Subhadip's breath hitched, caught between dream and waking. The remnants of sleep clung to him like a cobweb, delicate and disorienting. Warmth curled around his skin — a ghost of comfort — yet an inexplicable chill gripped his chest. His eyes opened slowly, as if crossing the veil from another time.
And there she was.
Himiko.
Bare. Serene. Curled beside him like a memory made flesh.
A breath escaped him — sharp, stunned, almost soundless. He dared not move, not yet. The silence in the room was sacred. Her face, bathed in dawnlight, was impossibly soft, lips slightly parted in sleep. Strands of raven-black hair fell like brushstrokes across her cheek.
His heart pounded against his ribs. With guilt. With awe. With the aching confusion of a dream that felt too real.
Then she stirred.
"Remo…" she murmured, voice fogged by sleep. "Just fall asleep… Aren't you tired? I'll go see Yamiya in a moment…"
Subhadip blinked. The name. The voice. Her calmness.
"W-What's going on?" he asked, breath shallow.
She smiled faintly, eyes still shut. "Weren't you happy after I bent time for us? It's been 24 hours, looping. Ten years since I married you… yet you never change."
There was laughter in her words. And sorrow. A nostalgic weight that settled between them.
"Oh… sorry," she whispered suddenly, like a fragile truth slipping through cracks.
Then—
He blinked awake again.
Reality realigned itself. He was back — but this time, his head rested gently on her shoulder. Their fingers, laced unconsciously in the night, refused to let go.
Himiko hadn't woken. Her breath was slow, steady, rhythmic — like the turning of the moon.
He stared at her.
She didn't need to speak. She didn't even need to open her eyes. Still, he felt it — the quiet certainty of her nearness.
Drawing in a soft, hesitant breath, Subhadip turned his head slightly and whispered, his voice a threadbare thing:
"I love you."
No answer. Not with words.
But her fingers — those slender, strong fingers — tightened, just barely.
And his heart stammered, because sometimes the smallest gestures say the most.
Then—
Knock-knock.
A fist rapped on the door, too wooden, too real.
"Oi!" a voice shouted. "Subhadip! Her clothes. Yours too! Ceremony's not gonna wait forever."
Najiro.
Subhadip barely had time to sit up before the door creaked open. Najiro strode in like a storm in sunlight, tossing folded garments at the end of the futon with a cocky grin.
"Tell your wife to wake up early next time, would ya?"
Subhadip groaned, his face burning. "Shut up."
Himiko stirred, the moment breaking. Her eyes fluttered open, and when she saw their hands still joined — she froze. Color bloomed on her cheeks like a secret caught in moonlight.
"S-sorry—"
"It's fine," he said too quickly, already reaching for the garments. "We need to get ready."
He offered her a robe: a white chihaya, flowing like wind-blessed silk, paired with a deep red hibakama, embroidered with tiny silver runes that shimmered like whispered prayers. His own attire was futuristic — a high-collared blue jacket, sleek, matte, with "TREMA" stitched across the back like a god's forgotten name.
Himiko stared, puzzled. "Why am I wearing this?"
He turned away, not quite looking. "Because you look like you belong in a legend."
That made her pause. Then smile.
She dressed slowly. Gracefully. And she didn't ask him to turn away.
There was no shame left. Just breath. Skin. Memory. Understanding.
"I'll walk you," she said at last, fastening the last tie. "And I'll hold your hand during the Orb enchantation."
He blinked. She was composed. Steady.
"You look good, by the way," she added, voice soft. "And the watch… perfect."
He glanced at the strange device on his wrist — glowing faintly. A gift from her. A bond.
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Get ready," she warned gently. "For the backlash."
---
Mist clung to the earth like old grief, curling along the edges of the shrine steps. The world had gone still, every sound muffled, like the land itself was holding its breath.
Subhadip and Himiko walked together — hand in hand — toward the ancient altar. Their fingers interlaced like a vow.
Then a figure stepped into their path.
Najiro.
His ceremonial robes fluttered in the wind. But it was his eyes that stilled the moment — unreadable, distant.
"I was supposed to be with him," he said, gaze locked on Himiko.
Subhadip stopped. Himiko didn't.
Najiro took a step forward, not aggressive, but unrelenting. "You took my place. Remember that. When the Orb awakens… when the chants begin… you'll feel the real him. The soul under the skin. If you're not strong enough, it'll crack you."
His head tilted, lips curling. "But that's your price for standing in someone else's place."
Subhadip's jaw clenched. "She's not standing in someone else's place. She's exactly where she's meant to be."
Himiko's silence was a shield — and a statement.
"If my soul breaks," she said, voice barely a whisper but sharp as steel, "then let it break. Because it'll break… for him."
Najiro didn't reply. He simply stepped aside.
Subhadip exhaled, tension fading. He turned to Himiko with a crooked smile. "My family's… dramatic."
She smirked back. "You should hear mine."
And together, they kept walking — through mist, through myth, toward a moment waiting to unfold.
They entered the Manmasurch — a grand, ancient structure, half-buried in time and mist. The air was thick with power, pulsing softly against the skin. The floor was tiled with glowing sigils, and along the walls, carvings told stories older than memory.
At the far end of the temple stood a lone figure, cloaked in deep yellow. His presence was calm, yet it carried the weight of the world. Reshuro.
He turned, eyes like burning mirrors, and raised his hand as if commanding the very silence to listen.
"The son of god. The lord of prophecy. The one to have more than enough and to change everything. The one who came when it all started to collapse. You may be his son or not, but you are the chosen one — the one who is a commoner in his eyes, but in others, he is Messiah."
Subhadip felt the words like thunder, echoing deep within his chest. Himiko stood beside him, eyes wide, fingers gently brushing his.
"I have seen the signs," Reshuro continued, voice louder now. "The great demon awakens. And I will kill him. I will bring peace. I will end the sufferings. I will change the prophecy by my own will."
And then, without pause, he added — voice now quieter, almost trembling — "But the things which are bound to happen… will remain, unless he — the chosen — reaches his true potential."
At that moment, as the final syllable left his lips, the shadows behind the altar shifted.
A figure stepped forward.
Human at first glance. But there was something chillingly wrong.
His face was eerily still, cold and commanding — every line carved like stone, his eyes a void of cruel reason. His slick hair curled neatly to one side. His skin pale. And he wore a sharp British-style suit — futuristic and sleek, stitched with metallic edges and glowing seams. Gold buttons clasped the collar. The suit gleamed like polished ivory, yet cast no reflection.
He looked like a man born to lead empires, to sip tea with blood on his gloves.
Bitcho.
A devil in human form.
Subhadip didn't know how, but his body reacted before his thoughts did — a chill rising from his spine, every instinct screaming.
Bitcho smiled, slow and elegant.
As if the prophecy had already begun to crumble.