Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Reincarnating into Demon Slayer was already the punchline of a cosmic joke. But it wasn’t just any reincarnation—no, fate had to go full improv comedy. 

Instead of waking up in the relatively manageable Taisho Era (trains, electricity, hot sword-wielding weirdos), you’re unceremoniously yeeted into the Sengoku Era — because why make things easy when you can barely tell a kimono from a yukata? — or aka the “Die Screaming” era, where the air smells like blood, human rights are just vague rumors, and modern survival skills are as useful as a spoon in a sword fight.

And as if time-travel whiplash wasn’t enough, you're not even a background extra from canon. You're Ōzora [Name], a character so nonexistent that even the author's footnotes haven't heard of you. Forget OP cheat skills or plot armor; you've got awkward timing, historical ignorance, and the creeping suspicion that the gods are using your life as a comedy sketch.

So good luck surviving demon-infested Japan with only historical incompetence, sarcasm, and your rapidly declining mental health to keep you company.

Thank you for picking up this story, and welcome to SHINYA. 

First of all, thank you.
Genuinely. Sincerely. From the depths of my over-caffeinated heart.

Whether you stumbled in here because the premise sounded interesting, were lured by the promise of pretty men with swords and a tragic backstory, or simply have a chronic weakness for reincarnated protagonists who scream internally 97% of the time—welcome. You're here. You're doomed. You’re one of us now.

Which brings me to my next point: I’m so sorry.

Not because this story is bad (jury’s still out, but I’ve fought tooth and nail with adverbs, passive voice, and every version of “he looked at her with eyes”), but because by opening this story, you’ve strapped yourself to a centuries-spanning emotional carnival ride—complete with demons and demon slayers, historical accuracy you absolutely cannot and shouldn't verify, reincarnation angst, and one (1) deeply exhausted modern soul trying to survive feudal Japan with a personality built entirely out of sarcasm, regret, and poor coping mechanisms.

And second, I'm sorry again. 

For those who have been readers for months or years at this point, because guess what? SHINYA | 深夜 is finally getting edited! Yes, for real this time. Hold your groans (or don’t). After years of re-reading the same paragraph and convincing myself “typos are a stylistic choice,” I’ve decided to sacrifice my peace of mind for the greater good. That’s right. Editing. Rewriting. Fixing timelines. Clarifying motivations. Upgrading angst. Descending into chaos. Again. But better. People are kissing (eventually). Emotional trauma is now evenly distributed across the cast like a responsible author™.

So if things feel shinier or messier than you remember—it’s because I went feral in the Google Docs at 3 a.m. and decided to let consequences happen.

Cue confetti, kazoo noises, and another round of 'I am not mad, just disappointed'. 

SHINYA | 深夜 is, at its core, a love letter.

To beautiful tragedies. To stubborn people who don’t die when they’re supposed to. To reincarnated disasters who refuse to stay in the background. It’s about memory, found family, fate, grief, love, and what happens when you drop a sarcastic, modern soul into feudal Japan with no survival skills, no plot armor, and a personality that offends the local demon lord just by existing.

There will be violence. There will be breakdowns. There will be demons, trauma, accidental emotional confessions, and bad flirting.

Oh—and yes. There will be romance. Of the slow burn, deeply repressed, “ if they don’t kiss soon I will astral project into the fic and force it ” and “touch-starved slow burn with mutual pining and unresolved sexual tension so thick it violates OSHA regulations” variety. Obviously. 

With love, delusion, and exactly three brain cells,
—The Author; Lilly
(Still emotionally recovering from Yoriichi.)

• MAIN CHARACTER • Ōzora [NAME]

Our dear Protagonist, meaning you, the Reader, will be addressed as Ōzora [Name] or by their nickname, Hime. 

A reincarnated soul thrown into Sengoku-era Japan because the universe decided it was funny. No cheat skills. No chosen one destiny. Just vibes, trauma, and bad luck.

Ōzora, meaning "(literally) big sky, heavens, firmament, the blue," derived from a combination of 大 (oo) , meaning "big, large," and 空 (sora) , meaning "sky, heaven." The second kanji can be substituted with one that has the same or similar meaning(s) to 空, like 天 or 宙, the latter usually read as chū , meaning "space, (mid)air." Source

Despite me; being a little artistic gremlin and adding artworks to some chapters as if it's a OTOME Game CG, there will be no descriptive features of [Name], such as skin color, body type, hair color, etc., except that she does have a white hair strand and, spoiler alert; a demon slayer mark.

• More Information coming soon

• LOVE INTERESTS ♥

Yes, there are multiple. Yes, there will be emotional damage. Yes, this is slow burn .
There are Main Love Interests (who are doomed) and Secondary Love Interests (who are also doomed). Some may move up. Some may fade away. Reader input will affect this, so blame yourselves when the angst hits or our girl hits the 'I'm single as a pringle and nobody can stop me' phase. 

Main Love Interests

• Coming Soon 

Secondary Love Interests

• Coming Soon

Lastly, a note.
This story is inspired by canon, fan theories, and that weird era before the manga ended when we were all feral and afraid. It’s available on Quotev, Wattpad, and AO3. If you’re here, I’m honored. If you’re new—welcome to the spiral. If you’re returning—welcome back to the madness.

Demon Slayer © Koyoharu Gotōge // Ōzora [Name] © lillyhoplodrina

Chapter Text

• amaranthine •

(adj.) undying, immortal; eternally beautiful

(adj.) a deep purple-red

You died, didn't you?

Unequivocally, ungracefully, and with all the elegance of a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel straight into destiny’s metaphorical dumpster. You didn’t just die, no, no, you performed it. Full send, face-first, as if your soul rage-quit the game of life mid-update. 

And how did you arrive at this absolutely airtight deduction?

The first clue? 

Well, for starters, your head is currently pulsing like a bass drum at a rave hosted by regret. And that grass you’re currently lip-locked with? It’s suspiciously luxurious. Offensively soft. Disgustingly fresh. The kind of grass that probably gets serenaded by wealthy poets and moisturized daily. Not the kind of texture your overstimulated, underpaid brain could ever conjure. 

It feels a little bit too real.

Uncomfortably real. Realer than your paycheck. Realer than your therapist’s concerned eyebrow. Realer than the time you claimed energy drinks counted as breakfast. So yeah. Something’s wrong. As in, you’re not just the butt of the joke— you’re the entire three-act structure: setup, slapstick, and tragicomic finale, complete with a laugh track only you can hear.

Second clue? 

Instead of waking up in your crusty apartment, special thanks to the drafty walls and that tub of expired yogurt playing chemical warfare in the fridge, you’re greeted by a beam of sunlight so aggressive it feels personal. You're not in Kansas, so why would you? Or your sad shoebox-sized apartment anymore. 

No, you’ve been dropped into what looks like a samurai’s Pinterest board come to life. A Japanese garden so absurdly elegant it screams "noble aesthetic" and "yes, we have koi ponds, and no, you may not touch them." There’s absolutely zero chance your broken, overworked imagination could’ve manifested this level of luxury. Not even on its best day, with coffee.

You clutch your head like it just confessed to blowing up your entire life on purpose, then dive into your memories like a bargain hunter at a Black Friday sale; desperate, chaotic, and entirely unsure what you’re even looking for. Something’s got to explain why you’re face-down in a luxury-grade lawn, starring in a waking fever dream with koi ponds and ambient flute music. They're hazy, overlapping, like someone slapped your brain into a blender and hit "purée." Every memory feels like it’s been dipped in static and sarcasm.

Okay. Alright. Deep breath. Time to hit rewind and figure out how you ended up face-first in premium landscaping.

Work? Soul-draining with a side of forced small talk. Your apartment? A walk-in freezer pretending to be rent-worthy. And sleep aids? Less "medicine," more emotionally codependent office buddies—barely functional but always there to whisper, "You tried." 

You remember eyeing that little bottle like it promised front-row seats to peace and quiet. You took the deal. Popped a couple like they were after-dinner mints, flopped onto your aggressively disappointing pillow, and let unconsciousness take you with all the grace of a cat missing a jump and pretending it meant to do that.

