The wind carried away the severed strands of hair, golden brown in the setting sun's glow, twirling and spiralling downward before vanishing into the mountain's fading light.
Thwack!
An arrow struck the rock behind him with a sharp ping, shattering upon impact. Jagged stone fragments sprayed into the air, ricocheting once—twice—before the broken shaft tumbled into the dirt with a weak, defeated thud.
Sora's breath hitched. His hand flew to his ear, expecting warmth—expecting blood. Not even one day in, and I already got Akiko's body hurt?! But when his fingertips met his skin, there was nothing. No blood, no pain—just a phantom sting where the arrow had almost found its mark.
A sharp movement snapped his focus forward.
Yasuhiro had reacted instantly, snatching up the bag he'd just set down, raising it as an impromptu shield. To block arrows? That kind of reflex wasn't normal. These guys—whoever they were—had done this before.
A chilling realization settled in.
Sora's legs trembled—not just from exhaustion this time. He needed to run. To get away. Who were these people? What did they want with Akiko?
Akiko's hair danced in the wind when the next arrow came shrieking toward them.
Sora's breath, heavy as a stone, lodged in his throat. This isn't a reenactment. This isn't a game.
The arrowhead gleamed—real, sharp, hungry—as it hurtled straight for his face.
Yasuhiro moved like a striking blade.
A crack! as his travel bag met the arrow midair. The tip punched through the woven reeds, embedding itself deep with a sickening thunk.
Sora's stomach churned.
This wasn't just danger.
This was death, inches away.
"Go!" Yasuhiro barked.
Then the world turned around. Tsukasa's arms hooked under Sora's knees and back, hauling him against the retainer's chest. The sudden motion sent a jolt of terror through him—I can't run. I can't fight. I'm trapped in this fragile body. His legs dangled like a doll's, Akiko's robes tangling around him as Tsukasa sprinted.
Another arrow whistled past, so close Sora felt the wind of its passage. His pulse hammered in Akiko's slender throat. What if I die here? The thought was a blade to his ribs. Would Akiko die too? Would I just… vanish?
History books never mentioned this. No footnotes on how it felt to hear arrows hiss like vipers, to smell your own sweat and know—know—your borrowed body wasn't strong enough to survive this.
Tsukasa's grip tightened. "Hold on, my lady."
Sora clutched at him, nails biting into the rough linen of the retainer's kosode. The ground blurred beneath them. Some detached part of his mind registered Yasuhiro's silhouette against the crimson sunset—the older man standing firm, his bag raised like a shield, another arrow already caught in its fibers.
Alive. For now.
But the fear didn't fade. It coiled in Sora's gut, cold and certain: I don't belong here. And this world will kill me for it.
Tsukasa finally slowed as they reached a granite outcrop, his chest heaving against Sora's back. The last fiery streaks of sunset bled across the sky as Yasuhiro caught up, his sandals scraping against stone. The older retainer braced his hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his chin onto the arrow-pierced bag still clutched in his fist.
"They won't follow," Yasuhiro panted, bracing his hands on his knees. "Had to abandon the path—archer's stuck navigating the ridge." He jerked his chin toward the treacherous slope they'd just crossed, where jagged rocks and tangled roots would slow any pursuer. "By the time they find stable footing, night will have swallowed our trail."
Tsukasa didn't release Sora, his arms trembling slightly from exertion. "You're certain?"
Yasuhiro spat onto the stones. "Unless they're part mountain goat." He straightened with a wince, his left hand twitching. "Lady Akiko. Are you injured?"
Before Sora could answer, Tsukasa was already lowering him onto a flat boulder with surprising gentleness. The retainers moved in practiced unison—Yasuhiro checking for arrow grazes along Sora's sleeves while Tsukasa knelt to inspect the hem of his robes where the fabric had brushed the undergrowth.
Sora sat frozen as calloused fingers ghosted over Akiko's body. The clinical efficiency should have been comforting, but his skin prickled with the wrongness of it. These men were treating him like porcelain while...
"Yasu." The word slipped out before he could stop it. "Your hand."
Yasuhiro flexed his left palm, revealing a clean puncture through the meat below his thumb. The wound had still slowly drippling with blood, the edges darkened with dirt and some dried blood. "A scratch. The arrowhead was dull."
