(Master Anoki, fifth draft)
“It’s all wrong,” Master Anoki muttered to himself, rubbing his temples with ink-stained fingers.
The light from the small, narrow window crept across the desk. It illuminated the uneven stacks of scrolls and weathered inkstones that cluttered the surface.
Anoki was seated in his creaking chair, staring at the half-finished page before him with the intensity of a man who had a death sentence. He kept biting his quill.
was meant to be the crowning jewel of his decades of study. A chronicle of the Empire in its entirety, a great mirror held up to reflect all the glory, turmoil, and blood that had shaped its people.
That was the idea, at least.
In reality, it was a mess. A beautiful, untamable mess.
“All wrong,” Anoki repeated for no one but himself to hear. The words refused to come.
Again.
The Five General Rebellion, one of the Empire’s most pivotal conflicts, sat sprawled before him in fragmented sentences and crumpled drafts.
The chronicles of noble lords painted them as saviors, stalwart defenders of their people. But the firsthand accounts told another story—village fields salted to dust, innocents slaughtered, houses razed in the name of family honor.
, Anoki thought bitterly,
His hands trembled as he dipped the quill into the inkpot, then paused, his reflection staring back from the dark liquid.
He scratched out another opening line:
The quill stilled again. Anoki’s gaze lingered on the words before he slashed through them with a grunt of disgust.
He’d written that same line five times today, and each time it was met with a quiet, mocking silence. It wasn’t right. It would never be right.
Back when he started his work, six or seven years ago—and that’s after a decade of research—all he could think about was “If I don’t write this, someone else will.”
But as of late, he started thinking that maybe someone else have.
Clearly, Anoki was out of his depth. His hair, once thick and black, now hung in wiry gray strands over his furrowed brow, and he was no closer to his goal than he was three or four years ago.
The first line was always the hardest. It had to be elegant yet simple, profound yet clear.
He’d written and rewritten the opening to no less than twenty times, and every version felt hollow compared to the grand vision in his mind.
he thought bitterly. But then he would turn to other chronicles, and their writing felt almost effortless.
When he first read , he marveled at the depth buried under the layer of Hotto’s unassuming prose.
Whichever line Anoki read, he thought, “Of course Master Hotto had written it like this! There was no other way to write it.”
Anoki’s writing, on the other hand, was torturous. He would drag ideas, kicking and screaming, from the realm of thought into the messy, imperfect world of ink and parchment.
And even still, these ideas refused to cooperate.
The door creaked open behind him, and the hesitant shuffle of his apprentice, Tomoki, broke his thoughts. The boy, barely sixteen, carried a tray with a bowl of rice and pickled radishes.
“Master Anoki,” Tomoki began, setting the tray down carefully. “You are in good spirits, I pray? You should eat something.”
“I’ll eat when I’ve written something worth reading,” Anoki snapped, though his tone lacked its usual bite. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The lad deserved a better master, truth be told. He was a quick learner and a dextrous writer.
Master Anoki had been giving the boy his drafts for rewriting, and each time he marveled at the calligraphy. It was simple and tasteful.
The boy was only trying to help, and Anoki lacked the heart to chase him off.
“Go home, Tomoki,” he said quietly. “I won’t be needing your help today. I’ll… I’ll eat later.”
Tomoki hesitated, his eyes full of concern, but at last, he gave a small bow and left the room. The silence that followed was deeper than before.
, Anoki thought.
“No, that’s too trite.
Even when outside, Anoki was getting hounded by his work. Wherever he went, he carried mountains of paper with him. Small, long, uneven, thrice-folded. Scrolls and napkins, maps and letters.
It made for a sorry sight but thankfully, there weren't too many people to see him.
The village streets were awfully quiet. Anoki pulled his robe tighter against the chill as he wandered aimlessly, his mind swirling with frustration.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The bottle of rice wine at the inn beckoned like a distant star.
As he neared the town square, a strange sound caught his attention.
At first, it was indistinct, just a low hum on the wind, but as he turned a corner, the words grew clearer.
“Light reveals all. Light cleanses all.”