Then nothing. 

Just a blackout curtain pulled across existence. No dreams, no white light, no existential PowerPoint presentation. Just, you don’t know, Game Over?

Until now. Until this offensively picturesque garden—ripped straight from a Studio Ghibli background reel—decided it was the perfect venue for your breakdown. Trees gently swaying, koi lazily circling, birds chirping like they were auditioning for a Disney reboot, and you? Curled up on the ground, experiencing an identity crisis with scenic ambiance. Five stars on TripAdvisor. Would panic here again.

You’d facepalm, but your hands are busy performing a full-body check like you're trying to sneak contraband past airport security. Head? Still where you left it. Fingers? All twitchy but accounted for. Legs? Short, sure, but functional. Teeth? Still there, though you test them like a raccoon checking for leftovers behind a dumpster.

Then your hands hit your chest.

Fuck. There's nothing. Again.

No curve. No squish. Not even the whisper of cleavage that once justified the existence of your overpriced underwire bras. Just the Great Plains of Chestville. Emotional damage? Immeasurable. It’s like someone reset your character in The Sims, unchecked all your custom traits, and hit randomize on hard mode. Honestly, rude. 

One minute you’re living your worst life with some respectable physics going on, and the next—bam—you’re smoother than a conspiracy theorist’s Google search history. If this is the universe’s idea of a joke, it’s giving a prank show with zero budget and negative taste.

Honestly, your girls deserved a send-off: flowers, dramatic music, maybe a moment of silence. Maybe a PowerPoint. But no—just a tragic flatline and 4K emotional whiplash, with Dolby surround.

But then you clock something else. Yup—add another item to the ever-expanding bingo card of cosmic screw-ups that is your current existence.

These hands, no, your hands?

They’re suspiciously soft.

The realization doesn’t gently dawn—it crashes into your psyche like a toddler into a glass door. These hands? They’ve never opened a jar, spilled ramen on a laptop, or rage-texted after midnight. They’ve never known heartbreak, cracked screens, or the betrayal of off-brand instant coffee. These are rich people's hands. Insultingly so.

Not just “moisturized and thriving” soft. We’re talking “never touched a sink, a sponge, or a mildly abrasive surface” soft. These hands have never scrubbed a pan or lost a thumb war. These are the hands of someone whose most strenuous daily task is choosing between silk and satin. The kind of hands that get clapped for after lifting a teacup. The kind of hands that fear cardboard the way mortals fear taxes.

And now these dainty, hyper-moisturized, silk-pillowcase-worthy hands? They’re yours. Somehow. Surprise!

So, let’s be brutally honest—this body? Yeah, not yours. 

Not in shape, spirit, or the deeply disconcerting grace it seems to radiate without trying. This frame carries the kind of old-world elegance that implies it’s never touched a doorknob, let alone handled disappointment.

You, in contrast, were held together by sarcasm, caffeine, and spite. You weren’t built for moonlit verandas and courtly glances—you were built for takeout and mental gymnastics. And yet, here you are, draped in soft fabrics, caught between expectations you don’t remember agreeing to and the echo of a life that no longer belongs to you.

This isn’t reincarnation, is it even that? You don’t know—it’s identity theft with a poetic soundtrack. A divine paperwork error that somehow resulted in you becoming a curated relic of nobility, wrapped in silk and existential dread. It’s less ‘chosen one’ and more ‘wrong name on the cosmic delivery form.’

And then it hits you. Sudden and smug like a wine aunt’s passive-aggressive compliment over holiday dinner:

A name; Ōzora [Name].

It fits like a crown made of thorns—ornate, elegant, and designed solely to leave emotional lacerations. The kind of name that’s embroidered into family crests, etched into ceremonial fans, and whispered behind painted screens during afternoon tea. A name so heavy with prestige it might just give your soul scoliosis.

And now it’s yours.

Naturally, you have about two seconds to process that before the universe decides, "Why stop there?" and throws in the memories.

They don’t arrive gracefully. Oh no. These memories ambush you like a jealous raccoon in a trash can: sudden, chaotic, and deeply confusing. A flicker of a name day celebration you’ve never attended. The taste of bitter green tea that makes your modern palate cry. The muscle memory of side-eyeing someone from behind a silk fan. You don’t remember these things, but your body does. Your spine straightens at imaginary reprimands. Your fingers twitch into a calligraphy brush grip. Your soul quietly screams.

The worst part? It’s not just happening. It’s staging a hostile takeover! 

These memories aren’t gently arriving with a cup of tea and good intentions. No, they’re storming your mental palace with a battering ram and a list of etiquette rules longer than your attention span. One moment you’re thinking “what the hell is a silk obi,” the next you’re adjusting yours with the quiet competence of someone who absolutely knows how to criticize a servant without raising their voice.

You’ve suddenly developed an internal radar for social hierarchy, a sixth sense for passive-aggression, and the cursed knack for decoding the subtle language of bowing, like you’ve unlocked the DLC to a historical drama where every head tilt is a political statement. 

Ōzora [Name] isn’t just haunting your brain anymore— That would’ve been manageable—tragic, yes, but at least you’d still get visitation rights in your own damn brain.

No, she’s feng shui-ing the place! 

Draping your identity in layers of embroidered generational trauma, replacing your emotional support sarcasm with a sense of superiority, and lighting incense you didn’t authorize. She’s not a squatter; she’s the new landlord, and you’re just the ghost of the previous tenant.

And you?

You're just clinging to the metaphorical stage curtains while the script gets rewritten in real-time by a drunk playwright with a flair for tragedy and a vendetta against your sanity. Destiny has the pen, the cast list, and apparently zero chill. You're the understudy who didn’t rehearse, now forced to improvise Hamlet with a sock puppet and a fake British accent. Bravo, darling, your life is now a one-person play in an unfamiliar genre, and nobody handed you the damn script.

So yeah. You’re starring in a high-budget historical drama you didn’t audition for, complete with high-budget equipment and the soul of someone who used to have Very Strong Opinions about kimono embroidery. Your name now sounds like it should be spoken only in hushed reverence or in angry footnotes of clan rivalries. 

Somewhere out there, destiny is in a bathrobe, feet up, eating popcorn with the enthusiasm of someone watching a reality show spiral into chaos.

Meanwhile, you’re just doing your best impression of emotionally stable nobility while desperately trying not to sob in cursive— and failing, because even your inner monologue now bows before speaking. But you want to sob so, so bad, but you are not. Not out loud, anyway.

But internally? You are conducting a full orchestral lamentation. First violins of despair. Backup cellos of quiet, ongoing existential horror.

Because, of course, the universe couldn’t just punt you into a small child's body and call it a day. No, it had to crank the melodrama dial to eleven: serving up ancestral baggage, obscene wealth you feel guilty breathing near, and a heaping scoop of impostor syndrome draped in fabrics worth more than your entire old apartment complex.

And then, because the universe is constitutionally incapable of leaving well enough alone, it gets worse. You’re engaged. At five. Yes, betrothed before you can even spell the word. To an aristocratic toddler whose emotional spectrum seems to run exclusively from “faintly displeased” to “quietly plotting your downfall.” The kind of child who grades tea temperatures like a tyrant and probably filed formal complaints about his wet nurse’s lullabies being off-key.

Your conclusion? You are, without exaggeration, catastrophically doomed. You’re missing half the memories you’d need to convincingly pretend you belong here, which is a problem when your new family expects poise and you’ve got all the elegance of a dropped turnip. If they notice that their formerly flawless daughter has been replaced by a graceless imposter? They’d probably commit seppuku out of sheer humiliation before allowing you to drag the family name through the dirt.

To recap: you rage-quit life courtesy of capitalism, woke up fun-sized and radiating the personality of a neglected fern, in what can only be described as a feudal fever dream, and are now betrothed to a miniature noble who definitely says “indeed” unironically.

Wonderful.

Fantastic.

Someone, please, just roll credits and end this season early.

To be completely honest, this sucks.

