Kaguya slowly closed her eyes, as though retreating once more into her own designs and calculations.
She no longer paid attention to the outside world.
Hagoromo remained standing there, as if rooted in place. His chest felt crushed beneath a massive stone, heavy and suffocating.
All his ideals—his compassion, his questions—appeared unbearably fragile before his mother's absolute power.
He bowed stiffly and withdrew, his steps unsteady as he left the core region beneath the God Tree.
The turmoil within him was too great. He could not remain in that suffocating divine domain.
For the first time, he felt a powerful urge to leave.
To see the world with his own eyes.
To test his mother's conclusions.
And perhaps—to find even the faintest proof that his own beliefs were not entirely wrong.
Yet when he entered the villages and towns that had once adored him—once dared to confide in him, even plead with him—
What he saw only chilled him further.
The light in their eyes was gone.
Gone were the curiosity, the gratitude, the hesitant hope.
In their place was bone-deep fear.
The moment they glimpsed his white robes in the distance, they fell like startled animals—prostrating themselves, foreheads pressed into dust, trembling violently, not daring to utter a sound or meet his gaze.
Entire streets fell into dead silence at his arrival.
Hagoromo knew why.
Kaguya had crushed rebellion with thunderous bloodshed and established rule through ritual sacrifice.
As the "Divine Prince," he too was enveloped in that shadow.
They no longer saw him as the gentle son of the Rabbit Goddess.
To them, he was part of the same terror.
A being who might at any moment bring calamity.
He hated it.
He approached them, speaking as gently as he could, asking them to rise.
Telling them there was no need to fear.
But each word only deepened their trembling.
Each movement drove them lower into the dirt.
The bridge of communication had been severed.
Between him and the people he once longed to understand—and be understood by—now stood an impassable chasm forged of fear.
Standing alone in the silent street, surrounded by rows of prostrate figures like lifeless statues, Hagoromo felt a loneliness unlike any before.
Was Mother right?
Was fear the only lasting bond?
Was "understanding" nothing but a fragile illusion before absolute power?
Disheartened, he turned to leave.
Then—
A soft yet clear voice spoke behind him.
"Hagoromo-sama."
He froze.
Slowly, he turned.
A young woman stood not far away.
She had not knelt like the others.
She simply lowered her head respectfully.
When she raised it, her face was not breathtaking—but clean and bright. Her eyes were clear. A faint smile lingered at her lips, as though capable of dispelling gloom.
"You… are not afraid of me?" His voice was hoarse with disbelief.
She shook her head gently.
"You would not harm me. So why should I be afraid?"
The words were simple.
But to Hagoromo, they were like sunlight piercing storm clouds.
"Why… indeed?"
Warmth surged through him, scattering the chill that had gripped his heart.
Looking into her smiling, unshadowed eyes, he glimpsed the world he believed in—a world without fear, built on mutual understanding.
Living proof.
Was this what it felt like—to be understood?
No explanation required.
No justification demanded.
Just trust.
Just a willingness to stand as equals.
The sensation was unfamiliar.
And overwhelmingly beautiful.
"This is… wonderful," he breathed, his gloom dissolving into genuine joy.
He stepped closer, voice lightened by hope.
"What is your name?"
She curtsied slightly.
"My name is Chō."
"Chō…"
He tasted the name, smiling for the first time in what felt like ages.
"It is a beautiful name."
An idealist on the verge of despair.
In a frozen wasteland of reality—
Suddenly encountering a butterfly.
The timing could not have been more perfect.
For Hagoromo, this meeting was like driftwood to a drowning man.
Like a star to one walking in darkness.
Just at the right moment.
Time seemed to soften within the Heavenly Curtain.
After that day, the girl named Chō became like a gentle spring breeze, gradually dispersing the loneliness that clung to Hagoromo's heart.
Unlike the others, she had not sealed herself away in terror.
She still observed life with sensitivity.
She still possessed quiet courage.
She listened as he spoke of "understanding" and "peace."
She listened as he voiced confusion and sorrow over his mother's path.
Rarely did she judge.
Mostly, she listened.
Sometimes offering simple comforts:
"Your heart is warm, Hagoromo-sama."
"People still remember your kindness."
To him, these words were more precious than any power.
With Chō as a subtle bridge—and with his continued gentleness and tangible help—the villagers' fear slowly eased.
They began to notice:
The Divine Prince was not the same as the Rabbit Goddess.
Fear remained.
But within its cracks, something small and fragile re-emerged.
Gratitude.
Tentative warmth.
Seeing them smile at him once more—seeing them confide small daily troubles—filled Hagoromo with quiet emotion.
Hope flickered again.
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