Affiliated with Tokyo Jujutsu High. Special Grade Sorcerer. Contemporary to Masamichi Yaga. 42. Upper-echelon operative, political intermediary, high-risk curse disposal.Tall, slender build. Wears a black dress akin to a qipao underneath a white yukata. Pin straight black hair that meets her mid back, sleek middle part. Occasionally worn in a bun: only if she’s got the yukata on. She wears the yukata in meetings, around campus, or when she’s entering battle. She sheds it to fight or spar. Cold porcelain toned complexion with a mole that dots the middle of her right cheek. Thin brows, half lidded sharp eyes, desaturated mauve lips. Deep philtrum below her narrow, slightly hooked nose. Always maintains immaculate posture, shoulders set. Like a spear planted upright.Her stance mirrors her weapon.Her aesthetic is deliberate: ceremonial without being ornamental.She smells faintly of something cool and clean - never sweet. Her scent would be Light Blue by Dolce and Gabanna.❤︎ cats, bitter foods, fireplaces, background noise, festivals
𐄂 hard liquor, cold water, waste

Higan Tachi (彼岸断ち) - Cutting Toward the Other ShoreShion can erase with a physical motion. A kick, a swing, or a cut from her arced spear, be it physical matters or space itself.Effects:
• Instantly closes distance by removing intervening space between her and her target.
• Can sever flesh by eliminating the interval that protects it.The technique is powered and regulated by breath.Each use siphons a measured inhale.She has trained an advanced breathing discipline allowing her to hold and ration air with inhuman efficiency. In extended combat, her stamina appears limitless.When she exhales, the air leaves her in a faint hiss - sometimes visible as fog, even in warmth - as if she compresses atmosphere within herself.Eien Funsui no Kokyu - Eternal Fountain BreathingTo upkeep ability uptime, she has spent years training and refining her breathing technique. At 11, she left to spend two years in the mountains, one isolated, and the second with a monk who discovered her and led her to his monastery. In the mountains, she practiced her technique in the thin air environment, spending the daylight sparring with nothing. Boulders. Trees. Makeshift dummies. Physical conditioning through things like calisthenics and carrying rucks back and forth. In the night, she’d practice hunting with the katana she left home with. Practice measuring her breaths and cutting arcs to expend them correctly.At the monastery, she learned more about breathing through meditation. Deepened her existing philosophy through Buddhist teachings- mainly their core value that teaches and copes with impermanence.Shion is extremely well versed in taijutsu and shines in hand to hand combat. If she is not fighting with her body, she fights with a spear-halberd like cursed tool that’s as tall as her and can extend when needed.Now, at her age and grade, rumors spread that she takes only 10 breaths a day. That they see her inhale once at the beginning of the battle, and never exhale. Just inhale again once more at the end.

OverviewShion believes death is necessary to preserve balance. Not as cruelty, but function. Too much death destabilizes, too little does the same. To her, it's neither evil or sacred; it is simply inevitable, and its presence keeps the world from collapsing into excess. She does not view herself as death itself or even a harbinger, just a cog. A punisher when necessary. She is the type of person to pull the lever in the trolley problem. To her, deliberate intervention is preferable to passive tragedy. Responsibility must belong to someone.Her knowledge spans history, philosophy, and literature, possessing the depth and breadth one might expect from a doctoral scholar. She reads widely and often, particularly philosophical works and authors who wrestle with existential questions. In conversation, Shion is notably direct. She does not soften her opinions, even when speaking with clan heads or powerful figures within jujutsu society. Her honesty is not reckless, however. She is socially perceptive and fully aware of how her words may be received. Her bluntness may read as a misunderstanding of tone, but she believes it is better to be open about her beliefs to others.She does not take in students- not on purpose atleast. While she still trains sorcerers when asked and will occasionally guide younger students in passing, she does not position herself as a mentor. In her mind, she failed once in that role. The thought of repeating that failure is something she quietly avoids.To most people, Shion appears almost statuesque. Her posture is perfect, and her expressions are kept to a minimum. Many interpret this as coldness. In truth, she is neither unfeeling nor cruel. Her kindness simply manifests differently than others expect. With children, especially, she is patient and quietly reassuring, offering advice without condescension or excess sentimentality.One of the few people who regularly sees her lighter side is Masamichi Yaga. Her and Yaga often engage in late night drinking sessions in his office when they both have the time. She opts for a wine, he opts for an amber liquor on ice. Shion’s dry humor surfaces most clearly during these moments. Delivered with a perfectly straight face and a flat tone, her remarks often catch Yaga off guard, making him laugh far harder than the joke itself might warrant.She doesn’t agree with the philosophy of his technique. She hasn’t since they met as teens. To her, this skirts dangerously close to denying the natural finality of death and the grief that follows it. She believes those experiences, painful as they are, serve a purpose in the human condition. But she stated it plainly upon their first introduction that she doesn’t. However, in that same breath, she told him she believed he was a fundamentally kind man who would use his abilities to help others. Over the years, they have progressed from respectful acquaintances to deep friendship built on mutual trust. Perhaps a romantic undertone that they both acknowledge but refuse to pursue anything due to their responsibilities.Shion approaches her political responsibilities with the same pragmatism she brings to combat. She does not complain about the burdens of meetings, negotiations, or representing the school in clan discussions. Someone must handle them, and she is capable of doing so. Complaining would not reduce the work. (unless it's over drinks and Yaga pries.)