You’re trying so hard not to sound ungrateful, you did, after all, get a second chance after what was easily the most embarrassing and preventable death in history, but couldn’t this second chance have been somewhere familiar? Somewhere in your own country, perhaps? Or somewhere with Wi-Fi and pizza delivery and a government that doesn’t expect toddlers to be engaged in political alliances by age five? You’d even settle for a minor upgrade of your old life.

Anything that didn’t involve accidentally offending nobility by sneezing the wrong way.

You squint up at the dazzling, too-perfect sky, a look that hovers somewhere between wistful and homicidally done, and perform the only act of rebellion left to you: a tiny but highly meaningful middle finger aimed at whatever cosmic intern fucked up that badly in your little resurrection. The gesture feels both petty and cathartic because oh yes, universe, you see me, and I see you.

Then a warm breeze slips past, teasing through your hair like it’s in on the joke, and for the briefest, most unhinged moment, you swear you hear a whisper of "Fuck you too" threaded through the leaves. Which, honestly, would be exactly your luck. Of course, the universe talks back; it’s been narrating your downfall for the past ten minutes already.

You let out a thin, tired puff of air, the kind that feels like it’s been trapped in your chest for years. Your hand falls back to the grass, fingers drumming absently as if trying to wake yourself from this aggressively pretty nightmare. The garden stretches around you in impossible detail—the old trees swaying as though gossiping, the pond catching the sunlight and throwing it back in molten shards, the grand estate rooftops in the distance looking like they were designed purely to intimidate commoners. Everything here radiates belonging… and you, emphatically, do not. You’re the ink smudge on a centuries-old painting, and the breeze and bird-song seem almost cruel in their refusal to let you wallow properly.

And the question bubbles up before you can stop it: Is this even your universe anymore? You’ve read enough fanfiction with this kind of premise—the ones where the protagonist wakes up in someone else’s life and immediately starts thriving like a self-sufficient plot-plant. You snort quietly, a bitter little sound. If this really is one of those stories, you’re the cautionary subplot, because thriving is the last thing you’re doing. 

You hope, no, pray, that this is Genshin Impact. Because honestly, if this is Inazuma, at least it comes with sakura blossoms and hot sword-wielding men. Oh, imagine: Kamisato Ayato as your neighbor, casually existing in all his refined, untouchable beauty. Your death might actually feel worth it if it means bumping into that jawline while fetching water.

But then your brain, unhelpful as always, goes a step further. What if you get a Vision? What if you make it all the way to Snezhnaya, ascend through the ranks, and end up as a Harbinger? The coat alone would be worth the inevitable moral corruption. Ever since that Harbinger reveal trailer dropped, your neurons have been solely dedicated to thirsting over those coats. They’re not just clothing; they’re portable fortresses. You could hide snacks, weapons, a cat, or the shattered remains of your dignity inside one.

Forget romance.

Forget Ayato’s annoyingly perfect face and Yae Miko’s unfairly flawless hair.

You need that coat. Even if it costs you your life, and let’s be real, it probably would, you’d still sign the dotted line. Because this isn’t just a coat; it’s a portable declaration of power, a dramatic shoulder cape that screams “I make the weather fear me” and a collar fluffy enough to hide every bad decision you’ve ever made. Honestly, you’d auction off your soul and maybe a kidney for the privilege.

No, wait, even better; Il Capitano, storming onto the scene with the sort of looming, operatic presence that could silence a battlefield, your heartbeat, and possibly the next three generations of your bloodline. Now that’s aspirational chaos. If you’re going to sell your soul for a coat, it may as well be the one worn by a man who looks like he’s personally stared down winter and made it flinch.

That's the dream, isn't it?

Anyway—

Just five minutes ago, you nearly had a full-scale mental breakdown, the kind that makes you question every life choice you’ve ever made. Now you’re giggling all by yourself, losing it over the idea of a coat—a piece of clothing you could, theoretically, have made yourself if you weren’t spectacularly useless at all forms of craft and follow-through.

But that’s almost irrelevant. The bigger issue is that you are utterly, completely alone. Your hands are filthy and still stained with dried blood, and you’re sitting in an unfamiliar place, laughing softly to yourself like you’ve just committed your first homicide and gotten away with it. If someone were to witness you right now, the shame would be astronomical. Thankfully, you think, there’s no one around. Surely not. Not a single soul, right?

Wrong, you absolute disaster.

Because while you were still floating on that ridiculous euphoric high about a coat you don’t even own—and doing Olympic-level mental gymnastics to box up the whole "died five minutes ago, now apparently a child" crisis—your observational skills decided to take a sick day. Spectacularly. You were so focused on clinging to that comforting illusion of solitude that you completely overlooked the obvious. You stared in only one direction, clinging to the comforting illusion that you were alone, and drew hasty conclusions from what little you could see. Had you just taken a moment—one single moment—to glance behind you, you might have salvaged the last shred of your dignity.

But of course you didn’t. 

And now that opportunity is gone forever, because you are, without question, one of the least fortunate and most catastrophically oblivious humans alive.

“[Name]-chan, are you unharmed?”

The words drift through the air like they’ve been hand-delivered by an angel who’s never known disappointment, soft and achingly concerned. It’s the kind of voice that could melt glaciers—and unfortunately, it’s using your name.

Wait. No. Who even cares how pretty the voice is? Someone is talking to you, which means someone saw you doing your patented brand of weirdness.

Oh no.

Oh, absolutely not.

You are not ready for this. Interaction with other human beings? Hard pass. You’d rather peel your own skin off than fake childhood innocence right now. You can barely pass as a functional adult, let alone a convincing five-year-old.

Are you scared? Terrified doesn’t begin to cover it. There’s no one here to hold your tiny hand, no smartphone to frantically Google “WikiHow: how to impersonate a small noble child without dying of shame.” You’re on your own, and the odds of screwing this up are astronomical.

But now is the time to muster courage, you tell yourself, as if repeating it will make it true. Do it for your imaginary future Harbinger status. Do it because the Tsaritsa—who you’re not even sure exists—would not tolerate cowardice, and you refuse to be the weak link in your own delusion. And yet, somewhere deep down, a voice you’re trying very hard to ignore whispers, oh, this is going to be a disaster.

“[Name]-chan?”

Alright, now you’re just being rude, ignoring the divine voice calling out to you so sweetly.

With the subtlety of a startled cat, you turn your head—equal parts curiosity and dread—wondering what sort of angel is about to pass judgment on your weirdness. But the moment your gaze meets the silhouettes, a wave of panic sweeps over you, your throat tightening with the force of an imaginary rope.

In the shade of the grand estate’s veranda stands a breathtaking woman in an exquisite kimono, genuine concern in her eyes. Her presence radiates dignity—something your former self could never achieve. Yet, it’s clear her health is far from perfect, and if she were alone, her warmth might have eased your panic, melting it into a puddle on the grass. But life never makes it easy, and right now, survival means pretending you’re not seconds away from another mental breakdown.

Still, your blood runs cold, goosebumps marching up your arms like little soldiers, despite the sun doing its best impression of a cozy blanket. You’re shaking so hard you could probably rattle fine china off the nearest table. Your heart is pounding in your ears, so obnoxiously loud, you’re genuinely worried the next thing to break isn’t your composure, but your actual eardrums.

Standing beside the woman, on her left, if you want to be annoyingly specific, is a boy about your age, effortlessly supporting his mother with the kind of natural grace that makes you look like a gremlin who snuck into nobility by accident. Wavy red hair. Maroon eyes. A calm, almost otherworldly expression. And there it is: a bold, flame-patterned mark on the left side of his forehead. The only thing missing from this “legend has entered the chat” portrait is a pair of hanafuda earrings, but honestly, the universe probably thought your nerves couldn’t take it.

It’s incredible how small and unworthy you manage to feel in that split second.

And can you blame yourself? You’re standing in the presence of the most brokenly overpowered character in all of anime, alright, in this anime, but yes, that one man who almost soloed the main antagonist and barely seemed winded afterward.

The GOAT himself, Tsugikuni Yoriichi, locks eyes with you, his gaze so piercing it feels as if it could slice clean through your very soul. Your breath hitches, your mind blanking under the unbearable pressure. Should you cry? Laugh? Spontaneously combust to escape the weight of that look? Every option feels equally possible—and equally terrifying.

