Sora stepped quietly into the small common area of the inn, the soft creak of ancient floorboards accompanying his steps. Not much was being prepared at this hour—no sizzling of breakfast, no chatter. Just stillness. He drifted toward the window, squinting through the wooden slats.
A heavy morning mist clung to the village, wrapping the dozen or so houses in a thick, pale shroud. The rising sun pierced through in golden beams, scattering light like divine spears across the rooftops and muddy paths. It was eerily beautiful, quiet in a way Tokyo never was.
Behind him, Yasuhiro and Tsukasa were speaking in low voices to the innkeeper, handling the check-out without issue. Meanwhile, Sora slipped into Akiko's wooden sandals. They clacked lightly as he adjusted his stance. The plain linen robe was far less ornate than the noble robes from yesterday, and for that, he was thankful. They fit better, moved easier—and didn't make him feel like he was being wrapped up like a doll.
Stepping outside, the damp grass kissed his bare ankles. It was cold. Real, earthy cold. His gaze wandered absently—until it collided with another.
A boy stood not far ahead, no more than ten years old, his arms full of leafy greens—mizuna, perhaps, and something that looked like seri. His clothes were patched but clean, and the way he clutched the vegetables with care suggested he was running an errand for his family. The boy stared, eyes wide. Not afraid. Just watching.
Sora felt a prickling discomfort crawl up his spine.
Before he could speak, the inn door opened behind him. Yasuhiro and Tsukasa stepped out, chatting casually. Their laughter was light, almost familial, like father and son walking after a shared meal.
Then their eyes fell on the boy.
Tsukasa's expression froze. Without hesitation, he reached out and grabbed Sora's wrist—gently, but firm enough to make it clear they were moving. "Come. Quickly."
"Eh? What's going on?" Sora stumbled a step forward, surprised by the urgency. "Tsuka—?"
"Don't look back, Akiko," Tsukasa said, voice low and serious. His brows were furrowed, his grip tightening as they picked up the pace. "That was the same boy from last night."
Sora blinked. Last night—when they'd arrived at the village? That kid had been lurking in the shadows then, too?
Yasuhiro fell into step behind them, his gait calm but calculated. He glanced over his shoulder now and then, scanning for signs of movement. "We should move fast. Offroad, if possible. The mist will help cover us. There's a ferry upriver, a couple hours from here."
"No good," Tsukasa said, not slowing. "There are two more villages before that ferry. If that boy runs his mouth—and he will—it won't take long for word to spread. We can't afford to be seen."
"Then what do you suggest?" Yasuhiro asked, a note of challenge creeping into his tone.
"The river itself," Tsukasa replied, eyes sharp. "If we're lucky, a fisher or abandoned boat might get us across. We'll keep close to the banks and stay hidden in the brush."
Sora stumbled again, nearly twisting his ankle in the wet grass. Everything was moving too fast. No time to think. No time to plan. He was supposed to be the one who knew—the one with the future knowledge, the boy from a thousand years ahead. And yet here he was, being dragged forward by a man he barely knew, in a body that didn't quite obey him.
He glanced down at his arm—Akiko's arm—pale and slight. Tsukasa's fingers wrapped around it like iron bands.
Sora squirmed, tried to pull free, just to feel some control. But Tsukasa didn't budge.
Stronger than he looks… or maybe this body really is that weak, Sora thought grimly.
They veered off the path and into a field of tall grass. The blades reached high, brushing past their shoulders and swaying in the breeze. For a moment, it felt like the world had gone silent—just the rhythmic rustle of grass and the crunch of their sandals on damp earth.
The smell hit him then. Fresh, rich, alive. Dew, wet soil, wildflowers. A scent you could never find in Tokyo, no matter how deep you wandered into a park. It hit a part of him he didn't know was homesick. Not for his time—just for something real.
Sora's breathing slowed a little, even as his legs kept moving.
Behind him, Yasuhiro's voice came in a hush. "Still no sign of pursuit."
