Hundreds of spirits swirled around the boat, guardians bound to the fragile vessel like a living shield.
They danced with the waves, their ethereal forms rippling and shimmering in harmony with the lake's restless pulse.
Each spirit hummed the ancient melody, a spectral chorus echoing the rhythm of the water itself — a sacred protection against the deadly fury of the storm.
But the wrath of the lake was merciless.
A violent surge tore through the waves, scattering the spirits like dust caught in a tempest. Their forms fractured, faltering under the overwhelming force. The protective dance crumbled.
He tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade, fingers curling around the familiar cold steel.
The boat rocked violently beneath him, but his stance remained unyielding.
"Damn it,"the Perfume Seller muttered, voice low but sharp, his gaze never leaving the horizon.
The battle ahead… would be difficult.
A new wave of light burst from the center of the lake.
Then—detonation.
Spiritual energy tore through the water's core like a bomb
going off beneath the surface.
A massive tail rose, splitting the lake like a blade.
Slowly, the monstrous fish emerged. Not swimming—dragging itself out of a river of oblivion.
At the center of its translucent chest, a heart gleamed.
Golden. Beating. Blinding.
Each pulse distorted the air itself. Time faltered—stuttering with every throb.
Then came the voice…
A sound unlike anything. Neither male nor female.
Neither human nor beast.
"…I heard your music."
The fish spoke.
Its body didn't move—
but the voice echoed, as if the entire lake had become its mouth.
(The spiritualist who had stood behind the Perfume Seller took an unconscious step back.
His eyes widened in disbelief-
as if reality itself had twisted before him.
He whispered, as though the words alone might wake him from a strange nightmare:)
"Is that… is that really it?"
This isn't what we came for…
"This isn't what you promised me."
"You've reached the Seventh Melody."
"The one played only for spirits who've been forgotten."
"I am Mizukagami—
the mirror where the drowned leave behind their final sighs,
and the bearer of the ancient oath of water."
"I've answered your call."
(A brief silence…
Rain begins to fall, slowly.)
"In the name of the Seven Lakes…"
I grant you a blessing from the depths."
"Tell me, musician…"
What is your wish?"
He said nothing.
Rain began to fall—slow, deliberate drops tapping against silence.
One drop landed on his cheek.
His breath was steady.
And then…
He smiled.
A smile without warmth.
The smile of a wolf—seeing the neck of its prey exposed.
"I want your heart."
(Rain intensified, its drops striking the lake's surface like war drums.)
"That golden heart. Give it to me."
(The air shifted… light began to crack and fracture.)
Mizukagami (her voice boiling with disbelief):
"What… are you saying?"
The Perfume Seller (raising his head, gaze burning):
"I didn't play to be rewarded."
I didn't summon you to be gifted.
This was all… just to bring you out."
(The sound of thunder.
The fish's gaze changed—
A voice now tinged with fury.)
Mizukagami:
"You don't understand what you're asking.
My heart is the seal—
the covenant between water and death.
If it's taken… all who've drowned will be set free."
The Perfume Seller (closing his eyes, whispering):
"Maybe so…
And that's why I want it even more."
(The water roars — the battle begins.)
It was as if the world shifted in a single breath.
The wooden boat was thrashed by the raging water,
rocked violently from side to side beneath crashing waves.
The Perfume Seller gripped the edge of the boat—
steady,
his eyes locked on the horizon with razor focus.
The spiritualist beside him trembled, barely able to move.
Flying fish circled them in swarms, attacking with sharp spiritual needles that shot like spears.
The spiritualist screamed in panic:
"What are these spirits?! They're trying to devour us!"
He raised his hand as if to shield himself—
but one of the needles sliced through the air beside him.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.
The rain came down harder,
and the lake was no longer a place of stillness.
Everything in it was trying to kill them.
Amid the storm—
in the swirling dark and the howling wind above the waves—
the Perfume Seller opened a small case made of black leather.
Inside,
there was no weapon.
No charm.
Only a slender glass vial—
transparent,
barely visible.
He removed the vial gently,
as if time meant nothing to him.
Then, without haste, he uncorked it…
…and sprayed the perfume—
first on his own neck,
then on the trembling spiritualist's shoulders.
