Sheng.
“Let’s go.” Hisaki extended her hand.
Rinna placed her hand on top.
The two walked out of the room and headed along the corridor toward the Budo Dojo.
The night breeze flowed in from the courtyard, carrying the mixed scent of pine and moss, its coolness washing away much of the day’s mugginess.
The Budo Dojo was at the end of the corridor. The all-black wooden structure almost blended into the darkness of the night, only the outline of the roof traced with a thin silver edge by the moonlight.
Hisaki didn’t enter the dojo. Instead, she led Rinna along a stone-paved path that curved around the side.
The path was so narrow that the two couldn’t walk side by side. Hisaki walked in front, Rinna followed behind, their hands still clasped. Hisaki’s arm reached back slightly, like a warm guide rope.
The stone slabs were bleached white by the moonlight, with fluffy moss growing in the cracks. Stepping on them felt soft, like walking on a thin layer of sponge.
At the end of the path was a wooden door. Made of dark wood, with a thick beam across the lintel. It was the same style as the Kurose Clan’s main gate, only much smaller.
A small wooden plaque hung on the door, inscribed with the character for “woman.”
The script was old-style regular script, strokes neat and proper. The ink had been washed by wind and rain many times and was already somewhat faded.
Hisaki pushed the door open.
A wave of heat rushed toward them, carrying a faint scent of sulfur and the fresh fragrance of bamboo leaves.
The heat surged out through the crack, hitting Rinna’s face—warm and gentle, as if someone had gently pressed a sun-warmed towel over her face.
Steady.
Inside the door was a modest changing room. The wooden floor was polished to a shine. In the corner sat a bamboo basket, neatly holding two snow-white bath towels.
On the wall hung several ukiyo-e-style hot spring pictures. The women in the paintings wore yukata, their hair tied up in high buns, poses leisurely.
The air carried a faint woody scent—the aroma of cypress wood that had been steeped in hot spring steam for years, warm and deep.
Hisaki closed the door and hung her yukata on a hook on the wall. Then she turned around to face Rinna. Then she began to undress.
No hesitation. No shyness. No prelude like “turn around” or anything.
Hisaki’s fingers pinched the hem of her summer uniform shirt, lifting it up over her head. The fabric slid off, revealing her fair skin beneath.
The shirt was casually draped over the edge of the basket, white fabric hanging down.
Then the skirt. Her fingers found the zipper at the waist, pulling it down. The skirt fell to her ankles, kicked aside to pile on the wooden floor like a ring of deep blue ripples.
Hisaki was left in only her underwear. Black, simple style, without any lace or frills—as plain and unadorned as her black yukata.
Her body was outlined clearly under the warm yellow light of the changing room. The lines of her shoulders were smooth and sharp, her collarbones extending from the base of her neck outward like a pair of slightly spread wings.
Her waist was thin, but the curve from her waist to her hips was not slender. Years of martial arts training had covered her body with a thin, firm layer of muscle.
Not the blocky muscles built in a gym, but the streamlined shape honed by countless sword swings, endless turns, and numerous barefoot movements on wooden floors.
Her skin glowed with a warm luster under the light, like porcelain carefully polished by time.
Rinna turned away. So fast that even she felt it was a bit deliberate.
Behind her came the rustling sound of fabric rubbing. Then Hisaki’s voice.
“Rinna? What’s wrong?”
Her tone carried a hint of confusion. Just a tiny hint, as if she genuinely didn’t know why Rinna had turned away.
“…It’s nothing.”
Rinna’s voice was muffled.
She stared at the hairpin on the wall, cursing herself inwardly. ‘Why did you turn? Hisaki is so natural about it. What’s with your shyness?’
Hisaki must think she’s strange for sure. In the past, when they bathed together, Rinna definitely didn’t react like this.
The old Rinna would probably have giggled and pounced, saying something like, “Xiao Xiao, your body’s amazing!” and then the two would have bickered and run into the shower together. Not like this.
Behind her came the sound of a wardrobe opening, then the sound of Hisaki putting on her yukata—fabric sliding over skin, belt being tightened, collar being adjusted.
Every sound was very soft, but in Rinna’s ears, each sound was amplified several times over.
“I’m done.”
Rinna turned around.
Hisaki was already wearing that black yukata, with the petals of red spider lilies faintly visible along the hem.
The collar was slightly open, revealing a small patch of skin at the junction of her collarbone and neck, glowing with a faint pink under the light.
Her black hair hung from her shoulders, the ends resting on the yukata’s collar—black overlapping black, impossible to tell where the hair ended and the fabric began.
Hisaki looked at her. Her deep brown eyes held no sense of urging. She just waited quietly, as if waiting for a flower to bloom slowly.
Rinna lowered her head and began to unbutton her winter uniform.
First, the collar button. Her fingers pinched the black button and pushed it through the buttonhole. Her movements were very slow—so slow that even she thought they were slow—but she couldn’t control it.
Her fingers were trembling slightly. Not because of the cold. The heat in the changing room had already steamed her face to a warm flush.
Second, the chest button. Then the third, the fourth.
The winter uniform coat came off, the black fabric feeling heavy in her hands. She folded the coat and placed it beside the basket.
Then the white shirt underneath. When her fingers touched the first button, her fingertips grazed her own collarbone. The skin trembled slightly at the cool touch.
One by one, the buttons came undone. The front of the white shirt opened to both sides, revealing the cotton camisole underneath. The camisole was white, simple in style, with a low neckline just covering her chest.
Rinna slid the white shirt off her shoulders. As the fabric slid over her arms, she felt a fine layer of goosebumps rise on her skin—not because of the cold, but because she knew Hisaki was watching.
Skirt. Her fingers found the zipper at the waist, the same motion as Hisaki had just made. The zipper slid down. The skirt fell to her ankles. She bent down to pick it up, folded it, and placed it next to the shirt.
Now she was left with only the camisole and cotton panties.
Rinna’s peripheral vision caught Hisaki. Hisaki stood about two steps to her left, holding the pink cherry blossom yukata. Her gaze fell on Rinna—not appraising, not scrutinizing, but a very quiet gaze.
Hisaki stepped forward. She unfolded the yukata and draped it over Rinna’s shoulders. The fabric settled on her skin, cool, carrying the faint scent of camphor from the wardrobe.
Hisaki’s fingers slid down from Rinna’s shoulders, smoothing the yukata’s front—left side over right—then wrapped the belt around and tied a knot at her waist, neither too tight nor too loose.
As her fingers tied the knot, they brushed against Rinna’s waist through the yukata’s fabric, with a touch as light as stroking a flower petal.
“There.”