Chapter 96: Commission Complete
The shrine maiden let out a quiet, wistful sigh. Her gaze lingered on the soft light rising over the valley. "So... Hotaru never truly left Kazuya's side, did she?"
"Mm." Kouya nodded, his tone calm yet heavy with meaning.
The air was cool and still, carrying with it the faint scent of grass and morning dew. All things under heaven possess spirit; that was an ancient truth. Every leaf, every root, every stone bears the breath of life within it. Even the most unyielding rock, battered by centuries of wind and rain, might one day open its eyes to the world. When the soul awakens, when awareness is born—thus a youkai takes form.
Once awakened, a youkai's heart is no different from that of a human. They feel joy, sorrow, and longing. They cherish bonds and suffer from love.
Hotaru was one such being.
She was a spirit born from the dandelions that carpeted this valley—a small, gentle existence who bloomed quietly beneath the sun and wind. She watched the world, listened to the laughter of the humans who passed by, and one day, her heart began to beat with theirs.
But this world demands balance. Every miracle carries its price. A man born with a broken heart could not have lived such a long, peaceful life on mere chance or divine pity.
It was because Hotaru had become that heart.
She had offered her essence to him, given the rhythm of her life to keep his beating.
For spirits born of plants, time moved differently. Their growth was glacial, their maturity stretched across centuries. Even when Kazuya had grown into a man, Hotaru remained an eternal child—forever eleven or twelve, untouched by age, frozen in her prime.
She could not follow him beyond this valley. Her roots, her soul, were woven into the soil itself. Her breath came from the earth, her body from the air. Without that bond, she would fade like a leaf in drought. As the saying went, "When a man moves, he lives; when a tree moves, it dies." To uproot herself was to end her existence.
Yet she chose to give him everything. Her spirit became his heart, her light became his pulse. And through the years—through storms and seasons, joy and grief—she lived within him, unseen yet ever present, sustaining his fragile life.
...
No one could say how long they sat there before the dawn began to bloom. The horizon turned a soft silver-gray, the sky brightening slowly until the first bird cried from the woods. Mist clung to the valley like a dream.
Takeda Kazuya, who had been still for so long, finally stood. The years weighed on his shoulders, but his eyes carried clarity. He approached Kouya and the shrine maiden, then bowed deeply until his forehead nearly touched the ground.
"Please," he said, voice trembling. "Please, I beg of you both. I want... I want to see Hotaru one last time."
The shrine maiden hesitated. She had seen shikigami and restless spirits, but not beings like Hotaru—creatures tied to the natural world, bound by laws older than humanity itself. To summon her was not a matter of prayer or spellcraft; it was calling a soul from the fabric of existence. She didn't know how.
Her eyes turned instinctively toward Kouya. Something in her heart told her that if anyone could do it, it was him.
Kouya said nothing for a moment. The faint breeze stirred his hair. He looked at Kazuya, then at the valley before them, his expression unreadable.
"Please, Kouya-san," said Koji and his wife together, their voices filled with desperate sincerity as they bowed again. "We beg for your help."
Kouya finally sighed. "All right. I'll do it—consider it part of the job."
He stepped closer, placing his fingers lightly on Kazuya's wrist.
For a heartbeat, the air stilled.
Then, with a low hum, the wind began to swirl. Dust, petals, and dew rose into the air, circling the two men. The shrine maiden's robes fluttered, her eyes widening as the wind gathered into a bright vortex.
Within seconds, the storm dissipated, leaving only a faint light resting gently on Kouya's fingertip.
A single flower.
A dandelion—fragile, glowing softly in the half-light of dawn. Its slender stem trembled, scattering a faint, sweet fragrance.
"Is... is that Hotaru?" Kazuya whispered.
Kouya did not reply. He only brought the flower closer to his lips and exhaled softly.
The sunlight broke through the clouds, golden and pure, falling directly upon the small flower. It shimmered, brighter and brighter, until the light took form.
A small girl appeared before them—delicate as porcelain, her hair adorned with a crown of tiny blossoms. Her clear blue eyes reflected the sky itself, filled with innocent wonder and lingering confusion. Her form was faint, almost transparent, as if made of mist and memory.
"Hotaru?!" Kazuya's voice cracked.
