The moon hung like a blade over the mountains of Kurogane. Its silver light bled across the slopes, touching the old shrine that stood at the edge of the world. Wind stirred through the forest, carrying the scent of sakura and cold stone. Beneath that ancient moon, a lone girl knelt before the altar — her name was Amaya.
Her robes were worn, her hands marked by the roughness of prayer and work. She had served the mountain shrine since she could walk, orphaned by plague and taken in by the monks who spoke little and smiled less. Yet, when night came and the wind whispered through the cedar trees, she would always climb the shrine steps alone, drawn by a voice she could never name.
That night, as the bells of midnight began to ring from the valley below, the world seemed to tremble.
The torii gate shuddered, its vermilion paint flaking under unseen force. The candle flames by the altar bent toward the mountain peak, and the air filled with a low, trembling hum — the kind of sound that made the soul ache.
Amaya lifted her gaze to the heavens.
Above her, the full moon fractured into a thousand smaller moons — each one glowing, swirling, and merging again. The stars themselves seemed to bow, and within that endless light, she saw a figure—a woman with hair like flowing ink, and eyes like burning gold. She stood upon a sea of clouds, her white robes stained by blood and ash.
Amaya could not breathe.
Her heart pounded, and her voice escaped in a whisper.
"Who… who are you?"
The woman raised her hand, and the world grew still. When she spoke, it was not in words but in a song that filled the air with sorrow.
> "When the heavens fall, the emperor shall bleed.
When the lotus blooms in winter, I shall rise again."
A gust of wind ripped through the shrine. The candles went out. The sky folded back into one moon — whole, silent, watching.
Amaya fell forward, clutching her chest. Something hot pulsed beneath her ribs — not pain, but power, ancient and unyielding. It moved like light beneath her skin, marking her veins with faint traces of gold. She gasped, her breath steaming as though the air itself rejected her mortal body.
"Amaya!" a voice shouted from below. It was Elder Haru, the shrine keeper. His lantern flickered as he climbed the steps, his face a mask of fear. "What have you done? The spirits— they stirred!"
"I… saw someone," she whispered, trembling. "A woman. She said she would rise again."
The elder froze. His eyes widened — not with disbelief, but recognition. "No," he muttered, clutching a prayer bead tight enough to draw blood. "It cannot be. Not after all these centuries…"
"Who was she?" Amaya asked, desperate.
The old man looked up at the moon, pale and trembling.
"The one who should never return," he said. "The Goddess of the Emperor."
A bell tolled in the valley — deep and distant. Then, from the horizon, a storm began to form. Clouds twisted around the moon like serpents. Thunder growled across the mountains, and the wind howled through the shrine's cracked beams.
Amaya felt the warmth inside her chest flare once more. She looked down and saw faint, glowing sigils bloom across her skin — divine script written in light. The elder staggered back, eyes wide with terror.
"You bear her mark," he gasped. "You are her vessel!"
The ground trembled.
The ancient bells hanging from the shrine roof began to ring by themselves.
The voice — that same voice from the moonlit dream — whispered once more in her mind.
> "Awaken, Tsukihara… the Emperor awaits."
And then, the night shattered.
A column of light burst from the shrine, reaching toward the heavens. The forest bent, the mountain roared, and every creature in the valley bowed as divine energy poured forth — ancient, furious, and reborn.
When it faded, Amaya lay unconscious among the ruins, her hair streaked with silver.
The storm had passed.
But far to the east, in the capital of the Imperial Palace of Tsukiyomi, the young Emperor awoke from his throne, clutching his chest — for he, too, had seen the goddess in his dream.
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