The day of my inauguration had finally arrived.
The weather was perfect like me.
Sunlight poured down like golden syrup, pooling in the courtyards and catching on every polished roof tile. The breeze was crisp but gentle, teasing the banners that fluttered proudly from the spires of the House of Aum. Somewhere in the trees, birds chirped as if they were personally hired to soundtrack my destiny.
Everything was great.
Everything was ideal.
Everything was ready—
—until I noticed one minor, insignificant, soul-crushing detail.
There was no audience.
No cheers.
No crowd.
No adoring disciples waiting to bask in my moment of glory.
I peeked into the Grand Hall, frowning.
The place was dazzling—garlands of dark silk and glowing runes arched between obsidian pillars, the ceremonial carpet gleamed beneath the eldritch chandeliers, and even the air itself shimmered faintly with enchantment.
But not a single soul was seated in the viewing galleries.
Not even a ghost.
I narrowed my eyes.
"…Where," I muttered aloud, "are the witnesses to my brilliance?"
The silence echoed back at me like an insult.
'All this grandeur, all this buildup—and not a single person to dramatically gasp at my ceremonial entrance?'
'Truly, the world feared my greatness.'
'Or forgot I existed.'
'Possibly both.'
Before I could decide which was more tragic, a hand suddenly grabbed me by the head and yanked it backward.
"AACCKKK!!!" I screamed, arms flailing wildly. "My skull! My skull! It's being crushed!"
The hold wasn't quite that strong—but I had a flair for the dramatic, and if no one else was going to respect my pain, I had to overcompensate.
A familiar, dry voice rang out behind me. "What are you doing here instead of preparing?"
Groaning, I twisted around while rubbing the rapidly forming lump on the back of my head. My eyes met Lady Nozomi's stern glare, her hands planted firmly on her hips like an impatient general surveying an ill-prepared soldier.
She looked unimpressed. Which, honestly, was her default.
I sighed heavily, like a martyr seconds before execution. "At this rate, I might die from a heart attack before I even become Master's official disciple."
"That would save us a great deal of trouble," Lady Nozomi replied smoothly. Then she jabbed a finger at me. "If you truly want to become Master's disciple, you should be preparing instead of loitering around like a confused turnip."
My gaze followed her finger downward.
I stared at my clothes.
My extremely not-ceremonial, dirt-smudged, leaf-strewn robe. One sleeve was slightly torn. My sash was uneven. There may have been a twig still stuck in my hair.
I blinked.
"Oh~," I said, as if this were surprising information.
Lady Nozomi did not blink. Her exhale came through her nose in a slow stream of disappointment.
"I sometimes wonder," she muttered, "why the heavens gave this one a human body instead of simply dropping a broom with legs."
To that, I had no response.
Other than to pluck the twig from my hair and attempt, in vain, to look majestic again.
The moment Lady Nozomi shoved me through the dressing room doors, the chaos began.
"Put this on," she commanded, flinging a bundle of ceremonial garments at me with alarming precision.
It hit me square in the face.
I staggered back, robes clinging like a vengeful squid.
Then my fingers turned an alarming shade of violet.
"My fingers!" I yelped.
"The exterior is laced with poison," she said, as if noting the weather. "Move quickly before it decides you're unworthy."
"Wait—what?"
The poison had already begun to seep into my skin.
I watched in horrified fascination as my fingers darkened—first to bruised lavender, then a sickly maroon, slowly crawling up my wrists in a branching, frost-like pattern. Tiny dark veins shimmered beneath the skin, glowing faintly with magic. It wasn't painful yet, just uncomfortably warm. Like my hands were being politely boiled.
"ACK!"
I quickly tried to dress myself, but it was impossible. The clothes moved like they were alive. The sleeves coiled around my wrists with a will of their own, yanking me into a violent spin. The main robe flared open like a beast rearing back, then lunged for my torso, smothering my shriek as I flailed, half-blinded and gasping, sacred silk wrapping around my head like a shroud.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't untangle the mess. Lady Nozomi had taught me how to put it on just yesterday—but I'd fallen asleep halfway through her explanation.
Desperate, I turned my head toward her.
'If I ask her now…'
A chill crept up my spine. She was sipping her tea with an air of demonic serenity, the shadows clinging a little too eagerly to her silhouette.
"HIKKK!!"
Without so much as a glance, she spoke. "Struggle less. Or you won't get it on even by tomorrow."
"I'M TRYING!" I howled, as one sleeve slithered around my neck like it had mistaken the word ceremony for execution.
Buttons snapped into place by themselves, several at the wrong angle. The sash twisted three times around my waist, then migrated upward to choke me again for good measure.
