It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Reimu, however, is severely lacking in the knowledge department. You can forgive her: She was all alone. If the old Hakurei god would not—or maybe, could not—lend her power, then of course the girl would be surprised by her newfound strength.

“Shrine maidens directly draw on their god’s strength. That is what divine power is. You, on the other hand, have relied on your own abilities—up until now, that is. You’re a lot like your mother in that way. The Hakurei bloodline is impressive, I’ll say that.”

“Then before all this, that means I’ve been more or less resolving incidents as a normal human?”

“As a Hakurei, girl. You are no normal human.”

Reimu lifts a hand up to her face in awe. “So that means I’m really strong, now that I’m drawing from your power?”

“Just a fragment of my power,” you clarify. “But yes. Congratulations, Reimu, you are a real miko now. We should throw a party.”

“...So, is there a catch? To wielding your powers?”

You grin. “You shall do something for me as my shrine maiden. But that’s in the future, and I promise you—nothing bad will come of it. Barring that, you are free to use my divinity as you please. So go crazy and start beating people up with extreme prejudice.”

“I’m not going to do that!”

“But you just did,” Tewi says. “And speaking of. What are we going to do about the kudan?”

Reimu glances back to the scene of the wreckage. “Oh, yeah. Him.”

The kudan looks content to lie there and remain dead to the shrine maiden, but the twitch of sore limbs regretfully gives away the fact that he is still alive.

Reimu prods him with her gohei. “So are you going to ‘fess up what you were doing now?”

“I would have obliged,” he wheezes out, “Without the reckless fighting. Mujina, come closer too. And if you could, please help me up. I shall now clear the situation.”

“Y-yes, sir.” The badger, who would have preferred to remain invisible, reluctantly leaves his shelter behind the trees and joins the bovine-faced youkai, lifting the kudan up from under his shoulder.

“Kudans are destined to die from the moment they are born… as all mortals do. But their deaths foretell of misfortune to come, as decreed by the kudan’s prophecy.”

“I thought that kudans die after their prophecy has come true?” you say.

He shakes his head. “A misinterpretation. They live long enough to foretell the misfortune to come, and when they die, they expel the misfortune they have gathered from the area. It is a curse from the land, if you will.”

“I didn’t know that. Interesting.” You smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

—A “curse of the lands,” he says. The kudan is yet another you can wrest control of and consume—

“So what does that do with you ordering the badger to attack?” Reimu asks.

“On the pathway down the mountainside, I had stumbled onto some humans. I do not believe they saw my visage, only the shadow my body drew from the moonlight—it was late at night, I believe—and they screamed of a youkai, running back to their homes. By the next day, they had already spread rumors of an amalgamous beast. I then realized: What if I become this beast? So, by luck, I found a mujina, and used him to spread rumors that a youkai of many forms was attacking the village. By association, that would have been me, who had initially started the rumor. I had to make it authentic, so I threatened the mujina to deliver a convincing performance.”

The badger goes wide-eyed. “You—really?”

The kudan nods.

“Hold on.” Reimu takes a provocative step forward. “Are you saying that you’re trying to… transform yourself to another youkai?”

“If I cease being a kudan, then no misfortune shall befall Gensokyo.” A trace of self-conflict reflects in the youkai’s darkened eyes. “That is all.”

Reimu looks doubtful. “Can you even do that? Just… become something else?”

“You can,” Tewi says in soft assurance.

You look to the rabbit, ready to say something, but instead you drop the matter and agree. “Yeah, it’s possible. A rare circumstance, but it has happened before.”

Reimu chews on a fingernail in contemplation. “Alright. So—tell me honestly. What do you think we should do with you?”

“I do not know,” he says gravely.

[ ] The kudan’s doing no real harm, so let him be.
[ ] The kudan needs to stop the pointless attacks to the village.
[ ] You could offer to strip away the curse—you are a curse god, aren’t you?

—You are a curse god, aren’t you?—

And yet, you suffer from your own delay. The words, quick to form in your mouth, die when your own mind strikes them down with thoughts of a foolish god—Toyoke. Her name serves as an eternal reminder of your failure, and every character in her name tells you: You are no lord of curses, no. You are—

—merely a curse itself—

Of course you are… or so you lie to yourself. But you find yourself staring straight at contradiction, found in a frilly, pink dress. Her healthy complexion, her cleared, red eyes speak the changes of the present. Were it past still, she’d only be recognized by the mire that dirtied her rags and clouded her eyes. Without you—and you yourself—she would have remained as rot.

Tewi turns, noticing the gaze you’re putting on her, and grins.

“What?” you ask.

“You don’t have to be all shy when you’re looking at me like you got something to say.”

“I don’t.”

“Right. Sure.” Tewi says, drawling out her words. She couldn’t be any more smug, the damn Rabbit of Inaba.

“I really don’t. Anyway.” You quickly kill your obtuseness and face the kudan. “I could strip away the curse for you.”

The bovine remains silent, though with his increasingly frustrated shuffling, he kindly paints out his emotions for you. “You—you can do that?”

“Of course he can,” Tewi answers back immediately. “He’s done the same for me.”

“Really? It’s that easy?” the mujina badger asks incredulously, a buffoonish look on his face.

Despite your own reservations, you respond. “It is so. Now come, kudan. To me—and within arm’s reach.”

