Nana
Power and Politics
Disclaimer: I don't own CCS characters;
just the plot of this story.
Noritaka stood in the courtyard of the Akita compound, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the late afternoon sun dip below the horizon. The distant clashing of blades echoed from the samurai training grounds, but his mind was far from the warriors' practice.
For weeks, his thoughts had been consumed by Syaoran's request to marry. What is he truly after, Noritaka wondered, his jaw tight with frustration. Once, he would have questioned the man outright, but now there was a coldness between them that he could not shake. Or is the coldness in my head?
A door slid open behind him, and Miyuki, his first wife, entered the courtyard, her presence poised, yet commanding. Her kimono was of deep indigo silk, its weave fine and softened with age rather than wear. Fine lines framed her eyes like brushstrokes on parchment, and a few strands of silver threaded through her black hair, styled simply atop her head with red combs and pins.
"Your spirit is unsettled," she said, her tone knowing. "Has something more occurred with Li-san?"
Noritaka turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "You know about my issues with him?"
She shook her head. "I told you not to speak of matters you wish to keep private with your second wife. She talks too much. But I've cautioned her against revealing this to anyone else."
He let out a slow breath, not bothering to defend Fumiko. "His request to marry… it is not a gesture of affection. It's political."
"You think it's strategy?"
"Yes," Noritaka said, his voice growing intense. "Syaoran has always been a soldier, bound by duty. But now, he seeks a union with one of the most noble bloodlines in the province. The Amamiya name may be tarnished, but it still commands respect among the old guard - wealthier, more powerful samurai. It's too... precise to be coincidence."
She studied him for a moment, unreadable. "You think he's using the marriage to solidify his standing. To build influence."
"Exactly." Noritaka's lips curled, half in frustration, half in scorn. "I trusted him. Trained him. Raised him like one of my own. And now I wonder if I've spent years grooming my own usurper."
Miyuki let out a humourless laugh. "So, he's finally following in your footsteps. Marrying for power."
Noritaka shot her a hard look. "What do you mean by that?"
"You didn't hesitate to take two younger wives to strengthen your alliances," she said coolly, her gaze hardening. "Why should Li-san be any different? You built a house of power, and now you resent him for possibly stepping inside."
Her words lingered in the air. For a moment, Noritaka said nothing. He did not need to be reminded of his decisions she resented.
"Or perhaps he's tired," said Miyuki, softly. "Of being a blade you keep sheathed until you need blood. Raised him as one of your own, you say? You took him in when he was nothing but a boy - broken, stripped of home and kin - and saw only his skill. His swordsmanship. I wanted to raise him with love. With warmth, with kindness, to give him a sense of belonging, of peace, something beyond the violence I believe he came from. You thought that would make him weak."
Noritaka remained silent, guilty as charged, his silence betraying him.
"Did you ask him about the life he lived before you?" she went on, her voice gaining force. "He might have answered your questions. He wasn't just some orphan from across the sea, husband. At ten, he spoke Japanese and Korean like a scholar. He fought like a seasoned warrior. He could read ancient texts and write them with elegant calligraphy. That didn't come from surviving - it came from upbringing. From legacy."
Noritaka's jaw tightened at her words.
"It matters not who he was before," he stated. "He grew strong beneath my roof, under my care. He harboured a desire to rid the world of magicians, that much I knew. He served me well and for that, I gave him the means to pursue his desire, without hesitation. For that, he owes me. His loyalty. His very life."
Miyuki's gaze softened, though her voice remained like ice. "No, Noritaka-san. He's given you his loyalty. Freely. For years. And what has it brought him? Obedience. Isolation. Command after command." She stepped forward. "As for owing you... he has always been strong Noritaka-san. He was strong before you and he will remain strong after you. Mahotsukai tremble at the name Kami Kira. To the shogunate, he is respected as Akita's soldier. But... they don't respect you, do they?"
Noritaka's eyes flickered with rage. The Shogun and the great houses tolerated him - a provincial governor elevated to daimyo by imperial decree - because of his alliances, his maneuvering. But they had never accepted him. To them, he was a bureaucrat with a borrowed title, a shadow among war-born titans.
Indeed, it was not his name that stirred fear in council chambers or on the battlefield. It was Li Syaoran and his silent, intimidating presence. His legend walked ahead of him. The man the shogunate feared might one day appear on their doorstep, unannounced and unstoppable. He was the reason they dared not move against Noritaka to reclaim Kamakura - for those who still whispered it was theirs by right.
"I am samurai," Noritaka said, though his voice had lost its edge. "I earned my place - not just with strategy, but with sacrifice. Years of it. Syaoran-san... he's important, yes. But he does not define what I have built."
He paused, as if the words needed time to settle - on her ears, or his own.
Miyuki's lips curled into a slight, almost imperceptible smile - one that was almost pitying. She took a slow step forward, her gaze never leaving his. "Earning a place is one thing, Noritaka-san. But keeping it… is another. And we both know the title you truly covet isn't daimyo. Can you claim it without Li-san's loyalty?"
