Akira closed the window with a quiet thud, the breeze still carrying the faint sound of Daita's landing below. With a silent exhale, he reached up and unfastened the golden mask over his eyes, pulling it off and tossing it carelessly across the chamber. It clattered against a cushioned chair and fell to the floor with a dull thump.
He sat down slowly, robes folding neatly beneath him, and stared at the book resting on his lap like it was some cursed artifact.
A long silence.
"…Should I really be doing this?" he muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. His fingers hesitated over the edge of the cover. "It's a shame I had to ask Daita… but I didn't have a choice. Did I?"
With an almost reluctant sigh, he opened the book then immediately slammed it shut again, eyes squeezing shut as if he'd just seen something scandalous.
There was a pause.
He cracked one eye open. Then the other. Slowly, carefully, he peeked at the first paragraph again.
His brow furrowed.
"…What is this phrasing?" he whispered, half in awe, half in horror.
His cheeks heated. His soul wavered. He snapped the book shut again. Then, hands pressed together in solemn prayer, he tilted his head back and whispered into the heavens, "Forgive me, oh celestial ancestors… and the Seven Thousand Deities. I have walked the path of discipline for years—pure, focused, unwavering…" He bowed slightly. "And now I fall. For a romance novel."
A beat passed.
He exhaled slowly. "…I'll do three hundred bows after this. But for now…" He opened the book once more, voice a whisper of determination. "Come on, kriya. You can do this. It's just a book… right?"
With the solemnity of someone preparing to recite ancient mantras, Akira began reading brows furrowed, back straight, hands steady. His lips moved in silence, as if each word carried sacred weight.The introduction page greeted him with a flair:
"This tale, woven from the whispers of forgotten time, is said to be inspired by a love that defied war, bloodlines, and the heavens themselves. The first account of this story was penned eight hundred years ago, yet its roots trace back to a time over ten thousand years past…"
Akira's hand paused mid-turn. "Ten thousand…?" He blinked, reread, then whispered like the world had tilted sideways: "This story is over ten thousand years old?!" He sat upright, stunned. " Even records from three thousand years ago are considered relics—and they're barely legible. Who even passed this tale down? What language was this written in originally? Did the scribes survive long enough to finish the translation?" His eyes narrowed at the next line.
'Adapted from ancient oral scripts retrieved from the Ruins of Se'Lien. Believed to be from the pre-immortal era. Author unknown.'
"…Unknown?" he echoed, incredulous.
A brief silence. Then came the next part of the introduction—one that shifted tone so violently it gave him whiplash.
"And lo, I think it's true, yo—for when I first heard the original tale, even I agreed: the god wasn't wrong to fall. When he saw her, the stars themselves dimmed in envy for no scripture, no scroll, no law of world or gods could deny the sanctity of her curves. The heavens may cast thunder, but he would still taste sin, from her lips to her soul, under the silk rain."
"…What is this phrasing?" he whispered, half in awe, half in horror. He blinked once. Then again. Slowly, he turned the book upside down. As if the angle might somehow fix the absurdity of what he had just read.
It didn't.
He muttered like he was translating a forbidden curse, "Silk rain… sanctity of her curves… taste of sin from lips to soul?"
His fingers tightened slightly on the book's edge.
"This… was the preface?!"
A long, reverent silence followed. Akira stared blankly into space, then whispered to himself in quiet panic, "…I think I'm about to violate ten divine precepts next."
He glanced back at the sentence structure, squinting as if trying to decode an ancient formation. "Whoever wrote this had… remarkable literary skill." A beat passed. "And possibly a fever."
Still, something about it lingered, curious and dangerous. And somewhere, deep in his chest, a flicker of guilt. He was confused. But…He flipped the page to Chapter One, exhaling a soft sigh as he leaned back into the cushions.
"Just a few more lines," he mumbled, to no one at all. "Forgive me."
And then a few lines turned into paragraphs. Paragraphs into pages. And time… began to blur.
He shifted positions unconsciously first upright and stiff, then curled on the floor beside the low table, later pacing the chamber while reading, bumping into a screen, stumbling over a footstool but never once stopping.
By the time the sun began to dip beyond the palace walls and shadows stretched across the stone floor, Akira lay sprawled on his bed head dangling upside down over the edge, book raised lazily above him, his hairs brushing against the floor. He flipped the page, voice echoing in the still chamber. He had a habit of reading aloud without realizing it—every few lines slipping from his tongue with an odd, reverent detachment.
"Next Chapter Plum Moon Over Crimson Waters…" His voice faltered. Then sat up so fast the book nearly hit his nose.
"…Wait, what?" He stared at the text again, eyes wide.
Akira blinked, staring at the page. A strange sense of familiarity stirred in his chest.
"…I've heard this before…" he whispered, brows furrowed.
He tried to remember but the memory hovered just out of reach, like mist slipping through fingers.
Unable to resist, he began reading aloud softly at first.
"After eighteen days locked in battle against the celestial tyrant—a menace who had mocked and bullied the god for centuries without pause, the deity descended at last, not to strike, but to silence the storm within his own soul."
Akira's voice faltered, his tone unconsciously growing reverent.
"Taking on a mortal form, he walked beneath the full moon, robes wrapped in starlight and quiet ash, his path leading him to a hidden waterfall cradled in night-blooming flowers.The waters shimmered with Queen-of-Night blossoms, silver-laced lotuses swaying gently in the mist. High above the fall, he climbed into a tree to watch the world. It was there he first heard her a voice like twilight rain over temple bells, singing from somewhere just beyond the veil of mist."
A long pause.
Akira's brows pulled together, lips parting slightly as he read on, more slowly:
"Curious, the god leaned forward… but saw nothing. Only the rippling water, and a figure moving through it like a dream half-remembered. A woman, cloaked in scarlet so deep it seemed spun from dusk—her robes trailing behind her in silken waves that bled into the pool, turning the moonlit waters crimson."
"Mist curled around her like a jealous lover, clinging to the dips of her silhouette—each curve softened by steam. Droplets slid down her bare shoulders, gliding along the lines of her back with a reverence the god had never known in battle or prayer."
"He could not see her face. So he turned away, ashamed of his gaze and blindfolded himself, choosing instead to listen."
"The song did not fade. As the singer walked among the trees, her voice blooming around him like night lotuses. No heavens had ever held such sound. No hymn, no chant, no divine chorus had ever touched him so deeply. His heart trembled, It was a feeling unknown even in the wars of gods… a feeling he had never known since the moment of creation."
"The water stilled, as if in awe. The winds held their breath. And time that tireless keeper loosened its grip, folding in on itself until the moment no longer belonged to gods or mortals.Captivated, the god remained still for what may have been moments or centuries."
"And in that suspended hush, the god remained neither speaking nor moving, but simply existing, spellbound. A reverence unnamed. A recognition carved into his being before the stars had names. And when the melody finally ended, and the woman began to leave the water, he could not bear to let her go. He stepped forward. Removed the blindfold. And saw her truly for the first time."
"Even the gods lose their way… when night sings in crimson silk…"