"I want to ask for your permission to take a leave tomorrow, Sensei," Reyoma began, his voice steady but respectful.
Sensei Ishima arched a brow, a confused faint frown creasing his brow as he considered Reyoma's request. "But tomorrow is not my class, if I guess correctly. It should be Renjiro's class, right?"
Reyoma nodded. "Yes, but Sensei, I don't know where Renjiro Sensei is right now. Can you please inform him for me?"
There was a brief pause as Sensei Ishima weighed Reyoma's words, his expression unreadable. Reyoma shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, acutely aware of the gravity of his request.
After a moment of contemplation, Sensei Ishima let out a resigned sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly with the weight of his decision. "Okay, you can go now. It is already very late."
After ending the conversation, Sensei Ishima turned his head to his right, curious as to what Ishima-sensei was looking at. Reyoma also turned his head, only to be met with a beautiful sight that he hadn't given any attention to until now. It was the first time for Reyoma to come to this class, although he had been sitting beside a window in the last row. That window was closed, but this window that Ishima-sensei was looking at was right beside them and was open.
It was dusk. The last ray of sun was casting long shadows of both Ishima and Reyoma. Because Reyoma was standing, his upper half of the head was left shadowed. As the sun hastened its pace to fade, it left behind a very beautiful sight. The clan house was situated atop a mount. Anyone who wanted to reach the clan house had to climb at least two thousand stone stairs. The girls' dormitory was situated very close to the clan house, just five hundred stairs below or so. It was covered in thick woods, mostly invisible if seen from the management district.
But from this window, patches of the dormitory could easily blend with leaves and branches, creating a camouflage of invisibility. Patches of the dormitory could be seen because the last ray of sunlight fell directly on it, making it visible. Seeing from this window, Reyoma understood why they had so many ponds and small flyover bridges. Akatsuki's management district was situated on very undulating land. None of the houses had the same height or shape; some were like towering pagodas, while others resembled large pavilions.
Reyoma's gaze traverses the landscape, his attention is drawn to a peculiar sight amidst the tranquil surroundings. Six small parcels of land, each crowned with towering structures wrought entirely from gleaming iron, hover mysteriously in the air. The metal structures exude an ethereal chromatic luster, their surfaces reflecting the fading hues of the setting sun with a mesmerizing brilliance.
Upon closer inspection, Reyoma discerns intricate patterns etched into the iron surfaces, delicate golden motifs that dance and intertwine like ancient runes of forgotten lore. These elaborate designs, meticulously crafted with precision and care, adorn the towering spires, lending them an aura of timeless elegance and grandeur.
The structures seem to defy gravity, suspended in mid-air by thick iron chains that cascade downwards, their origins shrouded in mystery. Each chain, forged from the same resilient metal as the towers themselves, extends from the floating edifices to anchor points below, their placement seemingly random yet purposeful.
As Reyoma's contemplative gaze lingers on the hovering watchtowers, he recalls the whispered tales and legends that surround these magnificent structures. Despite their prominence in the clan's skyline, their upper reaches remain veiled in mystery, obscured by the shifting mists that cloak the mountaintop.
The watchtowers stand as silent sentinels, their imposing presence a testament to the clan's unwavering vigilance and commitment to safeguarding their sanctuary. From their lofty perches, hidden eyes keep a watchful gaze over the surrounding landscape, ever vigilant against potential threats that may encroach upon their realm.
Reyoma marvels at the sheer audacity of their construction, pondering the intricate engineering feats required to suspend such colossal edifices in mid-air. He imagines the skilled artisans and craftsmen toiling tirelessly, their hands guided by generations of ancestral knowledge and expertise, each rivet and joint a testament to their dedication and mastery of their craft.
The thick iron chains that tether the watchtowers to the earth below are a marvel in themselves, their origins lost to the annals of time. Reyoma often finds himself wondering about the unseen depths from which they emerge, delving into the very heart of the mountain itself to anchor the floating fortresses to their terrestrial moorings.
Reyoma's gaze shifts upward, drawn to the majestic sight of the Akatsuki crest that adorns the towers and rooftops of all the houses in clan. Bathed in the fading light of the setting sun, the emblem stands out in striking contrast against the deepening hues of the evening sky.
Etched in flawless calligraphy, the Akatsuki crest glows with an ethereal purity, its elegant lines and graceful curves capturing the essence of the clan's noble heritage. Rendered in a pristine white hue.
Embedded on the pyramidal roofs of the buildings and towers, the Akatsuki crest stands as a silent guardian, watching over the clan with steadfast vigilance.
As Reyoma's gaze reluctantly leaves the awe-inspiring sight of the watchtowers, he notices a subtle shift in the atmosphere around him. The fading rays of the setting sun cast long shadows that dance across the cobblestone streets below, while the first twinkling stars begin to emerge in the velvety expanse of the evening sky.
Turning his attention back to Ishima sensei, Reyoma is taken aback by the unexpected sight of tears glistening in the older man's eyes. The lines of worry etched on Ishima's weathered face stand out starkly against the fading light, his expression a mask of sorrow and regret.