Noritaka sneered, but it was more armour than arrogance. The silence between them throbbed with tension, unspoken truths clawing for breath. The title of daimyo had never been enough for him. It was a stepping stone, not a throne. He hungered for something greater - power that carved history, that left his name etched into the bones of the nation.
Miyuki shook her head slowly, as she met his gaze with quiet disdain.
"Deny him, if you must. But even the most obedient hound is given meat and a run in the fields - lest he grow restless and sink his teeth into the hand that keeps him chained."
She stepped even closer, her words now a blade sheathed in silk.
"You don't control Li-san. He chooses to obey. Because he believes in honour. In you. But if you strip him of the only thing he's ever asked for, if you reduce him yet again to a weapon without a will, then let us all pray - pray, Noritaka-san - that he kills us in our sleep."
Her eyes sharpened, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"If he can manage to be so merciful."
She turned and walked away, leaving Noritaka's heart pounding, the faintest smile on her lips.
The sun filtered through the paper screens of the dojo, casting long, dappled shadows across the tatami mats. Syaoran stood at the center, still and silent, the katana in his hand an extension of his breath. His movements were slow at first, deliberate - each motion born of precision and control. The outside world blurred into silence, irrelevant against the rhythm of the blade, the breath, the beat of his feet against the floor.
He moved with the grace of ritual. Each strike whispered through the air, the sharp hiss of steel carving an invisible path. Sweat clung to his brow, unnoticed. His body flowed from one stance to the next, each motion clean, measured, honed by years of repetition. Here, in the stillness of the dojo, there was no war, no politics, no past, no future. Only form. Only breath.
The sound of the sliding door echoed softly, breaking the rhythm. Syaoran turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on the figure standing at the threshold - Akita Noritaka, his face unreadable.
"I do not recognize those sword forms," Noritaka said at last, voice quiet, curious.
Syaoran's fingers tightened around the hilt of his katana, but only for a moment. He lowered the blade, bent down to retrieve the scabbard, and sheathed the sword with a soft shink.
"They were made for a Chinese blade," Syaoran replied. "The techniques come from a different tradition. Not something you'd see here." Then as an afterthought, he said, "But you have seen them. You just don't remember."
"Such is possible," Noritaka said as he stepped into the room, his gaze piercing. "You still practice them, after all this time?"
"Some traditions… never truly leave you," Syaoran answered. "Once learned, they become part of you. The techniques, the discipline - they stay, even if the blade is different."
Noritaka gave a slow nod, his gaze flicking to the sword in Syaoran's hands, then back to his face. "I suppose I understand," he said, though his tone suggested there was more he was not saying. "But to keep practicing them... it must be for something beyond mere technique."
Syaoran's eyes remained steady.
"Perhaps," he said.
A brief silence settled between them, until Noritaka finally spoke.
"Well," he said. "It seems you've been training hard."
Syaoran bowed respectfully. "Daily. As you instructed, Akita-sama."
Noritaka barely acknowledged the response. His eyes swept across the dojo. "The repairs are coming along," he observed.
"Thanks to your generosity, Akita-sama," Syaoran said.
The older man gave a slight nod, already turning toward the door. "Walk with me. The garden is still incomplete, but I prefer the air outside."
They stepped into the courtyard, passing labourers working steadily at the estate's reconstruction. The ground was raw with fresh soil, scaffolding still clinging to parts of the outer walls. But the damage was being undone.
They stopped beneath a young maple, its branches bursting with the vibrant green of summer leaves.
"I have consulted with my advisers concerning the Amamiya clan," Noritaka began, his voice heavier now, as if preparing to say something significant. "They are rigid with tradition, especially when it comes to lineage. Having suffered scandal in the past, and resisting vengeance, they will not tolerate further disgrace." He paused, allowing the words to settle. "Still, I've given your request serious thought."
Syaoran stood motionless, watching him.
"You've served well," Noritaka continued. "Loyally. Humbly. You've asked for nothing. And so… I've decided. If you wish to marry Kinomoto Sakura..." His voice hardened, turned clipped. "...I will permit it."
Syaoran did not move, did not even blink. But something subtle shifted in the air around him. The words echoed in his mind, reverberating like the first notes of a long-awaited song. Beneath the rigid line of his shoulders, a quiet surge of triumph began to stir. The path had opened. The impossible was no longer out of reach.
He bowed deeply. "Thank you, Akita-sama."
"But you need to understand something. Marrying her is not just a personal matter for you. It's an opportunity - for both of us."
Syaoran straightened as Noritaka continued.
"The Amamiya clan hold influence. If we secure this marriage, we gain more than just a connection - we gain leverage. Their lands, their resources, their fighters, their allies."
Syaoran nodded slowly, taking in the magnitude of Noritaka's words. There were deeper reasons for the daimyo's approval. This marriage was not just about Sakura - it was about further securing his place, and Noritaka's, in a volatile world.