"This is a cursed outfit," I croaked. "This is evil. This was forged in the belly of a volcano and fed on the screams of the unworthy."
Lady Nozomi walked over in complete silence. With one elegant motion, she yanked the sash down to its proper place.
"There. Fixed."
I stumbled over to the mirror, breathless and disoriented.
What stared back was not a future disciple of renown, but a haunted curtain. The robes had taken a creative approach to symmetry—one shoulder bared dramatically, the other puffed up like I was auditioning for a ghostly royal opera. My hair was frizzed. My expression: slightly feral.
"I look like a haunted curtain," I whispered.
"Elegant," Lady Nozomi corrected. "You look elegant."
A belt materialized from nowhere and slapped itself around my waist with unnecessary force. I yelped.
"And armed," I added, rubbing my ribs.
At last, the robes stopped moving, settling with a gentle shimmer of approval. I stood there, panting, sweat clinging to my temple, legs shaky, face flushed with battle.
"I won," I declared hoarsely.
"You're just wearing clothes," Lady Nozomi said, flicking a speck of lint off my sleeve. "Not fighting in a war."
I didn't respond.
I was too busy wondering if the next step involved shoes.
And if those were also sentient.
At last, I stood fully attired—head to toe in murderous silk, fingers only slightly tinged with residual poison—before the tall mirror that dominated the dressing chamber.
My chest rose and fell as though I'd sprinted a mile. Arms dangled at my sides like spent weapons. Technically, I had returned from battle—a vicious skirmish against my own outfit.
Lady Nozomi approached, expression cool. With two deft flicks she straightened my collar and smoothed a rebellious fold. She stepped back, tilted her head, and gave a single, reluctant nod.
"There," she pronounced. "You almost look like someone important."
My spine straightened; my shoulders broadened with newfound grandeur.
"Well, I am the star of today's ceremony," I declared, sweeping an arm toward my reflection. "The crowd will gasp, the banners will flutter, and the very heavens shall weep in awe of my magnificence."
"There is no crowd," Lady Nozomi observed, voice as dry as sun‑bleached parchment.
I chose to ignore the factual portion of her statement. Instead, I practiced my triumphant nod in the mirror: subtle, regal, magnificently humble—exactly the sort of gesture that makes poets faint and painters ruin masterpieces.
With all the theatrical poise of a future legendary disciple, I emerged from the dressing room, every step soaked in grandeur. Lady Nozomi trailed behind like an ominous warden of elegance, her gaze flat, her tea cup somehow still full.
I led the way.
Which was, in hindsight, a terrible idea.
Every time I turned down the wrong corridor—of which there were many—I felt the sharp snap! of a whip or the cold tap of a porcelain saucer to the back of my head, accompanied by a flat, unimpressed voice:
"Left."
"Right."
"Stairs are not walls. Stop walking into them."
By some miracle—and repeated low-grade violence—I finally reached the towering double doors of the Grand Hall.
They stood slightly ajar, golden light spilling through the crack in a single divine beam that practically screamed: Enter here, chosen one.
I paused before them.
'This is it.'
'My moment.'
'The beginning of a new identity.'
'My rise.'
'My debut.'
'My glorious—'
WHOOPS.
My foot caught.
On what? Oh, only the absurdly long hem of my ceremonial robe—again.
"WHOA—!"
The air left my lungs in a startled gasp as I stumbled forward with all the grace of a catapulted cabbage. My limbs flailed. My dignity wept. I plummeted past the threshold in a tangle of sacred silk and panic.
BOOM.
I landed face-first in the center aisle, the impact echoing off the black marble like a ceremonial drumbeat of shame.
Silence.
Dignity? Gone.
Pride? Crushed beneath me.
From somewhere behind me came the gentle clink of porcelain. Lady Nozomi, ever composed, took a sip of tea with the calm detachment of someone watching a distant kingdom collapse.
"This," she muttered, voice perfectly deadpan, "is why the Scorpion has trust issues."
I groaned into the floor.
The chandeliers above shimmered mockingly, their eldritch light flickering with barely concealed laughter. Runes along the aisle pulsed faintly beneath me, as if they, too, were debating whether to disqualify me on spiritual grounds.
Lifting one trembling hand, I struck a dramatic pose worthy of a tragic opera heroine brought low by fate.
"I am… ready," I wheezed.
The ceremonial flames that lined the walls flickered uncertainly. Not out of reverence.
Out of pity.
They dimmed in what I could only interpret as reluctant agreement.
And so I lay there—face down, spirit bruised, hemline tangled—on the grandest day of my life.
A disciple in body.
A hazard in motion.
A legend in the making.