Kurokawa Castle.
The detached courtyard behind the tenshukaku.
Night wind flowed in through the half-open window lattice. The candle flame swayed gently upon its copper stand.
Kikyō sat at the low table, holding a topographical map of Mutsu Province retrieved from the castle storehouses.
Her white uwagi and crimson hakama were immaculate. Her black hair was bound behind her head with a plain-colored ribbon, with a few strands falling against the pale side of her neck.
Footsteps came from the corridor.
Neither light nor heavy.
They echoed evenly.
The sliding door was pushed open.
Shinji walked in.
His gray hemp robe was neatly worn, even the collar ties were tied with proper precision.
But anyone with even slightly sharp perception could sense the heat that had still not fully subsided around him, the warmth of the Twelfth Transformation Māra's living body.
And the lingering smell of wine from the banquet.
And an exceedingly faint trace of Yura's demonic energy.
Shinji walked to the table and sat cross-legged across from Kikyō.
Kikyō set down the map.
Her dark pupils looked at him levelly.
She did not speak first.
Shinji did not beat around the bush either.
Both hands rested on his knees.
He looked directly into the miko's eyes.
"I was just with Yura."
Direct.
No preamble.
No excuse.
Because there was no need.
And even more, because he did not want to.
Kikyō's gaze rested on his face.
It slid across his pale hair, combed just a bit too neatly, too smoothly and returned to his eyes.
The room was quiet for several breaths.
"She completed the Seventh Transformation?"
The miko phrased it as a question, yet her tone held no doubt.
"Correct."
Shinji nodded.
"She has real flesh and blood now. And warmth. So when she wanted it, I gave it. She's helped me a great deal. I didn't want to refuse."
"Like with Imagawa Yoshimoto?"
Kikyō tilted her eyes slightly.
"Correct."
Shinji nodded.
His candor left one speechless.
To this, the miko pressed her lips together, utterly unruffled… and even somewhat pleased.
Pleased by Shinji's honesty with her.
In the end, in this Warring States era, it was only natural for daimyō and generals to have many concubines.
The rules of demons followed instinct even more closely.
From the day she had agreed to be with him, Kikyō had known he would have many female demons under his command in the future.
She was also well aware of Yura's feelings for him.
In fact, when Yura had gone to him, it had indeed been Kikyō who had voluntarily left.
To give them space.
Of course.
Voluntarily giving space was one thing.
This demon finishing and immediately running over to report to her with such unreserved honesty was another.
"You weren't afraid I'd draw my bow."
Kikyō spoke softly.
Though pleased, the miko felt the surface formality still needed to be maintained.
"If you draw your bow, I'll take it. And then I'll hold you with everything I have."
Shinji smiled.
He leaned forward half an inch.
Earnest and sincere.
"No matter what, I don't want to hide anything from you. What's done is done. I said you are my first. That will never change. So for you alone, I don't want to speak even a single lie."
This was him.
Unabashedly greedy.
And equally unabashed about his favoritism.
He would like many.
But this partiality, only for the miko before him.
Kikyō looked at him.
Her cold, clear features were speechless, tinged with a measure of helplessness.
But within those translucent eyes, there was indeed a subtle happiness.
The traditional miko had always been repressed and giving.
Against such unreasonable, direct favoritism, she had always been the least resistant.
She sighed.
She rose, walked around the low table to his side, and seized the collar of his gray hemp robe.
"You really are emboldened, aren't you… Mr. Nakai Shinji."
"Although I did say that as long as you put me first… then I can accept your… philanthropy? Is that the word?"
"But acceptance is acceptance…"
She paused.
"I still hope that before you come to me, you wash up a bit. Don't come reeking of wine. And… that smell."
Wash up—?
Shinji blinked.
He nearly failed to react.
Then, Kikyō pulled him toward the depths of the detached courtyard.
In the depths, a courtyard separated by a wooden door.
Pushing it open, warm steam rushed to meet them.
The pool was built of bluestone.
From a bamboo pipe in the corner, hot spring water gurgled from underground.
This was, unmistakably, a hot spring.
Shinji was briefly stunned, then laughed silently.
"So you were waiting for me here?"
She had specifically found a courtyard with a hot spring to wait for him?
"Don't talk. Wash up."
Kikyō spoke, shutting the door behind her with a reverse hand.