"Don't assume we're safe," Tsukasa said. "The Fujiwara might already be on their way. This village is too small to shelter us without someone noticing."
They trudged deeper into the field, the mist beginning to thin as the sun clawed higher into the sky. The air warmed, but only slightly.
Sora's thoughts whirled with too many questions. How long could they keep this pace? Would there be a boat? Would this body hold up if they had to run? And above all—was that boy truly dangerous? Or had they just scared a child who happened to look too long?
He didn't know. And that terrified him.
But right now, all he could do was follow. Through the mist. Through the tall grass.
After several minutes of silent marching, Tsukasa finally slowed. The tension in his grip eased, and with a soft breath, he released Sora's arm.
"We should pause here," he said, scanning ahead. "The grass thins near the edge. Beyond that, we're exposed."
Sora instinctively rubbed his wrist, though the touch hadn't bruised—just lingered longer than he liked. He didn't say anything. Neither did Tsukasa.
Yasuhiro came up beside them, brushing a few stalks aside to get a better look. "The river should be just ahead. I can hear it now—listen."
Sure enough, the distant, steady trickle of water met Sora's ears. It was faint but unmistakable, like the soft hum of an old faucet that never fully shuts off. The sound grounded him somehow. Real. Constant.
"We're still not followed," Yasuhiro added, his voice low and measured.
Tsukasa nodded, crouching slightly and motioning them to do the same. The tall grass now only reached their chests, and the faint blue-gray shimmer of water was beginning to show through the morning haze.
"We'll move slowly from here," Tsukasa murmured, "low to the ground. If anyone's posted along the bank, we don't want to be seen first."
Yasuhiro shifted the travel pack over his shoulder and crouched beside Tsukasa. "What's the plan if we find no boats?"
"We walk the river until we do," Tsukasa said bluntly.
"And if we're spotted?"
There was a pause. Tsukasa didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the mist lifted just enough to show the glint of running water and the faint silhouette of trees beyond. His jaw tightened.
"Then we fight. Or flee."
Sora finally spoke, keeping his voice just above a whisper. "You don't think it's too risky to keep following the river? It's open. Anyone along the other side could see us."
Tsukasa looked over his shoulder at him, not unkindly. "That's why we scout first. We're not rushing into anything. But we can't turn back, and going through another village will only raise more questions."
He glanced toward Sora's feet, lingering just a moment too long. The sandals were already damp from dew, and his steps had been uncertain from the start. "How are you holding up?"
Sora blinked. The question caught him off guard.
"I'm… fine," he replied. "Just need a moment."
Tsukasa nodded once, then turned back to the thinning grass ahead. "Good. We'll hold here. Let me go ahead and check the bank. If it's clear, we'll move."
He glanced at Yasuhiro. "Stay with her. And keep your ears sharp."
Yasuhiro gave a grunt of acknowledgment, already kneeling to adjust the flap on his travel pouch.
The three of them fell into silence again, the only sound the rustling of the grass and the soft babble of the unseen river ahead.
The mist began to thin as they crawled forward through the dew-laced stalks. Each step brought with it the earthy scent of wet soil, crushed roots, and the faint tang of river. The terrain sloped downward now, gradually revealing more of the river ahead—its surface shimmering pale silver beneath the early morning sun.
A large boulder jutted out near the river's edge, partially cloaked in moss, as if nature itself had tried to hide it. The tall grass thinned completely just a few paces ahead, giving way to smooth riverbank and open visibility.
Tsukasa raised a hand, signalling them to stop.
He crept toward the boulder, his form low, careful. Yasuhiro followed close behind, while Sora kept just a few steps back, heart beating quicker than he wanted to admit. The coldness of the grass had soaked through the sandals, and his toes were numb.
Tsukasa crouched behind the rock, placing one hand against its rough surface for support. He peered around it slowly, then stilled.
Yasuhiro joined him, eyes narrowing as he leaned around the opposite side of the boulder.
