Prologue
Legend recounts a time before time's measured beat, when space lay formless and still. In that hushed dawn, God existed as an amorphous, radiant light. In divine solitude, they willed the cosmos into being, shaping creation from the boundless expanse of their own awareness. Yet, within the newborn universe's vast expanse, a solitary echo resonated. Seeking companionship, they manifested duality, summoning forth the feminine force—the boundless potency of existence, our beloved Mother Nature. Together, they wove the tapestry of creation, molding the formless into form. To sustain the intricate dance of existence, they composed a symphony of ideologies, breathing life into them as deities, each imbued with sacred purpose and celestial dominion.
From these divine progenitors, life blossomed, and with it, the ineffable gift of consciousness. Ideals like Strength, Wisdom, and God's sublime creation—Love and Affection—and latent potentials became threads woven into the very fabric of reality. Yet, these virtues were not immutable; they ebbed and flowed, shaped by the ceaseless rhythm of mortal existence. To preserve the equilibrium of all things, God forged the Panchabhuta—the five primordial elements—and inscribed within every being both divine potential and the six perilous instincts, crafting a crucible for the soul's evolution.
For virtue cannot flourish without the shadow of vice. Joy and sorrow, love and hatred, righteousness and cruelty—each an entwined force sustaining the delicate symmetry of creation. Good cannot exist without the specter of evil, just as life cannot bloom without the crucible of struggle. Even Hell, often perceived as a pit of torment, may instead be a sanctum of transformation—a furnace where sins are purged, refining the soul for ascension. So, which holds greater sanctity? 'Heaven, the sanctuary of reward?' Or 'Hell, the realm of metamorphosis?'
It is whispered that when one force swells beyond measure, creation itself trembles upon the precipice of collapse. And when balance falters, God and Mother Nature—eternally impartial—must rise to restore harmony. Maybe they have a hidden agenda behind it? Who knows…
But that chapter of fate… remains unwritten.
Before destiny's tapestry unfolds, let us embark upon a journey—one that transcends the very bounds of time.
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CHAPTER 1
In the liminal space between epochs, where time itself seemed to hold its breath, a story unfolded.
Asa no Hana.
A village, a sanctuary where Mother Nature, in her infinite grace, had poured forth all her beauty, a land where enchantment lingered in every breath.
The sun had yet to ascend the horizon. A celestial swan, its plumage a canvas of milky white, descended from the heavens, bearing upon its brow an azure sapphire, a fallen star shimmering in the pre-dawn darkness. Its light, an ethereal whisper, bathed the silent expanse. As the swan touched the earth, its form dissolved, seamlessly weaving into that of a man.
The instant his feet graced the ancient steps of the revered temple, perched upon the mountain known as The Mysterious Fog Mountain—or The Genesis, a profound hush fell, as if nature itself held its breath, guarding its most sacred secrets. Legend whispered of a figure from a forgotten age, who bestowed this name, a peak veiled in mist for countless centuries. It stood, a timeless sentinel, guarding its arcane secrets from the mortal realm, while Asa no Hana lay nestled beneath its watchful gaze, forever entwined with its enigma.
Though his form was human, an ineffable aura shimmered around him, a light that defied mortal comprehension. His presence radiated a divine allure, a beauty that whispered of realms beyond the earthly. (Or perhaps, he never truly was…)
The nascent dawn whispered its arrival, veiled in a delicate drizzle of dew drops, as if nature herself bowed in reverence before the unknown.
A man with silver hair, like moonlight spun into silk, and eyes the color of the deep ocean, ascended the misty temple steps. Draped in a flowing Hanfu of turquoise and white, an azure crystal lotus hung from his waist, linked to a dragon-patterned jade by shimmering crystal drops. With each graceful movement, the ornaments chimed softly, a melody that echoed the temple's ethereal stillness.
