"Wait—wait!" Yasuhiro shouted, his voice cracking from desperation. "Get your hands off Lady Akiko!"
He struggled against the guards pinning his arms behind him, the sharp pull of muscle and cloth biting into his shoulders. His protests fell on deaf ears. The officials had made their decision, and it was being carried out with the cold efficiency of a military order.
Akiko was being dragged across the polished wooden floor of the court official's residence, her knees scraping against the planks. The hem of her traveling robes, already worn from the road, caught against splinters and old lacquer. The guards made no effort to slow down, their hands like hooks around her arms, their feet stomping in rhythm toward the outer walkway. Her hair, once neatly tied, had loosened—long strands fell across her face, sticking to her cheek with sweat and dust.
Yasuhiro's voice choked. "Please—this is a misunderstanding! She's not—"
But his words were swallowed by the pounding of boots, the barked orders from one of the officials behind him, and the rising buzz of onlookers beyond the garden wall. No one moved to stop it. No one questioned it.
Except Tsukasa.
He wasn't shouting. He didn't say a word.
The first guard moved toward him with practiced detachment, one hand raised to restrain. Tsukasa stepped forward—and dropped low, letting the arm sweep harmlessly above him. In the same motion, he surged upward, elbow tucked tight, and drove the sharp point of it beneath the man's chin. A dull crack rang out as the guard's head snapped back. He collapsed, limbs folding unnaturally as his helmet bounced against the bottom step.
A second guard reacted, lunging with arms outstretched. Tsukasa twisted sideways, his weight low to the ground, feet skimming the boards as he slipped past. One breath later and he was on his feet, sprinting down the corridor.
Akiko had almost reached the torii gate. Beyond it, Tanba no Kokufu, and beyond that, the first slope of the road back toward the Heian-Kyö. The gate's shadow stretched long over her form, distorted by the setting sun.
With a swift jump, Tsukasa escaped the second guard's grasp, sprinting full speed toward Akiko, who was now only steps from the torii gate.
The two guards dragging her spun in unison. Their grip loosened for a heartbeat, and then fell away completely as they dropped Akiko's arms and reached for the hilts at their sides. The hiss of steel being drawn filled the air, sharp and unmistakable.
Their tachi—curved swords with iron-edged hilts and leather-wrapped grips—flashed in the early light.
Both stood ready, feet shoulder-width apart, blades raised in a stance that was not for show. If Tsukasa took one more step, they would cut him down.
The sun was just cresting the earthen wall of the residence, spilling golden warmth over the courtyard. It caught in the wooden panels of the guards' armour—layered scales of hardened leather, stitched tight with dark silk cord. Iron scales dotted their forearms and shoulders, dull and blackened to avoid glare, but now glinting faintly under the spring light. Each guard wore a jingasa helmet, more practical than ornate, shaped like an inverted bowl and glazed in black. Morning dew still clung to the rim.
For a second, everything stood still.
Around the courtyard, the world seemed to pause. A pair of hands near the stables froze mid-stride, one still holding a brush meant for a mare not yet untied. Several junior attendants stood on the veranda, their scrolls and inkstones forgotten in their hands. No one spoke. No one moved. Even the breeze held its breath.
And then Akiko did what none of them expected—she turned.
Her sleeves dragged along the sand as she twisted back toward the men now ready to fight and die for her. Her face was pale with exhaustion, her hair dishevelled from being manhandled, but her voice was unshaken.
"Enough," she said.
Tsukasa skidded to a stop just before the edge of the torii gate, chest heaving. His hand clenched in fists.
"Do not resist," Akiko said louder now, her eyes on Tsukasa, then flicking toward Yasuhiro still pinned by the guards. "Do not disgrace yourselves. I will go with them. No further resistance."
"Lady Akiko—" Yasuhiro's voice was strangled, half in protest, half in plea.
"I said enough."
The words cracked like a whip across the courtyard. The guards holding their swords flinched—not at the volume, but at the clarity, the command.
"I am not so weak that I need blood spilled on my behalf," she continued, turning to face them all.
"Not yours, and not theirs. You will stand down."
She took a step forward, reclaiming her footing, torn robes trailing behind her like a shadow.
"You will follow their orders," she said, quieter now but no less firm. "You will not resist. That is my order."
Tsukasa clenched his fists, torn between fury and duty. He held her gaze for a long moment before finally lowering his hand, breathing hard through his nose.
Yasuhiro looked like he might cry.
