The shrine, already heavy with the weight of ancient invocation, shudders.

The moment your blade—Reiken—sings from its sheath, the air splits. Steel shrieks.

Lantern light flickers violently, stretching shadows long across the stone, as if the shrine itself recoiled then bowed. The grinding echo of the blade's unsheathing rattles votive candles in their brass cups. Nearby, a torii gate groans.

Aura answers steel.

The moment Reiken’s edge clears the scabbard, the world tightens. Rain halts midair. Wind folds inward. The veil pulses—once, hard—as your ki floods outward like a spiritual pressure wave, invisible but immediate. Reiken glows, faintly, like frost on a winter morning catching just the right breath of light. The sigils carved along its spine spark one by one in answer to the bloodline that now wields it.

Sakura stiffens first.

Her ears twitch, then fold flat. Her pupils narrow to predatory slits. The tail around your arm coils tighter—not threatening, but territorial. Her expression warps—not fear, not respect, but recognition. Her form, ethereal at the edges, now anchors more fully into the material plane as her claws flex against the lacquered floor.

“Ehh~?” she drawled, voice velvet-wrapped and razor-edged. “Bringing out big scary Reiken already, Alex-sama? Kinky~… You trying to impress someone?”

“Nyaa…” she murmurs, soft now, not teasing. Her tone carries an odd depth—like a memory unearthed. “That name… was written in lavender ink, you know. In a very old contract book.” Her grin returns, slower, sharper. “So you are that Yotsuba's offspring. Heh… what a mess this is going to be, meow~.”

Kohaku, by contrast, does not move. Her eyes close for one heartbeat. Then open—glowing gold.

Each of her nine tails lifts. Not in alarm. Not even in pride. But in acknowledgment. Her face bears the stillness of snow before an avalanche.

“Reiken,” she repeats softly. “A name of the true east. A blade untouched by imperial revision or Meiji shame.”

Her head inclines—fractionally. Not a bow. Not subservience. But ceremonial recognition.

Then she steps forward and sinks into a formal seated position, legs folded, sleeves neatly arranged, tails behind her in perfect arc. She places one hand against the floorboards, and traces a slow, deliberate spiral.

The ward around the shrine pulses again—once, deeply. It resonates not with magic, but with consent.

“Kohaku acknowledges the bond. Not lightly, not with pride—but with oath.” She meets your gaze. Not as servant. Not as weapon. But as ally. “This one shall defend the seal, as the Yotsuba did before. Kon~.”

Sakura flops into a seated crouch, legs folded like a lazy cat, eyes half-lidded.

“Meow~... well if fox-face is in, I guess I’m stuck too. Not that I’d let her hog all the glory.” She drags a claw lazily against her own cheek, purring faintly. “But don’t expect obedience, Alex-senpai~. Expect results.”

Her eyes flick to the blade.

“And maybe some broken rules.”

The shoji slammed shut, echoing like a gavel through the narrow threshold of morning. Incense smoldered uneasily, its curled threads disturbed by agitation rather than breeze. Outside, the crowd had stilled into its usual murmur, but within the shrine, the air had already changed—sharp now, tinged faintly with ozone and fur.

From the ridgebeam above the offering alcove, a tail uncurled with the slow deliberation of a falling leaf.

“Eeeh~? So loud, so early,” came the reply, half yawn, half accusation. A blur of black and lavender dropped into the garden stones with a feline softness that made mockery of the drama. Sakura landed in a crouch, her second tail swaying as if independently annoyed.

She straightened—just enough to stretch, arms arcing over her head, claws flexing, back arched to the sky like a smug temple cat that had trespassed one too many thresholds.

Her ears flicked as she regarded him—no, regarded the scuff where his sandals had stamped, the angry twist of his breath still lingering in the air. Then her eyes narrowed toward the entrance, where the spectral residue of her gift still stained the welcome mat.

“Oh, that?” she purred, already circling a half-step to the side, one finger dragging lazily along the base of a stone lantern as though dusting, or daring it to tip.

“It followed me~. Or part of it did. Hmph. Wasn’t very polite, showing up uninvited. Sakura merely… relocated it. Nyaa~.”

She flicked her wrist in an exaggerated shrug, claws catching the sunlight just as it breached the eaves. Her expression—tight-lipped smirk, brows lifted in half-innocent challenge—did not soften.

“And anyway,” she sniffed, “Sakura was thinking of you. It’s not like Kohaku-senpai would notice anything crawling across the barrier unless it announced itself with calligraphy and a shrine donation. That fox-face sleeps like she’s trying to forget the last century.”

Her tail looped once around her own ankle, then uncoiled toward the veranda step, where a rice bowl still steamed faintly from breakfast—untouched.

“I was going to clean it up,” she added, voice flattening into a mutter barely audible over the first chirp of morning birds. “Eventually.”

A pause. Then—mischief returning, coiled anew around her lips:

“…Unless you liked it. Did you? It was missing a few bits, but the fang was still intact. Good trophy piece. Very yokai-chic~.”

A rustle. Somewhere deeper in the shrine, nine tails stirred beneath a folded screen.

The air thickened.

Sakura did not look. But she did smirk.

“Oops. Guess the old scroll finally woke up. Shall I prepare tea~? Or should we both pretend you didn’t just yell for me loud enough to rattle the ofuda?”

Sakura’s ears twitched, flattening for just an instant—barely more than a ripple in her hair. Her tail froze mid-flick.

Then the pout returned. Slow. Deliberate. As if assembled from equal parts wounded pride and cultivated melodrama.

“Tch. Scaring the Gaijin,” she echoed, dragging the words out like claws against wood. “You say that like it was Sakura’s fault their spirits are too soft to look directly at something with teeth.”

Still, she shifted—weight now on one hip, one toe drawing a slow spiral in the dust near the veranda’s edge.

The name Reiken had weight, even when spoken idly. Her eyes glanced—just once—at the blade’s hilt.

“Leave it on your bed, you said?” she murmured, ears now fully perked. “Hmph. You’d whine about the sheets. Or claim it’s unhygienic. Or roll over onto something important and then demand I explain why your dream self now limps.”

Her eyes slanted toward him now, gleaming with heat—and something else, older, curled beneath the words like smoke in a sealed jar.

“Fine~. Tea for the Gaijin,” she grumbled, but there was tension in the flick of her tail now. Not indignation. Readiness. “I’ll mask up. I’ll even bow. But you will clean the offering plate if some idiot spills their matcha all over it again trying to take a selfie with the incense burner.”

Her voice lowered then, curling toward a growl—not angered, but sharp at the edges:

“…But threaten my midnight snacks again, and maybe I leave you on the welcome mat next time. Half of you. Just the boring half. Nyaa~.”

She turned, flicked her tail with finality.

And then paused.

A rustle. Barely audible. A silken hiss of presence descending the inner walkway behind them.

Nine tails moved like breath in moonlight.

Kohaku did not speak yet. But the illusion veil around the shrine entrance had thickened—like frost forming across a still pool.

The reptilian yokai’s residue began to dissolve on contact.

Sakura did not look back. But her shoulders straightened.

“Tea,” she muttered, sticking out her tongue in the apartment's direction and vanishing with a swirl of mocking grace into the kitchen alcove.