Sora waited until they both stepped back, sharing a silent glance.
"There," Tsukasa said softly, motioning with a subtle tilt of his chin.
Sora edged forward and peeked around the rock, Akiko's long brown hair covering half of his face.
The river curved gently, hugging the land as it meandered downstream. Its current moved lazily, slow but sure, winding past thick trees and reeds.
And there, not thirty meters away, sat a small fishing boat drifting in the shallows.
It was modest but sturdy—built of pale, weathered wood with a gently arched hull and a raised stern. Several wooden chests lined its deck, stacked neatly, likely containing nets or the morning's catch. A single figure stood near the bow, back turned to them, casting a wide net into the water with a practiced motion. The man wore a short tunic and headcloth, his movements fluid, efficient.
A fisherman. Alone.
"Could be local," Tsukasa muttered. "Or from upstream."
"No crest on the boat," Yasuhiro observed. "Doesn't look like he's part of the patrols."
"He hasn't seen us either." Tsukasa exhaled through his nose. "We're lucky."
Sora shifted beside them, voice low. "Should we signal him? Ask for a crossing?"
Tsukasa didn't answer immediately.
Tsukasa leaned back against the rock, arms crossed. "If he's friendly, we save hours of walking. Maybe more."
"Or he recognizes her," Yasuhiro said flatly. "Or her face gets described in the next village by nightfall."
They both glanced at Sora then. He could feel their eyes on him—on Akiko's face. A noble girl in borrowed clothes, still too clean for someone meant to blend in. The risk was obvious.
Sora frowned, thinking hard. "We're losing time either way. If we keep following the bank and someone does catch sight of us, we'll have nowhere to hide. Out in the open, broad daylight."
"He's alone," Yasuhiro added. "If something goes wrong, we can overpower him before he makes a sound."
Tsukasa's jaw tightened.
"Or we get on that boat, and he's halfway to the nearest checkpoint the moment we step off," he said.
Silence fell over the three of them. The only sound was the net splashing gently into the water and the soft slosh of the boat shifting with the current.
Finally, Tsukasa and Yasuhiro turned their eyes to Sora, still crouched low behind the moss-covered boulder. The hush of the river behind them filled the silence like a breath waiting to be held.
"What do you propose, Lady Akiko?" Tsukasa asked quietly, his voice level but firm. He wasn't just asking for opinion—he was deferring command. The final word was hers.
Sora hesitated.
A flicker of doubt crossed his face. He remembered all too well, their skeletons on display in the museum, the fates of all of them, the tragic weight of the nameless etched into a future none of them could read. He didn't know exactly when it would happen, or how—but the truth pressed against his chest like a stone.
They would die. All of them.
Unless something changed.
With a shallow breath, he spoke. "We should cross," he said. "But… we need to be prepared. If he's working for the ones after us, we'll be walking straight into a trap."
Neither man spoke right away.
Then Sora added, quieter this time, "I should have a weapon."
Tsukasa blinked, his expression unreadable. Yasuhiro, however, stared outright.
The silence turned heavy.
A lady carrying a weapon—especially one of noble birth—was unthinkable. Improper. A breach of every expectation their world demanded of her. And yet, the look in Sora's eyes—Akiko's eyes—was not one they could easily dismiss.
"Lady… Granddaughter," Yasuhiro began, his voice a low murmur laced with discomfort, "we are the ones meant to protect you. That is our role, not yours."
He looked genuinely pained.
Beside him, Tsukasa rubbed a thumb across his lower lip, thoughtful. "Yasuhiro…" he said softly. "I know it's not right. Not by tradition. But she has a point. If—if something happens, and we're not there fast enough… she may be the only one left standing. And if that happens, wouldn't you rather she had a chance?"
Yasuhiro clenched his jaw.
Sora nodded, just once—but with certainty. He had never held a weapon in his life. Never so much as touched a real blade. But none of that mattered. He had to be ready to fight, even if it terrified him. Because the only thing more terrifying was watching Akiko's body fall with him inside it, powerless to stop it.
