11th May 2014
Akagitsune Rin was born into opulence, a child of luxury and prestige. Her father, Akagitsune Souchiro, was a powerful and influential man who held dominion over a significant portion of Mushashinoyamato City. Over generations, her family had transformed their land into a prosperous red-light district, a domain of both indulgence and shadowy dealings, and had maintained control over it since the Heian era.
From the moment she took her first breath, Rin was destined to inherit a world woven with silk and vice, a legacy etched deep into the very fabric of her bloodline.
She was a vision of elegance, carrying herself with the poised grace of a woman who knew her worth. Her hair was a rich, light brown hue, cascading down in soft, smooth locks, meticulously tied up in elaborate traditional styles that accentuated her noble upbringing. Her tresses were adorned with delicate kanzashi ornaments, their intricate gold and jade designs shimmering under the warm glow of paper lanterns that often illuminated her nights.
Her face was a masterpiece of refined beauty—high cheekbones, a gentle yet defined jawline, and eyes that carried the quiet intensity of a woman both calculating and enigmatic. Though her gaze often remained serene, there was an undeniable sharpness in her pink-reddish irises, a rare and mesmerizing shade that set her apart even among the most exquisite models and riches. Her lips, always painted with premium organic crimson lipstick, stood in striking contrast to her flawless, porcelain-like skin, the color deep and intoxicating like the finest aged wine.
Her wardrobe was a testament to both her heritage and her wealth. Every kimono in her possession was a work of art, crafted from the finest silk and embroidered with elaborate patterns of cranes, wisteria, and flowing rivers. Some were dark, woven with the night's mystery, while others shone with soft pastels, reminiscent of fleeting cherry blossoms in spring. Gold-threaded sashes, intricately folded obi belts, and rare imported fabrics filled her personal collection, ensuring that no matter the occasion, Akagitsune Rin was the most breathtaking woman in the room.
Born into a family of immense power, Rin had no shortage of suitors vying for her attention. The wealth, prestige, and control over the city's most lucrative district made her the ultimate prize. Yet, therein lay the issue—she had no problem attracting all kinds of men. Aristocrats, merchants, politicians, even the most refined and dangerous of underworld figures—all of them sought her hand, drawn by the promise of influence, desire, and the irresistible charm she so effortlessly wielded.
She glanced at the calendar.
May 10th, 2014.Mother's Day.
A gentle sigh slipped past Akagitsune Rin's lips as she stared at the date circled in elegant red ink. She raised her eyes toward the mirror, meeting the reflection of a woman the world called timeless—but today, all she saw was someone faded. Not in beauty, but in spirit. In that polished glass was not the courtesan queen of Mushashinoyamato, nor the invincible matriarch of a lineage rooted in power. No—only a tired woman, alone with her thoughts, her memories, and an ache that never healed.
She reached down and let her hand rest upon her belly.
Even now, all these years later, she could still feel it—that phantom weight of life that had once stirred beneath her heart. It had been on this very day that she lost both of them: her beloved Ikemoto Jin and the unborn child who had never opened their eyes to the world. It had torn a hole into her being, a wound that refused to scar over. The world had moved on. She hadn't.
"…Ikemoto… Jin…" She murmured, her voice barely more than a breath against the silence. "I wish… you were here."
Her words hung in the air like incense smoke—fragrant, fading, unanswered.
And yet, despite the sorrow that clung to her like a silk shroud, her mind began to drift. Not to the past—but to the present. A different name echoed in her memory, chasing away the silence.
"The child who changes lives."
That phrase had haunted her ever since she first heard it. And somehow, in a way that defied logic or destiny, that child now lived under her roof. Not by design, not by politics, not even by duty. Fate, perhaps. Or divine cruelty playing at compassion.
Shotaro Mugyiwara.Six years old.The boy fate had dropped into her life two years ago.
He was so small when he arrived, practically weightless when she carried him across the threshold. A tiny thing with sun-kissed skin, big round glasses far too large for his face, and a perpetually mismatched uniform: a slightly oversized sweater, a button-up shirt, and tan shorts that never quite reached his knees. He looked like a library that ran away and stitched itself into a boy.
And he was always doing something ridiculous on Mother's Day.
Last year, he baked a cake with a blowtorch and instant ramen packets.The year before that, he wrote her a haiku in crayon and accidentally mailed it to the tax office.But somehow, in the chaos he brought, there was light.
