✧ Across bodies, across time—Sora.
The descent stretched long beneath the dying sun.
The air grew warmer. Heavier. Even the sounds had changed—less wind, more insect hum, more life.
Sora lay curled against the wall of the cart, body limp, muscles beyond sore. His arms and legs no longer ached in distinct places—they just hurt, everywhere. His lips were cracked. His throat dry. He no longer bothered hoping for water. Even swallowing was effort now.
But the wheels turned on.
And eventually, something pulled at him. Not a jolt. Not a shout.
Light.
He cracked one eye open, then winced against the glare slipping through the wooden slats. It was softer now, angled. The kind of light that came late in the day, when the sky started bleeding its colours across the land.
Sora blinked. Then dragged himself closer.
It took more effort than he liked to admit. Each movement scraped bruises against splinters. His fingers shook slightly as he reached for the slats. He pressed his cheek against the rough wood, let one eye line up with the world beyond.
And froze.
There it was.
Nestled just off the road, set back against the slope where the trees had started to thin—a cluster of buildings, half-shadowed by the treeline. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney. Painted screens flapped faintly in the breeze. And there, unmistakable despite the fading light, stood a crooked red torii gate.
The roadside inn.
His breath caught.
That was where it had all begun.
Not just Akiko's journey, but his.
A week ago—only a week?—he had awoken there, stunned and weak, confused by the body that didn't feel like his. And yet had been.
That was where the noble ladies humbled him. Where he first got to experience ancient Japan through his—her own eyes. Where a future he didn't understand had started to write itself beneath his skin.
And—
That samurai.
Sora narrowed his eye, trying to catch a clearer glimpse. No samurai followed him, no one stood guard at this place. No movement in the yard. Just shadows and a faint wisp of smoke.
I gave him her name—but never asked his.
It bugged him more than it should've. A historical figure in motion, passing through his life like a half-read footnote. He had questions—too many. Who was he? What clan did he serve? Why had Akiko helped him so quietly?
Because that's just how she is.
However, there was no time for questions now.
The cart jolted again. Sora winced and fell back slightly, the pain slicing through his shoulder like glass. His breath hissed out between teeth.
Still… he was glad he'd seen it.
The last mark of familiar ground.
Everything ahead was new—new for him—not for the body he was in.
That should have thrilled him.
In another life—in another week—he would've been breathless with curiosity. He could already feel the pull at the edge of his mind, the academic part of him flickering to life even through the pain.
The capital of the Heian period. The real Heian-kyō.
He'd written essays about its structure. Memorized diagrams of the Imperial Ward. Knew the dimensions of Suzaku Avenue by heart. The great red phoenix gate. The Shishinden palace. The southern markets. The district names. The clan divides. Everything.
And now… he was here.
He should have been geeking out. He was geeking out.
Just quietly.
Internally.
Through the haze of exhaustion and bruises.
If I live through this, he thought, I am writing a book.
And then—
Golden.
Not the filtered green light of forest. This was broad, open sunlight, cast long across the world like it was running out. Sora dragged himself to the slats again. His vision blurred for a second—then cleared.
And what he saw stopped him.
Fields.
Endless, rippling fields. Wide paddies filled with water, catching the sun like shattered glass. The glow turned the surface to gold, the reflections of the sky painted in violet and flame. Thin dikes and walkways snaked between them, broken only by small huts and bent silhouettes of people finishing their work.
Sora blinked hard, trying to absorb it all.
This… this was everything he'd read about. Ta-no-michi—the rice footpaths used since the Nara period(710–794AD). Interwoven irrigation channels that glistened like silver veins when seen from above. Peasant families bent at the waist, knee-deep in mud, moving with a rhythm so old it felt sacred.
He should have been overjoyed.
Instead, he could barely keep his head up.