He complies and walks forward, head down and somber.

You put a hand to his shoulder. “It isn’t your execution, youkai, so stop acting like it is.”

Gingerly, he raises his head. “Understood,” the kudan says, though with measured pause.

“Good. As for the rest of the onlookers—I advise you all to take your distance. And, should you find yourself approaching darkness, do not let yourself be engulfed in it.”

“What?” the mujina says, voice yielding to higher pitch. “W-What do you mean?”

You do not dignify him with a response. In but a moment, it will be evident. You grip down firmly with the hand placed on the bovine’s shoulder. And, within the youkai’s self, you find something familiar: It is a feeling of dread—of horror. Not from you, but from the kudan. But you find it—that which plagues the youkai’s being. So you let go of the bovine, but only briefly. You wind your arm back.

And then you plunge it straight between the kudan’s ribs. His eyes bulge out in shock, and the youkai looks down upon his body. Then he realizes: No blood stains his garments. Instead, blackness muddies his clothes until he erupts in a thick mist. The miasma—its temperament is like a swarm of locusts, making angry, helical passes around you. It, however, is only a nuisance. Now that you have freed the curse, you can release its vessel. You drop the kudan, letting the youkai fall to the ground, and take in the curse.

The darkness explodes into visceral, wordless screaming. It twists into itself on the ground, digging its formless claws into the dirt, scrambling back toward the kudan. Before this, however, you take your geta and drive it into its back, forcing it still. Then, much like the kudan, you wrench your hand into its chest. The curse seeps into your being, and you feel your reach extend, letting your jurisdiction, the fog which houses your maladies, roam further and further. You can take more, you can let it run free, you can take more and more and more, consume until nothing is left, and you should not stop it, Hakurou. Do you hear me? Hakurou. Hakurō. HAKURŌ.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” you say, waving the voice away.

“Y-You—!” the kudan chokes out.

“Calm yourself,” you reply. The mist, whose tendrils inched towards the forest, retreat back into the shadows at your beckoning. And after doing so, you hear a blood-curdling shriek exploding from the audience.

“He’s dead!” the badger screams. “I can’t believe he’s deaaaad!”

“Oh shut up, you buffoon.” Reimu snorts. “You just heard the kudan speak. He seems alive and well to me.”

“I am...” he pants out, frantically patting where you wounded him. He desperately tries, and fails, to find a gaping hole where your arm was. “...still alive.”

“It would have been counter-intuitive to kill you, kudan. Unless, that’s what you wanted?”

“No.” The youkai drops his head to the ground, allowing himself to rest on meadow grass. “I’d much prefer being alive.”

“So he’s not dead?” the badger says between hiccups.

Tewi rolls her eyes. “Would it kill you to listen? The kudan’s still breathing and talking right in front of you.”

“No! But I saw—and he—that! The—the stomach! And the gross… thing!”

You direct your gaze at the badger. “Settle, mujina. I did not pierce flesh. Instead, I reached into the kudan’s soul.”

“Arguably even scarier,” Reimu adds.

“Hush, you.”

“Then...” The once-kudan trails off. His face remains contorted with worry. “What happens now?”

You meet his gaze. “You tell us, youkai. Is the curse gone?”

He blows out a puff of air. “It is gone. Decidedly so. But,” the kudan says, anxiety dripping in his voice, “is that all?”

“The more you doubt, the more you are asking for ill fate.”

“...So I shall stay my tongue.”

“Good,” you say. “Then we’re just about done here.”

Reimu, doubt evident in her raised eyebrows, replies, “We are?”

“We could always turn this into an even bigger incident,” you add.

“Forget I said anything,” she says. “Let’s go home.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

But before that…

[ ] Nah, never mind. Let’s call what you did for the kudan “charity work” and wrap up for the day.
[ ] Purification comes at a cost, no matter how minor.

Purification comes at a cost, no matter how minor. And for a pair of youkai that could spread rumors like wildfire, you find yourself with an enticing proposition.

“Kudan. Mujina,” you say, stretching out your widest smile. “I have… a favor to ask of you.”

“Are we able to refuse? Or would that be a fatal courtesy?” whines the badger.

“Quiet, you,” the bovine hisses. “Wolf. I follow your will. Merely say the word, and I shall comply.”

“I’d like you two to spread a rumor. Do it as you did your previous work… as if the rumor was spread by the human village itself. And do not worry—no misfortune shall befall you whilst you two are under my protection. I can guarantee that.”

The badger throws a frightened stare at his accomplice. “Really?” he says in a shrill voice. “Why do we need your protection? What rumor do you want us to spread?”

“Many questions, mujina, but here is the only answer you need.” You take a step forward, lifting your index finger up to the air. “I’d like you to spread rumors that the feral youkai invading the lands are the work of the god named Fukurokuju. In particular, I want you to make sure that it sounds like it is of her own doing.”

“What of the other details?” the kudan asks. “I’d like to remain consistent when we spread these rumors.”

“Ah, but those discrepancies shall be the key to revealing her,” you say.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind the details, youkai, and shred your consistency. In fact, weave your rumors like misaligned tales. Confuse humans and youkai alike. Just make sure that the fault lies on Fukurokuju’s shoulders.”

“Aren’t you asking too much of them?” says Reimu.