She didn't need to hear footsteps to know what he was doing. Somewhere in the house, Shotaro was up to something again—likely involving glitter, a bucket, and some dangerously enthusiastic enthusiasm. He'd probably get a nosebleed again. He always did when he got too excited.
And still… Rin smiled.
Not the smile she wore for clients or city leaders. Not the one she practiced for photographers. But a quiet, fragile one. The smile of a woman who had lost everything and somehow found something again. Something not born from her, but no less precious.
As the distant sound of something falling over echoed through the hall, followed by a frantic
"AAH—NO NO NO, STAY INSIDE THE BOX! NO, DON'T BITE THE RIBBON—!"
She closed her eyes.
Maybe she would never be a mother in the traditional sense.Maybe Ikemoto's child would remain only in her dreams—unborn, unseen, yet endlessly mourned.
But this strange little boy… this Shotaro…He wasn't blood.He wasn't planned.But maybe—just maybe—he was enough.
And on this day, that was all that mattered.
A faint noise drifted in through the open shoji screen—the murmur of giggles, high-pitched laughter, and one distinct little voice shouting something about "ultra deluxe chocolate hearts" and "the sacred art of gift-giving."
Rin let out a breath that was almost a chuckle.
"Shotaro's going around the district giving presents to every girl that works here, it seems," she murmured, placing the edge of her sleeve to her lips as if trying to conceal the fondness creeping in. "Makes sense. Those women have taken care of him for two years now. They probably raised him more than I did."
Her gaze drifted down the hallway, where distant lanterns glowed softly, warm as his smile.
Then she caught sight of something left on the table nearby: a bright blue box with misshapen ribbons, smeared glue, and a tiny, crooked heart drawn in glitter pen. Attached to it, a note scribbled in oversized katakana:
"TO: MOTHER FOX LADY. FROM: ME (SHOTAR"O)"PS: THE SWEATER IS MAGIC. DO NOT WASH IT OR IT WILL UNKNIT THE SPELL."
Rin blinked slowly. She walked over, opened the box—and there it was.
The sweater. Goofy didn't even begin to cover it.
It was red and yellow, stitched unevenly like a drunken quilt, with random patches that resembled dragons, clouds, and what she could only assume was supposed to be her. It had sleeves of two different lengths and buttons made from bottle caps and coins. Somewhere on the chest, a sewn-on patch proudly proclaimed "SUPREME DRIP MOM" in English, horribly misspelled.
She stared at it for a long time. Then her lips curled upward, helpless.
"But who the hell made him this goofy-ass sweater?" She muttered under her breath, her voice caught somewhere between exasperation and unspeakable warmth. "I swear to God..."
She brought the box close, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the rough, lovingly ugly fabric. It was hideous. Lopsided. Ridiculous. It was also, without question, hers.
"Ms. Rin! Ms. Rin!!"
She turned, startled—but not surprised.
There he was, the little menace himself—Shotaro Mugyiwara, seven years old, storming barefoot across the tatami like a wind-up toy in human form. His glasses were crooked. His sweater, a different monstrosity than the one in the box, had one sleeve rolled up and the other dragging candy wrappers like a trail. His face beamed with a grin too wide for his cheeks.
"What do you want on Mother's Day?" He blurted out, bouncing in place like a popcorn kernel ready to burst. "Quick! You have to say it! I have five minutes before I have to run to Ms. Yuka's to give her the firework necklace!"
Rin blinked, still holding the box.
"What… do I want?" she echoed, slowly.
"Yeah! I asked like six people, and they all said you're like my mom, which is cool, even if you do yell a lot! So, it's Mother's Day, and you get a wish!" He held up one finger dramatically. "But only one! That's the rule!"
Rin stared at him.
At this weird, wild, absurd child in his patched-up clothes and oversized glasses, holding a candy wrapper scepter like it was a royal decree.
And for the first time that day, she smiled—fully.
She walked over, knelt down, and placed her hand gently on his absurd little head.
"Okay," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then here's what I want."
He straightened up like a soldier, ready.
"Stay," she said. "Just… stay around. A little longer. That's all."
Shotaro blinked. "That's it?"
She nodded, her thumb brushing the corner of his temple.
"That's it."
He tilted his head, thinking. "That's a boring wish."
"Maybe," she said, eyes warm. "But it's mine."
Rin stood there a moment longer, sweater still in hand, the scent of old thread and candy and incense rising faintly.
