CW: Explicit language, blood & gore, violence, implied child abuse, mentions of slavery, mentions of alcohol abuse & addiction.
A week later, Jun visits Rin to discuss their plan for defending the Slums. He brings Mira, albeit with some reluctance on the maidservant’s part, so they could draw upon her wealth of wisdom in defensive strategies.
“Rinnie, you should not have gone to the trouble.” Jun stares at the groaning table, unable to fathom quite what he is seeing. When he realises that the oddly shaped centrepiece is in fact a burnt fish head (no seasonings, just char for garnish), his eyes almost bulge out of his skull. “You truly…truly should not have…” he adds, weakly.
“I’m trying the whole domestic thing,” Rin says, desperately trying to tame the tangled nest his hair has become. “I spent all night cooking for your asses, so sit down and stop laughing at me.”
Jun quickly schools his face into one without mirth. The raven’s a mess with red cheeks and apron donned inside out, and the various bandages and burns decorating his poor fingers. Notably, the fragile thread tied around his fourth digit seemed to have miraculously escaped harm.
It’s endearing, the way Rin fusses about the table, spooning overcooked rice into chipped bowls (it’s pure mush) and making sure the soup (jelly? Omelette?) has enough salt (too much, much too much!). Despite his trepidation, Jun’s heart melts like sun struck snow.
“Come Mira, let us enjoy the lunch that Rin has so generously prepared for us.” Jun gives his maidservant a pointed look when she glares at him. It’s a short but violent struggle that the obstinate lord wins, and Mira sits at the table with a harrowed expression.
“This looks…” The ex-soldier stops herself short. Changes route. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Rin grins and pours them a round of hard liquor – not a drink that would complement any of the present dishes. Mira slams it down before her host has finished pouring.
“Go on,” the raven urges, pushing the various (unrecognisable) dishes towards his guests. “Eat! The food’s gonna get cold.”
He sits down and stares at them both in anticipation. While Mira hesitates to pick up her chopsticks, Jun enthusiastically dives into the food, sampling every dish with gusto. He pauses every now and then to remove bones from his mouth. And pieces of charcoal. And dangerous slivers of wood(?!).
“The amount of detritus in your cooking is a wonder,” Mira states flatly, wincing as her young master spits out a leaf.
“I knew you’d like it!” Rin says, with no little amount of smugness. “I used all the seasonings I had. Bo gave me some too, you know, real pricey stuff they use in the High District. Thought it’d be more to your fancy palates.”
“It is delicious, Rinnie,” Jun enthuses, before downing his potent drink to cut through the overly salted pork. “If you keep practicing, I am sure you would rival even the best of the palace chefs.”
“Try the fish head! I know you bluebloods like the weird bony parts, so I roasted it for you.”
“It is…exceptionally well roasted,” Mira says, staring at the charred lump.
“I don’t think you’ve ever complimented me this much, Mira,” Rin smirks, waggling a brow. “Maybe I should cook for you more often~”
The look she gives him could freeze even Solaris, and he quickly picks up his cup to hide behind. “…Anyway, we’re not here to make idle gossip.”
“No, of course,” Jun says, suddenly serious. “As you know, Mira, the situation has become rather dire here in the Slums. Rin has spoken to the Mischief about assisting in the defence of the district, but we thought to consult you on this matter, since you are the expert amongst us.”
Mira grimaces. “You mean the children I single-handedly beat? They are your best defence?”
“They’re already on patrol,” Rin says, sniffing at her incredulity. “Been on patrol for almost a week. Didn’t you notice how busy the streets were on your way here? We’ve been getting payment even, in food and drink, sometimes coin. Strung up a few of the traffickers. The Silverswords are getting the message.”
“Strung up…?”
“What else were we meant to do? Hand them over to the Silverswords?” Rin sneers. “And before you start freaking out, it wasn’t my idea. The Mischief caught them and Slummers decided their fate. I suppose they were feeling extra pissed that day.”