A flicker of spiritual light appeared at her fingertips.
Soundproofing and concealing barriers spread silently across the surrounding walls.
She turned and peeled the gray robe from his shoulders.
Her movements were faster than usual.
Harder than usual.
Water rippled.
The two entered the pool.
Kikyō held a soft cloth, wiping inch by inch.
The water was very hot.
Steam rose within the room.
Her white underlayer, soaked through, clung tightly to her full curves.
The process of washing gradually changed in nature.
The soft cloth fell to the bottom of the water.
Pale hands replaced the cloth.
Ripples spread silently across the water's surface.
Shinji turned the tables, pressing her against the bluestone wall.
The miko's breathing lost its rhythm.
Her black hair spread across the water's surface.
The water surged violently between them, spilling over the stone ledge and lapping at the wooden floor.
The bamboo by the hot spring swayed in the wind.
Leaves gently rippled with the water, lightly touching the surface—brushing delicately, then slowly sinking in, parting the current and raising foam, then leaping back above the water, only to be pressed down again by the wind.
Rising and falling.
This was a declaration belonging to the first.
Washed clean.
And re-branded with a mark belonging only to her.
Upon the towering roof ridge opposite the detached courtyard, two female demons stood side by side.
Yura's comb wore the female shinobi garments woven of black hair.
She sat cross-legged on the tiles, both hands propping up her chin.
Her body, having just completed the Seventh Transformation, radiated real warmth.
Her skin was white with a pink flush.
Her ink-black slit-pupils were filled with satisfaction.
She stared at the hot spring room across the way, wrapped tightly in reiryoku barriers.
Though she could see and hear nothing, she knew what was happening inside.
"That miko really has a strong sense of possession."
Yura huffed.
Yet there was little resentment in her tone.
Because she was already satisfied, even somewhat overloaded.
In the end, she had obtained real touch.
Obtained a response.
That was enough.
The Yuki-onna, Oikawa Yukiri, stood beside her.
Her blue-and-black hair drifted lightly in the night wind.
The hem of her white kimono hung upon the roof ridge.
Her ice-blue pupils also looked in that direction.
Expressionless.
"You're smiling like an idiot, Yura."
Oikawa stared ahead, her tone flat yet inexplicable.
"I'm happy to. And besides, someone wasn't like this at the banquet."
The Yuki-onna blushed.
Imperceptibly.
Beneath the falling long hair, her face even carried a trace of coquettishness.
Unfortunately, Yura did not see it.
She merely hummed softly and stretched slowly.
Her true body extended with the motion.
This feeling of being alive intoxicated her.
But, she still preferred the feeling of being filled to overload in his arms.
At this thought, Yura's comb suddenly tilted her head and looked Oikawa up and down.
Her gaze swept over the Yuki-onna's exceedingly pale face and the curves hidden beneath her kimono.
"Oikawa… Yukiri?"
Yura suddenly called her name.
Oikawa tilted her head slightly.
Yura leaned closer.
The curve of her lips widened.
Her voice dropped.
"Actually.... you can too."
Oikawa did not move.
Yura continued.
"That Master of ours, he's a very greedy ma. He never refuses real things. I have warmth now. That's why he didn't push me away."
She extended a finger and tapped the air before Oikawa's chest.
"Even though you're a Yuki-onna, beneath that layer of ice, you have warmth too, don't you?"
Oikawa Yukiri's eyelashes trembled.
She did not refute it.
Nor did she admit it.
She merely gazed at the snow accumulating on the opposite rooftop, gradually melting, and then at the frost beneath her own feet, which had, at some unknown moment, stopped spreading.
"Snow that protects travelers…"
Oikawa murmured the words Shinji had spoken earlier.
Yura's comb hadn't caught it clearly.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
Oikawa turned, her back to the hot spring room, and leaped down from the roof ridge.
"Going on night patrol."
Yura's comb watched the Yuki-onna's silhouette vanish into the night.
The corner of her mouth twitched.
Her demonic energy was clearly a complete mess.
Still, if a Yuki-onna were to melt…
It would surely be very interesting, wouldn't it?
Yura's comb felt a measure of anticipation stir within her.
She had a feeling that day might not be far off.
Perhaps…
Even within the next few days, it wasn't impossible.