The guards, seeing the fight leave the air, lowered their blades—but kept them unsheathed. Tension still hung thick as smoke.
The silence being broken by the cawing of crows.
The sunlight had reached the torii now, lighting its red pillars in amber hues. The world was waking, slow and indifferent, as if it hadn't just watched a noblewoman command her retainers to surrender.
The bystanders remained still. Eyes flicked from Akiko to the swords, to Tsukasa, and back again—but none dared intervene.
Akiko turned toward the guards, her back straight as she silently surrendered herself to their grip.
Without hesitation, the guards seized her once more. Four additional guards immediately stepped in, two for Tsukasa, two for Yasuhiro, and in moments, they were each held in place. Tsukasa's expression faltered, his gaze flickering between Akiko and Yasuhiro, unable to mask the defeat that washed over him. His jaw tightened as he looked at Akiko again, his thoughts too heavy to voice.
Yasuhiro, standing silent beside him, met his gaze, but neither spoke. The weight of failure pressed down on him, as a retainer, as a protector, as the man who had sworn to defend Lady Akiko. His hands clenched at his sides, but there was nothing more to be done. He lowered his head, eyes fixed on the ground beneath them, the failure too much to bear.
Together, they watched as Akiko was dragged away, her form growing smaller as the guards led her toward the waiting carriage. It was a cart dragged by horses, one only meant for the highest of royalty, or the gravest of criminals. The sight of it stung deeply—no longer a lady's carriage, but one meant for prisoners. A large, sturdy vehicle with thick, creaking wheels, drawn by a horse that looked oddly out of place for the noblewoman's usual elegance. The wooden frame, dark and weathered, seemed almost too rough to carry someone of her stature. Yet it was there, waiting for her, like an inevitable end to the struggle.
Akiko's robes, now dirty and torn from the journey, caught the breeze as she was pulled forward. The fading sounds of her footsteps were the last echo of her presence as the guards moved her away, sealing her fate. Tsukasa and Yasuhiro stood motionless, the weight of their failure hanging in the air, as they were forced to watch her leave.
Akiko's feet scraped against the dirt as the guards roughly shoved her forward. She could feel the eyes of the onlookers, the common folk who had gathered to witness the spectacle. Every face seemed to burn into her skin, their gazes sharp, filled with curiosity, suspicion, and, worst of all, pity. She wanted to look away, to escape their stares, but the force of the guards' grip on her arms made it impossible to shield herself.
When they reached the carriage, Akiko's heart sank. The vehicle, rough and unbecoming, waited before her like an executioner's tool. The horse tethered to it pawed at the ground restlessly, its eyes wild, as if it too could sense the gravity of what was to come. Akiko had seen carriages like these before. This one, however, was nothing more than a cage. The wooden frame, jagged with age, seemed to leer at her, mocking her once-proud status.
One of the guards jerked her forward with a brutal force, pushing her toward the open door. She stumbled, her robes catching on the rough edge of the frame. The guards didn't wait for her to recover; they shoved her into the cramped space with little regard for her dignity. She tumbled inside, her knees slamming against the floor with a sharp sting. The air inside was damp, thick with the scent of stale wood and sweat, a stark contrast to the delicate perfumes that had once filled her personal space.
Before she could even rise to compose herself, the heavy door slammed shut behind her with a finality that echoed through her very bones. The sound was as cold as the chains she now felt binding her. The guards outside made no effort to offer her a moment of self-worth. Instead, they barked orders, their voices growing distant, and within moments, the carriage lurched forward, pulling her away from the heart of Tanba no Kokufu, the centre passing by, just like her life passed by in a flash.
Akiko pressed her hand against the wood, feeling the rough surface beneath her fingertips. The motion of the carriage rocked her, but it was nothing compared to the tremor in her chest. Shame gnawed at her, deep and relentless. Her mind screamed at her to fight, to stand tall, to refuse to be humiliated in this manner, but the brutal reality of her situation crushed that resolve. She was nothing now—no noblewoman, no daughter of influence. She was a prisoner, shackled not just by the guards' hands, but by the weight of her own helplessness.
The road ahead blurred in her peripheral vision. She caught glimpses of the grand buildings of Tanba no Kokufu—its bustling streets, the market stalls filled with merchants shouting their wares, the noblemen and women, so far removed from her own circumstances. They had all seen her now, seen the disgrace, and would carry the image of her downfall with them forever.
"Look, is that a criminal?" she heard a child asking her mother, faint and distant, but it sliced through her like a blade. "Become a lady, and not like that…thing." The mother responded to her daughter.
