From her fingertips, the spiritual force drained away. It was always the same. In the air of the Seimeido, thick with the scent of ink, Akina held the spirit talisman steady, regulated her breathing, and sharpened her consciousness to a fine point. The moment the paper inscribed with Sanskrit characters glowed white—yes, it truly did glow, for just an instant—the paper bird took flight into the void, and three seconds later scattered like mist. Three seconds, every time. No deviation. Akina acknowledged only this much about her own failures: they were punctual. "...Next." Henkimi Soichiro's voice was low and brief. The instructor—a practical onmyoji in his forties, said to possess a sensitivity rating of "four"—offered the next spirit talisman in silence. There was no word in that gesture. No reproach, no consolation. Only a white slip of paper extended forward. Akina received it. Henkimi Soichiro was a taciturn man. The old servants had mentioned that his white hair had increased since he passed forty, but to Akina's eyes his face had remained unchanged from the beginning. Sharp gaze, thin lips, long fingers. When he stood in the Seimeido he wore hakama as always, the indigo crested garment bearing the Aindo family mon—three scales—dyed into the weave. He showed little emotion, but rarely, truly rarely, he would give a small nod when Akina's posture did not falter. For the sake of that nod, Akina had come again today with ink-dampened brush. Three seconds. Again, it scattered into mist. Akina gazed at the remnants of the spirit talisman spread across the rosewood floor. The walls bore Sanskrit characters of the five great elements carved into them. The air of this Seimeido was somehow clearer than other places—Akina did not believe this to be mere fancy. This was such a place. Built as an independent training hall on the north side of the Aindo estate, it was constructed with special timber meant to stabilize spiritual force. She had once heard that those with high sensitivity could feel the vibrations of spiritual meridians transmitted through the floor. For Akina, nothing was transmitted. Yūmei sensitivity: two. To become an onmyoji required a sensitivity rating of "three" or above. Born as the daughter of the Aindo house, Akina stood perpetually at the threshold of that wall. It was only natural that her shikigami scattered. Her spiritual force was insufficient. Overwhelmingly, fundamentally, hopelessly so. "That concludes today's session." Henkimi began putting away the talismans. Akina bowed in silence. As his back turned toward the training hall's door, she did not look back—but just before stepping through, Henkimi paused once. He said nothing, and walked on. That was enough, Akina decided to believe. ＊ During the rest period, Akina returned to the second floor of the main house and settled herself by the window of her room. A corner room facing southeast. Below the window, the estate's hedge continued, and beyond it lay the slope of Mejiro-dai. Further still, the outline of Tokyo's cityscape wavered faintly in the haze. In the autumn afternoon light, the sound of a streetcar running in the distance reached her ears. The sound of metal scraping against rails was somehow orderly, and Akina found herself oddly fond of it. A motion picture theater sign was visible in the shopping district at the foot of the slope. She could not read the title of the film being shown, but a vividly colored illustration was painted there. Yoshikawa Matsu often said that the Taisho-era town had become far more lively compared to the Meiji period—Akina could not make such a comparison, but the view from her window certainly possessed vitality. Western culture and Japanese daily life mingled together, maintaining a strange equilibrium. From the perspective of the onmyoji world, both were distant matters. The sound of a door opening came. "Forgive the intrusion." Yoshikawa Matsu entered carrying a tray. A woman in her fifties, she had served the Aindo house for nearly thirty years—among the most senior of servants. A kimono of dark ash-gray nearly black, a white apron, hair bound up neatly. Her posture was always straight, her eyes without negligence. A kind person, yet stricter than anyone regarding the house's precepts. This frightened Akina somewhat, and at the same time gave her a sense of security. "I have brought tea." "Thank you." On the tray sat a tea cup and a small confection. Candied chestnuts. An autumn staple that Akina was fond of. As Matsu set the tray on the table, she spoke in an offhand tone. "Oh yes, Miss Reika received words of praise from the Yūsei Bureau again this morning." The Yūsei Bureau—a non-public division of the Ministry of Interior that placed onmyoji under its management—praise for her elder sister. That was no longer a rare occurrence. Akina wrapped her hands around the tea cup. "I see." "With a sensitivity rating of eight, Miss Reika is quite remarkable. The Bureau Chief Kaino himself, directly—" "Mm." Matsu meant no malice in speaking thus. Because Akina understood this, she found herself even less able to choose her words. Reika with sensitivity "eight," Akina with sensitivity "two." Between the sisters born into the same house lay a chasm that could not be bridged. The Yūsei Bureau registered approximately two hundred eighty onmyoji across the nation—among them, a sensitivity of eight was said to be a genius appearing once in a generation, and Reika was precisely one such person. Akina brought the candied chestnut to her lips. Sweet. Outside the window, the streetcar ran again. Even after Matsu left the room, Akina gazed outward for some time. Reika's shadow was always there. Even in her absence, it fell behind Akina within the Aindo house. Like gravity, as something immovable. *Not quite resentment,* Akina thought quietly, examining her own feelings. Not jealousy. Not resignation. All of these mixed together and settled like