In the lightless room, Oboro did not move for a long time. Outside the window, the mansion breathed. The sound came from far away — blurred, like voices rising from the bottom of water — and reached her ears as nothing at all. It was not grief. Nor anger, nor resignation. All of these had dissolved into something that settled like sediment at the bottom of her chest, and giving that thing a name was something Oboro had long since abandoned. At last, she let out a single quiet breath. That sound alone remained, softly, in the dark room. She had attempted the report three times now, and three times crumpled the blank page. From the depths of the mansion's corridor came the presence of servants. In the training hall's prayer chamber, her father chanted ritual words. The Tsukishiro household moved always within a quiet discipline. On the desk lay ink and paper in their proper places. The opening of the report was fixed — the time of last night's exorcism, the location, the classification of the entity, the details of the procedure. A low-grade spirit, shadow-type, one. Exorcism successful. No abnormalities. Five lines, and the matter was concluded. The problem lay beyond that. "On the return journey, within the grounds of the Tsukishiro estate——" There, Oboro's brush stopped. What was she to write? She could write that she had sensed an unusual spiritual aura. She could write that it was near the forbidden grounds. But when she tried to set down the next sentence — "deemed necessary to reconfirm residual spiritual force" — the ink on the paper seemed to dry before her eyes. It was not a lie, Oboro thought. Not entirely a lie. The spiritual aura from last night had been real, and something did dwell at the bottom of that pond, and confirmation was necessary. It was a sound judgment for an onmyoji. Only. (The most difficult thing in onmyoji training is, in the end——) Oboro picked up a fourth sheet of paper, regarded it for a moment, then set it down again in silence. Perhaps it was the construction of an excuse. Something that could not quite be called a bitter smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. In four hundred years of the Tsukishiro family's history, she was likely the only onmyoji who had wasted four sheets of paper at her desk, unable to write a report. And the reason was not the danger of spiritual aura, nor any technical problem, but rather the indigo light that remained behind her eyelids and would not fade. When she closed her eyes, it bled through. When she tried to brush it away, it became only more vivid. Deep, clear, fathomless indigo. What had that been? Why did it possess such a color? The texts recorded that a ley-line spirit — a high-ranking entity born from the spiritual vein itself — was something Oboro knew only from literature. "Reconfirmation of residual spiritual force is necessary," When she spoke it aloud, it sounded more natural than she expected. Okiku, the elderly servant woman who happened to be listening in the corridor, called out: "Young mistress, is there something you require?" "No," Oboro answered at once. "I shall be going out this evening, so might I take my supper early?" As Okiku's voice faded with "Very good, mistress," Oboro unfolded the fifth sheet of her report. This time she wrote without hesitation. The record of last night's exorcism. The spiritual aura sensed on the return journey. The necessity of confirming residual force. Concise, without excess or deficiency. When she finished, it was almost entirely true. Almost. That day, Oboro completed three hours of formal practice in ley-line technique at the prayer chamber, read one scroll of ancient texts, and took her midday meal alone. The moonlight began to hide behind clouds from evening onward, but when the western mountain ridge turned orange, it emerged once more. The moon, two days from fullness, hung white above the mansion's roof. At last, night came. ——— There was a human shape at the edge of Mirror Pond. Oboro's body moved the instant she saw it. Before thought could follow, the spirit-severing blade at her waist — "Oboro Moon," the ritual sword of the Tsukishiro line, its blade holding the silver light of the spiritual vein, said to cut through spirits — was already drawn. Her hand moved to form the sealing sign. All her nerves gathered to a single point, that familiar sensation. But her fingers stopped. It was a human silhouette. Tall, standing with a quietness that was not mere stillness — like a lake without ripples, or sediment accumulated over centuries — and the spiritual aura that seeped from that figure touched Oboro's senses the moment she perceived it. It was the same as last night. Deep. Cold. Clear. Like a ley-line, yet not a ley-line. As if the earth itself were breathing — and that breath had taken human form. Oboro held her blade ready and began to form the sealing sign. Thumb and middle finger. The first line of the ritual prayer rose to the back of her throat. If she spoke it, the supplementary sealing talisman would fly forth. The proper procedure would be to report to the household head first and await instruction. But. The figure turned toward her. In the moonlight, when she saw that face, Oboro's prayer dissolved into the air. Jet-black hair with a faint indigo gradient. A color that would not be visible in daylight, perceptible only in the night, wavering softly as it caught the moon's light. The figure was taller than Oboro, and stood without the slightest opening in its stance. On the right ear, a small crescent-shaped mark — and tonight too, it glowed ever so faintly. She saw the color of those eyes. Deep. Clear. An indigo that drew one in, and within it lay something she could not yet see. "Three hundred years," The voice was low and quiet. Not so much addressing another as confirming a fact to oneself — that murmur fell into the night garden. Oboro's prayer stopped. Her feet would not move. It was