Chapter 16: The Moonshade Hair Ornament
The hallway stretched long and quiet, its polished floor reflecting the soft glow of antique sconces. Kotomi walked a half-step behind Kotaro, her cocoa-stained shirt clinging to her skin. Her hand was a vice around the photo of the seven girls, the paper beginning to crinkle under the pressure of her grip.
Neither of them spoke at first. Kotaro kept his eyes forward, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His footsteps were louder than hers—deliberate, grounding, as if he were trying to claim the space for both of them.
“You really met the Cait Sith King?” she asked suddenly, her voice pitched just above the hush of their steps. For a second, her eyes brightened with a child's wonder. “I wish I could have met him too, Kotaro-chan... I’m sorry, Kotaro-kun.”
Kotaro offered an awkward, lopsided smile. “It’s fine, it’s fine, Kotomi-chan.”
He looked at the ornate molding of the ceiling.
“To be honest, getting used to the fact that I might never go back... it was terrifying. Accepting it felt like losing a limb at first. But during that adventure, I made so many friends. I don’t regret being Isekai’d. It made me who I am.”
It was a sensitive subject. The journey with Kyle's misfit team had been a gauntlet of quirks and conflicts, but it had forged them into something stronger. They had learned the hard way that honesty and consideration were the only currencies that mattered when your world was falling apart.
“It must be hard. Being in a body that isn't yours,” Kotomi said, looking at him with a sudden, sharp empathy. “I hope you and your sister find a way back someday.”
Kotaro didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, then glanced back at her stained uniform. “You’re gonna get sick continuing to wear that. Come on. My sister’s side of the closet is this way.”
Behind them, Kyle lingered at the mouth of the hallway. He stood in the shadows, watching them with the silent, protective gaze of a guardian who knew when he wasn't needed. He didn’t follow, but he didn’t leave until they stepped inside.
Kotaro pushed open the bedroom door. The room was large but lived-in, the heavy curtains drawn against the neon glow of the distant city.
“You can change in here,” Kotaro said, gesturing toward the left-hand closet. “That’s Kokoro’s side. She even has skirts, dresses, and sweaters in there.”
He crossed the room and cracked open the right-hand closet. “And, uh… if you need basic stuff, there are clean undergarments in the drawers. Whatever. Just take what you need.” He didn't meet her eyes, his ears turning a faint pink.
She nodded, then hesitated. Her fingers brushed the sticky, cold edge of her shirt. “Kotaro,” she said softly. “Would you… stay? Just for a minute? In the room, I mean?”
He blinked. “You want me to—?”
“I don’t know what to wear,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out. “I’ve never borrowed clothes like this. I don’t know what to pick.”
Kotaro scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not exactly a fashion expert, Kotomi. I usually just wear whatever isn't wrinkled.”
“I don’t need fashion,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’d just like… to continue talking with you. If I’m alone, I start thinking about the Men in White again.”
That stopped him. He looked at her—really looked—and saw the way she was vibrating, held together by a single, fraying thread of resolve.
“…Okay,” he said, leaning his back against the bedframe so he faced away from the closet. “I’ll stay right here.”
***
Outside the door, Kyle leaned against the wood-paneled wall, arms crossed. He remained silent, but he didn't walk away. From inside, he could hear the soft rustle of fabric, Kotomi’s voice low and uncertain, and Kotaro’s responses—awkward, stumbling, but undeniably kind. It was strange how quickly she was folding into their rhythm. Or perhaps, how they were folding around her.
He didn't know which was more dangerous: her isolation or her integration.
A faint, rhythmic creak from the ceiling panels broke his train of thought.
"Remember, Masayuki... you are only doing this for the promise of a new katana," a voice muttered from above.
Kyle looked up just in time to see a panel shift. A small figure dropped from the crawlspace in a chaotic tangle of limbs and cobwebs, landing in a crouch with theatrical flair.
“Masayuki,” Kyle said flatly.
The boy stood up, brushing dust from his sleeves with exaggerated dignity. His junior butler uniform was streaked with grey grime, and a small spider dangled precariously from his left ear.
“Fear not, Sir Kyle,” Masayuki declared, his voice a dramatic baritone. “The northern vents are secure. No sign of infiltration… save for the eight-legged spirits who dared challenge my passage through the ductwork.”
“You’re covered in webs, Masayuki.”
Masayuki plucked the spider from his ear and bowed to it with solemn respect. “A worthy adversary. I shall honor its memory in the hall of ghosts.”
Kyle sighed, reaching for a clean towel on a nearby linen shelf and tossing it to him. “You need a shower. Sebastian will have your head if you track attic dust onto the carpets.”
“A cleansing of the spirit shall be undertaken,” Masayuki said, accepting the towel with reverence. “But know this—my blade grows restless. Should evil stir within these gilded walls, I shall be ready.”
The thought of Masayuki "being ready" did not inspire confidence, especially with the boy's mandatory middle-school enrollment only weeks away.
Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Just don’t stab any of the furniture. Or the guests.”
Masayuki nodded gravely. “I shall only strike those who draw blood first.”
Kyle watched the "Samurai-Butler" march toward the showers, then leaned back against the wall. Some time later, the bedroom door clicked open.
Kotomi stepped into the hallway. She wore a pale blue yukata with a silver sash that Kokoro had kept for summer festivals. The fabric was soft, slightly oversized, and made her look even more fragile.
