Sora awoke to silence.
No alarm. No distant hum of traffic. No city noise filtering through his window. Just the soft rustling of fabric as he shifted, the faint creak of wooden walls settling.
His first thought was that he had overslept. His second—his bed felt strange. Too firm beneath him, and the blanket heavy in a way that didn't match his usual comforter. Blinking the grogginess from his eyes, he sat up and immediately froze.
He wasn't in his room.
The plain white walls of his small Tokyo apartment were gone. In their place stood paper-paneled screens, their wooden lattices casting small shafts of light from the early morning sun.
The futon beneath him was laid directly on the floor, the blanket was embroidered with intricate patterns he recognized from history books. His breath hitched as he ran his fingers over the fabric.
Real silk. Handwoven. Not some museum display or a replica—this was the real thing.
His pulse quickened, excitement cutting through his confusion. This… this was Heian-period bedding. A dream? Some kind of hyper-realistic lucid dream, he remembered studying about this time period before he fell asleep, was this connected? He wasn't sure, but the historian in him was thrilled.
He looked down at himself.
The heavy folds of the yogi pooled in his lap, sleeves far too delicate, the color far too refined for anything he owned. And his hands—His hands were small. Slender.
Heart pounding, he reached up, fingers grazing his face, tracing sharper cheekbones, a softer jawline. His hair, usually short, black and annoyingly messy, tumbled over his shoulders, heavy, brown and silky against his back.
No. Way.
His mind reeled. He had no memories of this body's owner—nothing to guide him. How did I get here? Who am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to do?
A soft knock at the door made him jolt.
"My lady, breakfast is prepared," a voice called gently.
"The other noblewomen are waiting."
Sora stiffened. My lady.
His gaze darted around the unfamiliar room, taking in the details—varnished furniture, silk cushions, an air of quiet refinement. The air clung to Sora—sandalwood and something darker, like charred plum. This room smelled like a temple crossed with a spice cabinet. He had read about this era, studied its customs, but nothing had prepared him for waking up in it.
He pushed the blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge of the futon—only to immediately falter. Oh. Right. He wasn't in his usual boxers and t-shirt. The smooth fabric of a white kosode clung to his—her—body, light but oddly restrictive.
And beneath it—
Sora's face burned red. No underwear. He had read about this, of course. Heian women didn't wear bras or modern undergarments, just the kosode under multiple layers of robes. Right. Historical accuracy. Wonderful.
The retainers remained silent behind the door, waiting. Sora's gaze flickered to the wooden stand beside the futon, where a carefully folded robe of pale green rested.
Hitoe. Unlined, appropriate for spring. He remembered reading about this—the seasonal colors, the meticulous layering. The historical part of his brain thrilled at the authenticity, but the modern part of him—the part that had to figure out how to dress as a Heian noblewoman—was screaming.
Fine. Fine. He could do this.
Sora reached for the hitoe, unfolding it carefully. The silk was impossibly light between his fingers, dyed with the faintest floral patterns.
Alright, step one. He tried to slip it on like a jacket, only to find the sleeves tangled before he even got his arms through.
What the hell.
He exhaled through his nose. Time to try again, this time slipping one arm in first, adjusting the fabric, and then the other. The sensation of the sleeves draping over his wrists was surreal. With some careful maneuvering, he pulled the robe into place and adjusted the collar, trying to remember how it was supposed to sit.
The next layer. Then the next. He worked through the process slowly, half recalling the diagrams he had seen in history books. One layer at a time. The retainers outside likely expected Akiko to be efficient, but he could only hope they chalked up his fumbling to early-morning grogginess.
He finally tied the outer robe into place, exhaling. There.
Another knock. "My lady, shall we assist?"
Sora hesitated. If he let them in, they'd surely notice something off—his stiffness, his hesitation. But if he refused, would that be more suspicious?
"…I am ready," he announced, hoping his voice didn't waver.
On the other side of the door, the two retainers exchanged a glance.
Something seemed… off.
Lady Akiko was always composed, but this morning there was a hesitance to her movements, a slight unnaturalness to her voice. Perhaps she was still tired from last night's events? The samurai, the whispers among the noblewomen—it had been an exhausting evening.
Yes, that must be it.
The retainers thought to themselfs, satisfied, the retainers slid the door open and bowed.
"Then let us go, my lady."