Jun frowns, his expression conflicted. “Was there definitive proof that they were guilty? Surely there was a trial process–”
“We seen them snatching people off the streets. Don’t need more proof than that. You should know by now that things work a bit differently down here, little lord.”
Mira steps in, before an obviously contentious issue could enflame into an argument. “From my observations, the People’s District are aware of the current situation in the Slums. They are, for the most part, sympathetic and have been vocal in their support.”
“There are a few in the High District who are also sympathetic,” Jun adds, popping a small mound of charred fish into his mouth. He chews slowly, struggling to keep his expression stable. “Perhaps we could use their influence to our advantage. While the Governor is unlikely to listen to those from the lower districts, he would be unable to ignore those who have status. Viscount Escarra, for example, looks upon me rather favourably. Though he has a penchant for greed, he is fervently against enslavement. ‘We cannot win a war that our soldiers are unwilling to fight.’ Or so he says.”
“He is not a complete fool after all,” Mira says, dryly. “While this would lend you much strength, it would greatly increase the tension between districts. And you, young master, would be putting yourself at risk.”
“Down here, I am Bijan Azar. Up there, I am the future Governor. None shall know of my true intentions.”
“While I will do my best to assist you here, your safety is my first and foremost concern. I fear that this may endanger you directly–”
“And if it does, then you will be here to protect me,” Jun says, calmly. He reaches out to grasp his old friend’s hand. “Mira. This is important to me. This is, what I consider, the very foundation of my career as the Governor of this city. This region. If I am not willing to put myself on the frontline, then how could I expect others to do the same? I must lead by example, Mira. And not follow as my father does.”
The Swordsmaster tightens her jaw but she gives a quick nod nonetheless. “I will not convince you.”
“No,” Jun says, smiling genially. “But I thank you for trying.”
Mira releases a sharp breath and picks up her drink to down in one gulp.
They speak over the rest of lunch (though only one of them eats), and the ex-Nix enlightens the youths on defensive strategies, such as efficient patrol paths and schedules, advised weaponry, and situational tactics. The more they anticipate from the enemy, the more prepared they will be.
“Be paranoid,” Mira finishes, sipping at her tenth cup of liquor. “Above all, that is the best advice I can give you.”
“I can pass that on, but the Vermin are getting cocky,” Rin snorts.
We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.
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“Young master, the lord has been enquiring of your whereabouts when you are off-duty. You should return for tonight–”
“If the Governor is curious, then he may enquire with me directly.”
“I responded as such and he was dissatisfied.”
Jun is unmoved, his expression like steel. “Outside of my duties we had agreed upon, the Governor has no right to my private affairs.”
“He suspects your involvement in the recent cases of arson across the lower districts. As well as the attack against the Rose Palace.” Her eyes flicker to the Rat, who is taunting the chickens in the neighbouring yard. “Tread carefully, young master. If the lord should ever find out about…Bijan Azar…”
“He will not,” Jun says, planting a reassuring hand upon his maidservant’s shoulder. “Thank you for your concern, Mira. You should return to the estate before you catch the chill.”
Her response is lost to another voice, cantankerous and shrill, as Nuwa storms out of her house to protect her precious fowl.
“Keep your hands off my chickens, you no-good thieving bastard!” the old woman shrieks, hobbling up to the fence as she waves her walking stick about. “What have they ever done to you, eh?!”
Rin clicks his tongue in irritation and kicks the fence, sending the chickens scattering in a feathery panic. “I ain’t even touching them! Have you finally gone senile?!”
“I’ll be dead long before I go senile, impetuous whelp!” Nuwa raises her stick to fend away the youth’s enthusiastic attack against her poor fence — and she stops dead still, mid-swing, her eyes caught upon the stranger.
Mira stiffens but she seamlessly quashes any flicker of emotion. “…Good afternoon,” she monotones, giving an impassive yet courteous dip of the head.