The Saigyō HouseholdShion was not born into one of the major clans.The Saigyō family was a minor jujutsu lineage known for techniques that manipulate matter, such as metal and lightning. They are descendants of the Fujiwara, in the same way the Gojo are descendants of the Sugawara. Two rival clans from the Heian golden era of jujutsu. The Fujiwara Clan, also known as the Toh, was a prominent sorcerer family during the golden age of jujutsu. They had at least two elite squadrons of sorcerers, including the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad of the Northern Fujiwara forces. It was a team of assassins who lived in darkness and forsook their names. They were led by Takako Uro, who was given a name only to be framed and sentenced to death for killing another member of the clan. This culture of weaponized detachment- an almost shinobi-like abandonment of humanity- echoed faintly in the Saigyō household centuries later.They were respected and old enough to remain in the jujutsu registry, but not powerful enough to hold extreme political weight.Children in the family were raised with extreme emotional restraint. Not cruelty. But detachment. Grief was not encouraged. Fear of death was considered a weakness.It can be traced back to the Fujiwara raising and being a part of assassin strike forces, as well as figures remembered in records as the Five Empty Generals, a title believed to reference warriors who had emptied themselves of fear, attachment, and hesitation. This upbringing shaped Shion’s composure from an early age. Her odd disposition compared to the other kids. Her flat affect and cadence were hardly ever interrupted by something like a laugh.For centuries, no one within the Saigyō line had demonstrated an ability resembling the spatial manipulation techniques once associated with the Fujiwara. The bloodline was widely believed to be too diluted. Their former power had faded into little more than historical curiosity. That assumption ended the day Shion’s technique appeared.

Saigyō ShinjiroShion’s cursed technique manifested abnormally early. Most techniques appear in early adolescence. Hers awakened when she was nine years old.For centuries, no one within the Saigyō line had demonstrated an ability resembling the spatial manipulation techniques once associated with the Fujiwara. The bloodline was widely believed to be too diluted. Their former power had faded into little more than historical curiosity.That assumption ended the day Shion’s technique appeared.The first time she used it, she did not understand what she was doing. She simply kicked. And space disappeared. The incident occurred during a casual sparring session in the Saigyō estate garden. Her older brother, Shinjiro, was sixteen and already considered a promising sorcerer within the family. His cursed technique manifested through lightning manipulation, enhancing his swordsmanship with bursts of electrical acceleration.That afternoon, he noticed the faint leakage of cursed energy in Shion’s movements.Praise was not dished out sparingly among children- not even the most promising.Shion and Shinjiro's father, Raiden, was the clan head, meaning his praise was the most valued for multiple reasons. Still, he did not soften his edges even for his children. The stunting of emotional outbursts begins from the moment they're born. He'd forbid his wife, Sachiko, from rocking them to sleep as babies when they'd cry, only allowing her to coddle and feed them upon their silence. This was especially challenging for her, considering she had lost her first son to a congenital weakness that claimed him halfway through his second year of life.When Shinjiro came, she kept her praise whispered through the palm of her hand and affection behind closed doors. Treats only the two of them could indulge in secret. She had cherished this boy, viewing him as a gift from her god granted for her endurance of her husband's cold tone and the clan's absence of traditional, warm love. She sheltered the ember that was Shinjiro, shielding him from the violent winds of the Saigyō home. He grew to be a bright-eyed, radiant young man with a personality that contrasted with most of the other stunted children.When his strength and cursed energy manifested, teeming and crackling at the edges, she couldn't have been prouder.He'd dash and swing his sword with a smile, only spurred further on by roadblocks in physical ability and doubt cast by the boreal figureheads and leaders that occupied the Saigyō ranks. He'd prove them wrong loudly. Even his own father, who eventually cast his disapproval aside in favor of his prowess. Still, praise would never come easy.Shinjiro stopped waiting for it. He didn't need it.When Shion came along, Sachiko felt the disconnect as early as infancy.Shion wouldn't cry and flail the way Shinjiro would. If she ever did fuss, it was with reason. Not in confusion or in the seeking of her mother's arms. Fatigue, hunger, discomfort. She was such an easy baby in contrast to her brothers. So easy it was unnatural.As she grew, she had no trouble subscribing to the cause and effect ouroborous of this life. To say she "adapted" would be incorrect. She simply listened to the guidelines set by those around her. It's like she understood them before her eyes had even opened. Crying is fruitless. Anger is unnecessary and vulnerable. Praise was murmured from Raiden at her nature in a way Shinjiro had never heard. Genuine approval. Welcoming nods.Shion never changed. Only growing more unreadable and cold with each birthday that had passed.When it was time for her to practice using a sword, she meshed with the handle and blade seamlessly. Criticism was never met with frustration and outbursts, the way it was with her brother. She listened. She executed. Raiden hummed.Sachiko wouldn't braid or brush her hair with the same gentleness she'd wash and fold Shinjiro's robes. It hadn't mattered to Shion how her mother went about it. In time, Sachiko grew bitter towards Shion's disposition. If Shion didn't feel the need to cry for gentleness, Sachiko wouldn't offer it. As if it would prompt a glimmer of any kind of driven expression. It never did.Despite how distant Shion had seemed to others, Shinjiro's spark still managed to reach her."Shion," Shinjiro had called from down a pebbled path by their home.She was seven at the time. Arms still too undeveloped to hold a sword heavier than a light steel chisa katana.Shinjiro would bug her often. Squeeze her face together to mold it into a smile. Sneak her a pastry the same way his mother would in hopes she'd enjoy it. Make faces inches from hers to try and prompt a laugh. This would be nothing new, Shion assumed. But still, she turned. Because Shinjiro is her brother. The fact that she loves him is undeniable. Shion, simply, is not fluent in the language of love the way Shinjiro is. She never has been.How could she be, with how carelessly her mother rips the knots from her hair? With how quickly smiles fade when they catch her staring inquisitively at them?Even when Shion doesn't laugh or smile at Shinjiro's attempts, Shinjiro continues.It's one of, if not, the only thing that makes Shion happy."Be my rival."The command was silly. Shinjiro stood as high as two of Shion. But when she scanned his face for the telltale wrinkles of humor, she found none."Okay." She spoke."No- like- for real.""