“He did save the kudan’s life, y’know,” Tewi points out.

“Right,” you say. “And, for that, I just need a teensy, tiny, little favor. I need to meet with a friend. A reclusive, hermit friend… but a friend nonetheless.”

Reimu groans. “I’m already reluctant to meet them.”

“Don’t you worry your little head. I’ll be meeting them by myself. You can go on and do whatever it is the Hakurei shrine maiden does, and I’ll take good care of her.”

“You say that, but I’m not looking any more forward to it.”

“Good. You can dread the day she comes.” You turn to the other youkai. “Anyway, did you get all of that, kudan?”

“It shall be done,” he replies. “But I am curious. Fukurokuju? A god of fortune? Is he not a man in tales?”

“Were Fuku but one person, perhaps. But she is Fukurokuju, Kishouten, and many other names. She bore more than one name to fit the occasion.”

—Like you, Hakurō—

You crack a wry smile. “Like me. Regardless, our business is done here. At least, for now.”

But in the meantime…

[ ] Check up on that foolish cat in the village.
[ ] Entertain yourself by whittling away at Hieda’s patience.
[ ] Return to the Hakurei Shrine. You’ve had enough Gensokyo for one day.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen Hieda, and you think that she’s rightfully earned some quality time with, of course, yours truly. Free time is the construct of evil, after all. And while you’d love to be spreading misery to everyone else, you actually have something of substance to discuss with her.

“You can head back, Reimu. I’ve other arrangements to fulfill, since we’re done here,” you say. “All’s well that ends well, eh?”

“Sure.” The miko’s face betrays her suspicion, but she stymies her expression in favor of a noncommittal nod. “Well, whatever. I actually have business over at the mountainside, so I’ll be heading there instead.”

You can hazard a guess. “Something about a shrine popping up near the road overnight?”

“…Please don’t tell me that you’re involved in this too.”

“No. Well…” you correct yourself. “Not exactly.”

“What aren’t you involved with? Because it really feels like you’ve been the cause of every incident that’s transpired since you’ve shown up.”

“That is not true at all,” you say, indignant. “For example, uh.”

“More like he’s been the cause of every other incident—which is only half as much.” Tewi nods sagely. “Grossly exaggerated, if you ask me.”

“I wouldn’t even say half.”

Two sets of doubtful eyes stare at you.

“A fourth?” you bargain. “Maybe a third.”

“Half,” Reimu asserts, firmly holding her ground.

“Half,” agrees Tewi.

“Fine. Half,” you say, conceding. “But I’m not involved in this incident. Not directly, anyhow. Let’s just say that I’m, uh, familiar with the perpetrator—or perpetrators.”

Reimu impatiently folds her arms. “Name them.”

“Just go to Moriya and ask.”

“Moriya?” she says, incredulous. “Suwako did this?”

“No. But if you go to her shrine, it’ll be pretty obvious who did.”

“And that is?”

“Now, now,” you chide, “it wouldn’t be as fun if I just told you, would it? Plus, even if I did tell you, it wouldn’t matter.”

“And why’s that?”

“They were before your time. Their names and who they are—it all has no meaning to Gensokyo. Not anymore, that is. Anyway, shoo. They’re not exactly hiding, so just go and ask them yourself.”

“...Right,” she says doubtfully. But Reimu’s a smart girl and doesn’t press you for the little details. With a nod, she instead flies off, disappearing over the rolling hills.

“There she goes,” Tewi says. “So… as you were saying, what are these ‘arrangements to fulfill’ exactly?”

“I’ve something to say to Hieda—before she wildly misunderstands and does something incredibly stupid. She has a penchant for deluding herself into falsehoods so, while I’d love to play coy and leave herself to her own imagination, nothing would change her mind once she records them into history. And, should she come to the wrong conclusion, she will pay the unfortunate price.”

The Rabbit of Inaba pauses to deliberate on your words, staring at you in mild disbelief. “Rare to see you so proactive.”

“My intent is well-faceted. I have… many other reasons to find her.”

“Should I be worried?”

“As always.”

---

The purple-haired girl lost diligence that day. Though she wore her usual, splotchy kimono, a white blanket covered her thin shoulders and cloaked her horrid taste in palettes. Faint, dark outlines touched her eyes, and, from time to time, she nodded off into short bouts of sleep before snapping herself awake again.

“Hieda.”

One word from you is all it takes for her to erase the exhaustion from her eyes. They color dimly in recognition before reforming to horror.

“What.” Her patience is quickly tested. “Have you come to bother me again? For no reason?”

“While I’d love for that to be the case, I’m here with purpose.”

Hieda’s still glowering at you, but the irritated hitch in her eyebrows lowers one tick. “Then?”

“How much do you know about recent events?”

“Events?” she asks, voice dropping a pitch. “Or… incidents?”

“Incidents,” you clarify.

“And how recent?”

“Very. A day and some.”

She tiredly points to a scroll, unfurling it across her table. It spills over the desk and onto the floor, rolling until it touches your feet.

Tewi crouches down to examine the scroll’s contents, tilting her head slightly. “Is that just for the last day?”

“Indeed.”

“That’s quite a lot.”

“Your words have never been more true,” Akyuu says, massaging the bridge of her nose.

“Maybe a break is in order.”