The witch lowers her stick, a near imperceptible flinch in her cheek. “What’s good about it?” she snaps, all prickle and edge.
“This is your…home?” Mira scans the ramshackle structure behind the older woman, eyes narrowing subtly.
“…Yes,” Nuwa responds, suddenly austere. “For almost a decade.”
“A decade. That is a very long time.”
“I am not here by choice.”
“Clearly,” Mira says, coldly.
The youths exchange glances, utterly confused by the strange conversation.
Rin sighs and grabs Mira by the arm, tugging her away from the witch. “Ooookay, I think it’s time for you to go, teach. It’s a long trek back to the estate and–”
The rest of his words clog in his throat. As though he were standing on a listing storm-tossed ship, the ground lurches beneath his feet and he’s thrown into the depths of the sky, falling, falling, into the never-ending, harrowing blue–
She’s small. Too small. An emaciated child crouched down in a darkened room – or is that a house? – playing with a long-eared rabbit. She’s trying to coax the creature with an outstretched palm, and it warily regards her before hopping close.
When the twitching nose tickles her hand, the child giggles, and her dirty face brightens with a brilliance only capable by the truly young. She tugs the creature into her lap and it kicks once or twice in alarm, before settling. She giggles again and buries her face in the pristine white fur.
Red stains her visage like a gory mask. A similar dress stains the rabbit and she screams.
Two pairs of hands, inhumanly large, grab the struggling creature by each limb and pull. It’s nothing more than a paper construction soaked in the rain, falling apart with the merest provocation. Blood splatters, sinews snap, organs tumble from rend flesh.
The crushed skull lands in her blood drenched lap and the very life drains from her eyes. There’s nothing there. She’s but a shell, long disappeared into herself.
Cracks skitter along the walls of that dank, dark room before it implodes, crumpling, shattering, and shrinking like a giant hand fisted around, crushing the very bones of the structure to dust. For a moment, he’s suspended in the void, without sense of himself; faceless, nameless, just less. And then, there’s suddenly something, in all that nothing–
She’s dressed in a blue uniform that’s far too big for her tiny frame. Figures, as small as she, stand beside her, countless blurred features that are nothing more than landscape. The older woman paces before her – short, thin, and razor sharp, without a shred of give or warmth in her person. Edifier Five, the woman is called. Edifier Five.
“Only humans and pets have names,” she says, her voice as detached as her visage. “Here, we are nothing more than the weapons we use.”
The child doesn’t mind it like the others do. Being human has given her nothing but family who sold her for a pittance. Being human is a waste of breathing.
She is programmed by Five. Every step, every cell, every thought, created and cultivated by the Edifier. Every misstep, every flaw, every hesitation, is torn down with cruel efficiency.
“Rotted wood must be destroyed and replaced, else the entire structure will collapse.”
She is being replaced, one piece at a time.
Nix. They’re all called Nix. It’s either that or You. It’s almost alarming how quickly she becomes accustomed to those two terms. Nix. You. She likes it far better than her human name. It’s simple. Defined. She knows the boundaries of herself. She makes sense.
Even the pain makes sense. She’s constantly oscillating between pain and no pain. Nix and You. Every mission isn’t without its risk, but she relishes her work. She relishes the wounds she receives in return. She lets herself be ripped apart, torn to shreds, like a paper construction soaked in the rain.
Edifier Five has noticed her.
“You must be mindful of your hands,” Five tells her, working the cramping muscles in her palms loose. “They are your most important tools.”
Five hurts them the worst. Out of all the Edifiers in the Immaculate, she is notoriously cruel and unyielding. The Purest of the Immaculate, she’s called behind her back. She was born inhuman. It’s innate to her, unlike the rest of them, who fight with their humanity with every kill.
But the child sees Five’s humanity and it runs deeper than rot. Edifier Five is weak. Flawed. Broken. And the child despises her. The child is drawn to her.
“Why Mira?”
