Flashback – 500 Years Ago
Winter. Snow blanketed the land in silence, painting the world in white.
Inside a chamber of the great academy, young yokai students gathered. This was not an ordinary school. Here, only the children of royal families studied, training to become the future Crown Ribbons. Other sections existed, of course—the Special Grade, the Normal Section, the Basic Division. But this chamber, this section, was reserved for heirs.
It was the same academy where Kyoren would one day teach, where his name would be remembered in legend. And even now, after five hundred years, the academy still stood—tall and untouchable, a fortress of tradition. In fact, it had been built by Kuradome's own ancestor, many generations back. That alone made his family name shine brighter than others. He could have basked in that privilege, used it to bend the academy to his will. But Kuradome had never been one to take advantage of status.
At this time, he was young—only five hundred years old. In yokai terms, he was still a young adult. Yet already he carried responsibility far heavier than most. He was a father. A young father with a newborn son—Kyoren, only five or perhaps ten months old.
It was the only time Kuradome had ever used his family name for special treatment: to keep Kyoren at his side during lessons, or under the gentle watch of a maid nearby. But he always preferred to keep him close. Always.
No one knew who Kyoren's mother had been. No one knew what had truly happened. Kuradome never spoke of it. The only thing known was that his partner had died months after Kyoren's birth. So Kuradome was not only a father, but also a widower—so young, and already so alone.
That was why Bài Qíyuè's friendship with him had always been something different. Something heavier, more painful. She had to watch him cradle the child of someone else, close the door of his heart too quickly, lock himself away in stone before his youth had even begun. She had wanted to be by his side… but all she could do was remain his silent companion.
Kuradome had always been a lover of peace. Quiet, gentle, a bright young soul. But after Kyoren's birth and the death of his partner, he had changed. His brightness dulled. His laughter vanished. His only focus became his studies—and his son.
On one particularly cold day, Kuradome sat in class as usual, tiny Kyoren in his arms. His eyes were tired, rimmed in red, but they remained attentive, following the teacher's words. Kyoren, oblivious to the heaviness of the world, played with his father's long silver ponytail. Sozai had tied it high, as was the tradition for young males, while older ones wore it half-tied.
The baby's small hands tugged and twisted the strands, fascinated by their shine. His fox ears twitched playfully, and his two fluffy tails brushed against Kuradome's arm. Sometimes he would pat his own little knees or belly with wide-eyed curiosity, making soft noises from his lips: "Pappa," "Dada." He tugged at Kuradome's rose-colored robe with baby fists, just as human infants do.
Beside them sat young Qíyuè, silent but watchful. Her eyes remained on Kuradome—not on his beauty, but on the exhaustion weighing his every breath. His eyelids drooped, threatening to close. His gaze was dry, reddened. His body swayed slightly, as though even the act of sitting upright was a battle.
"...H-hey, Kura… let me hold Kyoren. You're exhausted."
Her whisper was soft, one hand already stroking Kyoren's head gently. But Kuradome didn't respond. He didn't even make a move to pass her the child. He only closed his eyes again, swallowed hard as if his throat burned, and stayed silent.
Then—he opened his eyes briefly, met hers. And before a single word could escape his lips… he collapsed against her.
"K…Kura?! Are you alright?!"
The entire class snapped to attention. Gasps, footsteps, worried murmurs. Qíyuè's eyes widened in horror as she caught him, shaking his shoulders to rouse him—but his body was limp, unresponsive.
Little Kyoren's cries split the air, muffled into his father's robe as he clung desperately, gnawing against Kuradome's side with his tiny fangs in panic—a habit he would carry even centuries later.
"Guards! Take Kazomaki to the emergency chamber, now!"
The teacher, Qín Róu—a five-tailed black fox yokai—barked the order, his sharp red eyes flashing. He checked Kuradome's life force with urgency… and froze. It was glitching, flickering like a broken flame. The golden light of his soul dimmed, fading for terrifying seconds before flaring weakly back.
"What… is happening to him?!" Qín Róu muttered in disbelief.Before their eyes, Kuradome's vibrant red eyes dulled, losing their shine. His skin paled like rice paper, fragile, lifeless. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and that simple drop shattered Qíyuè's heart into pieces.
Her body went cold as she held Kyoren tighter, her tears spilling silently. She hadn't even noticed when Qín Róu had pressed the baby into her arms before rushing off with Kuradome's unconscious body.
The other students buzzed with whispers—some concerned, some cruel.
"He should really die this time," one sneered. "Maybe then he'll finally learn respect."
Qíyuè turned her tear-stained face toward the speaker, holding the crying infant against her chest. Her blue eyes sharpened, voice low and trembling.
"I have a better idea than that."
The boy smirked, stepping closer, arms crossed. "Oh? And what's that, sweetheart?" His eyes slid toward Kyoren, glaring at him with disgust.
"By killing you."
Her words struck like ice. The boy chuckled darkly.
"You? Kill me? Try, then. Later."
But before she could retort, Kyoren's wails grew louder, his tiny body trembling with hunger. She bit back her rage, gave the boy one last burning glare, and left the chamber cradling the child close to her heart.