CHAPTER TEN
Warmth. That was the first thing Samara felt.
It soaked into her skin like golden light filtering through fog. Her lashes twitched as her senses crawled back to her—slowly, reluctantly, as if her body feared what waking might bring.
Her eyes fluttered open.
The ceiling above her was carved of lacquered wood, its beams painted with dragons coiled in storm clouds. A breeze rustled from the far corner, carrying the scent of medicinal herbs and wet stone. She was on a futon, swaddled in bandages and linen.
And just beyond the screen door—
"You want to what?" Ayato's voice cracked the stillness, sharp with disbelief.
"She's being sent north. To Skaal. This week," Ryuuka's voice replied, level but cold. "The engagement wasn't broken. It was delayed. The council will vote soon—and I'll see to it that it passes."
Ayato scoffed. "She just woke up from a near-death battle. She hasn't even eaten a full meal! And you want to throw her into a political marriage like livestock?"
"She is livestock to the Empire," Ryuuka said coolly. "That's what political marriages are for."
"She's our sister!"
"No," Ryuuka corrected. "She's his daughter. Which means she belongs to Nippon. Not us."
Samara blinked. Skaal… marriage? Her thoughts slammed into a wall of masculine protest before anything else. A deep, instinctive revulsion rippled through her—not because of the politics, but because Sam, the man inside, had once been a soldier, a killer, and very much a bachelor.
The idea of being passed off like property—as a woman no less—sent cold nausea spiraling through her gut. Her fists clenched beneath the sheets, and her jaw locked as if bracing for impact.
You've got to be kidding me. I didn't survive assassination, body-snatching, and demon ambushes just to get married off like some peace treaty dowry.
And yet, beneath the fury, a whisper reminded him—You chose this life. To protect it, you have to live it.
Even if it tasted like ash.
Just then, a soft hum tickled her ear.
"I'm glad you are awake, Princess," came the serene voice beside her. Her healing doll, now glowing faintly with renewed mana, hovered near her shoulder like a loyal attendant.
The door slid open.
Ayato was the first to notice.
"Samara-chan!" he called, voice lifting with warmth as he rushed to her side.
Without hesitation, he knelt beside the futon and embraced her tightly, burying his cheek into her shoulder. Sam stiffened, his arms slightly hovering as if unsure whether to return the gesture or push him off. Why is he so warm? And why is my chest squishing against his face?
His internal panic swirled, but outside, he could only manage a weak grunt. "Great. A hug. First thing after near-death, and I'm a princess again."
Ayato chuckled, pulling back to look her over. Sam's cheeks flushed—not just from the proximity but the sudden softness of the moment. He bit his tongue, then muttered, "How was your fight in the North, Ayato?"
That got his brother's eyes to light up.
"Terrible," Ayato said with a grin. "But you'll hear all about it after you eat."
Behind him, Ryuuka stood at the threshold, arms crossed, her jaw visibly tightening.
"Of course she wakes up now," she muttered. "Father gives up an arm, and she just… sleeps through the cleanup."
Samara's brow twitched.
"Excuse me?" she croaked, her voice raspier than she remembered. She slowly sat up—then winced as she clutched her ribs. Her blanket slipped.
Ryuuka arched a brow at the way Samara sat, knees wide apart like a soldier rather than a lady. The blanket fell just enough to reveal a flash of lace. Ayato averted his eyes with a quick cough.
"Lovely posture," Ryuuka drawled. "Tell me—did you train with mercenaries or just barn animals?"
Samara groaned, her eyes rolling as she tugged her kimono shut with all the delicacy of a hungover soldier putting on parade armor. "Sorry, sis, I left my 'How to Sit Like a Proper Lady' manual back at the northern gate—some goblins burned it."
She tugged the edge of the kimono down again, muttering, "Damn this thing rides up like it's trying to get me arrested."
Ryuuka raised an eyebrow. "Is that how you sit in a war camp? Legs wide and pride wider?"
Sam leaned back a little, crossing her arms. "Worked for me. Got me a few kills and a lot of bruises."
"You'd fit right in with the dogs."
"I've met smarter ones."
Ayato choked on a laugh.
Ryuuka blinked, genuinely thrown for a beat. She hadn't expected her sister—this sister—to bite back.
Ayato smirked and clapped once. "Looks like little sister grew some teeth."
"You—" Ryuuka began.
"She's not lying, though," Ayato cut in, a grin creeping up. "Sumire was there. She's still filing a report, but from what I've heard… she did well. Surprisingly well."
Ryuuka stared at her sister, as if seeing her for the first time.
Then, like flipping a switch, she waved the moment away.