"I'll do what I have to," he said.
Tsukasa nodded in quiet support. But Yasuhiro wasn't swayed.
His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at the young woman—at the girl he'd known since her childhood.
"How do we explain this if we return?" he said, his voice low and taut. "What future does Lady Akiko have if word spreads, she carried a weapon like a foot soldier? Like a criminal?"
No one answered.
He looked away, muttering under his breath as he rummaged through his travel pack, the cloth rustling with every frustrated motion.
Finally, he pulled something free.
It wasn't much—small, simple. A kogatana. A utility knife used for daily tasks, cooking, woodwork—hardly a warrior's weapon, but sharp and serviceable. The kind of thing a retainer might carry tucked in their sleeve, never spoken of.
Yasuhiro extended it, holding it flat across his palms like a secret he didn't want to keep.
"Lady Akiko," he said, his tone now colder, more serious. "Promise me you will not show this to anyone. You will not speak of it. You will not let it be seen. This is for your protection alone—and even that, I question."
His eyes searched hers, waiting.
Sora nodded slowly. "I promise."
He took the knife and slipped it carefully between the folds of his robe, nestling it in a spot near his waist. Then he withdrew it, once, twice—testing the weight, the motion. It felt awkward in his hand, but no heavier than the burden of the truth he carried.
Tsukasa watched with quiet approval. Yasuhiro's face, however, remained tight.
They crouched in silence again behind the boulder, the soft sloshing of the river echoing just beyond them. The fisherman's net cast out once more, rising and falling in rhythm with the morning.
For now, all that mattered was delivering the scroll.
Whatever came after Sora—Akiko would face it when it came.
Sora stood, slowly stretching his legs. The stiffness in Akiko's joints reminded him just how unused this body was to crouching for so long. He rolled his shoulders, careful not to jostle the small blade hidden beneath the layers of his robe. His gaze drifted back to the river.
It wasn't wide. Forty, maybe fifty meters across. The current was gentle, like a butterfly gliding through the wind. But there was no bridge in sight, and no place shallow enough to wade through—not in these clothes, not with supplies.
They would need the boat.
He took a tentative step forward, then another, the grass parting around his knees as he moved toward the open bank. Behind him, Yasuhiro and Tsukasa both rose in quick succession, their bodies low, alert, scanning the horizon for movement. But there was no ambush, no patrol.
Just the soft creak of wood and the occasional splash of the fisherman's net.
The boat drifted lazily in the current, anchored by a long pole stuck deep into the riverbed. The man aboard was now pulling in the net—tangled with a small catch of river fish—before casting it again in a wide arc.
Sora stopped just before the grass gave way to open mud and shallow reeds. He raised a hand, hesitant, then waved.
Nothing.
Tsukasa moved up beside him. "He's focused on his work. We need something louder."
Yasuhiro stooped near the boulder, picked up a smooth, palm-sized stone, and held it out to Tsukasa, who nodded.
"Carefully," Tsukasa murmured.
He stepped forward, balanced, then threw the stone underhand—not at the boat, but just wide of it. It landed with a loud splash, close enough to draw attention without risk of insult or injury.
The fisherman turned his head sharply.
He spotted them immediately—three figures on the bank, dressed like travellers, faces half-obscured by mist. His hands remained steady, one still gripping the net. He didn't panic. But he didn't wave back either.
Tsukasa cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, voice carrying over the river. "We seek passage across!"
The fisherman tilted his head, sceptical. His voice came back after a beat, rough and worn from years of shouting over water. "And what's in it for me?"
Tsukasa glanced at Yasuhiro, who simply folded his arms. Then he reached into the inner fold of his travel pack and pulled out a small leather pouch. With care, he untied the string and tilted it into his palm.
A single silver mon, dull from age but unmistakably metal, dropped into his hand.
Coins were rare. Most people in these lands still traded in rice, cloth, labor. But metal—especially silver—spoke louder than rank or robe.