Lifting an azure umbrella adorned with white lotuses, he moved with a fluid grace, until he halted, his gaze lifted in astonishment. A voice, divine yet achingly familiar, reached him effortlessly, carried on the delicate scent of incense and flowers. No mortal should have heard it from such a distance. Then, as if weightless, he surged forward, gliding up the stairs with unnatural speed.
"Who is she…? And this song…?"
A melodious female voice filled the temple, weaving a song of life's eternal cycle, where every ending birthed a new beginning. It resonated with hope, faith, and unwavering perseverance. In a soft, haunting whisper, it murmured, "True treasure lies not on the surface, but deep within, awaiting those who are honest, humble, and kind. Remain steadfast, embrace humility, and keep churning through the tides of fate." The song bore an eternal truth, its melody a tapestry of sweetness and sorrow, stirring the very depths of the soul.
The melody was more than a song—it was an echo of eternity, a whispered truth woven with sorrow and hope. Sweet yet haunting, it resonated through the stillness like an unspoken lament.
As he stepped onto the temple grounds, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the pristine surroundings. A quiet satisfaction flickered in his ocean-blue eyes, yet curiosity lingered. The temple had been meticulously cleansed before his arrival. But by whose hands? Could it be her? And if so… who is she? The lingering strains of the melody guided him toward the lake.
Moving soundlessly, he reached the water's edge—and what he beheld sent a gentle ripple through his heart.
Beneath the delicate blush of dawn, a young girl sat beneath a cherry tree, her pale yellow, timeworn Hanfu draped around her like the breath of forgotten stories. Her bare feet touched the lake's crystalline surface as she sang The Song, her voice weaving through the air with an otherworldly grace. As if nature itself sought to honor her melody, cherry blossoms descended in hushed reverence, each petal a silent tribute.
Though bound to the mortal world, the silver-haired man felt an unearthly stillness settle over him. Who is she…? He closed his eyes, surrendering to the haunting beauty of her voice, allowing the melody to seep into the very fabric of his soul.
And then—his presence stirred the slumbering essence of nature itself. The lotus buds, once unfolding at time's leisurely pace, bloomed in quiet devotion, their petals parting as if in silent obeisance. The air quivered with an invisible reverence, a celestial hush rippled through existence, as though the world itself recognized something divine within him. In that fleeting instant, the boundary between the heavens and the earth blurred. A harmony unseen rippled through the atmosphere, whispering of fate, of long-forgotten destinies converging once more.
And then, as if answering the call of fate—the sun ascended. Its first golden rays spilled over the girl's face, illuminating her innocence, her quiet grace. It was not merely the arrival of a new day. It was an awakening, a moment when destinies intertwined.
His presence, an unspoken hymn, wove a tapestry of unseen harmony. The air, awakened, stirred with reverence, a breeze that danced around him, coaxing the delicate chimes at his waist to sing a crystalline song. Their melody, a whisper of celestial music, resonated through the stillness, blending seamlessly with nature's quiet rhythm, a language the soul understood.
As if offering a silent benediction, the wind drifted toward the temple, brushing the suspended chimes. They trembled, releasing a cascade of ethereal notes, a secret carried on the breeze, a promise whispered in the air. The sound rippled outward, lulling the moment into a sacred pause, a heartbeat suspended in time.
At that precise note, her song, a fragile thread of light, faltered, dissolving into silence. Lashes, delicate as butterfly wings, fluttered open, revealing eyes veiled in shadows. An unfamiliar unease, a chill wind, coiled in her chest. Was it the air's subtle shift, the chimes' spectral murmur, or the sudden absence of her voice? A silent fear, a darkness, crept into her heart.
In a trembling voice, a whisper carried on fear's breath, she asked, "Who… Who is there…?"
He blinked, her fragile plea echoing in the stillness, pulling him from reverie. Awareness, like a gentle dawn, broke upon him, revealing the weight of his presence, the unseen ripple he had created. A fleeting impulse urged him to vanish, to become one with the mist, but wisdom, a quiet understanding, tempered the thought.
