Rinne Hoshizuki was born second, and if you asked her, second was the theme of her life. Not in the “second chances” kind of way. More like “always second best.” Her brother Akio, three years older and about as perfect as a kid could get, had been the family’s pride and joy from the moment he could babble. Piano, soccer, math quizzes—it didn’t matter what he touched. It all turned to gold.
Rinne wasn’t bitter about it, not exactly. It wasn’t like Akio rubbed it in her face. If anything, he was annoyingly nice about it, which somehow made it worse.
He didn’t have to brag; everyone else did it for him. The neighbor down the block called him a "future prodigy" after hearing him play Chopin. Her mom would gush to Aunt Haruko about how Akio “just has that special spark.” No one meant to say it out loud, but Rinne could hear the unsaid part anyway: Unlike Rinne.
She wasn’t completely hopeless. She had her thing: cartoons. She could sit for hours watching old reruns, fascinated by how the characters moved, how the colors popped.
She decided, when she was about eight years old, that she’d be an animator. She didn’t care about being rich or famous. She just wanted to create something people loved, the way she loved the shows she grew up with.
When she told Akio her plan, he didn’t laugh like she’d expected. “An animator, huh?” he said, tapping his chin like he was thinking it over. “Alright. If you do that, I’ll be a voice actor. I’ll dub all your shows. Then we’ll make something amazing together.” He grinned and held out his hand. “Deal?”
Her heart swelled. “Deal!” she said, shaking on it like they were sealing the kind of contract that couldn’t be broken.
For a while, that dream was enough to make her feel like she mattered. But dreams are fragile things, and Rinne learned that the hard way.
One rainy afternoon, Akio was home from soccer practice early. He picked up a sketchpad she’d left on the coffee table. “Not bad,” he said, flipping through it. “Hey, I should try this.”
And he did.
By the next week, Akio was churning out drawings that were better than anything Rinne could do after hours of work. His lines were smoother, his shading more natural, his characters almost alive on the page. And the worst part? He didn’t even mean to do it. He wasn’t trying to show her up. He just could.
Rinne doubled down after that. She practiced while Akio was at piano lessons, hunching over the kitchen table with her pencil stabbing into the paper so hard it left grooves. She tried tutorials on the family laptop, tracing animations until her eyes burned. She thought she’d made progress—until her mom wandered in one night.
Her mother didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. The look on her face, the slight purse of her lips, the way her eyes lingered on the crumpled papers scattered around Rinne’s chair—that was enough.
She just wasn’t talented.
She hated how much it got to her, that single moment stretching out in her mind like it was branded there. She wanted to scream at her mom, at Akio, at herself. But instead, she just picked up the papers, shoved them into the trash, and decided that maybe dreams weren’t for people like her.
----------------------------------------
The Genju came during dinner. That’s how Rinne always remembered it. Her mom was pulling a tray of yakitori skewers out of the oven, and her dad was picking apart a news article on his tablet. Akio had just finished practice and was still in his jersey, joking about how “skewered chicken” was going to be him at the next game if he didn’t learn to block better. It was such a normal, boring evening that when the house shook, Rinne’s first thought was that their region had been hit with a light earthquake.
But it wasn’t an earthquake.
The next few minutes blurred together. One moment, Skippy was barking his head off at the sliding door, his little paws skittering against the wood floor. The next, the door was gone, ripped clean off its tracks. Rinne caught a glimpse of something enormous—a shadow too big and too fast to make sense.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
A Genju.
It wasn’t supposed to be there, not in their neighborhood, not before midnight when the city shut down and everyone hid behind reinforced walls.
She couldn’t remember what the creature looked like. The shape of it slipped from her memory every time she tried to focus. All she could recall was the sound—an endless grinding roar, like steel being torn apart, that rattled her bones and made her ears ring for days after. And the fear. The kind that paralyzed you, froze your thoughts, and left you staring at your own death like a fool.
Rinne didn’t know how long they ran, only that her dad grabbed her hand and her mom grabbed Akio’s, and together they sprinted through the wreckage of what used to be their house. Skippy followed, barking. Rinne didn’t look back, not until she tripped over something and hit the ground so hard it knocked the wind out of her.
When she opened her eyes, she saw it. The Genju. Its foot, larger than her entire body, coming down like a mountain. She froze. Her mind went blank except for one thought: I’m going to die.
Then Akio was there.
He shoved her—hard. She tumbled out of the way, barely registering the blur of his face, the panic in his voice. Then there was a sickening crunch, a sound she’d never be able to forget, not if she lived a hundred years.
Akio was gone. Just like that.
She couldn’t remember how she felt the moment Akio died. But perhaps a little part of her thought that maybe her parents would finally look at her now.
They didn’t, of course. Not for long. The Genju’s rampage wiped out half the neighborhood. Her parents were among the dead by the time the Nightguard arrived. Only Rinne and Skippy made it out.
That’s right.
She’s not a kind person.
“Snap out of it. I... don’t want to fight you.”
“Don’t make me do this.”
The words came out easy, too easy, when she saw that Shigure was possessed by the Kitsune.
Did she mean it? Did she care about Shigure that much?
No. She supposed, she didn’t.
She could pretend otherwise, but the truth? It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t heroic.
She just said those words to use as a shield, something to hide behind. She wasn’t trying to protect him, not really. She wasn’t scared of hurting him. She wasn’t that kind of person.
She was a girl who didn’t even cry when her brother died.
A pathetic worm who couldn’t form real connections.
She just simply didn’t want to lose.
It’s as simple as that.
"Getting that level of control over mana takes serious effort. The difference between Shigure's control and yours is like night and day. Perhaps you should ask him for some pointers. " the captain had said. No hesitation. No sugarcoating. Just the facts.
If she tried, she’d lose. If she fought, it’d be pathetic. Embarrassing. Another failure on the long list of failures her life was built on. Even the captain thinks so.
So why not just stop?
Let it end. Let herself die. Like in the movies. The hero accepts their fate with a steady breath and a cool stare, eyes closing as they step into the abyss. Dignified. Poised. Not flailing like some worm caught in the rain.
Her parents wouldn’t be disappointed. How could they be? She’d tried, hadn’t she? Tried to avenge them. Tried to be brave. That had to count for something. Right?
But—
What about Shigure?
What happens to him when she’s gone?
Would he keep being a puppet, swinging that blade at anyone unlucky enough to cross his path?
Would it be her fault?
No. No. No. She wouldn’t be alive at that point, so it wouldn’t matter. She’d be dead. Done. Free from this stupid mess.
Right?
...
...
...
No.
The thought hit her like a slap.
No, she didn’t want that.
She didn’t want Shigure—stupid, annoying, arrogant Shigure—to be left like that. Bound. Used. She wanted him free. To fight again. To smirk again. To be the obnoxious pain in the ass she pretended to hate but secretly, maybe, kind of…
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
She wanted to save him. Maybe she couldn’t win. Maybe she wasn’t special or remarkable or worth remembering. But she wanted to at least do that.
To go on living, not for herself, but for someone else. For others. Perhaps this would be her redemption.
She wanted to tell him.
Tell him that fighting with him, bickering with him, had made her life just a little bit more enjoyable.