The awe weighed on him like a blanket. Warm, heavy, almost unbearable. He was dimly aware of how beautiful it all was, how rare—how impossible—that he was seeing this with his—her—own eyes. But Akiko's body didn't care about history. It only cared about the miles behind them. The bruises along her spine. The dust in her lungs.
And the hunger.
He hadn't eaten since he woke up in her body—she probably hadn't for quite some time as well. A few mouthfuls of rice. Salted greens. He couldn't even remember the taste. Just the motion of chewing. Swallowing.
Now, his limbs trembled when he shifted. His breathing came too shallow. Even keeping his eyes open took effort.
No. Not yet.
He tried to focus on the road outside. Watched as the rice fields narrowed, and the paddies gave way to packed-earth roads. More people joined them now. Traders, travellers, monks in sandaled feet. Ox-carts and horses. A small caravan up ahead carrying bolts of fabric wrapped in oilskin.
The guards began to speak louder. More formal. Less mocking.
They were close.
He couldn't see the gates yet, but he could feel them. A rising pressure in the air. The hum of a hundred lives converging. The beginning of protocol.
Sora clenched his fists. Tried to stay upright.
Stay awake. Stay awake.
But his body betrayed him.
The moment crept in unnoticed. A blink that lasted too long. A breath that never reached its end. His chin dipped to his chest. His fingers relaxed.
And the world slipped sideways.
Darkness.
Not the pure kind, but drowsy, muddled—drifting between the jostle of cart wheels and the faint murmurs of men talking somewhere above. A strange warmth overtook him. Not pleasant. Just final. As if the body he wore had decided to surrender, even if he hadn't.
Then—
"Oi!"
The shout hit him like a slap.
Sora jerked awake, heart stuttering. His shoulder slammed against the wall. A lance of pain shot down his side. He gasped—eyes wide, breath ragged.
Outside, a guard barked something again, then banged twice on the cart's wooden frame with the butt of his yari.
"Wake up, girl. We're here."
Sora blinked rapidly, disoriented.
The sky beyond the slats was now deep purple, kissed with the first edge of night.
And ahead—
He saw firelight.
And shadowed walls.
Heian-kyō.
The light of the gates bled into torchfire.
Everything after that came in pieces.
A shout.
Leather reins creaking.
Boots on packed earth.
A new voice barking orders—not one he recognized.
Not that he could process them.
Sora's body—Akiko's body—jerked as the cart came to a halt. Hands grabbed at the wooden frame. Metal groaned. He felt the jolt of the latch being undone. Then light—blinding orange torchlight—poured in through the gap as the door wrenched open.
"Move."
He didn't.
Couldn't.
Hands seized his arms. He flinched as they dug into bruises, but he barely managed a sound. The strength had long since left his limbs. His feet hit the ground, knees buckled.
Someone laughed.
Rough voices. Uncaring. Tired men eager to finish their duty. They half-dragged, half-shoved him across the stone. Sora caught only snatches of it—the scrape of his own sandals, the press of cold air, the clang of something metallic, distant shouting.
His vision narrowed. Blurred. Shapes moved around him, walls looming where once there had been sky.
Then stairs.
Downward.
The air shifted.
No longer fresh. No longer dusk. Now damp. Stone. Close.
The sound of the city faded above, replaced by the echo of footsteps in corridors barely wide enough to pass two men shoulder to shoulder. Lanterns hissed with oil smoke. Somewhere, someone coughed.
They stopped.
A key turned in iron.
The door creaked.
Then came the shove.
Sora stumbled forward and hit the floor hard—palms first, then his knees, then finally his shoulder as he collapsed fully, body folding in on itself.
He tasted dust.
Rough straw scraped against his cheek. Cold dirt beneath it. His ribs flared with pain.
The door slammed behind him.
For a second—just a second—he was still conscious. Just enough to notice the bowl.
Sitting near the wall.
A crude pottery dish. Brown rice, clumped together and cold. Next to it, a chipped mug. Water. The surface shimmered faintly in the firelight spilling through a barred vent high above.
