From her fingertips, the spiritual power drained away. It was always the same. In the morning 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 paper inscribed with Sanskrit characters gleamed white for an instant—and the paper bird took flight into the void, scattering like mist three seconds later. Three seconds. No deviation. "……Next." Itsumi Soichiro's voice was low and clipped. A white spirit talisman was offered. Akina accepted it. The failure was indistinguishable from yesterday's. Yet this morning, something was different. As she held the talisman, Akina's gaze drifted beyond the northern wall of the Seimeido. There lay a wall, trees, and the mixed woodland of night. The sealed torii gate she had visited last night. (I'm thinking about it again.) That voice clung to the inside of her mind. Low, serene, tinged with a certain languor—that voice, draped in the weight of three hundred years. The paper bird scattered into mist. Three seconds. Itsumi offered the next talisman. Akina took it. In the repetition of this cycle, her attention drifted once more, and again, toward the northwest. As though tracing the memory in her fingertips through the walls of the Seimeido. "……Next." There was no reproach in Itsumi Soichiro's voice. Only the white talisman was offered. ＊ The tea break was usually taken near the veranda. When Yoshikawa Matsu brought the tray, today it held dried chrysanthemum sweets arranged in a line. As autumn deepened, the confections Matsu selected changed with it. Akina had quietly looked forward to this each year. Beyond the veranda, the morning light illuminated the mansion's garden. The leaves of the trees were beginning to turn yellow. The sound of a streetcar from the Tokyo streets reached them from afar, a faint tremor through the air. As Matsu poured the tea, she murmured as though speaking to herself. "Come to think of it, last night the direction of the back realm seemed to glow just a little." Akina's hand stopped. The teacup nearly tilted. (What——) While her inner self leaped in alarm, Akina composed her expression and righted the cup. Tea spilled slightly on her fingertips, warm and lingering. Matsu had already turned away. "Hehe, when one grows old, the eyes grow dim, don't they. It must have been my imagination." With that, she concluded the matter entirely and returned toward the kitchen. Until her back disappeared around the corner of the hallway, Akina could not move. Something pulsed violently in the depths of her chest—not fear, but something far more troublesome. (I'm glad she dismissed it as imagination.) Relief washed over her. At the same time, Akina knew it had not been imagination. ＊ During the day, duty barely prevailed. Afternoon training, copying spirit talismans, reviewing the library's collection. Akina tried to stitch herself to each task, one by one. Yet as dusk approached, the seams came loose. By the time orange light filtered through the paper screens, she could no longer hide it. She was waiting for night to come. Akina was deeply bewildered by this sensation in herself. The fear she had felt before that torii gate last night was real. Her legs had trembled; her skin had prickled all over. Yet more vividly than that, the texture of that voice had been carved into her mind. It had warmth, intelligence—the weight of three hundred years. (I was afraid. And yet, I want to go again.) Sitting before her writing desk, Akina tried to discern the shape of her own emotion. To call it curiosity was to admit something extra mixed in. To claim it was pure scholarly inquiry was to acknowledge an unsettled warmth settling in her chest. What was this sensation—she began to search for a name, then stopped midway. It was too soon to give it a name, she thought. Why she thought so, she did not know. ＊ At the hour of the ox—the witching hour that people of this era called the gate of demons—Akina stepped into the mansion's hallway. What differed from last night was that she wore her training garments instead of a rain cloak. By the time she noticed, she had already taken up the change of clothes, and though Akina found the choice strange, she did not alter it. To proceed to the back realm as an extension of training—her body had prepared this excuse beforehand. Her own shamelessness was almost amusing. She walked the hallway, choosing where to place her feet so the wooden floorboards would not creak. The servants were all asleep. The mansion's electric lights were not used tonight—electricity interfered with the barrier, and so the Aindo household still relied on oil lamps and candles for illumination. In the hallway of a moonless night, the places beyond the orange glow of the lamps were complete darkness. North. Toward the rear. The trees grew denser. The damp scent of decomposing leaves reached the back of her nose. Rain from last night clung to the leaves, and with each brush against her hem, cold droplets fell upon her knees. Still, her feet did not stop. The temperature of the air changed with each step. A coldness of a different kind from the autumn night air crept up from the sleeves of her garment. Spiritual energy—subtle enough that even Akina with sensitivity level "two" could perceive it. Yet unlike last night, beyond that shimmer lay a definite contour. Something was there. Something with substance, before the torii gate. At last, the stone sealed torii gate appeared in the depths of the mixed woodland. In the same place as last night, the faded vermillion stone pillar inscribed with the same sealing marks stood. The traces of the sealing ritual performed jointly by the Five Great Onmyoji Houses—the remnants of forbidden art that confined powerful yokai—were carved into the stone in the form of Sanskrit characters. Beyond it, in the darkness, lay the shadow of an ancient tree. From within the shadow, something pale blue