Wait—bathroom ghost?" I said, disbelief dripping. "We're risking our lives against a toilet spirit?"
Saiko flicked her coin, grinning again. "Sounds fun."
Genkei tightened his grip. "A challenge."
The head said something else. You may keep calling me 'Head of the Onmyōji,' but names are more personal. If you intend to carry graves, to tether spirits, you should know mine."
His gaze cut across us—so heavy it felt like he was nailing the moment into permanence.
"My name is Hōjō Tenmyō."
Saiko twirled her coin, unimpressed. "Sounds like a calligraphy brand."
Genkei froze. His face lighting up under the hood. "...Hōjō?"
Tenmyō's gaze flicked to him.
"The Hōjō were more than a clan. They were a dynasty. Regents who ruled Japan through the Kamakura shogunate, eclipsing both the shoguns and the Imperial Court. Their authority was real—while the emperor's became symbolic. Crushed the Mongol invasions. Until resentment tore them down and the Ashikaga rose in their place."
Silence. Even Saiko stopped twirling her coin.
Tenmyō was shocked, almost amused. "You know your history well."
Genkei's voice didn't waver. "A swordsman should know the line his blade follows. And the shadows behind it."
The Head exhaled slowly, something unreadable flickering across his face. "Few recite such things. Fewer still understand their weight."
"Guess he's just a nerd,"
Arata clapped his hands together. "Alright, alright. Enough with the gravitas. You all look like orphans at a will reading. Let's lighten things up."
"Lighten things up?" I said. "We were just fighting ghosts."
"Not ghosts, but spirits there's a difference. But sure." Arata grinned. "Which means it's makeover time."
Saiko's eyes lit up. "Makeover?"
"Uniforms." Arata clarified, dragging the word out. "Your ugly civilian clothes are crying for retirement."
"I like my school clothes," I muttered.
"They don't like you back," Arata shot.
He led us down a side passage, humming off-key, until we emerged in a storage hall stacked with lacquered chests and folded garments. Red-and-white onmyōji uniforms hung neatly on stands—formal, ceremonial, the kind you'd expect in a shrine.
Arata snapped his fingers. "But I know you kids. You want flavor. So, I pulled some strings. Got you customs."
Arata yanked open a chest with all the pomp of a magician unveiling a trick he'd been waiting to pull for hours. "Ta-dah. Uniforms."
He shoved mine into my arms before I could even react—black and purple, with the clan symbol stitched in sharp white on the back and on the sleeve. Then I saw it. The hood. Pink. Bright enough to be offensive.
"...Pink?" I stared at it like he'd handed me a dead animal.
Arata grinned, teeth showing. "Yeah. Matches the tips of your hair."
My hand instinctively went up, brushing the pink tips. My mouth twisted. "I don't even like that my hair's pink. It's from my dad. Mom's is black. My older younger sister? All pink. My younger one? All black. Me? I get this half-and-half embarrassment."
Saiko leaned in, grinning. "Embarrassment looks good on you."
"Shut up," I snapped, holding the hood like it was diseased.
"When did you even request these?" I asked Arata.
He tapped his chin, thinking way too casually. "Mmm, about… a week ago?"
I blinked. "A week? You only met me tonight. How the hell did you know to get pink for me?"
His grin didn't falter. "I can see the future. Or I'm psychic. Or maybe I just have good fashion sense."
"That's not an answer," I said, heat rising in my chest.
"Life rarely gives answers, kid. Only color palettes."
I clenched my jaw, glaring. He just laughed it off, strolling away like he'd done nothing suspicious at all. My head burned hotter than the pink on the hood.
"I'm not wearing the hood," I said flatly.
"I hate hoodies!" I said louder, in case the gods were listening.
Genkei, meanwhile, was already pulling his uniform from Arata's hand—a cyan and black set with yellow highlights and a black and cyan split hood stitched perfectly to fit. He lifted the hood, tugged it over his head, and adjusted it until his face was half-shadowed.
"Practical," he said, voice flat.
"Dramatic." Saiko was next. Arata tossed her a jacket in orange and red with the white symbols, cut shorter and sharper than ours, no hood along with a skirt. She slipped it on, stretched her arms wide, then spun in a circle.
"You already blind people when you talk," I muttered.
"Then now I can blind them visually too. Double kill." She winked.
Meanwhile, Miu stood untouched in her red-and-white robes, a calm island in our storm of colors. The way she adjusted her sleeves, composed, precise, made our splash of colors feel like graffiti.
"You're not gonna change?"
"This uniform is not meant to decorate you. She said softly. It is history. Unlike you, I cannot wear a hood and call it personality."
I scowled. "I said I hate hoodies—"
"Exactly," she cut me off. "That's still a personality trait."
Arata cackled.
Saiko high-fived Miu. "See? This is why I like her."
Genkei didn't comment. He just folded his arms, hood casting his eyes into shadow, like he'd been born posing for shrine murals.
Tenmyō's voice broke through. "Now that you look the part, it is time to act it. You will leave now.
I rubbed my temple. "So… we're really doing this? Fighting a bathroom ghost in custom uniforms?"
"Correct," Arata said. "Best dressed exorcists on the block."
Tenmyō nodded.
And just like that, the mission has started. Aka Manto awaited.