Anoki slowed his steps. At the center of the square stood a woman with a face turned skyward. He couldn’t quite recognize her.
Anoki tried to catch a glimpse of her face but also didn't dare to intrude upon her. The woman must have sensed him, though, since she lowered her head and slowly turned to look at him.
Her eyes—or rather, the blackened pits where her eyes should have been—locked with his. The skin around the pits was raw and uneven.
“The light,” she said softly, “It cleanses.”
A cold wave swept through Anoki. “Don’t touch me!”
She turned fully toward him, her empty gaze fixing on him as if she could see straight into his soul. “The light! Bathe in the light!”
Anoki felt his pulse quicken, the bile rising in his throat. “Stay away from me,” he snapped, his voice trembling. He took another step back, nearly tripping over a loose stone.
He turned on his heel and stormed away, his sandals kicking up dust as he fled toward the inn. His heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn’t shake the image of her face, those hollow eyes staring at him.
Even as he poured himself a drink later at the tavern, the woman’s voice lingered in his mind:
The tavern was a small, smoke-filled space tucked away at the edge of the village square. When Master Anoki pushed open the heavy door, his joints protesting with every step, he immediately regretted his decision.
The tavern was louder than usual tonight. Farmers, traders, and laborers gathered in clusters, their voices rising and falling in waves of drunken mirth.
Small wonder, that. The village of Jior-ji was founded at a favorable location, right where the Royal Road split into branches.
No doubt that crazy woman was some traveler, too.
To distract himself from the unwelcome thoughts, Anoki let his gaze wander across the room. Most of the faces here were new to him. Merchants, swords for hire, beggars, gods know who else.
And then, in the far corner of the room, there sat a group of men in hushed conversation.
Anoki recognized them. Shoji, the butcher’s eldest son. Ren, who used to mend fishing nets by the river. Kenta, a man who had been a guard for the southern watch.
Although their faces were familiar, their mannerisms were not. They sat stiffly, casting furtive glances at the room.
Anoki wondered.
But the men who have come from other provinces were far from gloomy.
Anoki settled himself at the table, ordering another cup of rice wine from the innkeeper. His ears strained to catch snippets of the conversation from the corner table.
“…the lantern… tonight…” Shoji muttered. That was all Anoki could catch.
Ren replied something, and his voice carried a note of panic. He drummed his fingers anxiously on the table.
“...dare… doubt?” Kenta hissed, leaning in closer.
Years of useless research had made Anoki incredibly curious for all manners of rumors, gossip, and hearsay.
His interest piqued, but he forced himself to remain calm. He turned his attention to his drink, swirling the cloudy liquid in its cup. Still, his gaze flicked toward them from time to time.
“I had an audience with her,” Shoji said. He was speaking a tad louder now, so Anoki could make out the words.
Ren flinched as though struck. “Liar!”
“Today, she says,” Kenta said grimly.
Anoki’s fingers tightened around his cup. He hadn’t seen Hiraku, the miller, in weeks, but he’d assumed the man was busy with harvest repairs. Now, doubt gnawed at him.
He shifted slightly, trying to get a clearer view of the men without drawing attention. Kenta’s hand rested on a small pouch at his waist, its contents jingling faintly as he moved. Shoji’s eyes darted to the tavern door, then to the innkeeper, before settling on his drink.
Ren, however, caught Anoki’s movement. His eyes locked onto the historian. He nudged Shoji, who followed his gaze. Kenta turned last, his face hardening when he saw Anoki.
The tavern suddenly felt smaller. Anoki pretended to take a long sip from his cup, but he could feel their eyes on him.
“Found something interesting, old man?” Shoji said, loud enough to cut through the noise of the room. Some of the men around them turned their heads.
“What was that?” Anoki pretended not to hear, setting his cup down. He put a hand around his ear to better sell his lie and turned to listen. “An old man like me doesn’t have the same hearing as I used to, I fear.”
Shoji rose to his feet. “Then why don’t you finish your drink and leave us to our business?”
“Your business is your own,” Anoki replied, calm but firm. “But a tavern is a place for all, isn’t it?”
