The transition from the crushing, cold depths of the swimming pool to consciousness was not a gentle awakening. It felt as though Hina's soul had been shoved through a sieve and then hammered back into a physical form that didn't quite fit. His head throbbed with a rhythmic, dull ache, and the air he sucked into his lungs felt heavy, smelling intensely of dried herbs, beeswax, and something floral—wildly different from the chlorine and rain he had last inhaled.
"Ojou-sama! Ojou-sama! (My Lady! My Lady), you've opened your eyes! Oh, praise the heavens!"
The voice was frantic, high-pitched, and uncomfortably close to his ear. Hina groaned, trying to lift a hand to swat away the noise, but his arms felt like they were made of lead. His fingers brushed against something—not the slick, wet tile of a pool deck, but fabric. Thick, layered, incredibly expensive-feeling silk.
Wait, he thought, his eyes still squeezed shut. My Lady?
He forced his eyelids open. The ceiling above him wasn't the sky, nor was it the sterile white of a hospital room. It was a complex lattice of dark wood beams, painted with intricate, swirling patterns of crimson and forest green. Sunlight filtered through paper-screened doors, casting a soft, golden glow over the room.
"Where... am I?" he tried to say, but his voice came out as a parched, fragile rasp.
He blinked, focusing on the woman hovering over him. She looked like she had stepped off the set of a historical movie. She wore a simple, traditional kimono, her hair tied back in a neat bun with a simple pin. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was clutching a silk cloth as if it were a holy relic.
"You are in your quarters, My Lady! You fell into the lake... we thought... we thought the worst had happened!"
Hina's mind raced. The lake? I fell into a pool. And why does this woman look like she's in a time-travel drama? He pushed himself up on his elbows, his head spinning. The movement felt wrong. His center of gravity was different. He felt... lighter in some places and heavier in others.
"Get me a mirror," he croaked. "And some water. Mostly a mirror."
"Of course, Sama! Right away!" The girl scrambled away, shouting for someone named "Haruka."
Hina looked down at his hands. They were small. Pale. The skin was unnaturally smooth, devoid of the faint scars and calluses he had earned over a decade of working with professional knives and high-heat ranges. These were the hands of someone who had never touched a frying pan in their life.
He felt a sudden, cold dread wash over him. A memory flickered in his mind: the woman in the water, the white silk, the touch that felt like an electric shock.
He reached down, his breath catching in his throat. He felt for the familiar, comforting presence of his manhood.
Nothing.
His eyes widened. He checked again, his hands frantically patting the layers of silk skirts. There was a void where there should have been a very specific set of anatomy.
"No," he whispered, his voice rising in pitch. "No, no, no. This is a dream. This is a very elaborate, very sexist dream brought on by oxygen deprivation."
The young girl returned, holding a polished bronze mirror. Her eyes were wide with worry. "Sama, please, you must rest. The isa (physician)said—"
Hina snatched the mirror from her hands. The bronze was slightly warped, but the reflection was clear enough.
A woman stared back at him. She was beautiful, certainly, with high cheekbones, arched brows, and a mouth that looked like it was permanently set in a pout of melancholy. Her hair was a chaotic mess of dark silk, and her skin was the color of cream. But she wasn't Yosida Hina.
"Who is this?" he shrieked.
The girl dropped to her knees, her forehead hitting the floor. "Sama! It is you! It is you Mori Akari, the daughter of the Minister of War! Please, do not be frightened! Your soul must be wandering because of the shock!"
Mori Akari. Minister of War. Sama The pieces began to click together with the horrifying finality of a closing trap. He wasn't in Tokyo. He wasn't even in the 21st century. The architecture, the terminology, the absolute lack of a plumbing system—he was in the Edo period ( olden days)And he wasn't just a guest; he was in the body of a woman.
"I have to go back," Hina muttered, swinging his legs off the elevated sleeping platform. The skirts of the kimono tangled around his ankles, and he nearly face-planted onto the floor. "The pool. I need to find that pool."
"Sama, the isha forbade you from leaving!" the girl cried, hovering around him like a worried moth.
"Move!" Hina barked, using his "Head Chef" voice. It came out more like a "Haughty Noblewoman" voice, but it was effective. The girl flinched and stepped aside.
He burst through the sliding doors and onto the wooden veranda. The sight that greeted him was breathtaking and terrifying. A vast courtyard of white sand, manicured pine trees, and curved tiled roofs stretched out as far as he could see. Soldiers in traditional red uniforms stood at the gates, their spears glinting in the sun.
This wasn't a movie set. The air was too crisp, the smell of woodsmoke too real. There was no hum of electricity, no distant sound of traffic. Only the chirping of birds and the rhythmic clack-clack of someone sweeping the distant stone path.
"The water," Hina said, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Where is the lake I fell into?"
"The pavilion lake, Sama? It's just past the West Gate, but—"
Hina didn't wait for the rest. He began to run.
It was a ridiculous sight. A high-ranking kizoku, her hair flying, her silk skirts gathered up in her fists to reveal her white silk trousers underneath, sprinting across the palace grounds like a madman. male guard and court ladies dived out of his way, their mouths hanging open in shock.
If I jumped in, I can jump back out, he told himself, his heart hammering against his ribs. It's a portal. A wormhole. A liquid gateway. I just need to hit the water with the same velocity.
He reached the edge of the lake. The water was still and dark, covered in a light dusting of fallen willow leaves. The ornate wooden pavilion sat in the center, looking peaceful and maddeningly ancient.
"Hina, old boy, you can do this," he whispered to himself, ignoring the fact that his voice was now a soprano. "One big splash, and you'll be waking up in a hospital bed with a very pretty nurse and a lawsuit against the Blue House."
He took a deep breath, ignored the screams of the court ladies behind him, and leaped.
SPLASH.