Tsukasa made a low noise in his throat. When Sora turned, he saw the younger retainer wiping his cheek—revealing a thin red line where the first arrow had grazed him. The cut had clotted, leaving only a rust-coloured streak to mark its passing.
Sora's stomach twisted. These men had taken wounds meant for Akiko's body. For him. The fading light painted their faces in shades of tarnished bronze, making the blood on Tsukasa's cheek look black.
"You're both..." Hurt. Because of me. The words stuck in his throat.
Yasuhiro shook out his arrow-pierced bag with a scoff. "We've had worse from kitchen accidents." But when his eyes met Tsukasa's, something unspoken passed between them—a calculation, a reassessment of risk.
Tsukasa touched two fingers to his cheek wound, then studied the blood. "They weren't bandits."
Yasuhiro grunted agreement. "Bandits shoot to rob. These shot to kill." He turned to Sora, suddenly grave. "My lady. Did your father warn you of any... political complications?"
The question hung in the cooling air as night crept over the mountain. Somewhere in the trees below, an owl called—a sound like bones knocking together.
The silence was broken by Yasuhiro's gravelly voice. "Our lodging is near." He pointed up the mountain path where torchlight flickered against the darkening sky. "Another 250 meters. Half-hour's walk at most. Tsukasa."
Just the name. No further instruction needed. The retainers moved in perfect sync - Yasuhiro repacking their bags while Tsukasa immediately scooped Sora back into his arms, one arm beneath his knees, the other supporting his back.
"I can walk, Tsuka," Sora protested, squirming in the bridal carry.
Tsukasa's grip didn't waver. "My lady, our duty is your safety. Should those archers return, the next arrow may not merely graze you." His voice left no room for argument. "This is how it will be until we're behind solid walls."
Sora huffed but relented. As much as he hated feeling helpless, he couldn't risk Akiko's body. Yasuhiro finished securing the arrows in their bag, the bloodied shafts disappearing into the woven reeds. Despite their earlier sprint, both retainers set a punishing pace toward the distant lights.
Sora's consciousness flickered like a guttering candle. The day's toll - the unfamiliar weight of kimono, the constant vigilance of playing Akiko, the terror of arrows whistling past his head - left him drained. He drifted in and out, jolted awake only by Tsukasa's steady footfalls vibrating through his borrowed body.
The inn complex emerged from the twilight like a mirage. A cluster of wooden buildings surrounded a small Shinto shrine, its torii gate casting long shadows in the firelight. Smoke curled from multiple chimneys, carrying the rich aroma of roasting venison - a welcome change from the fish-heavy diet of court nobility. The main building sprawled low and wide, with separate wings marked by painted screens: one for women, one for men, and a smaller but more ornate annex for noble guests.
Tsukasa finally set Sora down at the engraved gatepost. His sandals scraped against stones worn smooth by generations of travellers. Through bleary eyes, Sora watched Yasuhiro negotiate with the innkeeper, an elderly man with a back bent like a bow. The clink of coins changed hands - actual currency, not bartered goods. Sora's historian mind briefly sparked to life. Coinage in early Heian? But the economy was supposed to be... The thought dissolved as exhaustion pulled him under.
They guided him to an eight-tatami room in the noble's annex. The space was smaller than yesterday's lodging, but the scent of fresh straw mats and polished cypress soothed his frayed nerves. A low table stood near a charcoal brazier, its embers painting the room in warm hues. No other noble guests occupied the surrounding chambers - just the distant murmur of common travellers through paper-thin walls.
Sora barely registered kneeling at the table before sleep threatened to claim him. His chin dipped toward his chest until the sliding door rattled open. The innkeeper's wife entered bearing a lacquered tray - steamed rice gleaming like morning dew, miso soup swimming with tender tofu, and cubes of venison glazed in a dark, sweet sauce that made his mouth water.
He managed a polite nod behind his sleeve before seizing the hashi. Each bite was a battle between ravenous hunger and noble decorum. The venison melted on his tongue, the sauce - probably fermented plum and honey - striking the perfect balance between sweet and savoury.
"Your quarters are ready, my lady." Yasuhiro's voice startled him from his meal. Both retainers stood at attention, their wounds now properly dressed - linen bandages stark against Tsukasa's cheek and Yasuhiro's palm.