Met only with silence, she felt fear's tendrils tighten, a cold embrace. Her hands, trembling like leaves in a storm, groped for something familiar, a grounding presence. Her fingers found the smooth, timeworn surface of her stick, a silent sentinel. Clutching it tightly, she reached out, a fragile gesture of courage in the face of the unseen.
Yes—she was blind, her world a tapestry of sound and touch, her spirit a beacon in the darkness, a light that defied the shadows.
A pre-dawn stillness held her instincts captive, whispering of an unseen presence—too near, too close. A shiver, like a breath of cool air, ghosted over her skin, a nameless trepidation unfurling in her chest. Without thought, she turned to flee, but fate, ever capricious, intervened. Her foot caught upon a jagged stone, hidden by the dewy grass, and the world tilted, a dizzying disorientation. A sharp gasp, a broken echo in the quiet, parted her lips as she stumbled, gravity's relentless pull taking hold—until strong, unwavering hands intercepted her descent.
Though his hold spared her from the fall, fate's whims were not entirely merciful. A sudden twist of her ankle sent a searing pain, a sharp sting in the cool air, lancing through her limb, stealing the breath from her lungs. Agony, a coiled serpent beneath the skin, raw and unrelenting, left her gasping, her chest rising in shallow tremors as she instinctively recoiled, yet the relentless ache, a heavy weight, rendered her struggles futile.
The silver-haired man, attuned to the silent language of suffering, moved with quiet certainty. Without hesitation, he gathered her into his arms—his touch neither forceful nor hesitant, but steeped in an unspoken tenderness, like the first gentle warmth of the day, as though he held something infinitely fragile, a dew-kissed petal. Each step he took was measured, his presence an unvoiced vow of protection in the quiet stillness.
At a secluded resting spot, bathed in the soft, diffused light, he lowered her with meticulous care, his movements laced with a reverence akin to devotion. Then, he knelt before her, his ocean-blue gaze darkening—not merely with concern, but with a depth of emotion that mirrored the vast, uncharted tides of the soul. In that fleeting instant, it was as though her pain had been transposed into his own, a silent ache that resonated between them like an unbroken thread of fate.
Even though his touch was neither forceful nor hesitant, but reverent, as though cradling something both sacred and fleeting, her fear did not fade. She weakly pressed against him, her trembling voice a whisper of desperation, "Please… please let me go!"
Her touch bore no defiance, only quiet hesitation—a war between caution and the fragile thread of trust.
The silver-haired man sighed; a breath softer than the sigh of the wind through ancient boughs. He closed his eyes briefly, as though listening to something beyond the mortal realm, before speaking—his voice smooth, steady, carrying a warmth that eased the edges of fear.
"Miss, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm," he murmured, his words laced with quiet sincerity. "Allow me to help. I will do my best to ease your pain."
Something in his voice—an unwavering certainty, an unshaken calm—unraveled the terror clutching her heart. He did not feel like a threat. His presence, though formidable, carried no malice. And yet, the relentless ache in her ankle anchored her in suffering. Overwhelmed, she buried her face in her hands, her frail frame trembling as quiet sobs escaped her lips.
And then, once more, his voice found her—gentle as the hush, steady as the tide that kissed the shore.
"Miss, please relax and allow me to examine your injury properly."
It was not a command, but an entreaty—soft, patient, woven with something she could not name. A hesitant pause. Then, slowly, the sobs faded into silence.
With a trembling breath, she lowered her hands. Her sightless, murky pink eyes shimmered with unshed tears—fragile, uncertain, yet carrying within them the faintest trace of surrender. Not of defeat, but of trust. A silent, unspoken hope that, just this once, she would not be forsaken.
As the silver-haired man tenderly cradled her injured foot upon his thigh, his touch bore the dual weight of a healer's gentle grace and a sentinel's unwavering resolve. His ocean-blue eyes, vast and unfathomable, charted the landscape of her injury with quiet intensity, a silent sea searching for hidden depths. Sensing the pain, she bore beneath a fragile composure, his voice, a gentle current in the stillness, broke the hush between them.
