The moon was bleeding again.
It hung over the shattered skyline like a wound that refused to heal, casting a crimson glow across the ruins of the temple courtyard. The wind carried whispers — not of ghosts, but of memories too stubborn to die. Ayane stood barefoot on the cracked stone, her body wrapped in torn silk and bruises, her eyes locked on the figure across from her.
Momiji.
She was elegance wrapped in fury, her crimson robes fluttering like war banners. Her naginata gleamed under the moonlight, a weapon of grace and death. Her gaze was calm, but beneath it simmered something primal — a hunger not for blood, but for validation.
They didn't speak. Words were useless now.
Ayane lunged first, her blades slicing through the air like broken promises. Momiji met her halfway, steel clashing with steel, sparks flying like fireflies caught in a storm. Their movements were poetry written in violence — a duet of rage, longing, and something else neither dared name.
Each strike was a confession.
Ayane's fury was jagged, born from years of being second — second to Kasumi, second to Ryu's silence, second to fate. Her body moved like a storm trying to remember how to dance. She was beautiful in her chaos, terrifying in her precision.
Momiji countered with fluid grace, her style seductive and lethal. She didn't fight to win — she fought to be seen. Her every motion was a challenge, a whisper to the world: I am not just a shrine maiden. I am fire.
The battle stretched into eternity.
Ryu stood at the edge of the courtyard, his figure carved from shadow. He didn't speak. He didn't move. But his presence was a gravity neither woman could escape. He was the eye of the storm, the silence between screams, the reason they bled.
Ayane's blade grazed Momiji's cheek. Momiji's naginata tore through Ayane's shoulder. Blood mixed with sweat, pain with pride. They collapsed together, breathless, tangled in exhaustion and something dangerously close to intimacy.
Ayane laughed — a bitter, broken sound. "You think he'll choose?"
Momiji didn't answer. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Ayane's face. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent. "He already did. He chose the path. Not us."
Ryu turned away, his eyes unreadable. He walked into the shadows, leaving behind the two women who had fought not for his love, but for their own worth.
The moon watched in silence.
And far below, in the belly of the earth, something ancient stirred — a whisper of regret, a promise of death.