As Sora stood, the room tilted. Strong hands steadied him, and for once, he didn't resist being guided. At the sleeping chamber's threshold, something primal overrode both modern sensibilities and Heian etiquette. He turned and threw his arms around both men at once, Akiko's slender frame barely reaching their chests. The embrace lasted but a heartbeat, yet he felt their shared surprise in the sudden stillness.
"Thank you," he murmured into Tsukasa's travel-stained kosode, "for saving me today."
Then he was alone in the tiny room, its sole luxury being the thick futon laid out like salvation. Sora stared at the sleeping robes folded neatly beside it. Should... undress... proper... His fingers fumbled at the first sash before darkness claimed him, facedown in silk.
The arrow's fletching gleamed in the firelight as Yasuhiro rolled it between his fingers. Both men sat before empty rice bowls, the quiet punctuated only by crackling embers.
"She embraced us," Tsukasa said abruptly, touching his bandaged cheek. "Lady Akiko never... she barely tolerates a hand at her elbow when boarding palanquins."
Yasuhiro grunted, examining the arrowhead. "Facing death changes people." He traced the iron tip. "Notice how they aimed? Only at her. Not at our coin purses, not even our supply bags."
A log collapsed in the fire, sending brief shower of sparks into the air. Tsukasa accepted the arrow, his calloused thumb brushing the fletching. Then he froze.
The arrow bore distinctive features. Feathers that were only used on arrows from a certain family. His voice dropped to a whisper:
"This looks like a Fujiwara arrow."
The buzz of Sora's alarm clock jolted him awake. Dazed, he rolled to his side, expecting to feel the familiar tatami mats beneath him—only to collide with the hard wooden floor. Thunk.
On instinct, his hand shot out, fumbling for his phone as he silenced the alarm.
Wait… Alarm? Phone?
He inhaled sharply through his nose. No scent of fresh tatami. No sandalwood. No incense. No breakfast cooking over a fire. Instead, the faint mustiness of his own apartment. His bed. His room.
Home?
He sat up slowly, his back pressing against the bedframe as he squinted at his phone screen. No missed messages. Was that all just a dream?
Only then did he notice—he was still fully dressed in his school uniform. Even his shoes were on. But… no socks?
More and more questions piled up in his mind, a dull hunger pang cutting through the confusion. He put his phone down and flipped on the light. The dim glow revealed the familiar mess of his apartment—scattered textbooks, empty convenience store wrappers, his unwashed laundry in the corner. He really needed to clean.
Grimacing, he kicked off his shoes and placed them neatly by the door before slipping on his indoor loafers. That's better. Now, breakfast. He walked over to the fridge, remembering the fried chicken and rice he had picked up from 7-Eleven the other day.
The fridge door swung open, the cold air brushing against his groggy face. Sora blinked. No chicken. No rice. Just half a bottle of Pocari Sweat.
I definitely bought it… His fingers curled around the drink as he let the thought drift. Maybe that weirdly vivid dream messed with his memory. I'm losing it.
With a sigh, he grabbed the Pocari Sweat, closed the fridge, and turned toward the cupboards. Ramen it was. He reached up to grab a bowl and his ramen—then froze. A sharp, stale odor hit his nose.
Did I forget to take a bath?
That wasn't like him. He clearly remembered taking one before bed. His frown deepened as he set the ramen down and switched on the kettle. The spicy shrimp flavour packet crinkled under his fingers. Undoubtedly the best flavour. No debate.
As he waited for the water to boil, he wandered toward the bathroom—only to stop short. His history book lay sprawled across the floor, pages slightly bent as if it had been tossed there.
What the hell?
Had he sleepwalked?
Sora crouched, picking up the book before shaking his head and flipping the warm water switch on in the tub. By the time he returned to the kitchen, the kettle had finished. He poured the steaming water over his ramen, stirring in the flavour packets before sitting at his small kitchen table.
His gaze drifted to the tabletop. Right beside his bowl sat an empty 7-Eleven container. Bold black letters stared back at him.
Fried Chicken in Sauce with White Rice.
His stomach twisted. The very meal he had been looking for. Gone. When did I eat this?
No memory surfaced.
He clenched his jaw and looked away, pushing down the uneasy feeling. Whatever. Not important.
