At the second breath, the world shall no longer die.
It shall consume itself.
The wind blew over the ramparts, carrying snowflakes so dense they looked like ash falling from the sky. Beneath this white shroud, the Nobutsune palace lay dormant. The stone walls had turned to ice, and the roofs bowed under the weight of silence. In the canals, the water no longer flowed. The birds had ceased their singing. Only the breath of the Nobutsune persisted—a heavy, ancient breath, poised to flicker out.
Every gust seemed to whisper their name. The world, motionless, held its breath.
In the great hall of the palace, a fire was slowly dying in the hearth. Its blue, flickering flames cast pale shadows upon the walls, like the specters of forgotten ancestors. Patriarch Nobutsune, seated in a vast ebony chair, stared at this fire that refused to die. For weeks, he had hardly slept. And when sleep finally claimed him, it was only to plunge him into a single, haunting dream.
He saw a child of sickly pallor, almost translucent. Her tears were made of gold, and wherever they fell, withered flowers returned to life, grass straightened, and dust turned to light. The child did not speak, but the world seemed to listen. When Nobutsune reached out his hand toward her, his flesh began to burn. The pain was unbearable, yet he could not look away. He wanted to touch her, if only once, to feel what she carried within. Then, everything would fade. Always, he woke with a start, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, the cold fire at his feet.
That night again, the snow had turned to ash upon the threshold of his chamber. The silence of the world seemed to be waiting for something.
The Nobutsune clan was now but a shadow of its former glory. Once, their banners covered the mountains of the North. Now, only two heirs remained—two sons of frost and pride. To the patriarch, neither deserved the throne.
The eldest, Shigeo, was greedy and cunning, quick to flatter and to betray. He dreamed of gold more than honor. The youngest, Renji, was fiery, blinded by his anger and ambition. Both seemed born to destroy what their ancestors had built.
"They are the ashes of my blood," Nobutsune thought, "and not its flame." He already saw the wars they would ignite, the oaths they would break, the alliances they would tear apart for a throne of stone. He knew, in the frozen solitude of his nights, that the world would not fall by the hand of gods, but by the hand of its children.
He knew he was dying. Every morning, his breath grew shorter; every night, his heart beat more faintly against the ice of his chest. The monks had predicted he would not see the end of winter. But Nobutsune refused to submit to death.
He sought remedies, prayers, and formulas. He summoned herbalists, priests, alchemists, and healers. He offered gold, lands, and lives in exchange for a single day more. No prayer was answered. The gods remained silent.
Then, in his pride and fear, the patriarch thought of one last path—the one that none dared tread. There were whispers in the Eastern lands of an order of priests from across the seas, capable of reading destiny in ash and blood: the Yànshī. Men clad in white, their faces veiled, who saw death before it arrived.
He sent messengers across the snows, bearing promises and gold. He ordered them to find these priests, to bring them to him. If they truly existed, they would know how to speak to death—or how to cheat it.
Months passed. The winter grew harsher. Then, one evening, when the wind had fallen silent, a servant entered the throne room and bowed deeply.
"My Lord," he said, "they are here."
The patriarch raised his eyes. Beyond the great open doors, he glimpsed white silhouettes advancing slowly through the snowy courtyard. Their gait made no sound. Even the snow seemed to part beneath their steps.
A flame flickered in the hearth. In that trembling light, Nobutsune thought he saw his reflection—and, behind him, the end of the world.
In the light of a flame, he saw the end.