“Man, I really do love Demon Slayer. One day, please, give us a spin-off about the Sengoku Era." 

Right.

That was the entirety of your wildly unhelpful thought process while still being just you and not on the receiving end of that emotionless stare. 

So, here you are, in Demon Slayer. 

You hardly need to explain it: a tale of terrifying, yet somehow annoyingly attractive, demons lurking under moonlight. At the same time, a relentlessly determined protagonist carries a box on his back, protecting the world’s most adorable sister with a stubborn resolve strong enough to level a mountain. It’s the kind of series that tears you apart emotionally, only to stitch you back together with breathtaking animation and a soundtrack that makes you cry twice as hard. There’s blood, tragedy, and sword fights so intense they leave your heart pounding.

And always, always that gut-punching moment of, “Oh no, I’m about to get emotionally wrecked again,” which, let’s be real, is half the reason you keep coming back.

Sure, you adored this series, but now it feels like waking up inside a fanfiction trope gone horribly wrong—and honestly, how could it not? If you’d landed in the Taisho Era, maybe you could’ve faked it, maybe you wouldn’t be sweating through your metaphorical socks, but no. Fate, in all its cosmic pettiness, plopped you into the Sengoku Era: a time when your so-called knowledge is about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Every factoid you desperately cling to feels flimsier than your last shred of dignity, and the crushing weight of your ignorance settles heavier than Yoriichi’s soul-piercing stare.

Maybe, just maybe, this is all your fault. After all, you even cracked jokes in some late-night Discord chat about wanting a spin-off—typing furiously between sips of instant ramen as if the universe was tuned in and taking notes. Apparently, it was, because someone up there clearly went, “Oh, she wants immersion? Let’s make it 4D.”

Congratulations, you played yourself. If that’s the cost of knowledge, you would have happily stayed stupid.

Finally, you wrench your gaze away from him, eyes burning as unshed tears cling stubbornly to your lashes. One more second of that eye contact and you’re absolutely certain the first impression you’ll leave is “hopelessly useless,” the kind of reputation that clings forever. Not that brat [Name] hasn’t already perfected that vibe, but still—it’s the principle of the thing.

You try to straighten up, channeling the vague memory of what dignity might look like, but your body has decided to audition for the Betrayal Olympics: spine locked, every muscle screaming, “Modern soul! She’s a modern soul!” as if you needed the reminder.

So, you lock your gaze on Tsugikuni Akeno, who looks impossibly young, almost fragile, with a petite frame and porcelain-pale skin that makes you half-expect she’ll dissolve into mist if you so much as blink too hard. Slowly—because sudden movement would probably scream “feral animal about to bolt”—you give her a shaky nod and paste on a wobbly smile that feels more like a grimace.

Opening your mouth? Absolutely not. Words are a trap, and you’ve decided to stay alive a little longer.

And if your acting skills were worth anything, maybe she’d buy the illusion of composure. But no, you know you look like a bedraggled woodland creature caught in a thunderstorm, which only makes the concern in her dark eyes deepen further. She tilts her head, studying you the way adults do when they’re silently debating if they should call in reinforcement or just wrap you in a blanket burrito and call it a day.

“Are you certain? It seems you may have injured yourself. Were you perhaps attempting to climb that tree?” She asks softly, with the sort of baseline kindness you’d forgotten real people were capable of—the kind you’d only ever seen fictionalized in feel-good TV finales where everyone hugs it out and learns a life lesson. Her voice is so steady and warm, it makes you want to fling yourself at her feet and confess your entire life story. You won’t, obviously, but the impulse is there.

And, of course, there’s a tree in the garden. Because why wouldn’t there be? It’s practically the law of narrative convenience. Still, you catch yourself gawking at it like it just spawned out of thin air. Was it always there? Did it manifest the moment Tsugikuni-san mentioned it? Are you so catastrophically off your game that you can’t even catalog basic scenery anymore? You glance at the tree suspiciously, half expecting it to wink back at you.

All those countless hours watching Detective Conan, sharpening your observational skills, and for what? You didn’t even clock a whole tree right next to you. A tree. You are officially the worst detective alive. At least the mystery of why your hands look like you spent the afternoon finger-painting on a gravel road for funsies has been solved, so small victories, right?

“I, uh— I am well. Truly. Please, do not trouble yourself,” you croak, your voice barely a whisper, frayed around the edges like it’s been through a war, which, to be fair, it sort of has, emotionally wise. It’s so quiet you’re not even sure they heard, so you add the universal sign of I’m fine, please stop looking at me: a shaky thumbs-up. It hurts like hell, your hand screaming in protest, but you’ve survived worse. 

“What is the matter here?” Your already pitiful charade detonates spectacularly the instant a new presence sweeps into view. 

A figure whose voice drips with the kind of soft-but-deadly authority that makes lesser mortals instinctively straighten their spines. You wrinkle your nose. More witnesses, because this humiliation needed an audience. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

You glance toward the woman emerging from around the corner with the kind of effortless grace you could only dream of and—oh, blessed be every deity in the heavens, salvation has arrived. 

Nice. You know her. From your memories or from the memories of that unwanted roommate inside your head. Your mother, the saint who birthed an unholy menace and somehow endured her nonsense for years without banishing her to the mountains to be raised by wolves.

“Ah, Miyūki-dono,” Akeno says, bowing her head with practiced grace as she turns toward your approaching salvation. “It appears the young lady has suffered a mishap whilst wandering the garden.”

You attempt, with all the subtlety of a potato rolling downhill, to discreetly wipe the blood from your hands. Maybe if you clean up fast enough, no one will notice, and you can shuffle off to a corner to die of embarrassment in peace. But you are, tragically, as stealthy as a newborn deer stuck in a tambourine, and of course, she catches the movement. So much for your illustrious ninja career; it ended before it even began.

“Oh my, [Name], what misfortune has befallen you? You hurt yourself!” Your mother’s voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp with concern as she whirls toward you, her gaze sweeping over your small frame with all the intensity of a general assessing the battlefield.

What misfortune has befallen you? Excellent question, mother dearest. And also, what the hell? Are you supposed to start talking like that, too? Please no. You need to keep at least a shred of modern sarcasm alive in this feudal nightmare. 

“It is nothing of consequence, I assure you,” You murmur, ugh, the words awkwardly formal and heavy on your tongue, as though you’re reciting lines from a badly rehearsed play. “I-I attempted to climb the tree, but I lost my footing. Just a small misstep, I promise.”

While you stumble through your flimsy excuse, your mother is already at your side, dropping to her knees with a grace so sharp it steals the air from your lungs. She gathers your small, bloodied hands into hers, and her touch is so heartbreakingly gentle it’s like she’s afraid you’ll shatter. Her eyes roam over every scrape and cut, and you wouldn’t be surprised if she summoned an entire entourage of healers within the next heartbeat.

A deep frown etches into her youthful features, and the sight of it cuts straight through you. Remorse coils sharp and cold in your gut. You don’t even truly know her, yet you feel the weight of what she’s lost after all, the little girl she loved is gone, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.

You know you will never be like her daughter, no matter the memories or not.

You’re an adult, hesitant and guarded, not the bright, carefree child she once held. Did you steal her future without meaning to? Ōzora [Name] had looked up to Miyuuki and Akeno with awe, wishing someday to be as graceful, as assured. She had dreamed of a simple life: a family, peace, a quiet ending surrounded by love. You—you could never be satisfied with that. The thought of being only a housewife, bound to a husband and children, makes your chest tighten. 

No, thank you. Your life hadn’t been perfect, but at least you had independence. At least you had been free.

Still, shame burns in your chest as you avert your gaze, unable to bear the sight of a woman whose every ounce of love is reserved for Ōzora [Name]. That love isn’t meant for you, and the knowledge makes your skin crawl. It is too much, too bright, and you feel unworthy of it.

“I am sorry,” you whisper, the words so thin they’re almost swallowed by the air, fraying apart under the crushing weight of your guilt.

