Not The Minister

A former 7-Eleven, now stripped of its fluorescent signs and stocked shelves, had been reborn as a humble Christian church. It was their first official service—the soft launch of something sacred. At the pulpit stood Reiji Nakamura, a 38-year-old pastor. Pure-blooded Japanese, his heart remained quietly guarded against the foreign faces living among them.

Though young for a senior pastor, Reiji carried a gravity beyond his years—both mentally and spiritually seasoned. His sermon that morning was simple, but piercing: a message on the quiet, corrosive danger of pride.

He cleared his throat—not to demand attention, but to settle the room.

“Pride,” he began, voice calm but steady, “is the one sin that disguises itself as strength.”

He looked around slowly, letting the words settle. “It tells you that you are enough, not because God made you, but because you made yourself. It whispers, ‘You deserve more. You deserve better.’ And then, when we fall… it disappears. Pride never stays to pick up the pieces.”

A soft murmur moved through the room.

Pastor Reiji closed the Bible gently. “In Proverbs 16:18 it says, ‘Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.’ My friends, pride is not always loud. Sometimes it wears a smile. Sometimes it hides in false humility. But in the end, it always stands between us and grace.”

He paused, then looked out at them with something between sorrow and hope.

“May we not be too proud to kneel. And not too proud to forgive.”

Yuriko Observes

Across the road, nestled between a florist and a laundromat, a modest coffee shop hummed with quiet conversation. From her corner seat by the window, Yuriko watched the soft opening of the newly converted church. With deliberate strokes, she scribbled a name across the final page of her sketchbook: Reiji Nakamura.

“Ministers,” she murmured under her breath, “always drowning in their own pride.”

Her obsession with her mission had twisted into something sharp—an arrogance masked as conviction. In her own mind, she was no longer just an instrument of judgment, but its author. Like a shadowed echo of Lucifer, she desired control over who would fall, and when.

The church doors creaked open across the street. An elderly man stepped out, his face tight with anguish. His gait was uneven, agitated—betraying the look of someone who hadn’t simply left the service, but fled it.

He entered the coffee shop, pressing a phone to his ear. “The senior pastor was talking about me,” he said, his voice trembling. “I was the centerpiece of his sermon.”

Yuriko didn’t need to hear more. She looked down at her sketchbook, her voice a breathless whisper.

“Self-righteous preachers. Every one of them.”

Sunday Night

Midnight settled like a sigh over the city of Minami, cloaking the streets in a gauze of mist. Above it all, atop the silent span of an old train rail bridge, the headless samurai sat motionless astride his obsidian horse. They stood like a statue carved from sorrow, unmoving against the night, overlooking the dimming glow of the city below.

One by one, the lights of Minami flickered out—office buildings going dark, izakayas pulling shutters, the neon blaze of Shibata’s red-light district finally surrendering to sleep. To most, it was simply the city signing off. But to him, it was something else entirely. A farewell. A soft requiem.

The warrior’s armor, still intact and polished by battle, did little to conceal the weight pressing down on him. It wasn’t weariness of body—he had executed a thousand souls since the beginning of their silent crusade—but of spirit. The fatigue came not from the slaying of sinners, but from the commands of the one who had once held his heart. Yuriko.

She had changed.

The gentle, graceful princess who once sang to the wind and wept with empathy had become something else—sharp-edged, consumed, nearly unrecognizable. Her voice, once a song of light, now gave him orders with cold finality. She no longer looked at him as a companion. Only as a blade.

Memories swirled like ash in his hollow mind: Yuriko’s laughter under the sprawling oak tree where they had first sung in harmony. The way her feet skimmed the tide when they raced along the seashore. The warmth of her embrace, the taste of her lips, the unspoken vows they once shared beneath the pale moon.

He reached out and gently tapped the head of Kuro, his steed, the gesture soft and human in contrast to the steel of his presence. The horse lowered its head and leaned into the touch, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

This would end soon.

One way or another.

