I Abandoned My Fox Priestess For 500 Years, And Now I Have To Earn Back Her Touch

The transition was less a step and more a tearing of realities. One moment, there was the silent, violet infinity of the Plane of Euthymia, a placid sea where centuries passed like heartbeats. The next, there was air—heavy with the scent of cherry blossoms and damp earth, so thick it felt solid in her lungs. Sunlight, sharp and white, pierced through the leaves of the Sacred Sakura, forcing Ei to squint. The world rushed back in a cacophony of sensation: the distant chatter of shrine maidens, the rustle of wind through ancient branches, the solid ground beneath her feet. It was all at once deeply familiar and unnervingly foreign.

She stood just beyond the torii gate leading to the tree's base, her hand still raised from the gesture that had pulled her from her self-imposed exile. And there, waiting as if she had been standing in that exact spot for five hundred years, was Yae Miko.

The kitsune’s posture was impossibly straight, her hands folded neatly within the sleeves of her immaculate Guuji robes. She was just as Ei remembered, and yet entirely different. The playful light that usually danced in her violet eyes was absent, replaced by a flat, polished stillness. When she saw Ei, a smile touched her lips, but it was a precise, practiced expression that held no warmth.

Miko executed a slow, formal bow, her movements fluid and perfect. "My lady Shogun," she said, her voice smooth as silk but lacking its usual teasing cadence. "Welcome back to the mortal plane."

The title was a physical blow. Not ‘Ei’. Not even ‘Raiden’. The Shogun. A ruler, not a friend. "Miko," Ei began, her own voice feeling rusty and unused.

Miko straightened, her gaze sweeping over Ei from head to toe. It was a clinical assessment, her eyes lingering for a moment on Ei’s shoulder. "It seems even eternity isn't immune to dust," she remarked, a faint flick of her finger indicating a fine gray powder on Ei's pauldron. Her gaze then moved to the intricate patterns of Ei's kimono. "And that style… my, it hasn't been fashionable for, oh, four hundred years or so? We will have to get you something more appropriate for the current era."

Each word was a perfectly sharpened needle. This was Miko's wit, the same tool she had always used, but it was no longer a playful spar. It was a weapon, and it was aimed directly at the chasm of time Ei had created between them.

"You'll find much has changed," Miko continued, her smile never faltering. "Inazuma has not remained static, waiting for its god to return. Progress is a relentless thing. You of all people should appreciate that." The implication hung in the air between them, thick and suffocating. Ei had sought an unchanging eternity, and in doing so, had missed the entire world as it moved on without her. The rift between them was no longer a simple matter of distance or time; it was a wound, and Miko was pressing on it with deliberate, painful accuracy.

"Come," Miko said, the single word a command, not an invitation. She turned and began walking down the path toward Inazuma City, her pace brisk and purposeful. Ei had no choice but to follow, her long-forgotten muscle memory struggling to keep up with the kitsune’s determined stride.

The Tenshukaku that loomed ahead was the same structure of dark wood and gilded purple tiles, yet it felt fundamentally wrong. The imposing gates, once sealed to all but a select few, stood wide open. People—merchants, officials, common citizens—streamed in and out with an ease that felt like a violation. The quiet, imposing silence Ei remembered was gone, replaced by a low hum of activity that grew into a roar as they stepped inside.

The main hall, where she had once meditated in absolute stillness, was now a cavern of noise and motion. Clerks rushed from desk to desk with stacks of paper, their wooden sandals clattering on the polished floors. Voices echoed, discussing tariffs, building permits, and agricultural reports. It was a chaotic, overwhelming symphony of a nation moving forward, and Ei felt like a statue in the middle of a rushing river.

"The central administration was consolidated here two centuries ago," Miko stated, her voice cutting through the din with practiced ease. She gestured to the west wing. "The Kanjou Commission now handles all foreign trade applications there. The Yashiro Commission's cultural affairs are to the east. It's far more efficient."

Her tone was that of a museum curator explaining a historical exhibit. Ei’s gaze followed Miko’s gesture, but her mind was lost. She remembered practicing her polearm forms in that wing, the space vast and empty. She remembered Miko sneaking her sweet snacks there, their laughter the only sound to fill the space.

"Miko," Ei said, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you remember—"

"The Tri-Commission's daily briefings are held on the second floor," Miko interrupted smoothly, already moving on. "Your puppet has a full schedule, which you will now be expected to assume. A list of appointments has been prepared." She didn't look back to see if Ei was following.

The tour continued in a blur. Miko pointed out the new archives, the public records office, the office for petitioning the Shogun—a concept so alien Ei couldn't fully process it. With every coolly delivered fact, the chasm between them widened. This was Miko's world, a world she had not only adapted to but had clearly helped to build. Ei was just a relic walking through it.

"You have been busy," Ei managed, a desperate attempt to breach the wall of formality between them.

Miko stopped and finally turned to face her, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before it was extinguished. "Someone had to be," she replied, her voice devoid of any warmth. "Inazuma required governance, not just a symbol of eternity." With that, she turned away again, leaving Ei standing alone in the heart of her own castle, more a stranger than she had ever been.

That evening, the duties of the Shogun concluded, Ei felt a profound weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion. It was the exhaustion of the soul. She walked the now-quiet halls of the Tenshukaku, her footsteps silent on the dark wood floors, seeking the one place that might still feel like hers. She found her old chambers at the end of a long, secluded corridor. Her hand hesitated over the shoji screen before she slid it open.

Everything was exactly as she had left it.

The low table by the window, the ink stone and brushes arranged just so, the scroll stand holding a half-finished piece of calligraphy she had been practicing. Even the scent of sandalwood incense was the same, a faint, ghostly fragrance clinging to the silk wall hangings. It was a perfect, unchanging moment preserved in time, a miniature Plane of Euthymia in the heart of a world that had rushed on. The sight should have been a comfort, but it felt like a museum exhibit dedicated to a dead woman. Miko had maintained this place. The thought was a sharp, painful twist in her chest. A memorial.

The screen slid open again behind her. Ei turned to see Miko standing there, a lacquered tray in her hands. On it was a steaming pot of tea and a tall glass of dango milk, the tri-color dango skewered and resting against the rim just as she always liked it. For a breathtaking second, the centuries fell away. It was a gesture of such deep, familiar affection that Ei’s throat tightened.

But the warmth evaporated as Miko stepped into the room. She moved with a detached efficiency, placing the tray on the low table without a word. Her movements were graceful but cool, the careful placement of the cup and glass lacking any of the old, easy intimacy. She did not meet Ei’s eyes.

“I trust the chambers are to your satisfaction,” Miko said, her tone polite and distant. She straightened up, her hands already retreating into her wide sleeves. “I have matters to attend to at the Publishing House. We have a new light novel series going to print, and the editors are… incompetent.”

She turned to leave. The finality of the movement was like a door slamming shut.

“Miko, wait,” Ei’s voice was softer than she intended, a quiet plea that felt shamefully weak. “Stay. Please.”

Miko stopped, her back still to Ei. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind outside, rattling a loose shutter. When she finally spoke, her voice was sharp and brittle, each word a shard of ice.

“Eternity waits for no one,” she said, her head turning just enough for Ei to see the cold profile of her face in the moonlight. “Not even its architect.”

Then she was gone, the screen sliding shut with a soft, definitive click. Ei was left alone in the suffocating stillness of her perfectly preserved past. The steam rising from the tea curled into the air like a phantom, and the colorful dango seemed to mock her with the memory of a sweetness she could no longer taste. The loneliness was a physical presence, more vast and absolute than anything she had ever felt in her silent, infinite plane.