Her head snaps up immediately, hope sparking in her eyes, and a fragile smile tugs at her lips as she sweeps you into her arms with a warmth that makes your throat tighten all over again. You allow her to hold you, even as the sting of being an imposter cuts deeper with every heartbeat. You are truly, achingly sorry for taking her daughter’s body, for going to live this life that was never meant to be yours.

And yet, despite all that, your trembling hands lift slowly, uncertainly, to return the embrace.

She hugs you tighter, with that steady, unyielding warmth only a mother could muster, completely unaware that each second of it is unraveling you from the inside out. "There is no need for an apology, child. Accidents do happen; yet next time, be patient and wait for your elder brother or Michikatsu to be at your side. Do you understand?"

You blink once.

Then again, slower this time, as the name truly sinks in.

Any lingering shame is annihilated by a tidal wave of disbelief. Did she just say Tsugikuni Michikatsu? As in Upper Moon One Kokushibō? The very same one whose entire life reads like a cautionary tale wrapped in layers of tragedy and bad decisions, but at least looks good while doing so?

Yeah. Alright. Of course, she said his name because how could she not, when Yoriichi’s gaze is still drilling into the back of your neck like a divine judgment you absolutely did not sign up for?

You already had a sneaking suspicion about who your so-called fiancé might be, thanks to all these chaotic memories barging into your brain uninvited, but now that suspicion is screaming louder than a raccoon defending a half-eaten sandwich at 3 a.m.

So. Hm. Well. The bottom line is—

Absolutely not. No. Nuh-uh. Nah. 

You wouldn’t let that thought squat in your brain even if it brought snacks, paid rent on time, and installed central heating. Marry him? Build a life with him, only to be ditched later while he sprints after his brother like a lovesick drama lead? Harder pass than a cat spotting the bathtub. Your pride might be hobbling, but your self-respect is fully kitted out like a warlord marching into battle; armor shining, banners snapping, and wielding a metaphorical sword the size of a tree trunk, ready to swat down any nonsense that dares approach.

But then again, the tiniest, most unhelpful part of your brain whispers, technically, you could hit that twice at least, though. 

You immediately yeet the thought into the sun. No. Absolutely not. Even if he’s walking around looking like he was personally handcrafted by the gods on their day off, you are not, under any circumstances, volunteering for that emotional rollercoaster and doomed narrative. 

And if you’re already so irrelevant to him that you don’t even get a cameo in his melodramatic little flashback reel? Oh, you’re taking that very personally. Fine. Time to level up. You’ve already hit the genetic lottery; you are absolutely not wasting it on someone too oblivious to see the brilliance standing right in front of him. As for your personality, well, that’s a work in progress. Baby steps.

Sorry, Muichiro, Yuichiro—go track down another ancestor. This bad bitch is not signing up for the “martyr myself for the sake of family lineage” package. Find someone else to carry that tragic narrative torch; I’m far too busy trying to thrive soon. 

"I’m relieved to know it is nothing serious, [Name]-chan." Another voice chimes in, Akeno’s hand descending onto your head in a soft pat that feels far too wholesome for the gremlin energy currently radiating off you. How did Ōzora [Name] end up as a tiny pain in the ass while surrounded by women who could practically qualify for sainthood? She turns to her son, the marginally more tolerable twin you’d nearly erased from your mental roster, and says, “Yoriichi, would you assist [Name]-chan in cleaning her hands?”

She’s now committing to the full mime routine, pointing at you and pantomiming hand-washing like this is the world’s least entertaining round of feudal charades. 

Oh, right.

No earrings yet, so everyone still assumes he’s deaf. Perfect. Just the extra layer of awkwardness you needed, as if this day wasn’t already a buffet of mortification. Meanwhile, you’re here, trying to pretend you don’t know he could probably hear a pin drop three villages away. What’s the game plan for you now? Silence ain't an option, so start narrating your every move like a badly scripted voiceover?

“That is a most excellent suggestion, Akeno-dono. Meanwhile, allow me to escort you back to your chamber,” Your mother beams, absolutely glowing with satisfaction at this brilliant idea. Wonderful. Nothing like being shoved into enforced bonding time with the single most intimidating human in existence. You mentally start drafting a list of every nice thing you’ve ever thought about your mother just so you can ceremoniously cross it all out. “[Name], once you have finished, return at once so that we may tend to your hands. Do you understand?”

But you never signed up for this circus, and you would like to file a formal complaint with management. Curse that tiny chaos goblin who thought scaling a tree taller than a castle and swan-diving from it was a good idea, as though she was auditioning for a very ill-fated acrobat troupe. Now you’re the one stuck dealing with the wreckage of her questionable life choices and the inevitable social consequences that follow.

You sigh, a long huff that carries equal parts frustration, dread, and the faintest tinge of panic. There’s no easy out here, no plausible excuse to vanish in a puff of smoke. But you can’t exactly turn to Yoriichi and say, “Hard pass,” because he doesn’t deserve to be collateral damage in your meltdown.

He’s just standing there, all stoic and terrifyingly perfect, and it’s enough to make you want to dig a hole and live in it forever.

So you square your shoulders, slap on your best impersonation of someone whose life isn’t currently imploding, and definitely not screaming internally. Then, with all the enthusiasm of a condemned soul on their way to the gallows, and praying your voice doesn’t betray you by cracking like cheap pottery, you mutter, “Yes, mother."

At those words, the woman’s lips twitch into a hesitant smile before she sets you down on the floor. Wow. What’s this about? Five seconds ago, she was radiating sunshine like a human lantern, and now she’s staring at you as if you just confessed to kicking puppies for fun. Did she, honest to God, think you were about to throw a tantrum? Ah. Your brain fires off alarm bells. Oh no, did you somehow manage to look like a total jerk to him, too?

Perfect, add that to the ever-expanding list of social disasters you’re collecting like Pokémon cards.

Damn it.

You shuffle your feet like you’re about to enter a duel at dawn, which is ridiculous because the so-called “threat” in question is, in fact, a child. Still, you angle a glance toward the unnervingly calm boy next to Akeno, like he might whip out a katana and announce mortal combat at any second.

And he’s still staring. Those eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to uncover state secrets with sheer willpower, probably wondering how your heart hasn’t spontaneously burst into confetti from all the panic. Honestly, he looks mildly fascinated, like you’re some kind of rare, exotic creature capable of standing upright without combusting on the spot. 

Maybe that is just your imagination, though. 

Or is this some kind of silent challenge? A staring contest?

Oh, he has no idea what he’s in for. You’ve spent years honing your ability to unnerve people with a single, unwavering gaze—a skill so deadly it could be considered a weapon of mass discomfort. If this kid thinks he can out-stare you, he’s in for the most humiliating defeat of his short life.

So now you’re both locked in a full-on staring contest, eyes boring into each other like you’re trying to set each other on fire with sheer willpower, while both women on the sidelines do their best impression of background NPCs watching a boss fight unfold. It’s honestly hilarious, considering ten seconds ago you would’ve rather been struck by lightning than be left alone with the demigod, and now here you are, throwing down in a battle of ocular dominance.

But seriously, you cannot, will not, lose to a child. Not when he’s so clearly issued a silent challenge. This is about pride now. Focus. He may be, in every conceivable way, overpowered, but there is no universe in which you’re about to let an actual child out-stare you—

OH FUCK, YOU BLINKED. 

One second, you were holding the line like a seasoned champion, and the next, you folded like cheap origami in a thunderstorm.

You slap your bloody hand to your face in the universal gesture of defeat, ew, sticky, muttering a curse so quiet it’s basically a prayer to every deity who’s clearly abandoned you and you’d swear on the heavens themselves that you saw the tiniest, most smug smile flicker across his face as he basked in his victory. Fantastic. You had one job, and you blew it spectacularly. 

There’s a tug on your kimono sleeve, dragging you out of your spiral. You peek through your fingers to confirm, yup, it’s Yoriichi, your pint-sized executioner, the living embodiment of stoic doom. He tugs again, silent but firm, time to accept your fate and trail after him into the great unknown, the weight of your impending humiliation pressing down on you with every step.