Reyoma confused as he watches Ishima's tear-filled gaze remain fixed on the window, his thoughts seemingly lost in the swirling currents of memory and emotion. Despite his confusion, Reyoma senses that this moment is deeply personal for Ishima, a glimpse into the hidden depths of a man who has weathered countless storms in silence.
Unsure of how to comfort his sensei in the face of such palpable sadness, Reyoma offers a silent nod of understanding before quietly taking his leave. As he steps out into the cool embrace of the evening air, he carries with him a sense of unease, his mind still grappling with the unanswered questions that linger in the air like wisps of smoke on the wind.
Reyoma's descent down the ancient stone stairs of the clan house was accompanied by the soft rustle of leaves, the sound of his footsteps echoing against the weathered walls. As he made his way down, a canopy of lush greenery enveloped him, the leaves of the trees casting dappled shadows across the path.
Peering through the delicate lattice of leaves and branches, Reyoma caught glimpses of the bustling street below, where dots of light flickered like fireflies in the gathering dusk.
With a faint smile playing on his lips 'Let's eat senbei before going home,' Reyoma thought to himself, the simple pleasure of enjoying a snack warming his heart.
Reyoma navigated through the expansive management district of the clan, his steps purposeful as he made his way towards the distant merchant district. The sprawling expanse of the management district stretched out before him, its wide avenues lined with traditional wooden buildings and bustling with activity.
As he walked, Reyoma passed by clusters of artisans and craftsmen, their hands deftly weaving intricate patterns into fabric or shaping clay into elegant vessels. The air was alive with the sound of hammers striking metal, the rhythmic clinking of tools against anvils mingling with the chatter of vendors and the laughter of children playing in the streets.
"Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish here!" called out a fishmonger, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd as he displayed his wares on a wooden cart.
"Fine silks! Finest silks in all the land!" proclaimed a weaver, her hands busy at work on a loom as she enticed passersby with the promise of luxurious fabrics.
Reyoma's senses were assailed by a riot of colors and aromas as he continued on his journey, the sights and sounds of the merchant district washing over him like a vibrant tapestry. Despite the fading light of dusk, the streets were still thronged with people, their voices rising and falling in animated conversation as they went about their business.
As Reyoma approached the boundary of the merchant district, he reluctantly found himself on the outskirts of the notorious red light area. The narrow streets were bathed in a crimson glow, the dim light casting long shadows that seemed to dance and flicker with every passing moment.
Despite his aversion to the district, Reyoma had always taken a detour through the labyrinthine network of alleyways and side streets to avoid the red light area. He was a staunch follower of the minor cults, and devoted to Alpame, the goddess of solitude, whose teachings denounced the practice of prostitution as a sinful act. Instead, Alpame encouraged her followers to seek companionship through marriage and to find solace in the bonds of family and community.
But tonight, Reyoma found himself pressed for time, his craving for senbei outweighing his distaste for the red light area. With a heavy heart, he steeled himself and ventured into the district, his footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestone streets.
As he walked, Reyoma couldn't help but feel a sense of unease wash over him. The air was thick with the scent of incense and perfume, mingling with the faint sound of music and laughter that drifted from the doorways of the brothels that lined the streets.
Reyoma averted his gaze, his eyes fixed on the ground as he hurried past the painted faces and suggestive glances that followed him from the shadows. He felt a pang of guilt gnaw at his conscience, knowing that he was betraying the teachings of his faith by even setting foot in such a place.
"Shameless, all of them are perverts," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper as he quickened his pace, eager to put as much distance between himself and the sordid spectacle as possible.
"Is that you, Reyoma?" came a seductive voice from behind.
The sound of his name on her lips jolted Reyoma out of his reverie, and he turned to face the young woman who had addressed him. His gaze swept over her revealing yukata, adorned with extravagant accessories that glittered in the dim light of the red light district. Her curves were accentuated by the form-fitting garment, and Reyoma found himself momentarily mesmerized by her allure.
But as quickly as the enchantment took hold, Reyoma shook himself free from its grasp, his mind racing with questions. How did she know his name? And more importantly, what did she want from him?
His brow furrowed in suspicion as he regarded her with wary eyes, his guard raised against the unfamiliar beauty who stood before him. Despite the smile that played upon her lips, there was something disconcerting about her demeanor, something that set Reyoma's instincts on edge.
"Who are you?" Reyoma demanded, his voice edged with caution as he took a step back, putting distance between himself and the beguiling stranger.
"I am Yukari are you Reyoma?," almost melodic, as she introduced herself, her words hanging in the air like a delicate fragrance. Reyoma's gaze flickered with a mix of curiosity and wariness as he acknowledged her presence.
"Yes, I'm Reyoma," he replied, his tone guarded as he watched her closely. "But I don't recall ever meeting you before. How do you know my name?"
Yukari's smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features before she quickly composed herself. "Oh, you don't remember," she murmured, her voice tinged with a hint of disappointment.
Reyoma's brow furrowed in confusion, his mind racing to recall any past encounters with this mysterious woman. But try as he might, he couldn't place her face or name among his memories.
"I'm sorry, but I don't," he admitted. "Have we met before?"