually lost the war she fought so hard for. Those bastards don't deserve to live the long life they probably had.
She holds regrets only for one thing in her life.
But Shiori never regrets the countless sorcerers' blood that coats her hands, unable to be washed.
The blood of monsters runs in her veins. Shiori is a monster. Fact. There's nothing to be done about it. Nothing could be done about it.
And it probably says a lot about her; that even now, looking at the earnest boy she claimed to have cared a little for earlier, the boy who foolishly believes in the goodness Shiori does not have, she feels nothing about admitting the darkest aspect of herself and crushing his faith.
"Take care, Mingzhe."
The boy doesn't try to hold her back and Shiori leaves, remembering the greatest truth of jujutsu that an unkillable demon with four arms and two faces once taught her:
Solitude should not trouble you, fool.
You'll fight alone. Die alone. And if you were to ever achieve that honoured plane of greatness where only your displeasure and pleasure exist, that'll only be because you're alone.
Shanghai is not as it was before.
Shiori remembers the first time she stepped into the city more than she remembers the day she saw the sun again after eight hundred years. It must've been sometime during Showa Era when she'd first met the feisty young girl of the Jiang Clan. It'd been fall. Maybe on the verge of winter since the trees were barren.
Someone had suggested the city as her next place of existence, she couldn't be sure of their name nor her reason for following through it. As the West throws its arms up in unending party, Shanghai sits in its own little bubble of power: the Paris of the East, the New York of the West. The decade was loose and the morals were looser. Decadent burlesque clubs and brothels lined every street and port, and Shiori remembers wasting her idle days there with Zihua, downing the newest shipments of wine from some foreign country.
Seventy years later, when Shiori returns to the city again for the third time in her extended lifespan, she finds her favourite burlesque clubs replaced by modern nightclubs and imported wine readily available in any supermarket. She finds the young feisty girl grown into an old stubborn woman; her youth sapped by time.
She finds a city teeming with curses, unlike before…
Shanghai doesn't exude the same charm as its past, which is fine by Shiori, the conditions for her temporary place of existence include three simple things that are easily fulfilled: decent food, decent alcohol and never, ever Japan.
(She supposes this is her curse; the price she must willingly pay. To watch the world change, to see everything she knows wither. A melancholic bystander.)
And it doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter. Because home is an abstract concept, and while some might find her situation piteous and regretful, there's no way she'd rather have it.
Constantly being on the move meant safety, it meant freedom. But it also means that Shiori goes through multiple identities every cycle, leaving behind what little she'd built. Shiori concedes it does get tough at times, but it certainly gets easier.
Being sentimental doesn't help her cause.
So no, contrary to what Mingzhe thinks, Shiori welcomes it. She's not a loner but she never minded being alone; accustomed to holding people at arm's length, because you can't quite get close to someone who can't see the things that you see, because it's dangerous and she doesn't know who she could trust, because she'd chosen the path of solitude a long time ago and can't turn back.
It is therefore an unpleasant surprise when her phone—usually dead silent—rings in the middle of a job three days after Shiori's fiasco in the hospital.
Shiori frowns as she reads her phone with one hand while she bangs a Curse User's head into the wall. The man groans loudly on impact. In response, Shiori lifts him off the ground and slams him harder against the brick. Warm blood seeps under her palm, but she ignores it and stares at the screen.
Unknown number.
Could it be Mingzhe? But she had dialled the clan from the hospital's line, cautious that the boy would cave in eventually and tell Zihua about her arrival in Shanghai. Did she make a mistake somewhere? Unlikely but possible. She never saves the numbers of those she acquaints herself with anyway.
The man groans again.
"Quiet, I'm thinking," Shiori mutters and tosses the guy to the opposite wall. Something that sounds like a skull and brain squelches then slides to the ground. She snaps her fingers and blue purifying flames burst forth from his body, licking tongues of fire devouring the corpse.
Shiori should've been cleaner about this whole thing but she argues she'd asked nicely for him to return the stolen Curse Item to her client. The fool didn't listen. And what was Shiori supposed to do when he was wildly swinging his sword at her while screaming about all the lecherous things he'd do to her once he was done cutting off her limbs?
She brings her phone to her ear and answers. "Who is this?"
"Josie," answers a deep voice, not in Chinese but Korean. "It's me."
The identity of the caller comes to Shiori slowly.
Shiu Kong.
A former detective turned handler for Curse Users. They'd met in Korea thirteen years back when she still went by the alias Josie Kang. He'd help Shiori cover a triple homicide case in Busan when a freelance exorcism case went horribly wrong. On their last meeting, he'd said he'll be migrating to Japan because apparently "it's more fucked there and that means a whole lotta coin is going to be exchanged."
…She does not think the man is wrong in that regard.
