The smell of worn tatami and aged cedar filled his nose—a dry, earthy scent that clung to everything. The futon beneath him was stiff, coarser than he remembered, and thin enough that he could feel the wooden slats beneath. His eyes fluttered open to the faint dawn light spilling in through cracks in the shōji screen.
He knew this feeling now. The tightness in the chest. The quiet grace in his limbs. Akiko.
He looked down at the arms draped in pale fabric—slender, feminine, with soft wrists and fine bones. Akiko's hands. Her body. I'm her again.
His heart thudded in relief as he twisted to glance across the small, dim room. There, near the door, were two shapes stretched out on futons. Tsukasa's broad back rising and falling with the slow even rhythm of sleep, Yasuhiro's back arched ever so slightly. Sora's breath caught.
"Tsuka… Yasu…" he whispered, voice hoarse with disbelief. "I'm so glad you made it."
The room was small—no more than fifteen feet by fifteen. The walls were dark wood, rough-hewn and worn by time, the kind of house that was probably already old in Akiko's day. Their futons lay on the opposite end, close to the door, which—
—had been barricaded.
Several low wooden tables and a chest had been pushed tightly against the entrance. The edges dug slightly into the rice paper screen as if whoever had done it had done so in a hurry. Sora rose slowly, the movement natural now in Akiko's frame. Her legs were lighter, the way she moved more balanced. Her body wasn't foreign anymore—it was beginning to feel like a second home.
He walked across the creaking floorboards in silence, careful not to wake the others. Yasuhiro's snoring filled the room in a slow, low hum, steady and somehow comforting.
Did we get followed yesterday? Sora thought. Why did they need to barricade the room? Where even is this?
No answers yet—but he had to use this quiet moment. He knelt near Akiko's bag, pulling it toward him and loosening the leather ties.
Inside were her usual belongings: small pouches of tea, a worn silk hand cloth, and her calligraphy kit. He took it out carefully.
The tools were elegant and simple—a narrow bamboo brush worn smooth by use, a ceramic inkstone still dusted with soot, and a small jar sealed with wax containing precious ink. A folded cloth wrap held sheets of rough, fibrous paper. Each tool had clearly seen regular use, well-cared for and essential. Akiko's hand had likely written more messages than words Sora could ever count. This was her voice, the only way she could speak into his world.
And then—beneath it all—he found the mirror.
Sora paused.
It was cold to the touch, its bronze surface dulled with age and use. A small, polished patch still reflected clearly enough, though the image was dim and slightly warped. He tilted it toward the light.
A girl looked back at him.
Long brown hair, still tousled from sleep. Soft, round features. A smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Large, doe-like eyes, still a little puffy. She was sixteen—by modern standards, she looked younger, but there was something deeply old about her gaze. Still. Quiet. Like someone used to bearing weight in silence.
Sora touched the mirror's edge, thumb brushing the rim.
You really are strong, he thought.
He set the mirror down and reached once more into the bag. This time, his fingers brushed parchment.
He pulled it out.
A scroll, unblemished and perfectly preserved. The very one he had seen behind glass at the museum. There, it had been cracked, yellowed, unreadable. Now, it was untouched by time. The ribbon binding it was soft, the seal unbroken. The ink hadn't faded—this was the real thing.
His hands trembled slightly as he stared at it. This… this is the message. The one they were trying to deliver.
The scroll that might change everything.
Sora held the scroll in his hands, its weight far heavier than the paper and ink it contained. The pristine ribbon was tied in a firm knot, its seal—a swirling red brushstroke over wax—unbroken.
It was beautiful. Mysterious. Dangerous.
This could be it.
The answer. The key. The thing that started all of this… or the thing that could end it.
He stared at it for a long moment, the dim morning light outlining its edges like it glowed with its own quiet power.
His thumb hesitated over the seal.