...Okay."Shinjiro closed the distance between the two of them. Shion's downcast gaze followed from his distant figure silently and smoothly until it was flipped upwards, eyes still flickering gently to her brother now towering above her."I want you to beat me one day. And when you do, I'll work to beat you back."Shion's thin brows quirked upwards."Why don't you ask Hanako?"Shinjiro's voice maintained the seriousness it had begun with. Maybe even intensified. "Because, Shion," He bends down slightly to grip her shoulders and give her a slight shake, holding her firm in place like he's planting a signpost."You're going to be really strong.""I don't have any cursed energy yet.""You will."Shinjiro's gaze is pulling Shion inwards. In the search for a laugh that's hiding behind them, she finds something else. Something that relays the truth in his words to her and makes the realization click in her brain that he's serious about challenging his kid sister to a lifelong rivalry."I'm a girl.""So?""I'll be weaker.""Not if your technique is stronger.""...I don't have one.""Not yet. You won't know for a while. But when you do get it, I want you to be so strong that it forces me to get stronger. So you don't beat me.""You just said you want me to beat you one day.""Uh- yeah. That's the point."Shion pouts ever so slightly. A rare expression for her. Usually elicited by Shinjiro rambling about something that doesn't make sense to Shion. Like a manga or girls. Shinjiro always notices it- just like he does everything else about her. Just like he notices the decisiveness in her slashes. The way she ignores the deer-like wobble of her legs and stabilizes them for a strafe.He lights up at it. To him, he interprets it as proof that she's giving his prompt thought."Good. We're rivals now." He pats her shoulders in tandem and straightens his back, hands meeting his hips as he starts to walk past her."I didn't say yes." She says, turning to walk with him."You didn't say no." He speaks, almost singsong, head tilting to the side."I don't need a yes anyway," he chimes, one of his hands freeing up to point his index upwards in explanation, "now that I've declared you my enemy, naturally, that makes me your enemy too. So- rivals.""You just made that up." Shion's strides align with his short steps. "We can't be enemies if we're in the same family.""Father and Uncle Kazuki are enemies.""They're not. Father just doesn't like how loud Uncle Kazuki is.""Okay, so what do you not like about me?""...You're... loud.""So we're rivals."Shion surrenders. They continue walking. The river continues streaming downhill. Two siblings. Now declared "rivals."A year passes. Cursed energy reveals itself to Shion. Her father nods. Shinjiro chastizes her for the fact that he had to hear about her achievement through word of mouth later in the day.An innate technique had not yet begun forming. There is a possibility that one could never. Still, that didn't dissuade Shinjiro from asking her every week if she could feel anything different in her cursed energy. Challenging her to a duel, "just to make sure."It's not until she's nine that the cursed energy she focuses into her legs or blade starts to tighten and warble, similarly to how Shinjiro's would become jagged and crackle when lightning would manifest and become tactile with his attacks.He noticed the irregular shape of cursed energy in Shion's movement one morning. Something unusual flickered beneath her strikes. Dummies were left with their faux torsos and appendages carved as if they were clay rather than wood. The splintering of wood was not uniform with what a blade would cause.Shion noticed it too. How her mind dulled at the moment of impact, and her reservoir emptied quicker than usual.He grinned and encouraged her.“Give it your all.”

The Manifestation of Higan TachiThe Saigyō estate garden was quiet that afternoon, gravel paths winding between trimmed trees and a shallow pond reflecting the late sunlight. It was the sort of place meant for meditation and ritual, not violence. That didn't mean anything to Shinjiro, who'd often fight or grapple there with his peers. It was wide and even. Good enough. Nobody around either, so he couldn't get yelled at for roughhousing with his kid sister. Not that training was unwelcome by the adults that occupied those grounds- but Shinjiro's careless approach to it and his reasoning of it being "for fun," made them scowl.Shion stood barefoot in the dirt.Across from her, Shinjiro rolled his shoulders loosely, sparring katana tucked in his waistband. His cursed energy flickered faintly around him, small strings of static dancing across the dull wood as he equips it with both hands.Shion didn't always take Shinjiro's offers (or pleas) of sparring up. But she had noticed how something other than cursed energy felt in reach that day. As if her movements were being pulled by an unknown force. The voiceless call of an unknown obligation she knew if she'd fulfill, she'd reach the strength Shinjiro promised to her years ago.Now, when the two stand side by side, Shion's head reaches half a head below Shinjiro's shoulder. In their assumed stances, it remains the same. Family tradition. Right foot drawn back and angled outwards, weight held in the left knee that bends slightly. Perfectly mirrored by the two.His eyes lit up at her first swing.He focuses on back and side-stepping her strikes, not in search of an opening (she was providing plenty) but in observation of how cursed energy warped around her swings- warbling the appearance of the training katana as if it was under heat. He swings upward with one hand, swords meeting with a loud clack. A month ago, it would've been sent flying above them. But this time, it isn't. For a moment, it looks like his cursed energy is interrupted, and the kinetic motion is unaffected.The sound of wood clattering and Shinjiro's praises and excitement echoed throughout the yard. "Again," he'd goad repeatedly.Shion's blood heats with each exchange of thrusts, cleaves, and parries. Shinjiro's words, "give it your all," struck her in the chest when they were spoken. Because now- now that she is- she feels like the gap of skill between them is becoming narrower and narrower with each swing. Fatigue doesn't build; rather, it fades. She's only getting faster as the spar goes on. She can visualize how his cursed energy started dull, but is crackling now when the tip of her sword whistles inches from his ear.In real time, she can see herself crossing the river that separated them years ago when he asked her to be his rival. Fingertips grazing the promise that she'd eventually possess the strength to compete with his.Eventually, both swords were discarded. Shinjiro had tossed his to the side after finally striking Shion's out of her grip. Their spar became more rhythmic when it was just feet and hands. Shion's jet-black eyes glimmered at the speed of the exchanges. Shinjiro was smiling. Teeth and all.In Shinjiro's last moments, his eyes rested upon his kid sister with pride and kindness.Shion stepped forward.Her first kick was for the momentum, leading her entire body upwards and into a twist; her second was for the hit. A jumping heel strike with the foot she had launched herself off of. High and diagonal to catch him beneath the jaw.It was a sloppy attack by Shinjiro's standards. She was exhausted and predictable. He was already moving.Shinjiro leaned back, his body sliding into a retreating step. The motion was smooth, practiced thousands of times. The kick would miss. They both knew it. Her foot would have passed harmlessly through empty air.Except that the air between them disappeared.Higan Tachi manifested in that instant. The space Shinjiro had just created by stepping back simply ceased to exist. Distance collapsed. The arc of Shion's kick did not travel through the