Author's Note:
"Contains original additions, based solely on the anime, early arcs feature a beautiful but fragile protagonist, an absolute heart-stealer. The story unfolds from a thousand years ago, slow-paced (the Millennium Arc is Yukiori's personal saga, with the entire narrative revolving around him). Later arcs resolve lingering regrets. This is the vibe I love, so this is how I write—take it or leave it."
"Pure, slightly bittersweet (I consider it mildly bittersweet), happy ending guaranteed. Don't call it melodramatic; if you can't handle it, click away."
"Check-in point."
Heian Era
Cursed spirits ravaged the land, slaughtering people with reckless abandon. In an age of cold steel, humanity lacked the means to resist.
The more people hated, the more they feared, the stronger their emotions grew—and the more powerful the cursed spirits became.
Then came the sorcerers, wielding cursed energy, their techniques capable of delivering lethal blows to these malevolent entities.
Thus, a delicate stalemate formed between cursed spirits and humans. Though sorcerers were few, they could effectively suppress the spirits.
By now, weaker cursed spirits had begun to hide in the shadows, while only a handful of formidable ones still resisted.
Sorcerers became symbols of prestige in the Heian era. To become one meant wealth and power were but a summon away.
In a remote village, the Hananochi family welcomed an extraordinary child.
Born with snow-white hair and skin so pale that it's outrageous, only his eyes—inherited from his mother—shone a translucent jade, like emeralds in a mountain stream.
The man gazed at the snowflakes swirling outside, the world blanketed in white, then looked down at his wife cradling their newborn. He chose a name for their son.
"Yukiori, let's call him Yukiori."
Yukiori grew up safely in the village. His unusual white hair didn't make him an outcast; instead, the villagers cherished him, seeing him as a snow spirit blessed by the heavens.
His cheerful, lively nature shone through. He often ran barefoot through the forests, his laughter echoing everywhere.
But when Yukiori turned fourteen, the villagers' gazes shifted, carrying a weight that stirred unspoken longing.
His silver-white hair was loosely tied back, stray strands brushing his fair face. He crouched by a stream, watching fish dart about.
The fish spun circles, occasionally leaping to flick their tails, splashing water onto Yukiori.
He didn't mind—he thought the fish were playing with him.
His white lashes fluttered with the rippling water, his jade eyes brimming with curiosity for the unknown, their clarity drawing hearts unbidden.
Yukiori reached out, tracing circles on the water's surface.
His fingers, delicate and unblemished like fresh bamboo, bore no marks of labor, spared by his parents' doting love.
No one could bear to see Yukiori tarnished by dust. Even in coarse cloth, his divine aura captivated, a beauty that sparked quiet desires.
"It's Yukiori…"
An aged voice came from behind. Yukiori turned to see Grandpa Tayama, who had always been kind to him.
"Grandpa Tayama, you look spirited today. Is your illness better?"
Yukiori stepped closer, his voice warm with concern, unaware of the flicker in the old man's eyes.
Grandpa Tayama, over seventy, was a rarity in this chaotic era. His wrinkled, spotted face and dark eyes, usually dull with age, seemed to spark with life—perhaps too much—upon seeing Yukiori.
"Much better… seeing you, Yukiori, makes it much better."
He smiled kindly, as always, but his words carried an undercurrent that unsettled Yukiori, like a gaze too heavy for mere fondness.
Noticing Tayama's eyes lingering on his face, Yukiori felt a flush of unease under an elder's stare for the first time. He averted his eyes, mumbled about needing to return home, and hurried away.
The stream stilled, as if the fish had never been there.
Grandpa Tayama watched his white-clad figure vanish, unblinking, before slowly rubbing his weary eyes, a sigh betraying a heart stirred by youth's radiance.
Back in the village, Yukiori exhaled in relief at the sight of familiar faces. But as he waved to an uncle he was close with, he caught a strange, lingering look in his eyes.
It wasn't just him. The moment Yukiori appeared, every villager stopped their work, their gazes woven with complex emotions—admiration, yearning, restraint.
Yukiori froze, overwhelmed by the intensity.
"Uncle…"
"Auntie? Big Brother?"
Even the eight-year-old boy he knew looked at him with unfamiliar eyes, a spark of innocent awe.
What had happened?
Lips pressed tight, Yukiori ran past them, fleeing home, his heart racing with confusion.
If he could just get home, everything would be fine. His parents would know what was wrong.
In his innocence, Yukiori believed returning home would restore everything.
At the Hananochi estate, the man sat at the entrance, as if awaiting something.
Yukiori's panting grew closer. His loose hair draped over his shoulders, his appearance disheveled. He collapsed to his knees before his father.
Unlike before, his father didn't rush to comfort him. Instead, he gazed at his extraordinary son with a complicated expression, torn between love and dread.
His wife, beside him, turned away, sobbing softly.
"Father, Mother, what's wrong with everyone? Even Grandpa Tayama… he was so strange…"
"I'm scared."
Yukiori scrambled up, reaching for his mother's embrace, but was dodged again.
He froze, hurt, his heart aching.
"Mother?"
His voice trembled. Why were his parents acting so strange? Everything was fine before he left.
But thinking back, Yukiori realized a faint sense of being watched—coveted, perhaps—had lingered for some time.
The man sighed deeply, drawing a dagger from behind him. He couldn't bring himself to act.
"Yukiori, this face of yours… it doesn't belong here."
He could already foresee that as Yukiori grew, his beauty would draw dangerous attention—perhaps from sorcerers, perhaps worse. To protect him, he saw no other way.
They were ordinary people in a turbulent world, powerless even among common folk.
Yet their family had produced a sacred flower, its allure a peril they couldn't shield.
They could only dim its radiance.
Yukiori didn't fully grasp his words but understood the dagger meant his father wanted him to ruin his face.
"Yukiori, my child, your mother is so sorry."
His mother, unable to hold back, rushed to embrace the stunned Yukiori, sobbing until she nearly collapsed, caught by Yukiori as he came to his senses.
"Father, Mother, if I do this, will everything go back to how it was?"