"Fine," she said. "Council meeting is this afternoon. Be there. Both of you."
She turned on her heel, then paused.
"But first, come with me. The onsen should take the edge off that bruised pride—and your face."
Ayato laughed. "How touching."
He ruffled Samara's hair gently. "Get cleaned up. I'll be nearby if anything happens again. I'm not leaving you behind this time."
He lingered at the doorway for a heartbeat, glancing back one last time at Samara. His smile faded into something quieter—protective, almost heavy.
Ryuuka waited by the door, arms still crossed.
"Well? Move."
The onsen hissed with rising steam. Behind carved stone partitions, spring water poured from a lion's mouth into a clear pool of mineral-rich warmth. It glowed faintly in the torchlight.
Without ceremony, Ryuuka stripped. One shoulder, then the other, until her clothes pooled around her feet. She stepped forward into the water without looking back.
Samara stood frozen.
She'd seen bodies. She had been a man in a past life, but nothing prepared her for the sheer power carved into Ryuuka's frame—broad shoulders, taut muscles, a network of scars running like lightning across her back and thighs. Yet for all her strength and stature, Ryuuka's curves were unmistakable: a full, commanding chest, hips that flared with effortless femininity, and a balance of beauty honed through battle. She was a living contradiction—warrior and woman both—and Sam found himself awkwardly caught between awe and disorientation. A strange pull—curiosity, maybe admiration—itched at the edge of his thoughts, and before he realized it, his fingers had shifted slightly forward.
Something in Sam wanted to reach out.
She stopped.
"I can feel you staring," Ryuuka muttered.
Sam flinched.
"I wasn't—"
"If you touch me, I'll break your hand," Ryuuka said, not looking at her. "Strip. Or get out."
With a deep breath, Samara slowly peeled away her robe. One layer. Then the next. Her body flushed with heat—not from shame, but from awareness. Every motion felt foreign, awkward, like fitting into a costume she didn't quite own.
She paused when she reached her chest wraps. As the final binding unraveled, her breasts bounced free with surprising weight, and Sam nearly dropped the cloth from shock. The sight was too much—too real.
The onsen's warmth only heightened her body's awareness, and for a moment, she simply stared at her reflection in the steaming water.
"What kind of cosmic joke is this?" she muttered, cheeks burning.
Then her eyes dropped to the tattoos—etched across her skin like ancient scripture, glowing faintly beneath the surface. Her chest tightened.
They called it a curse, she thought. *Said I brought it on myself when I tried to die...I mean when she killed herself. But staring at them now, they felt more like a brand, not of shame—but of survival.
Ryuuka turned. She noticed that Samara was looking at her own tattoos that crawled across her skin like scripture.
"...They say that's your punishment," Ryuuka said. "For killing yourself."
Sam didn't reply.
"But I don't buy it." Ryuuka dipped lower into the water. "We all get marks. What matters is how we carry them."
The silence stretched.
Samara joined the onsen.
Ryuuka leaned back against the curved stone, her voice echoing lightly off the misty walls. "The healing's slower than usual. These damn springs are getting weaker again—probably the mineral veins clogging up downstream."
Samara felt it too—the water was warm, yes, but not enough to melt away the ache in her bones or the stiffness in her spine.
Then, Samara called for her Healing Doll. "Pour your magic into the water," she whispered.
The doll, ever loyal, obeyed.
A soft light seeped from her fingers into the bath. The water glowed. Instantly, warmth surged through Samara's aching muscles. Her wounds faded. The fatigue ebbed like a retreating tide.
Ryuuka exhaled. "Damn… I might keep that thing."
"Too late," Samara said.
A pause.
"You used to depend on me," Ryuuka said quietly. "You know you could again."
The steam coiled between them. Sam turned to her, startled by the softness in her voice—something almost gentle.
But Ryuuka immediately looked away.
"I'm not offering twice," she added quickly, her voice sharpening like a blade, sealing off whatever vulnerability had flickered to the surface.
Sam opened her mouth to respond—then a gentle voice interrupted them.
"Princess. Please name me," the healing doll said softly.
Samara blinked, momentarily lost. "What?"
Ryuuka arched a brow. "She's not asking for fun. In Ertha, names carry weight. Meaning. Power."
Samara looked down at the doll, eyes narrowing in thought. "Iyashi," she whispered.
The doll pulsed in response. Her glass shimmered, shifting like melting crystal. Her form was reshaped.
Samara stared, stunned. The doll looked eerily like her—her height, her face, her build. It was like staring at a living reflection made slightly more graceful, more serene. Yet something about the black hair and vine-marked arm gave Iyashi her own presence, as if she were a sister born from healing magic instead of blood.
