I never imagined that abandoning the proud Dragon Clan of Seiryū-no-Oka Island would cast me adrift, a wanderer without purpose. Yet I harbor no regrets. My resolve was ironclad: to renounce a world soaked in blood and carve out a quiet life of my own. In my modest apartment, I set out to sea as a humble fisherman.
But today, the storm rages since noon. The waves mock my nets and I cannot venture forth. Left with nothing but the howl of wind and the churn of dark waters, I wander the shoreline with no destination in mind—and no escape from the tempest within.
The evening air bit at my cheeks as I walked the quiet outskirts of Matsushima. Cold, yes—but not cruel. Just sharp enough to remind me I was alive. The narrow street curved ahead under a sky already fading to indigo. Trees whispered in the wind, their rustling leaves sounding like secrets passed between old friends.
My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since noon, and the hunger was no longer a dull ache—it had teeth now.
Then something hit me: a scent, rich and savory. Not just food. Comfort. Home. It threaded through the breeze like a trail, and my body reacted before my mind did. I followed it, boots crunching lightly against the uneven cobblestone.
The alley narrowed. A row of lanterns bobbed above, their orange glow dancing in the wind. At the end of the path, nestled between two taller buildings, I saw it: a ramen shop.
It looked like it had always been there—forgotten by time, hidden from the careless. The kind of place you'd miss unless you were starving, lost, or looking for something you didn't know you needed.
The shop sign hung low, swaying slightly. I couldn't read the kanji, but the smell coming from inside spoke a language I understood completely. Broth. Miso. Grilled meat. Scallions. Salt. Heat. All of it woven together into a single, intoxicating invitation.
I stepped closer and peered through the fogged-up window. Inside, the space was tight but warm. Wooden tables, scratched from years of use. Shelves lined with jars of unfamiliar ingredients. Paper lanterns swayed gently above, casting pools of gold light across the floor. It wasn't modern or stylish, but it had heart. And that alone made it feel like somewhere I belonged.
But that wasn't what stopped me.
Behind the counter stood a woman.
Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail, held by a ribbon the color of fire. The contrast made her hair look almost blue in the lantern light. A few loose strands framed her face, softening the sharp line of her jaw and the gentle slope of her cheekbones.
She moved with focus—stirring a pot, checking a ladle, slicing something with a kind of calm efficiency. It wasn't flashy. It was steady. Controlled. Honest.
When she leaned, the lantern glow caught the curve of her neck and the delicate arch of her collarbone, lending her an almost ethereal radiance. Her hands—slender, deliberate, impossibly steady—wove through the steam, coaxing flavor and warmth into each bowl as though the ramen itself were an extension of her own heart. The folds of her simple apron hugged her waist, hinting at the subtle strength of her posture, while the light brushed her lips in soft relief, revealing the faintest smile that spoke of care and confidence in equal measure.
Her eyes—warm chestnut pools—held quiet concentration. Yet whenever she glanced toward a customer, they sparkled, opening into a gentle warmth that felt like coming home. Even in the hum of the crowded shop, her presence seemed singularly her own, a blend of refined elegance and tender hospitality that turned an ordinary meal into something unforgettable.
I hadn't realized how long I'd been staring until the bell above the door jingled—and I jolted.
She did too, glancing up with surprise. Her eyes met mine.
She blinked once, then offered a smile. Small, but not forced. Meant.
"Welcome," she said, her voice low and smooth. "What would you like to order?"
My mind couldn't process anything written on the wall. "Anything you think would suit me. Thank you."
She paused and gave a gentle smile. "Sit anywhere you like. I'll be right with you."
The warmth wrapped around me instantly. Not just the heat, but the sounds—the low murmur of other patrons, the clatter of chopsticks, the faint hiss of boiling broth. My body exhaled a tension I hadn't noticed I was carrying.
I took a seat at the counter.
She returned to her work, ladling broth into bowls, garnishing dishes, wiping the edge of a plate with a cloth before sliding it toward a waiting customer. Everything she did was efficient but careful. She didn't rush. She didn't waste motion. Watching her was like watching someone tune an old instrument—every action deliberate.
And every so often, she glanced my way.
Just once or twice. But enough that I noticed. Enough that I wondered if she noticed too.
When she finally approached me, she set a bowl in front of me without fanfare. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of miso, garlic, pork, and green onion. It hit me like a memory I didn't know I had.
I barely managed a quiet, "Thank you."
She nodded. "First time here?"
I swallowed. "Yeah. Just passing through."
She smiled again—this time, wider. "You picked a good night. This is our best batch."
She turned to help another customer, but not before I caught the tiniest tilt of her head. Like she wanted to say more.
I looked down at the bowl. The noodles glistened under the broth, slices of chashu resting neatly on top. It was simple. Perfect. I picked up the chopsticks.
My hand trembled slightly. From hunger, or something else—I wasn't sure.
I took a bite.
And everything stopped.
The broth was rich, the kind that lingered in your mouth long after the swallow. The pork melted with a hint of sweetness. The noodles had a spring to them, chewy and satisfying. It was warmth in a bowl. Survival. Hope.
I was halfway through the meal when my chopsticks slipped. Reflex kicked in, but not fast enough. They tumbled downward—until a hand caught them mid-air.
Her hand.
I looked up. She stood in front of me again, her fingers gently wrapped around the chopsticks.
"Careful," she said softly. Our hands touched briefly as she passed them back.
That contact was nothing. And somehow… everything. Her fingers brushed mine, and my skin remembered it long after she stepped back.
"Thanks," I mumbled, suddenly tongue-tied.
She gave a quiet laugh, then turned away—but not before I caught a hint of pink on her cheeks.
I stared at her back. At the way the ribbon swayed as she moved. At the curve of her spine, the quiet certainty in her posture. She was beautiful, yes, but that wasn't it. There was something else—something grounded. Something real.
I couldn't look away.
She noticed.
"You've been watching me for a while," she said, her voice low but firm. "Are you okay?"
I froze.
My eyes met hers again—and she didn't look angry. Just curious.
"I—sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean to… I just…"
Her brow lifted slightly. Waiting.
"I guess I got distracted. It feels like I know you, but I doubt that's possible."
That earned me a smile. Smaller this time. Wry. "It happens."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "You make it look easy."
"Cooking?"
"Everything."
She tilted her head again. "It's not easy. You just get used to pretending it is."
A silence stretched between us. Not awkward. Just… full. Like there was more either of us could say, but neither knew how to start.
"What's your name?" I asked finally.
She hesitated a second. Then, "Aika."
"Aika," I repeated. It suited her. Simple. Elegant. Kind.
"And you?" she asked.
I gave her my human name—not the one weighed down by the burdens of the Dragon Clan, rumored to be unbeatable and fierce. Just Sharva
She nodded. "Well, welcome. To the shop, and… wherever you're going next."
That last part caught me off guard. I wasn't sure where I was going next. I wasn't even sure why I came here tonight, of all nights.
But I was sure of one thing now, it wasn't just hunger that brought me.
It was her—or maybe fate that brought us together.
Something in her gaze told me she felt it too—that flicker of recognition, like we'd stepped into the same dream without realizing it.
The door opened behind me, and a cold gust blew in, snapping the spell.
More customers. More noise. Aika returned to her post behind the counter, exchanging words and bowls with practiced ease.
But every now and then, I felt her eyes on me.
Just for a second.
And I knew this wasn't over.
Not tonight. Not yet.
I hadn't just found a meal.
I had found her.
I didn't know that the wheel of fate was turning toward something terrifying.