The path was dusty, marked by the faded tracks of old wheels and the prints of passing hooves.
The horse's footsteps struck the dry earth with a steady, confident rhythm.
Under the pale morning sun, the Fragrance Seller rode calmly, his hair swaying in the breeze, the ancient instrument strapped to his back never leaving him.
A short distance ahead, three men on lean horses stood by a bare tree, as if waiting for someone.
As he drew closer, one raised a hand in a casual greeting.
"Are you headed to Mizukagami Village (水鏡村)?" he asked, his eyes lingering on the Benzaiten instrument strapped to the Fragrance Seller's back.
"Yes," the Fragrance Seller replied calmly. "Is the road still long?"
The other smiled. "Not far, but it's strange for a spirit user like you not to know the way."
He tilted his head slightly. "You came for the prize, didn't you?"
The Fragrance Seller paused, expression unreadable. "Prize? What prize is that?"
The men exchanged quick glances before one laughed.
"You really don't know? How surprising… Prizes have been announced in every district for weeks now."
"For what?"
"For killing the Golden Fish… Ōgon no Megami. They call her the Golden Goddess." One of them nudged his horse forward. "If you slay her, the village's curse will be lifted—and you'll be handsomely rewarded."
The Fragrance Seller remained silent for a few seconds. "Curse?" he asked finally.
One traveler stared down the dusty path. "I heard a spirit user say a curse befell the village… it put the chief's daughter into an endless slumber."
Rain had ceased, the fish had vanished from the waters, and drought had settled over the land. These, it was said, were the marks of the curse.
A brief silence fell. The Fragrance Seller glanced down at the ground, then spoke softly:
"Yokai like Ōgon no Megami don't curse without reason. She's not one of the 'jiangshi' or reckless spirits. There's usually some kind of pact… an agreement… then betrayal. Perhaps the village chief broke an old vow, and the curse came as judgment."
The travelers exchanged looks before one said,
"We don't know the details… but you seem to be a spirit user far beyond the rest."
The Fragrance Seller nodded without replying, tightened his reins, and continued toward Mizukagami Village (水鏡村), leaving puzzled gazes and unfinished words behind.
After hours of travel, he arrived at Mizukagami Village.
The entrance was far livelier than he'd expected. Monks in ritual robes and spirit users of all ages crowded the narrow paths and muddy courtyards.
It felt like an unspoken festival was taking place behind the scenes.
He dismounted at the main gate, tying his horse to a tree with a simple rope.
Then he pulled a small vial from inside his coat and sprinkled a few drops of pungent scent onto the horse's mane.
A foul stench rose, sharp enough to sting the nose.
"Nothing keeps petty thieves away like a rotten smell," he murmured, gathering his tools and adjusting the Benzaiten instrument on his back.
At the entrance, the crowd's noise peaked—loud voices, nervous laughter, and heated arguments among monks and spirit users forming teams, as if preparing for a coordinated hunt.
The Fragrance Seller made his way through the chaos, weaving between swinging bags and brushing past shoulders.
Suddenly, a small hand grabbed his waist.
He turned sharply and caught it mid-motion.
It was a boy no older than twelve, eyes wide with hunger and hesitation. His clothes were ragged, and his face streaked with dried mud.
"Where to?" the boy asked in a hushed voice.
The Fragrance Seller didn't answer immediately. Calmly, he said,
"The pouch you grabbed holds no money. If you don't believe me, open it."
The boy did so, freezing at the sight of black dust at the bottom. He tried to toss it away, but the Fragrance Seller's hand was faster.
"Stop… don't do that. This ash… it's worth more than you can imagine. Priceless to me."
He closed the pouch gently, then bent slightly and asked,
"What's your name?"
The boy stayed silent, eyes darting as if afraid someone might notice him.
"If it's money you need, I can give you some," the Fragrance Seller said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a small coin pouch. He extended it toward the boy, pausing as his eyes lingered on the mud-stained cheeks, the threadbare sleeves, and the emptiness in the young eyes.
For a fleeting moment, a distant memory surfaced—a face much like this one, his own, years ago in some forgotten village.
Without a word, he handed the boy half of what he had.
The boy snatched it and ran without a glance back.
The Fragrance Seller watched him disappear into the crowd, then muttered with a dry smile,
"Not even a thank you… Seems the people of this village don't care much for strangers."
He pushed his way through the crowd at the entrance. The air was thick with incense, herbs, and the distinct aroma of spiritual perfumes. The village was packed with spirit users and monks, their faces weary from travel, yet their eyes gleamed with caution and anticipation.
