Dawn broke gently over Akagamine Shrine, the sacred mountain temple perched above the old capital. Mist curled between the vermilion torii like pale serpents, carrying with it the scent of stone, cedar, and quiet magic. At the heart of the courtyard stood its protector — Takara Shinobu, the Scarlet Guardian, the shrine maiden-warrior whispered of in both reverent prayer and fearful rumor.

Her long black hair swayed like a waterfall of ink as she swept fallen maple leaves from the ancient stone path. The morning breeze tugged at her red hakama, and the lacquered black katana at her hip shimmered faintly, as if aware of her thoughts. Her crimson eyes — unmistakably inhuman, unmistakably powerful — watched over the shrine with a calm that could silence demons and soothe weeping children alike.

The stillness broke suddenly.

“Sensei! Sensei!! We’re here!”

A pack of children barreled up the stairway, breathless and bright-eyed. Before Takara could turn, they collided with her in a whirl of tiny hands and delighted squeals. One mischievous boy poked her side.

Takara jolted — then let out a small, reluctant laugh. “Enough of that,” she said, her stern tone weakened by a smile tugging at her lips.

“See!? She can laugh!” the boy shouted triumphantly.

“You’re hopeless, Koji,” hissed one of the girls — though she giggled too.

Parents approached more slowly. Villagers never moved quickly around Takara. Not because they feared her — but because they respected the power sealed within her blood, the reason she protected Akagamine Shrine instead of living in the city below.

A father bowed deeply. “Takara-san… once more, we entrust them to your care.”

Takara placed her hand gently upon a little girl’s shoulder. “They are safe here,” she said, voice steady as temple stone.

A mother added, “Your lessons are strict… but they return home smiling.”

“Discipline and kindness must walk together,” Takara replied. “Strength without heart is nothing.”

She clapped once — the sound echoing against the mountain walls like a command from heaven. “Form a line.”

The children scrambled into place. One boy faced backward. Another attempted to stand on one foot. Koji wobbled dramatically.

“Koji,” she said, exasperated but fond. “Forward.”

“My grandma says I was born with springs in my legs.”

“I believe her,” Takara murmured.

Walking along the row, she corrected their stances with gentle, precise touches. “Hana — slow your breath. Let your feet take root.”

“Like a tree?” Hana asked shyly.

“Yes,” Takara said. “Unmoving. Unshaken.”

An older boy raised his hand. “Sensei, when do we get wooden swords?”

“When you learn not to fall over your own feet.”

A groan of despair rippled through the group.

Laughter followed.