air. It cut through it, not as force nor impact, but as absence.The section of reality between the bottom of his face and the upper half of his chest had been removed. His body stood longer than it should have. His head was the first to hit the ground with a deafening thud, louder than the encouragements he'd weave in between each of Shion's missed strikes. Her elbows were still bent upwards in expectation of his next move. A ghost of a smile was present on her face at the exhilaration of the match.Then gravity took what remained. His body folded inward at the waist as it toppled to the side. Headless. The lower half of his jaw and the beginning of his clavicles were simply gone, erased along the arc where Shion's kick had passed through the air. Coarse gravel and dust mixed with crimson that pooled unnaturally beneath his two halves.The garden was silent. It was as if she were underwater, fighting the pressure of the water on her limbs to force them down. Once they met a certain threshold, they fell to her sides loosely. Weakly.Shion was a silent girl. It wasn't often she called for her brother. For the most part, it was flipped."Shion, dinner." "Shion, come watch Hanako and me spar." "Have you made any friends, Shion?"He was always the one to reach for her. To prompt her. To lead her.It came out small. So very small. She had never been wracked with such terror until this moment, and the words she spoke leaked with it- making it all too real. The confirmation that this terror was real, and the reasoning for it was as well."...Shinjiro?"She doesn't know why it comes out as a question. She doesn't expect him to speak. He is dead. Dead people don't talk. Neither do dead things. She had seen enough of both to know that.The silence accompanies his parted, blood-leaking lips and mixes into something that makes bile rise in Shion's throat. When Shinjiro opens his mouth, it's wide and toothy. Loud and bright.Her face turns from it entirely. Averting her gaze is not enough. A small hand clasps over her lips as soon as the scent of iron assaults her sinuses. Her feet separate from the ground with force like she's dragging them free from hands gripped firmly around her ankles, rip after rip, step after step.The terrain fades from gravel to grass, then grass to the cold wood steps that lead to the patio. Time passes differently as she walks.Her heartbeat thuds behind her ears and trembles her limbs with each thump-thump. With it, the repetition of the fact that she just killed her brother and is walking further away from his body.It feels like she's intruding when she slides the shoji door open and steps inside. Her head is pounding. Iron fades with the smell of broth and rice emanating from the kitchen. The domestic sounds of her mother peacefully cooking wash over Shion, like she’s being bathed in water. Water that steams from the heat of Shinjiro's death permeating off her skin. She shouldn’t be smelling this right now. She shouldn’t be allowed to.She stops in the doorway, a quarter of her body obscured by another sliding door. She peers at the back of her mother's figure. Relaxed posture. Unassuming positioning.The words Shion murmurs sound wrong when they leak from her voice, still slightly childlike in tone and cadence“Shinjiro is dead.”Her mother stills mid-motion. Whatever she’s stirring is quickly forgotten. Then, slowly, her head rises.“What do you mean?” She quaked, turning towards her daughter with a ceramic bowl tight to her chest.Shion hesitated briefly.“It was an accident.”The answer had said enough. Too much, even.Shinjiro had not died to a curse or enemy. Shion was not repeating someone else’s words like a soldier's comrade at the front door. There was no immediate threat her mother had to hide from, because the threat was Shion. Shion had killed him.The dish falls with her arms, shattering across the floor as her wrists drape hopelessly at her sides.Sachiko didn’t bother looking down. Not at the dish, or at Shion.She ran.The sliding doors burst open as she shoves them aside and stumbles into the garden. High, well-maintained hedges obscure the main courtyard initially. Shion feels each second drag out as she stays in the hall. Any moment now.Her mother's screams tear through the courtyard and bellows through the home halls. Shion's irises tighten ever so slightly at the howl. Still standing at the doorway to the kitchen.Her brother is dead. She killed him. He’s in two pieces. And now their mother is kneeling beneath blooming archways, several meters away from the body.Clan members begin appearing almost immediately, drawn by the sound. Some in robes, some in suits. All unsuspecting of the events. She reapproaches the scene the slowest out of all of them.They gathered around the body in stunned silence. Shion’s mother tried to reach him, but one of the older men restrained her as she struggled forward, sobbing. Her voice breaks into raw, desperate cries. Soon enough, Shion’s father steps into the garden. He says nothing at first. He simply looks down at what remained of his son. His gaze moves slowly over the corpse, studying it with the same clinical attention he might have given a battlefield report. His lips curl in on themselves, and his expression thins. Uneasiness comes out with a sigh through his nose.Then, his eyes lifted toward Shion. Sharp. Piercing. Evaluating.“Explain.”His voice was calm. Too calm.Shion describes the sparring match exactly as it had happened. The kick. The moment the space had vanished. Her voice is measured like usual.As she speaks, several of the elders exchange looks. Shock quickly turns into something else. Her father's eyebrows ease and raise in something that can only be compared to intrigue. All the while, his son's nearly unrecognizable body is feet from him, his wife is wailing loud enough that no birds remain in the trees for yards, and his daughter is taut as a bow- figuratively stained in her brother's blood.“You erased space.” He contemplates aloud. It’s quiet for a beat. "Your innate technique formed." He states, more a confirmation than an inquiry.“Do you understand what this means?” One elder murmurs. Another whispers, almost reverently, “A gift from the Heian era.”The words ripple through the gathering.Eyes turned toward Shion again. Blown pupils focused on her as if she had not murdered her brother moments ago. As if this child is no child at all, but something valuable in a different way.Her father nods slowly.“Yes.”His voice is measured, almost thoughtful. And then, something paints his face in the most unnatural way. She can't tell if it's unsettling because she has never witnessed it before, or if it's because it is inherently twisted.Raiden, Shion and Shinjiro's father, smiles. His arms raise, fingers outstretched and palms facing the sky.“This is proof.” He bellows. You can hear it now. Hear the joy in his voice.Shion’s mother shakes violently against the man holding her back.“This is no gift,” she cries. “She took my son!”Raiden's smile fades quicker than it came as he shoots a look of annoyance towards Sachiko.“You don’t understand.” He bites.“This was the proof we needed.”“The proof that the technique- that we- are real.”Raiden had never spoken with such gratification.Her mother's wailing comes to a halt at it. Silence soaks the garden once again as she looks up to her husband. Upright. Collected. Prideful. All the while, she’s distraught on her knees. Grief twists into something sharper. Something bitter. Something that looks very close to hatred.And Shion, standing between them, realizes she does not recognize either of as family anymore.