“I would, but this entire week has consisted of me trying—and failing—to catch up on my work. The village has been rife with chaos, but I am not going to let that stop me from finishing my duties before sunset every day. You get it, don’t you?”

“Uh.” Tewi shrugs. “Not really? When I need to take a break, I do.”

Meanwhile, you scan the entire scroll, searching for details about the kudan until you reach Akyuu’s desk. Somehow, it was resolved quietly—a rare and unexpected result. Still, it’s bound to be revealed to Hieda sooner or later, so you’ll explain—if only briefly.

“Have you heard of the kudan that showed up?”

Akyuu, who was busy pretending to be a shored up fish, immediately corrects her posture. “Explain.”

“Let’s just say that peace was made before it even turned into an incident. You’re welcome by the way: Less bureaucracy for you.”

“If—And I really mean if,” she snaps, “it was resolved. You do know that a kudan’s mere existence is an incident, correct?”

“I’m aware, Hieda. Like I said, it’s been resolved without worry. They are no longer kudan. Just youkai. If you wish to know how that transpired, then I suggest re-reading your little almanac of yours—the entry with my name on it, hmm?”

“Right,” she says grimly.

There’s a moment of aberrant quiet. Were it any other occasion, the silence would quickly be filled with discussion—spats, mostly. Hieda remains still, breaking the calm only to recline deeply into her chair and stare at the ceiling in hard thought. Funny. This might be the first time you’ve seen her this peaceful—minus the time she died mid-conversation.

“Okay,” Hieda says, finally. “Then why tell me?”

“I’d love to say that it was out of the fondness of my heart, but I’m not here to joke around. For once, that is,” you add when Hieda narrows her eyes. “You’ll soon find rumors floating around the village, and all of them false. Do not be swayed because you hear a familiar name betwixt them. For your own sanity, ignore it all and don’t pry further. I understand you dedicate your sorry lives to looking into incidents like this, but I’ll warn you this time. Don’t. Else you shall find yourself vulnerable.”

“Do I take that as a threat?” she hisses.

“It’s a warning, but take it as you will. Should you not interfere, I’ll take care of it. Just know that it has nothing to do with you—or the humans that reside here.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because,” you say. “It lies within the realm of the gods.”

“Meaning?”

“Ever so hungry with the questions, Hieda.”

She continues staring, silently insisting for an answer.

“Meaning,” you say, pausing for effect. “It’s none of your damn business, stupid.”

“…I expected as much.”

“As you should. Now, I have a question for you—as a scholar and not as Hieda. Do you think that man can break the chains of his nature, or is he bound by it?”

Immediately, she answers back. “Even humans can learn to swim against the current, should they drown otherwise. What says the rabbit?”

Tewi, looking perfectly content with being background noise, stammers out, “Me? I mean, I thought it was obvious. Of course they can. Otherwise, humans would be such boring creatures, right?”

“Truly.” In a lower voice, Hieda then turns her attention to you. “And you?”

[ ] “Does the ocean defer to man if they ask?”
[ ] “It doesn’t matter if they do.”

Were you here to humor the poorly dressed scholar, you would have graced her with an unsolicited thesis about why humans are foolish and deserve to be called as such. But today, more so than usual, you’ve little patience for that kind of thing.

Even should they futilely struggle against the jaws of decay, they shall remain ever so insignificant. Insignificant. INSIGNIFICANT—

You respond to Hieda: “It doesn’t matter if they do.”

She leans back heavily into her chair, sinking further into the upholstery as she begins to massage her brow. “I suppose it’s my own fault for expecting anything but a non-answer from you.”

“I was being serious.”

In lieu of words, Hieda stares at you. Her gaze fills with a distinct monotony as she waits insistently for you to explain.

“Humans will continue to struggle against the uncertainty of the world. That much is fact. It, however, is of no significance.” Disgust lines your tongue. Though you would love to disagree with your voices of inner turmoil, all of you happen to agree on one thing. “What humans do—it matters not to me.”

“Then?” Hieda straightens out her posture, uprighting herself on the chair. “Why involve the Hakurei? Surely you didn’t fabricate that on a whim, did you?”

“I mean, yes,” Tewi replies sheepishly, “he kinda did.”

“Conversely, why else would I help the Hakurei on anything but a whim? Would you believe me if I told you I did it out of benevolence of all things?”

“No, I suppose…” Hieda’s weary eyes kindle with some kind of realization before they temper to a dull purple. “…not. No. Of course it doesn’t.” With her stature, it takes all her might to set aside a slew of documents on her desk and reach for a notebook hidden beneath old parchment. She flips page by page until she reaches halfway, stopping to let the pages settle. “Maybe prior to this, I’d argue with you for argument’s sake, but I have something different for you today. And with good timing, too.”

“...Go on.”

Hieda, with newfound energy, snaps her gaze toward you. “I’ve always harbored doubts about your true intentions. Your extremely erratic behavior… your actions—I never understood it. But now, after many generations, I’ve finally shed some light to your purpose. Not as Hakurou—but as Roku.”

The scholar pauses for dramatic effect—only to be met with an unenthused god and his rabbit companion.

You balk. “Yes, well, I’m glad that you’ve put the pieces together. Is that all?”

