Chapter Text
"The Rain Palace was just trashed."
"What?"
Enjin asked again, only to ensure he hadn't misheard. But the answer that followed didn't truly matter. His face hardened, his usual easygoing demeanor instantly vanishing, replaced by a rigid, tense gravity.
"Tell the squad to move out immediately!"
Enjin barked the brief order, and without waiting for them to assemble, he strode toward his vehicle. The car door slammed shut with sharp finality. Enjin threw it into gear, spun the wheel in a wide arc, and sped off ahead of the rest.
The streets of the Underworld had never truly been streets. They were more like a labyrinth patched together from the very things humanity had cast away. The car squeezed through narrow alleys so suffocatingly cramped that even breathing felt like a chore. The tires ground heavily over the debris, splashing up bubbling, green sewage from black puddles of mud. The stench of rusting iron, spoiled food, and pungent chemicals surged straight into the cabin through the cracked window. Everything here exuded a sense of hollow decay, as if the world were slowly dying within its own refuse. Yet, the closer he drew to the edge of the Rain Palace, that oppressive stench of rot seemed to thin out. A faint touch of nostalgia flickered to life in Enjin's chest.
How long had it been since he last stopped by?
The Rain Palace. It sounded like such a luxury. In reality, it was no magnificent palace at all, just an old bookstore perched precariously on the edge of the trash abyss. Strangely enough, amidst this filthy Underworld, it was the only place untouched by the foul stench. The space surrounding the bookstore always held a bizarre serenity and cleanliness.
And more importantly than anything else, someone was always there.
By the time Enjin arrived, the logistics crew was already on site, busy clearing the scattered ruins. The clatter of broken bricks and shattered wood mingled with the crisp rustle of old book pages blowing aimlessly in the wind. Yet right in the dead center of that chaos sat a woman, looking completely detached from the devastation around her.
Amamiya Yuunagi sat flat on the ground, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, curling herself into a small, fragile figure amidst towering piles of rubble. Her indigo hair, usually neatly bound, was now disheveled, the red hairpin adorned with a jade crane clung askew, looking as though it might fall at any moment. Thick locks of hair hung loose, concealing half of her pale face, while a few stray strands drifted at the nape of her neck, swaying gently with every passing breeze.
The thin sweater she wore had a large tear at the shoulder, exposing pale skin marred by purple bruises intermingled with rows of glowing red ancient characters, still oozing blood from the brawl. The silk skirt she usually wore was now tattered and stained with dust and grime from the wreckage, yet it still draped softly, creating a painful, poignant contrast against the scrap-littered ground. Yuunagi reached up to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her gaze remaining absent, as if the remnants of an afternoon nap still lingered heavily on her eyelashes.
Resting on Yuunagi's lap was an old newspaper bearing the headline: "Man'yōshū – Commemorating Ten Thousand Leaves." While solving a crossword puzzle, she patiently held her Jinki pen, tracing it over the torn, shredded fragments of paper, attempting to "record" the words that had vanished after the fight. But the pen only vibrated silently, utterly helpless against the massive tears. It could preserve the memory of a page, but it could never restore this wreckage to what it once was.
A crackling speaker on the ground was replaying the melody of Taste the Rain. Enjin guessed it must be the tenth time the song had run this afternoon. Yuunagi was always addicted to that loop, much like how she loved watching raindrops slide down a window pane.
In a place where people would readily kill each other over a scrap of bread, solving crosswords or scavenging old book fragments was a luxury indeed. No one in the Underworld was idle enough to waste time on such "meaningless" endeavors. But for Yuunagi, that indulgence was her way of keeping her humanity from being crushed under the relentless gears of survival.
After all, the sea must be salty, the rain must be wet, and Yuunagi must always drift. She accepted her role as an "extraordinarily ordinary" person intentionally blending into a world full of anomalies. In that moment, she looked no different from a blue crane from the Sky World that had accidentally stumbled into this quagmire. No matter how battered its wings, no matter if it stood in a swamp or rotting black mud, its demeanor always retained its innate elegance and tranquility.