Food. Water.
But Sora didn't reach for them.
His fingers twitched.
And then nothing.
The cell spun gently once—
—and the darkness took him.
✧ Across bodies, across time—Sora.
BEEEP. BEEEP. BEEEP.
Sora jolted upright with a gasp.
The sound tore through him like a sword draw—sharp, repetitive, merciless.
His heart thundered in his chest. For a half second, he didn't know where he was. Darkness. Stillness. No cart. No slats. No dirt. Just—
Fabric.
A bed?
The alarm kept going.
He slapped it blindly, nearly knocking the phone off the nightstand. It silenced with a dull click, and the sudden absence of sound left the air ringing in his ears.
Breathing hard, Sora stared at the ceiling.
Faint morning light edged through closed curtains. A slight chill hung in the air. His blanket had slid down to his waist. His T-shirt was damp with sweat.
What—?
And then it hit him.
His hands.
They weren't hers. They were his.
Broad, rough-skinned palms. Long fingers. The subtle callus on his thumb from years of game controllers and guitar strings.
He was back.
In his body.
In Tokyo.
The phone screen glowed faintly beside him: 06:30 AM.
Saturday.
A groan slipped from his throat. He sank back into the pillow—and froze.
His ribs ached.
His throat burned.
His wrists… throbbed?
No. Not real. Not really.
But it felt real. Like phantom pain in a limb that wasn't missing—except the limb was her. Akiko. Her body. Her bruises. Her thirst.
He could still feel the hunger curled in his gut like a fist. The dry stickiness in his mouth. The rough slap of stone against skin. None of it existed here, but all of it lingered, woven into muscle memory that didn't belong to him.
His arms trembled as he pulled the blanket back up.
It wasn't over.
He knew that now—more than ever.
And somewhere out there, she was still in it place.
Still carrying what he no longer could.
He exhaled slowly.
Then closed his eyes again—just for a moment.
✧ Across bodies, across time—Akiko
She woke to stillness.
Not silence—there were faint sounds outside: a guard's cough, the creak of wood shifting under weight, the distant cry of a crow—but inside, within the confines of the room, everything was quiet. Heavy. Close.
Akiko blinked against the dimness. A soft blue light crept in through the slats of a narrow bamboo-shuttered window high on the wall. It was barely dawn.
She didn't move at first. Her body ached everywhere—legs, back, hips, neck. Not sharp pain, but the dull fatigue of long travel in a cramped space, of sleeping without support, of days without proper food or rest. Her limbs felt heavy, heavier then Sora's did.
She sat up slowly, the worn fabric of her robe dragging across hay and dirt. Dust clung to her sleeves. Her braid tugged at her scalp when she shifted too fast.
The space around her was not huge—just wide enough for her to sit cross-legged. The floor was packed dirt, littered with scattered straw, and the walls were plain timber, stained from years of use. Thick wooden beams supported the low ceiling above. The air was dry, but not stale. There was no futon. No mat. Just bare ground.
It wasn't a dungeon. But it wasn't a room, either.
This was her cell.
Akiko turned, scanning the walls, the floor. There was no writing, no cloth tucked into the cracks, no markings along the beam. Her hand ran gently along the wooden planks, fingers searching for something—anything—that didn't belong.
She had hoped he might have left her a message.
But Sora hadn't.
Her eyes landed on the objects against the far wall: a bowl and a cup. Plain ceramic. Nothing more.
She crawled toward them carefully. Her knees cracked. Her muscles trembled. But she kept her movements slow and even.
The bowl held a portion of brown rice, cold and clumped. The water in the cup was murky. She picked it up first, sipped, and swallowed slowly. Let it settle. Then again.
The rice followed, one bite at a time.
Not because she wasn't starving—she was—but because she'd learned the danger of rushing. Hunger made fools of even the proud.
After a calculated amount of time, the rice was gone.