There was a long pause, the only sound the rustling of the leaves above them. Noritaka looked at him, his eyes filled with intent. "I will assist you in securing this marriage. But you must understand this - your responsibilities as a warrior come first. If this marriage clouds your judgment, if it distracts you from your duty to me, there will be consequences."
"I will accept whatever consequence you deem fit," Syaoran replied, his voice carrying an undercurrent of resolve.
Noritaka's gave a firm nod. "It is settled then."
Syaoran bowed again. His gratitude was genuine, but the urgency of the situation was already taking hold once more. "I... do not mean to seem impatient, but we must move quickly. Her marriage has already been arranged."
Noritaka's eyes narrowed. "She's betrothed?"
"Yes," Syaoran replied, the word slipping out reluctantly. "To a doctor. Takeda Hito. Their wedding is weeks away."
"The Takedas." He looked across the courtyard. "They are not just a family of doctors. They are influential in their own right, with connections that could pose complications. They would not be easily swayed."
Syaoran nodded. "Yes, Akita-sama. Their influence extends beyond medicine. Their standing within the shogunate is discreet, but significant. This marriage would only strengthen it - binding them directly to samurai blood. Also... Amamiya Masaki, the clan's leader - he favours Kinomoto Sakura."
Noritaka's smirked "So. You've taken to political games now."
Syaoran looked away. "Not by choice."
Noritaka's eyes narrowed in satisfaction. "You used to speak of politics with disdain. Behaved like it rotted your soul. But now... you're motivated, aren't you?"
Syaoran said nothing, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the courtyard walls.
Noritaka stepped closer. "There are ways to make alliances bend - even ones as deeply rooted as the Takedas'. What other hurdles should I expect?"
Syaoran exhaled slowly. "None. But it seems their agreement was made quietly. There was no formal declaration, only private arrangements."
"Then it can be undone discreetly," Noritaka said, already calculating. "A physician, no matter how skilled, cannot marry into samurai lineage without a daimyo's blessing. And I do not bless it."
A beat of silence passed. Then, Noritaka asked, his voice calm but edged with quiet suspicion, "And how did you manage to meet her?"
"At an inn. Her father allows her to work there - for a friend of the family."
Noritaka's brow lifted, just slightly. "A woman of samurai blood, serving tea to travelers?"
"It is a respectable place," Syaoran replied.
Noritaka's gaze lingered on him. "Does she know your duties to this clan?"
"No," Syaoran replied. "And I would keep it that way. For her sake."
"It is well you've kept your silence - for now, she is an outsider. But she will be your wife. And wives… they see more than you think."
"I know," Syaoran said firmly. "But I don't want to scare her."
Noritaka tilted his head, the faintest flicker of realization dawning.
"You're afraid she'll see the truth… and turn from you. You care for her - more deeply than you're willing to admit."
Syaoran did not answer right away. Noritaka's statement stung, more than he cared to admit.
"She's kind," he said at last, his voice quieter now. "Disarmingly so. She looks at me without fear, without suspicion… without the weight of everything I've done. I'm a foreigner in her land, a warrior by trade, but she treats me as nothing more - and nothing less - than a man. That kind of acceptance… it's rare. And I've come to value it more than I ever expected."
Noritaka regarded him in silence, then finally spoke, his tone steady and resolute.
"Her ignorance will not last forever. And when it ends, you will manage her - as a husband, and as a warrior of this clan."
"I understand," Syaoran murmured.
They stood in silence, the maple's leaves rustling overhead.
"I'll summon you and your men soon," Noritaka said.
Syaoran straightened, instinctively bracing. "A mission?"
Noritaka shook his head. "No. I've summoned the Kinomoto household. And Amamiya Masaki."
Syaoran's breath caught.
"You look surprised," Noritaka said, a smug smile on his lips. "Is this not what you've been waiting for? A chance to make your intentions clear?"
"It is," Syaoran replied, bowing once more. "Thank you, Akita-sama."
The scent of cedar and incense lingered in the vast hall, where the floor gleamed like still water. Sunlight streamed through narrow slits in the high walls, catching the lacquered banners of the Akita clan. At the far end of the room, Akita Noritaka sat elevated on a wide platform, a living emblem of his authority as daimyo. He wore no armour, only formal robes of state. Yet his presence filled the chamber like thunder held in reserve.
To his right stood Syaoran, dressed in ceremonial armour - not the steel of war, but the darkened leather-and-lamellar of a high-ranking retainer. His swords were sheathed at his waist. Beside him stood Junichi. To Noritaka's left, Takahiro, Shinji, and Hiroshi were arranged like silent sentinels.
The massive doors groaned open.
A servant's voice rang out, "The Kinomoto household, and Amamiya Masaki-sama, of the Amamiya clan!"
