The night was deep, settling over the Xiao Clan compound like a heavy velvet shroud.
It was past the Hour of the Rat—midnight. The bustling noises of the servants had long faded, replaced by the chirping of crickets and the distant rustle of wind through the bamboo groves.
In the infirmary room, Yoriichi Tsugikuni opened his eyes.
He had not been sleeping deeply. For decades, his sleep had been light, a warrior's rest ready to be broken by the slightest scent of a demon. Even in this new body, that instinct remained. He had rested enough to regain some stamina, but the inactivity was gnawing at his spirit.
He threw off the silk blanket. The moonlight poured through the window where the threatening letter had been, casting a pale, silver rectangle onto the floor.
"The moon is bright tonight," Yoriichi thought, a sudden wave of nostalgia washing over him.
He looked at the bowl on the bedside table. The roasted meats were cold now, the grease congealing into white distinct layers. To waste food was a sin, but to force his body to consume something it rejected was a violation of his nature.
"I must return this to the earth," he decided.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The pain in his shin was sharp, a hot wire of agony that shot up to his hip. Yoriichi breathed in—a short, focused inhalation that circulated the oxygen through his blood vessels. The pain didn't disappear, but it became distant, a signal rather than a hindrance.
He stood up. He swayed slightly, gripping the bedpost, then stabilized.
With the bowl of meat tucked under one arm, Yoriichi moved toward the door. He didn't walk with the heavy, stomping gait of the old Xiao Ning. He moved with the sliding step of a swordsman, his feet rolling over the floorboards so silently that not even the dust seemed to be disturbed.
He slipped out of the room.
The corridor was empty. The Xiao Clan compound was a maze of traditional courtyards, moon gates, and winding paths. Yoriichi navigated it by instinct and by the flow of air. He sought the scent of soil and running water.
He passed the main training grounds, empty now save for the wooden dummies standing like silent sentinels. He passed the junior dormitories where snores drifted out of open windows.
Finally, he found a secluded path leading toward the back of the clan estate. This path was overgrown with wild bushes, evidently rarely used by the main family members. It led toward the foothills of the Magic Beast Mountain Range that bordered the city.
The air here was fresher, laced with the smell of damp moss and pine needles.
Yoriichi walked until he found a spot where the earth was soft, beneath the roots of an ancient willow tree. He knelt, wincing slightly as his injured knee touched the ground.
He dug a small hole with his bare hands, his movements methodical and respectful.
He poured the expensive roasted chicken, the beef, and the pork into the earth.
"I apologize," Yoriichi whispered to the food. "I cannot give you purpose within my body. But the earth is hungry. May you nourish the roots and become life again."
He covered the hole, patting the soil down gently. A small smile touched his lips.
"Maybe I did not get the nutrition," he joked to himself in the silence, "but the plants sure will. Perhaps this willow will grow taller than the rest."
He stood up and dusted off his hands. Nearby, he heard the sound of bubbling water.
Curious, he followed the sound a little further up the path. The trees parted, revealing a small, hidden alcove.
It was beautiful.
A natural hot spring stream trickled down from the rocks, pooling into a small basin before flowing outward to join the river. Steam rose from the surface, curling into the cool night air like white spirits dancing. The full moon hung directly above, its reflection trapped perfectly in the steaming water.
Yoriichi approached the water's edge. The warmth radiating from it was soothing against the chill of the night.
He sat down at the base of a pine tree, leaning his back against the rough bark. He extended his injured leg, letting the heat from the nearby steam relax the tight muscles.
He looked up at the moon.
It was the same moon. Different world, different stars, but the moon looked exactly the same as it did in the Sengoku period.
"Brother..." Yoriichi whispered, the word catching in his throat.
The image of Michikatsu overlaid the moon. He saw the brother who gave him a flute when he was being abused. He saw the brother who trained with him. And he saw the creature with six eyes who had screamed in envy as Yoriichi died.
"How are you there?" Yoriichi thought, his expression crumbling into a profound, aching sorrow. "The power that blinded you... the fear of death that twisted your heart... I hope you can understand now. I hope, wherever your soul has gone, you are no longer afraid."
He felt a phantom weight at his waist—not the sword, but a small cloth pouch that used to hold a crude, wooden flute.
He reached down, his fingers grasping at empty air. The flute was gone. It had been buried with his old body, or perhaps destroyed in the battle.
"I should make another," Yoriichi mused, lowering his hand. "In my past life, I spent every waking moment hunting, training, or grieving. I never took the time to simply play. I never learned the songs Uta liked."
He looked at the bamboo growing near the stream.
"Yes. I will buy a flute, or I will carve one. I will learn to play. This life... it cannot just be about the sword. That was my mistake before."
The sound of the water was hypnotic. The fatigue of the body, combined with the emotional release, made his eyelids heavy.
Yoriichi closed his eyes. Just for a moment.
He drifted into a light doze, the "Selfless State" keeping a passive watch over his surroundings. He dreamed of a quiet tune, carried on the wind.
High above, concealed within the dense canopy of a towering oak tree, two figures blended perfectly with the darkness.