Sora took a breath and slid the door open. The retainers bowed, their faces unreadable.
About approximately 300 kilometres away, and 1000 years later.
Akiko woke up.
A deafening noise shattered the silence.
Akiko bolted upright, her breath catching in her throat. The sound was unlike anything she had ever heard—shrill, relentless, unnatural. A war horn? A temple bell? No—it was coming from right beside her, a strange, glowing object on a wooden stand. It pulsed with light, and on its surface, two symbols flickered: one red, one green. A small fire inside? A spirit?
Before she could make sense of it, a loud thump rattled the ceiling below.
"TURN THAT DAMN THING OFF! YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE LIVING HERE!" a voice bellowed.
Akiko flinched, heart hammering. Someone was yelling at her—why? Where was she? What was this thing screaming beside her? She reached for it hesitantly, her fingers brushing its smooth, unnatural surface. The red and green symbols pulsed again, and through sheer luck, she managed to press the right one.
Silence.
Her hands trembled as she placed the object back on the stand, as if it might start screaming again. She exhaled shakily, her breath uneven. Slowly, she took in her surroundings.
This was not her room. Not her futon. Not her world.
The floor beneath her was smooth and cold—not tatami, but some strange, hard material. The walls were too plain, too sharp, lacking the wooden beams and paper screens she knew. Instead of candlelight or the soft glow of a lantern, an eerie, bluish light streamed in from a window covered by a sheer fabric.
The smell. It was unlike anything she had known—stale air mixed with something pungent, faintly metallic. No scent of tatami, no fresh morning breeze carrying the distant aroma of rice porridge. Instead, there was something foreign, almost dead about it.
And the noise. A ceaseless hum came from beyond the walls—distant roars, mechanical clicks, and muffled voices overlapping. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block out the overwhelming sounds. Heian-kyō was never this loud. Even during festivals, there was an ebb and flow to the noise, a rhythm she understood. But this—this was chaos.
A surge of panic rose in her chest. Where am I? Had she been taken? Sold to a foreign land? Was this some sorcerer's trick? Am I alone?
Her breath quickened. No, she had to calm down. She needed to understand her surroundings first. She searched for anything familiar, anything that could serve as a weapon. Her eyes landed on a rectangular object beside the strange glowing device. Heavy, solid. She grabbed it instinctively, holding it tight.
It was a book. In her panic she didn't realize this.
Akiko pushed herself off the bed, her balance immediately off. Her body felt wrong. The floor seemed farther away than it should have been, her limbs heavier, her movements unfamiliar. She tried to ignore it, forcing herself to focus. There were two doors. One might lead outside. The other—she had no idea.
She moved cautiously, stepping over crumpled parchment—no, papers—and strange, empty containers scattered across the floor. The room was messy, disorderly in a way that made her uneasy. Whoever lived here did not seem to care for proper tidiness.
She reached the first door. Carefully, she pressed her hand against it.
As soon as she moved, a bright light flashed on from above.
Akiko gasped, stumbling back. A fire? A spirit lantern? But there was no flame—only a cold, unnatural glow filling the small chamber beyond. It was lined with objects she didn't recognize—metal basins, strange tubes, an odd rectangular structure against the wall, a bath? She thought.
She gripped her makeshift weapon tighter and stepped forward. The floor here was different too—slick, almost unnaturally smooth. A large basin sat against the far wall, with another, smaller one positioned beside it. Above the smaller basin, something gleamed—a shape in the dim light.
A person.
Akiko screamed, hurling the book with all her strength.
It struck the figure's chest and bounced off harmlessly. No reaction. No movement. But the figure was there—staring at her.
Her heart pounded as she reached for anything else to throw, but then—she froze.
The figure's movements mirrored hers.
Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted a hand.
The figure did the same.
Her breath caught as realization struck. It wasn't an intruder. It wasn't an enemy.
It was her.
Or rather… him.
Akiko stepped closer, staring at the reflection in stunned silence. The face looking back at her was unfamiliar—short, dark hair, slightly dishevelled. The eyes were sharp, not her soft, round ones. The shoulders broader, the frame taller. The plain shirt—soft, unlike any silk she had worn—hung loosely around her body—his body.
This wasn't her body.
She touched her face, tracing the unfamiliar jawline, the foreign contours. The sensation was real. The skin was warm. This wasn't a trick.
