"Those who fight fire with fire often forget—
the ash does not remember who started the flame."
— Fragment, Katora Enmatsu Archives
The night was peaceful—like a lake frozen over, quiet enough that the moon could see its reflection without trembling and with it, stars like tiny ice crystals.
Father and I sat beneath the veranda, the air filled with the distant hum of cicadas and the faint crackle of oil lamps. The smell of roasted barley tea still lingered from dinner, the warmth of the house bleeding softly into the cool night air.
"Kotori," he began, his voice steady as flint striking steel, "you are aware of the tension with the Western nations."
I nodded, setting down my cup. "Yes, Father. I am."
Mother and Ryu-na were still in the kitchen, the sound of their chatter and clinking dishes drifting faintly to us, reminders of peace that didn't belong to the world outside.
"Well," Father continued, eyes lifting to the stars, "there's a plan to attack one of the border towns. I want you to represent the Katora Enmatsu clan."
The words lit something inside me. Pride. Fear. Hunger. I couldn't tell which came first.
It wasn't just an assignment—it was a testament. To be chosen meant trust. Meant I was no longer just a soldier playing at war, but an heir expected to burn as brightly as our ancestors once did.
"I'm honored," I said, trying to sound calm, but my voice betrayed me with a flicker of excitement.
He smiled slightly, the kind of smile that holds both pride and caution. "Even though I was in the military, I barely saw any action. You—this mission—will be different."
The crickets sang their tired anthem, the moonlight brushing against Father's profile like an old friend.
"How is your cultivation progressing?" he asked, pouring himself another cup.
"It's coming along quite alright," I replied. "I've mastered the Volcanic Tiger Palm technique."
I almost stood to demonstrate, but Father's hand caught my wrist. Firm. Grounding.
"That's enough," he said, eyes glinting. "There's something else I want to teach you."
He let go, and I felt a faint sting where his grip had been—a tiger's reminder.
"Have you heard of the Primordial Ledger Technique?" he asked, his tone soft but weighty.
"No," I said, flexing my wrist. "What is it?"
"As it is with the dragon bloodlines that possess cultivation techniques tied to them," he said, "so do we, the tigers."
"Really?" My eyes lit like lanterns.
I remembered once seeing a member of the Shuǐlóng Zú, using Moonlight River Cross. With that single technique, he had changed the flow of a battle—summoning spectral rivers that healed allies and drowned enemies alike. A man wielding the moon's favor.
"So even the tiger clan has its own?" I asked eagerly.
"In due time," Father said, sipping his tea. "I'll teach you when you return from this mission."
I was about to argue when he added, "But I will teach you another technique before you leave—The Thousand Peel Flaming Lotus Torrent."
I froze, my breath catching. I'd seen Uncle use that once—Qi unfurling from him like molten petals, fire blooming into a perfect lotus before he tore through an army of foes with nothing but his dao and will. A man wrapped in his own sunrise.
And now, I was being told I could raise my own sun.
---
The mission was straightforward: eliminate Marquess Devlin of Drakenspot.
Straightforward, but not simple.
Our team leader was from the Serpent Vein Cult—sharp-tongued, cold-eyed, and devoted to Lady Hwa-in. None of us liked him, and he didn't care. Mutual disdain, professionally ignored.
Our group of five moved through the capital's sleeping veins, the cobblestones slick from recent rain.
Marquess Devlin left the opera house just past midnight, a cigarette glowing like a dying ember between his fingers. Mid-forties, black hair, posture straight as a blade. His aura—controlled violence.
We followed from the rooftops, footsteps lighter than whispers.
The signal came.
Our leader leapt first.
"Azure Dragon—Corpse Water Strike!" he shouted, Qi coiling around his arm like a spectral river-serpent.
The Marquess turned, faster than expected.
His gun flared crimson—flame-imbued bullets.
The shot hit.
The serpent shattered.
The leader's head snapped back—and yet his body dissolved into water, splashing into the cobblestones below.
