the night was still young, but after such a tiring day, she had decided to go to sleep early.
Suddenly, she woke up in the middle of the night, feeling parched. Groggy, she pushed herself out of bed, careful not to disturb the orbs of plasma "sleeping" around her room. Some of them floated gently in the air, while others rested on the ground, their soft glow casting faint shadows. She made sure to tiptoe carefully, avoiding any orbs in her path as she opened the door and stepped into the corridor.
As she made her way toward the staircase, planning to go down to the living room for a glass of water, she paused.
A voice.
It was Mama Ipoh's.
She was talking to someone.
"Who could Mama Ipoh be talking to at this hour?" she wondered.
Curiosity tugged at her. She hesitated at the top of the staircase, knowing that eavesdropping was wrong—but she couldn't help herself. She crouched down, leaning against the railing. From her spot, she couldn't see who Mama Ipoh was speaking to, but she could hear her soft, serious tone as it carried faintly through the quiet house.
"It's been a long time since we last saw each other, Shirokae…"
Viora still couldn't see the figure clearly, but at the entrance of the house stood a small fox as white as snow. It wore a black kimono as a base layer, with a delicate pink vestment draped over it. Wooden geta clacked faintly against the floor as the fox shifted, the faint ember of a lit kiseru glowing in its right hand.
What stood out the most, however, were the fox's nine tails—each one swaying gently, their movements unnaturally synchronized.
"It has been a long time," the fox replied, its voice calm yet sharp. "But let's get straight to the point. You wouldn't have called me here unless there was something you needed to discuss."
mama Ipoh smiled gently and said,
"I encountered and fought a corrupted spirit today."
Shirokae took a couple of steps toward Mama Ipoh, the echo of his geta reverberating softly through the quiet space. As he approached, he spoke, his tone calm yet pointed.
"You still bear that curse the scientist gave you, Ipoh. You do understand what could happen if you continue to fight—especially with the condition of your superflux?"
Mama Ipoh let out a tired sigh, her expression weary but resolved.
"I know the consequences very well, my dear Shirokae... But enough about me. How have you been? Have you found what you were looking for in this world, even though you still haven't told me what it is?"
Shirokae brought the kiseru back to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate puff before responding.
"I believe... no, I'm certain what I was searching for is here." He paused, the faint smoke curling around him. "But is that all? You wouldn't have summoned me just because you encountered a mere corrupted spirit."
Mama Ipoh sighed again, heavier this time, and met Shirokae's gaze.
"For a spirit of the Reikō rank, one of your caliber, I'm sure most corrupted spirits seem mere to you... But no. I called you because this spirit in particular claimed something unusual."
Shirokae's tails swayed slightly, as if anticipating her next words.
"He said he was one of the Ten Low Corrupted Spirits—chosen by the Wicked and his followers."
Shirokae's eyes widened slightly, and he almost dropped his kiseru to the ground.
"Chosen by the Wicked and his followers, you said?... That's impossible."
Mama Ipoh raised an eyebrow, her voice calm but curious.
"How so?"
Shirokae let out a sharp smirk, his canines glinting faintly in the dim light.
"Because the Wicked is in no condition to give orders," he replied. "He might not have died when he faced him hundreds of years ago, but he's nowhere near capable of commanding anyone."
Mama Ipoh lowered herself onto one of the wooden chairs with a soft creak, her expression thoughtful.
"That still doesn't help me understand the Wicked's situation. Shirokae, if he's truly alive but incapable of giving orders, then why has he sent ten low corrupted spirits?"
Shirokae didn't respond immediately. Instead, he sank onto the floor, legs crossed, as he took another long draw from his kiseru. Smoke curled lazily upward, but his sharp eyes glimmered with an edge of seriousness.
"To be honest, Ipoh," he said, his voice low and cold, "you don't need to understand whether his actions are logical or not. Do you even know how the Wicked operates? If he finds enjoyment in something—no matter how twisted—he will exploit it until nothing but dust remains. He follows nothing but his own desires."
Shirokae's gaze darkened further, his nine tails swaying ominously behind him.
"That's how perverted the Wicked truly is. Trying to make sense of his actions is pointless. Those billions of years chasing him with my master have taught me that much…"
Mama Ipoh spoke softly, her voice gentle yet firm.
"Are you still haunted by your sins, Shirokae? Are you still trying to take down the Wicked?"
Shirokae tilted his head back, gazing at the ceiling in silence for a moment before answering.
"Haunted by my sins?" he echoed, a bitter smile playing at his lips. "That's one way to put it... But after what that demon forced me to do to my master, how could I ever forgive myself? How could I forgive myself for taking his life—my own master's life?"
A single tear rolled down his right cheek, catching the faint light before falling to the floor. He lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the ground, and when he spoke again, his voice trembled with silent rage.
"He needs to pay for everything he's done. And I won't rest until he's completely wiped out of the cycle of souls—erased entirely."
Shirokae's fingers tightened around the kiseru, his nine tails stilling ominously.
"So no, to answer your question, I'm not haunted by my sins. It's a burden I gladly carry." His sharp gaze met Mama Ipoh's. "I will continue to shoulder those sins until the Wicked dies by my hand... Ipoh."
Mama Ipoh, her black sunglasses concealing her eyes, spoke in a calm but firm tone.
"One of the principles of being a shaman is to never give in to rage, Shirokae. But I suppose after a lifetime spanning billions of years, you start to become... uncaring of such things."
She paused for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Anyway, that's not all I wanted to talk to you about."
Shirokae lifted his head, an intrigued glint flickering in his sharp gaze.
"Oh? There's still more?" he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "What could possibly be more concerning than the Wicked sending ten pathetic corrupted spirits?"