Enjin let out a long sigh and approached. His heavy boots crunched against the shattered glass, breaking the silence that enveloped her. Without a single wasted word, he stripped off his outer coat and draped it over Yuunagi’s small shoulders. The warmth of his body, heavy with the rich scent of tobacco and a faint trace of cologne, instantly enveloped her.
Click.
A spark flared for a fleeting moment before dying out. Enjin tilted his head down, taking a deep drag to let the smoke seep into the very depths of his lungs, before slowly exhaling.
"Today is quite a beautiful day to savor the rain at the 'Rain Palace'."
Enjin glanced up at the precariously hanging sign, where the two Kanji characters for Amamiya* had almost entirely peeled away.
Yuunagi didn't even need to look up to know who had arrived.
"But you don't like the rain, do you?" Her voice was soft, carrying a gentle aftertaste of nostalgia, as though this conversation had been replayed for years.
On the very first day they met, he had said those exact words, and she had replied without altering a single letter. It seemed Enjin delighted in using that wretched word "rain" to define Yuunagi's world, while she found solace in hearing him compromise with the thing he loathed most in existence, just for her. Because in a place like this, rain was never romantic; it was heavy with the foul stench of rot and decay.
"17 across... seven letters in Romaji... An archaic word from the Man'yōshū, signifying both profound love and sorrow bitter enough to bring tears."
Yuunagi paused her pen. Only then did she leisurely lift her gaze, looking at Enjin through the drifting haze of cigarette smoke. The faint gray shroud acted like a veil, blurring his sharp, angular features, yet it failed to obscure his rugged, dust-dusted charm and that rakish smirk, complete with a tiny, faint dimple.
"The answer is 'Kanashi'*... a love so deep it aches."
She offered a faint, fleeting smile.
"Hi, Enjin."
"Yeah. Hi, Nagi."
𓅛
The rest of the Cleaners finally arrived in full. Footsteps, the clanking of Jinki, and shouted callouts began to flood the space, but Yuunagi paid them no mind. She sank deeper into the worn armchair, the sole survivor of the brawl. Her gaze drifted through the gaps in the rubble, quietly settling on the silhouette standing a short distance away.
Enjin stood among the rookies, surrounded by the loud, vibrant energy of the kids. His blonde hair burned bright, defiantly out of place against the dreary, monochromatic backdrop of the Underworld. Shifting his weight to one leg, one hand shoved deep into his pocket, the other holding a half-burned cigarette, he tilted his head slightly to listen to Zanka and Rudo bicker.
Bold lines of black ink cascaded down his nape, spilling over his broad shoulders and wrapping tightly around his arms, extending all the way to his knuckles. Whenever he shifted, those tattoos seemed to come alive, moving fluidly with the flex of his muscles. He narrowed his eyes and exhaled a plume of smoke, his ink-stained fingers tracing his earring out of subconscious habit. It was a small, effortless, and entirely carefree gesture—one Yuunagi had never forgotten.
Having settled a few matters, Enjin patted Rudo on the shoulder, barking a curt phrase to dismiss the kids beyond the perimeter, restoring the Rain Palace's usual quiet. He turned and walked back toward Yuunagi. Brushing a few shards of broken brick off a wooden crate, he sat down opposite her—one leg stretched out, the other propped up to rest his elbow.
"Hey, not planning on waking up from your daydream yet, milady?"
He squinted at her, his lips suddenly curving into a rogue smirk as those familiar dimples peeked out mischievously.
"Right now, you look exactly like a precious painting thrown into the gutter. A little scuffed up, but it makes a guy want to just take you away so he can finally get some peace of mind."
Yuunagi looked up slightly, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She was all too familiar with this half-jesting, half-earnest praise—equal parts flippant and intense, the distinct language of a man who always knew exactly what he wanted.
"Are you talking about me, or the garbage piled up around here?"
"Both." Enjin chuckled. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them until the rich scent of tobacco once again enveloped her. His eyes searched her face, silently assessing her wounds. He didn't ask a thing, but his gaze spoke volumes. With a soft sigh, his thumb gently brushed away a smudge of soot on her cheek. The gesture was disarmingly tender, causing her skin to flush slightly. Yuunagi tilted her head, leaning into his touch out of sheer habit, yet her gaze remained placidly fixed on his.