So was the water.
She sat with her back to the wall, legs tucked beneath her, arms folded lightly over her lap. The bowl and cup rested where she had set them—carefully, deliberately, as if tidiness could restore some sense of order.
It didn't.
Nothing did.
She had lived her whole life, in her own body. And yet it still felt distant—raw and worn, like a silk robe left out in the rain. Her muscles twitched unpredictably, her skin itched where straw had clung too long. Her throat remained dry despite the water.
But worst of all was the waiting.
There had been no sound of approach. No voice through the bars. No questions. Just the creak of movement outside, the quiet mutter of guards exchanging shifts, the faint metallic clang of armour shifting when no one thought they were being watched.
And above it all: the weight.
The pressure of something large and invisible pressing inward.
She wasn't a criminal. She knew that.
But she was not naïve.
The forged letter had done its work. Her family's loyalty to the Emperor—spoken, unyielding—had never made them enemies of the Fujiwara. But neither had it made them useful. They were… inconvenient. Independent. Principled.
And that, she now understood, had been enough.
Not even opposition was required.
Just the fact that they still believed in the old balance of power. In the idea of an Emperor who ruled, not merely reigned.
So they had been removed.
Efficiently. Quietly. All at once.
Now only she remained.
And not for long.
She exhaled through her nose, calming the quickness in her chest. The air was still cool, but brighter now. Morning was coming fast.
It would happen today.
She knew it.
Somewhere above her, in the chambers of the court, the Fujiwara were already moving. Scripts prepared. Robes arranged. The Emperor's words waiting to be spoken for him.
They came for her just after sunrise.
The wooden door opened without ceremony. Two men entered—guards dressed not in battle gear, but in formal Fujiwara robes, their lacquered breastplates dulled by wear and dust. One gestured.
"Stand."
Akiko did. Slowly. Her legs were still stiff from the night on woven straw, and her shoulders ached from sleeping in one position too long. She moved with control, but she felt how brittle it was—like porcelain baked too fast. Cracks would come, if only beneath the surface.
They did not speak again.
One of them bound her hands—not tightly, not cruelly. The cords were more symbolic than secure. But she understood. This was not to restrain her.
It was to display her.
The walk began in silence.
They led her out from the holding compound and into the waking heart of Heian-kyō. The spring air was bright, brisk, and far too clear. What should have been a quiet escort became a deliberate parade. Not on the main roads, but just busy enough—through narrow market lanes, temple paths, and the outer corridors of government dwellings.
They wanted her seen.
And so she was.
Servants paused with buckets still in hand. Merchants looked up from their morning wares. A group of children stopped playing in a courtyard and stared. None shouted. None whispered. But the eyes followed her, and the silence around them seemed colder than any words.
Akiko didn't lower her gaze.
Even now, even dressed in the plain prisoner's robe, even with her hair loose and face unwashed, she kept her spine straight. Her father had always said dignity was not in station but in conduct. Let them look.
She would not look away.
Still, she felt it all. Every glance. Every whisper that never formed. Every inch of her body ached—not from beatings, not from chains, but from the pressure of being made a spectacle. This was not for justice. It was performance.
And somewhere, someone was watching.
They wound their way toward the palace compound. Just outside the final gate, beneath the eaves of a long corridor that led into the governmental heart of the city, a cluster of retainers stood in quiet conversation.
Samurai. Minor ones, likely attending a separate petition or summoned as formal witnesses to court deliberations. Akiko barely paid them heed—until one of them shifted slightly.
A tall man. Broad-shouldered, with a loose knot in his hair. He wore a deep blue haori layered over muted traveling clothes. Not full armour, but he bore a sheeted blade at his hip. His sleeves were long, but she caught the edge of linen bandages hidden underneath as he adjusted his stance. He hadn't moved toward her—hadn't even looked.
But Akiko stopped breathing.
That posture.
That arm.
That bandage.
She knew him.
