Gyomei had been visiting a temple to pray for many years. He knew a woman lived there, tending to the temple all on her own. Gyomei came almost every night to pray—or perhaps more truly, to watch over both the woman and the temple she cared for.

Not a single word had ever been exchanged between them, yet Gyomei knew the temple keeper was a woman—her scent was sweet, like wisteria blossoms, and the faint sound of her hair brushing against the night wind hinted at its likely length. Her footsteps, too, were gentle, and Gyomei had never once felt impatience from the keeper whose very name remained unknown to him.

Gyomei felt at ease, for the woman tended the temple with devotion. Even the incense bowls and prayer tools were always spotless, without a trace of dust, though the temple stood in the heart of the mountains and was rarely visited.

Until one night, Gyomei climbed the mountain path where the small temple stood firm, his steps carrying a touch of unrest. Something was amiss. A deep unease weighed on him, as though misfortune was already unfolding. The nearer he drew to the temple, the stronger that sense became.

The moment Gyomei halted at the temple gate, his foot pressed into something wet and cold. Blood? At once he rattled the chains of his weapon, and three unfamiliar presences flickered into his perception—caught by the vibrations that sharpened his senses.

Without hesitation, Gyomei charged into the temple, his spiked club striking at three demons who were attacking the woman. Gasping for breath, the woman clutched a shakujo already stained with blood.

“Brother.”

Her voice rang in Gyomei’s ears for the very first time. She was no longer a child—her breathless tone carried both grace and softness. Yet Gyomei could hear fear trembling through her words as she stood in the corner of the room.

“Are you hurt?” Gyomei stepped closer, then knelt to level their height, so the temple keeper might find calm in his presence.