But if I open it…
What then? Would the ink disappear? Would time resist? Would it change anything—or make things worse? Akiko had protected this scroll with everything. Yasuhiro too. Even Tsukasa had bled for it. Maybe opening it now, alone, in secret—maybe that wasn't his choice to make.
But what if waiting meant never knowing?
The ribbon felt soft under his fingers. Almost warm.
His heart thudded in his chest, quiet but sharp, like it was trying to cut its way out.
His hand moved on instinct.
The knot pulled tighter before it began to give way—
A floorboard creaked behind him.
He froze.
A soft yawn filled the room, followed by a lazy grunt as a futon rustled behind him.
"What are you doing, Lad…. Akiko?" came a groggy voice.
Sora turned, scroll still in hand.
Yasuhiro stood half-awake, his black hair with the white streak in a wild mess of flattened strands. His kimono hung slightly open at the chest, and he rubbed one eye with the heel of his palm.
There was no sword in his hand, but there was something sharp in his expression now. Not suspicion. Just concern.
The room felt smaller. The scroll heavier.
Sora scrambled to find his voice. "I… couldn't sleep."
Yasuhiro looked at the scroll, then at Sora—Akiko—then back at the scroll again.
He didn't ask about it. Not yet.
He simply nodded, then walked over to the barricaded door. He placed a hand on one of the chests, checking its weight.
"Good. Neither did I, really," he muttered. "I don't trust this place."
Sora said nothing. He slowly loosened his grip on the scroll.
For now, it would remain closed.
He quietly slipped the scroll back into Akiko's bag, tucking it beneath the neatly bundled calligraphy tools and the few other belongings she carried. The bronze mirror caught the light one last time before he closed the flap, and when he reached for the small inner pocket where the kogatana had once been—
It was gone.
Sora froze.
That little blade—his last resort, the thing that had saved their lives on that boat—missing. Either taken… or removed.
Maybe Akiko did it. Maybe Yasuhiro or Tsukasa thought it was safer this way. But somehow, it felt like a piece of armour had been stripped off him, like a barrier between himself and the world had been peeled away without warning.
Yasuhiro was already awake now, quietly packing their belongings. His movements were precise, economical, like he'd done this a hundred times. He didn't seem to notice Sora's stillness, or the way Sora kept glancing toward the door. Or maybe he did, and just chose not to comment.
Tsukasa, on the other hand, was still a bundle of tangled limbs under his covers, dead to the world. His hair stuck out in all directions, a tiny string of drool trailing down one cheek as he mumbled something incoherent in his sleep.
Sora shifted uncomfortably. He crossed his legs one way. Then the other. Then sat on his heels. Then back again.
He hated this.
It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but still—he didn't like going to the bathroom like this. In Akiko's body. He didn't even like thinking about it. It wasn't even about modesty anymore; it was the wrongness of it, the awkwardness of a borrowed shell that didn't quite belong to him, even if he was used to moving in it now.
Twiddling his thumbs, he glanced at the thin window slats, the early morning light peeking in like it too was waiting for him to make a move.
Maybe he could wait.
Maybe not.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering under his breath. "This is the worst part…"
Yasuhiro caught the way Akiko—no, Sora—kept fidgeting near the futon, her knees drawn together tightly, fingers clenching and unclenching in the folds of her robe. A subtle discomfort, poorly masked. He finished tying his pack and stood.
He gave Tsukasa a light kick to the hip. "Grab the things. I'm taking Akiko to get food. Meet us back here. Stay sharp."
Tsukasa muttered a tired acknowledgment, barely cracking one eye open.
Yasuhiro looked back to Sora and nodded toward the door. "Come on."
The room was narrow and sparse—just one of several in the upper floor of a small, aging brothel nestled in Kameoka, a sleepy river town northwest of the capital. The building itself creaked with every step, boards worn smooth with time and use. The scent of smoke and sweet perfume clung to the sliding screens. Somewhere down the corridor, muffled laughter and the clinking of dishes echoed faintly, the morning shift just beginning.
