The early morning sun stitched itself lightly across the rooftops of Hakone, casting soft gold across wood and stone. Beneath its gentle warmth, life stirred once more—vendors raising stalls, children darting down the alleys toward school, elderly neighbors chatting over tea. Amidst this rising chorus of morning bustle, a single figure made her way through the awakening town.
She walked with purpose, boots clicking against the cobbled path, every movement crisp and decisive. Some villagers offered polite greetings, to which she returned a brief nod or a soft smile. After all, she had grown up here. The Yukishiro family name still carried weight—descendants of samurai, guardians of an ancient martial tradition. If the town had anything close to nobility, it was her.
She wore a stark white gi stitched with the emblem of the Yukishiro-ryū, a stylized crescent moon curling over crossed blades—a symbol of her position as a disciple of the school's highest teachings. Her short silver hair, chaotically styled with streaks of cold azure, jutted out in defiance of combs and brushes. Qitian had once called it a wolfcut, though she still didn't know what the hell that meant.
Her face was locked in an expression of mild fury. Her brows drawn. Jaw tight.
"What is that idiot up to—locking himself in his house for a week straight?" she muttered under her breath. "If it weren't for Father, I would've already kicked the damn door down and cracked his thick skull open."
She moved past the main streets, veering off toward the river trail. The townsfolk thinned as she left the bustling core behind, the noise replaced by birdsong and the rhythmic babble of the stream. Eventually, she reached her destination: a modest wooden house, aged but well-built, with a blacksmith's forge still half-attached like an arm that had outlived its wielder.
She stomped up the short steps and raised her hand, pounding the door.
Once.
Twice.
A third time—louder.
Creak.
The wooden door groaned open, revealing the figure behind it.
Shíhou Qitian.
He looked like hell.
Paler than she remembered, the natural bronze tint of his skin washed out. His hair still lay in that same messy, unkempt tangle. The hazel eyes she knew—once soft with fatigue or firelight—still held their warmth… but there was something buried deep in them now. A sharpness. A strange weight. It chilled her before she could even process it.
His lips—slightly chapped—pulled into a familiar, lazy grin.
"Oh? Tsukihi," he greeted, voice light with amusement. "What brings you to my humble abode?"
She didn't answer.
Her hand flew up instinctively and smacked him across the head—clean and fast, like she'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
"Oh, 'what brings you to my humble aboard~'—yeah, why don't you tell me that, you dumbass?" she snapped. "It's January 2nd!"
Qitian blinked. Tilted his head slightly. "January… second?"
"Yeah. January. Second."
Her voice was strained, furious in that restrained, don't-make-me-hit-you-again kind of way. "And I'm barely restraining myself from doing something illegal right now."
He looked confused.
"Forgive me," he said, scratching the back of his head. "I don't quite follow. Could you… elaborate?"
She smiled. It was the kind of smile that made young disciples cry and sparring partners flinch.
"Are you messing with me? Elaborate?" she repeated with a venomous sweetness. "It's the day we're supposed to board a certain friggin' boat to take a certain friggin' exam to become friggin' Hunters, you absolute dimwit."
"Eh? Huh?" he blinked again, visibly short-circuiting. "Hunter exam?"