And for the first time in years, Mother's Day didn't feel like a scar.
It felt like home.
The silence that followed was gentle, like the calm before a monsoon—soft, almost sacred. But Rin knew her boy too well. His wildness was only half of him. The rest—the deeper part—was where storms were born.
Her voice cut gently through the still air.
"Shotaro, did you blame yourself for the Hokkaido incident?"
He looked up from the candy he was unwrapping. "Huh?"
"Did you?"
His eyes dropped. A long silence stretched between them.
"Yeah," he said finally, quiet enough that even the walls might have missed it. "I can't let those voices go. I caused such a big disaster. That Jezebel... I hate her, but I don't want to go back. I am... scared."His voice cracked. His fingers trembled as they curled into fists, and then, almost without thinking, he bit down on his lower lip. Hard. Blood pooled, coppery and sharp. It was his usual habit when his emotions cornered him like prey.
Rin didn't flinch. She stepped closer.
"You are afraid," she said, not accusing, not comforting—just truth. "Afraid of what she will do to you when you return to the place your mother died... or afraid of what you will do to her?"
His eyes flickered up to hers. Wet. Shaking. Honest.
"You want to save her, right?" Rin asked, kneeling before him now. "You still want to save Jezebel."
His chin quivered.
"Maybe," he whispered. "But... but I'm afraid of being seen as a god again."He blinked, and a tear fell. "It didn't work out fine last time. It caused... it caused Her."
The air around them grew colder—not physically, but in that strange, spiritual way grief sometimes brings. The weight of memory pressing down like a mountain.
"She is a broken... deranged lady, and I want to deal with her," Shotaro said, voice shaking like a taut wire moments from snapping. His forehead still pressed against Rin's shoulder, his body unmoving except for the trembling in his breath.
"I want to encounter her... but I'm afraid of what I'll do to her. She—she blew up my mom right in front of me with an RPG." His voice cracked at the memory, jagged and raw, and his hands clenched against her kimono fabric. "I won't be able to control myself. I'll lose it. And when I do... I'll cause something even worse than the Hokkaido incident."
The boy's teeth sank into his lip again—blood welling anew.
"And the worst part... the worst fucking part will be when people look at me after. When they look at what I did and say, 'That's a god.' Not Shotaro. Not a scared, furious, heartbroken kid. No. They'll see salvation wearing a bloodstained smile." He choked, a sound not quite a sob. "I've been a 'god' for most of my life. And it never ended well."
He pulled back just a little to look her in the eyes, his own gleaming with fury and grief and the unbearable weight of identity.
"I'm afraid to be 'God' again."
Rin didn't try to reason with him. She didn't say that he was just a child, or that he wasn't responsible, or that vengeance wouldn't bring peace. She didn't lie.
Instead, she held his face in both hands—thumbs brushing away the blood and tears—and whispered,
"Then don't be a god."
"Be Shotaro."
"The boy who makes the best fucking food in the goddamn world. The one who wears that ridiculous sweater and gives candy to women who've only known bitterness. Be the boy who doesn't care what's good or bad—only what's right. Be the kind child who doesn't discriminate in who he shares his light with. Be him. That's enough."
Shotaro's lip quivered. His throat worked against the lump of emotion, but no words came. Just that trembling breath. And then, he broke. His arms wrapped around her like he would vanish if he let go.
And in that instant—under the low hanging paper lanterns, with incense curling through the stillness of the red-light district—the world forgot what salvation looked like.
Because for once, it felt like home.
"Be what you want to be," Rin murmured, her voice quieter now, gentler, like the rustle of silk on skin. Shotaro looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed and wet. And what he saw wasn't just a guardian.
She was a broken vase too.
Cracked along the same fault lines he was.
She had lost a husband and a child—her future shattered in a single moment. And he, the so-called child of prophecy, had once died in the world's eyes and been resurrected in hers. She was no saint. She ran a district of vice. She made deals in the dark and smiled with knives behind her back. But she was here. She stayed.
She had been reborn—because he had died.
"The lady who rose again," Shotaro thought, "because the boy had fallen."
She touched his chest gently with the tips of her fingers, over the frantic thrum of his heart.
"Stop stabbing yourself with guilt and hatred every damn breath you take," she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade sheathed in velvet. "You don't need to bleed every day to pay for something that wasn't your fault."
Her hand clenched the fabric of his shirt.
"Stab yourself once."