sediment—that was the sensation. She had long since abandoned the attempt to name it. ＊ At night, rain began to fall. The autumn rain struck the estate's tiles quietly. Listening to that sound, Akina sat before her writing desk and continued her practice of spirit talismans. On special washi paper made from mulberry bark, she wrote Sanskrit characters in pine-smoke ink. One character, then another. Not skillfully. Yet she had no intention of stopping. The servants had long since retired to sleep. The entire estate dissolved into a quietness that seemed to melt into the sound of rain. The Aindo house had no electric lights—electricity interfered with the barrier, so illumination still relied on candle stands and paper lanterns. The orange light of the lantern illuminated only the area around Akina's hands, dimly. She moved her brush. Suddenly, her hand stopped. Something was there. It was not sound. Not scent or light. The limit of what Akina with sensitivity "two" could perceive was scarcely more than sensing the outline of the estate's barrier—anything beyond that was like groping through fog. Yet now, something touched her fingertips. That was the sensation. Something distant, deep, as if crawling up from the very depths of the earth. A tremor. *It must be my imagination.* Akina took up her brush again. She wrote the Sanskrit character. Rain struck the tiles. *Imagination, surely.* She entered her bedding about a quarter hour later. When she extinguished the lantern, the room became only the sound of rain. She closed her eyes. *I can sleep,* she thought. She could not sleep. In the gaps between the rain sounds, something else mingled. It was not a human voice. Not the season for insects to cry. The wind had no direction to it. Yet it was there. Something that should not be heard, from the direction of the north side of the estate, as if watching her intently. Akina opened her eyes slightly. The wood grain of the ceiling existed in the darkness without the lantern. *Why, with sensitivity two, can I—* That question repeated itself in her chest. There was no answer. There could be no answer—and yet the question would not fade. The sensation in her fingertips remained. Faintly, but certainly. ＊ In the depths of night. Akina made her way to the forbidden grounds, wrapped in a rain cloak. She did not know when she had risen. She realized she was already in the corridor, realized she had already put on her wooden clogs. She was afraid. She was afraid. Yet she could not stop. Fear and curiosity swayed on a balance, and Akina herself could not decide which way the needle would tip—but judging by the result alone, her feet moved forward. That was the inescapable nature of the girl called Akina. She moved northward. As she approached the rear of the estate, the trees increased. The mixed woodland spreading across the Mejiro-dai hills shook its rain-dampened leaves in the night rain. The damp scent of leaf mold reached the back of her nose. A smell like mingled moss-green and earth-black—not unpleasant. Rather, her breathing deepened. She carried no lantern. The moon was hidden by clouds. Yet she saw. At her feet, something covered in moss glowed with the faintest light. Not the light of a firefly. Something duller, tinged with blue, like the residue of light—a barrier seal, she realized a moment later. The traces of an ancient technique remained beneath the moss, breathing in the night's moisture. *Why can I see this, with sensitivity two?* She questioned herself. Her feet did not stop. The temperature of the air dropped with each step. This was no mere fancy. It was colder than before entering the forbidden grounds. A cold of a different kind from the autumn night air, crawling up from the sleeves of her kimono. Rain struck her shoulders. Walking through rain without a lantern seemed slightly absurd to her, and Akina exhaled quietly. Not that she wished to laugh. Only that if she did not expel something, her breath would catch. At last, she saw it. In the deepest part of the mixed woodland, a stone torii gate stood. Perhaps three meters in height. Most of its vermillion paint had peeled away, the surface darkened. Sanskrit characters carved into the rain-dampened stone pillar became all the more vivid for being wet. A sealing seal—a complex geometric pattern and Sanskrit characters intertwined, a design Akina had seen in texts on technique but never beheld in reality. This was the seal of forbidden arts. The Aindo house's precepts were clear. Private contact with yokai was forbidden. Use of forbidden arts was forbidden. Violation meant stripping of family name, at worst the sealing of one's soul—the punishment of confining one's spirit within a spirit talisman. Akina knew this. And knowing it, she had come here. "One must not touch it," she said aloud. As a warning to herself. The rain answered. Akina stood before the torii. The Sanskrit characters carved into the stone pillar's surface revealed, seen at close range, how ancient they were. Some were half-buried in moss. When and by whom this had been done, the Aindo house records did not contain—estimated to be a sealing from some three hundred years past, she had heard. The traces of what was called the "Sealing Ritual," in which the five great onmyoji families jointly sealed a powerful yokai, were carved into this stone pillar. Her hand moved. Not by will. With that excuse-like thought, Akina watched as if from outside herself as her fingers traced the Sanskrit characters on the stone pillar. The cold sensation of stone. The rain-dampened surface. Her finger following the grooves of the character—in that instant, the sealing seal flashed a pale blue. Akina stepped back three paces. The light covered the entire torii for three seconds—the same three seconds in which her shikigami scattered—and then quietly faded. The rain sound seemed to cease for a moment. Or perhaps it truly did. The sound of rain drops