They are alone, once again, watching the sunrise after a mission. Five brought her a rice ball to eat, but she has no appetite. She never does, after a kill.
“It means nothing,” the child says.
“You will use it on your next assignment?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it from?”
“I heard it in passing.”
“It is a good name.” Five regards the child with an odd expression. “If you were not a Nix, you would wear it well.”
The child is confused, but she considers it silently. She takes a bite of the rice ball. It tastes good.
And then something goes wrong. She’s too confident. Too comfortable. She goes into a mission, expecting it to be standard – a simple poisoning during the night. But they are ready for her and she is thrown into the hellfires of suffering that drives her into madness.
The pain isn’t pain anymore. It’s a state of being. An is. She is the embodiment of the very thing that decimates her. The child is no longer. She has become the true Nix – without mind, without sense, a mere blade forged by the fires of suffering.
There’s a single thread, tethering her to herself – Edifier Five. The obstinate entity that refuses to leave her side. For a time, she wallows in Five’s affections, her regrets, her silent apologies. It’s almost convincing.
And then Five severs the thread herself. Turns her back on the Nix and disappears.
She is abandoned. She is abandoned.
Blood splatters, sinews snap, organs tumble from rend flesh. The flames engulf her. She lets herself burn to ash.
“Why Mira?”
In the belly of the inferno, he can see her. He can see them. Petrified in the blinding flames, charcoal statues preserved in their natural broken state, jaws stretched out in silent screams, their dying throes carved into scorched flesh, forevermore, forevermore, for him to enjoy forevermore–
His world melts like the paint on a portrait inflamed, warping and weeping until there’s an incomprehensible mesh of colours. Demons lurk in the misshapen landscape. The sky and the sea are the one putrid stain. At the heart of this muckish distortion is the definition of something fathomable. A recognisable place.
The Hanging Tree in the Slums, gallows as old as this Cycle, and prison to the countless aggrieved souls hung from its boughs. There, swinging from the noose, its latest victim.
And she’s small. Much too small–
An ear-splitting scream rips from his throat. He gasps and keens, trying to catch his breath, trying to find purchase on something, anything. Tide after tide of crushing despair batters him from every direction. The agony is a merciless titan, relentless in its torture despite his desperate cries.
But then, he’s pressed against another. Hard flesh, hot blood, racing pulse. And those arms, familiar arms, holding him so firmly, he’s helpless to their demand. In the squall of pain and confusion, this is the single calm, the only thing that makes sense in the senseless, and he clings on to his saviour, shaking, teeth chattering, chasing after that soothing voice that rumbles like distant thunder in a spring storm.
Rin clings on, long after he’s returned to himself.
***
“Get up. You’ve slept enough.”
He’s not asleep, but he stirs like he is anyway. The drink weighs heavy on his bones – Southern liquor is the pricey garment he wears, fibres of iron anchoring him to the futon. If not for his small comfort, he would have long lost his tether to his sanity.
Through the groggy haze of inebriation, he has a traitorous thought about his mother. A musing that perhaps he’s discovered the reason for her obsession with drink. If her visions were like this every time, then I can’t blame her for drinking. In fact, it’s a wonder she remained so cogent for so long – even drying out before her death.
Dasom’s strength is unparalleled. And Rin resents her for it.
“You smell like a distillery,” Nuwa snaps, lowering herself into the couch. She grips her walking stick with both hands as she regards him, wrinkles deep-set in her face. “Have you returned to your senses? Or must I dunk you in the river?”
“Shuddup, you wrinkled old prune,” the youth slurs, dragging himself into a semi-sitting position. He props himself against the wall, glaring at Nuwa from under a drooping eyelid. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“That foolish noble of yours sent me to watch over you. Wouldn’t leave me alone until I did.” She twists her face like she’s a mouthful of lemon. “He’s worse than Bo.”
Rin huffs amusedly through his nose. “Where is he?”
