The sky gradually dimmed into indigo, the last threads of daylight swallowed by the mountains. Moonlight spilled over the winding road like silver paint, catching on stones and leaves, while the faint orange glow of a candle flickered behind the window of a small wooden house. Smoke rose in a lazy curl from the chimney, dissolving into the cold air.
Inside, bent over the stove, an old man with white hair stirred patiently, his shadow long against the wall.
The scent of herbs and simmering broth seeped through the door.
Mitsuri trailed behind Yukishiro as they climbed the slope. The mountain breeze caught at her hair and carried the smell of pine and damp earth, setting her heart racing.
She had never lived in a mountain village before.
"Not counting the time," she reminded herself, pressing a hand to her chest.
"That wasn't living. That was survival—barely."
Her gaze drifted to the distance. Nestled deep among forests and valleys, the countryside was already alight with thousands of tiny flames. Oil lamps glowed in windows, torches burned along paths, fireflies floated between rice paddies. From far away, it looked as though the mountains were threaded together with chains of fire, a glittering net suspended across the night.
Mitsuri smiled and hurried to the stove. "Grandpa Roga, let me help you!" She reached for the ladle in the old man's hand.
Roga chuckled, showing his crooked yellowed teeth as he blocked her attempt. "Mitsuri, you're back. No, no. There's only this one pot of soup. I'll handle it myself. Go wash your hands—dinner's almost ready."
"But Grandpa, you said I'd get to cook!" Mitsuri's face fell, her fingers still hovering near the ladle.
"First day in the mountains, you expect me to make you work?" Roga patted her shoulder warmly.
"Plenty of chances later. Tonight you're a guest."
Mitsuri hesitated, cheeks puffed out in defeat. She obeyed only after another nudge from the old man's hand, heading to the basin by the door.
When Roga turned back, his eyes met Yukishiro passing by. His smile vanished, lips tightening into something sour.
"Our little Mitsuri is so thoughtful," he said loudly, almost theatrically. "Not like some people—been living under this roof three months and still don't know how to appreciate their elders."
Yukishiro carried bowls and chopsticks from the cupboard to the wooden table without pausing.
His voice was flat, almost weary. "I chop wood and fetch water for you. Two men and one girl in the kitchen—that would be inconvenient."
"Inconvenient?" Roga snorted. "The only inconvenience is having you here."
The words landed sharp, but Yukishiro didn't answer. He simply finished setting the table and took his seat.
Dinner was a lively contrast to the quiet house. Roga filled Mitsuri's bowl again and again, his old hands steady despite their thinness. Mitsuri blushed, bowing her head with every "thank you."
The table, once accustomed to silence, swelled with warmth and chatter. Only Yukishiro remained detached, eating with slow, measured bites, gaze fixed on the grain of the table as though he were a visitor at his own home.
Afterward, Mitsuri gathered the dishes without complaint, rolling up her sleeves and humming softly as she washed. Yukishiro obeyed Roga's order to heat water for the medicinal bath. Steam soon filled the small bathhouse, carrying with it the pungent smell of herbs and charred roots.
Outwardly his body looked healed, but Yukishiro knew otherwise. Beneath the skin, hidden injuries lurked like traps waiting to spring.
If he neglected them, they would cripple his sword arm, or worse, his breath control. Each night's soak was not comfort—it was survival.
That night, another problem arose: Mitsuri's sleeping arrangements.
The house had only three rooms. Roga claimed the single bedroom. Yukishiro usually slept on a mat in the living room. The storage room in the back was stacked with broken tools, bundles of straw, cracked jars—barely enough space to stand, let alone lay out bedding. Cleaning it at midnight was impossible.
That left only one solution: either Mitsuri took the living room while Yukishiro shared with Roga, or the reverse.
When Yukishiro knocked at Roga's bedroom door to suggest as much, silence answered. He knocked again.
Harder. Still nothing. The old man, who normally went to bed at the same hour as him, had chosen tonight of all nights to "sleep early."
Yukishiro's jaw tightened. "Pretending." He knew it with absolute certainty.
No amount of knocking would rouse a man determined not to wake. Roga had played his hand; Yukishiro had lost.
In the end, Yukishiro surrendered his bedding to Mitsuri. The two of them lay awkwardly in the living room, one against the east wall, the other against the west, staring at opposite shadows until sleep took them.
The following morning, Yukishiro led Mitsuri in cleaning the storage room. Dust swirled in golden shafts of sunlight, cobwebs stretched across corners, mice scattered beneath overturned baskets. Day after day they carried things out, chopped wood for makeshift shelves, and by the week's end, Yukishiro had built her a simple bed from mountain timber. Mitsuri moved in with visible reluctance, but at least she had a room of her own.
In those days, Yukishiro noticed the way Roga watched Mitsuri. His cloudy eyes gleamed oddly, lips curling into that same yellow-toothed grin. Mitsuri, for her part, kept her head bowed, cheeks red, hands twisting at her apron.
The atmosphere gnawed at Yukishiro.
Their glances, their silences—he felt them prick his skin like needles. His appetite dwindled. Sleep came fitful. Inwardly, he muttered the same thought again and again: "They're both sick."
Time pressed on.
Mitsuri settled into a rhythm: cooking, washing, sweeping, then training under Roga's instruction.
Her body was unlike others—her muscles naturally dense, her strength beyond ordinary even without strain. She did not need the grueling repetition Yukishiro endured.
What she lacked were combat skills and real battle experience.
Roga tailored exercises to hone her timing, her ability to read attacks, her speed in drawing a blade.
Yukishiro's own days remained harsher. At dawn he carried logs up and down the slopes until sweat soaked through his clothes. After breakfast, he and Mitsuri entered the forest, weaving through Roga's traps to sharpen their coordination.
Afternoon saw Yukishiro sinking into the cold lake, iron balls tied to wrists and ankles, lungs burning as he forced his breath into rhythm, sword slashing water in slow arcs. Mitsuri sometimes joined him, but her limit came quickly; she would break the surface gasping while he still endured below.
His left wrist, once shattered, remained weak.
He trained mostly with his right hand, clenching the hilt so tightly his knuckles whitened. Progress was slow, but determination carried him.
Nearly three months had passed since the Final Selection. By normal procedure, a rookie would already have received their uniform, Nichirin Sword, and first assignment. Yet no word had come for Yukishiro. Perhaps the Corps doubted his recovery. Mitsuri too remained without orders. The reason was hidden, known only to the higher ranks.
One morning, after training ended, the two of them climbed the slope toward the cabin.
From afar, Yukishiro noticed figures in the shade of the tree by the door.
Roga sat cross-legged as usual. Beside him was a stranger wearing a mask that concealed his face entirely.
The mask gleamed pale in the sunlight, expression unreadable. Yet the man's silver hair caught the breeze, and his voice—when he spoke softly to Roga—was that of an old man, seasoned, weathered, perhaps of the same generation as Roga himself.
Yukishiro slowed his steps, eyes narrowing. Mitsuri followed close, clutching her sleeve as unease prickled in her chest.
The mountain had grown quiet. Even the birds had stilled.
The masked visitor waited.