The ribbon trembled in her fingers as she untied it.
She opened the box.

Inside sat a small, perfectly carved phoenix idol — deep crimson, smooth and cool to the touch. Its wings curled mid-rise.

8 Years Ago — Nakamura block, Apartment.

Scrolls hung from the ceiling in overlapping rows — translucent paper sheets hand-painted with streaks of black, red, and white. They swayed gently in the breeze from the half-open window behind them.

The room was dimly lit, a faint red glow was in the room as the light filtered through the scrolls from the window behind.

 A brush held by a phoenix-tattooed forearm swept across the canvas in slow, practiced strokes. Red. Then black. Then a slash of white.

 Hiro Mizukawa stood barefoot on a paint-splattered floor, shoulders hunched, focused. The individual scrolls now gave a bigger picture, it was massive — half-finished, at one end of the wide painting A golden figure sat cross-legged at the center, lines of calm etched around its presence.

Around it, black figures twisted — so many of them stretched all the way to the other end of the painting.

Only their silhouettes were finished. Their faces remained blank. Waiting.

Hiro let out a sigh and sat down on the matted floor all while gazing at his unfinished work.

“Gramps… what are you doing?”

He turned.
Hana — around five years old — stood with a juice box in hand, staring at the scrolls. Her brow scrunched, curious.

Hiro offered a tired smile and patted the floor beside him.
“Come here.”

She padded over and sat down cross-legged, the straw still poked between her lips.

Hiro raised the brush again and gestured toward the central figure in the scrolls — the unfinished man cloaked in gold, surrounded by darkness.

“That’s him,” he said softly."The one who saw all suffering… and showed us how to rise above it."

Hana tilted her head. “Is that God?”

Hiro shook his head slowly.
“Not God. A man who reached beyond the material world. The Honored one.”

Her eyes dropped to his arm pointed towards the painting.
A tattoo peeked through the folded sleeve of his shirt — a bird in flight, flames curling along its wings.

 “Gramps, what does that bird on your arm mean again?”  she asked, pointing. 

Hiro glanced down, smiled faintly, lowering the brush.
“It’s a phoenix,” he said. “A mythical bird that dies… then rises again from its ashes. Reborn. Stronger.”

Hana blinked. “So it comes back… no matter what?”

“That’s the idea.” He said.

He leaned forward slightly, lifted the brush again — and gently tapped its tip on Ayame's nose, turning it red.

Hana scrunched her nose at the tickle, giggling.

Hiro chuckled softly, then said.

 “You gotta be like that too, kiddo. Life’s gonna knock you down. Doesn’t matter how hard. What matters is that you don’t give up.”

She pouted. “Why would anything happen to me? I have you.”
She clung to his arm, eyes wide.

Hiro was quiet for a moment.
Then, in a softer voice:
“I won’t always be here, y’know…”

That hit her like a punch. Tears welled up instantly.
She began smacking his arm with her fists.
“Bad Grandpa! Don’t say that!.”

Hiro laughed gently.

 “Alright, alright… I’m not going anywhere.” he said, while putting the paint brush down.

He pulled her into a hug. In front of them, the scrolls shifted with the breeze.

The brush, still damp, pointed upward — toward the unfinished figure cloaked in gold.

A slow push-in on the serene, faceless Buddha.

Present day–Yama district monastery, 11:30 PM.

The same Buddha. Now complete.

Painted directly onto the wall inside the monastery’s chamber — a wide and massive mural glowing dimly by lantern light.

Around him, shadows of demons curl and claw in crimson haze.

They surge like a storm at the edges… but the figure in gold remains still. Untouched. Eternal.

Footsteps echo.

Two Twin–swordsman monks from earlier, robes drawn tight, walk side by side down the corridor that borders the mural chamber, mural still being visible from the spaced windows as they walk by. Their faces are worn, their movements slow, age has caught up to them— men who’ve seen war and worse.

 [Caption: SOEN and KAGEN— right and left hand men of Urashima in his yakuza days | Nero ability: Undisclosed}]

Soen (quietly, almost to himself):

"I never thought I’d live to see it… a living heir to the Boshin legacy."

Kagen (with a dry scoff):

"Yeah. Hundred years since the last one. Thought there wouldn't be one for a long time."

Soen:

"Tch. That’s what those Nexus scum are after. The Supreme Ability of the Boshin bloodline."

Elsewhere, in the higher floors of monastery — the girl.

Ayame lay curled on the floor like a worm. Her grandfather’s coat still draped her, wrapped around her like a cocoon, the edges splayed out beneath her like a makeshift bed. In her hands, clenched tightly to her chest, was the last gift he ever gave her — the small crimson phoenix idol.

Tears spilled freely now, carving wet lines down her cheeks.

She didn’t sob. She didn’t scream.

Just trembled, and breathed, and held on.

     {[Caption:

 Ayame Boshin — Nero Ability: ”Tengumu”(The “Heavenly Gum”) (True nature: unknown).]}