Yasuhiro pulled away the makeshift barricade with quiet efficiency: a bucket, a stool, and a folding screen wedged tight under the door handle. With a soft push, the panel slid open, and he stepped out into the back corridor.
"Follow close," he said, low and quiet.
Sora didn't speak. Just nodded, head slightly down.
Outside, the narrow alley behind the brothel opened to the morning mist. Kameoka was just beginning to stir. Nestled at the fork of the Ōi River, the village stretched along dirt paths that curved with the natural bends in the land. Maybe a hundred houses at most, some clustered close together, others scattered between fields and orchards just beyond the embankment.
Fog still rolled gently off the river, its pale fingers curling around rooftops and fence posts. A few early risers—fishermen, elderly women, a young boy hauling a wooden pail—were already about, but the town still felt drowsy. Quiet.
They moved past a row of low buildings, a carpenter's shed, and a silkworm farm with rows of lattice frames stacked inside. Sora's wooden sandals clicked lightly on the path.
He glanced sidelong at Yasuhiro, then forward again. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere to… release," Yasuhiro answered flatly.
Sora grimaced. "Do we have to talk about it?"
"No."
They stopped at a low-roofed structure tucked behind a half-woven fence. It was a simple women's latrine—bare, weather-worn wood with gaps in the siding and a slight tilt to its walls. A nearby stream fed a narrow drainage channel that sloped under the structure, carrying waste downhill and out toward the river bend.
Yasuhiro nodded to it. "Go. I'll wait here."
Sora hesitated, then stepped in. Inside, the scent of damp earth and stagnant water hung heavy in the enclosed space. Slats let in faint shafts of light. He knelt slowly, uncomfortable in every way imaginable, and tried not to think too hard about any of it.
When he came back out, Yasuhiro didn't say anything. Just offered him a folded cloth from inside his travel bag, wordlessly.
"Thanks," Sora mumbled.
They walked in silence back toward the village square.
It wasn't much—just a slightly widened road where a few merchants had laid out goods on mats and baskets. Dried mushrooms, millet, carved combs, and one stall with three half-dried eels stretched out on sticks.
A man by a clay firepit nodded to Yasuhiro. "You want fish?"
Yasuhiro gave a small bow in return and reached into his sleeve, withdrawing a narrow strip of dyed silk. "This should still be good?"
The man examined the cloth—pale red, finely woven, likely from one of Akiko's inner sleeves. He gave a small grunt and motioned toward the fire. "Good enough."
He turned back and retrieved three skewers from over the pit. River trout—head, skin, bones and all—grilled crisp, with a hint of char.
They took the skewers and stepped off the road to sit on the low wooden railing that edged a now-dry irrigation ditch. The morning sun filtered through the trees above them, dappling the ground in shifting gold.
Sora bit into the fish slowly. It was oily and savoury, the skin perfectly crisp.
"You're quieter than usual," Yasuhiro said.
"I just… didn't sleep well."
"Hm."
A pause stretched between them, filled only by the rustling wind and the far-off sound of splashing oars.
Sora chewed another bite. "What is this place exactly?"
"Kameoka. Farming town. About a hundred homes, maybe more with the river folk."
"Feels too peaceful."
"Most places are peaceful until they're not," Yasuhiro said. "This one's quiet, but it's seen blood. Border disputes. Bandit raids. Tax collectors too eager. The usual."
Sora turned the skewer slowly in his hand. "You said we'd meet Tsukasa again at the brothel?"
Yasuhiro nodded. "We won't stay more than the morning. We've got a long route ahead, and we need to stay vigilant."
"Because of the Fujiwara?"
Yasuhiro glanced at him and nodded.
Another silence passed.
As they made their way back to the brothel, the morning sounds grew louder. Birds sang from the rooftops. A dog barked somewhere near the river. A pair of girls carrying water jugs giggled at Sora as they passed, whispering behind their sleeves.