It was Kenta's turn to rise slowly, his broad shoulders blocking some of the light. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable. “Sometimes it’s best not to ask questions you don’t want answers to, historian.”
Anoki met his gaze, refusing to be cowed, but his heart was pounding. He downed the rest of his rice wine in one quick motion and set the cup back on the bar with deliberate care.
“Enjoy your evening, then,” he said, rising to his feet. His knees creaked in protest, but he held his posture steady.
As he walked toward the door, he could feel their eyes boring into his back. When he reached the door, he glanced back one last time.
The men did not resume their conversation. They were still watching him.
Anoki made his way back to his study with the unease he hadn’t felt in years.
What did it mean?
“
The words blurred into meaninglessness, and Anoki set the quill down with an exasperated sigh. He rubbed his temples, willing the ache in his skull to subside.
The wine had done little to soothe him, and his pacing had worn a thin track across the creaking floorboards of his study. Outside, a gust of wind howled low and mournful, rattling the shutters.
Hours had passed since his uneasy encounter at the tavern. He had convinced himself, or tried to, that the strange men’s conversation was no more than idle talk, amplified by his overactive imagination. But their furtive glances, their sharp whispers lingered at the edges of his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.
“Old fool,” Anoki muttered, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thought. “You’re letting tavern gossip rattle you.”
He returned to his desk and stared at the blank parchment. The ideas, so vivid in his mind, refused to take shape. His quill hovered over the page, trembling slightly in his fingers.
“Write, damn you,” he growled to himself, dipping the quill into the ink. He pressed it to the parchment, forming the first jagged line of a letter.
Then he heard it.
A sound. Faint. Distant.
He froze, the quill poised in mid-air. His heart skipped a beat as he strained his ears. The wind rattled the shutters again, its mournful cry filling the room. For a moment, he dismissed it as nothing more than the wind’s trickery.
But then it came again.
A scream, carried on the wind like a distant echo. Then another, louder and more desperate. Shouts joined the chaos, mingled with the deep roar of something splintering.
Anoki’s quill fell from his fingers, leaving a dark smear across the parchment. He pushed himself up from the desk, his knees stiff and protesting.
The air was different now, heavy with the scent of smoke. A cold chill ran down his spine as he turned toward the window. Outside, the night had taken on an eerie orange glow.
Crack.
The unmistakable sound of wood splintering pierced the silence, followed by a chorus of panicked voices. Anoki’s pulse quickened. He stumbled to the window, his breath fogging the glass as he peered out.
Flames.
A column of fire climbed skyward in the distance, devouring a thatched roof with ravenous fervor. The light danced wildly, casting long, jagged shadows across the village square. Shapes moved frantically below—villagers, scattering like ants under attack. The acrid stench of burning wood and straw seeped into the study, clawing at his throat.
For a moment, Anoki could only stare, paralyzed by the sight. His mind struggled to process the scene, to reconcile the quiet he had known mere minutes ago with the chaos unfolding before him.
Then he saw it.
A figure, far away in the distance.
, Anoki somehow knew.
She was small against the backdrop of the inferno, cloaked in dark robes with tattered edges that fluttered like wings. Her face was hidden behind a mask, but in her hands, she held a lantern.
She was… singing? Laughing? It was both and neither.
She was swaying her lantern from side to side.
The light her lantern cast was wrong. It wasn’t golden or warm like fire; it was pale and cold.
The villagers stumbled toward her, drawn like moths to a flame. Anoki watched in horror as they moved—haltingly at first, then with growing urgency—as if pulled by invisible strings.
Shoji, Ren, and Kenta were among them. Shoji was completely engulfed in flames but he was on his knees... praying?
“What… is this?” Anoki whispered.
Villagers ran past each other in a blur, their screams mingling with the crackling roar of flames. He watched helplessly as the first house went up in flames, its roof collapsing in a shower of sparks.
A crackling sound pulled his attention back to his study from the figure with a lantern.
From the window, he could already see the flames slowly climbing up the wall like red-and-yellow soldiers sieging a tower. Anoki stared blankly as the flames advanced, already feeling their hot breath on his skin.
He sank into his chair and closed his eyes, resigned.