And then, a horrifying thought struck her. If she was here…
Then where was he?
Sora followed the retainers through the dimly lit corridors, keeping the sleeves of his robe raised to his mouth as he had read noblewomen did in this era. The fabric felt strange against his lips—smooth, delicate, entirely foreign. He caught the briefest exchange of glances between his retainers, their expressions unreadable.
Lady Akiko never did this before.
She had once told her mother it made her look like those "stuck-up noblewomen," and yet, here she was, suddenly embracing the very customs she had resisted. The retainers would not question it—not when it meant she was finally conforming. If anything, they seemed relieved.
Sora, on the other hand, felt like he was walking a tightrope over a bottomless pit.
They passed through the common room, where murmurs and footsteps blended into the crackling of oil lamps. The faint scent of sandalwood drifted through the air as he entered the women's dining quarters. The long, wooden table was already laid out with an elaborate spread: bowls of pristine white rice, whole sea bream lightly curled from the heat of the fire, their glassy eyes staring blankly forward. A thin, steaming broth that looked like miso soup, and a small dish of wrinkled, deep-red umeboshi.
Sora swallowed. He had expected an adjustment period, but even the food was confronting him with its sheer authenticity.
Around him, about ten noblewomen sat in hushed conversation, their voices a delicate hum of gossip and restrained laughter. Yet none of them touched their food. They were waiting. But for what?
He hesitated, his mind scrambling through whatever scraps of Heian etiquette he had absorbed from history books. Was there a prayer? A ritual? He cast a quick glance around the table, trying to pick up cues. The noblewomen spoke of predictable topics:
"Marriage."
"High society."
"Travel plans."
Then, a movement. A woman at the far end of the table settled into her seat, her purple and gold robes pooling around her like waves of silk. Sora's gaze snapped to her. Mid-twenties, regal posture, long black hair adorned with ornate pins. The color of her robes—purple—marked her as someone important. Possibly a Fujiwara?
The moment she picked up her chopsticks, the rest of the noblewomen followed suit.
Oh. That's what they were waiting for.
Sora mimicked their actions, gripping his hashi tightly. Too tightly. His fingers stiff, uncertain. He reached for the sea bream, carefully aiming for the flesh behind the gills, just like he'd seen in a documentary. The fish's lifeless stare met his own.
First bite.
The texture was… fresh. Not the rubbery sushi-grade fish he was used to, but firmer, its natural oils carrying the faintest taste of the sea. The skin, crisped over charcoal, had a deep smokiness that made his history-loving side buzz with excitement.
Then, the blandness hit.
No salt. No soy sauce. Just unseasoned fish, carrying only the ghost of the ocean and the lingering heat of the fire. His stomach whimpered in protest, longing for the artificial comforts of modern seasoning.
Across the table, a noblewoman dabbed her lips with her sleeve. Sora followed suit—too quickly, too eagerly—smearing fish oil onto the silk of his robe. The noblewoman in purple narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. His gut twisted. Was that suspicion? Amusement? Or just simple disapproval?
Too late to dwell on it. He moved on.
Next: the miso soup.
Lifting the wooden bowl with both hands (as the others did), he took a cautious sip. It was lukewarm. The miso was rich, deeply fermented, carrying the taste of age-old barrels soaked in years of umami. Yet it lacked the comforting sharpness of modern miso. No bonito flakes. No extra seasoning. Just the raw, unaltered taste of history.
Alright. Last item. The umeboshi.
It looked harmless. Small, wrinkled, vaguely resembling the ones sold in modern supermarkets. He popped it into his mouth whole.
Regret was instant.
A tidal wave of sourness crashed over his tongue, so sharp it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. His throat clenched involuntarily, his eyes watering as his body fought against the shock.
The noblewomen chuckled behind their sleeves. One whispered, voice like silk-wrapped steel,
"Lady Akiko eats umeboshi like a starving peasant."
Sora forced a swallow, his pride wounded. He could almost hear his retainers in the common room, trying not to laugh into their rice. Bastards.
Then, another voice, sweetly mocking:
"Tell us, Lady Akiko… did your beloved samurai survive the night?"
Sora froze mid-swallow. His mind scrambled. My what?
He fought to keep his face composed, but the pause was too long, the hesitation too obvious. The noblewomen exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable—except for the glint of amusement dancing in their eyes.