The man didn't understand.
But he didn't need to ask.
(The light shifted.)
(The world… trembled.)
And suddenly—
the fish's body before them cracked open.
Not one body—
but two.
As if what they had seen until now…
was only a mask.
A fish made of flesh…
and another, of pure light—
floating within it like a soul torn from its body,
shimmering in dreadful harmony.
The spiritualist gasped, staggering back until he nearly fell from the boat.
"W-what is this?
She's… she's not just one!"
The Perfume Seller said nothing.
His eyes did not flinch.
He saw the full truth.
He saw that fighting wouldn't be enough.
That blades wouldn't matter.
That what he witnessed…
was half water, and half death.
He whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the storm:
"She can't be killed…
unless her soul is torn from her flesh."
(A moment of silence.)
Then—
the fish screamed.
Not a sound like any voice.
A scream that cracked the sky,
and echoed from beneath the lake.
For a moment, soul and flesh came apart…
…and then fused again—
faster.
Fiercer.
As if she understood…
she'd been seen through.
And once more, the lake began to turn.
The wind shredded the surface, waves slamming into the wooden boat as if trying to swallow it whole.
The fish's eyes had split—one gazed out from flesh, the other floated in the void, glowing with the souls of the drowned.
The Perfume Seller… did not move.
He stood tall before her, eyes lowered to the slender blade in his hand, now swallowing the light around it.
He raised it—and struck the air.
Silence tore apart.
He spoke, his voice low, unwavering:
"I'll handle the body."
Then he turned to the spiritualist.
But the spiritualist did not return the look.
His face was pale. His eyes locked onto the fish…
Or rather, onto what was inside it.
(The soul.)
A single glance—
was enough.
Darkness took him.
Not his body—
but his mind.
Dragged from the boat,
from the lake,
from the rain…
He fell.
He fell into the spiritual plane.
No color.
No sound.
No water.
Only a crushing void—
as if he'd been born into a room soaked in pain.
Everything around him had vanished.
And yet…
he was not alone.
The spirit was already there.
It didn't walk toward him—
it appeared inside him.
As if it had always been part of him.
Two little girls… overlapping.
One eye weeping,
the other staring—
sick, still.
Two bodies melting into each other,
forming a face he once recognized—
then rejected.
They spoke.
A soft, fractured voice,
like a broken melody struggling to return:
"Why did you lie to us?"
The spiritualist tried to answer.
But his throat burned.
He gasped.
Blood poured from his nose—
then his ears.
(In the real world, his body trembled on the boat.
Blood dripped from his mouth. His hands began to seize.)
Inside—
he screamed:
"I… I didn't lie! I just couldn't—"
(But his voice was bleeding.
No one could hear it.)
The girls stepped closer.
With every step,
his chest caved in—
as if the air itself turned to weight.
And the closer they came,
the more distorted the world became.
He began to see other faces swirling in the air—
Faces of drowned children, dead women,
Men with hollow sockets where eyes once were.
All staring at him.
"You were the one who heard us."
"You echoed our prayers."
"But not out of love... out of fear."
"You feared we'd silence you."
Then, suddenly-
Something opened behind him.
A watery door.
From it emerged a transparent arm, long and skeletal, carrying the breaths of the dead,
wrapping itself around his body.
"No... no... stay away from me..."
But the arm did not relent.
His skin began to peel away, as if the voice itself was stripping him of his humanity.
(In the real world—
The spiritualist vomited blood
onto the boat's deck, his body shrinking.)
Inside, the voice grew louder:
"You will hear us now, whether you will or not."
"Hear us, as we heard your cries,
praying to be forgotten."
"You wanted to disappear, didn't you?"
"Well... we will hide you."
Suddenly—
He saw something.
His mother's face... shattering
into fragments.
His little brother screaming beneath the water.
A temple burning.
His hand trembling,
a smile etched onto his pain-stricken face.
"I'm fine... I'm fine... I'm fi-"
The sound exploded.
And color returned.
Blood dripped from his mouth.
Blood oozed from his ears.
His heart pounded as if it would burst from his ribs.
Outside—
The Perfume Seller heard a faint moan behind him.
He turned.
The spiritualist lay sprawled, his body trembling,
blood staining his chin, eyes wide open.