The Untransferred Mark

Monday morning broke over Minami with the hush of solemn skies. The church parking lot, still damp from the night’s mist, echoed with the soft shuffle of feet and the muted rustle of plastic sacks filled with rice. Ptr. Reiji Nakamura, sleeves rolled and spirit eager, oversaw the loading of the donations into the church van. Flanking him were two young volunteers, bright-eyed and cheerful despite the early hour.

“These will go straight to the shelter near Toyohashi Station,” the pastor said, offering a warm smile as he patted one of the sacks. “May the Lord bless your hearts. I’m certain Ptr. Isagani will be overjoyed by your generosity.”

Across the narrow street, inside a modest coffee shop with steamed windows, Yuriko sat alone, sipping something black and bitter. Her gaze hadn’t left Reiji since he stepped into the morning light. When he turned his back to speak to one of the volunteers, she stood.

She crossed the road slowly, deliberately. Her boots barely made a sound on the wet pavement. Reiji noticed her as she approached—an elegant woman in a long black coat, eyes unreadable. She walked straight to him and placed her hand on his arm with casual familiarity.

“Pastor,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “I wanted to personally congratulate you on your newly built church.”

He smiled, though a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes. “Glory to God. That’s very kind of you. Are you a new member? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“I’ll be attending soon,” she replied, tightening her grip on his arm just slightly. “I’ll slash some time to come.”

Her tone lingered between sincerity and something else—mockery, maybe. But before Reiji could respond, she released him and began walking away, her eyes never fully leaving him. She crossed the road once more, returning to her post behind the café window.

Reiji rubbed his arm where she had touched him, his brow faintly furrowed.

Yuriko smiled darkly.

“That’s your mark, minister,” she whispered to herself, watching with satisfaction.

But then… something changed.

Reiji rolled up his sleeve to inspect the spot, prompted by a faint stinging sensation. The two volunteers leaned closer, one of them gasping.

“Pastor… are you okay?”

Reiji stared at his arm. For a moment, his eyes widened, and his head bowed low as if something heavy pressed against him.

Then he straightened abruptly. “Boo!” he cried, startling the volunteers, then breaking into a laugh. “Just fooling around, guys! It’s just a little red from carrying all these sacks!”

The group laughed with him, the moment passing like a cloud across the sun.

Across the road, Yuriko stood frozen, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup.

“No mark…” she whispered, disoriented. “How…?”

She blinked. Confusion flickered across her face like a crack in a mirror. She had touched him—she had given the mark.

But nothing had transferred.

Not this time.

Toyohashi Station

The sun was high, but Yuriko moved like a shadow.

She had followed Pastor Reiji all the way to Toyohashi after overhearing the early morning plan to deliver rice sacks to the station for a feeding program. From the edge of the crowd, behind vending machines and drifting commuters, she stalked him—silent, unnoticed, observing his every move. She expected signs of fatigue, maybe a crack in his posture, maybe the mark revealing itself at last.

But nothing came.

Reiji was…normal. Cheerful. Laughing with the two volunteers. A man, simply doing good. The sight gnawed at her.

Then it happened.

The world hushed for a moment, like the breath of the day was caught in its throat.

Standing directly in the center of the pedestrian crosswalk was the headless samurai. Alone. No horse. His black armor glinted faintly in the sunless air, gauntlets locked together as he held his katana vertically—blade tip pressed to a single white line on the road.

Yuriko froze. The city kept moving, but the air around her turned leaden. Only she could see him.

A scream tore through the street. She snapped her head around—trying to find its source. But the samurai was gone. Vanished, like wind through rice fields. Instead, a jubilant voice echoed across the lot.

“Thank you so much, Ptr. Reiji! This is too much!”

It was Ptr. Isagani, arms wide in gratitude. Yuriko’s eyes darted behind Reiji’s parked car.

There.

The black horse. Kuro. Silent. Still. Unseen by all but her. No one noticed the beast standing at full height, its mane fluttering slightly in the airless wind. The volunteers didn’t react. Neither did Reiji. But Yuriko’s breath caught in her throat.

And then everything began to warp.

The world around her faded into sepia tones, like the colors of an old film burning out at the edges. Her jeans melted into folds of silk. Her coat shifted into layers of embroidered fabric. She turned around in confusion—

BUMP.