The Fujiwara woman lifted her bowl of rice and, in a serene voice, recited a poem:
"Dew on autumn grass— Gone with the morning sunlight, A fleeting moment."
The other noblewomen sighed softly, as if this were profound. Sora's brain slammed the panic button. Was he supposed to respond? Was this some kind of mealtime ritual? A poetic exchange?
Shit.
He blurted out the first thing his overwhelmed mind could produce.
"The, uh… fish is very… historical."
Silence.
The Fujiwara woman's chopsticks paused mid-air. A few noblewomen exchanged glances. Someone stifled a giggle behind their sleeve.
Sora wanted to evaporate into the floorboards.
Right. No small talk. Just fucking poetry.
He glanced over his shoulder at his retainers, who were very deliberately avoiding eye contact, their shoulders shaking with barely contained amusement.
Traitors.
Taking a deep breath, Sora adjusted his grip on his chopsticks and turned back to his plate, determined to survive this breakfast without further humiliation. One step at a time.
Meanwhile, in Sora's body, Akiko sat frozen, staring at the stranger in the mirror. A dream? Magic? A curse? Her reflection mimicked every motion she made, yet the person staring back was not her. She touched the unfamiliar jawline, traced the sharp angles of the face, and blinked at the deep, dark eyes—Sora's eyes.
Her stomach—his stomach—growled, pulling her out of her daze. Hunger. That, at least, was familiar. But where was she? Was this still Heian-kyō?
She turned away from the mirror and scanned the small room. It was too clean. Too organized. The wooden floorboards were strangely smooth, the walls lacked the imperfections of plastered clay, and everything had an unnatural precision to it. No sliding doors, no tatami mats. This wasn't a noble's home, nor a merchant's. And certainly not a peasant's hut.
Feeling uneasy, she began her search for food. She opened wooden compartments, lifted strange lids, and pulled at handles. Every surface was cold, hard, unnatural. Where was the rice storage? The earthenware pots?
Her eyes landed on a red-and-green package inside one of the cupboards. It had a thin metallic cover, and to her surprise, she could read the text printed on it: Instant Ramen. Spicy Shrimp Flavor.
She whispered the words aloud, startled by the heaviness of Sora's voice. Instant? What was instant about it? The package displayed a meticulously painted image of broth and noodles—almost too perfect, like an artisan's decorative print. Was this… food?
She turned it over, expecting to find a lacquered wood surface, but it was stiff and crinkled unnaturally under her fingers. She frowned and placed it back exactly where she found it. Whatever it was, she didn't trust it.
Continuing her search, she pulled a lever near the large metal basin. A sudden rush of clear liquid poured out, and she jumped back, heart pounding.
Water?!
She hesitated before cupping her hands under the stream. Bringing the liquid to her nose, she inhaled. No scent. Just… water. Taking a cautious sip, she blinked in disbelief. Fresh, clean water—flowing directly into the room.
She took several more sips before pushing the lever back into place. The water stopped immediately. This place… has water on command? I need this at home.
She continued searching, her head starting to throb from the distant, unfamiliar noises outside. A rhythmic thudding from beyond the walls. A strange hum in the air. It was like the city itself was alive.
After what felt like ages—though it had only been minutes—she stumbled upon a strange, boxy structure with a handle. When she pulled it open, a gust of cold air hit her face, sending a shiver down her spine. She stepped back in shock.
This box… is cold inside?
Peering inside, she found several clear containers filled with liquid. One had a label she could read: Pocari Sweat. Sweat? She recoiled. Who in their right mind would drink sweat?
Further inside, a larger container with 7-Eleven printed on it caught her eye. Through the see-through lid, she saw something golden and battered alongside soft white grains—rice. This… looked like food.
She carefully pulled it out, suddenly recalling a pair of wooden sticks she had seen earlier. After opening several cupboards again, she found them—hashi, just like the ones used in Heian-kyō.
Carrying the box to the table, she removed the lid. The aroma was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. It doesn't smell off.
Following her own ritual, she picked up a piece of the battered food with the hashi and took a bite.
Cold. Too cold. The texture was odd, slightly unpleasant—but the flavor was unlike anything she had tasted before. The battered coating had an exquisite crunch, and the thick sauce mixed with the rice in a way that made her want more. Was this person—whoever she was now—of royal descent? The cleanliness of the room suggested common descent, but how was the food this good?