He pulled Akiko's robes tighter around himself and said nothing.
Yasuhiro's pace never faltered.
Soon they reached the brothel again, slipping past the murmuring clients and perfumed hosts without a glance. The scent of old incense and last night's sake still clung to the papered walls, a faint echo of lives moving beside their own. Yasuhiro moved ahead with purpose, knocking twice on a worn wooden door tucked into the hall's end.
It slid open, revealing Tsukasa, already packed and ready. His things were laid out with military precision, their bags stacked near the corner. Without a word, Tsukasa stepped forward and offered something small, wrapped in a cloth.
The kogatana.
Sora hesitated before taking it, his fingers brushing the silk wrapping like it might still burn. The same blade. The same one he—Akiko—used to kill the fisherman. The weight of it was heavier than it should be, and for a moment he thought his hands might shake.
But they didn't.
He nodded silently and slipped it into the folds of Akiko's robes, nestling it against the inner layers where no eye would catch it. It was clean, at least. Someone had taken the time to wash away the blood. That small mercy didn't make it easier to hold.
Yasuhiro gave Tsukasa a hard look. It wasn't angry—but it wasn't gentle either.
"I thought we agreed," Yasuhiro said, voice low. "What happened on that boat will never happen again."
Tsukasa rubbed the back of his neck, dragging his fingers through his greasy hair. Only now did Sora really take in how ragged they looked—faces drawn, sleeves crumpled, hair oily from days without a proper bath. Now looking like the role they have been acting as, not noble.
"I remember," Tsukasa said quietly. "But if it happens again… and I'm not there—" He looked at Akiko—Sora. "Then she needs a way to protect herself. I wouldn't forgive myself otherwise."
A beat passed. Yasuhiro relented, the tension falling from his shoulders as he turned to Sora with something gentler in his expression.
"For self-protection, then. Nothing more," he said. "We want you safe, Akiko."
Sora nodded once, the name—Akiko—already feeling like his own. At least when he was her, it did.
He walked over to one of the bags and hoisted it over his shoulder. Yasuhiro moved to take it from him out of instinct, but Sora beat him to the interruption.
"If we're supposed to pass for commoners," he said, voice steady, "then we need to act like it."
The other two hesitated, then relented. They each grabbed a bag of their own—Yasuhiro exchanging the small parcel of grilled fish with Tsukasa before tucking it under his cloak.
They stepped out into the early morning light.
The streets of Kameoka were already stirring. Though the town only housed a hundred or so permanent homes, nestled at the fork of the river like a sleeping animal, the streets felt alive. Travelers from both directions of the water came and went—merchants with their backs burdened by cloth-wrapped goods, fishermen shouting out their morning catch, even a wandering monk murmuring sutras as he passed.
The smell of charcoal fires and damp earth mingled in the air. Spring was loosening its hold on the nights, but the morning chill still kissed their skin. Dew clung to the short blades of grass poking through the dirt paths, soaking the hems of their robes as they walked.
Sora kept his head down, trying to mimic Akiko's quiet grace, her deliberate pace. Every now and then he'd catch someone's gaze lingering on them, and it made his stomach tighten. But then that person would move on, distracted by business or gossip or the weight of their own errands.
He let the rhythm of the town pull him forward, the chatter, the footsteps, the clatter of wooden sandals. He didn't let his mind wander back to the archer, or the kogatana, or the man gasping for breath on the floor of a boat. Not now. Not while they were still being hunted. Not while they still had a scroll that could change everything.
Tsukasa silently stepped behind Sora, his presence gentle but unmistakable, guiding him forward and keeping the space between him and Yasuhiro tight. They walked in formation, a practiced triangle—Sora sandwiched in the middle like a precious item being smuggled under plain cloth. Or, more accurately, a noble girl being hunted under the mask of anonymity.