She pressed her palms to her face, trying to block out the words, trying to stifle the tears that burned at the corners of her eyes. But it was no use. Her humiliation was on full display for all to see, and nothing could erase that. Her mind screamed for a way out, for a way to regain the life she had lost, but it felt as though she were trapped in a cage of her own making, each passing moment reinforcing the bars.
She tried to steady her breath, but it hitched, uneven and ragged. What had become of her? She was a prisoner, a shadow of who she once was. She could still hear the whispers, the looks of disbelief and pity that followed her every move.
Through the narrow cracks in the wood, she could see the occasional face—some turned in curiosity, others in silent judgment. A child stared wide-eyed, her hand clutching her mother's sleeve as she pointed at Akiko, her innocence untainted by the cruelty of the world. But that innocence only reminded Akiko of everything she had lost, everything she had failed to protect.
The sound of the wheels turning against the road was the only constant, drowning out the muffled voices of the crowd, but it did nothing to quiet the storm raging inside her. The once soft, luxurious fabric of her robes now seemed like a burden, clinging to her skin in the confined space. She could feel the weight of it all, every glance, every whisper, pressing down on her chest until she could hardly breathe.
The carriage moved slowly through the city's streets, taking her further away from the heart of Tanba no Kokufu, further away from everything she had known. Every moment, every passing second, felt like an eternity. The early spring air, once so crisp and refreshing, now felt heavy with the weight of her shame. She could see the pale light of the sun beginning to rise over the walls of the city, the faint glow touching the edges of the distant mountains. It should have been a moment of beauty, of hope, but all Akiko saw was the harsh contrast between the sun's gentle warmth and the cold prison she now found herself in.
The faintest glimmer of the sun's rays caught the polished surface of the guards' armour as they followed behind the carriage, their silhouettes etched against the rising light. It was a cruel irony, the gleaming metal shining as a reminder of the power that had been stripped from her. She could see their faces, their expressions impassive, as if this were nothing more than an ordinary task for them.
But for Akiko, it was everything. It was the end of a life she had known, the beginning of something she could not yet understand. All she could do was sit in the darkness of the carriage, the world outside moving on without her, and let the weight of her failure crush her.
And so, the carriage continued its slow journey, carrying her away from Tanba no Kokufu, towards Heian-Kyö, only not as a noble's daughter, but as a criminal, framed by the Fujiwara.
Sora stood frozen, his eyes locked onto the words displayed behind the glass case. The museum lighting buzzed faintly above him, casting a pale glow on the placard that now felt more like a gravestone.
"Following the delivery of the Yamashina letter to Tanba no Kokufu in the early months of 1000 AD, the imperial court in Heian-kyō responded with swift and brutal judgment. Records indicate that several members of the Yamashina family and their known allies were arrested and executed for high treason within the same year. This act solidified the Fujiwara clan's dominance and marked a critical turning point in late Heian political consolidation."
He read it once.
Then again.
And again.
The same sentence, over and over, like it would change if he just stared hard enough.
Executed.
Not just Akiko, but her entire family.
It didn't list names, but he didn't need it to. Yasuhiro. Tsukasa. Probably them, too. The text didn't care. It was clean, objective, academic. Brutal in its detachment.
His breath caught in his throat. Everything she'd done—every step, every decision, every sacrifice—had led to this line on a placard in a glass case. One sentence. One paragraph. A footnote in a dynasty's power play.
He felt the museum around him fall away. No tourists. No ambient chatter. Just the hollow sound of the words echoing in his head.
Executed.
The overhead speakers crackled softly to life.
"Attention, guests of the Tokyo National Museum. We will be closing shortly. Please begin making your way to the main entrance. Thank you."
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He wasn't sure he could.
A set of footsteps approached from behind, slow, deliberate. Someone cleared their throat, politely.
"Excuse me, sir," a voice said. "The museum is closing for the day."
Sora didn't react. His eyes were still locked on the text. As if by willing it, he could undo it. Change it.
Another pause. Then a tap on his shoulder. Light, but firm.
"Sir?"
This time, he startled. His body jerked slightly like he'd just woken up from a long, hard dream. He turned slowly to see a middle-aged security guard standing behind him, dressed in the museum's navy-blue uniform, hands clasped in front of him with practiced patience.
"I—sorry," Sora mumbled. "I didn't hear you."
The guard gave a small smile, not unkind. "No worries. It happens. That panel gets a lot of people stuck, actually."