“Cooking you porridge with Bo. A couple of clucky mother hens they are.” The witch cracks her walking stick against the ground, making him jolt. “Tell me what you saw.”
Rin stares at her, retort withering in his throat. He licks his lips. They feel dry. Cracked. “I don’t know what you’re–”
“Those drunken fits your mother had were not drunken fits.” Nuwa leans forward, hawkish eyes boring into his skull. “I knew her better than she knew herself. I can say the same about her magic. Tell me boy, before I lose my patience. What did you see?”
The raven’s lashes drop low. He’s silent for a while, returned to the agony he’d so eagerly left behind. And then, in a hoarse voice, he says, “…I saw Mira.” He tries to parse through his memories, trying to interpret the maelstrom of images and emotion. “I saw…how she became Mira.”
Nuwa leans back, knobbly hands white knuckling her walking stick. Her face is unchanging, stuck in its default dourness. “I see. This Mira. She works for the Governor?”
“For Jun. Her loyalty lies with him.”
“What is her position?”
“She does everything, I suppose. But she’s mostly a Swordsmaster. Taught me how to use my daggers while I was at the estate.”
“And you saw her past?” Nuwa narrows her eyes at the lad, studying his every expression. “There is another vision. Tell me. Is it also about Mira?”
Rin raises himself upright, surprise rippling across his scarred visage.
“Bah. You haven’t realised? So much for genius, eh? The Scribe records what has been, what is, and what is yet to come. Time is circular like the Cycle – thus to see the past, you must also see the future.”
“The Scribe?” Rin blinks.
“Have you no schooling, boy? Have you not once picked up a book? The Scribe is the god of Seers, or Shaman as they’re called in this territory.”
“Is that the god…is that who Dasom…?”
Nuwa sniffs and taps the point of her walking stick against her foot. A gesture of uncertainty. “Without knowing her House, I can’t say for sure. But it is likely, given the potency of her abilities. Now, enough with this. Tell me what you saw or I’ll knock the drink out of you.”
The youth scowls and rubs his eye, clearing his blurred vision. “I think she’s in danger,” he says, warily. “I saw the Hanging Tree. And she was there. Dead.” He pauses, recollecting the small figure swaying from a bough. The creak of the rope. The rustling of the leaves. A tranquil scene, despite the gruesome nature of it. “I think it was her,” he adds in a mutter. “It happened so quickly. And I was trying to keep my brain from dribbling out my ears.”
Upon hearing the words ‘Hanging Tree’, Nuwa’s face blanches a shade or two. She retains her stoicity however, commenting, “With every vision you have, they will increase in power.”
“You mean they get worse?”
She gives him a sharp look. “Your mother didn’t drink for mere entertainment. What was the first thing you did after you came to?”
Rin grimaces, glancing at the empty bottles strewn across the table. Isn’t this the state of the house when Dasom was alive? Empty bottles and corks decorating the place, and the pervasive stench of ethanol clinging onto everything like smoke. He loved drinking as much as the next Slummer – but he drank for entertainment. What Dasom did was depressing. It was a sickness.
And now, as he scans his home, he sees Dasom. It’s like she’s never left.
“Why–” He starts, but his voice cracks midway. Cheeks burning, he clears his throat. “Why am I seeing Mira? I touch Jun all the time, but I haven’t had a vision about him yet.”
“Most prophetic visions are given to us by the nexus as a portent sign. An omen of fate that must be altered in some way. Some believe that this is how the gods correct our path if we ever stray from disparition.”
Rin raises a brow. He never thought Nuwa to be a disparition nut. Then again, Nuwa’s always been a figure of great enigma. “It’s not like I can change something that’s already happened.”
“Our history informs our future. The nexus reveals the past so that you may use it to alter the future. Consider it a kindness from the gods.”
“Kindness?” Rin snorts, slumping against the wall. “It’d be a kindness if they took this stupid magic back.” He gives a slight shiver. “Never been that bad before. Like I was trapped between dying and living. And I had to just…let it happen.”