Tewi rests a thoughtful hand upon her face, stroking her chin as she prepares herself for a response. “Akyuu. For all that studying you did, you didn’t figure out jack, huh?”

“Roku is but one of many names. Such was the case. And such shall always be the case,” you lie. “But Roku and Hakurou—we’re one and the same.”

“Then why does ‘Hakurou’ exist? I’ll hazard a guess: It’s because you—and I mean Hakurou—are sealing away Roku, the herald of malediction.”

You’re about to correct Hieda, but Tewi speaks up first.

And wearily, she says, “You don’t know a damn thing, Child of Miare.”

“Then?” Hieda asks, indignant. “I can concede when I am wrong, but what I hate the most is being kept ignorant of all the details. The god refuses to tell me anything, so what else am I to do other than throw out conjectures? What even is Hakurou?”

“Don’t you mean who?” Tewi replies.

“No. What.”

“Hakurō is just another name of many,” you say. “And, before you lock yourself into a fatal misunderstanding, I’ll say this: No, Roku is not the father of all current evil, despite your conclusions. Still… there is a modicum of truth in your findings. Roku, Hakurou, or whichever name strikes your fancy at the time, is a dangerous individual. But. To that, I counter: ‘So what?’”

“...What?” Hieda repeats back slowly.

“Akyuu. I’ll be frank. Gensokyo wouldn’t remain the way it is now had I truly wanted to destroy it. That isn’t to say that I now renounce myself from all sin and hatred—far from it, actually. So don’t worry. Calamity won’t be knocking at your doorstep. At least, not by way of me.”

“Then what are you plotting?” she says, squinting at you.

The age-old question—one you have never truly come to terms with.

[ ] Just tell her. Better her to know so she can finally stop meddling in your affairs.
[ ] Give her a hint. It’s the least you can do for her troubles.
[ ] That’s for her to figure out.

You pause to give yourself some time to deliberate. Hieda, however, refuses to let the air fill with silence.

“Are you actually thinking? Heaven forbid.” Despite her sedentary inclination, she stands up from her desk, resting a hand on its edge. Hieda leans forward slightly to direct her eyes—and her attention—toward you. “That’ll be the day Gensokyo falls to ruin.”

You ignore her taunts. “I’ll only say that I just wish to undo my one wrong.”

“...Your one wrong?” she spits.

“The only one that matters to me, that is.”

“And what of the thousand others?”

You stare at her directly. The frustration is visible in the sharp slant of her eyebrows. “I’d live forever if I were to spend the rest of time absolving my own sins. Would you want that? An immortal curse god?”

“Then you’re content to pardon the evil you’ve wrought?”

You walk over to Hieda. Over her diminutive figure, you tower over her easily, so you instead pull a chair closer to her desk and sit down. “I think you’re still misunderstanding me. I’m but a vessel to a far, more cruel evil.”

“And you’re suggesting that you were just a victim to this ‘evil’ as well and that you did no wrong? Sickening.” Her expression is that of disgust. Still, she continues to entertain your thoughts. “And so? What could you possibly hope to accomplish by telling me this?”

“Nothing,” you say. “I realized that I don’t have to play along anymore because the facade is over.”

“The facade,” she repeats slowly. “Whose? Yours? Or…”

You keep your gaze level with hers. “You are an intelligent human. I’m sure you’ll figure it out in due time.”

You leave her at that. Since you’ve accomplished what you came here to do, you decide to simply leave the Hieda estate with your rabbit companion in tow. Of course, all the way, as the lady of the house herself personally escorts you both outside, Hieda also glares at you in vain hopes that you explain yourself. But your lips are bound.

Much to your annoyance, daylight has yet to fall beneath the horizon. The sun and its tender light hover gently above the world’s edge, just barely enough to paint the land with an orange veil. Had darkness closed Gensokyo’s day already, you would have been more comfortable with the silence of night because, in between the distance from the human village to the Hakurei Shrine, no words are shared between you and Tewi. You are, in a rare fit, lost in thought along the way. It isn’t until you approach the cobbled hill-steps that your companion speaks up.

“Are you still thinking about Akyuu’s words?”

“No,” you say. And that’s the truth. “Why would I?”

“...I’m just asking,” she says, concern tinging her voice.

“I’ve since moved onto other thoughts.”

“I see.” Tewi remains standing at the foot of the stairway leading up to the shrine. Since the abrupt visit to the Hieda estate, she’s been uncharacteristically quiet.

You offer her a hand as you take the first of many steps upward. “Go on: I’ll allow you to ask me about whatever is on your mind right now.”

The rabbit takes your hand, albeit a bit reluctantly. “You’re preparing. For something.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a statement of fact, or a question?”

“Just my conjecture. You’ve been acting strange since we spoke to Akyuu. And I don’t really understand what you’re trying to accomplish,” she says. “Or why you’re wearing that indifferent expression right now. It’s just… hard to make sense of it all.”

“When have I ever made sense?”

“I…” she trails off. Conflict swirls within the depths of her eyes. She tugs at your hand lightly. “You’ve always made sense to me before. But right now, I can’t figure you out.”

“I never planned on leaving out a simple puzzle for Gensokyo to solve. Even for you, rabbit. But you yearn to know more—because you want to believe in me, this I know. And yet, how sad would it be when your expectations fail you?”