The retinue stepped forward walking past retainers in formal garb, samurai in silent rows, and scribes poised with brushes - every gaze measuring, a reminder of the power gathered in that hall.
Kinomoto Touya came first, tall and composed. At his side walked Tsukishiro Yukito, pale-haired and serene, exuding the quiet grace of a man who preferred silence to spectacle. Behind them moved the elderly Amamiya Masaki, his steps slow but deliberate, heavy with age and experience. Escorting him was a tall, red-haired woman. Though her role was that of an attendant, she carried herself like a matriarch - a member of the Amamiya household, most likely.
Following closely behind were Kinomoto Fujitaka, faint concern in his gaze, and at last... Sakura. She held her head with dignity, but her gaze respectfully lowered; her plum-coloured kimono was simple but elegant - a garment one might chose to not draw attention to oneself.
Syaoran's gaze fixed on her as she approached. His heartbeat quickened. He struggled to maintain the discipline honed by years of training, even as warmth fluttered unexpectedly through him. His eyes lingered a moment too long. The corner of his mouth twitched, a silent betrayal, before he forced his gaze elsewhere. His hand, once steady on the hilt of his sword, tightened just a little. It was the smallest of movements, but to him, it felt as though the entire room could hear the thudding of his pulse.
The guests halted before the dais. Overhead, the banners swayed faintly, as if stirred by the rising tension. Together, they bowed.
"You now stand in the shadow of power - before Akita Noritaka, daimyo of Kamakura!" a servant announced, his voice hard as the polished floor beneath them. "Kneel."
Cushions had been laid out for the guests, facing the dais but not on equal footing with it. As they knelt, the room fell into stillness. Even the wind outside seemed to wait.
Masaki's gravelly voice broke the silence.
"Akita-sama," he said, head bowed. "I and the Kinomoto household come before you in peace."
Noritaka inclined his head, his gaze sharp as drawn steel.
"Then let us speak in peace."
Syaoran remained motionless, hand still on the hilt of his katana. But his eyes kept focusing on Sakura. He could not help it. He watched her gaze furtively drift across the room, her eyes skimming the gathered faces, until they slid past him, then jerked back. For the briefest instant, their eyes locked and - he felt it. Not recognition. Not warmth. Shock. Then just as quickly... fear.
Something primal tightened her features and dilated her eyes. She gasped, the sound small but far too loud in the silence of the hall.
She had not expected him here. Not like this. Not beside the Daimyo.
Fujitaka and Touya's heads had snapped towards her. Whatever had flashed through Sakura's eyes, Touya caught it instantly. His penetrating gaze cut to Syaoran, suspicion already beginning to stir.
She was shrinking in on herself now, gaze lowered, posture folding inward as if trying to vanish into the floor. And though her movements were graceful - rehearsed, even - he could see the truth under the surface: she was retreating.
From him.
A heaviness settled in his chest. He had not meant to frighten her. That look in her eyes - it was not the fear seen in war camps and ruined homes, but it bothered him, nonetheless. He knew what his presence looked like here - what it meant. Standing beside the Daimyo, clad in formality, silent and unapproachable... of course it would shake her.
And yet, he did not look away.
He continued to watch her. Not to threaten. Not to dominate. Just... to see her. To make sure she saw him, too: the Syaoran from Akatsuki inn. Still, he had not expected her to recoil.
Touya's gaze had not moved. His jaw was clenched now, shoulders subtly squared. Syaoran did not need to guess at what he was thinking - he could read it clearly in Touya's eyes: Back away. Stay away.
Noritaka's voice sliced through the air.
"The women may leave."
Sakura and the red-haired woman rose without question, bowed, and exited. Their footsteps echoed briefly in the great hall. Then the doors shut behind them with a quiet, ominous click.
"I summoned you here because a matter of significance has arisen," Noritaka began. "One that touches both your bloodlines and mine."
Masaki tilted his chin, listening.
"This man - Li Syaoran," said Noritaka, gesturing toward him. "Has served my clan with unwavering loyalty. He is not of noble blood, but he has risen through merit. He is my loyal vassal, and I would entrust him with my own life. Today, he requests the right to marry your great-granddaughter, Kinomoto Sakura."
The words dropped like stone into still water.
Touya's eyes bore into Syaoran with a glare sharp enough to cut iron. Every muscle in his frame tensed, coiled tight, as if one wrong move would loose the strike already forming in his bones. If he were not Sakura's brother, Syaoran thought, he'd already be dead for throwing a glare like that. Bold. Reckless. Only blood was keeping him alive. Yukito must have thought the same, because he leaned in and murmured something low - too soft to hear, but sound enough to pull Touya back. The man eased a fraction, but the heat in his eyes remained.
"Akita-sama," Masaki said, his voice taut with restrained unease. "With deep respect, this is highly irregular."
Noritaka raised an eyebrow. Calm. Unmoved.
"Explain."
Masaki's eyes flicked to Syaoran, then back.