A substitution technique. Clever. But Devlin had already adapted.
He turned his weapon, firing toward Riho.
Before she could evade, her head bloomed into fire.
I saw the muzzle flash—orange, perfect.
Then another voice:
"Fine evening, ladies and gentlemen," said a man stepping out from the shadows, gun in one hand, cigarette in the other. "Mind if I ask a few questions?"
The world narrowed to the barrel of his gun.
Someone moved—a mistake.
"Night Gale."
Black smoke erupted from his hand, swallowing the air itself.
I charged anyway, Qi roaring in my veins. "Volcanic Tiger Palm!"
My arm blazed—but the moment the smoke touched me, time slowed. My body refused my command.
He aimed. Fired.
Everything went black.
---
When I woke, I was in an airship cabin. My limbs were heavy, restrained, yet untouched.
Across from me sat four others—Evans, the mage from the Western Nations, a worker, and someone from the Usagi clan.
After arriving the island, we met her in her library and then came her voice—clear, lilting, amused.
"I want everyone to play a game," said Lady Alvie.
"The rules are simple: the majority carries the vote, and the suffrage can be anything under the vote."
The air hummed with divine malice.
"No, you cannot vote yourself out of my abode," she added, tone bright as a bell. "That right belongs to the lady of the house—myself."
The library dissolved into light, and suddenly, we were standing on an endless plain beneath a molten-orange sky. The grass shimmered like liquid glass.
I looked down—my body was wrong. Two soft weights pressed against my chest. My voice was lighter, sharper, higher.
"It's gone," someone whispered.
I turned. Evans looked… hollow. As if stripped of definition.
"To make the game fair," Lady Alvie's voice echoed faintly, "I would make some changes."
"Haha… fair, huh," I muttered. The word tasted strange.
---
The mage was the first to speak.
"I propose the Rule of Inquiry — every Player may call one vote, but never the same vote twice."
Evans followed, voice trembling:
"Rule of Distinction — everyone must wear their true name, gender, and role."
I took a breath. My voice wavered like silk in the wind.
"Rule of Conduct — hierarchy must be respected; obedience preserves harmony."
I had expected some sort of fight but fear ran a tight schedule.
Then my partner, now a man, spoke calmly:
"Rule of Escape — any Player who locates a way out wins."
Finally, the rabbit-clan member—now neither man nor woman—spoke last:
"Rule of Silence — votes expressed only in numbers. No justification allowed."
And that was that.
Each of us had crafted fairness from our own reflection.
The mage sought fairness through process.
Evans through recognition.
I thought order.
My partner through outcome.
The Usagi clan member through secrecy.
Five bookmarks, five ideologies, five ways to cage the same ghost.
---
Then Lady Alvie's voice returned, sweet and venomous.
"Ah. A perfect tie. You have each defined fairness by your own wound."
Her tone darkened, rippling the air.
"You misunderstand the suffrage. A vote is not a plea. It is a definition of power. Since you have failed to agree, I must select the most definitive rule."
My throat tightened. Evans shuddered.
She chose his.
"You wished for distinction, Evans. You shall have it—in abundance."
The ground trembled. I felt my name slip from my mind, plucked out like a tooth.
New names bloomed above our heads in glowing ink:
Scholar. Tradition. Pragmatism. Observation. Deletion.
"But the identity you seek," said Lady Alvie, "is property of the Library. Therefore, the majority shall define each other."
The rule carved itself across the violet sky:
Rule of Distinction (Final Form):
By vote, the Players may redefine any other Player's name, gender, or identity.
The majority decision becomes truth until overruled.
Evans fell to his knees, whispering through static, "I… am… not…"
But the horizon answered for him—metallic, hollow, absolute.
"I am Evans."
The sun crouched low, drowning itself in a sea of fire.
And we, its witnesses, began to forget who had ever called it sun in the first place.
And for the first time,
I understood what Father meant when he said—
"To fight fire with fire
is to forget which one was ever yours."
---