She blinked, her expression dazed. "Kazuya? Are we... dreaming that we've returned here again?"
That simple question pierced him deeper than any blade. Tears burst from his eyes, falling freely down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't know... I didn't understand back then!" His voice broke, thick with guilt and longing.
Hotaru smiled softly, her expression calm. "Don't cry. You've grown strong, Kazuya. You've done well." She reached out to touch his face, but her hand passed through him like air.
For a moment, she stared at her transparent palm, then lowered her gaze. "Ah... I see. I can't touch you anymore."
"It's okay," Kazuya whispered, wiping his tears with trembling fingers. "This... this is enough. Just seeing you again." He smiled weakly. "Hotaru, I'm home."
Her lips curved into a smile that glowed brighter than the dawn. "Welcome home, Kazuya."
The light surrounding her shimmered, and for an instant, it felt as if the entire valley was breathing with her joy. The dandelions swayed; petals danced in the air.
Kazuya turned to his family. "Koji, take Hanako and Ai back. Go home."
"Father..." Koji's voice quivered. "You... you're not—"
"There's no need," Kazuya said gently. "I've already found what I was looking for."
Koji stood frozen for a moment before bowing deeply. His father had lived alone for years, his spirit dulled by loss. To see him smile again—even if only for this moment—was enough.
As they left, Koji paused at the ridge and turned back.
Down in the valley, the light of morning bathed two figures beneath the old tree. Kazuya and Hotaru sat side by side, surrounded by a field of golden dandelions. The wind whispered softly through the grass, carrying with it the faintest echo of laughter—clear, gentle, eternal.
...
When they reached the foot of the mountain, Koji turned to Kouya. "Please come to the town. Rest. Allow me to prepare a meal in your honor."
Days of stress had left his face pale, but relief had softened his expression. The weight of the past few nights seemed to finally lift. He glanced at his wife and daughter, who both looked exhausted yet calm.
But Kazuya's decision had left him conflicted. There was joy, and there was sorrow—a mixture of both that he could not name.
Kouya shook his head lightly. "No need. I'll pass."
Koji blinked, startled. "Did... we offend you somehow?"
"Not at all." Kouya's lips curved slightly. "I just have class tomorrow."
It was an excuse, of course. The idea of formal dinners, polite flattery, and endless sake rounds was enough to make him cringe. A quiet night alone with a controller and a slice of watermelon sounded infinitely better.
The shrine maiden smiled softly beside him. "I'll decline too, Mr. Takeda. My little sister's waiting for me at home."
Koji sighed and nodded. "Very well. I won't insist." He reached into his pocket, producing a card. "Here's my contact information. If either of you ever needs help, please don't hesitate."
Kouya accepted it with a small nod. "Understood."
...
The drive back was filled with silence. Outside, the world was slowly waking—villagers opening shutters, children running along the dirt paths. The shrine maiden watched them pass, her reflection shimmering faintly in the glass. She looked thoughtful, her usual calm touched by something tender.
When they stopped in front of Kouya's apartment, she finally spoke.
"Kou-kun," she said softly, "do you think Hotaru and Kazuya really missed their chance at happiness?"
Kouya looked ahead for a moment, then smiled faintly. "Who says they missed it? Hotaru never left him. She was always there."
He glanced at her. "Sometimes, the longest love isn't found in meeting again—but in never leaving."
"I see..." The shrine maiden's smile deepened, gentle and warm. "Then... goodnight, Kou-kun. Rest well."
He nodded. "You too."
She turned and walked away, her white and red robes fluttering lightly in the wind until she disappeared into the morning light.
Kouya lingered for a moment, looking up at the pale sky before finally heading inside.
He thought back over the past twenty-four hours—dinner with Kobayashi, that chance encounter with Rikka, the unexpected call from the shrine maiden, and this long, strange night that had ended in the mountains.
Now it was already Sunday morning, past ten.
He exhaled deeply, feeling the weight of exhaustion and quiet peace.
Too busy, he thought. Far too busy for a weekend.
He smiled faintly to himself. Maybe some games, a cold drink, and a big slice of watermelon would fix that.
He unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside.
Then froze.
Every muscle tensed. His breath caught.
The world seemed to stop around him.
It was as if lightning had struck—sharp, silent, and absolute.