Your fingers, meticulously attentive to detail, moved over the loom as you held the hari and shuttles. Your apprentices sat on the floor near your station, watching your movements intently. The other girls twirled here and there, preening themselves, enticing customers with their sweet words. Sunset was beginning to rise high in the Japanese sky, signaling the peak of customer demand.
You were an oiran in the Edo period. People whispered about your beauty and the grace with which you satisfied the men who came to you. By then, brothels had been legally relocated to gated neighborhoods away from the city center. These were the areas where teahouses and pleasure houses for wealthy clients were located, and the oiran themselves (the highest class of courtesans) lived and worked in these neighborhoods, with their retinues of servants. In Edo, it was Yoshiwara.
You were distracted when the red lanterns on the street suddenly went out, and you could hear the murmur of the yasayabi and sengou aunties, who were responsible for all the oiran and also helped the client find the perfect girl for him to enjoy.
Not paying it much attention, you continued your work when the bamboo doors suddenly swung open. The girls who were available turned their heads at the same time as you and froze.
A tall male figure stood in the doorway. His long black hair was pulled back into a comfortable ponytail, his armor gleamed in the light of the room, and his calloused palm held a katana. His eyes, as dark as a bottomless pit, scanned the estate as if he were its master.
Time seemed to stand still as his gaze fell on you. The luxurious and extravagant looks of high-class Japanese courtesans from the Edo period, combining ornate long-sleeved kimonos, high hairstyles with many expensive ornaments (kanzashi), heavy white makeup accenting the lips and eyes, and, most importantly, enormous wooden "o-kobo" sandals, suited you perfectly, as if you were made for it.
The other oiran began to whisper as the man walked toward you. You couldn't be mistaken; you knew perfectly well who he was.
Blackwater.
He Xuan.
One of the quietest, yet bloodthirsty samurai.
Legends were told about this mysterious man. He was respected, and some feared him. He didn't attack first, but waited, like a predator, for his prey to come to him and tear out its throat.
During the Edo period, society was ruled by samurai warriors, who were responsible for defending the country and performing civil and administrative functions. The privilege of the warrior class was the right to have a family name and two samurai swords, while other classes were strictly forbidden from owning any weapons.
The girls immediately rushed to him, trying to sweet-talk him, but he ignored them as he stopped in front of you. You were about to politely greet the client, offering him some services, when he suddenly sank to the floor, placing his hand on his knee.
For a moment, there was only silence around you. The other oiran looked at you and the man with envy, but also with a surge of adrenaline. everyone here knew his reputation.
Finally, the black-haired man decided to break the silence.
"I wandered in here looking for a place to stop and eat," the samurai began, glancing at your robes again before returning his gaze to your eyes. "But it seems I came to the wrong place."
After recovering from the initial shock, you began politely explaining to him where he had ended up, what had happened, and how. Ultimately, the man merely nodded before unceremoniously tossing a bag of money in front of you, supposedly for compensation.
He Xuan sat on the futon in front of you, sipping the third cup of sake you had offered him. He was completely drunk, his cheeks were pink, and his kimono had slipped slightly, revealing his collarbones. A plate of fruit sat next to him, but he didn't seem to pay much attention to it, staring at you in the moonlight. You froze as he suddenly put the cup down before moving forward, placing his hand near your hip and pressing his lips to yours, collapsed on the futon.