“There’s no fighting a force of nature,” the old witch huffs. “In the end, we have nothing but our minds, and even then it’s tenuous.” She sways to and fro, as if she were sitting in her rocking chair. “This is why you need a system. It will serve as your rock, a way to regain your sense of control. This is something we must all have.”
“I do. I have one,” Rin says, thinking about a certain golden-eyed lord. “What’s your rock?”
“It should be obvious. Mine is seven feet tall and makes the perfect cup of tea.”
Rin glances at the weak autumn sunlight, filtering in through the windows. Dust motes float through the buttery blades that slice across the wooden floorboards. The well-tended hearth combats the frigid wind that rattles the panes every so often.
His mind casts back over the visions he’s had thus far. His visions at the Blue Plains, about Jina and the Lost Prince – they were warning him about Jun’s possession. The bizarre trip to the Last Cycle as he stood in Kahin’s office, drugged out of his mind, and the Watcher peering out its tower over a burning Hanjuyang. Perhaps this was a warning about the Mother’s machinations.
A pulsing headache grows behind his wooden eye and he surreptitiously strokes the eyepatch. “Dasom…she said that she knew who I would become. That I shouldn’t have been born.” He gives Nuwa a bitter smile. “Don’t you think that’s a bit dramatic?”
Nuwa dips her head, considering his words carefully. “Your mother was tortured by the visions she had. At times however, it was difficult for her to differentiate between visions of prophecy and visions of madness. Whatever it was she saw, it bears no relevance to you now.”
“What if she’s right?” Rin says, hesitantly. “What if I do turn out to be–”
“Would you relinquish all responsibility for your actions, boy?” Nuwa barks, slamming the walking stick into the ground with an almighty CRACK. “Stop spouting nonsense! While the roads ahead may be forged by the nexus, we are beings that possess free will. We have the ability to take whichever road we please to get to our desired location. Look to your noble. His life is determined by the name he bears, but he squats in a shack in the Slums, stirring a pot of rice porridge for his delinquent charge. This is your choice. This is your control.”
The raven fails to smother a genuine smile. A rare display for Nuwa, who startles when she catches sight of it. “I know,” he says, lolling his head along the wall. “You’re right. Even a dirty rat from the Slums can rise above the three thousand steps.” He giggles, a little wild-eyed.
Nuwa furrows her brows. “Take care to mitigate your arrogance, boy. Every traveller knows to arm themselves on the road and you must do the same. Resisting fate will not be without its violent reprisal.”
“Worry about yourself, you old goat. You don’t bother with me on the Devil’s orders.”
“I chose my assignment,” Nuwa huffs, prickly as ever. “From when you were shitting in diapers, you were my charge. I decided this for myself, not your father.” She rocks to her feet, grasping her hunched back as she finds her balance. “All those years, I could have walked away. Yet I didn’t. I knew that you would become a man who would make great change, and I wanted to see to it that you had the proper arsenal to do so.”
The witch starts towards the door, not once meeting Rin’s eye. But she doesn’t have to. The youth knows that every word she utters is sincere.
“Your mother, in her sickness, may have lamented your birth.” A glance over her shoulder reveals a soft expression that transforms her face, highlighting the beauty that persists through her many years. “I, however, am grateful for it.” With that parting sentiment, she leaves, and Rin stares at the door for a long time afterwards.
I’m watching kaguya-sama love is war and i can’t help but think of hayasaka whenever i see mira now… minus the super tragic past we just learned of course
Oooo! I’ve never seen it but now I’m super curious… How does Hayasaka remind you of Mira? Thank you for reading Clozed ^3^ <333
The attitude i guess? Idk really know but that was all i could think about when i was reading this chapter last week 😂😂
;-; mira
Thank you for the chapter!! <3
She’s fiiiiiine 😛 Thank you reading!! <333