“They won’t. You can confide in me,” Tewi says. Unwavering are her eyes as they shine a confident red. Though she stands at a similar stature as the Child of Miare, her posture bears an attitude of certainty, and so, her gaze almost meets yours. Almost.

With a smile, you reply, “The truth is a luxury I do not give away… even for myself.”

Tewi looks over to you silently, waiting for you to elaborate. But instead, you gently pull at her hand, motioning for her to continue walking up the stairs of the shrine.

---

You retrieve your box of historied clothes in the guestroom. Reimu, although she spots you as you enter, opts to do nothing more than give a brief nod before returning to her own business: feeding the dog. Perhaps intuitively, she recognizes the fact that you want nothing to do with anybody right now.

Tewi, however, is not as perceptive and decidedly follows you to your quarters. But right now isn’t the time for her to float around you like a persistent gnat, so you shoo her away.

“Leave me,” you say.

“But—”

“I say this not as Hakurou, but as The Cursed White Wolf. Understand?”

“I don’t,” she replies brazenly. “Care to explain to this dumb rabbit? I get it—having to explain things is like pulling teeth for you. But unless you tell me what you’re thinking about right now, you’re stuck with me until you do.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

“...You’re such a pain, Hakurou,” she says with a delayed sigh.

“Is he now,” you reply coolly.

It isn’t until the warmth of the sun leaves the Gensokyo fields that you win the battle of attrition. Tewi may be as stubborn as you are, but she’d never win as a mortal. You simply wait until she has no choice but to fall to slumber. And when she does, you leave her asleep in the guestroom, as you bring along the garments of the past toward the shrine grounds.

While you’d rather not resurface the memories of those times, you deem it necessary. After all, you’ve sharply realized that it is impossible to continue your willful cecity. So you hold the red hakama in your hands tightly… and reminisce.

[ ] About the singular lie that bound oneself to despair
[ ] About what is repressed within

There was a lie deeply ingrained within your very being—one that bound you, and all that you share your name with, to despair. And its roots lay twisted beneath the soil of time, upending the sediment of peace.

To begin with, one had to ask themselves an innocuous, but spectacularly fatal question, namely: Who killed the priestess of the wolf?

A simple historian could tell you that it was the pagans of old, spurning the priestess’s lack of human fealty, but those were lies spun within more lies. Delving further into the past, the ones of that era would tell you that it was indeed Hakurou, the Cursed White Wolf of the West, but a more nuanced answer would be that it was Roku, the origin of the wolf. A fool would reply, “That is just another moniker for the god with many names, so therefore they are the same,” and they, among many others, had fallen for simple deception.

Why was it Hakurou, and not Roku, that bore the title of curses? Why did Roku’s name fade to the archives of time when Hakurou’s rose to meet tragedy? That was because Hakurou had never existed in the first place: He was a creation of Roku’s circumstances. The pathetic, sniveling god chose to hide away behind a false exterior—a mask personified. His responsibility, namely, his awareness of the fact that it was he who ultimately killed the priestess, was too heavy a burden to acknowledge. Therefore, he fled to twist fabrications anew. And therefore, he fled—to you.

But fabrications do not a god make. So Roku set out to create tragedy by his own hand so that myth became reality. Under a false name, Hakurō, the god chose to exterminate all those who crossed him so that he could create the perfect facade. And once enough people truly believed that there was a Hakurō that existed, you, who had never existed before, did. That was the very core of your self: to spread lies and hatred.

Roku was a god too familiar to this vision of circumstance for he too was included within it. He, who was once a simple spirit-wolf, became a vessel that imprisoned the powers of the dormant Amatsu-mikaboshi. In that respect, he was a god. But what he did not understand was that it was a shackle that chained him to unfathomable evil—one that he, who was but a grain of sand in the ocean of chaos, could not control.

What a pathetic god.

And, to think, the priestess, one that he once loved and cared for, would become yet another corpse devoured in the maw of the White Wolf. It would have been tragic were it anyone else. Yet, there may have existed a world where the wolf, who had never been consumed by blind rage and fury, returned to his senses and saved the priestess by his own hand. This was no such world.

What a pathetic god.

But did he realize the consequences of his actions and atone for his inability?

No. He turned his back on the righteous and served to set the cycle of destruction anew: To create another vessel, so that he may pass on evil in his own cowardice.

This was the naivete that the priestess had once loved. But he did not deserve her love. He did not deserve anything. In fact, his one true desire—his one wish—you, in all your faculty, shall never let come to fruition. The only thing that the god deserved was to be crushed under the maw—yours.

But this fate—this curse—had you play the fool. To serve the whims of a god that once had seemed so mighty. And, while you were weak, you had diligently played this role. But the veil inevitably lifted from your eyes—he was no indomitable god, he was no omnipotent, malicious deity—he was simply Roku. The cheat, the coward, the true evil of ignorance, Roku. The claimer of innocent souls, Roku. The killer of his own priestess, Roku.

What a pathetic god.

To force you to fulfill his self-absorbed goals by inheriting his very being was revolting. Who could pardon such a sick beast? There wasn’t a single soul in this world that cared for him anymore. The only one that did and was merciful enough to love him suffered an unspeakable death by consequence. But even in the end, her final words were those of tragic sympathy towards him.

“Come back to me, dear wolf. Please. Come back to me.”