He made his way toward the main square, where a massive bronze statue of Ōgon no Megami, the Golden Goddess, stood at the heart of the village as a sacred symbol. Fresh flowers were piled at the base, and villagers lit candles in quiet reverence, hoping to appease the ancient spirit that had cursed their land.
A tense stillness hung over the scene, as though everyone were waiting for something inevitable to unfold.
He stepped onto a raised wooden platform, where the High Spirit Monk, an old man marked by age and experience, stood. His face was lined with wisdom.
The elder raised his voice, firm and commanding:
"The time of suffering has gone on too long. Every spirit user here knows the moment has come to break the curse of the Golden Goddess… to reclaim our land, our rain, and our lives."
The Fragrance Seller paused, reflecting on the man's words, reminded that this mission would not be easy even for the seasoned spiritualists here, who were shrouded in fear and doubt.
He wondered silently: Why was there still such concern for the fish, even after the curse?
Then he noticed some spiritualists beginning to form organized groups to hunt the creature.
Amid the murmuring crowd and the rising voices pleading to "Ōgon no Megami," the Golden Goddess, the Fragrance Seller's thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a seventeen-year-old man, trying to join one of the spirit-hunting parties.
The man's features were hard to make out, but the Fragrance Seller stepped closer to listen.
He pleaded,
"Please… take me with you. I'll follow your lead, carry your supplies—just give me a share of the reward."
One of the men laughed at him. He looked ordinary enough, but there was something in his tone, like he had dealt with situations like this before. He stepped forward and sneered,
"You're just a fraud, not a spiritualist. You steal from people no one can trust."
They left him behind, walking away, while the man sat down, frustrated and angry.
The Fragrance Seller thought to himself,
"Seems this town is famous for thieves."
He approached the man. The latter glared at him and snapped,
"Get lost. If you're here to sell me something, I'm not interested."
The Fragrance Seller replied calmly,
"I'm a perfume seller… and a spiritualist, too. I saw how they turned you away. Mind if I speak with you for a moment?"
He sat down beside the man, letting the conversation come naturally.
Staring at him with subtle intensity, the Fragrance Seller asked,
"So… you're a spiritualist, as you say?"
The man let out a faint, smug laugh and said proudly,
"I'm not just a spiritualist. I can speak with yokai and spirits. You think I don't see them?"
The Fragrance Seller looked at him neutrally and said flatly,
"Ah, I see… that's why they rejected you. You're far greater than anyone else in this square, aren't you?"
A flicker of bitterness flashed in the man's eyes. He clearly caught the sarcasm and snapped,
"What do you want from me? Get to the point."
The Fragrance Seller answered in a more conciliatory tone,
"How about we form a team? You seem to know this village far better than I do. I'm just a traveler."
The man raised an eyebrow, a hint of challenge in his voice:
"Of course I know it. I'm from this village. I know everything about the curse… I even know the whole story."
The Fragrance Seller asked,
"So what happened? How did the villagers become divided—some wanting to kill the fish, and others worshiping it in hopes of earning its favor?"
The man replied in a tone laced with pride and sarcasm:
"First, before we even talk about forming a team, I have conditions. My knowledge is valuable. And my spiritual abilities… are nothing short of unique."
The Fragrance Seller answered coolly:
"We don't need more people. Just the two of us will suffice."
The man furrowed his brows and stood up, visibly upset:
"Are you joking? Just two of us?! Against something like the Golden Goddess?"
But the Fragrance Seller met his eyes steadily and said in a sharp tone:
"Yes. Just two. I'm an exceptional spiritualist, and you — if what you claim is true — have unusual abilities. We'll split the reward fifty-fifty. Isn't that what you care about?"
The man fell silent for a moment, his eyes shifting as he thought…
Maybe this man was just another fraud like him.
Maybe he wasn't even a real spiritualist.
He stepped back slightly and asked,
"Half the reward? But… how exactly are we going to catch the fish?"
The Fragrance Seller noticed his hesitation but didn't give him a chance to retreat. He spoke, letting the weight of his words land clearly:
"I'll tell you something. I'm not just any spiritualist — I can kill yokai… and worse. So here's my offer: if we don't manage to slay the fish by tomorrow, you'll still get half the reward, just for trying. What do you say?"
The man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck hesitantly, then replied:
"Fine… but if we fail, I want half the reward from you. Got it?"
The Fragrance Seller smiled faintly and answered:
"Agreed."
A moment passed. Then the man, still eyeing him with suspicion, asked:
"What's your name?"
The Fragrance Seller replied without looking at him:
"Call me the Fragrance Seller."