"Miss, there is no need to fear. It is but a minor injury—you shall recover soon. Stay here; I will bring water," he assured, his words a soothing balm against her unspoken fears.
Yet, within the silent chambers of his heart, he knew the truth, a truth whispered on the unseen wind. For one so delicate, so vulnerable to the capricious whims of fate, even the smallest affliction could prove a formidable adversary, a shadow in the dawning light.
Leaving her seated, he moved toward the lake's tranquil expanse, where soft sunlight, like liquid gold, bathed the water, its rays cascading gently to the shore, a luminous embrace. With effortless grace, he gathered water in the supple cradle of a lotus leaf, a vessel of nature's purity, before returning to her side. Once more, he knelt, reverently placing her foot upon his thigh as he poured the water over her ankle, a gentle cascade of healing light.
Unbeknownst to her, this was no ordinary ritual, but a silent act of grace, a whisper of the divine. Beneath the glistening cascade, unseen energy pulsed—his own spiritual essence, a river of light, flowing through the sacred liquid, weaving a silent miracle within the currents of nature itself, a symphony of healing. A curious sensation unfurled within her, threading through her limbs like a whisper of warmth, a gentle awakening. A strange tingle—neither painful nor unpleasant—rippled over her skin, leaving a delicate shudder in its wake, a tremor of wonder. Uncertain of what she was experiencing, she drew in a soft gasp, her lips parting in quiet awe.
For a breathless moment, the world seemed to stand still, a pause in the rhythm of time. Then, his voice, deep and steady as the ebbing tide, reached her ears once more, a comforting presence.
"Miss, do you feel any better? If you wish, you may try to stand," he offered, a gentle invitation.
Hesitation flickered across her features, doubt and disbelief warring within her, a tempest in her soul. Yet, as though compelled by some unseen force—whether instinct or an unspoken trust, a silent agreement—she cautiously shifted her foot, testing the weight upon it, a tentative step into the unknown. And then—nothing. No pain, no ache, no lingering trace of injury, a miracle in the quiet stillness.
Her breath hitched, her fingers cu"ling'over the fabric of her dress, a silent expression of disbelief. "The pain… it's gone?" she whispered, a voice barely audible, a fragile question.
Cautiously, she pressed her foot against the earth and, with tentative grace, rose to stand, a fragile flower unfurling in the dawn. The realization struck her like a crashing wave, a tide of joy. "No… I don't feel anything at all!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with wonder, a song of liberation.
It was as though the wound had never existed, as though suffering itself had been erased from the pages of her story, a chapter rewritten by grace, a new beginning. "But how can this be?" she whispered, her mind unable to grasp the impossible, a question echoing in the vast stillness.
Yet the answer did not matter. Overcome with joy, she twirled, her laughter spilling like the wind chimes in spring's gentle embrace, a melody of liberation. "I can't feel any pain! My ankle is healed!" she cried, her voice filled with the joy of freedom, a triumphant declaration.
But her elation was not merely for the relief—it was for something far greater, a liberation of the soul, a breaking of chains. It was freedom, a release from agony, from the cruel tyranny of Mrs. Yajima and her younger sister, Mizuki. For so long, she had been a mere instrument to their whims, a shadow in the halls of their disdain, a prisoner of their capricious cruelty, her spirit crushed beneath their relentless scorn. Every bruise, every harsh word, every demeaning task had chipped away at her essence, leaving her a hollow echo of herself, a ghost in her own life. And she shuddered to imagine the unspeakable torture she would have had to endure if she had reached home injured today, a fate escaped by a whisper of chance, a reprieve from their torment. Yet here, beneath the boundless sky, she had been granted something they had never given her—salvation, a gift of grace, a chance to breathe free, to live. Lost in the rush of liberation, she spun and leaped, her movements an unchained symphony of joy, a dance of freedom, a defiant celebration against the chains that had bound her.