"This... man... is a foreigner," Masaki said with barely constrained disgust. "A warrior with no ties to land or lineage. I do not know him. My great-granddaughter may be a commoner by birth, but she has samurai blood. You ask me to give my bloodline to this stranger?"
Syaoran was not offended. Foreigner. Outsider. Demon. He had heard it all before.
"What Li Syaoran lacks in blood, he possesses in loyalty, skill, and honour," Noritaka said. "He commands men. He has earned his place."
Masaki's eyes hardened. "That may be true, but you know as well as I that samurai blood is not something to be taken lightly."
Noritaka leaned back in his seat. His hands were steepled in front of his mouth as his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"I see your concerns, Amamiya-san. But Li Syaoran has transcended his birth. We do not choose our lineage - but we do choose our actions."
"This conversation is pointless," Masaki said, his words like ice. "She is already promised to a doctor - Takeda Hito."
"A commoner," Noritaka replied flatly, his tone cutting through the air with unexpected force. "Is he better than a brave warrior?"
"He is a Japanese man," Masaki countered. "With roots. With a name. Where is your warrior's family? His history?"
The silence that followed was not empty - it stretched, tight as a drawn bow. Noritaka did not bother responding. His gaze shifted instead to Fujitaka - unhurried, purposeful.
He was done reasoning with Masaki.
"Kinomoto-sensei," he said. "You are her father. What say you?"
"Akita-sama," Fujitaka began, carefully. He knew that whatever he said next would influence the outcome - not just for Sakura, but for the future of his family's honour. "Amamiya-sama is not wrong in his beliefs. And while I respect Li Syaoran's loyalty to the Akita clan, Sakura-san is precious to me. I want her to be protected, yes - but also cherished and happy. Takeda Hito may lack status, but he offers peace, stability, and devotion."
Noritaka's eyes narrowed.
"The peace you speak of exists because of men like Li Syaoran," he said. "I am prepared to offer land. Status for the men of your household. Tax exemption. I will even join one of my daughters to a son of the Amamiya clan
He let the promise settle, then continued. "Additionally, Li Syaoran is not without standing. He holds property - an estate in Kamakura."
"An estate in Kamakura, you say?" Fujitaka said. "What exactly does that prove Akita-sama? A piece of land in a city built on power and politics hardly signifies true standing in this land."
"It proves that Li Syaoran has resources that can secure your daughter's future. And that he has a place among us."
"Your... Li Syaoran," said Fujitaka, calm but unyielding. "May have earned your trust, but he has yet to earn mine. And he will not earn my daughter's future."
A stillness settled over the chamber. Noritaka did not speak. He did not need to. For a moment, the silence said more than any words might have. Sakura's family was standing on pride when they should be bowing to power.
Then, cool and deliberate, he spoke.
"You all understand, of course, that this conversation is a courtesy. Not a negotiation. A gesture of respect - for the samurai blood that flows in your daughter's veins. But let there be no confusion. When I, your daimyo, have arranged a union, it is not debated. It is carried out."
The words hit with an icy finality, and Noritaka's gaze locked onto Fujitaka's, daring him to question the truth of what had been said.
Syaoran felt his stomach twist. Noritaka was not just trying to pressure Fujitaka - he was cementing his control. But that was not what Syaoran wanted. He did not want a marriage built on coercion, or on power. It was why he had never resorted to the darker routes available to him, why he had never killed her betrothed. He wanted something untouched by violence. Something freely given. Something real. Yet, here, in this very moment, he was bound by something far more invisible than the tension that gripped the room: protocol.
He turned, just slightly, toward Noritaka. Just a small movement, but enough to signal that he was present. Their eyes met - one pair a request for lenience, the other watching, unblinking. Finally, Noritaka drew a steadying breath.
"Kinomoto-sensei," he said, his voice gentler now, though no less firm. "I understand your conviction. And I can see that you are not speaking out of simple defiance, but out of a father's love." He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "I also know that your daughter's happiness has already been given a strong foundation, for it is clear that Li Syaoran cares for her."
Fujitaka's brow furrowed slightly, but Noritaka continued before he could respond.
"He is not one to be swayed by passing whims or idle sentiment. That he has chosen to ask for a union - of his own volition - is not a trivial thing. It speaks to the depth of his intentions."
"I understand what you say, Akita-sama," Fujitaka replied, his voice low and even. "But a father's heart cannot help but ask - is this truly affection? Or is it something… less noble?" His eyes found Syaoran's. "A moment's fascination. A desire sparked by novelty or circumstance. My daughter is not a lesson to be studied and set aside."
A subtle flush rose along Syaoran's cheekbones at the implication. He glanced toward Noritaka again, seeking permission to defend himself, but the daimyo remained still - his attention fixed on the man before him.
