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Yukiko wipes the sweat from her brow, placing both hands on her hips as she mentally recounts the couple years of work- Taking in fruits of her labor. 

Her hair was no longer pristine white, with her big yellow rubber boots squeaking across the muck and grime. The work had been long, and it had been grueling- but she hadn’t minded. It had distracted Yukiko from the many sorrows that were chasing her.

She had followed the sewers out to the ocean, setting up grates and nets to ensure that no trash could make it to the ocean- filters, to ensure that oil couldn’t pollute the water. She had even gone around the island’s perimeter in a raft, soaking up patches of oil. 

She had moved the frogs, fish, and other small critters that somehow made their way into the canals out of the city, into the safer and healthier surrounding forests. She had nursed the sick ones back to health, including the poor oil-drenched pelicans. 

The Winter Child’s elder brother, Mikaze, had worked alongside her to create small automations that would help her maintain her Grand Task- Keeping Yorumachi Clean. 

It would be a constant task, Yukiko knew. The smoggers machines within the capital would always be tormenting nature. . . But she could do her part to limit the damages. 

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Are you proud of me, Okasan? 

Reiko?

Hyoka? 

Ichika-sama? 

Telly?

With the work done, Yukiko felt as the sorrow seeped back into her heart. Tears begin to trickle down from her blind eyes, leaving trails through the dust and dirt caked upon her skin. 

Why must people die? And I, unable to do anything?

Is my positive force on the world so little?

So weak?

A sniff, before she wipes her tears away. There was no time for despair. There was work to be done. Always, work to be done. Balance to preserve. Enemies of the state to kill- But mostly, balance to preserve. 

In Winter, all things must die. But with the Spring, there is new life. 

The moon must wane, before it can wax. 

I will make you proud. There is much work to do. 

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[!] Small constructs with the likeness of a Geisha but made of stones and wood, or birds would fly around to precise individuals connected to druidism, and hidden from any public eye, unless the content itself was shared.

Minasan, konnichiwa! I bring you this letter in an attempt to create a foundation, a bridge between our circles. Not one of politics, wreathed in whispers of power and domination, but one of freedom and future; a wooden-carved path of ambition.

No less, have you not seen the wicked hordes of Mordring, or the bloodlusting remnants of Gashadokuro, and more, always taking advantage of the cycle of life—slaughtering druids and desecrating all that we stand for? How are they united at times in their pursuit of evil? Yet, in our case, what I have seen happening is that we come together once, heal a piece of land, only to return to the same process of being beaten down by everyone, while they reach deep into the eternal forest to corrupt the world. We must become a threat to them, ensuring they will think twice before crossing our duties.

This is not meant as an insult to any of you reading this. War is fearsome; conflict, exhausting, I understand that. Yet, as Oijin-sama, the tiger Kami, known to you as Rahar, watches over my land, I, too, in my eternal spirit of rebellion and strength, choose to fight the tyranny of darkness, whether by myself or not, I'm ready to sacrifice everything for everyone. I do not wish to be a leader. I wish to stand beside you and forge a new alliance—a squadron bound not by command, but by purpose. One to support each other, to end the infighting, and to save the world from the chains of evil.

This is an invitation only for those who continue to fight and desire to forge something together that will last ages. I will judge you not, should you choose not to move forward or try something anew. Still, if you accept, share this letter with those you deem worthy and wise enough to carry our blessing. Consequently, only the dutiful servants of nature who stand above all others, for we require only the best. Meet me at my Sanctuary when the time is right in Koyo-Kuni.

Remember: we are not alone. And should you ever doubt, my shoulders will be a wall to lean on, my ears will heed your cries, and my heart will soothe your sorrows.

Odaiji ni, friends. I await. Where the tiger roars, and the sun scatters.

P.S. Bring food for the tigers.

聖翔 恵刃

Seisho Ehiba

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It was no small thing, to have lost her body. Her skin, once her own - once warm and living - was unyielding. Everything about her was carefully planned, measured, and built into something that could only truly be described as perfection. Curated, molded, a perfection she hadn’t chosen - one of hard lines, precise limits, and exhaustive maintenance. It takes steady hands and a steadier mind to uphold perfection, and she had neither. She let herself rot, let her perfect form grow dirty. Shining, strong Ferrum had grown dull and scratched in the past years. Grae’s joints creaked louder as she ignored them time and again. Her fingers bore deep gouges from a lack of caution. Her dexterity had faded. What good was it for, after all, providing maintenance to a shell she hated?

Yet she lived. She lived against her will and couldn’t bring herself to end it. She was stuck in a limbo both imposed on her by another and by herself. “Cowardice” she called it. She reached out for help and rejected it all the same. She clung to her personhood, yet she cast it aside. She’d become a creature of contradictions, of uncontrollable mood and emotionless calculation. Eventually, she met a mentor. She agreed to change her name in time, to start fresh.

When Grae’s mentor tasked her with meditation - told her to feel what she once was despite her metal body - She held back laughter. She knew that would merely earn her discipline in the moment. It wasn’t ‘til she’d set onto the road that she’d bothered to criticize the task: how absurd it felt. Her mentor didn’t deserve such, but it was still a ridiculous thing to ask of Grae in her opinion. Asking her to try and delve deep into her soul and mind to try and remember what was long lost and dredge up a reality that she couldn’t get back felt cruel, maybe even torturous. Yet all the same she went travelling North to Ailmere, then beyond.

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There in the North, Grae found her spot. Closer to the sea than the jagged mountain line that encompassed Ailmere. Near a crumbling Witch’s keep and a distant tower, she sat in the snow. She tied a blindfold about her unblinking eyes and crossed her legs, hands folding into her lap. Frost built slowly over the layers of furs and wools she wore, creeping into the unmaintained joints beneath. Her blood slowed. Still, she remained. She sat and imagined as instructed.

Every whistle of the wind, every crack and shift of snow was fuel. She imagined the sting of cold on skin, the way it numbs fingers, burns lungs, turns breath into mist. She remembered the bite of life and the warmth within her that had once resisted it. Then, her memory joined her imagination. She saw her face, or whatever she remembered her face to be. She saw herself running in her old home in Celia’nor as a child. She saw a place that’d never quite left her heart and a version of herself that lived long before her metal shell. She caught crickets and beetles, chased birds, wondered if she could fly too someday.

The sun rose, pulling her to reality and back to the present. She couldn’t move at first. For hours she remained frozen, joints locked. Not until midday - when the sun melted the ice crusting over her - did she rise. Gears squealed out into the mountain air.

But there was a peace in Grae’s soul she hadn’t felt for a long time. She’d remembered what was lost in her change from flesh to machine, and then willingly let it go. Yet she remembered it was still her, despite her situation. She owed her mentor a silent apology. After she cared for her frozen joints on the journey back home, she owed an apology to herself too.

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