The morning sky was ablaze, a pale gold bleeding slowly into colder hues, while the earth below lay muted beneath a blanket of fallen snow. The world felt hushed, as though it were holding its breath—caught between night's retreat and day's reluctant advance. This was the blue hour, that fragile moment when light did not yet belong to anyone.
I awoke expecting pain.
Instead, there was only a dull ache, distant and manageable, like an old wound remembering itself. For a moment, I lay still, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling above me. The room was not mine. The furnishings were modest but carefully arranged—dark wood, a small writing desk by the window, curtains drawn back just enough to let the morning light spill across the floor in long, deliberate lines.
When I finally pushed myself upright, the cold greeted me first. It crept through the air, sharp and honest, the sort that belonged to winter rather than illness. My body responded slowly but obediently. Whatever had happened before, I had not been broken by it.
I crossed to the window. Outside, the snow reflected the sun's light so brightly it nearly hurt to look at, transforming the courtyard below into something almost sacred. Smoke rose lazily from distant chimneys, and somewhere far off, the muffled sounds of life carried on—footsteps, a door closing, the clatter of iron against stone.
This was not a battlefield. Not anymore.
I left the room, wrapping my coat tighter around myself as I stepped into the corridor. The building carried the quiet dignity of age—stone walls worn smooth by time, wooden banisters polished by countless hands. Everything here spoke of restraint and endurance, of surviving not by force but by patience.
It was then that I heard it.
The unmistakable sound of movement—measured footwork, the low whistle of air displaced by motion. Instinct guided me before thought could catch up. I followed the sound toward the rear courtyard, slipping quietly behind a torii gate. From this corner, partly shadowed by the roof's eaves, I could see them.
Heiwa and Dōngzhí stood facing one another in the snow, the ground between them cleared in a wide circle as if the earth itself had been marked for their duel. Heiwa held her staff lightly, almost carelessly, as though it were an extension of her arms rather than a weapon. Her posture was relaxed but deliberate—one foot forward, the other braced behind, her weight balanced in quiet readiness.
Opposite her, Dōngzhí mirrored that calm with unsettling precision. She, too, held a staff, similar in length and shape, though the way she carried it suggested a different philosophy entirely. Where Heiwa's stance felt exploratory, Dōngzhí's was assured, complete—like a student who had already taken this test once before.
They did not speak at first.
Heiwa moved.
She brought her palms together, fingers aligning with practiced ease, and exhaled sharply through the narrow space between them. The breath carried more than air. A pale fog spilled forth, rolling outward in a sudden bloom, swallowing the space between them. It was not violent, not forceful—just enough to obscure, to confuse, to prove a point.
For a brief moment, I felt a petty flicker of satisfaction. If someone else faltered against that technique, perhaps my own defeat would feel less personal.
The thought soured as soon as it formed.
Dōngzhí did not move. She did not step back, nor raise her guard. She simply stood, as still as a statue half-buried in snow, her presence unwavering even as the fog closed in around her.
Then—flames.
They drifted into view like will-o'-the-wisps, pale blue and ghostly, hovering calmly in the fog. They did not burn the air or crackle with noise. They simply existed, serene and patient.
Even through the muffled haze, I heard the sharp crack of wood striking wood.
"You should be careful," Dōngzhí's voice carried clearly, unbothered by distance or obstruction. "Understand what is happening around you."
A cry followed—Heiwa's voice, sharp with surprise rather than pain.
When the fog finally began to thin, the outcome was clear.
Dōngzhí stood as she had before, staff lowered, posture relaxed. Heiwa lay on the snow, propped on one elbow, her breathing uneven but her expression more startled than hurt. The blue flames hovered briefly before fading away like dying embers.
"What did—what were those flames?" Heiwa asked, staring at the space where they had been.
Dōngzhí tilted her head slightly, as though the question amused her. "Oh? Those," she said lightly. "Fox fire. They absorb qi—or mana, if you prefer—and use it as fuel."
Fox fire.
The words echoed uncomfortably in my mind. Images surfaced unbidden: a dream, half-remembered, of a massive fox wreathed in pale flames in a space with still waters and a night sky, watching with eyes far too knowing to be mere imagination.
As the last of the fog dispersed, Dōngzhí offered Heiwa a hand and helped her to her feet with surprising gentleness.
"Managing your qi is important," she continued, brushing snow from her sleeves. "Not only in how you wield it, but in how you ensure others cannot turn it against you."
Heiwa laughed softly, dusting herself off despite her clear exhaustion. There was no bitterness in her expression—only curiosity, sharp and alive. The kind that appeared when one had stumbled upon a truth too interesting to resent.
"Thank you," she said sincerely.
I remained where I was, crouched behind the torii, an unfamiliar heaviness settling in my chest. It was not jealousy, nor fear, but something quieter and more cutting.
Inadequacy.
Not because I had lost—but because I had not yet understood what I was truly standing among.
The snow had quit falling and now lay everywhere softly, indifferent to revelations and pride alike, as the morning carried on—beautiful, cool, and rather revealing.