Unlocking his phone, he scrolled to his messages. No texts from Kazuki. That was strange—his best friend usually sent something dumb first thing in the morning. Sora tapped their chat anyway.
Kazuki's Texts:
Kazuki: Dude, I'll "get sick" last minute. U owe me ¥500 for this wingman gig.
Kazuki: Don't blow it tomorrow. Asuka's into your "mysterious scholar" act.
Kazuki: And STOP CALLING HER DONO. You sound like a samurai drama.
Sora frowned. What was Kazuki even talking about? A date with Asuka? He wasn't interested in her.
His eyes flicked to the timestamp. Yesterday. 5:45PM.
The uneasy feeling in his stomach deepened. Slurping his ramen quickly, he flipped to his calendar app, the one he shared with Kazuki.
Date: Sunday.
That's wrong. Today was Saturday. He had school. He always had school on Saturdays.
But there it was, clear as day. Not just Sunday—but an event marked my Kazuki on their shared calendar:
"Sora's Lovey-Dovey Date with Asuka ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️"
The chopsticks slipped in his grip.
"A DATE WITH ASUKA?!"
He nearly choked on his ramen, slamming the bowl onto the table. "No, no, no, this has to be a mistake."
But the calendar didn't lie.
Which meant—if today was Sunday, then there was no school.
No Kazuki.
Sora shoved the last of his ramen into his mouth and stormed into the bathroom. Clothes off. Water off. He turned on the shower, rinsing quickly before sinking feet-first into the bath.
He needed to calm down. Think.
Grabbing his phone again, he quickly typed out a message.Sora: What's this about a date with Asuka?! Since when??
Predawn light seeped through the bathroom window as Sora's phone cast blue shadows on the steamy tiles. Water dripped from his hair onto the screen.
Sora: I don't remember agreeing to that.
Sora: And why does my calendar say today is Sunday?
Kazuki's Replies:
Kazuki: … Are you messing with me?
Kazuki: You were really out of it yesterday, I thought you were re-enacting some historical piece, but Asuka actually found it cute.
Kazuki: And yeah, it's Sunday. Did you hit your head or something?
Sora's thumb hovered.
Sora: Stop messing with ME, there is no way that happened!
Kazuki: Anyway, Asuka thinks you're "mysteriously cultured." I already told her I could not make it, so was glad to still go with just you. Meet her at Shimokita Café. Noon.
Sora: Cultured?! I didn't—
Kazuki: Pro tip: Don't call her "dono" today. She may have found it cute and funny, but she thought you were being silly.
Sora: ...What time's the date?
Kazuki: 4PM, Shibuya crossing, dude, it's in the calendar.
Sora put his phone down and slowly sank further into the tub, letting the steaming water rise to his chin. With a small pout, he exhaled through his nose, sending bubbles rippling across the surface.
Yesterday, he woke up in someone else's body, forced to live their life. Today, he woke up in his own body… only to feel like someone else had lived his.
Then it hit him.
What if someone had lived his life yesterday?
The thought sent a jolt through his body, his fingers gripping the edges of the tub. That would explain so much. The weird texts, the missing food, the fact that he'd apparently been lured to a date by Kazuki. If that were true, then whoever it was had walked around as him, worn his clothes, spoken to his friends—
Akiko.
His mind immediately went to her. She was the one he had swapped with, right? So was she the one who had spent an entire day as him?
He didn't have proof. But it made too much sense to ignore.
Sora yanked the plug from the tub, watching the water spiral down the drain in a rapid swirl. He stepped out, grabbing a towel and started drying himself as he made a decision.
Today's mission: research everything about this whole waking-up-as-Akiko situation.
But first—clothes.
He stood in front of his closet, arms crossed. Part of him wanted to throw on something comfortable, maybe sweats and a hoodie. But the weight of that stupid 'date' with Asuka lingered in the back of his mind. He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair before settling on an outfit: simple black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and an open blue blouse. Comfortable but still presentable. Good enough.
He pulled open the blinds, letting the soft morning light spill into the room, and cracked the window slightly to let in fresh air. That's when he finally looked at his surroundings.
Dust. Empty food containers. Clothes thrown over his desk chair. His history book still on the floor from earlier.
There was no way he could focus in this mess.
Sora sighed.
First: cleaning. Then: figuring out what the hell was happening to his life.
