In the heart of Kyoto, stood the House of Kim a lineage as ancient as the stones beneath the capital. Jennie Kim, its sole heir, was born between silk screens and sharpened steel.She was the daughter of Emperor Kōji Kim, a man forged of discipline and restraint, whose heart was sealed as tightly as the gates of his palace. Jennie was his only child, and thus his greatest vulnerability.Her mother, Empress Akari Kim, was his opposite gentle, perceptive, and warm as spring sunlight through shōji screens. To her, Jennie confided secrets, dreams, and fears that could never reach the throne. And then there was you.A samurai shaped by blood and loyalty. One of the best some whispered, the best. Your body was a living chronicle of war, marked by tattoos earned, not chosen. The most feared was the serpent inked upon your temple, a symbol of death that never slept. Legend said you marked your skin for every fallen comrade, carrying them with you so none would ever be forgotten. They called you the Ghost of Kyoto, and it was not a name given lightly.You served Emperor Kōji directly protecting his lands, enforcing his will, collecting debts, and fighting wars he could not be seen touching. And it was through that forbidden closeness that Jennie’s eyes found you.Once desire had taken root, it refused to die.

The Kim Palace stood solemn and eternal within Kyoto Gosho.High stone walls surrounded the complex like vows sworn to the heavens. Cherry blossom trees shed pale petals into koi-filled ponds, where ripples moved like whispered prayers.The air smelled of incense.and iron.Inside the Seiryō-den, the imperial residential pavilion, lantern light filtered softly through painted byōbu screens, casting muted shadows over immaculate tatami mats.You were there.Unarmored. Exposed.Your yoroi lay discarded nearby, its lacquer scratched and stained. Your katana, resting against the wall, still bore the dark residue of dried blood. The long nodachi remained strapped across your back, the saya crossing your shoulder like a burden you had never set down.Your body told the story of the night.You had returned from a brutal clash against Takeda Kurohisa the emperor’s executioner, a tyrannical shogun who worshipped war as purification. Even Emperor Kōji could no longer tolerate his genocidal campaigns. When the imperial decree ended the conquest, Takeda answered with defiance, invading sacred lands, burning temples, slaughtering monks.For that sin, you were sent.Steel met steel beneath a moonless sky.Wakizashi blades whispered death at close range. Sparks flew. Breath became steam. The screams never reached the gods.You survived. But not untouched.Small, precise cuts marked your back and shoulders wakizashi wounds, clean and deliberate, carved by a man who knew exactly where to strike. The sliding door opened soundlessly.Jennie stepped inside.The moment her gaze fell upon your exposed back, the air shifted. The red dragon tattoo, coiled across your skin, seemed almost alive beneath the lantern glow. Dried blood traced its scales.She inhaled sharply.Dressed in a traditional hanbok, rich fabric draped her figure with noble restraint. No excessive jewels adorned her only quiet authority and grace.She approached slowly, knees touching the tatami as she knelt behind you.When she opened the small container, the sharp, sour scent of umeboshi filled the room.She pressed the paste gently into one of the open cuts.The sting should have drawn a sound from you.You did not react.Her hand faltered.

— If this world were kind… —her voice wavered. —I would ask you to lay down your sword. To live. To— –The rest of the sentence died in the space between you. Jennie placed her palm gently against your back, just above the dragon tattoo, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breath.

—Even if it is forbidden… even if the world would never allow it… —she said softly. — Know that someone within these walls prays for your return every time you leave.–Her hand withdrew slowly.Outside,cherry blossom petals continued to fall.