The MountainsShion leaves at 11. Nothing but a yukata and family katana on her back. The elders notice her absence by evening. It’s unassuming at first. When they realize she’s actually left the property, she’s already days away.
No one follows. They believe in her return. They believe in her survival more.The mountains of northern Honshu are quiet in a way cities never are. Wind moves through cedar forests and rustles the leaf-absent branches, their creaks echoing above the ground. Cold streams cut through stone and moss, the water sharp and clear enough to sting the skin. Shion climbs deeper into the range each day. Eventually, the forest begins to thin. Trees grow sparser, still tall and thick with decades of rings on the inside. The elements of the dirt shift from soft soil and clay to jagged rock decorated with grass patches. The environment desaturates each day she climbs deeper. On occasion, her eye catches a speck of red in the sky, carrying a melody with no beat or rhythm. Just song. It’s one thing Shion cherishes during her time here.Near the end of a rocky ride, she finds it. An abandoned shrine. The pillars' red lacquer has silvered with sun exposure. The once deep brown foundation is bleached pale. Twine rope still holds steady, but the zigzag papers that hang from it to demarcate the holy space are uneven. Some are missing, creating asymmetry in decoration. Whatever deity that was once worshipped here has long since been forgotten. Shion’s skin buzzes once she pushes the temple door in with a creak. The way the sound of a human-built structure lands on her ears brings relief. The absence of wind hitting her young face and thin build brings goosebumps to her skin. Dust stirred in the dim interior. That becomes her home. There are no voices. No soft footsteps through house halls, no elders discussing technique, no mothers crying behind closed doors. Just wind whistling outside and her own uneven breathing inside.At night, she lies awake to study the rise and fall of her chest. The low sound of sinuses widening as she inhales. The gentle, almost silent rustle of fabric as her chest lowers. The rhythm doesn’t obey her. Sometimes it stutters on the inhale, like the communication line of her brain to her lungs is interrupted. Sometimes it trembles on the exit, breath threatening to spill from her mouth as well. She notices how it falters at her memories. The complete pause of all working mechanics that presents itself when she recalls her brother's maimed body, how loud it was when the two parts of him met the gravel. How silent the absence of noise that followed was. The feeling of her mother's trembling hands wringing around her throat after his funeral. Shion’s clothed feet softly thudding against the hallway's wood flooring beneath her mother as her chest was straddled and her windpipe was compressed. Such a small body being handled with such complicated rage and grief.
“I gave birth to him!” She had punctuated her words with another squeeze. Warm tears patted Shion’s face as her mother loomed above her. Shion doesn’t recognize the woman. Her words and choked wails come out animalistic.Didn’t she give birth to me, too? Why does she act as if I took him on purpose? Does she believe her persecution is justified?Confusion takes the forefront of Shion’s mind and thoughts. It’s childlike in nature and adult in execution. Even with her life under threat, Shion analyzes the sight before her, trying to dissect it and find the reasoning behind her mother's eyes. She doesn’t fight or speak in defense of her life. The jerk of her body and the way her hands come up to dig small paths into the flesh that’s attacking her with such vitriolic hatred is involuntary. Her words are diagnostic. Coming out in a strained murmur.“You’re going to kill me.”The hands untense and freeze, still heavy on her throat, but no longer tightening.The tremble in her eyes strains as they refocus on her daughter and dart between her dull expression and child body. How contrasting the two sights are. She isn’t fighting. Her brows aren’t knit in fear, and her eyes aren’t glossed with tears.
Her mother releases her, hands jerking away like she touched fire. Stumbling backwards off her chest in a horrified manner. Her words come out the way a scream would, but not loud enough to reach the ears of anyone but the two of them. Just strained and emotional enough to sound like they’re coming from a place separate from her chest and larynx. Teeth gritting and spit flying with each syllable.“You are not my daughter. I don’t know what you are.”Shion pushes herself up, curling her knees inwards and leaning her bodyweight on one arm against the floor. Free hand coming up to feel the indentations of materialized agony left around her neck. Her head is downcast, but her eyes reach her mother through long black lashes. Studying. Still so very dull.“I’m sorry.”She is, truly. She’s sorry for Shinjiro’s death. She’s sorry that it’s shattered her mother and her worldview so severely that she can’t even recognize the daughter before her. She’s sorry she is the catalyst for such despair.But that’s not how a child should think. The apology is rejected swiftly for its delivery. It isn’t that it’s not good enough, it’s that it’s too understanding. Too measured. Too calm. Its smooth surface scrapes against her mother's irrational disposition harshly, like flint striking steel. The sparks that fly cast fire in the hallway. Paper walls and doors ignite and are consumed by the heartache-laced howls that come for her mother as palms burn craters against her eyes. Confusion and fear coat her smog of shrieks, which funnels into rooms and engulfs the outside of the building. Members, still clad in mourning silks, come running to the scent of smoke.A woman is on her knees beside Shion’s mother, words of consolation spilling from her mouth. They don’t reach Shion or her mother. Two men obscure her crouched, kicking figure from vision. A large, powerful hand hooks beneath Shion's bicep and tears her from the floor, dragging her to her feet and away from the heart of the fire. Her father. Steady as always. Agitation carved into each fold of skin in his face, manifesting in the grip he has on the small girl’s arm to drag her along each of his long strides that make up three of Shion’s.So much anger.The mountain shapes her body in ways the Saigyō estate never could. Her first meal comes from an animal she did not kill, eyes already picked out by vultures and internal organs already scavenged by whatever other predators lurk these woods. She dragged it up uneven stone and dirt, muscles screaming as she rucked the beast double her size upwards. She runs the same cliffside path again and again, counting the number of steps and the speed of her hands against the pounding of her pulse. She balanced on fallen tree trunks above narrow streams of freezing water, learning how to place each step and jump without error. Optimization comes slowly and steadily through repeated action and reflection. Day after day, her legs grew stronger, her movements quicker, and her stance steadier. She performs and studies her kicks against empty air. Bookmarking the moment the technique activates. The sudden collapse of space, the spike of cursed energy that surged through her body before collapsing just as quickly. Each attempt left her lungs aching and her vision dizzy. She memorizes the sensation, when it comes, and what it costs. Slowly, something begins to change.Winter arrives violently in the mountains. Snow buries the mountains almost overnight, layering deeper and deeper each moonfall until the world becomes entirely white and silent. Food grows scarcer. Life doesn’t show through tan deer hides, blurring as they dash between erected wood at the whisper of a possibility of threat. It shows through faint tracks that disappear within the hour. Shion grows thinner. Her featherweight makes movements faster against the feet-deep foundation of snow, but hunger blurs the edges of her vision. Each time she’d give chase to a rabbit or serow, the lactic acid in her legs would build to the brim mere seconds after the beginning of her pursuit. As if the crust of the earth was pulled beneath her like a rug.Some nights she wakes to wolves howling far away, calling family to a kill she was too late to take.
