The meeting in the Tenshukaku throne room was, to Ren, an exercise in profound, mind-numbing boredom. The ministers, their voices droning on in a monotonous, deferential tone, presented their reports. They spoke of agricultural yields that were miraculously perfect, of citizen morale that was unwaveringly high, of trade tariffs that were flawlessly implemented.
It was a perfect, pristine, and utterly false picture of Inazuma. Ren could see it in the nervous, darting glances of the officials, in the subtle, almost imperceptible, tension in their shoulders. They were not reporting the truth; they were presenting a carefully curated, sanitized version of reality, a version that they believed their perfect, unchanging god wanted to hear. They were painting a picture of a flawless, eternal state, free of conflict, free of struggle, free of change.
And the Shogun on her throne simply listened, her impassive, puppet-like face revealing nothing. She was a passive observer in her own court, a god receiving offerings of carefully constructed lies.
Ren knew that this perfect picture was a dangerous illusion, but there was still time before he could prove anything to the unchanging god of eternity about his own understanding of the situation.
When the last, dreary report was finally concluded and the ministers had been dismissed, a heavy, sterile silence descended upon the grand throne room once more.
Ren, however, was not one to sit in silence. He hopped down from his chair, a small, cheerful island of life in the vast, imposing hall. He walked over to the guard who had brought him his chair.
"Excuse me," he chirped, "could you please bring me some tri-color dango? And a few bottles of dango milk? I'm a little hungry."
The guard, who had just witnessed a full-scale government assembly, stared at the child, completely flummoxed by the sheer, audacious normality of the request. He looked at the Shogun on her throne for guidance, but she remained as still and as silent as a statue. Seeing no sign of divine disapproval, the guard simply bowed and scurried off to fulfill the strange, unprecedented order.
While he was gone, Ren retrieved a small, cloth-wrapped bundle he had brought with him. He unwrapped it to reveal several of the latest light novels from the Yae Publishing House.
The guard returned, a tray laden with sweet, sticky dango and several bottles of creamy dango milk in his trembling hands. Ren took the tray, gave the guard a bright, grateful smile, and then walked back up the dais, right to the foot of the Raiden Shogun's throne.
He looked up at the impassive, divine ruler of Inazuma. "Could you send me inside again, please?" he asked, his voice full of a simple, polite sincerity.
The Raiden Shogun's cold, amethyst eyes focused on him. Her perfect, doll-like head tilted, a gesture of silent, analytical curiosity. A crackle of violet energy filled the air, and the Musou no Hitotachi, the sword that could sunder reality, materialized in her hand.
The remaining guards in the hall, who had been trying their best to pretend they weren't there, froze in terror.
"You are not afraid," the Shogun's voice stated, a flat, emotionless observation. "This one could erase your existence with a single thought. Why do you not fear this?"
Ren just smiled, a gentle, trusting expression on his face. "Because I already know you're a good god," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Not just Ei. You, too." He was speaking to the puppet, to the guardian of Eternity. "You wouldn't kill someone without a reason. And if you wanted to kill me, you would have done it on the docks."
A profound, almost imperceptible, stillness settled over the Shogun. The child was not just addressing the god within; he was acknowledging her, the puppet, as a being with its own will, its own honor.
With a silent, graceful movement, she slashed the air. The familiar, swirling vortex of purple and gold opened, and Ren, carefully balancing his tray of snacks and his books, was enveloped.
He was back in the beautiful, lonely twilight of the Plane of Euthymia. Ei was there, floating in her meditative pose, her eyes already open, as if she had been waiting for him.
"You must be hungry," Ren said, his voice a cheerful, welcome disruption to the perfect, eternal silence. "And probably bored. I brought snacks. And books. I thought we could have a picnic."
He sat down, crossing his legs, on the polished, dark floor right beside her floating form. He placed the tray of dango and milk between them and opened one of the light novels.
Ei looked at the child, at the colorful, sticky sweets, at the frivolous, mortal books, and a strange, ancient, and almost forgotten feeling began to stir within her.
He had not come for a debate. He had not come with another kind of challenge. He had come to share a meal, to offer a moment of simple, quiet companionship in her vast, lonely eternity.
Slowly, gracefully, she lowered herself until she was sitting on the floor opposite him. She picked up a stick of dango, her movements elegant and precise.
They ate in a comfortable, companionable silence, the only sound the soft rustle of the pages as Ren read. After a while, he noticed the tray of dango was almost empty.
"Oh no," he said, a look of childish disappointment on his face. "It's almost all gone."
A faint, almost invisible, smile touched Ei's lips. She gave a single, silent command to her other self, the Shogun in the throne room.
A moment later, a small, shimmering portal opened beside the tray, and another, fully laden plate of fresh, warm dango slid through before the portal snapped shut.
Ren's eyes lit up. "Wow! That's a useful trick!"
Ei just took another, delicate bite of dango, a profound, wistful, and deeply melancholic look in her amethyst eyes. She was thinking of the past. She was thinking of warm, sunny afternoons under sakura blossoms, of picnics just like this. She was thinking of a time of eternal peace, a time filled with the laughter of her sister, Makoto, with the witty, teasing banter of Kitsune Saiguu, with the boisterous, loyal presence of Chiyo and Sasayuri.
This small, strange, and wonderful boy had not just brought her snacks and books. He had, with a simple, kind, and profoundly human gesture, brought back a ghost, a warm and beautiful memory of a time when her perfect, silent world had not been so very, very, lonely.