The air smelled of river mist and fish scales.
Ahead, Yasuhiro moved with purpose toward the docks at the river's edge, where the narrow waters forked into two curling streams that wrapped around the town like protecting arms. The Kameoka docks weren't like the great port structures Sora had seen in photos or in old samurai dramas—they were a jumbled collection of stone outcroppings, thick planks, and rope-tied posts jutting out into the sluggish current.
Boats bobbed lazily in place, moored with worn hemp lines to crooked stakes. Some were flat-bottomed riverboats, long and narrow, designed to skim along shallow water. Others were squat and broad, patched in places with new wood, their hulls water-stained and timeworn. Most had faded cloth canopies or oil-paper coverings stretched over bamboo frames to shield against rain or sun. A few boatmen were already shouting over one another, offering ferry rides or selling salted fish from slatted crates lined with reeds.
Yasuhiro didn't slow down as he passed a woman haggling for firewood, or an elderly man muttering about a missing oar. His eyes scanned each vessel, each group, each face.
That's when he spotted them—a fisherman in a straw-covered coat crouched beside three sloshing buckets, and across from him, a younger, sharp-eyed man with silk lining the cuffs of his robe. His sash was too fine for a local, and the faint blue and gold emblem stitched on his shoulder marked him as a city merchant. From Tanba no Kokufu, no doubt—capital of Tanba just northwest of Heian-kyō itself, the place they needed to go to deliver the scroll.
Yasuhiro slowed, casually approaching as though simply admiring the morning catch. Sora and Tsukasa fell into place behind him, close enough to hear without seeming obvious.
"…I'll take one bucket for three measures of millet," the merchant said with a clipped accent, his tone smooth but dismissive.
The fisherman scoffed, slapping a hand on his knee. "Three? With respect, sir, that's a poor offer for river fish caught before sunrise! These were swimming not a half bell past!"
The merchant didn't flinch. "And they'll spoil by dusk if you don't sell them. I'm not feeding my guards rotten perch just because you think your net woke up before the sun."
The fisherman leaned in, lowering his voice. "You city folk think us simple. But I know what fish costs in Heian-Kyö or Tanba no Kokufu. You'll resell these at triple and feed yourself like a daimyo for a week."
The merchant clicked his tongue and glanced down at the fish. "And if you keep flapping your lips, I'll buy from the boat two docks down. She's got trout."
"Bah," the fisherman hissed, then grumbled, scratching at his chin beneath his straw hat. "Four measures of millet and a bolt of rough linen, and we have a deal."
The merchant's eyes narrowed, then slowly nodded. "Fine. But I choose the fish."
They crouched together to inspect the buckets, the merchant poking a few with a wooden stick as he chose. Yasuhiro stepped away quietly, leading Sora and Tsukasa back toward a quieter corner of the dock.
"He's headed north," Yasuhiro murmured once they were out of earshot. "Upstream. Probably returning to Tanba no Kokufu. If he's hiring boatmen for transport, we may have a chance to join him discreetly, for a price."
Tsukasa nodded but kept his eyes fixed on the nearby boats. "Do we have anything left to trade?"
Yasuhiro patted a satchel hanging from his belt. "We have 3 mon left."
Sora kept quiet, but his mind was racing. Every part of this felt surreal—the old-fashioned trade language, the smells of the river, the memory of a sharp blade hidden in robes that weren't his. He felt the pressure of the situation but could not help to geek out about every historical aspect of it.
He adjusted the weight of the bag on his shoulder, trying to stay calm. He was still Akiko, still in this borrowed body, still on this mission. And the Fujiwara were still out there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Yasuhiro watched the merchant finish his deal with the fisherman—linen passed in one direction, a heavy bucket of fresh fish in the other. The merchant gave a curt nod, turning to walk toward a nearby vessel, likely his own.
Without hesitation, Yasuhiro followed.
"Pardon, merchant" he called out just loud enough to carry over the murmur of the docks.