"Kong." She balances her phone between her cheek and shoulders and wipes her bloody hand with a handkerchief. "I assumed you'd be torn to pieces by the sorcerers in Japan by now."
"Ouch. Not even a 'how have you been' for an old friend?"
They are not friends. Passing acquaintances who once found a use for each other more like.
"I prefer honesty to pleasantries. How did you get my number?"
"Heh, you didn't make it cheap, that's for sure. You're a hard person to find." She hears a lighter click in the background. "I'll give you a hint for old times' sake: still purchasing your fake passports and IDs from the same guy in the jujutsu black market? Bad idea."
It's one of those moments where Shiori wishes she didn't own a cell phone. Why were satellites and Wifi even invented? Wasn't social isolation a necessity for mankind's spiritual development? She admits she's not exactly… well-acquainted with technology, never finding the need to familiarize herself with it other than the very basics. But she had taken steps to cover her tracks. Obviously not well enough. Granted, the duplicitous man did have his claws embedded deeply in the jujutsu underworld.
…This is why old-fashioned letters are easier. Stupid electronic trail or whatever the tech-y people on cable news television calls it these days.
"I do hope I'm worth the coin you spent tracking me down."
"Of course you are. Don't worry, I won't sell your information," Kong laughs but Shiori doesn't find it assuring at the least. Thankfully, Kong is unaware of her real identity. "Still going by Josie?"
"Does it matter?"
"Nah, you can call yourself whatever you want, so long as you're still the sorcerer I need."
"I'm busy." She glances at the burning corpse. It'll take a while for it to be cremated. "What do you want?"
"I have a job for you. Three million yen. You're still in Shanghai?"
"Not interested."
"Hold on, it's not the type of job you think it is."
"Still not interested."
Shiori might be a rookie in the modern-day jujutsu underworld compared to Kong but she isn't stupid. Anything involving that much money means trouble.
And that's the last thing she needs.
While Shiori will take the occasional commission or bounty collections to make a living, she sticks to tried and tested rules. Simple, easy requests and never too eye-catching that it'll alert the sorcerers on Japan's radar. It's not her choice of profession but nobody ever asks questions in this line, and that's enough for Shiori.
"You should reconsider, you'd be perfect for the job."
"Give the job to someone else. Don't you have that…"
Shiori trails off, picking through her memory. Was it ten years ago? That deal Kong brokered cemented his status as the to-go handler in the jujutsu underworld. Something involving the Star Plasma Vessel, she thinks. All she recalls is that it was so newsbreaking that even Shiori, who had isolated herself on a remote island in Indonesia then, had heard of it to some degree.
"Ah, Toji? The man's dead."
"Hm. Pity."
"Not that he'd be any help in this. Like I say, you'd be perfect for this job."
She leans on the wall, "Why?"
"Sealing Techniques are your speciality, no?"
…How surprising.
Judging by the payout Shiori had thought this would be an assassination-type job, probably of some big-shot sorcerer or something along those lines, and while Shiori has no qualms in accepting jobs like those, she doesn't. It's not on the list of commissions she deems safe. Sealing jobs are though and much preferred. Kong had matched her with clients requesting such services in the past before.
"The payout doesn't match the job."
"What can I say? The client is generous and has deep pockets," replies Kong. "Which reminds me, when I mentioned your talents he was keen on arranging a meeting with you. Any chance you changed your mind on being a freelance curse user?"
"No, being affiliated to anyone holds no interest to me."
Kong sighs, "As I'm well aware and have explained to him in great detail."
"So are we done, here?"
"Nah. Look, I'll be your handler for this job. I guarantee you won't even have to meet the client, deal?"
"No."
"Don't be like that, we should at least meet in person to discuss the details."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll back off—" Kong pauses when a female voice speaks in Japanese in the background. It sounds like a young child. "—listen, I have run but I'll send you an address later. I'm flying to Shanghai on Friday so we can meet at noon then."
"Kong!" says another high-pitched voice in the background. "What are you doing? Geto-sama is waiting for you!"
"Gotta go. Come if you want, or not," continues Kong. "Your choice, Josie."
The line cuts abruptly with that. Shiori frowns at her phone, vaguely certain that is deemed rude in terms of 'phone etiquette'.
…It's not to say Shiori isn't tempted by Kong's offer. She is. Payouts of jobs on the black market are based on their level of difficulty and mortality rate, and since she only accepts low-rank jobs, cash can be tight.
And given her recent accident with her rented sedan—
Hm?
Shiori looks up, aware of the sudden presence of a curse, attracted to the scent of blood. Grade three, it looks like. The curse slithers within the trembling walls like an amorphous shadow and observes, an ugly malice visible only to the blessed.
Shiori's phone pings with a notification. She looks at her screen and finds an address from Kong.
