The shrine sat atop the hill — persistent, unmoving, as if carved from dawn itself. The sunlight spilled over tiled roofs and courtyard stones, warm and stubborn, sliding through my window and into my eyes, pulling me out of sleep.
With the grace of a walrus, I rose, folded my futon neatly, and tucked it into the closet. Adjusting my yukata, I stepped outside. My feet carried me forward with a strange lightness — today was the day I'd begin my first job. Ever.
"They've all gone to their various workplaces already," Dōngzhì said when I asked where everyone was. I was, apparently, the only one still having breakfast.
"So, would you be the one taking me to my new workplace?" I asked, excitement too obvious to hide.
She paused mid-motion, the tea ladle hovering for a heartbeat. Then she looked at me — a small smile playing on her lips, the kind that said too much and nothing at all. My heart sank before her words even followed.
Dōngzhì asked me to meet her in the courtyard. She said she'd explain in due time.
Breakfast suddenly tasted dull. The morning itself felt heavier, quieter — as though my joy had been eaten alongside the last of the noodles, the meal now seemed like a task I was no longer having the pleasure of partaking in.
By the time I reached the courtyard, the air had cooled. Dōngzhì was waiting — patient as stone, soft as snow.
We sat cross-legged on the smooth stone floor beneath the open sky — teacher and student, reader and unread page.
The sun now nested up in the sky with its familiar golden ray bathing everything as though itself was vasted in the lecture.
Dōngzhì closed her eyes, letting the wind sift through her frost-white hair. When she opened them, they held their usual calm, but now there was weight behind the patience.
"Every person has an affinity," she began, her voice soft and steady, like snow falling on temple roofs. "An element that sings to their soul — fire, water, air, earth, wood, metal… and rarer forms still."
I stayed quiet, knowing instinctively to listen.
"Some are born with it. Some are gifted by the gods. Some… take time to awaken. And some — nothing."
My fingers brushed against the markings on my wrist — the black reeds, white chrysanthemum, and red lily. I rubbed the skin absentmindedly. She noticed but said nothing.
"Cultivation," she continued, "is the art of attuning yourself to your element. It begins simply — meditation, observation, practice. You move water, shape fire, or bend air. At first, it's subtle: a ripple, a spark, a gust. But as your harmony deepens — body, mind, and element — it grows."
She lifted her hand. A stream of water spiraled upward, twisting midair before turning to frost that bloomed from her fingertips. The cold shimmered but didn't bite. It was beautiful — like music made visible.
"There are stages," Dōngzhì said, "each a step on the path: Initiate, Adept, Core Formation, Nascent Soul, Avatar, and finally, Primordial. Each step tests you. Some fail quietly. Others…" She let the frost melt into mist. "…don't rise again."
She glanced at my wrist once more. "I don't know if this will help with your contract," she said, "but it's something you should know."
I nodded slowly. The idea of bending flame or shaping water felt distant, almost alien. My mark pulsed faintly. Perhaps imagination.
"Clans," she went on, "follow their elements. Bul — fire clans — are bold and aggressive. Su — water clans — patient, fluid. Geum — metal — swift, adaptable. Ddamg — earth — steadfast, unyielding. Wood, air, and rarer forms hold their own traditions. Rivalries and alliances weave the world — but not here."
I frowned slightly. "Not here?"
"The shrine," she said, her tone clear and deliberate, "is neutral ground. We do not take sides. We honor all elements equally. Those who live within these walls — regardless of their gift — are equals. That's why the Earth, Fire, and Air all dwell together here. We serve Yoshimisama, the Fox Deity."
I hesitated. "And Himitsu, her element?"
"She has none," Dōngzhì replied before I could finish. "Just her blessing."
Concealment, I thought.
"Power is not a measure of worth within these walls," she continued. "Only discipline, understanding, and heart."
"Well," I murmured under my breath, "I don't think it's measured at all."
She gave a small smile at that, then added, "Don't confuse these with the names of the great clans — those follow lineage, not element. The Fire Snake clan, for instance, is not the same as Bul. Understand the difference."
Her gaze softened. "Your element, if it wishes to awaken, will reveal itself in time. Some hear its call immediately. Others… after decades. Even a lifetime. Do not force it. Listen longer. Observe more. Understand deeper. Perhaps that is your path."
She took a breath, almost as if speaking to herself. "But Yako-no-Hoshimi sama had discovered her element before she got her contracts with the arcana. So… who really knows?"
I exhaled slowly. Her lessons always felt both comforting and terrifying — truths too large for one heart to hold.
"Now," she said, rising with calm grace, "you'll begin with observation. Watch your friends. Watch the wind, the water in the fountains, the flame in the stove. Learn without expectation. Patience is the first trial — and perhaps the hardest."
I followed her gaze.
The sunlight shimmered on the stone fountains.
A flicker of fire breathed within the stove.
The breeze tangled with the scent of flowers.
Each element alive, each humming its quiet hymn.
And somewhere beneath my skin, the mark on my wrist pulsed once more — faint, but there.
"Every element has its song," Dōngzhì said softly. "And every song has a silence. Do not mistake absence for emptiness."
Then she smiled, thoughtful, a spark of mischief breaking through her calm.
"Next," she added, "we'll test your fighting ability — and see which weapon chooses you."
I wasn't sure whether she meant me or the world itself.
Something in her tone made me realize this was no mere sparring. In this world, even weapons might have opinions.
But either way, I understood even though this did not seem like the job I was told I would be working.
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