Sora glanced back at the display, then rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. They stung. He hadn't even realized.
"It's just… so final," he said quietly.
The guard nodded once, understanding more than he needed to. "Yeah. History usually is. That's the hard part, isn't it?"
Sora gave a dry, bitter laugh. "Yeah. That's the hard part."
The guard let the silence stretch for a moment, then tilted his head toward the hallway. "Take your time walking out. I'll be locking this wing in about five minutes."
"Right," Sora said. He finally took a step back from the display. "Thanks."
"Of course," the guard replied, already turning to begin his rounds. "Hope you come back sometime."
Sora didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he could. He took one last look at the plaque—at the words that reduced a life to a line—and then turned toward the exit.
His footsteps felt heavier now.
Sora barely registered the walk through the closing halls of the Tokyo National Museum. The sounds of evening announcements, the soft clacking of heels, the gentle hum of the last remaining visitors moving toward the exit—none of it seemed to touch him. His mind was still back there, in front of the plaque, where black ink on white placard had told him the future.
Akiko… executed.
Her entire family… gone.
Possibly Tsukasa and Yasuhiro as well.
All gone. Like they were just a paragraph in some textbook.
The quiet street outside Ueno Park greeted him with spring air, damp from the evening dew. The city had started to wind down; neon lights buzzed lazily, and traffic moved in sluggish bursts. But the moment Sora stepped outside, the buzzing of life around him felt like static.
The sidewalk passed beneath his feet without effort. Left, right. Left, right. Automatic.
His bag bounced gently against his side, laptop inside. He didn't even remember putting it there. His sneakers squeaked faintly with each step. It was like he was observing someone else's body go through the motions.
People passed him—businessmen in loosened ties, students giggling over convenience store snacks, couples lost in their own world—but Sora's gaze passed through them. His thoughts stuck stubbornly in a different time, a different world.
"Executed for high treason…"
He repeated it in his head like a curse.
They had tried so hard. Akiko had sacrificed comfort, pride, even safety to deliver that letter. And it had all been for nothing.
And he'd let her walk into it. Watched her be dragged into that carriage. Watched, powerless, as the history he'd just read played out before it could be stopped.
He reached his apartment building without remembering the streets he took. Third floor. End of the hallway. Same sticky door handle, same dull green paint peeling near the mailbox. When he entered, the familiar dusty scent of his apartment hit him—along with the silence of solitude.
Sora dropped his bag near the door and kicked off his shoes. The lights flicked on with a soft click.
He sat down without thinking.
No appetite. No fatigue. Just… numbness.
For a long time, he didn't move. Just stared at his laptop screen, watching the blinking cursor of a document he'd left open earlier in the day. Notes about the Fujiwara period. An outline for a paper that didn't matter anymore.
Not now. Not after what he'd seen.
With mechanical movement, he opened a browser. Typed in Yamashina family execution Heian era. Skimmed through a few sources, but they all said the same thing. Condemned. Erased.
His hand hovered over the mouse. He could keep searching, keep looking for anything that hinted they'd survived. A note, a rumour, anything.
But no.
He shut the lid of the laptop and slumped back.
The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the wall clock.
11:02 PM.
Time crawled now.
He glanced out the window. The street below was nearly empty. A single vending machine glowed red and white, the hum of its cooling fan a faint whisper through the glass. Somewhere, a drunk man was singing karaoke off-key. A dog barked once, then silence.
11:30 PM.
He rubbed his face with both hands. Tried lying down. Eyes open. Nothing.
Every time he blinked, he saw museum.
11:54 PM.
He sat up again. His body was restless now. That deep, humming sense that something was coming. It felt like the air seemed to shift, pressure tightening like an invisible hand closing in.
He stood. Moved to the sink. Poured a glass of water.
11:59 PM.
Then it hit.
Not like sleep. Not like exhaustion. It wasn't something creeping.
It was a pull.
A hook inside his skull, dragging.
Sora gasped, stumbled back against the table. The glass hit the floor with a sharp crack—didn't shatter, just rolled away. His breath caught in his throat.
"No, no—"
He gripped the edge of the table. Tried to hold on. Physically.
But the sensation only deepened. Pressure behind the eyes, in his chest, like his entire body was being exhaled against his will.
Midnight.
The clock clicked forward.
12:00 AM.
And the world turned black.
Sora's fingers lost grip.
He fell.
KADUNK.
His body his laminated floor. Limbs slack. Eyes closed.
He was no longer inside his own body.