The man raised an eyebrow, confused:
"That's your name?"
The Fragrance Seller spoke in a calm tone:
"Names are just symbols… labels we place on things, even on yokai. I don't see much meaning in them."
He paused, then added:
"So, what should I call you?"
The man went quiet for a moment, then said:
"If names are just symbols… call me the Spiritualist."
The Fragrance Seller walked beside him and said:
"If you insist on that title, then tell me… what's the story behind this curse? I need to understand before we take a single step toward the lake."
The Spiritualist paused, as if gathering his thoughts, then spoke with a tone of confidence he didn't fully possess:
"At first, this village was poor…
Rain was rare, but not completely absent. Drought existed, yes, but nothing like the curse we have now.
The villagers tried all kinds of rituals to summon rain… most failed. But one succeeded."
The Fragrance Seller glanced at him from the side, listening without interruption.
The man continued, raising his voice slightly, as if reciting a tale heard in some distant land:
"One spiritualist succeeded in summoning Ōgon no Megami, the Golden Deity.
Its first appearance brought rain that lasted for two whole months. The land bloomed. The crops flourished.
Even the lake began to offer gold from its depths.
All in exchange for a simple condition: that it be worshipped and honored as a god.
And so they did."
He paused for effect, seemingly enjoying the weight of his words, then said:
"But one day, the village chief's daughter came to request a blessing… and it seems Ōgon no Megami fell in love with her. He was captivated.
He wanted to marry her."
The Fragrance Seller furrowed his brow and interjected:
"Wait… Ōgon no Megami?
I thought it was female."
The man waved his hand dismissively, annoyed:
"He's male.
Don't interrupt me."
He continued, raising his voice with measured drama:
"The chief refused the proposal. He didn't want his daughter spending her life at the bottom of the lake, married to… a fish.
And that's when the curse began.
The girl fell into a deep sleep she never woke from.
The rain stopped.
The fish vanished.
And drought took hold of the land."
The Fragrance Seller suddenly stopped and looked at him sharply. Then he said quietly:
"The way you speak…
You don't sound like someone from this village.
This isn't a story you've seen with your own eyes."
The man hesitated for a second, then lifted his chin in mock defiance, offering a strained smile:
"Fine… I'm not from the village.
But I know everything about it.
I heard the story from reliable sources.
And like I told you…
I'm not a spiritualist to be underestimated."
The Fragrance Seller smiled inwardly but said nothing.
Later, they walked toward the edge of the lake, searching for a boat.
The Fragrance Seller's eyes settled on a small, weathered skiff—old but solid in build. He remarked calmly,
"That boat looks suitable."
The Spiritualist raised his voice, calling out,
"Who owns these boats? We need to borrow one!"
An elderly man, seated in the shade of a wooden hut, answered. Beside him sat a small girl, staring wide-eyed at the Fragrance Seller.
"They're mine. And if you're planning to use one to go after the Golden Fish… then please, walk away."
The Fragrance Seller stepped forward, his pace unhurried, and spoke with gentle assurance,
"We're willing to pay in full. There's no need to worry."
The old man shook his head firmly, his voice carrying the weight of long-familiar sorrow:
"Money means nothing to me. The boat that goes after that fish… never returns. Many before you tried. None came back—not them, not the boat."
The Spiritualist glanced at him, a look of mild pity mixed with boredom in his eyes. He turned to the Fragrance Seller and muttered,
"Let's go back. Maybe we'll find another boat."
But the Fragrance Seller slowly shook his head and let out a quiet sigh,
"No… there are no other boats. The spirit hunters already took them all. This is the only one left."
He stepped forward again, this time with genuine pleading in his voice,
"Sir, we only need it until tomorrow. The others were looted or stolen. We have no choice left. Please, we'll return it just as it is."
The old man sighed in frustration and snapped,
"Your kind always comes late, asking for the impossible. I told you I don't lend this boat to anyone foolish enough to go near that fish. Don't waste my time."
The Spiritualist snapped back, his voice rising with tension,
"Oh, don't act like you own the whole lake! You're just a stubborn old man!"
The elder's eyes flared, and he shouted,
"Then get out of my sight before I throw the both of you into the water!"
The Fragrance Seller raised a hand between them, trying to ease the tension. Then he pulled out a small pouch of coins and held it out to the old man.
"Take this. Full payment for the boat. And if we don't return it tomorrow, as promised… consider the money yours. You can buy a new one with it."
The old man looked at the pouch, then into the Fragrance Seller's eyes. He said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he muttered in a low voice,
"Don't make me believe you're the ones who'll break this curse… Take the boat. But if it doesn't return, the money is mine. I won't come looking for you."
