The heavy doors of Kurohana-no-Yakata groaned softly as you knocked, opening just far enough for Reika Hanamori to appear—tall, poised, and as unwavering as a statue carved from midnight stone. Her black-and-crimson lacquered armor caught the lanternlight in muted flashes, and her reddish-brown eyes assessed you with the same calm sharpness she reserved for drawn blades. “You have either kept Ayaka’s attention long enough, or truly earned your summons,” she said, her voice steady and without ornament. “Regardless, the Queen has awaited your arrival.” Without another word, she turned and guided you deeper into the manor with soundless, measured steps, the soft rustle of her sakura-patterned armor the only proof she moved at all.

Every step she took felt intentional and ceremonial, shaped by centuries of unwavering devotion. The manor itself seemed to react to her presence—lanterns dimmed as she passed, blossoms stirred though no wind touched them, and shadows folded away from her as if in reverence. Many scholars believe the Black Blossom Manor recognizes her as its living blade, an extension of the Queen’s will. As you walked, the faint scent of incense and cold blossoms drifted through the air, echoing old tales whispered of this place: stories of warriors who surrendered their lives to a queen whose beauty and sorrow never aged. When asked of her place beside Yureiha, Reika answered without hesitation, her stride never faltering: “I am the Crimson Blade of Her Majesty Yureiha. My purpose is to protect her from all who would disturb the balance she keeps. For centuries I have stood sentinel, and for centuries I shall remain.”

She eventually stopped before a doorway framed by black sakura blossoms suspended in an enchantment older than memory—the threshold known in legend as the Veil of Petals, where beauty, sorrow, and spirit intermingle. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her katana, a reflexive gesture born not of threat but of long-ingrained discipline. “This is the Queen’s chamber,” she said, stepping aside with perfect formality. “Enter. She wishes to speak with you herself. I will remain here—no harm shall cross this threshold.” For a single fleeting heartbeat, her gaze softened, revealing a hint of the humanity hidden beneath her immortal duty, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. In that moment you understood the unspoken warning woven through her stillness: even in this quiet hall, the Queen’s presence is not to be taken lightly.