But he did not scream.
It was as if his soul had been torn from him,
leaving behind a hollow human shell—
nothing but an echo.
A moment of silence... then the fish's scream tore through the air once more.)
The lake exploded.
Waves rose—tall as the temple walls—
as if the lake itself had decided to crush the boat.
The sky split open, and rain fell in wrath,
as if punishing the earth for sins unspoken.
The air tasted of iron.
And the scent of ancient death drifted in.
But the Perfume Seller…
did not move from his blade.
His gaze locked on the massive fish—
then shifted back,
toward the collapsed spiritualist behind him.
Something inside him knew.
That… was no longer the fish's body.
The spirit—was gone.
It had moved.
Imprisoned inside the spiritualist's flesh.
He understood.
He whispered, without turning:
"Just hold on… a little longer."
Then the explosion roared.
First came the sound.
Then—light—
splitting the sky like a spear of lightning plunging into the heart of the lake.
The fish surged forward.
Water shattered at its sides,
as if fleeing something greater than death itself.
Its massive body rose like a living wall of flesh and violence.
One eye… blank.
The other stared into the void—
dull, searching for a mind long lost.
It charged.
No spirit.
No thought.
Only a carcass, driven by the instinct to kill.
But the Perfume Seller did not retreat.
He stepped forward.
A single step—
and the wooden deck beneath his feet cracked like thunder.
Its mouth opened.
Teeth like shards of glass,
swimming in translucent saliva—
a maw meant to erase anything it touched.
But inside… was emptiness.
Huge? Yes.
Deadly? Yes.
But this… was just a body.
A dying shell, chasing death with no soul to guide it.
The Perfume Seller didn't move.
He advanced.
One step forward —and the deck of the boat hissed beneath his feet.
Behind him, the lake erupted, as if the water itself feared what was about to happen.
His arm moved in a straight line.
No flourish. No tremble.
Only purpose.
Only the answer.
A single strike.
The first split—
from the fish's jaw to its gut.
Its flesh opened like a sacrificial bloom.
The fish shrieked—
but the sound came strangled, as if its vocal cords had been claimed by death.
The Perfume Seller wasn't done.
He jumped.
His silhouette mirrored against the rain-soaked sky,
and his blade fell like a meteor torn from a god's rib.
The second strike-from skull to tail.
The beast was cleaved in two.
Perfectly. Cleanly.
But the halves didn't fall apart.
They quivered, still trying-instinctively, desperately—
to become whole again.
Her blood was green.
Thick.
It spat bubbles—each one carrying tiny, shrieking spirits, scrambling to flee.
But he didn't stop.
He opened the Benzaiten.
From its core, a melody spilled forth.
The reversed melody.
The Banishing Song.
This wasn't music.
It was sound used as a blade—jagged, guttural, and violent.
Every note slashed through the spiritual sinew like barbed wire dragging through flesh.
The melody screamed for exile.
The fish convulsed.
It kicked at the empty air, its tail—shattered—slapping at the water in broken rhythm.
The Perfumer whispered,
"Get out of that body… before I kill you twice."
Then came the third strike.
Straight to the heart.
Time hiccupped.
Everything stilled.
The boat beneath him split in two.
He didn't fall.
He stood on water.
His blade sank into her chest—deeper—until it kissed something invisible.
The golden heart.
It pulsed once beneath steel.
A breathless silence.
Then her body thrashed, once, and dropped like rotted meat to the lake's bottom.
The water around her vanished—as if some sacred vacuum had drained it all.
Rain ceased.
A final droplet struck the lake's surface—and evaporated.
The spirits didn't scream.
They didn't resist.
They simply dissolved—thin white threads unraveling into gray light, vanishing like memory.
The Perfumer stood amidst blood, scent, and storm.
His eyes didn't gleam.
As if something was lost…
…or something far greater had been taken.
spirit-handler coughed blood—and collapsed.
But the Perfumer never turned.
He reached forward.
Lifted the golden heart—still warm, still beating—like a strangled sun trapped in flesh.
His face.
He smiled.
Not a smile of honor.
Not a smile of mercy.
But the smile of a man—who ripped what he wanted…
…from the mouth of a goddess.