Again.

You did not sign up for this. 

You want a refund. 

Chapter Text

You have consistently demonstrated a lack of skill in social interactions.

Time, space, and reincarnation—none of it matters. That flaw clings to you like an overzealous subplot, and not even getting dropped into the watercolor-drenched fever dream of a noble’s life has managed to edit it out of your character arc.

When you were an adult, you could almost laugh off the awkward silences and poorly timed jokes; they were just part of the background noise of your life. Like, of course, you sucked at talking to people, but hey, at least you were self-aware enough to find humor in it, even if it wasn’t exactly a healthy way to cope with your lack of social grace. 

But you seriously did not care if your coworkers thought you were weird; as long as you hit your sales target every month and didn’t piss anyone off too much, life was fine. There’s no reason to go beyond what is asked, right?

Apparently wrong; big fat wrong.

This new universe, the feudal era, is not nearly so understanding. It’s a place where every conversation feels like tiptoeing through a field of social minefields, and you’ve shown up in oversized, wet flip-flops. It’s like playing poker when your hand consists of UNO cards: utterly useless and absurd. 

You are a walking, talking mess cosplaying as a functioning human being, and for once, the universe has decided to enforce the dress code. And of course, he’s standing next to you. Yoriichi freaking Tsugikuni. Grace incarnate. The kind of person who could walk through a monsoon and come out with not a single strand of hair out of place. His existence alone makes you feel like a gremlin that somehow wormed its way into nobility without anyone noticing until now. It’s not that he’s said a word since that silent exchange in front of everyone; he hasn’t said anything at all, but somehow, his mere presence has turned your internal dial from “occasional cringe” to “maximum humiliation” without any apparent effort. 

And you think, hey, this might be the best excuse for an anxiety disorder ever.

Which leads you to your current situation: trailing after him like a duckling as he leads the way to a pond on the far side of the estate, your hands clenched in the fabric of your kimono in an attempt to disguise their tremors.

How do you human again? No, really—how? Because right now you have no idea what to do with your face, your voice, your entire physical presence.

But he seems totally chill about the whole thing, maybe because he’s the actual perfect specimen of a human, even if his social skills need polishing, just like you, while your overall score in that department probably reads like a tragedy. So, you’re following him, and you’ve been following for five minutes, and neither of you has said a damn word. 

Well, figures. He doesn't have a reason, and according to the wiki plot dump and canon, everyone thinks he's deaf or something like that. But what about you? You should make conversation, shouldn’t you? Right? It would only be polite, wouldn’t it?

“Beautiful day, isn't it?” You blurt out suddenly, then wince as the words fall flat. Good job, mastermind, that’s some top-tier conversational prowess, commenting on something nobody could refute, not even someone from the weather network. "The sky is clear, the flowers are blooming, and the air smells of—" Your eyes dart around wildly, grasping at straws. What do things even smell like? How are you so inept that even nature betrays your attempts at casual chit-chat? Oh yes, thank you so very much. “—of spring?" 

Haha, ha. Cringe.

You immediately cringe so hard internally that you want to bury yourself alive somewhere.

Why, of all people, did this have to happen with Yoriichi? You could handle Michikatsu’s stupid ass, or even that guy in your previous life who would randomly quote memes from a bygone era, or the weirdo who kept trying to one-up you with obscure historical facts during lunch break—because let’s be real, you had seen some shit at your workplace. But being forced to converse with someone you know who isn't going to answer? That’s just cruel and unusual torture, and you wish you could sue the world for this psychological trauma. 

This is the kind of stuff you need therapy for and will make you groan and cry about when you suddenly remember this moment in twenty years, but it's happening right here and now, live.

Just when your mental spiral starts threatening to suck you down like a vortex to the abyss of self-doubt and overthinking, salvation arrives. Yoriichi extends his arm toward the pond, gesturing with grace so effortless it’s like watching poetry in motion. His silent directive to you rings louder than any word ever uttered by mere mortal lungs, commanding attention in its eloquent stillness.

Damn, surely this isn't just you. Right?! 

You're not delusional enough to think that this otherworldly aura about you is just you knowing his future. There's no way this kind of presence can be explained by mere knowledge. He already seems to be on an entirely different plane than everyone else.

Nah, has to be you. It's just you projecting your own awkwardness and an inferiority complex onto him because, well, because that is precisely how these things are supposed to work. So he's just a regular kid with a lot of talent, a unique birthmark on his forehead, and a powerful family name. And is the only breathing human who could kill Muzan without the need for a thousand sacrifices or the sun.

So, with the grace of a silly little goose about to get eaten by the most regal of swans, you shuffle over to the pond’s edge. Yoriichi settles next to you, kneeling beside the tranquil surface, and he seems so impossibly close, his presence so tangible you’re half-afraid you might accidentally touch him, cause that would actually feel like a sin. What are the social conventions here? Is accidental touching frowned upon, or does it signal some cultural apocalypse?

Your mind spins with hypothetical social blunders you’ve never had to consider before.

And that brings you back to the realization: this isn’t your era anymore; you can’t play the part of the quirky adult who gets away with everything because the people around you are too polite to say otherwise. The world isn’t going to pat your head like some overgrown puppy and say, "Aw, bless her heart, she's trying,” and leave it at that.

So, yes, you're experiencing culture shock, or whatever, which means that, yes, you're also pretty hung up on the whole 'this is not your modern life' bit and 'this is not a drill' thing, but honestly, who wouldn't be? It’s a whole other time, a whole different way of being human, and you feel like you’ve just been dropped into the deep end without a life jacket. So, sue you for being freaked out. You'd rather worry about that right now than have an actual breakdown in front of this perfect child.

Ok, alright, focus for now—

He gestures again, pointing at your injured hands, which, honestly, with the dried blood and dirt, look less like the product of a youthful tree mishap and more like an attempt to end it all by digging your way into the afterlife with your bare hands. Which is a little extreme, but also strangely appealing as an alternative to continuing this painfully quiet bonding session.

And so, like the obedient yet deeply conflicted child you are supposed to be right now, you extend your hands and plunge them into the cold water. It is an unpleasant jolt, but you’re determined not to wince visibly, so biting the inside of your cheek becomes your silent weapon against embarrassment. As the cold water bites at your skin, you notice something curious: the pond, though serene and picturesque, feels almost uncomfortably warm, and the sudden contrast against your hands makes you realize just how cold they were before.

How odd, you think to yourself while rubbing away the mess that used to be your pride. But your thoughts are soon derailed by a shift next to you, a rustling that makes your skin prickle with alertness, like an animal ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger.

In a moment, a small, soft cloth settles against your cheek, accompanied by the faint rustle of movement beside you. And that's when you freeze, truly freeze, your heart kicking into a gallop like a startled horse. Yoriichi's hands are suddenly there, gently wiping at the dirt smudged on your face, dirt you didn’t even know was there, with an almost unsettling attention.

Your eyes go round as marbles, and the urge to yank back, to flee, is so strong you feel your muscles tense for an escape.

Because what the fuck. 

Where did this cloth come from? Does he keep emergency handkerchiefs on his person at all times like some soft-spoken Disney prince? Why is he gently exfoliating your shame with the focus of a monk and the touch of a seasoned therapist? What is going on? 

And above all else, how do you even respond in such situations?!

Honestly, this is mortifying; you could easily see this scene featured in some trashy shoujo anime, complete with sparkles and sappy music, where the girl, you, is usually overcome with sudden blushes and heart palpitations.

Not you, though. Nope. You don’t blush; you lose as much color as possible while humiliation crawls over your cheeks like fire ants at a sugar festival. For fuck’s sake, how is this child somehow more composed and considerate than you, the supposed adult? (Yes, yes, an adult currently residing in a child's body, but still.)

Up close, his maroon eyes are super unsettling—kind of really beautiful but also super distant. They definitely seem blank. Almost dead? Empty? Not really, but if you had to sum them up, you might say, 'no light found in these peepers,' and you hate that this is the best description you can give right now. There are more appropriate descriptions for sure—like how the colors dance together like a slow, simmering sunrise or something. 