"You speak of honour as if you understand it." Noritaka's voice dropped then, his words turning into an almost predatory whisper. "There has been opportunity. If Li Syaoran were truly a man of dishonor, Kinomoto-sensei..." He let the words hang for a moment, the tension suffocating. "You would not be kneeling at my feet with a generous marriage proposal in hand." His gaze sharpened. "You would be scrambling to contain the shame - silencing rumours, bargaining for dignity, deciding whether your daughter's life was worth more than your family's name. Or... if burying her was the only path left to cleanse it."
The silence that followed was lethal.
Syaoran knew that silence. And what often followed. The thought of drawing his blade against the man who had given Sakura life left a bitter taste in his mouth. But thankfully, Fujitaka inclined his head, not in surrender exactly, but in acknowledgment.
"I require an answer in five days," said Noritaka.
He rose without another glance toward the kneeling men and stepped away from his seat. Junichi followed at once, and as Syaoran moved behind them, the other three samurai fell into step like shadows. The sound of their departure - the soft scrape of sandals against the polished floor - echoed briefly, then faded into the heavy stillness of the room.
The journey to the guest villa had been silent, the only sounds, the soft rustling of leaves and the occasional creak of the three palanquins. Sakura's eyes were lowered, her heart heavy. The unexpected and unusual summons, the shock of Syaoran's appearance, the unsettling quiet since the meeting with daimyo Akita - all of it left her with one certainty.
She was in trouble.
When the palanquins came to a stop, she, Sonomi and Masaki stepped out of them. The men had walked, and they were already at the front door. The guest villa, though modest compared to the grandeur of the Akita estate, stood apart from the surrounding homes. Its elegant simplicity, with a two-story structure nestled behind a well-maintained garden of trimmed trees and flowing water, seemed almost at odds with the tension that clung to the air.
"This will be your residence for the duration of your stay, Amamiya-sama," the retainer said. "I hope it fulfills your needs."
Masaki lowered himself onto the cushion at the chabudai. He gave a stiff nod. "It will suffice."
With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the line of servants, their heads bowed as they withdrew without a word. The shoji slid shut behind the last of them, sealing the room in stillness. One by one, every eye in the room shifted - toward Sakura.
She froze, pulse racing. Words jostled in her throat. None suitable. What slipped out was a breathy, accidental murmur.
"…Hoe-eee..."
It was barely detectable, but in the quiet, it sounded deafening. Mortifying.
Fujitaka's gaze remained on her, calm but probing. "Do you know that man who stood by Akita-sama?" he asked. "Li Syaoran?"
Sakura looked down, cheeks flushed. "Hai, Otou-san," she said quietly. "He sometimes dines at Akatsuki."
At that, Masaki's jaw tensed, the muscle there twitching with restrained disapproval. "I told you she should not work at the inn. That place is no better than a sieve - anything can pass through it."
Sakura lowered her gaze, fingers folding tightly into the fabric of her sleeve. Masaki thought it was recklessness - but it was protection. The inn offered routine. Noise. It kept her from reaching for the magic that pulsed just beneath her skin. From drawing the eyes of the Mahotsukai no Kakumei. Or worse - the Tenno no Migete.
At the Akatsuki, she was ordinary. Unremarkable. Secure.
"We've only exchanged a few words," Sakura said, feeling the tension. "Once, he walked me home. I told him not to, but he wouldn't listen. He said it was too late. That it wasn't safe."
Fujitaka's voice remained soft, but his eyes watched her intently. "And your relationship with him - has it remained that of server and patron?"
"Yes," she said quickly. "He's always been respectful. Quiet. I didn't even know he was a warrior… or that he was... important."
"You've never been alone with him?" Fujitaka asked.
The question surprised her more for its tenderness - like her father was hoping, praying, for reassurance.
"No," Sakura answered.
Touya cut in, his tone accusing. "You blushed when you saw him. You're blushing now."
Sakura's flush deepened. Her father's expression remained serenely unreadable. Not angry. Worse - waiting. He was not asking for clarification. He was waiting for confession.
"I was just surprised," she whispered. "That's all."
But the lie burned in her mouth.
The silence shattered as Sonomi, who had been leaning by the shoji doors, finally spoke. Her voice was impatient.
"Will someone tell me what's going on?"
"Akita-sama has proposed a union," Masaki said flatly. "He intends for Li Syaoran to marry Sakura-chan. The proposal has been made before his court, and he expects it to be accepted."
Sakura froze. The air left her lungs as if she had been struck. Her gaze shot to Masaki, then to her father, but neither met her eyes. She took a small, uneven step backward, as though the floor had tilted beneath her.
"Why?" The word slipped out before she could stop it. "Why would he… ask for that?"
But Sonomi's voice was louder, more indignant.
"What?" she snapped. "He proposes? What arrogance! Does he think Sakura-chan's future is his to command?"
"He knows it is. To refuse him outright would be defiance. And to accept means binding our family to a foreign-born swordsman with no lineage or standing."
"He may well be a fine man," said Fujitaka. "But he is not a suitable match. I worry about the price Sakura-chan will pay for this union."