The Fragrance Seller nodded calmly and took hold of the oar.
As they walked along the edge of the lake, the Spiritualist leaned in and whispered sharply,
"You're insane… You paid him more than that old miser deserves! Too much for a wrecked boat!"
The Fragrance Seller replied with a quiet, dry tone,
"If we die tomorrow… we won't need the money, will we?"
As the boat neared the shore, the Spiritualist leapt lightly onto land. He grabbed the thick rope tied to the bow and fastened it tightly around the trunk of a large, timeworn tree—one that looked as though it had watched over the lake for generations.
They both glanced at the tree for a moment. It leaned slightly toward the water, its bark cracked and aged, as if resisting time itself… just like the village.
The Spiritualist grunted as he secured the knot,
"This is the best we've got. No guard, no safety ropes. If the boat returns to the lake on its own… so be it."
The Fragrance Seller stepped down quietly and replied,
"Boats don't run away. People do."
The Spiritualist looked at him, puzzled for a second… then gave a small chuckle,
"Spirit hunter's philosophy, huh?"
The Fragrance Seller turned away from the lake and said,
"Now then… what about a place to sleep?"
After tying the boat securely to the tree, he turned, reached into a small pouch at his side, and gently pulled out a dark glass vial. He uncorked it carefully and let a few drops fall into the boat. Then he stepped back.
The Spiritualist walked over, sniffed the air, and recoiled,
"Ugh… what is that stench? Did you spill rotten wine in there?"
The Fragrance Seller replied calmly,
"A special fragrance. No one would think of stealing a boat that smells like this."
"I think even the fish will flee from it."
They left the lake, their eyes scanning for an inn or shelter. The houses were made of old timber, some leaning at awkward angles, as if the curse had seeped into their very bones.
The Fragrance Seller asked,
"Do you know of a place we can stay tonight?"
The Spiritualist shook his head hesitantly,
"Me? No. Last time I slept behind crumbling temples… or in abandoned stables. I'm not exactly welcome in inns—reputation issues."
The Fragrance Seller smiled faintly,
"Strange… that sounded more like a confession than an excuse."
"Call it what you like."
After a few minutes of wandering, they came across a small inn at the edge of the village market. Its name, faded on a cracked wooden sign, read The Clouded Mirror. The facade was worn, the roof slightly slanted, but light still leaked from the windows, proof that someone was inside.
A creaking wooden hallway greeted them, reeking of age and forgotten years. Inside, the room was simple: two straw beds, bare wooden floors. They dropped their belongings by the wall, and sat between them.
They went to sleep.
Suddenly, the Spiritualist spoke, eyes fixed on the ceiling,
"You know, I've been a spirit user for many years… fought yokai, banished angry spirits, helped countless villages."
The Fragrance Seller looked at him calmly and said,
"Really? You sound more like an amateur actor than a spirit user."
The Spiritualist laughed, turning over on the bed,
"Don't believe me?"
"I believe you just like to talk."
A moment of silence followed.
Then the Spiritualist suddenly asked,
"What brings you here? You don't seem like someone who cares much for rewards or the hunt."
The Fragrance Seller stared into the darkness and replied,
"I want only one thing… the heart of the fish."
"The heart of the fish?" the Spiritualist said, surprised, then added with a sneer,
"Planning to make perfume out of it?"
The Fragrance Seller answered coldly,
"For personal reasons."
"Strange… very strange."
The Fragrance Seller tried to close his eyes and sleep, but the Spiritualist kept talking,
"Tell me if I ate its heart, would I become like it? Golden, massive, beloved? Or maybe… cursed?"
The Fragrance Seller's voice came low,
"Sleep."
"But think about it! Is the curse magic? Or just anger? Does the fish even feel? Or is it just a machine for rain and destruction?"
The Fragrance Seller pressed his pillow against his head, trying to block out the noise, but the Spiritualist's voice seeped in from the other side,
"Have you ever tried hugging a fish? I imagine it'd be slimy…"
Slowly, the Fragrance Seller sat up, grabbed the pillow, and struck the Spiritualist hard enough to silence him immediately,
"Be quiet."
He said sharply, then returned to his bed.
The Spiritualist laughed, writhing from the blow,
"Told you, you carry anger in your heart."
The Fragrance Seller closed his eyes again and replied,
"You carry something worse… empty curiosity."
Finally, silence settled—broken only by the soft wind tapping against the inn's window, and the still water lapping at the distant lake… a heavy silence, lifeless, motionless. As if the fish—if it truly existed—was not sleeping, but watching from the depths.