Grabbing the opportunity while she's distracted, the curse emerges out from the walls; a horrendous worm-like creature, snarling and baring its teeth—
"Do not overstep your place," she warns calmly, golden eyes gleaming. "I'm not in the best of moods, scram."
The curse snarls, sounding more like a hiss but obediently slithers back to hide in the wall. Disgusting creatures they are, but they know when not to overstep. Which is more than Shiori can say for others.
She sighs. Ah, she did it again.
…Frankly, Shiori doesn't know when she developed this bizarre habit of conversing with curses. Probably from when she'd summon her Shikigamis to talk to them. (She recognizes how weird this is too, when they are all… well, technically speaking, dead.) Shiori doesn't do this anymore. It's too risky and would expose her identity to any unfortunate sorcerer nearby who wouldn't miss out on the massive waves of Curse Energy.
Seeing the curse, it occurs to Shiori that Kong's arrival in Shanghai might have something to do with the influx of curses in the city. The timing of this job offer seems far too coincidental. Is it possible that the two things are linked in some way?
How curious.
…So, she'll bite. Why not?
[To: Unknown]
[10:23 PM] I'll be there.
She tucks her phone into her jeans and bends over, picking up her client's Curse Item from the ground. Shiori weighs the cursed necklace in her palms, feeling the faint waves of Curse Energy from it.
Oh? Isn't this?
Nightmare prison.
A Curse Item with the ability to entrap the wearer in a comatose state while it induces the most terrifying nightmares based on the victim's fears.
It had belonged to Fujiwara's clan inventory once. An item that was among her clan's many creations in the Heian Era. Who would've thought that even after a millennium, she'd find their precious treasures scattered throughout the world, intact and in working condition when her clan had long been destroyed? Her uncle would have a fit if he'd known. Oh, what wouldn't Shiori give to see his face?
She turns the necklace around. As expected, there's the inscribed name of her 'beloved' cousin on the metal: Fujiwara No Norimichi.
Hello there, Norimichi-oniisama.
…It is exactly like looking at the mirror of her past, and Shiori wants to smash it until her blood runs in rivulets.
She hates it.
"Are you seeing this, Taira-kun?" she says, pursing her lips in a spur of deranged acceptance. "The dead always find a way to haunt even after a millennium."
(Like us.)
Inside the deep recess of Shiori's inner domain where the bloody Sanzu river of life and death flows endlessly and the wheel of samsara spins and never stops, a headless corpse snarls, stirring awake at his name—
Ah, bad habit. She's talking to them again.
Shiori… really should stop doing that.
She tucks the Curse Item in her pocket. The worm-like curse hisses and Shiori chooses to leave it unexorcised.
(Because what is the point? Exorcise one and five more will pop up to take its place. It's meaningless, is it not? Just like her worthless ideals once upon a time.)
Exorcising one curse might be meaningless, but Shiori has an idea of what's causing the influx of curses in Shanghai and she does not like it. Not at all.
Let it be said that Fujiwara No Shiori learns from her mistakes: lose the battles, but win the war.
She waves her hand and disables her Technique, "Go on and eat it if you want."
The worm curse growls approvingly. Shiori watches as it slithers to the corpse hungrily and begins feasting on the half-burnt corpse. Gross.
Gross? taunts the boy with maggots. Laughable coming from you, ojou-sama. You're no better than a curse. Go on, have a taste.
She smiles wryly, taking no offence.
It's true, after all. Sorcerer, curses, her… the values the jujutsu world has bestowed upon them seem so, so arbitrary now. She's long past caring.
By the time Shiori leaves the dingy alleyway, what remains of the Curse User is reduced to nothing but a bloody heap.
[Author Notes]
Thank you for the feedback on the last chapter! I was hoping to establish and flesh out Shiori as a character before we introduce the other canon characters into the whole complicated mix. Shiori's Curse Technique will be explained in time, but small hints are scattered around the entire chapter. I'll be exploring the overseas clans before we jump to Japan!
TRIVIA:
Samsara: a Buddhist concept, referring to the cycle of death and rebirth to which life in the material world is bound. The concept of saṃsāra is closely associated with the belief that the person continues to be born and reborn in various realms and forms (thus suffering in the process) until they reach enlightenment or nirvana.
Sanzu River: a mythological river in Japanese Buddhist lore, similar to the Greek concept of the River Styx, whereby it's the main underworld river that the souls of the dead have to cross to reach the 'afterlife' or 'rebirth'.
Inari: Known as Inari Ōkami, she's a popular Kami (God) in both Shinto-Buddhist beliefs. More than one-third of the Shinto shrines in Japan are dedicated to the goddess of foxes, agriculture, general prosperity and worldly success. Inari's foxes, or kitsune, act as her messengers.
Shifu: a Chinese honorific title meaning "skilled person", "teacher", or "master" that is most often used to address a respected teacher of Chinese martial arts.