"Now you understand," Masaki said, his voice tight and laced with frustration. "What it feels like when someone you deem unworthy asks for your daughter's hand. You, a commoner, who dared to run away with and marry Nadeshiko-chan, a girl of samurai blood. You should have seen the risk and married her to Takeda-san when you had the chance!"
"You and your ideals," Sonomi said coldly. "All that talk about compatibility and giving her time. And now look where that's led."
The silence that followed was thick with regret, each word hanging in the air like a reproach, a reminder that the consequences of decisions made long ago were now unfolding before them.
Masaki turned to Sakura.
"Leave us, Sakura-chan," he said, his voice a command that held no room for argument. "There are things that need to be discussed. Go rest."
Sakura hesitated for a moment, her fingers tightening slightly against the folds of her kimono. Her gaze shifted between Masaki and her father, searching their expressions for clarity, for reassurance - anything that might explain why this was happening, or why no one had warned her. A hundred questions fluttered beneath her ribs like startled birds, but none found the air to take flight. But she rose, offering a brief bow before stepping out into the hall.
Only when the room was devoid of her presence did Masaki speak again.
"I don't know everything about Li Syaoran, but I know enough," said Masaki. "He's not just another foreign-born warrior. The boy's been in Japan since childhood. Raised in the traditions, trained under masters who answer directly to Akita-sama. He speaks like one of us, fights better than most of us, and from what I've heard, kills with the kind of precision that makes men nervous just to breathe beside him."
Touya scoffed. "That Chinese gaki? He can't best a true samurai. Surely."
Masaki's expression became stern.
"He can," he said. "I've never seen him train - but I've spoken to men who fought beside him. One samurai told me he watched Li cut down six men who betrayed their banner in the time it took another man to draw his blade."
Yukito spoke softly, a shadow of worry in his voice. "Is he… cruel?"
"Li Syaoran is a man of duty," said Masaki. "His loyalty to Akita-sama is absolute. If Akita-sama told him to marry, he will marry. If Akita-sama told him to slit our throats… he would do that too. Whether that aligns with your definition of cruelty, I cannot say."
There was a long silence before Yukito spoke again.
"Is it possible his feelings for Sakura-chan are real? Like the daimyo says? That he defied custom and asked to marry her? If so, it must mean something. Akita-sama offered much in exchange."
Masaki's brow creased.
"That is true," he said quietly. "He didn't need to offer anything. He's a daimyo. He could've simply commanded it."
Sonomi frowned. "Then why didn't he, Soji-sama?"
Masaki's voice dropped a note. "Because he wanted to please him."
That drew silence.
"He fought for his vassal. That much is clear," Masaki continued. "All that land, status, even talk of binding the Akita and Amamiya clans by blood - he didn't do it to obtain Sakura-chan. He did it for Li Syaoran. For a man with no family, no rank, no name that means anything here. You only fight that hard for a sword you don't want to lose."
"Yet, they await an answer," said Fujitaka. "They must know it could be no."
Masaki looked at him like he was a child.
"You work for samurai yet act like you don't understand," he said. "Akita-sama doesn't wait for answers - he allows the illusion of choice."
Touya's voice was low, but there was a defiance in it. "I can take her. We'll vanish. There are places even the daimyo must not be able to reach."
Masaki exhaled.
"This is no longer a time for fantasy, Touya-san," he said, his tone firm. "Akita-sama's influence stretches across the mountains, the temples, the streets. There is no escaping him. From the moment Sakura-chan set foot here, she was never meant to leave this city."
Masaki rubbed the bridge of his nose, the gravity of the situation pressing on him, his shoulders heavy with the burden of what lay ahead.
"I will offer a dowry, and you will not object to it Fujitaka. It would be substantial enough to earn her comfort. Maybe even influence," he continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I'll reach out to allies - those who owe me favours. If trouble ever comes for her, she won't stand alone."
His face twisted slightly as if the very idea pained him. "Li Syaoran is not of our blood. But Akita's shadow looms long. To defy him now would be suicide. For Sakura. For us. For everything we have."
The barracks were quiet but for the soft clink of bowls. The training yard outside was still, shadows stretched long under the pale light of the moon. Inside, the four members of the First Elite Squad sat cross-legged around the modest dinner spread of rice, pickled vegetables and grilled fish.
The air hung heavy with the weight of that morning's revelation.
It was Hiroshi who finally broke the silence, the words spilling out in disbelief.
"A marriage proposal?" he said. "Please - someone tell me I misheard the daimyo."
Junichi gave no answer at first. He lifted a bite of rice to his mouth, chewed, swallowed.
"You didn't mishear."
"But we were standing right there," Hiroshi said, his voice rising, his high ponytail swaying with the intensity of his frustration. "Li-sama didn't even hint at it before. We were summoned for what? A routine meeting between clans? Diplomacy, maybe. I didn't expect-" He faltered, fingers tightening on the tie in his hair as he pulled it loose. "I didn't expect that."