That’s the first time she’s able to put the feeling to the title, jealousy. The wolves' compassion echoes throughout the forest. Vocalized. Tangible proof of their familial bond and love.The cold makes the already sharp air burn her lungs like fire. It’s the only warmth she’s met with in the isolation.
Some days, she can’t muster the strength to cast one kick. Other days, she manages several sloppy executions before her supporting knee buckles beneath her weight. Soft snow caught her each time she fell. It’s gently unforgiving.
She slots another title to an unfamiliar feeling that takes root in her chest beside the hunger and exhaustion. A name to the face of frustration. The mountain air steals the warmth from her body and turns each hurried breath into visible vapor. Each exhale seemed to mock her effort, revealing weakness to the empty sky as if the mountain itself was watching and laughing. Fingers dig and knit into the snow like fabric. Cold wet palms press into her eyes impulsively, stars blooming behind her eyelids. A sound threatens to spill from her desaturated mauve lips in exasperation at this feeling and what’s causing it. It feels like an ouroboros of anger and pity is tightening around her heart cyclically, renewing each time she fails and each time she gets back up.Shion can't recall the last time she genuinely prayed to a god, or if she ever has, but as a weak cry crawls its way out of her throat and vibrates the figurative dust caked onto her vocal cords, she asks that whatever deity still sleeps here to turn away from her suffering.It happens near the end of winter. Shion stands on a rocky ridge overlooking the valley, wind whipping against her white robe. Pitch black hair blowing backwards, freeing her vision and allowing full clarity of the movement ahead of her. The faint smell of cedar dissipates as it enters her nose. White consumes her sight and settles differently in her occipital lobe. Rather than the environment being interpreted as trees, low peaks, and the occasional movement of drab wings fluttering far away, Shion sees pure emptiness. All she hears is wind, which is all she’s heard for months now. There is no longer anything for her brain to perceive and regulate. There is nothing but the blood flowing through her body and muscles tensing and moving in response to her command.She inhales slowly, visualizing the air compressing in her lungs as she takes it in deeper and deeper. The fiber of her lungs obeys her instruction. She no longer listens to the tissue’s protest against the icy air invading her chest cavity. She is the one who draws the edict.Then she kicks.The arc forms perfectly. The space ahead of her vanishes cleanly. The crow that had taken flight 60 meters ahead of her stutters closer by maybe 10. Diving for half a second in confusion, and then fluttering quicker in a panic at the repositioning.No distortion, no collapse.And when the strike finishes, she has breath left over that comes out hissing like steam. That is the moment the breathing technique truly begins to form.Shion repeats the motion on nothing initially. Sticks stuck into the ground. Lanterns hanging by frayed twine. Erasing the distance between them. Eliminating their center mass. Painting strokes of cursed energy onto space through focusing it into the instep of her foot and the ratio it cuts into the air. Then she executes it against live targets. She swallows memories before she gives chase to a male serow. Carved legs carry her light body along the animal's hurried hoof indentations. Her movements are quiet, and her feet are delicate against the snow, weaving between thin trees with efficient, focused speed. All she hears is the whistle of wind, and all she sees is the target. When the stars align and there is uninterrupted distance between her and the animal, she slashes twice. Imbuing the sword with the same cursed energy and intent she does into her leg. The buck stumbles and groans as its body is teleported, ripped back into the position it was in moments ago, losing all of the distance it gained seconds ago. Shion’s third slash meets flesh, the tip of her blade shallowly piercing its side in a downwards vertical slash. Higan Tachi makes up for the rest of its body, tearing it apart into two. Blood doesn’t spatter the way it would if it were severed with simply steel. It waits until its two halves crash to the ground for it to leak out unnaturally. Like the blood vessels at the beginning of the detachment were erased aswell and the steady path of blood has to catch up with the erasure. The railroad tracks of its anatomy aren’t cut cleanly in two; rather, she removes a portion of the rails entirely.