But honestly, what does that even mean? Ugh.

"Thank you," You finally manage to breathe out in response, voice so small it nearly sinks to the pond floor before it reaches his ears. Your fingers tremble a bit as they curl into loose fists, resting in the water as your eyes flick down, almost gagging that you have to use 'proper language' now, "I appreciate it, and yet, I also have to apologize for making you trouble yourself with such a tedious task."

And just as expected, no answer. Only another of those unreadable looks that make him seem even more unapproachable, all calm edges and locked doors, the sort of stillness that makes your own thoughts clatter like dropped dishes.

How the fuck did Uta do this shit?

Oh, right, because she's literal sunshine with a pulse—glowing, composed, and the kind of person who probably gets complimented by birds. Meanwhile, you’re flailing through a social encounter like a wet cat thrown into a tea ceremony. Honestly, you're not even sure how you're still vertical. You’d like to think you could do better, that you’re capable of basic human function, but apparently, all it takes is one (1) divine boy with monk-like stillness and a tragic backstory to reduce you to a glitching NPC.

Your nerves are tap-dancing in your throat, your social instincts are in the middle of a dramatic fainting episode, and all your mental scripts have turned to static. Congratulations: you’ve become the human embodiment of a buffering screen. And yet, here you are, still trying.

"Truly, your help is greatly appreciated," You say, putting on your best 'noble child trying not to unravel like a cheap scroll' voice, "But I believe I can manage from here." 

Which, in your brain, sounds mature and composed. Out loud, it comes out as a squeaky attempt at diplomacy laced with the desperation of someone trying not to combust from prolonged eye contact spontaneously.

He ignores you. Of course he does. Instead, he continues cleaning you with the laser focus of someone assembling a divine artifact, as if your dirt-streaked face is sacred terrain and he’s on a holy mission from the gods.

You glance down at your hands and nearly flinch. They look so wrong. Not because they’re dirty but because they’re small. And soft. And not yours. They belong to this child you’re inhabiting like a cosmic squatter. Your brain still runs on caffeine and tax deadlines, and because the human brain is a garbage fire of misplaced priorities, you suddenly, deeply need to know what you look like.

Like, maybe if you can catch a glimpse, this surreal experience will make more sense. 

You angle your face toward the pond like you’re sneaking candy from a shrine offering plate, just a peek, just a little look, but the water says no. Rude. Instead of a clear reflection, you get colors and smudges, like a Monet painting done by someone with commitment issues. 

Then you lean a little closer. Just a smidge. Maybe if you angle it just right—

And that, apparently, was where you crossed the invisible line of Social Decorum According to Yoriichi: Pond Edition™.

Just as you’re about to complete your noble descent into Reflection Hell, two eerily gentle but suspiciously immovable hands land on your shoulders like divine ‘Absolutely Not’ signs. Yoriichi doesn’t yank. He doesn’t speak because, of course, he doesn’t. But the judgment in that grip? Oh, it’s biblical. Full Old Testament energy.

Your body halts like it hit an invisible wall; you’re frozen in a dramatic tableau, halfway between “curious child” and “human paperweight headed for an accidental baptism.”

And seriously, what the hell do they feed this kid? Is he on some celestial protein shake blessed by the gods of Quiet Strength? Because this isn’t normal. This is protagonist-tier power disguised in a six-year-old’s demure poise. Another clear reminder that this isn’t just a boy. He’s a narrative device wrapped in maroon silk and a tragic backstory, here to remind you that you are, at best, side characters. 

No, not even that.

So, yeah, this was getting too much now.

"My thanks, truly—" You start with all the elegance a five-year-old crash-coursing Sengoku etiquette can summon, but he cuts off your flustered thanks by yanking you back so firmly you’re positive you’ll wake up with bruises tomorrow. Or not, because for some unfathomable reason, despite manhandling you like a sack of confused potatoes, his touch remains feather-light. Still, what?  "For, uh, for preventing me from falling into the pond."

For a moment, there's only silence. The kind that grabs you by the collar, throws you into the void, and whispers, "This is why no one invites you to things." It's giving 'accidentally replied-all to the company email with a meme' energy.

Then, Yoriichi, blessed by his monk-core aura, unshakable silence, and the inexplicable ability to look like a brush painting brought to life, opens his mouth. Not wide. Not dramatically. Just barely enough to make you sure the universe is about to shift on its axis.

It's the kind of moment that deserves a soundtrack.

Because up until now, this boy has existed purely on vibes, haunting grace, and the kind of energy that says he was born reciting a haiku while solving a moral dilemma. The idea of him speaking? That was a myth—a ghost story told around late-night lanterns and the sound of rain tapping the roof.

"It is not proper." 

And you blink. He talked. Like, out loud. With consonants and emotional consequence. Like, wow, that's huge, and if it weren't for what he said, you would have fainted on the spot, but damn, the nerve of this brat.  He says it, with the calm, devastating precision of someone who’s spent their entire short life perfecting the art of ruining you with one (1) sentence. The words land softly and yet somehow slap harder than every failed job interview you’ve ever had.

"What isn’t?" you manage, in a tone that sounds like you’ve just realized you’re on the wrong side of a duel and your sword is, in fact, a decorative chopstick. But there's no turning back now, you've officially entered the Twilight Zone of Uncomfortable Confrontation.

He glances at the water, then at you. "To fall."

Right. That’s it. That’s the hit tweet.

Feudal Japan’s resident demigod-in-training has elegantly rebuked you. Your choices now include: 1) Reflect on your failures under the watchful gaze of Maroon Jesus, or 2) hurl yourself into the pond and beg the koi for spiritual asylum. And if you’re being honest? Those koi look pretty forgiving. 

But you don't. Because you are the queen of bad choices and also of making an even bigger deal than before.

"It isn't proper to accidentally fall into a pond. Got it." You reply, voice flat. You’ve officially entered the 'no filter left' phase of embarrassment. "I shall endeavor not to do so." You try to maintain eye contact, but ugh, fuck, he keeps staring. So, you add, "As it might cause you great inconvenience." 

And now you sound like a petulant teenager arguing with a parent, all sassy emphasis and hunched shoulders. Good job, you!

A long pause ensues.

"You do not inconvenience me." He finally replies, and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to dramatically sigh in relief because he's speaking! Again! Two miracles in a single day? This universe must have forgotten to take its meds, because things don't work like that usually. "But you could drown."

You stare at him. Really stare. Is this guy serious? What, you gonna drown in the ankle-deep pond?

"The pond doesn't seem too deep?" You say slowly. Your eyes flick between the water, his face, and your hands, which he's still gently cleaning like they're relics from some lost kingdom. "If I fell, the most damage I would sustain would probably be the loss of my dignity."

There. Rational. Logical. Mature, almost.

"You can't swim." Another gem of Yoriichi Wisdom falls from his mouth like it’s just common knowledge that you lack the aquatic prowess to survive a puddle. But the kicker? The real, true, cherry on this shit-cake of a moment? He continues. "That's why it isn't safe for you to be alone in the garden or around water without an adult."

And oh, for the love of all things holy. This is not what you needed to hear. Not from the boy whose very existence makes your soul want to fold itself into origami and quietly combust. 

“I can’t swim,” You echo back, each word flat and feathered with disbelief, you’re half double-checking, half bargaining with reality, because at this point? Anything’s possible. Maybe next he’ll tell you he’s the emperor, or that the moon owes him rent. “Are you sure? Because this feels like slander.”

He looks at you like it’s already carved into the family registry. A universal law of the land. The way he stares, it’s as though 'you can’t swim' ranks right up there with 'the sky is blue' and 'the ground is hard'.

"It is a matter of concern, but also of fact."

Well, fuck. To him, this is a fact of life, while to you it sounds like some cosmic slander. You can swim! Well, you could. Adult-you could. But this borrowed brat-body? Suddenly, you’re not so sure, and testing the theory by swan-diving into the koi pond doesn’t sound like the best peer-reviewed method.

