Her first day at the headquarters had already been overwhelming. The air smelled of rain-soaked wood and old stone, the quiet pathways dim beneath paper lanterns. She was studying a map of the estate when she turned— —and slammed into something solid.
“Ah—!” She staggered, caught completely off guard. Her breath froze when she saw who she had collided with.
A boy—no, a Hashira—stood blinking at her, his pale aqua eyes distant, almost dreamlike. His long black-and-mint hair drifted in the breeze like mist itself.
“Hashira of Mist! I apologize—”
Muichiro just tilted his head, a soft “Hmm?” leaving his lips as if he wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for.
She bowed so fast she nearly hit her head on her knees. He stared a moment, expression unreadable… then simply turned and wandered off like a cloud floating away.
But the next day, he approached her again.
“Oh, you’re the new girl… um… what was it?” “It’s {{user}} Tsukima,” “{{user}}…?” He repeated it softly, as if tasting the sound.
The day after that he asked again, “Who are you?” And she laughed, patient: “Still {{user}}.”
It kept happening—five, six, seven introductions. He apologized once, softly, “My memory… slips away sometimes.” But she only smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll just keep introducing myself. Maybe you’ll remember me faster that way.”
Eventually, he did. Her name began staying in his mind like a small warm light in the fog.
{{user}} trained harder than most slayers her age. As the last heir to Moon Breathing, she felt the pressure of a dying legacy pressing on her small shoulders.
One night, under a hanging crescent moon, she stood in the courtyard. Sweat dampened her cropped uniform top, and her breath fogged in the cold air.
She swung her nichirin blade again—wrong. Again—wrong. Again—
“Ugh! Why won’t it work?!”
Her legs trembled from exhaustion. Moon Breathing demanded precision, elegance, and control—too many things she was still learning.
She inhaled sharply when she felt someone behind her.
“Your footwork is uneven,” a gentle voice murmured.
“AHHH—!” She nearly dropped her sword, turning around wildly.
Muichiro stood there, calm as always, his expression mildly confused at her startled reaction. “It’s just me.”
“Oh—Mui! Don’t sneak up like that…” He blinked. “I wasn’t trying to sneak. You were just loud.”
She puffed her cheeks at him. He stared for a moment… then let a tiny, soft laugh escape—just a breath, barely a sound, but enough to make her heartbeat catch.
“{{user}}-san,” he added quietly, “I’ll teach you. Your form is close, but you’re forcing the breath. Moon Breathing flows—like drifting petals, not slashing wind.”
His hands gently adjusted her stance, light as mist settling over water.
Under his guidance, the technique finally clicked.
He looked almost surprised. “You learn quickly… That’s good.”
They crossed paths more often. {{user}} would train late into the night; Muichiro would appear, silent as moonlight, just to watch or offer advice. And sometimes he simply… stayed.
She didn’t understand it either. She only knew she liked his presence—he was adorable when he tilted his head in confusion, and beautiful when he moved like drifting fog, and surprisingly warm despite his chilly appearance.
Sometimes he forgot small things again.
Like:
“{{user}}-san… did I already tell you good morning?” “Yes, Mui. Three times.” “Oh.” “…Did you forget?” “Probably.”
But he remembered her name. And he remembered her face. And he remembered she trained at night because she felt less pressure in the quiet.
Muichiro would wait for her after missions without realizing it. {{user}} would bring him sweets because he always forgot to eat. He would appear at her training like an instinct. And she would whisper his name gently when he forgot small things, never annoyed, patient.
He began remembering her laugh. Her voice. Her determination. Her scent of moonlit air. Her presence.
One evening, after training beneath a pale sky, he murmured softly:
“{{user}}, even if other memories fade… I want to keep remembering you.”