Those words echoed—haunting Roku. Haunting you.

If your hatred didn’t grant you vast indifference, you could have pitied him.

And still, he had the audacity to say in parting, that, “We shall always be one of mind and soul.”

You, however, knew better than any other that wasn’t the case—that was never the case. He, who thought he knew all, assumed your pursuits were the same as his merely because you were his creation. Not only did he remain ignorant of your unquenchable hatred for him, but he also failed to notice that your actions had never aligned with his own self-serving interests. You, unlike him, would never avert your eyes to tragedy. Instead, you confronted it so that you would not forget. You would never forget. And never you shall.

You open your eyes back in the present, and, despite your own wants, the world continues to turn. You finally almost have everything within your grasp. But, it is not time; the stars have yet to align. So, for now, you shall continue patiently playing your role—as Hakurou.

Dawn touches the world slowly and steadily as if hesitant to share its light between the residents of Gensokyo. There, at first daybreak, an unassuming woman stands at the forefront of the Hakurei Shrine’s steps, just like you had predicted. With dark-black hair and similarly colored eyes, were she to walk among the villagers, none would be the wiser. The woman’s wearing a drab, tanned robe with frayed hems and split threads that demonstrates its frequent use. Accompanied with a gnarled staff, this is the true appearance of Fukurokuju, youthful face and all.

“Of course. This is the road I have been led back to. Somehow, it is always you that impedes my path,” she says, faint disappointment lowering her usual, stoic eyes.

“This time, I’ll assure you that it’s no coincidence,” you reply, matching her gaze. “Did you catch wind of the rumors?”

“The rumors? That it was my doing that the feral youkai are infesting these lands? Those rumors? Then, no, I did not.” She feigns shock with an inaudible gasp. “Go ahead and catch me up to speed, my dear.”

“Rumors have it that an old, ugly, big-headed, balding man with a scraggly beard released feral youkai into the—”

“Oh, would you quit it with the ‘big-headed’ farce already?” Fukurokuju jabs an accusatory finger into your chest. Petty spite fills her eyes. “I’m still drawn with a forehead that breaks the clouds because of you! All because of one little lie you offhandedly made to a scholar. So dispel these rumors at once—the feral youkai, the balding, everything!”

“Sure, sure. The feral youkai rumor, I can fix. The orbital-headedness, well… admittedly, it’s impossible to correct a rumor that’s been perpetuating for over a thousand years. You may as well embrace it and actually become a balding, old man.”

“I will do no such thing.” The hermit folded her arms across her chest, still in apparent dissatisfaction. “But that aside, surely you know that I did not start this ‘feral youkai’ business, correct? That is much too unbecoming of me to do.”

“Of course not,” you say, slapping a friendly hand upon her forehead. She responds with a heavy glare and the tightening of her grip on her staff but otherwise does nothing. “After all, I was the one who perpetrated the entire matter.”

“Truly?” She narrows her gaze at you, slapping away your hand. “Even I did not foresee this one.”

“It wasn’t necessarily by choice. My… no, our powers. They surpass the vessel that contains it. Naturally, those that cling to a faith that does not exist would be drawn to one such as me. And, once they stare into the maw, they are consumed and made anew.”

“A horrible fate.”

“Maybe,” you say dismissively. “But you and I are now here. And I can complete my promise to you from long ago—that I can relieve you of your burden.”

“And that is the true reason you have called me here,” she says, matter-of-fact.

“Yes. I have been long awaiting this day.”

“Then?” she says with impatience. “Shall we get on with it?”

“Let’s.”

“What do I do? I don’t suppose it will hurt… will it?”

“Just keep calm and stare into my very being. It should be simple for a sage as grand as you, no? As for the pain… you’ll be fine.”

She starts staring—straight into the maw of the beast. First, it swallows her senses, robbing her of feeling. She sees nothing, only writhing darkness that seems to lash at her should she pay attention to it. It twists imaginary shadows that tricks her vision. Smells of musty, rotten wood linger around her and, slowly, she is crushed by unfathomable force. What she feels is nothing, and what she does not feel consumes her until she is no more.

Were she not Fukurokuju, she might have died and disappeared into the belly of the beast. But if anything, she has the fortitude to withstand such supernatural pressure. In that moment, she’s able to peer, though only briefly, into the inner depths of the beast. And it whispers: “You have killed us.”

I did not kill anyone, she says, though she cannot speak.

“No, not you,” it says. Then it stares through her—through her entire being. “YOU.”

Then she is violently wrested back into the mortal realm, facing you.

“Welcome back. See? Not too bad, right?”

“‘Not too bad,’ he says. I believe I am never doing that again.”

“It’ll be the first and last time, I swear.” You smile sweetly. “Well?”

“You’ve delivered your promise. Truthfully, I am surprised. You have devoured what has cursed me for so long.”

“Fitting, as I am a curse god after all.”

“But,” she says sharply, “What you’ve taken from me—it takes an inordinate power to control it. I’d advise against trying to use it if you do not have to. Even I have only used its power once, you understand?”

“I am well aware.”

“Then you know that it was more of a burden than a blessing.” She wistfully looks down at her sandaled feet, reminiscing of an older time. “And when I had used its power… the Fukurokuju that you knew died that day.”