not fear. The weight that single utterance carried pinned her to the ground beneath her feet. Three hundred years — Oboro knew this as knowledge. The Great Sealing Array of the Genna era — some three hundred years past, when the first head of the Tsukishiro house had sealed a powerful ley-line spirit that appeared above the spiritual vein of Kyoto, an event that granted the Tsukishiro house authority over the management of the spiritual vein from the shadow court — that sealed spirit was said to slumber in the depths of this Mirror Pond. It was a matter from the texts. A matter from copies made four hundred years ago. And now it stood before Oboro. "Tell me your name," The words came out. Whether it was her own judgment or mere reflex, Oboro could not say. Only her blade's point did not lower. She could feel it trembling slightly. Not from her hand shaking — this was something else — Oboro sensed, but had no time to consider what. The shadow moved slightly. Turning to face her completely. "Aozuki," Spoken briefly. That alone. Then, with a quietness that felt no need for emotion or explanation, it continued: "The ley-line spirit sealed in this pond. There is no reason to hide it." Oboro held her blade steady and did not move. Her mind raced with judgment — a report was necessary, the household head's instruction was necessary, she did not yet have the authority or skill to handle this alone, against a sealing target from three hundred years past a single spirit-severing blade would not suffice, she should withdraw—— "Then you may exorcise me," As if reading ahead, Aozuki spoke. "Only, do you have the will for it?" It was quiet. Not an accusation, not a threat. Merely a question. And that very simplicity struck precisely at Oboro's weakness. Yes. As an onmyoji's calling, the answer was yes. As law, as family, as all that had been built through training, everything should answer yes. Oboro's blade point lowered slightly. Silence continued. The pond's surface caught the moonlight and gleamed. Wind stirred the branches of the weeping cherry, and the sound of leaves brushing together filled the garden like water sounds. Oboro slowly sheathed her blade. Even she did not know why. It was not the judgment of an onmyoji. Yet neither was it the judgment of a liar. Only — standing with blade drawn seemed somehow terribly mistaken. That was all. "……I suppose I might ask your name, at least," She said this while turning her gaze slightly away, looking toward the water's surface, saying nothing more. It was a statement without reason, but once spoken, it could not be taken back. Her cheeks grew warm. After a moment. "A rather skillful form of exorcism," The quiet voice held no laughter. Only observation — and yet, mixed within it, something soft, something gentle. Such was that single utterance. ——— The two stood around the perimeter of Mirror Pond. A distance of perhaps three ken. Neither closing nor widening. Aozuki spoke first. The manner of speech was quiet, without sentimentality. "For three hundred years, I have seen only the water of this pond," That was all. Not explanation, not lamentation, not appeal. Merely the statement of a fact. And that very fact struck Oboro's chest in an unexpected way. Three hundred years. Approximately seventeen times the span of Oboro's life. Time equivalent to the history of the Tsukishiro house itself. During all that time, seeing only the water of this narrow garden, this pond — the voice that spoke of it held not the slightest tremor. The absence of tremor, Oboro felt, came from depths far greater than tremor itself. "Was there no freedom to emerge?" After speaking the question, Oboro felt a slight regret. It might have been a foolish question. The figure had said it was sealed, after all. But Aozuki did not answer at once. After a brief pause, it looked at Oboro. Those indigo eyes fixed upon her face. "Are you," "Free?" Oboro's voice stopped before her throat. No answer came. She understood why it would not come. Blood-oath marriage — the law of the Tsukishiro house, the system by which the head's child must marry a partner chosen by the family to preserve the bloodline of spiritual power — and the name of her betrothed, and the course of her training, and the words of the household head, all these rose in succession through her mind and sealed the exit of the word "free." The pond's surface trembled, whether from a shift in the moon's angle or something else, scattering its light. A wordless silence spread between them. It was not an awkward silence — the recognition of "captives together" took shape before it could become words, dissolving quietly into the night air of the garden. Oboro understood this. She understood it too well. (This is wrong,) she thought. To feel sympathy for a spirit was not right for an onmyoji of the Tsukishiro house. To be on the side that exorcises, seals, protects the human world, and yet to feel kinship with the sealed side—— Aozuki's eyes met hers. Oboro saw into that depth. It was deep. Bottomless. In the accumulation of three hundred years, there remained something that had not faded — a loneliness, and a stillness that transcended even the lamenting of that loneliness, and at the very bottom of that stillness, something that seemed to have been lit for the first time tonight, still without a name — she felt she saw it. Beautiful, she thought. Oboro tried at once to deny her own thought. But the words of denial did not come. The center of her chest beat with a speed that was almost painful. Her breathing caught somewhere. The back of her throat burned. She did not know what this was — or rather, she was pretending not to know. For if she knew, it would become something that could not be undone. She tried to look away, letting her gaze fall to the pond's surface. The water reflected Aozuki's indigo. There was nowhere to escape. (Why,) she thought. Why are you facing me like this. Why d