"Then move on."
There was no elegance in her tone, no poetry in her command. Just raw, worn-down truth, like a scar that never fully faded. And Shotaro—tired, trembling, terrified—could only nod, his whole body shaking against hers.
Maybe he wasn't ready to stop bleeding.
But maybe he didn't have to do it alone.
"Even immoral?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper—cracked, uncertain, frightened. Like a child asking if it's okay to color outside the lines.
"Yes," she said without hesitation, the answer firm, immediate, real. "You can be immoral too. Being immoral isn't being evil... it's just not caring about morality. That abstract thing they build statues for. It doesn't mean you don't care. It means you care about something else more."
He stared at her, searching her face for any sign of mockery or doubt. There was none. Only that same quiet fire in her eyes—the one that never begged for forgiveness, only understanding.
He didn't say anything. Just breathed.
The kind of breath you take when the water's been above your head for too long. When you're not sure if the air in your lungs will save you or collapse you.
Rin didn't rush him. She let the silence linger, like a lantern swaying in the wind. Then, softly:
"It's a choice we're all given," she said, "The one we make."
Her voice was low, certain—not trying to convince, only to remind.
"An oracle once told the villain the world was meaningless," she continued, her gaze drifting to the flickering paper lantern outside. "So he vowed to destroy it. His nihilism hated existence for lacking purpose."
Then her eyes flicked back to him.
"But a fairy told the same thing to a hero. The very same thing. And he just said—'Yeah? And?'" She let the words sit there, raw and defiant. "Then kept doing what he thought was right, even in a world where it didn't matter in the end."
Shotaro's lip trembled again. His arms remained tight around her.
"In the Villaine's world," Rin said, voice quieter now, like a story told long after the child is supposed to be asleep, "he's a victim. A child who was hurt, and lashed out."
She looked down at him—this strange, broken, divine little boy who had carried too much for far too long.
"But in the hero's world? He's the hero."
The air was warm and still around them, incense smoke curling like memory. He didn't cry. Not loudly. Just leaned in harder.
And Rin? She held him like he was hers. Not because of blood. Not because of fate. But because some broken people, when they find each other, just fit.
"Then I choose to be Shotaro," he murmured into her chest, voice shaking but firm. "Not a god. Not a savior. Just… me."
"And that," Rin whispered back, brushing his hair from his face with trembling fingers, "is more than enough."
The quiet between them felt sacred. It could've lasted forever.But forever, as always, was a luxury they were never afforded.
The news broadcast buzzed from the small television in the corner of the room, the cheap speakers struggling to keep up with the urgency in the anchor's voice.
"This just in—flash flooding has hit Paris. The Seine has overflowed with unprecedented ferocity. Officials are baffled. Locals claim it was 'like the sky cracked open and wept all at once.' Relief efforts are underway—"
"Woah!!" Shotaro blurted, head snapping toward the screen. "How is Paris getting flooded all of a sudden?"
"Someone must have used mantra," Rin muttered, her tone matter-of-fact—but her eyes had already narrowed. Mantra didn't just cause floods. Not like this. This was intentional. Calculated. It was someone making a statement.
She stood, hand resting on the back of the couch, gaze fixed on the screen.
She was about to turn, to ask him what he wanted to do.
She wouldn'nt call him heartless for not going out there & use his powers to help people.
Because it's a choice we all make, one of no returnBut something in her froze.
She turned around anyway.
And smiled.
Because Shotaro wasn't there.
She didn't curse. She didn't panic. She didn't chase after him.
Because this time, she didn't have to.
She just smiled—that bittersweet kind of smile that only someone who's lived through too much and still chooses hope can wear. The smile of a woman who'd just realized:
He didn't need her permission anymore.He didn't need to be pushed.He didn't need to be a god.
He was just Shotaro.
And he had already made his choice.
"Best Mother's Day ever," she whispered, kneeling to pick up the glasses he'd left behind. The lenses were smudged—of course they were. That boy could never clean them right. Her fingers lingered on the crooked frame a moment longer than they needed to.
Then the screen lit up.
Cut to Paris.
The Eiffel Tower loomed like a defiant lance plunged into the heavens, its iron sinews veiled in stormclouds and ancestral grief. Above it, the sky mourned—rending itself open in weeping torrents that lashed the city below. The Seine had overrun its cradle, unmaking the city of light with veins of wrath. Boulevards drowned into rivers; alleyways became catacombs of water.