"She's beautiful," Ryuuka murmured, surprising herself.
The warmth lingered between them, brief and brittle. They were about to speak again—maybe something real.
But they both remembered.
They hated each other.
Without another word, they reached for their towels and dried off in silence.
Afternoon light spilled into the great council court through tall paneled windows, the air dense with incense and tension. The chamber's obsidian floor reflected the gathering nobles and warriors as they arranged themselves in rigid formation—rank, bloodline, and reputation dictating every step.
At the far end of the room, the great stone platform at the end of the chamber rumbled.
Tenchi Kintaro entered.
Despite the bandaged stump where his left arm had once been, the Emperor of Nippon radiated presence. He carried his nodachi in his remaining hand with ease, slamming its base against the black marble floor.
The sound rang like thunder.
His voice followed—low, hoarse, but absolute. "Let the assembly begin."
The doors opened.
First came Kamezou, Tenchi's eldest son. Towering, stiff as steel, his hair is white like his father's hair, he is flanked by two high generals, his armor bore the icy sheen of mana-forged crystal. His presence was glacial, his gaze calculating. Known as The Turtle General and The Absolute Barrier, his reputation preceded him. Deity Rank 1.
The royals were in awe in his presence.
He nodded once—precisely, and took his place.
Then, entered Ryuuka.
Scarred. Unapologetic. Her long crimson hair flowed behind her like a battle flag. Her presence rippled across the hall like a thunderclap waiting to fall. Known across Nippon as The Demon Elf of the East, she was the sole Divinity Class warrior of the Empire—unmatched in both strength and notoriety.
Beside her walked two generals—one of them a beast-man in tiger-stripe armor. Maza, the Tiger-folk, nodded respectfully.
Kamezou sneered as she passed. Ryuuka ignored him.
After her came Ayato, the second son. Sleek, confident, and flanked by his two loyal confidants, General Kaido and Rin, he wore his nickname with pride: The Azure Blade of the East.
His Deity Rank 3 aura shimmered faintly around him as he passed, his smile easy, though his eyes tracked the room with sharp calculation.
Next, Kuruma.
Golden-haired and elegant in a sun-bright kimono, she glided into the chamber with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her two companions, veiled women with weapons hidden in their sleeves, flanked her like shadows. Dokuhime—The Poison Princess. Deity Rank 4.
Following her was Homura, loud even before the doors opened. He looked more like a grunt than a prince. The air grew heavier with heat as he strode in—his two iron-clad generals like walking furnaces behind him. The Blazing Fist of the East.Deity Rank 5.
The final daughter, married into a distant realm, was absent.
The twins, Kaen and Kaeru—The Double Dragons—were out on reconnaissance. Deity Rank 3.
And finally—
The chamber quieted.
Samara stepped through the doors.
Her posture uncertain. Her steps hesitant.
Flanked by Iyashi, now transformed into a serene, flesh-like figure with vine tattoos, and Sumire, the deadly assassin lent to her by Ayato, Samara entered last.
She stumbled. Hard.
Her legs buckled like wet paper beneath the combined curse of exhaustion and anatomy she still hadn't adjusted to. Her breasts, heavier than any sword she'd ever carried, shifted with enough force to throw off her balance. "By the gods, these things are weapons on their own," she groaned inwardly. "And these legs? More decorative than functional. It's like someone built this body for a ballroom, not a battlefield." She thought bitterly, scrambling to steady herself.
Her knees scraped the obsidian, the sting echoing up her thighs as the breath caught in her throat. Her kimono shifted violently, flaring open in places it absolutely shouldn't have, and a chill swept over the exposed skin. Samara froze, cheeks burning, then scrambled to pull the fabric back into place.
"Fantastic," she muttered under her breath. "Just what I needed—an accidental peep show in front of half the royal military."
She adjusted the hem and tugged the sash tighter with a grunt, the silk refusing to cooperate like a stubborn beast. Once decently covered, she squared her shoulders and took the rest of her steps with her head high and her pride dragging behind like a torn cape.
Laughter erupted.
Mockery flared.
But Ayato stood immediately. Ryuuka shifted slightly, and even Kuruma raised an eyebrow.
Sumire was already by her side, covering her with the speed of a ghost.
Samara stood, her face flushed—not just from embarrassment, but rage.
From the raised platform, Tenchi raised his blade and slammed it once more into the floor.
Silence fell.
He did not speak.
He simply looked.
At his children.
Then at Samara.
Then at Ryuuka.
And nodded.
"Ryuuka, begin!"
To be Continued...