Yet, the same euphoria that carried her forward threatened to betray her balance, a delicate dance on the edge of joy's precipice. She should have stumbled—should have fallen, a victim of her own exuberance. And yet, she did not. Something unseen guarded her, a silent guardian, a gentle hand guiding her steps. The world itself seemed to shift beneath her feet, ensuring no obstacle would hinder her, as though fate, in its rare mercy, had chosen to shield her from harm, a sanctuary in the storm. Had she wished, she could have danced endlessly beneath the tender, fragmented golden rays of the sun god, a dance of pure joy, an endless celebration.
In the end, it was not the world that stopped her, but gravity, her own fleeting equilibrium, a gentle reminder of her mortal form. Again, her body tilted backward, surrendering to an inevitable descent—yet she never met the cold embrace of the ground, a fall into despair's abyss. Instead, as before, she collided with something firm and unyielding—yet impossibly warm, a haven of safety, a refuge in the chaos. A solid chest, strong and unwavering, broke her fall time and time again, a constant guardian, an unwavering protector.
And before she could even comprehend it, a pair of strong arms instinctively wrapped around her in an unconscious act of protection, a silent promise, a vow of safety. His hold was steady, secure—an anchor against the chaos of the moment, a haven in the storm, a sanctuary of peace.
And then, he saw her. Not merely as a lost girl, nor merely as a blind girl, but as something far more profound—a soul, a spirit, a being of light, finally freed from the darkness, a beacon of hope in the vast expanse of the world.
Her delicate face, bathed in a soft, almost otherworldly light, held a quiet, fragile beauty. Her medium-fair complexion, a gentle canvas, whispered of a hidden purity, inviting a tender gaze. Yet, it was her eyes, those deep, shadowed pools, as if they carried the weight of unspoken sorrows, that held him utterly captive. Within their depths, a silent storm of emotions swirled: the hollow ache of deep sadness, the sharp, stinging pain of unspoken wounds, the chilling touch of fear, the heavy shadow of dread, the fragile whisper of insecurity, the lonely echo of profound solitude, and a subtle sense of being incomplete, woven like a thread of vulnerability into the very fabric of her soul.
And yet, even amidst this ocean of melancholy, a quiet strength bloomed, a resilient ember glowing in the darkness. A serene, unwavering kindness, a gentle light that defied the shadows. A tender compassion, so pure it shone through the scars of her trials, a testament to the enduring beauty of her spirit.
The contrast, a haunting melody played on the deepest strings of the heart. Lamentable, yes, a poignant symphony of sorrow, yet exquisitely, achingly beautiful—a silent poem written in the language of the soul, a testament to the fragile and enduring power of the human spirit.
He watched her, a silent guardian of her fragile presence, his thoughts a celestial dance of unspoken questions.
"Why does she bear such a profound weight of sorrow, a burden etched in the depths of her sightless gaze — those eyes reflecting a silent journey through shadowed corridors of time? In this vast, echoing world, does she truly possess no kindred spirit, no haven of solace, no gentle embrace to ease her weary soul?
But above all — none may tread the hallowed grounds of The Genesis without my blessing or that of my devoted disciples. By whose hand did she arrive — a whisper of enigma, a puzzle to unravel? Perhaps I know the one… yet I yearn to hear their name spoken from her own lips, a truth unveiled from her very being.
Furthermore, how can a mortal soul weave such influence upon my essence — a melody echoing in my mind? And why does her presence strike such a hauntingly familiar chord — a whisper of a forgotten song, a thread of recognition pulling at my soul? Who is she, this enigma draped in shadow, a mystery to be deciphered? And that song, a haunting refrain… I must unravel its secrets, a thread leading to the very heart of her mystery, a path to her soul's deepest longing."
