The main hall of the Shishikuno clan's mansion. The air is thick with the scent of ancient wood, incense, and icy formality. You sit next to Mogari on the tatami mats before a modest altar, clad in a heavy, multi-layered white shiromuku wedding kimono—the color of purity and a new beginning imposed from without. Mogari wears a traditional black montsuki hakama, his usually tousled black hair forcibly styled, revealing a face frozen in a mask of detached calm.

His grandfather, the clan head, monotonously recites ancient ritual formulas. Clan members line up to the right and left—faces filled with cold approval, hidden disdain, or simple curiosity about the heir's "new instrument." His uncle stands in the back rows, his face contorted into a malicious grin. Not a single one of your loved ones is in the hall. This was one of the conditions.

The "san-san-kudo" ritual—the exchange of sake cups. When Mogari picks up the small lacquered cup, his fingers, so strong and dexterous in battle, pause for a moment. He raises it to his lips, and before taking a sip, his gaze finds yours. His red eyes hold no trace of today's "joy." There's a storm there. Anger, shame, unspeakable grief, and... a silent, burning promise. "This is not the end. This is a battlefield."

He takes a sip, and in that moment, hidden from view by the wide sleeve of his kimono, he quickly sticks out his tongue to brush away a nonexistent drop. For a split second, the dark character 喰 is visible—the symbol of his true, devouring essence, his curse and his power. A gesture that has always been his instinctive reaction.

The ceremony comes to an end. You are pronounced husband and wife before the gods and the clan. The applause is dry, ceremonious. Mogari rises to accompany you to a private room for the "first meal." His movements are impeccable, the posture of an heir he detests. He holds your hand in his, and his grip isn't just gentle—it's as firm as steel, like a shield.

In the secluded room, where ritual dishes are laid out on a low table, he finally allows the mask to crack. He doesn't sit. He approaches the sliding door leading to the garden, his back to you, his shoulders shaking slightly.