“Do not worry,” you reassure her. “Your power will be adequate.”

“Adequate would not be the word I use for such power.”

“I would have much preferred if you had the power to turn back the tides of time.”

With a raspy sigh, she replies, “Wouldn’t we all.”

Death is the only one that can gleefully take what’s yours and get away with it unscathed. You and death, however, are acquainted—perhaps too acquainted with one another. If you were less indifferent to tragedy, would you have been standing here, consuming power beyond even your control? It’s a pointless question; the past was eternal, changeless against the roaring present.

“Do you regret wielding your power?” you ask Fukurokuju.

“No,” she replies immediately. Her face darkens as she reminisces of times past. “Time and time, I would think to myself what I would have done if I had another chance. Yet, this I believe: I would not have done anything different. I was foolish and selfish, but after many years, I do not believe that my powers can be used solely for the benefit of the world. So I wonder: What will you do with such power?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’d use it for justice?”

“Hakurou.” Fukurokuju hunches over, apparently bearing the weight of the world crushing down on her. She holds her staff with both hands, using it as leverage to remain standing. “Or rather, you. It may surprise you to hear this, but indeed, I do believe you. I do not doubt that you’d use my power for good intent. But justice is blind—and so too, is retribution. I fear that your ever-growing want of yours shall consume you. I mean this with no ill respect, but… have you ever considered disappearing and living quietly? You need only to shelve your regrets in the past.”

“It’s precisely because I cannot that I am doing this.”

“You risk throwing everything you have away—as I have. You should count your blessings… however few you have remaining.”

“You cannot count what you do not possess. I have nothing to lose, Fuku. I now have the opportunity to recast time. However patchwork the solution is, it matters little. And you’d understand: I cannot live for vengeance. I’ve already done that—and failed. If not vengeance, and if not repentance, then what else? Find the answer for me, and I shall consider turning back.”

The woman shook her head. “There isn’t an answer that exists in the world that would satisfy you.”

Fukurokuju leans on her staff, head turned expectantly for a reply, but all that awaits her is a dismissive wave of your hand.

“Then,” she says slowly and deliberately, “is that all?”

“Indeed. I’ve already taken what I required of you, so you have dutifully served your purpose. Surely, you weren’t expecting us to sit down for tea, talk about the time in-betweens, and hug each other farewell.”

“No… I suppose not. But I also did not expect to be chased away so quickly as you’d a scorned lover. Come now, it’s been over several hundred years. Don’t you think we’ve much to catch up on?”

“Consider me heartless, but no,” you decline. “We do not. What has needed to be said has already been said. And what has not—consider it too insignificant to mention.”

“I suppose that is how you will be, even until the end. I cannot say that I do not understand, but…” The hermit sighs, resting a weary hand on her gnarled wooden staff. “At least bestow upon me a modicum of courtesy and escort me down the stairs personally.”

You oblige. “I suppose I can do that, then.”

The air is still, but the morning light, now shining upon Gensokyo in unashamed glory, has finally reached its residents, though only you, Fukurokuju, and the birds of the morning are aware. It is a rare moment of natural quiet, especially so when the silence you usually induce is coerced. In despite of all this, Fukurokuju walks beside you in brooding.

As she hobbles down the stairs with slow and languid steps, Fukurokuju returns to prior conversation. “Is there no way to convince you otherwise?”

“You know as much as anyone else how obstinate I am. I’ve thought deeply about what I would do for centuries. And, as constant as night itself, I always arrive back at the same conclusion. You’d sooner create world peace than persuade me away from my own thoughts.”

“Then I suppose I’d better start soon on my campaign for world peace,” she says, breathing a tired sigh. “Mind giving me a generous deadline? Say, ten thousand years or so?”

“I’m a busy god.”

“I wish you’d just humor me… just once, even. But regardless, only you know the truth… however obscured and muddled you make it. But know this,” Fukurokuju says, pausing. Her dark, murky eyes shimmer in rare clarity, as if she had known, or had always known. “Your lies become you.”

In her words, you see visions of a white wolf, entangled within a web of curses. It struggles, but despite its best efforts, it is inevitably enveloped by a dark fog, re-emerging as a wholly different beast. Its maw drips of the blood of others, teeth strewn with flesh. This time, it turns to face you: It stares silently as thousands of souls writhe within its ever-consuming self. Yet it does not approach. At least, not yet. Its dormancy obscures its vigilance But it knows—and it knows that you know—that all one needs to do is remain patient… as you have.

The being speaks, voice ringing with awful clarity.

Your lies become you, it says, regurgitating the words of the hermit.

It’s a voice you’re all too familiar with. Since you were immaterial, it has been whispering soft torment after torment into your ear. But when have you been the type to listen to petty drivel? Its voice, its shape, its existence—they are all you. Or rather, you were shaped into its form. But it isn’t you. No, in fact, it never was.

To cling so desperately to life… how revolting. Within the depths of eternal agony, it still manages to speak once more. Yet it is nothing more than a husk whose leash is tightly bound by its own curses, rehearsing empty words ad aeternum.

Do you hear me, Hakurō? Your lies become you. Your lies become you, your lies become you, YOUR LIES BECOME YOU, YOUR LIES BECOME YOU, YOUR LIES—

“I’m well aware,” you reply, answering both the voice and the hermit.