Chapter 346

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Chapter 346: What Should Have Been

The sky gradually grew darker, and the daylight swiftly faded away.

The sun never stops, while the moon impatiently rises.

Winter days were always like this—too short by day, and the nights far too long. The endless midnight seemed to stretch on, still and heavy. The cold air wrapped itself around the world, and the night breeze whispered through the mountains, as if nature itself were asserting its invisible majesty, forcing all living creatures to bow their heads, curl up, and tremble in fear.

The December moonlight once again brought a sharp, painful sensation to Kokonohana Nori. Though another power flowed within her, easing the sting, she could still feel the diminishing strength of this bestowed force—an unavoidable sign of its decline.

The descendant of a witch, born in the distant land of Yingzhou, was denied the golden gaze.

For four hundred years, from bloodline to spirit, everything had become deeply intertwined with this land, making it impossible to leave.

“Let’s go.”

She donned the attire of a funeral attendant and stepped into the underground shrine.

The shrine was built on a small hill, with the mountain hollowed out to create a vast interior that concealed all the shrine’s secrets.

The first underground floor housed the sword witches, who had to endure a difficult month here. During the day, they could emerge to move about, bask in the sun, but as night fell, they had to return.

Kokonohana Nori entered the first underground floor, where over fifty sword witches waited, their eyes fixed on her. She opened her mouth, but the words she’d prepared were lost to her, and she struggled to find something comforting to say.

Boosting their confidence was crucial. They must not give in to the Scarlet Curse. But perhaps, this only added to their suffering—like trying to prolong the life of a terminally ill patient, forcing them to endure pain and agony.

A responsible elder priestess stepped forward, “Dear funeral attendant, two people are missing.”

“Missing?” Kokonohana Nori asked. “Are they not back yet?”

“No, we’ve summoned them three times. If they don’t return soon, they will be left under the crimson moon,” the elder priestess replied, shaking her head. “Perhaps she knows she can no longer hold on, so…”

There was no need to say more. This had happened many times before.

When a sword witch underwent such a brutal transformation, her life was nearing its end. She might not want to face execution, but realizing her days were numbered, she could want to do something—perhaps visit home or find a place to end it all.

“Found her,” Kokonohana Nori said before Kurosawa Yaka could speak. “Maybe there’s still a chance to save her?”

“Ah, found her.” The funeral attendant fought back her sorrow. “I’ll go as well.”

She turned back to the other sword witches and said to Kurosawa Yaka, “Take care of them.”

Behind the shrine, on the mountain.

“Izumi! Don’t run anymore. It’s getting dark. Come back with me!”

“I don’t want to! What are you talking about? Go back and wait to die?”

“Does that mean you won’t die if you don’t go back? Stop acting foolishly!”

“I’m not going back!”

Izumi halted, gripping a branch. She turned around, and the evening sun bathed the hillside, revealing clear tear streaks on her cheeks.

“I won’t… go back!”

“You saw their faces. If I go back, everyone will be terrified—like two monsters!”

She tore off her bandage, revealing her fair, delicate arm, drenched in blood. Colorful feathers had grown, now soaked in blood.

She gripped her arm, ripping the feathers out, throwing them to the ground.

“Look! This is what I’ve become!”

“Another night passed, and I don’t know what kind of monster I’ll turn into. Will I even be myself anymore?”

“I don’t want to hurt my friends, nor do I want to die like this. But I will turn into a monster, and die by the High Priest’s sword. But… why? Why must I accept this fate? What have I done wrong?”

Izumi sobbed as she spoke.

Shashu fell silent, looking at her friend’s arm. Her hand instinctively touched her own face.

Her face, too, had been marred by the bizarre transformation the night before. Vines had grown, choking her neck, and rough bark had replaced the skin where her face had been cut by leaves. Itched and hurt terribly.

Flesh mutation—once this sign appeared in a witch, it meant death was near. Even if they survived, they would be something neither fully human nor demon-like, hiding in secluded mountain villages, waiting for the next Blood Moon to consume their souls.

The incurable Blood Moon Disease—it was a curse that all sword witches carried.

From the previous generation onward, it had appeared, and in this generation, it had reached its peak. This was the first time they had encountered it, the first time they had truly understood it.