As she was pondering, a strange light came from one of the objects on the table. A box-shaped device blinked, glowing like a fire spirit contained in glass. Hesitantly, she picked it up, fingers fumbling against its unnatural smoothness.
The light revealed words on its surface:
Kazuki:
Hey man! I'll be at your place in like 15 minutes. Make sure you're up and ready to go! No sulking like last time.
Her breath hitched. Someone was speaking to her? No—speaking to him.
Who is Kazuki? And how did he send a letter through this glowing box?
Panic set in as the realization dawned—he was coming here. To see her.
She scrambled to her feet, her mind racing. I need to prepare! Prepare for what?! She began rummaging through Sora's belongings again, desperately searching for a yukata or anything appropriate for stepping outside.
That's when she spotted it—next to a wooden closet, a small chair held a neatly folded outfit. This person had already laid out their clothes. Lucky!
She hesitated before pulling off the strange shirt and pants she had woken up in, pausing as she caught sight of the reflection in the mirror. His body.
Heat rushed to her face, making her blush immediately. He had—abs?
She forced her gaze away and quickly dressed. The smooth-textured trousers fit well enough, but the white blouse confused her. Was this meant to be tucked in? And what was this… long strip of cloth? A sash? A belt?
With no time to waste, she tied the strip around her waist and deemed herself presentable.
Shoes. There were shoes by the door. She picked the ones placed neatly on top—surely, these were the most recently used. Sliding her feet into them, she grimaced. Stiff. Uncomfortable. But they must be right.
Then—A chime. A sharp, loud sound echoed through the room. She jumped, heart hammering. What was that?!
The chime repeated. The door? Was someone calling her?
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, hand hovering over the handle. She had no idea what she was about to face.
Steeling herself, she grasped the knob, turned it, and slowly opened the door.
The presumably Fujiwara lady stood up. Sora—still adjusting to being in Akiko's body—hurried to put the last grains of rice into his mouth. At least the rice was familiar. Everything else was still completely alien.
He glanced around for cues, careful not to draw attention. The noblewomen around him moved with fluid grace, lifting their sleeves to their faces in a delicate bow. He mimicked them as best as he could, slow and deliberate, following their lead.
His arms felt strangely light, his hands small and unfamiliar. Even the act of bowing felt foreign; his body instinctively wanted to sit cross-legged, but he forced himself to remain kneeling, ignoring the dull sting creeping through his legs.
The lady in purple departed, and one by one, the noblewomen were retrieved by their retainers. Akiko was not taken away immediately, leaving Sora alone for a brief moment before an older retainer with a streak of white in his hair stepped forward.
"Lady Akiko, we must prepare for the journey ahead. Retrieve your belongings and wait in your room while we make the final arrangements."
Sora nodded, not trusting himself to accurately mimic Lady Akiko her voice. He held his sleeves up, partially covering his face, as he followed the retainers across the common area, through the wooden corridors, and back to Akiko's room.
He stepped inside. The moment the retainers left him alone, his curiosity took over.
The room was a perfect snapshot of history, a living, breathing artifact. His heart pounded—not from fear, but exhilaration. The wooden flooring creaked softly under his weight. The walls, made of thin paper stretched over wooden lattices, allowed the flickering glow of lanterns from outside to seep through. A varnished wooden writing table stood neatly in the corner, with a small ceramic inkpot and a delicate brush resting atop it.
A byobu—a folding screen painted with golden clouds and ink-brushed cherry blossoms—stood near the sleeping area. The fabric drapes, dyed in gentle shades of purple and red, seemed impossibly luxurious. He ran his—Akiko's—fingers over them, marvelling at their smoothness. Everything smelled of sandalwood and faint traces of ink. He crouched near the writing table, fingertips hovering over the fine calligraphy on a half-finished letter. The handwriting was elegant, each stroke ripe with precision.
Could Akiko have written this? What did it say?
His mind raced with excitement. This wasn't just history—it was life. The world of the Heian period, the one he had only ever read about in books, now surrounded him in breathtaking clarity. Every texture, every scent, every sound—
A sharp cough interrupted his thoughts.
Sora shot upright, his heart leaping to his throat.
"Lady Akiko," the retainer said, standing at the entrance.
His expression was unreadable. "We are ready to depart."
Sora swallowed. Right. He was Akiko now. And wherever they were going, he had no choice but to follow.