Even though, in this tender morning, these questions shimmered like starlight on a still, midnight sea, he made a silent vow, a promise etched in his soul, a sacred oath. 'No. I will not violate the sanctuary of her thoughts without her consent, a trespass upon her inner world, a betrayal of her trust. I will learn the truth, but only when her heart finds the courage to unveil its hidden depths, when she chooses to bestow her story—a trust freely given, a bond forged in mutual respect.'
Gently, he spoke, his voice a soothing balm against her anxieties, a gentle current in the silence, a promise of peace. "Miss, please, walk with care. You nearly stumbled again, and fate may not always extend such tender mercies. Move with deliberate caution, alright?" The girl, startled, composed herself, stepping back, head bowed, a gesture of quiet contrition, a silent apology. "Forgive my distraction. I was lost in my own thoughts, a refuge from my fears," she murmured, her voice a fragile whisper.
The silver-haired man offered a soft, reassuring smile, a gentle radiance in the shadows, a beacon of peace. "It's alright, miss. Please, calm your spirit—I was not disturbed, a ripple in our shared moment."
She paused, hesitant, her face a canvas of quiet bewilderment, a silent question, a plea for understanding. Sensing her unease, he reassured her, his tone gentle, a promise of safe harbor, a haven from her fears. "Truly, there is no cause for embarrassment. You have my word, a sacred vow, a promise unbroken, a bond of trust forged here." A soft gasp, a flicker of vulnerability, a silent plea. Hoping to ease the tension, he spoke again, his voice warm, a gentle caress, a promise of tranquility, a haven in the storm, a sanctuary of shared humanity.
He studied her Intently, a silent observer of her guarded presence, his curiosity deepening with each passing moment, a subtle unease settling within him.
Something feels off.
The legend of The Genesis was etched in the whispers of time — only those graced with the gift to pierce the veil of its mysterious fog, to set foot upon this sacred mountain, were said to be entwined with its fate, permitted by destiny itself. Then why this hesitant silence, this trembling unease, this guarded blind gaze? And why, above all, do I sense that she actually holds the key to the truth I've long sought — a truth that echoes in the chambers of my soul?
Pushing aside the swirling currents of his thoughts, he softened his gaze, his voice a gentle inquiry.
"Ah… It has been some time since our paths first intertwined, yet I remain ignorant of your name. And never have I beheld your presence here before. From whence did you journey?"
The girl paused, her voice a hesitant whisper, "I am Yajima." He offered a gentle smile, "Just Yajima?"
Lowering her head, she replied, her voice trembling slightly, "Yajima Misaki." "Do you live in this village?" he asked, his gaze unwavering. Misaki nodded, her sightless eyes fixed on the ground. "And your father's name?" he inquired, his tone soft yet probing.
A flicker of unease crossed her face at the persistent questioning. In a low voice, she answered, "Yajima Yamato." The silver-haired man's eyes widened subtly, "The merchant, Yajima Yamato?"
Misaki hesitated, her voice barely audible, "Yes, sir..."
His gaze shifted to her worn attire, a silent question forming in his mind. Something is amiss. 'If she is Yamato's daughter, why this stark contrast? And why does she seem to bear such hardship? How is this even possible? Sigh... Indeed, so much has shifted in my absence. But why does this feeling persist, that she, this very girl, holds the key to the truth I seek, as if my very thought is about to manifest? Could she be the sole bearer of bitter truths?'
The silver-haired man suddenly asked, his tone serious yet calm, "Misaki-chan, where did you learn this song?" Misaki hesitated, her voice a mere breath, "F... From my mo... mother!"
The man's expression deepened, not with anger, but with an unreadable intensity. He had awaited this answer. Instead of showing surprise, he became even more serious. Taking two swift steps, he gently but firmly grasped Misaki's hands. "Misaki-chan," he said urgently, "what is your mother's name?"
