Episode 1: The Sakamori Family’s Curse

Spring painted Japan in colors of rebirth, yet the Sakamori estate stood like a fading ghost of its former glory. The once-grand mansion, with its lacquered halls and manicured gardens, now carried an air of decay. Cracks crept across the papered walls; the scent of old wood and forgotten incense lingered in the stillness.

Inside, silence was broken only by the distant chirping of sparrows and the labored breathing of a man who once commanded respect across Kyoto’s business circles.

Hana knelt on the tatami floor beside her father’s futon. Her slender hands trembled slightly as she wrung a towel, dipping it in a basin of warm water. The years had not been kind to him. His once-powerful shoulders now sagged, bones jutting under papery skin. Each breath seemed a battle.

“Otou-sama,” Hana whispered gently, her voice softer than the shoji screens filtering the morning sun. “It’s time for your medicine.”

She slipped an arm beneath his neck, lifting his head with practiced care. He opened his eyes, dull but warm, and for a fleeting moment, the old pride flickered in them.

“Hana…” His voice was hoarse, barely a shadow of its old strength. “…my good girl. Always… caring.”

“Don’t speak too much,” she murmured, pressing the porcelain cup to his lips. “You need your strength.”

He obeyed with effort, sipping the bitter liquid. When she laid him back down, smoothing the quilt over his frail body, Hana bit the inside of her cheek to hold back tears. The world beyond these walls was moving on—factories rising from ashes, trains roaring with progress—but here, time had stopped.

The sharp click of geta sandals broke her reverie. From the hallway drifted a different kind of life: laughter, bright and careless like wind chimes in summer.

Hana turned just as Ayame appeared in the doorway. Her stepsister, only two years younger, was a vision of the new Japan—Western dress of pale blue satin hugging her figure, scarlet lips curved into a knowing smile. Her hair, styled in soft curls, framed a face too beautiful to be innocent.

“Still playing nurse, Hana?” Ayame’s voice dripped with amusement. “How… noble of you.”

Hana lowered her gaze, letting the insult glide past her like a cold wind. Ayame loved this game—the perfect daughter, adored and admired, while Hana remained the shadow, clinging to duties no one praised.

Before Hana could answer, another presence filled the room. Chiyo. Her stepmother glided in, her silk kimono whispering wealth that was long gone. A single jade comb pinned her hair, gleaming like her eyes—sharp, calculating, unyielding.

“Hana,” Chiyo said, her tone sweet yet commanding. “Come to the drawing room. We have matters to discuss.”

Hana’s stomach tightened. She glanced once at her father, whose weak fingers twitched as if to stop her. Then she rose silently, following Chiyo and Ayame down the hall.

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The Drawing Room

Sunlight slanted across the tatami, catching the golden threads of the worn cushions where Chiyo settled like an empress on her throne. Ayame lounged beside her, laughter still curling at her lips. Hana knelt across from them, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

“You know the truth, Hana,” Chiyo began, voice smooth as lacquered wood. “This family… is drowning.”

Hana’s heart clenched. She had known it for months—the debts whispered about by servants, the bills hidden under trays of tea. But hearing it aloud was like a blade pressing against her ribs.

“I… I will do anything for the family,” she said softly.

Chiyo’s smile deepened, though it held no warmth. “Good. Because there is a way to survive. Two ways, in fact.”

Hana raised her head slightly, her brows knitting. “Two ways?”

“One daughter will marry wealth.” Chiyo’s gaze flicked to Ayame, who preened like a cat under praise. “The other will marry power.”

The words settled in the room like falling ash. Ayame’s eyes sparkled, lips curling in triumph.

“Mama means Haruto-san, right?” Ayame said lightly. “Takeda Haruto?”

Hana’s breath hitched. Haruto. His name was a secret melody in her heart—a childhood friend who once walked with her beneath blooming cherry trees, who spoke of futures filled with dreams and laughter.

“Haruto…” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Ayame’s laugh rang like a bell. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, dear sister. Of course, I’ll marry him. I’m far more suited for the role, don’t you think?”

Hana’s lips trembled, but Chiyo’s voice cut clean through her silence.

“And you, Hana… there is another suitor. A man of great influence.”

The unease in Hana’s chest swelled like a storm tide. “…Who?”

Chiyo’s eyes glinted with something darker than triumph as she spoke the name like a verdict:

“General Kuroda Renji.”

The air seemed to vanish. Hana’s heart thudded in her ears. Whispers of the man spilled into her mind—stories told in hushed voices: the beast of the battlefield, a ruthless war hero with hands stained in blood.

“The… the Cruel General?” Her voice broke on the last word.

Ayame gave a mock gasp, then smirked. “How thrilling! A monster for a husband. Poor Hana…”

Her laughter was silver-bright, cutting Hana deeper than any blade.

“This is our only chance,” Chiyo said coldly. “You will not refuse. For the sake of the Sakamori name.”

The room spun. Beyond the shoji screens, the sunset bled crimson across the sky, the color of endings. Hana bowed her head, her tears falling unseen into her lap.

“For the family,” she whispered to herself, “I will endure anything.”

Chiyo rose, her shadow stretching long against the fading light. Her words rang like an iron bell, sealing Hana’s fate:

“One daughter will marry wealth. The other will marry power… for our survival.”

Outside, the cherry blossoms drifted soundlessly to the ground—fragile petals, surrendering to the wind.

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