Kotaro followed behind her, his chest puffed out slightly. “Told you. That yukata matches the silver in your hair clip perfectly.”
Kyle looked up, his expression softening for the first time that night. “You look—”
“DEMON!”
The word hissed through the hallway like a cursed blade.
Masayuki stood at the far end of the hall, frozen mid-step. He was draped in a towel, his hair still dripping from the shower, but his face had gone deathly pale. His eyes were locked onto Kotomi—specifically, on the silver hair clip pulsing with its residual jade light.
“That ornament,” Masayuki snarled, his voice trembling with a sudden, ancient fury. “Damn you, Shiraishi—! I knew you would return!”
Kotomi blinked, her hands flying to her hair. “What? Who is Shiraishi?”
The silence that followed was heavy, a suffocating weight that filled the corridor. It was the kind of silence that held a history Kyle hadn't yet uncovered.
Masayuki didn't wait for an explanation. He dropped into a low, lethal kendo stance, snatching a heavy wooden broom from a cleaning closet as if it were a sacred ancestral blade.
“You dare show yourself in this sanctuary? I shall have my revenge for the Fall of the Iron Gate!”
“Wait—what are you—?” Kyle started, stepping forward.
But it was too late. Masayuki charged with a war cry, his damp feet slapping the marble with terrifying speed.
Kotomi’s body moved before her mind could process the threat. It wasn't a choice; it was a biological reflex. Jade light flared around her in a violent halo, ribbons of violet energy spiraling upward and shattering a nearby vase.
Her yukata dissolved into starlight, replaced in a flash of resonance by the iridescent armor from the photograph—marked with the glowing Jade sigils of a warrior. Her eyes widened in panic as she realized her "Magical" self had taken over, her hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
“Please! I don’t know who this Shiraishi is—!” Kotomi’s scream was lost in the whistle of the broom through the air.
CRACK.
The wooden shaft struck her shimmering jade shield, the impact ringing through the hallway like a temple bell. Masayuki didn't pause; he spun with the fluid grace of a storm, his strikes precise, furious, and relentless. Each blow forced Kotomi back, her heels skidding on the polished marble as her shield rippled under the assault.
Kyle lunged forward, his hand outstretched. “Masayuki, stop!”
But the samurai was deaf to the present. He was back in a world of burning castles and moonlit betrayals. When Kyle and Kotaro tried to grab his shoulders, he didn't even look—he simply shifted his weight, using a practiced martial leverage to shove them aside.
In two years of journeying across the Isekai world, Kyle had never seen Masayuki lose his composure. He was the anchor of their team, the disciplined heart. But the person in front of them now was consumed, his eyes reflecting an ancient hate that had been dormant for too long.
Kotomi’s breath came in panicked gasps. Her shield began to spider-web with fractures. Her transformation flickered, the starlight armor turning translucent as her focus broke.
“I didn’t come here to fight!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Please—!”
Masayuki’s broom arced over his head, a killing stroke aimed at the center of her guard. He wasn't aiming for a training tap; he was aiming to end a legacy.
And then—
The world stopped.
A hand caught the broom mid-swing. Two fingers. No effort.
Sebastian stood between them, his presence so sudden it felt like he had simply materialized from the shadows of the floor. The broom trembled in his grip, the wood groaning under the pressure of those two fingers.
“Master Masayuki,” Sebastian said, his voice like a blade sliding from a silk sheath. “I believe an explanation is in order.”
The fury in Masayuki’s eyes didn't vanish, but it hit a wall of absolute authority. He froze, the broom still poised for a strike he could no longer complete.
Sebastian’s expression was unreadable, but the temperature in the hallway seemed to drop several degrees. His eyes flicked to Kotomi, who stood trembling, her jade armor flickering like a dying flame.
“Master Masayuki,” Sebastian said, his voice low and razor-sharp. “Explain your conduct.”
Masayuki stiffened, his breathing ragged. “She wears the Moonshade ornament, Sebastian-dono.”
Sebastian’s gaze remained cold. “You have assaulted a guest invited by Lady Minami. You have damaged the flooring with your aggressive footwork. You have spread dust across the corridor from that cleaning closet. And you have done so while dripping wet, barefoot, and half-dressed.”
Masayuki opened his mouth. Closed it. His face flushed a deep, shamed red. “But the ornament—”
“No buts.”
Sebastian released the broom. It clattered to the marble floor with a hollow, shameful sound.
“You will return to your quarters immediately. You will reflect on your actions. You will not leave your room until I am satisfied that you understand the difference between vigilance and recklessness. Am I understood?”
Masayuki bowed so stiffly his spine seemed ready to snap. “Yes, sir.”
He turned and walked away, his shoulders rigid and his head bowed. The towel trailed behind him like a discarded banner of a defeated army.
Sebastian turned to Kotomi. The lethal edge in his voice vanished, replaced by a professional, if distant, courtesy. “Miss Kotomi. Are you injured?”
She shook her head, but her voice caught in her throat. “I—I didn’t mean to upset him.”
Sebastian gave a small, approving nod. “Then I suggest you rest. This house is not a battlefield, regardless of what Master Masayuki’s imagination suggests. You are not required to defend yourself here.”
Kotomi’s transformation shimmered one final time—then collapsed in a shower of jade sparks. She stood in the hallway in her borrowed yukata, barefoot and shaking, once again just a small girl in a house that was much too big.
Sebastian turned without another word and disappeared down the hall, his footsteps as silent and precise as a ghost.