The merchant turned halfway, eyeing Yasuhiro with a look that weighed the value of his time. "I'm not buying more."
"I'm not here to sell," Yasuhiro said, bowing politely. "I only ask a brief word, in confidence."
The merchant glanced at the crowded dock—boats unloading, traders shouting, children darting between barrels—and gave a small, annoyed wave for Yasuhiro to speak quickly.
"My companions and I need passage upstream," Yasuhiro said, voice lowered. "To Tanba no Kokufu. Quietly. No questions, no records."
The merchant folded his arms. "You think I'm a boatman now? That I ferry peasants for charity?"
"I think," Yasuhiro said, meeting his gaze evenly, "that I understand value."
He reached into the inner fold of his robe and revealed a small cloth pouch—old silk, knotted tight. He untied it just enough for the merchant to glimpse the faint glint inside. Three mon—cast bronze coins, stamped and unmistakable even in the low morning light.
The merchant's brows shot up slightly.
"You carry coin?" he muttered, stepping closer, suddenly interested. "From where?"
"Does it matter?" Yasuhiro replied, retying the pouch. "They're yours, if you take the three of us aboard your boat, keep our presence to yourself, and say nothing of it when you reach Tanba no Kokufu."
The merchant hesitated for a moment, clearly calculating the risks. Mon weren't used by most of the common folk—. Barter ruled the countryside, rice, silk, millet, labour. But city men… city men knew how valuable coin could be. And here was a man with three of them.
"You leave no trace," the merchant said slowly. "And if anyone asks, I've never seen you."
"Exactly."
The merchant gave a tight nod. "Board discreetly, once I finish loading. We leave before the sun is at its peak. The river's low this season."
Yasuhiro gave a deep bow of gratitude. "You won't regret it."
The merchant didn't respond—already waving over one of his labourers and barking instructions about weight balance and water barrels. He'd made his deal, and for now, that was all he cared about.
Yasuhiro turned and walked back toward Sora and Tsukasa, a rare grin tugging at the edge of his normally serious expression.
"We're going upstream," he said simply. "No questions, no names. Be ready when I signal."
Sora, still adjusting the fit of Akiko's sleeves across his borrowed frame, gave a small nod. "How?"
Yasuhiro patted the pouch at his belt. "Let's just say he values silence. And coin."
The three of them sat nestled between crates stacked high with the lifeblood of the region—bundles of dried millet wrapped in coarse cloth, jars of preserved pickles sealed in wax, baskets of salted fish, even a few tightly rolled bolts of silk that smelled faintly of incense and old lacquered wood. The boat creaked beneath them with each shift of weight, the hull low in the water from the load.
Sora sat still, his hands folded in his lap—Akiko's hands. Thin wrists, delicate fingers—far from the hands that had once gripped a game controller or held an umbrella walking down a Shibuya street. Now they clutched his knees in silence, hidden in a sea of goods bound for Tanba no Kokufu.
Tsukasa sat nearby, half-dozing with his back against a sack of barley, while Yasuhiro remained alert at the edge of the cargo, watching the riverbank over the edge of the hull. The merchant said nothing—true to his word. A single oar dipped into the water, stirring ripples that trailed away behind them like threads unravelling.
A single bell rang from somewhere deeper in the town behind them. The dock noise faded—hammers, footsteps, shouts muffled by distance and the hum of water lapping against the boat.
The vessel rocked forward.
It was slow at first, the gentle tug of the river resisting, but then—moment by moment—the boat gave in. It drifted, creaked, and groaned as it began to cut against the current, pushed by the long-hafted oar and the practiced hands of the merchant's crew.
Sora leaned his head back against the edge of a crate, eyes drifting shut just for a moment. The boat rocked again.
They were moving.
Further from Kameoka.
Further into Fujiwara territory.
Further into danger.
But still—they were moving.
And for now, that had to be enough.