Step 1: Container Purge
He grabbed a trash bag, its plastic sighing as he loaded the casualties of convenience-store warfare. A fried chicken box clung stubbornly to his desk. Ramen cups followed, their faded shrimp logos staring as they plummeted into the abyss.
Step 2: Paper Triage
He stacked the papers into a lopsided tower on his desk, anchoring them with a half-empty Pocari Sweat bottle.
Step 3: Textbook Tetris
The textbooks were easier. He shelved them chronologically—ancient Japan on the left, modern on the right.
Step 4: Vacuum Onslaught
The vacuum roared to life, devouring crumbs and the brittle remains of rice scattered like shrapnel. It choked twice: once on a rogue chopstick, once on a receipt for instant miso soup (¥298, 3:14 AM).
Step 5: Laundry Surrender
He balled his socks into a makeshift grenade and lobbed them into the washer. His boxers followed— the machine shuddered, echoing his resolve.
Sora clapped in his hands, this is better. He sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. He cracked his knuckles, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started to get to work.
Sora's laptop hummed like a disgruntled samurai spirit.
12:04 PM – The Body-Swap Rabbit Hole
Search 1: "Sudden body swapping real?"
→ Top result: "10 Signs Your Cat is a Time Traveler" (WikiHow).Search 2: "Heian-era possession rituals"
→ A Reddit thread: "My GF channelled Murasaki Shikibu during sex???" (3.2k upvotes).
12:22 PM – Fujiwara Dead Ends
His notes grew frantic:
Fujiwara Michinaga: Died 1028 AD. 5 wives. 37 children. Zero mentions of "Akiko."Akiko: "Nr.25 most popular child's name of 2024" no luck.
12:59 PM – Realization
The clock mocked him. No surname. No leads. Just a date with a girl who he did not like romantically at all.
Sora stepped out of his apartment, locking the door with a soft click. The moment he turned, the crisp early spring air greeted him, a cool but pleasant breeze brushing against his skin. The sky stretched wide above him, a soft blue with only a few wispy clouds drifting lazily across it. Sunlight filtered through the buildings, casting long shadows along the sidewalk as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and started walking.
The streets were alive with people. It was Sunday, after all—no school, no rush to get to work. Most people strolled at a leisurely pace, chatting with friends, carrying shopping bags, or sipping on iced coffee. The hum of conversation mixed with the occasional laughter of couples and groups of teenagers. Families pushed strollers, children pointing excitedly at store displays. Street musicians had already set up near the station, the faint strumming of a guitar carried on the breeze.
Unlike the hurried, uniform-clad crowds of a weekday morning, today's pedestrians were dressed for relaxation—light jackets over casual sweaters, flowy skirts, loose button-ups. Some wore scarves despite the milder weather, others sported sunglasses as they walked beneath the bright sky.
Sora barely registered it all. His mind was tangled with the events of the morning. The missing memories. The weird messages. The date he had somehow agreed to. His legs carried him forward on autopilot, past the storefronts and vending machines, past the faint scent of freshly baked melonpan drifting from a nearby bakery.
By the time he reached Shibuya Crossing, the crowd had thickened. The pedestrian signal glowed red, and dozens of people gathered at the edge of the street, waiting for the light to change. Above them, giant screens flashed advertisements—bright, colourful, loud. The city pulsed with movement, a restless energy as everyone prepared to surge forward once the signal flipped.
And then—he saw her.
Among the shifting sea of people, she stood near the crossing's edge, looking around as if searching for someone.
Asuka.
Even in the crowd, she stood out.
Her hair was a striking shade of blonde, golden strands catching the sunlight and shimmering as they swayed with the breeze—soft amber eyes framed by long lashes, freckles dusted lightly across her cheeks. There was a faint pink blush beneath her eyes.
She wore a long white dress that swayed just above her ankles, intricate floral patterns embroidered across the hem in soft shades of pink and green. Over it, a small brown vest covered her arms, fitted but not restrictive, blending a touch of vintage elegance with a modern city backdrop. A small brown bag hung neatly around her left arm, the strap looped comfortably around her wrist.
Sora swallowed.
For someone who supposedly had a date with her, he felt completely unprepared.
The pedestrian signal flashed green. The crowd surged forward.
And Asuka's gaze met his.