Mama Ipoh remained silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts before speaking again.
"Apparently, Shirokae... there's been a breach in Hell."
Shirokae's smirk faltered slightly, but he said nothing as she continued.
"And," she added, her voice heavy with unease, "it seems the Hellfire is missing—and has been for quite some time now. That's what one of the ten lower corrupted spirits sent by the Wicked told me. His name, I think, was Hephaestus..."
Shirokae let out a small, bitter laugh, his voice laced with venom.
"The Wicked... that bastard. Just when I thought he couldn't anger me any more, he somehow finds a way to stoke the flames even higher."
Suddenly, it felt as though a hurricane had erupted within the house. An intense pink aura surged from Shirokae, swirling violently in all directions, its sheer force rattling the wooden walls.
Viora, still perched on the staircase, clutched the railing tightly, her wide eyes darting around as she thought to herself, What is going on?
Then, as suddenly as it began, the storm subsided. Shirokae let out a slow, steady exhale and took a long drag from his kiseru. The smoke spiraled lazily into the air, and he chuckled softly—almost unnervingly—as if amused by his own rage.
"He really deserves to die," Shirokae murmured, his smirk sharpening into something cruel, "and not just die... but to suffer. To scream as my fangs tear him apart."
He paused, shaking his head with a humorless laugh.
"Stealing Hellfire, huh? What's next? Transforming Heaven into Hell?"
Mama Ipoh wiped the sweat from her brow, her mind racing as she thought to herself, As I thought... spirits of the Reikō rank are no joke. Just his rage alone is terrifying.
She quickly regained her composure and spoke, though her voice carried a hint of uncertainty.
"Are we really sure he's the one who stole it? I mean... how the hell do you even steal Hellfire?"
Shirokae, still seated on the ground, leaned back slightly, his intense aura slowly receding. He looked up at her, his eyes sharp and calculating.
"Everything in nature," he began, his voice low and measured, "has a spirit. A will. That's one of the first things you learn when you become a shaman."
He paused, his gaze distant as if contemplating the very essence of existence.
"Even the smallest thing—anything—has a spirit. A rock lying by the side of the road, no matter how insignificant, has a spirit. The local lake, a single tree... all of them have their own spirits, their own wills. So why would it be so strange to think that Hellfire itself—an elemental force—would have a spirit and a will of its own?"
Mama Ipoh sprang from her chair so quickly that it toppled to the ground, her voice filled with shock.
"Do you mean to say that the Wicked somehow managed to establish a pact with the Hellfire spirit? Hellfire is an unstoppable force, a fire that burns away every trace of sin from a soul, leaving no malice behind. Its power is absolute as it judges... The ultimate judge. If Hellfire has a spirit, and the Wicked has made a contract with it... then a spirit of Hellfire would be..."
Shirokae, a smirk playing on his lips, cut in.
"That's right. A spirit as almighty as Hellfire would be of the Shinrei rank—the most powerful rank of elemental spirits there is."
Mama Ipoh's face twisted with desperation as she exclaimed,
"We need to go back to Sylvanara and warn the others about what we've just discovered!"
Shirokae, unfazed, took a long drag from his kiseru and replied calmly,
"There's no need for that."
Mama Ipoh's frustration boiled over as she shouted,
"Shirokae! I know you're a powerful animal spirit of the Reikō rank, and if you were a spirit of nature, you'd be just one rank below the Shinrei rank. Even you wouldn't be able to…"
Shirokae finished his pipe with a deliberate motion, his voice cold as ice.
"You must have forgotten who I am, Ipoh. I am Shirokae Haruka, the Eternal Sage of Divine Resonance, the One Who Commands the 900,000 Ascendant Arts."
He stood up, his presence now even more commanding.
"And in the state the Wicked is in, there's no way he can unleash the full power of that thing."
Mama Ipoh sighed, her expression softening.
"I know very well of your strength, Shirokae. Everyone in Sylvanara does, in fact. Forgive me... I know that if anyone can take on a spirit like that, it's you."
Shirokae took another sip from his kiseru and, his tone shifting to something more probing, asked,
"why is your superflux so low, and your soul in such a bad state? A mere low-level corrupted spirit couldn't have put a shaman of the Taiyō rank in such a condition. Has your sickness worsened at an even faster pace, Ipoh?"
Mama Ipoh scratched the back of her head, a sheepish grin appearing on her face.
"Well, I'm not exactly proud of my performance during the fight, but… I guess I can tell you how it went. We've got all night to talk, after all."
Chapter Twenty-Eight End
{After Chapter Poem}
I can never forgive you—
You who have tainted my source of water with blood.
I can never forgive you—
You who killed my brothers and sisters,
Around the beautiful garden where they bloomed.
My brothers and sisters, made of pure white petals.
I can never forgive you—
You who turned my once-beautiful garden,
Of snow-white petals,
Into a nightmare of blood,
Blood as red as the oldest, most ancient of stains.
I can never forgive myself—
For destroying my own source of life,
My everything.
I can never forgive myself—
For letting my brothers and sisters die in the garden,
A garden once pure, now stained.
Even my own petals fall,
But unlike them, I remain standing—
Above the ground they no longer touch,
While my source has long since fallen.
I will never forgive you—
So now, let me transform my bloodstained white petals
Into fangs,
So I can hear your scream,
As your blood is spilled upon the garden.
Yes, blood will spill into the garden,
Covered in blood—
Nothing new, nothing changed,
But at last, it will not be the blood of my white petals
Or my source of water.
It will be your blood,
Filled with malice, spilled.
At last, let me and my companions
Have this moment of revenge.