They were not using breathing techniques; they were using high-level Qi suppression methods.
One was a young girl in a pale purple training outfit, her hair tied back for combat. The other was an elderly man cloaked in shadows, his presence so faint he seemed like a wisp of smoke.
Xiao Xun Er and Ling Ying.
They had been there for an hour. Xun Er often came to this secluded spot to practice her clan's secret techniques, as the density of Fire Qi here was slightly higher due to the hot spring. They hadn't expected to find the injured "young master" of the Xiao Clan stumbling into their training ground.
Xun Er stared down at the sleeping figure of Xiao Ning (Yoriichi) with a furrowed brow.
"Uncle Ling," she whispered, her voice barely audible even to the wind. "What is he doing?"
She gestured to the patch of fresh soil near the willow tree.
"First, he drags his broken body out here in the middle of the night," Xun Er analyzed, her tone a mix of confusion and disdain. "Then, he buries a bowl full of spirit-nourishing meat—food that any outer clan disciple would kill for. And now? He stares at the moon with the face of a grieving widower and falls asleep against a tree."
She shook her head. "Has the beating made him insane?"
Ling Ying, the Shadow Guard, did not answer immediately. His eyes, glowing with a faint, eerie light, were fixed on Yoriichi.
As an experienced Dou Huang, Ling Ying had seen thousands of warriors. He knew how to read intent, desire, and fear. But when he looked at the boy below, he felt... nothing.
No, not nothing. He felt a void.
"Young Miss," Ling Ying said slowly, his gravelly voice tinged with a rare seriousness. "I watched him bury the meat. He didn't do it with anger or wastefulness. He did it... respectfully. He even apologized to the food."
"He apologized to a chicken?" Xun Er raised an eyebrow. "Definitely insane."
"Perhaps," Ling Ying murmured. "But look at his sleeping posture. His hand is resting near his waist, where a sword would be. His breathing matches the rhythm of the wind. He is completely relaxed, yet I feel that if a leaf were to fall on him, he would know."
Ling Ying stroked his chin. "I must say, Young Miss... he has changed greatly. The old Xiao Ning was a transparent vessel of greed and lust. This boy... his soul feels deep. Like an old well."
Xun Er snorted softly, crossing her arms. "You give him too much credit, Uncle. He is likely just depressed because he realized he will never beat Xiao Yan ge-ge."
She looked down at the meat burial site again.
"What is the matter with the meat, though?" she asked. "Why throw it away?"
"He may have developed an aversion," Ling Ying speculated. "Or perhaps he prefers a plant-based diet to keep his Qi pure. Some ancient sects believe that meat clouds the spiritual senses. I can investigate if you wish? I can check if he has been eating like this for the past year."
Xun Er waved her hand dismissively.
"Hmph. No need," she said coldly. "No need to waste time on that trash. Whether he eats grass or gold, he is still just Xiao Ning. He is of no consequence to us."
She turned her gaze toward the direction of Xiao Yan's room, her expression instantly softening into something tender and melancholic.
"Besides," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "I think... Xiao Yan ge-ge might leave this city very soon."
Ling Ying nodded solemnity. "The Three Year Agreement with Nalan Yanran. The Young Master needs to grow faster than this small city allows. The eagle must leave the nest to learn to fly."
"I know," Xun Er said, a shimmer of sadness in her golden eyes. "I just... worry. The world outside is cruel. Crueler than he knows."
She looked back at Yoriichi one last time.
"Let's go, Uncle. Seeing him mope around is ruining my focus."
"As you wish, Miss."
With a soft rustle, like leaves brushing together, the two figures vanished into the night, leaving the sleeping samurai alone with the moon.
Minutes later, Yoriichi woke up.
He didn't wake up with a start. His eyes simply opened, clear and alert. The nap had been short, but revitalizing.
"I should go back," he thought, checking the position of the moon. "If the servants find my bed empty, it will cause a commotion. I cannot afford more attention right now."
He stood up, brushing the pine needles from his haori. The pain in his leg had returned with the cooling of the air, a dull throb that reminded him of his mortality.
He began the slow walk back to his room.
He retraced his steps, moving through the shadows of the garden, past the silent training dummies, and back into the main corridor.
As he reached the door of his room, he paused.
A sudden tickle assaulted his nose.
"Achoo!"
Yoriichi sneezed, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet hallway. He rubbed his nose, blinking in confusion.
"That is strange," he thought. "I do not have a cold. My body temperature is regulated by the Breath."
In his old culture, there was a superstition: if you sneeze once, someone is speaking well of you. If you sneeze twice, someone is speaking ill of you.
"Just once," Yoriichi noted, a small, amused smile gracing his face. "Someone thinking of me? Who could it be? Perhaps Big Sister is worrying in her sleep."
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The room was exactly as he left it. The moon still cast its silver square on the floor.
Yoriichi climbed back into bed, arranging the pillows to support his injured ribs. He closed his eyes, but his mind was already turning toward the sunrise.
"Tomorrow," he promised himself. "Tomorrow, the sun rises. And so do I."
The darkness loomed, but the second life of the Sun Breather was ready to burn it away.