Tsukasa held the coin up, letting the sun catch the faint shine.
The fisherman saw it immediately. His brow lifted. He squinted harder, then pulled his net fully into the boat with one practiced motion. He moved to the tiller, tugged the pole free, and let the boat drift closer.
"Don't toss it yet," he called. "I'll hear your terms first."
Tsukasa smiled faintly. "Of course."
Sora glanced between the two men, heart drumming in his chest.
This was it—the first real moment of risk, of trust. A single wrong word, a sharp eye, a hesitation, and the man could run. Or worse, report. But Tsukasa stood steady, and Yasuhiro's hand hovered loosely by his side, not on his sword—but close enough.
The boat drifted closer.
The fisherman maneuvered the boat with practiced ease, guiding it closer to shore. With a push of his long pole, he slowed the drift, then anchored it with a wet wooden thunk, burying the pole deep into the soft riverbed. The vessel stopped just a few paces in front of Sora, its hull creaking faintly.
The man looked them over with a cautious eye, wiping river water from his hands onto his tunic.
"Well?" he asked, voice hoarse but calm. "What are your conditions?"
Yasuhiro stepped forward, his stance composed but not overly formal. He didn't bow. "We seek to cross. A straight line to the opposite bank will do. Nothing more."
The fisherman's gaze flicked to each of them in turn. A girl too clean for her clothing. Two men with wary postures. Too quiet. Too tense, it must be them.
"And the coin?" he asked.
Yasuhiro opened his palm and showed it—the silver mon glinting dully in the light.
The man's demeanor shifted. His eyes lit up with eagerness, and he nodded with no further complaint. "A fine price for a short crossing."
He reached down and drew the pole from the riverbed again, freeing the boat. As it drifted in, he extended a hand to steady it against the shore.
"Come aboard, then," he said.
Tsukasa stepped in first, light on his feet despite the soaked planks. He motioned for Sora to follow. The girl's sandals clacked against the boat's edge before she stepped lightly inside, wobbling for a moment as the vessel dipped under her weight. Yasuhiro followed last, handing over the coin in passing.
The fisherman bit it gently, then pocketed it. The act was almost ceremonial.
The boat was cramped—barely large enough for four. The deck was damp from the net, which lay coiled near the stern and still dripped with river water. The sharp tang of fish clung to everything, mixing with the faint sweetness of rotting wood.
Sora tried not to breathe too deeply.
The boat eased off from the shore. The current took them gently at first, and the fisherman guided them in a steady arc toward the opposite bank. The far trees began to take shape—green, full, and blessedly empty.
Everything seemed fine.
Until it didn't.
Halfway across the river, the man shifted his weight and slowed his strokes. The boat rocked subtly. Then, without warning, he stopped rowing altogether.
Tsukasa's head tilted slightly, just barely.
Yasuhiro's eyes narrowed.
Sora's gaze drifted toward the centre of the boat—toward a small stack of wooden boxes tied off by coarse rope. At first, they seemed ordinary—weathered, stained, and nondescript. But one of them had jostled loose during the drift, its lid tilted just enough to reveal what lay inside.
His heart froze.
Inside were arrows. Dozens of them. Short-fletched, black-feathered. The exact kind that had been fired at them from the trees. Clean, dry, and tightly packed.
Not for fishing.
Sora's eyes shot up to the fisherman, who now stood completely still at the centre of the boat.
He was no longer smiling.
Their gazes met—and the man smiled again.
But it wasn't the same smile.
Slowly, almost deliberately, he stepped back toward the edge of the net pile and reached behind one of the crates. For a moment, Sora hoped he was just adjusting the rope.
But then the man drew a weapon from the shadows.
A long blade—slightly curved, heavy at the spine, forged from bronze that gleamed dully in the morning haze. Not a katana. Not elegant. But a weapon built for war.
And he swung.
Straight toward Tsukasa.
The bronze flashed in the air.
And the river held its breath.