After the young lady of the Kamisato clan took the letter and left, her eyes faintly red.
Kiyono Raimei drew a roll of tobacco from the lining of his kimono, folded it, wrapped it in rolling paper, struck a match, and lit it.
A thin wisp of smoke drifted into the slightly cold air.
He generally didn't smoke in front of children. Besides, Kamisato Ayaka would never have let him.
He took a light drag, his mind drifting.
He watched the clump of fresh snow sitting on the stately eaves. Fine snow pressed upon the eave's edge, and the pale winter sun after the clearing skies drooped lazily over that little mound of snow — small and soft, like a drowsy white cat sprawled atop a tiled roof, basking in the sun and yawning.
Soft, soft the snow that rinses clear the sky;
Slow, slow the spring that steals through ashen scars.
He suddenly wanted to become a little clump of snow himself, lounging lazily up there, doing nothing at all, waiting for the warm sun to melt him away — melting into a puddle of snowmelt, seeping into the earth. A life like that would be rather interesting, too.
Better than running himself ragged the way he was now.
"Kiyono Raimei — are you satisfied with this life of yours?"
The voice of the Human Principles System suddenly echoed in his mind.
"What's there to be satisfied or unsatisfied about?"
Kiyono took a drag of tobacco, coughed a few times, and stubbed out the cigarette.
Having said that, he slowly rose to his feet and closed the folding screen. The bronze mirror on the desk reflected his image:
The man in the mirror wore a snow-white kimono, his hair bound in a black cloth pouch. The hems were embroidered with plum blossoms and bamboo. He wore wooden sandals, and his hair was silver as snow.
A man of striking presence. Judging by appearance alone, he looked no older than his thirties or forties.
But he was already five hundred years old, and his hair had long since turned white.
Those brilliant silver-grey eyes of his youth were now covered by a thin film of cataract, frost-like, hazy and grey, slack and without strength.
Kiyono lightly patted his own cheeks, and an incredible transformation occurred.
That weak and weary heart was infused with vitality once more.
It beat fiercely — vigorously, full of life.
As the kimono fell away, he slowly straightened his spine. His skin grew firmer and more taut, pale and clean, the contours of muscle emerging, rising and falling gently in the cold wind. Patterns of bamboo and chrysanthemum lay across his body. He stepped into his wooden sandals and took a tentative step forward.
Pure white hair fell naturally past his shoulders. His eyes were the color of purple aster — like a pool of water with the sunset melted into it.
Looking at the youth in the mirror, the vitality and vigor that belonged solely to the young came rushing forth.
This was his new body.
He took another tentative step forward, his gait unfamiliar — clearly not yet accustomed to it.
[Human Principles System Activated]
[Name: None]
[Title: None]
[Age: 18]
[Level: 1]
[Element: Anemo]
[Status: Healthy]
[Martial Prowess: Mortal-class]
[Talent: Fudō Isshin (Archon-class — comprehended from Narukami Beelzebul of Inazuma)...]
Note: This body is newly born. It can only exist for one hour per day. It will not persist permanently until the old identity has fully died.
[Please proceed to Mondstadt]
Kiyono lit another cigarette. This time, there was no coughing.
The "Human Principles System" — its full name was the "System for the Continuation of Human Principles." Such were its rules.
Its purpose was to preserve human civilization and correct all factors throughout history that could lead to humanity's annihilation.
Kiyono was its host.
He had come to Inazuma. When the filth invaded, when the Narukami departed, when the Khaenri'ah crisis arrived — he had protected Inazuma, and guarded it for five hundred years.
But a mortal's lifespan had its limits. This was a cruel truth.
One could not exceed the balance ordained by Heavenly Principles. Each time his lifespan neared its end, he needed to use this method to "shed his shell."
When death finally came in full, Kiyono would be reborn into a new life.
And go to a new place, to resolve a new "factor that could annihilate the continuation of humanity."
Of course, by then, he would be an entirely new him.
Everything that belonged to Kiyono Raimei — his emotions, his bonds — all of it would have to be abandoned.
The shedding had to be complete. He had to exist in the world as an entirely new life. He could no longer have even the slightest entanglement with the people or events of his past. Every connection to what came before — severed utterly.
Everything starts over — and he could not reveal this to anyone.
Otherwise, it would disrupt the operating rules of Heavenly Principles.
To put it in simpler terms: he was a stowaway, smuggling himself from one life into another. Naturally, he couldn't draw attention to himself, or he'd be caught by the "customs" — Heavenly Principles.
Kiyono Raimei was truly going to die of old age.
This current period of his, on the threshold of death, was called the "Shedding Period." The old body slowly died, and a new body was born from within it.
And he would experience this death, experience this parting. All of it was real.
Kiyono Raimei's emotions were real. Kiyono Raimei's life was real. Kiyono Raimei's existence was real. Kiyono Raimei's death was real — these five hundred years of bonds were all real.
The taste of death was agonizing, unbearable.
He had already died several times, and still could not grow accustomed to death, nor to parting.
That was why he had told Kamisato Ayaka: "Don't tell Ei. Don't tell anyone else, either."
Kiyono was afraid that if he saw them, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to leave. Wouldn't be able to let go.
Wouldn't be able to die.
In the years to come, he would continue to experience the aging of the human body, the helplessness of being human, the sorrow of parting — dying countless times, being reborn countless times.
That was why he said: to be able to die a true and final death was a very fortunate thing.
Companionship is the longest confession of love.
But I'm sorry — as a mortal, I cannot walk beside you forever.
Two hundred and twenty-one days remained.
His lingering time as Kiyono Raimei was eight more months. He needed to pass through this period steadily and safely.
"Stop sleeping in, old man~ Hey, old man!"
Just then, a clear and faintly coquettish voice came from beyond the door.
It sounded languid, reminding Kiyono of the first snow on the eaves he had just been watching — lounging lazily up there, waiting for the warm sun to melt it away, without a care in the world.
"Have you ever heard of a thing called Kitsune Udon? It's basically just udon with fried tofu, really~ Now get up, get up~ Hurry and make some for this great Guuji!"
How rude.
Kiyono Raimei stubbed out his cigarette and patted the ash from his clothes.
That stinking fox was always like this — clinging to him all day, calling him "old man" this and "old man" that. Who knows where she even picked that up...
She always made him worry.
After I die, let's see who'll make it for you then!
That'll show you.