She crashed into a figure. Solid. Familiar.

Her father. The Emperor. Centuries ago, yet vividly now. His eyes burned with fury. “We will execute. No matter what it takes!”

Yuriko stumbled backward, breathless. “Father…”

Tears rushed down her cheeks like a sudden storm. “I love him! Kenshin is my peace. My shelter. I can’t imagine this world without him!”

Her father’s face hardened.

“All my life,” she sobbed, “you’ve chained me to your command. You’ve never supported my choices. It’s always been about your will—your pride—your power! Don’t do this to him! Don’t execute Kenshin!”

A strange stillness fell between them. Then came the quiet reply: “Yes… you’ve just described yourself.”

Yuriko blinked. “What?”

He leaned in, his grip cold on her arm, his eyes piercing.

“We’re not executing Kenshin anymore.” He held her gaze. “We’re executing you.”

Time cracked.

Yuriko’s eyes widened in horror. A thin, red line appeared across her neck—like a string pulled taut beneath her skin. She looked down. Her hands trembled as she pulled up her sleeve.

The inkblot mark.

On her.

“No… no, no…!”

The melody of a familiar song drifted to her ears—a haunting echo of Kenshin’s voice, distant but unmistakable. The sound pierced her, like a lullaby warped into mourning. Around her, the dead began to gather. Translucent souls, hundreds—no, thousands—manifested in a great circle. Their headless forms shimmered in the gray light, inching closer.

Yuriko clutched her chest, panting, panicking. A voice—gentle, yet breaking—rose above them all.

“My love… I miss you. You lost me physically. But I lost you emotionally. You’ve changed. This mission has devoured your soul.”

“You became the very sin you swore to erase.”

“Come home.”

The souls reached for her—not with hatred, but with sorrow. They lifted her, gently. Kenshin’s face appeared among the mist, eyes wet with grief.

“Forgive me, my love,” he whispered.

Then everything faded. Black. Complete. And silent.

The wail of sirens swallowed the quiet of Toyohashi Station. Ambulances. Police cars. The chaos of blinking red and blue filled the morning fog. Local radio crackled with urgency—reports of a decapitated woman found near the footbridge. No ID, no witnesses. Just the mystery of her pristine, bloodless body.

Across the terminal, Pastor Reiji and his volunteers finished loading the last sacks of rice into the church van. Unaware of the commotion unfolding just beyond view, they offered warm goodbyes to Ptr. Isagani.

“See you in Nagoya, pastor,” one of them said cheerfully. “Hope you can visit us soon.”

Beyond the field and the crowd, something moved like wind given shape. The headless samurai, mounted on his black horse, rode through the air—no longer a servant, no longer bound. For centuries, he had been executioner, ghost, lover, weapon. And now? His path was uncertain. The curse had not lifted. The seal was not broken. But something had changed.

The horse galloped through the invisible corridors of time, its hooves leaving behind trails not of dust, but of song—shimmering lyrics, fragments of prayers, and whispered confessions once silenced. Notes and words flickered like fireflies, illuminating the path with glimmers of grace. Each one a soul set free. Each one—forgiven.

Back at the scene, investigators combed the area with practiced precision. Evidence bags rustled. Cameras clicked. But the body of the girl offered no answers. No blood. No wounds. Just silence. Her sketchbook lay beside her, its cover marked with a single inkblot resembling a lotus in bloom. The breeze picked up and began turning its pages. One by one, the names and faces of the condemned were revealed.

Reina Mori – Lust.
Yusuke Salvador – Gluttony.
Ayaka Tsujimoto – Greed.
Genji Kawamura – Sloth.
Nami Eguchi – Wrath.
Kojiro Mendez – Envy.

Each name hand-written, each face drawn with meticulous care, as though loved before judged.

Then, the wind stilled. A gloved officer gently turned the final page. "Pride?" But ― no face. No name. Only a large, smudged inkblot, as if the page had wept instead of bled. And below it, scribbled in a delicate hand—perhaps trembling, perhaps resigned—were one word.

The final note:

“Unforgiven.”

[Next: Epilogue]