"None of us did," said Shinji. "And I've lived through enough political marriages to know when one's not strategic." He glanced around the circle meaningfully. "This is personal. I saw his face when she knelt in the hall. That look wasn't duty. It wasn't ambition. It was something else."
Junichi nodded slowly.
"Something... more," he said.
Takahiro made a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff.
"You're telling me he, of all people, has a heart?"
"Not one he lets anyone see," Junichi replied, his tone low. "But maybe there's still a part of it he's managed to keep intact."
Takahiro leaned back, arms crossed over his chest.
"So what now? He marries a girl with samurai blood and we pretend he's one of us? Or do we become the guard dogs for his new wife too?"
"We protect who he protects," said Shinji. "That's how this works."
"We're not his friends," Hiroshi said, a little dispiritedly. "He's made that clear. We're his tools. His weapons. We're here to serve. Not to question."
"We're soldiers first, men second. That's how it works under him," Takahiro said. "But I don't like being kept in the dark. Weapons should know when they're being drawn."
Junichi looked into the firepit between them, the flames flickering against the walls of the room. His voice was quiet when he spoke again.
"Amamiya-sama and Kinomoto-sensei didn't see it coming either. You could see it in their eyes. They weren't just surprised. They were… offended, threatened. They saw Li-sama the way the rest of court sees him - foreign, dangerous to the order."
"He is foreign," Takahiro reminded them. "Let's not pretend otherwise."
Junichi looked at him evenly.
"He's still our commander."
No one argued.
After a long pause, Hiroshi said. "She's beautiful though. Do you think she cares for him? The Kinomoto girl?"
A beat passed.
"She looked shocked," Shinji said. "A little afraid."
"If I were you, Hiroshi," Junichi warned, his voice serious. "I'd be careful when speaking of her. Li might not hear you, but if he does... you might find yourself without a tongue."
Shinji gave a subtle nod of agreement, but Hiroshi was not done.
"I'm just saying," he muttered, half-defensive. "Those lips - full, unpainted, like they've never tasted benihana - not that she needs it. And her eyes… that green - sharp and soft all at once. Like real jade warmed by skin. No powder, no painted brows. Just that plain kimono and hair loose... too short. And yet…" He trailed off for a beat. "Even stripped of all the usual decoration, she was striking. Like a painting unfinished - but... more alive for it. Like something you shouldn't stare at too long but can't look away from either."
A heavy silence descended. Each of them stared at him, expressions ranging from disbelief to expanding horror.
Junichi exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head.
"You're inviting your death. With open arms and no armour. You know that right? Li has killed men for less."
Hiroshi smirked but did not press further, though a flicker of unease passed through his eyes. He shrugged.
"I'm not the one asking to marry her," he said, more quietly now. "But if I were, I'd understand why."
Junichi's gaze flicked to the doorway, as if expecting Syaoran to step through at any moment.
"Careful," he said, his voice low. "I'm not in the mood to die because you don't know when to shut up. She's not some teahouse girl for your commentary. Do you think you should speak of her like that?"
"It was just an observation," Hiroshi said, bristling. "I meant no disrespect."
Junichi's eyes narrowed. "You think it matters what you meant? If he heard you say half of that, you'd be bleeding on the stones before you finished your apology."
"She's not just a girl," Shinji added. "She's his. Whether by promise or wish, it doesn't matter. You don't speak of her like that."
"I wasn't speaking like-" Hiroshi started, then stopped. The heat drained from his face. For a moment, he looked younger - less a warrior, more a boy who realized he had stepped into something far too deep.
Junichi leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "If you admire her, keep it to yourself. If you pity her, hold your tongue. And if you value your life, don't speak her name again when Li Syaoran isn't the one saying it first."
A long silence followed.
Finally, Hiroshi gave a small nod. Not quite contrite, but humbled.
"…Understood."
Shinji chose a slice of grilled fish and placed it in this bowl. "He's not the type to ask for anything. Not status. Not gold. Not even rest. But he asked for her."
"And he did it knowing full well what it would cost," Junichi added. "Knowing the old men would sneer, that the court would whisper."
Takahiro shook his head, but this time there was no mockery in the gesture. Just incredulity.
"A man like that… turning his attention to a woman. Makes you wonder if the world's turning upside down."
Shinji gave a faint, almost invisible smile. "Maybe it already has."
A moth brushed the wall near the door, silent and flickering like a ghost. They resumed their meal, each lost in his own thoughts.
"What happens if the family says no?" Hiroshi asked.
This time, none of them tried to answer.
Because they all knew.
A/N
Hey Tomodachi!
meridalass: Thank you for the review. I am indeed feeling better. :)
Ivichan: Every story there is that one reviewer who seems to be hacking my computer looking for story notes. lol. You predicted this chapter! Angst is coming, but not too soon. Thank you for your kind words though. Let's cook!
Until Next Time,
Ja ne! ^_^