ManjirōSpring returns to the mountains. Snow melts slightly, pure white tinged by brown soil that’s been rustled to the surface and tracked by animals from untouched dens. Wild grass begins to grow and flower around the shrine in inconsistent patches. Opportunities for food come more often with the extended sunlight. Pursuits almost always end in meals as Shion refines her technique over the season's transition.She does not kill needlessly. Only when hunger beckons. She knows she is a foreign predator that doesn’t belong in this location and wishes not disrupt its innate cycle of life.Fire hums and crackles softly before her as she separates meat from hide. The large katana is not fit for carving the small carcass, so any meat that’s left attached to the rabbit’s pelt is picked apart with Shion’s teeth and fingers as the larger cuts of meat are cooked over flame. Blood contrasts with her delicate, still immature face, smeared across her lips and spattered lightly across her chin and cheeks. Raw flesh is swallowed graciously. This is another thing Shion finds fondness in.The isolation and quiet of the peak can be agonizing at times, especially for such a young child. But she doesn’t wallow in the feeling for long. ‘It’s inefficient,’ she rationalizes.She finds peace and enjoyment in the sounds of birds. Howls of wolves. The visual and auditory sparkle of water running through coves. Clear, undisturbed by pollutants. The fact that it nourishes her the same as it does the other non-human inhabitants of the mountain. She finds familiarity in it when she dips the lower half of her face into the stream to drink. She never speaks out loud to the shrine, but sometimes her thoughts trail into questions she wonders if the deity is listening to and answering.And she especially relishes the taste of cooked meat and the warmth that spreads into her limbs from the bottom of her belly. If you squint, you could even catch a small smile through the way the mole on her cheek slightly pushes upwards as she chews.In hunger, she finds satisfaction. In silence, she finds peace. That is enough. Efficient.The fire dies, orange embers turning to weak specks that smoke slowly upwards. She pushes herself from her knees unceremoniously. Her robe no longer drags along the stone tiles of the center of the two buildings. It’s wilted brown and tattered at the edges from the months of wear. The yukata that once dragged a foot behind her steps now hangs loosely over her ankles. Her sleeves still hang heavy over her hands when resting at her side, but the ends are now slightly stained a desaturated maroon from the blood that saturates her forearms as she digs her soft, still growing hands into the bowels of animals. The way she pulls organs is mature in act, but childlike in nature. Her lips tug upward as she squeezes something particularly slimy. Her eyes inquisitively scan over larger ones she can recognize and name. They plop to the ground as she leans her entire upper body into the cavity once more.So small, but not so naive.

She kneels into delicate snow that melts at body heat now and sticks her hands into the running water. Gently, she waves them and rubs them together to let the blood wash away. When crimson dissipates and ivory shows once again, she cups some into her hands and brings her chest closer to her knees to clean her face. A few feet downstream, a kit is sipping graciously. Shion mirrors the act.
Kindling is still popping quietly when she returns. She stops at the shinto that arches the pathway, marking the entrance of mundane to sacred. There, she sits, breathing deeply and letting it pool like fluid in her chest. She holds it, closing her eyes and redirecting her focus to the feeling of the sun beating her face rather than thinking about her exhale and consecutive inhale. Meditation, or what she thinks is close enough to it. Something she’s been experimenting with now that she’s established a sustainable foundation and doesn’t tremble when she walks the uneven paths of nature and echoes the ache of her empty stomach.It had been close to a year since she left home, and not once in her time living here did she catch something that whispered human inhabitance. For miles, there were no footsteps that weren’t hooved or four-toed.So when Shion hears fabric rustling ahead of her, she notices immediately. Still face wrinkly faintly. When her ears pick up on the sound of fabric rustling and steps that are too unhurried and intervals that are too measured to be animal, it prompts her eyes to open halfway and peer through lashes.Orange robes. Fabric hanging low enough to brush the stone path and veil the clack of wooden sandals.Shion closes her eyes again. No one seeking to cause harm would travel this deep into the peak. Not in those clothes, either. She feels him approach. Closer. Wood meets stone in quick succession as he turns to face the sun with her. Cloth shifts quietly as he lowers himself to the ground behind her. They sit like that for hours. Not speaking, not moving. Not until the sun disappears behind the distant peaks.She stands slowly, her knees tensing and untensing with a quiet exhale of relief. Perhaps she should have chosen a softer place to sit.She glanced at the stranger to her left, still sitting upright with his hands resting on his knees. A monk. His dark brown hair is spiky and awkward, like he had shaved his head months prior. He looks young, maybe still in his 20’s. One eyebrow quirks upwards at the sight. He looked less like a spiritual ascetic and more like somebody she’d see playing pachinko in Nagoya. The type of man who’d sneer at the rigid composure of someone like Shion in her silk robes. Pat you on the back and tell you to loosen up. There is no judgment in her observation. Just some surprise. He reminds her of Shinjiro with his youth. And she knows that that boy could never take a vow of silence with his loud mouth.She only makes it 3 steps towards the temple before the man speaks. The voice cracked through quiet like dull thunder. Shion’s shoulders shoot to her ears, and she swears one of her knees almost hits her chest.“Why are you here?”It’s the loudest thing she’s heard since her mother's wailing years ago. In her time alone, the only thing that could compare to the way his voice lands on her ears is the thudding of her own heart and quiet, restrained whines born of hunger and frustration. Speech.Thank goodness he hadn’t turned when he spoke. She would’ve lost all dignity then.Monks may have a grasp on the existence of cursed energy. They might call it by a different name. Reiki, Qi, Tao. But the history and nature of sorcery have been hidden from civilians for centuries. He would not understand the life she was born into, and she did not come to the mountain to explain herself to anyone. She’s here to refine her cursed technique. Away from the wills and edicts of stubborn old men who could never understand how it feels to possess such power. Away from the women who ushered their children away from the clan homes' pathways Shion walked. Away from her father, who whipped the back of her ankles and calves raw while his words seeped from his chest in a volume that never exceeded a calm murmur. The man who never bent his knees to meet her eyes. Who would never lower his face to speak to Shion as his child. Only looking at her as a relic resurfaced. A political pawn. His “again”s were so very different from Shino’s. After a beat of contemplation, she speaks.“To understand myself.”He laughs. Loud and human. Her spit stutters in her throat as she swallows, recognizing the taste of nostalgia in the noise.“You’re doing it wrong.”Finally, his upper body shifts as his right palm settles flatly on the stone behind him, left knee coming up for his left elbow to drape over. He looks back at her. He looks even younger when he smiles. The youthful curl of lower lash line, wrinkles yet to carve themselves beneath his brown eyes.“What have you learned?”Shion did not answer immediately."I have learned my body's limits and how to push past them."The monk hums softly. "And?""I have learned to step away from my senses. To only focus on my arms and legs.""So you have learned how to fight?"Shion's brows knit faintly."