“But—” The urge to argue sparks anyway, because apparently you’ve lost all survival instincts. What exactly are you supposed to say? That a five-year-old noble princess with zero wilderness training is secretly the Sengoku-era equivalent of an Olympic swimmer? Sure, that’ll convince him. You swallow the protest, huff, and mutter instead, “Never mind. What’s next, then? Am I also illiterate on top of everything else?”

“Perhaps.”

“…Perhaps?”

“I would not know of such matters.” He pauses, then adds with the guileless calm of someone dropping a social grenade, “My brother mentioned hearing of your struggles.”

Excuse me, what the actual hell? Michikatsu knows? Who’s been flapping their fan and airing your incompetence like laundry day gossip? Are rumors drifting around the estate like sakura petals in the wind? More likely, it’s just your mother. Or his. Either way, it seems that your failures have become a form of family entertainment.

"Oh." Yeah, nice one. That's brilliant social engagement there. Then you wonder out loud, "Why don't we learn together? Or is that not appropriate either?"

Now, to be fair, you're genuinely asking. Seriously, no sarcasm. None. Nada. Also, you could get a panel in his backstory or flashback in the manga. One small panel. If you're lucky enough, that is. Hardly glorious, but for your ego? That’s practically divine compensation.

He doesn’t reply, which is fine. Yoriichi’s silence has more variety than your Spotify playlists: there's the “contemplative monk” pause, the “judging you without blinking” pause, and your current favorite, the “unsettlingly serene while holding your grubby little hands” pause.

But then, something shifts. His hands stop. No more polite wiping. The cloth hovers in place, as if it has been frozen mid-frame in some high-budget period drama. That alone is enough to short-circuit your remaining brain cells. Because when Yoriichi Tsugikuni stops moving, it's not just stillness—it’s a cosmic pause, a narrative beat, a ‘this means something’ kind of moment.

Or, well, that's what you assume.

You look up. He’s staring. Of course he is. You lock eyes and stare, because what else are you supposed to do? Blink? Coward’s move. So, you stare harder, but the universe must be playing favorites, and honestly? It’s cheating because no human could beat him in a game of Staresies. It's like staring down the sun, but without the sunburn. Or maybe it is? You’re not sure. 

"It could be fun, right? I am not opposed to having your company, and I heard learning together makes things less dull." You pause, because even you know you're dangerously close to sounding like a child pitching a very niche business proposal. Quickly, you tack on, "Unless you want to learn on your own? In that case, I shall respect your decision."

"No."

Cool. Thanks for the emotional whiplash. You don't know what that means now. What does that mean exactly? 

"No, learning together wouldn't be acceptable? Or, no, you wouldn't like to learn without anyone else's company?" You inquire because, seriously, you’re not telepathic. That was not included in the reincarnation starter pack. Social anxiety was, though. Neat.

"If our mothers agree," Yoriichi adds, and you'd swear a bird stopped singing for a whole second in disbelief, "it would be tolerable."

And there it is. The universe glitches. A bird literally stops singing. Somewhere, a teacup shatters. Because did Maroon Jesus imply agreement? Participation? Tolerating your existence? You’ve just been given a divine maybe!

"Really?" Boy, you’re going to ride this high until your next mistake drags you back to hell. The smile that breaks across your face is genuine enough to scare a few more songbirds into silence, "Great! Let's ask for their permission then."

With more eagerness than etiquette, you bounce to your feet, ready to sprint off and propose the most brilliant idea ever hatched in your tiny noggin, only to be yanked right back into Yoriichi’s personal bubble by his hold on your hands.

Oh, right. Still attached.

"Are you perhaps feeling unwell?" His words, while soft and measured as always, hit like arrows of doubt straight into the bullseye that is your already fragile self-esteem, "You have acted rather unusually today."

"Oh." You freeze, because yeah, that checks out. The whole idea of trying to deliver the proper speech pattern was definitely thrown out the window quickly, and it was pretty obvious. "It's probably from my earlier mishap in that tree. My head feels rather cloudy." You pause. “But I wouldn't call my behavior that abnormal. Or is it?"

Brilliant. You’ve gone full Sherlock Holmes. A round of applause for your subtle sleuthing skills—except not really, because that was about as delicate as a sledgehammer in a porcelain shop. Oh well, it is too late now. The words are already out.

"No." He replies. 

You stare. He stares back. And you're at a loss once more, which makes it three (3) for the day so far. He doesn’t elaborate, because apparently, that’s part of the aesthetic—you stare, he stares back, the garden becomes a stage for an impromptu gazing contest. So, you do the one thing you shouldn't. You push. With your voice! 

"It is that bad, huh?" 

"Perhaps."

"Which means?"

"Your attitude has changed." The way he phrases it is so damn polite, but also, who talks like that at six? "Normally, you would rather ignore my existence than acknowledge it." Wow. Brutal honesty hour, it seems. "However, today, you have attempted multiple conversations."

Well, first of all, ouch. Your heart has just been dissected by the scalpel of his honesty.

"Is that why you're suddenly speaking rather than staying mute and deaf just as everyone in this household assumes you to be?" The question slips past your defenses and launches itself into the fray. But honestly, who cares anymore? He's throwing truth bombs; you might as well light a few fuses, too. "I wasn't expecting any other outcome besides sitting next to each other awkwardly. But don't get me wrong, I am glad that isn't the case at all." 

Yoriichi doesn't waver. Doesn't flinch. He's an immovable rock to your turbulent stream of anxious chatter. His eyes never leave yours. His breathing? Steady.

"I speak when necessary."

Yeah, sure you do, boy. Sounds fake. Sounds suspicious.

“You do? Has anyone besides me ever heard you mutter a single word?" And since you've decided to go all in, you press harder. "Has your mother even?"

"No."

"Well, then, I feel honored to have earned such privilege," You smile, bowing your head slightly. "Please forgive my previous rude assumptions about you. It was truly uncalled for." Before he could protest, you barrel on, "Still, I am happy to be able to talk with you like this."

Then, something remarkable happens. It’s so slight you almost miss it—A twitch of the cheek or a twinkle in his eyes, some cosmic wink of "oh you" that triggers a full-blown existential crisis in your soul. He's smiling, isn't he? This boy, this living relic of tranquility, just dared to crack a smile.

Jackpot. 

Gosh, this makes you smile even wider.

"Now let's go ask about our proposition, shall we?" You beam like a star, ready to burst through the garden gate and present your grand idea to the moms upstairs.

Except. Yeah. Hand. Hands. Yeah, still attached.

"Could you please let me go? Unless you intend to hold hands the entire walk there?" You inquire politely, because even if this is the feudal era, handholding is still not really casual, or is it for children? Probably not. You wouldn't know until someone explains it to you with a PowerPoint presentation and visual examples.

"That was the intention," Yoriichi responds like it's obvious. Like you were meant to read his mind and pick up on his silent intentions through osmosis. Like you both live in some parallel timeline where personal space doesn't exist. Or boundaries. Or general decorum. “So that you may avoid any further injuries.”

He indirectly called you a klutz, didn't he? Well, you get it, your record isn't as clean as freshly fallen snow, but still. Whatever. Let him have his fun playing your silent babysitter. He shared a conversation with you and even a tiny smile! It's the least you can do. 

"Alright, thank you." 

And with those simple words of reluctant acceptance, Yoriichi, the quiet godling wrapped in human skin and maroon hues, leads you onward. As for you, well, you've officially abandoned your dignity and are now playing the part of a well-dressed but still grubby balloon on a leash, bouncing along behind your stoic handler through the garden and into the great unknown.

Or into the mansion, where your fate awaits you in the form of a maternal decision-making committee, who will either sentence you to an eternity of social agony or deliver salvation by agreeing that perhaps a little study-buddy situation might be good for everyone.

Still! You survived your first interaction with a very important canon character without any significant mental scarring. So, there’s that. Progress! Hooray! Give yourself a pat on the back for not screwing it all up completely.

And if anyone asks, the pink in your cheeks as you’re led into the estate is purely from excitement and definitely has nothing to do with the fact that you are walking on cloud nine for making the first step of befriending one of the most powerful characters in canon.

Perhaps this second chance at life in one of your favorite manga could even be fun?