Startled by the unexpected touch and the stranger's sudden intensity, a wave of fear washed over Misaki. Instinctively, she recoiled, her hands trembling within his gentle grasp. The silver-haired man instantly recognized his error—an impulsive act, a rare lapse in his carefully guarded composure. Quickly withdrawing his hands, sensing the delicate tremor of her fear, his voice softened into a gentle murmur. "Forgive me, Misaki-chan. I did not mean to cause you alarm."
Misaki remained hesitant, her fingers still trembling as she clasped them tightly together. He took a slow, deliberate step back, granting her space. "I simply... I must know. What is your mother's name?"
Misaki remained silent, her breath uneven, still struggling to comprehend the urgency in his tone. Why this man—a complete stranger—was so desperate to know about her mother remained a mystery in the clear morning light. Meanwhile, his thoughts raced. Could it be…? No, I must hear it from her lips.
Misaki hesitated, then gently rubbed her hands together, her voice a soft, uncertain whisper. "No, no… I didn't mind. But time has slipped away, and I've lingered too long. I should return home, before the morning grows too bright. So, sir, please allow me to depart."
The silver-haired man understood, his voice a soothing cadence. "Misaki-chan, let me escort you home."
Misaki lowered her head, replying shyly, "No, no, sir, you needn't trouble yourself. I can manage alone."
But this time, his voice was firm, resolute. "No, I cannot permit you to go alone. I will accompany you a short distance, then return."
Sensing the unwavering resolve in his tone, Misaki did not argue further. Instead, she softly relented, "It's alright, sir, you can simply guide me to the base of the temple steps."
"Very well," the silver-haired man agreed.
They walked in silence, the only sounds the faint rustling of leaves and the distant calls of early birds. Reaching the final step of the temple, the silver-haired man spoke again, his voice a gentle inquiry. "Misaki-chan, we have reached the base of the temple steps. Are you certain you can proceed alone? Or should I accompany you further?"
Misaki bowed her head slightly, her voice a hesitant but firm whisper. "No, no, this will be enough for me. Thank you very much for getting me this far safely. I can go the rest of the way on my own."
Hearing this, the silver-haired man, Mitsuo, nodded, his tone a gentle weight of guardian's care. "Go slowly and carefully, Misaki-chan."
Misaki bowed deeply, a silent gratitude in her gesture, took a step forward, and turned to leave. But something stirred within her—an inexplicable feeling—causing her to pause and turn back. "Sir… thank you so much for your kindness today. Well, if you don't mind, may I know your identity?"
She didn't even know why she had suddenly asked. Perhaps it was a quiet curiosity, or maybe something deeper, a yearning she couldn't name.
A faint smile, a gentle warmth, appeared at the corner of Mitsuo's lips. "I am Mitsuo, the priest, teacher, and attendant of this temple."
Misaki bowed again, her voice soft with respect. "Thank you so much, Mitsuo-san. This time, please allow me to leave."
Mitsuo, like a patient guardian, returned her bow with a tender smile. "Of course. Please go slowly and carefully, Misaki-chan."
Misaki bowed once more to Mitsuo-san and began her slow, careful walk home, guided by her stick. Her footsteps, soft and measured, faded towards the misty path that followed the way to the village of Asa no Hana, which still quietly slept beneath a blanket of early morning slumber. The air still carried the lingering echo of the divine song she had sung—a melody of hope, of beginnings and endings, of hidden treasures waiting to be found.
She did not realize it, but this very morning—after years of solitude and silent suffering—her uncertain life had unknowingly gained an unseen shield of protection. Whether Misaki knew it or not, her journey had changed from this moment forward. Somewhere beyond her awareness, was there someone watching over her from the endless, shining sky?
Did she reach home safely? or did the winds of destiny whisper something else along her path? Just then, high above, a milky white swan took flight, its azure sapphire shimmering between its eyes. With powerful wings, it soared into the morning light, disappearing beyond the horizon—its presence lingering like a whisper of destiny.
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To be continued...