seeped forth. It held the shape of a person. A tall youth stood leaning against the moss-covered trunk of the old tree. Silver-white hair, long and flowing, swayed in the faint night breeze. Though it was a moonless night, that figure alone seemed to carry a faint luminescence—or rather, not luminescence, but a presence that did not dissolve into the darkness. Skin pale and translucent as blue-white porcelain. And in the depths of the night's darkness, eyes that gleamed deep crimson gazed quietly upon Akina. "You came again." The voice reached her. The same voice as last night—low, smooth, tinged with languor. There was no surprise in it, no welcome, only the quiet confirmation of fact, draped in the weight of three hundred years. Akina felt her legs tremble. Yet she did not flee. The desire not to flee occupied her chest with the same magnitude as fear, and in that equilibrium, her body remained motionless—neither forward nor back. Akina was privately bewildered by this. The stone pillar of the sealed torii gate stood between them. The barrier's spiritual power prevented Gingetsu from crossing beyond the gate, and the Aindo family's precepts forbade Akina from stepping beyond. Physically and by law, something divided them. Akina was acutely aware of that boundary line. Gingetsu was silent for a time. In that silence, the deep crimson eyes observed her. Not appraising, not threatening—simply watching, quietly. Akina felt something in the depths of her chest become unsettled merely by the sensation of being seen. Not fear. But restless. Something was trembling. At last, Gingetsu spoke. "Your spiritual sensitivity is said to be level two." Akina lost her words for a moment. Sealed as he was, he knew information from within the Aindo household. That single fact demonstrated the bottomless nature of Gingetsu's existence. "……Why would you know that?" The words that left her mouth maintained polite form, but her voice was thin. "Soaked in this mansion's spiritual veins for three hundred years, one hears most things." Gingetsu answered quietly. Within that single line, the reverse side of three hundred years of solitude seeped through—the time when he could only listen to the voices that reached him. Akina perceived that weight, and her chest ached slightly. "Let us make a bargain." Gingetsu continued. "You find a way to break the seal and carry it out. In exchange—I will tell you the reason for your low sensitivity." Akina fell silent. Not cure, but tell the reason. She caught that subtle shift in wording immediately. Not a complete promise. Not a complete guarantee. And yet— "One thing, please tell me." Akina chose her words slowly. "Why do you propose this to me? To an apprentice with only level two sensitivity?" Gingetsu's deep crimson eyes narrowed slightly. "Despite being level two, you sensed the seal's presence. You came here last night." "That is……" "Do you not find that strange?" In Akina's chest, curiosity and caution stirred simultaneously. The question she herself had been asking since that night—why did something happen that should not occur at sensitivity level "two"—this being was asking as well. It should have been terrifying. Yet somewhere in the depths of her chest, she felt as though a flame had been lit. ＊ It was then. Gingetsu murmured, as though speaking to himself. "After three hundred years, the first person I speak with is an apprentice girl with level two sensitivity." Akina paused for a beat, then answered with a straight face. "If you are displeased, I shall not come again." Silence. Gingetsu's expression changed, for just an instant. Not laughter. Something deeper than laughter—the raw reaction of a creature caught off guard—flickered for just a moment in the depths of those crimson eyes. The thinness of the artifice worn away by three hundred years of solitude was laid bare there. "……I thought you would scream and flee." Gingetsu said it with something almost like candor. That manner of speaking—as though an old and cunning yokai had slightly forgotten the form of dialogue with humans—was somehow amusing, and Akina did not know whether she should laugh. "I did not wish to flee, so I did not." Akina answered as though it were the most natural thing. Gingetsu fell silent. That silence was long. Whether seconds or tens of seconds passed—before the sealed torii gate, quiet air filled the space between them. In the deep autumn night where insects did not sing, only the sound of old tree leaves rustling remained. Akina thought she should speak first to break the silence, yet she did not. It felt as though nothing should be said. She did not wish to break this silence—and Akina was privately bewildered by that feeling. Something in the depths of her chest lay perfectly still within the silence. At last, Gingetsu spoke in a low, serene voice. "You are far more interesting than you think." It sounded like nothing more than a casual remark. Akina received those words and tried to consider their meaning, yet found she could not think clearly. Her face grew warm, gradually. She hid her hands within the sleeves of her training garment. She noticed she could not look away from those crimson eyes, and so she looked away. After looking away, the act of looking away itself felt strangely shameful. (What is this?) Not fear. Not fear at all. Yet her face was warm, her eyes would not leave, and she found this silence pleasant. The moment she recognized this, Akina hurried to turn her consciousness elsewhere. The bargain. She should speak of the bargain now. ＊ "……Please, allow me some time to consider." Akina said. As a word deferring her answer, it was precise. Only, it was mere stalling, which Akina herself dimly understood. In truth, the answer was already beginning to tilt. Only, the fear of speaking it aloud remained—not fear of touching forbidden art, but somethin