The humidity began to dissipate little by little.
The young man's steps grew heavier with each passing second. Who would have thought to cross a mountain like that, alone, at that time of year? Leaning on a thick branch as if it were a cane, the boy dragged himself along the steep slope of Mount Hila, each step stealing a little
more of his breath.
And although the dampness seeped into his bones, what truly terrified him was the drought that was approaching. The lush green trees, the recent fruit of spring, appeared withered just a few meters away from him. As if a part of the mountain had been trapped in time since last autumn: dull, dried leaves hung from shriveled trees, almost lifeless.
But he had no choice. He could not turn back.
Dragging himself along the long path of the slope, the young man barely made out a trace of smoke: a thin thread, almost timid, that could only mean one thing.
Civilization.
His limbs regained strength he believed lost. With one last push, the young merchant —who could barely carry his merchandise— reached a small enclosure. It was not luxurious; rather, it looked like a family hut. A dirt path led to a hearth with dying embers, covered by a smoking leaf. In the background, some garments hung neatly. It was difficult to know to whom they belonged, but at first glance the merchant deduced that at least two adults, of different builds, lived there.
—Good day —he shouted, nearly fainting.
There was no response.
—Is anyone there?
Silence.
Slowly he entered the hut's grounds, built with polished logs. It barely had an improvised window, covered with yellowish cloth instead of glass, and a door of the same material. In front of it, a small shed made of plant fiber, surely obtained from the very trees of the place.
Thirst was killing him, but he did not want to enter without permission. He did not wish to trespass upon a dwelling that, at first glance, seemed inhabited. Perhaps they were sleeping or perhaps they had gone hunting. He did not want trouble in a place so lost in the mountains.
But, by the gods… how his throat burned.
He had gone an entire day without tasting a single drop of water. Lost among the thickness of the forest, his senses —sharpened by desperation— caught something unmistakable: the scent of fresh water.
Those who say water has no aroma have never needed to recognize a pure source.
The young man was captivated when he discovered that, despite the hut's humility, it had its own well.
—"What should I do…?" —he thought.
It was not as if he were going to cause harm. He only wanted a little water. No one would deny water to a traveler.
Swallowing his last reserves of saliva, he dropped his merchandise and dragged himself to the well. With great care, almost fearing to break the rope, he began to raise the jug, heavy with the sacred liquid he so desperately needed.
His hands trembled. His lips throbbed. His eyes opened wide at the sight of the jug full of that longed-for liquid, with a small dry leaf floating gently on the surface.
He quickened his pace until it was within reach. Without hesitation, without consideration, he threw himself at it, pouring every drop into his mouth. Each swallow restored his faith, his strength, his life. When he finished, he let out a long sigh.
—I hope you enjoyed it.
The voice, sweet and delicate, made him start. He turned carefully.
Before him, in the fiber shed, in front of the half-open door of the cabin, as silent as a serpent, stood a woman of supernatural beauty. Her face seemed hand-carved: small nose, large eyes like those of a porcelain doll, lips tinted with a natural pink. Her jet-black hair contrasted with her pale skin, pure like the clouds veiling the sun, further enhancing her presence.
She wore barely a few white rags, leaving one of her shoulders exposed in an almost seductive way.
—My apologies, my lady —said the young man, bowing—. It was not my intention…
—It is no trouble —she replied with a mischievous smile—. As thanks for the water… would you be so kind as to bring me some?
The young man pointed toward the well in search of confirmation. She nodded with an almost imperceptible gesture.
It did not take him long to lower the bowl again. Feeling the weight of the water, he raised it with both hands and walked slowly toward the woman. She watched him, swinging her long legs from side to side, almost as if she wanted the young man to look between them.
Embarrassed, he diverted his gaze to the hanging clothes, clean, freshly washed.
—I see today was laundry day —he commented.
—What a problem… —she replied—. Thanks to that, I only have these garments.
She answered while delicately removing the fabrics that still covered her other shoulder, seductively exposing the hollow between her breasts.
—Fair lady… what about your companion? —he asked, almost brazenly.
—He is not at home —she said, amused—. And he may not return… for a while.
The young man stopped short.
—I see.
Their gazes met.
—So this is how it works.
The woman flinched.
The bowl fell to the ground.
The young man's empty, dark eyes fixed on her now reddened ones. His hair began to burn, turning to ash. He tore his filthy kimono, revealing an almost naked body, barely covered by obsidian plates that protected his chest and groin.
He lunged.
But the young man had already unsheathed.
His beloved Asuraghna — Yako no Yaiba.
A single cut was enough.
The head rolled through the air, struck the edge of the well, and disappeared inside.
—It is a shame… —he murmured—. I wanted a little more water.
He was an executor of the Onmyo no Wa.
Saiseki Itsuki.