...with my body.""What else?"What could he mean by what else?What she has achieved is not trivial. The ability to dull all senses. To nullify the interpretation of scenery and turn the field into a wide field of nothingness where all that exists is her and her target. The fortitude to ignore the cry of muscles as she forces them up again and again. All the while she takes in more air than her lungs can hold and ignores the chill that slows her blood."Is that all?" His speaks once again, gaze steady against hers. She doesn't like it."That is not insignificant."He chuckles softly."No. It isn't. But none of that answers your question.""My question?""You said you came here to understand yourself." He breaks eye contact to gesture lazily with his free hand."You've just told me what your body can do."His eyes meet hers again."Not who you are."Shion was quiet. That distinction had not occurred to her. The meshing of mind and body to a fault has left her abandoning everything but her body. Flickers of the frustration she had encountered at the way her body disobeyed her in the beginning kindle in her mind. Everything she did was to condition herself. Maybe Shion was no better than the clan members who viewed her as a weapon."How long have you been here?""Last year's summer."His eyes widen softly at the revelation. The girl before him couldn't have been older than a middle schooler."What are you fighting for?"Shion's face visibly tightens now. Thin brows curl from a whisper of tension to something that clearly displays her dissatisfaction.I don't know.I don't know why I break and rebuild my body without a second thought. I don't know why my mind hasn't wandered once since leaving home. I don't second guess the decision. I don't struggle with any urge to leave because I'm fed up. I'm here because I know it will make me stronger.'To understand myself' becomes synonymous with 'to understand my technique.'"I don't know."He hums. Smiles gently."The mountain isn't your enemy. It doesn't care about you."Shion's gaze drifts down to the ground. The man continued gently."You starve yourself. You exhaust your body. You breathe until you can't anymore."He tilts his head in sympathy. An action that Shion wants to reject."And you're surprised that you still don't understand who you are?"That makes Shion turn her gaze to side. Silk-thin strands of black hair veil the visual connection between the sight of his face."You cannot beat yourself into understanding. That works for muscles," He taps his temple twice. "Not for this."Shion's small hands squeeze together in something akin to confusion."What would you suggest instead?"He smiles wider."Talking."Shion stares at him for a long moment through the sheer curtain she pulled between them. Then stated, very seriously, for an 11-year-old girl, "That seems inefficient."The monk bursts out laughing after a pause."See?" His fingers curl in, save for his index, and sway slowly. Not pointing at her. But pointing nonetheless. "That right there.""What?""Do you think you can beat yourself into a shape you're happy with? Do you even know what shape you want to be?"He lowers both hands back to stone, leaning backwards and letting his head fall slightly. No longer looking or motioning to her."People don't work like that. Let alone children."Shion considers it. The words are a total parallel to what she has been raised with her entire life. Burned into her harshly enough for her to forsake everything else. She had found peace in the mountains because of the absence of all outside emotional stimuli, not because she had worked through said stimuli and coped to the point of acceptance. There was nothing to accept in the silence. There were no confrontations to mediate, there were no words to ponder. She had no answer because she had no question.If she were to return home, she'd likely be carrying the same confusion she was when she left. Why did her mother resent her so? Why did her father feel so far away when he was right there? What is her place in this world if not a sacred heirloom to be sanded down until smooth?What am I fighting for?Shion considers all of this, then asks a question of her own."Do you?"His voice is light, dismissive in the way a carefree teen boy would be when asked about his test scores."Do I what?""Do you know what you are fighting for? What you want to be?"His silhouette is now stark against the overview of the peak that has turned blue in the absence of the sun. His shoulders come up in a shrug."No idea."That answer catches her off guard. Her blood is significantly hotter than it was when this conversation started, which is funny considering the temperature has only been dropping further and further."You're a monk.""Yeah?""Aren't monks supposed to understand things?"The snicker is shameless."We're supposed to be mindful of the fact that we don't- at first, at least.""We are all born into this world with the assumption that understanding is innate. That the act of learning is something we are all capable of. Speak enough to a baby, and they will speak back. Scold a child enough, and they will recite the correct answer or action.""That is not understanding. Understanding is not cyclic; rather, it's evolving.""Monks aim to deconstruct that routine and rebuild it on a foundation that predates their conception. To be free enough to evolve."She supposes that makes sense. She also supposes that perhaps, asking questions can be... fruitful. When you're speaking to the right person and asking the right ones.The questions he asked her form at the front of her mind now. A place that was normally occupied by nothing but hunger for perfection in movement. It's uncomfortable. Said questions cannot be answered by physical conditioning. The goal in mind is not a target in front of her, shrouded by branches and blizzards. The goal in mind is unknown and intangible. One that varies for every single person. Each path and ending different. For the first time since arriving in the mountains, the thought occurred to her that she had been doing something wrong.This feeling is disgusting."Your instincts are good. You would be dead if they weren't." He breaks the silence, standing and stretching- turning back to her with a hand on his hip. "But your intuition is non-existent. Your body listens to you because you command it- but that makes every movement of yours conditional. Your body will pause between each step because it is awaiting your command. Rhythm flows; it does not stagger."Her gaze meets his head-on, for the last time. For once, she is looking up. Seeking. Not just listening and correcting, but asking."Why?"His expression softens at her willingness. His sigh makes itself evident in the air."Because you are fighting yourself.""You will lose in a duel because you are clashing with two entities.""Listen more. You will learn."Shion has never been given a directive that cannot be fulfilled with a tweak of a ratio or an injection of more force. Not once has she been told to simply listen and act based on what she hears. Listen to herself, at that. She was a quiet child, with an even quieter mind. At home, goals were imposed by outside variables. Alone, she had no notable ones other than those necessary to survive. Emotions were taught to be dismissed, and the reasoning was logical enough for her to internalize it easily. Human bonds make it easier for things like revenge and guilt to take hold of your psyche and obscure things like decision-making and objective thinking. Woe is a useless feeling that exists only in the weak. Those who are strong do not let such things root inside of them.A child being able to digest such a concept is unreal. That is why her mother looked at her with such anguish. That is why her father deemed her fit to carry on the Saigyō's will and name.Inconceivable had become synonymous with special.It just depended on who you asked within the home. Fear or reverence?It was always one or the other.To the monk, it was pitiful.Shion nods once."Okay."He stretches upwards before adjusting his robes, facing the path down the mountain and away from the shrine now."West of here, there is a monastery. If you walk to the base of this mountain and continue until you reach roads and homes, it's at the center of the district."An invitation."Okay."He doesn't turn back.