Masaru.
Ishikawa Masaru.
A name that surfaced without hesitation. She had tended to him nearly a week ago, on her first night outside the capital. He'd come staggering into the inn, bloodied and silent, holding his side with grim determination. She'd patched his ribs herself. He hadn't spoken much, but he had looked at her—not as a noblewoman, not as a healer.
Just as a person.
And now, there he stood.
Alive. Upright. Watching from the periphery.
He's here?
The thought jarred her.
Ishikawa.
The surname struck harder than expected.
His name. And… Sora's name.
She had never questioned it before. She had assumed it coincidence—or had simply overlooked it entirely in the haze of exhaustion. But now, the connection pulsed beneath her skin.
She stared too long.
Masaru's gaze flicked toward her. Just for a moment. No bow. No nod.
But a change.
His stance shifted ever so slightly. His shoulders straightened. The hand resting on the hilt of his katana dropped to his side. His posture, so carefully formal a moment before, suddenly became something… stiller.
Then he moved.
Not toward her. Past her.
Deliberate. Unhurried. As if his presence there had nothing to do with her at all.
But as he passed, just under his breath—low enough that even the guards wouldn't mark it—he spoke.
"Kami ni ukagai."
Akiko's body didn't flinch. But inside, her blood stirred like wind catching silk.
She turned her head slightly—just slightly—but he was already gone, folding back into the group near the corridor's edge.
She didn't even have time to wonder why he had said it.
The guards prodded her forward.
The corridor narrowed.
Cool air rose from polished stone beneath her feet, the scent of old incense and sandalwood thickening with every step. Ahead, a final doorway stood open, flanked by ceremonial guards in crimson and black. Beyond it, the great audience hall.
Akiko hesitated only a heartbeat before she crossed the threshold.
The room was vast and solemn, a space built not for intimacy, but for the performance of power. Light filtered through thin shōji screens, casting faint bars of shadow across the tatami-lined floor. Incense smoke curled toward the rafters like ascending prayers. The hush was absolute.
At the far end, elevated slightly above the hall on a platform of carved wood, sat the Emperor.
He was still.
Draped in the formal robes of court—layer upon layer of muted silk—and crowned with the small, pointed cap of his rank. His hands rested gently upon his knees. His face, pale and passive, betrayed nothing. Yet Akiko felt the full weight of his gaze as if it pressed against her chest.
She didn't have to be told where to kneel.
Two shapes already knelt there—one on either side of the vacant place prepared for her.
Yasuhiro.
Tsukasa.
Their hair hung forward, faces lowered toward the mats. Their arms had been bound at the wrist with ceremonial cords, not rope—another performance. Even now, their presentation must be orderly, as if shame could be made to look beautiful.
She knelt between them, her movements quiet, controlled.
Her knees met the floor.
The cords around her wrists itched.
Yasuhiro's fingers twitched—barely. Tsukasa's shoulders were too stiff, the angle of his neck too sharp. They had not raised their eyes. They could not.
They think they failed me.
The thought struck like cold water.
They, who had walked beside her through blisters and rain and nights without fire. Who had shielded her from both arrows and words. And now, they knelt beside her, silent and dishonoured—not for their own actions, but for failing to protect her.
Her mouth pressed into a firm line.
You didn't fail.
She wanted to say it. Loudly. Publicly. But the moment was not hers.
Not yet.
The air shifted.
The court gathered.
Whispers faded. Movements stilled. The shuffling of silks and papers and feet came to an end.
A single beam of morning light pierced the hall, cast from a high, unseen window behind the dais. It spilled across the floor in a wide arc—and touched the three of them. Akiko. Yasuhiro. Tsukasa.
The Emperor moved.
Only slightly.
But every head bowed.
Every voice fell quiet.
He had not spoken yet. Not a word.
But already, judgment waited behind his eyes.
And above it all, somewhere in the rafters, the smoke still rose.
—