The two sword witches were still very young, only twenty. They had never imagined encountering such a calamity before dying in battle. The thought of gradually losing their sanity and eventually being slain by the High Priestess drove Izumi to madness. She couldn’t accept this fate in her heart, so she ran.

Shashu chased her until they reached the back mountain. The two of them had climbed the crimson-tinted slope, one ahead, the other behind, until they reached the hill. They stopped, gazing at the setting sun.

Shashu approached, holding Izumi’s hand, gently pulling her to sit on the hillside.

“I will stay with you until the very end. You’re not alone. I understand how you feel.”

Izumi cried, burying her face in Shashu’s shoulder.

The sun’s glow grew dimmer. Before it fully set, the crimson moon had already claimed half the sky.

Izumi’s sobs grew quieter as another wave of sharp pain gripped her, stronger than before.

Shashu felt it too—her blood felt slow and heavy, as though something inside her was trying to break free, desperate to leave her body. She clenched her lips. What saddened her more than the pain was the distant singing growing clearer, separating her from herself, like paint mixing with water, dissolving her sense of self.

Izumi opened her eyes and looked at Shashu. She saw the same pain, the same determination, mirrored in her best friend’s eyes.

…and the time had come.

They stood at the cliff’s edge. It wasn’t a particularly high cliff—only one or two hundred meters—but the steep drop was enough to shatter them both if they fell.

The cold and pain twisted their senses. One felt a piercing chill, while the other burned with fever.

Fear lingered, but they took a half step forward, gazing down at the sharp drop.

They closed their eyes, leaning forward, imagining themselves jumping, free-falling, offering their lives.

“Izumi! Shashu!”

Kokonohana Nori’s voice broke through. She cried their names, weaving through the forest, climbing the slope. “Don’t do anything foolish!”

“Funeral attendant…” Shashu whispered. “Sorry, but we need to take this step.”

Izumi’s consciousness grew faint. She nodded gently, resting against her friend’s shoulder.

The two sword witches leapt off the cliff, and as their figures disappeared, the last trace of sunlight vanished, leaving the world bathed in crimson moonlight.

Kokonohana Nori stood at a distance, her knees weakening. She slowly bent down, feeling the sharp sting of pain, numbness, and overwhelming self-blame. It was as though she were transported back to that fateful night, twenty years ago.

Her helplessness from that night had haunted her ever since, surrounding her like a nightmare, keeping her awake at night. She remembered the beloved friend and teacher she lost on that fateful night. This was why she vowed never to let this tragedy happen again.

But still, she couldn’t change anything. Sadness and powerlessness overwhelmed her…

Twenty years ago, she had abandoned useless beliefs and joined a group that forsook tradition.

But even after twenty years, nothing had changed. Things were the same as they were back then—and had even gotten worse.

Abandoning tradition, rejecting belief, trying countless methods—nothing saved the sword witches.

The Shogun spoke plainly, “The abilities possessed by these heroic spirits can save one or two people. But when too many need help, even they are powerless. The Heroic Spirit Principle belongs to the individual heroic spirits themselves, and its mysteries cannot bless thousands.”

Kokonohana Nori longed for more than just her own redemption. She wanted to save the sword witches—to save the future of the sword witches. Yet her strength was insufficient, and again, she failed.

She leaned against the trees for support, her body trembling like that of an ancient, fragile person. She gasped for air, as though the weight of her heart might crush her entirely.

The mountain within her heart felt ready to collapse under the sight before her.

The crimson moonlight mocked her, and the singing grew louder, slowly tearing her soul apart.

Then, without warning, the singing stopped, as if someone had turned off a record player. A figure emerged from below the cliff, rising into the air, each step leaving golden ripples in its wake.

He carried a Sword Witch in each hand, holding them as one might carry two small kittens by the nape of their necks. The cats remained motionless.

He ascended the cliff and gazed at Kokonohana Nori, who stood in a daze. With a gentle release, the two Sword Witches rolled to the ground.

Izumi and Shashu had lost consciousness, their transformation reversed, and they had returned to their young, innocent selves. They were safe.

Kokonohana Nori slowly knelt down, pulling the two girls into her embrace. Her voice trembled as she whispered softly, hoarsely, “Thank you.”

The young man stood before the crimson moon, his golden silhouette scattering the red light.

He smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”