And upon that skeletal titan of steel, clinging to hope amid divine fury, a French reporter howled into the gale—his voice shivering with poetry and terror:
"Mesdames et messieurs! C'est le déluge! La Seine a englouti la ville! Des créatures d'ombre marchent dans l'eau! Les hommes… les bêtes… les enfants—tous courent, tous fuient, mais il n'y a nulle part où aller! Où est l'espoir?! Où est notre salut?!"("Ladies and gentlemen! It is the deluge! The Seine has swallowed the city! Creatures of shadow walk the waters! Men… beasts… children—all flee, all scream, but there is nowhere left to run! Where is hope?! Where is our salvation?!")
Switch to Tokyo.The camera cut to a stoic anchorwoman in a sterile studio, her expression a mask of composure—cracking at the edges.
「現在パリでは大規模な洪水が発生しています.原因は不明ですが,現地の目撃者によれば"空が裂けた"ように見えたとのこと.逃げ惑う市民の中には,不気味な人影や獣のような存在が現れたという報告も....状況は混乱を極めています!」("A catastrophic flood has engulfed Paris. The cause remains unknown. Witnesses claim the sky itself split open. Among the fleeing masses, there are reports of monstrous silhouettes—neither man nor beast. Chaos reigns.")
The footage distorted. Thunder rolled not as sound, but as judgment.
And then—The water did not descend.Paris rose.
Slowly, impossibly, the very bones of the city—its stones and bridges and dying lamplight—ascended. Not through miracle, but through will.
It was not the flood that receded.It was the city that was lifted.
As if by unseen hands—by some ancient command not spoken but imposed—Paris rose from her drowning like a corpse defying death. Buildings shuddered. Cobblestone and concrete moaned like old gods waking. The river, once swollen with despair, wept and receded, slithering away like a vanquished serpent.
People did not cheer.They stared.They froze.Because miracles—real ones—do not bring comfort. They bring awe. They bring fear.
And in that moment, the sky held its breath.
A female reporter clutched her microphone with white-knuckled fingers, her voice trembling over the airwaves as if the question itself could collapse the studio.
"Avor… Avor ! Qui est derrière tout ça ? Qui soulève Paris ?"("Avor… Avor! Who's behind this? Who is lifting Paris?")
Her co-anchor stood rigid beside her, mouth parted, sweat beading at his brow despite the cold. He looked—not at the footage—but through it. As if he had seen this before. As if he had prayed it would never happen again.
His voice came hollow, like a prophecy remembered too late:
"Un dieu."("A god.")
And outside, the floodwaters receded into the Seine like a serpent retreating in shame.
But this was no divinity from scripture—No savior cloaked in halos and hosannas.
This was something else.An unseen force, vast and unknowable.
Somewhere, a girl stumbled out of a school bus. She had been trapped inside, the rising waters licking the vehicle's undercarriage. Now, as she emerged blinking into the daylight, the world had returned to stillness. Everything was... normal again.
She stood trembling, soaked, and small, but alive.Tears spilled down her cheeks—not from fear, but from a joy so dissonant it felt absurd.
Nature had tried to devour them.Yet it was nature, somehow, that had held its hand.She didn't understand it, only that she had survived.
"Amaya will be thrilled when I tell her about it," she whispered to herself, her voice tiny in the heavy silence.
She was barely six when she heard it:
"Didn't think I'd find another Japanese kid here."
Startled, she turned—and there he stood.A boy, her age, with silver hair that clung to his brow, crimson eyes glowing faintly beneath rain-slick lashes. His soaked sweater clung to sun-kissed skin.
She blinked. "Who are you???"
He smiled faintly."I'm the guy who saved this city."
"…Huh?"
She bent, scooped a stone from the ground, and tossed it at him—half in disbelief, half in mischief. Before it touched him, it vanished midair, vaporized by a narrow beam of scarlet light.
"You can shoot lasers out of your eyes," she whispered, awestruck.
He nodded. "Yeah. Ever since I can remember. But I've gotta brace my chest to activate it. Bit of a hassle."
She stared at him, struggling to form the question."What… what are you? Are you a villain? Or a hero?"
He looked at her, a little too long. The glow in his eyes dimmed.
"I… I'm Sho--,"
[Shotaro: journey of a hero that kept moving forward]
---Mugyiwara. Nice to meet you."
And then, without another word, he rose into the sky—And vanished into the horizon.