"Did your intuition tell you that I was in desperate need of someone to clean my face?" She asked, her voice laced with a tease.
"It told me you’re trying to use this smudge to drive away your guest, but unfortunately for you, I'm not a guy who's easily kicked out." Enjin exhaled a wisp of smoke. "Besides, I'm impressed. You put up one hell of a fight with just a pen!"
"Did I have a choice?" Yuunagi replied, her fingers meticulously smoothing over the torn edge of the paper, as if attempting to evade the heat radiating from him. "Not everyone can just swing an umbrella to solve their problems like you do."
Enjin didn't answer. He simply watched her small hands attempt to mend pieces of the past. Yuunagi had always been like this—ceaselessly scavenging discarded books and hoarding knowledge that the rest of this ruined world deemed unworthy of their precious energy.
Enjin glanced over at the battered speaker in the corner, which was currently drifting into the lyrics:
"And look at you, working so hard... on everything that's not yourself."
"You never change, do you? Listening to this same song over and over. Don't you ever get tired of it after all these years?"
"I am a creature of nostalgia." Yuunagi replied. "You're not any different either. Still in a hurry, still bringing the smell of cigarette smoke and the violence of the world outside into my shop."
"There it is, that sharp tongue of yours." He said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "You never could just let me have the last word, could you? But hasn't the fight already spilled right into your shop?"
Enjin looked at the books scattered across the floor, his voice shifting to a more serious tone.
"The bastard who trashed this place—what was he after anyway?"
"An ancient text." Yuunagi reached up, idly twirling a few strands of her hair. "The curious always come here to rummage through the past, take what they need, and eventually leave."
Enjin sighed, quietly blowing a smoke ring into the air. He remembered the first time he met her, right in this very room thick with the scent of aged paper. Back then, he had sought her out to ask about the origins of an antique, his young heart burning with reckless passion. And there she was, sitting amidst towering stacks of books, completely serene—as if she had already seen through to the very bottom of this world's rot.
Enjin smirked to mask a sudden ripple of emotion passing through the depths of his eyes. Outside, the sky darkened abruptly. A distant rumble of thunder echoed, and then the rain began to fall. Drop by drop at first, it quickly escalated into a blinding downpour.
"Just stay there and keep working on your puzzle. I'll go get your book back."
Enjin stood up, giving a lazy stretch before tossing his cigarette butt onto the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his boot.
"Don't go to sleep too early tonight; I'll bring some liquor over. We have much more interesting things to 'solve' than these crosswords."
"The Man'yōshū crossword is more interesting than you think." Yuunagi replied. As Enjin stepped away, the radiating heat from his chest that had enveloped her just moments ago vanished instantly. A cold breeze swept into the shop, causing Yuunagi to instinctively tighten his coat around her shoulders.
"Man'yōshū, huh..." Enjin had already reached the door, pausing before the thick sheet of rain. "Oh, just to remind you. That word from earlier... Number 17."
He jerked his chin toward the newspaper on her lap. "Aside from meaning 'heartbreaking,' it also means... 'unforgettable'."
Yuunagi froze, her pen halting at 18 across.
Clue for 18 across: Ten letters. A herbaceous plant that promises peace by stealing away the heaviest fragments of a soul. Answer: W-A-S-U-R-E-G-U-S-A.*
She lifted her eyes. Enjin had already popped his umbrella open, his silhouette swiftly swallowed by the blinding white sheet of rain. The downpour hammered against the dilapidated roof, erecting a wall that isolated the Rain Palace from the rest of the world. The battered speaker tirelessly blared the chorus:
"An umbrella won't protect you... For when you've already drowned..."
Yuunagi silently filled those ten letters into the blank squares, but she knew perfectly well that as long as number 17 sat right above it, number 18 would forever be a lie.
𓅛
*Notes:
I will only explain using Romaji (Latin alphabet), omitting Kanji characters
1. Amamiya (The Rain Palace) In classical Japanese, the word Ame (or its phonetic variant Ama) refers to either the Sky/Heaven or Rain.
Ama: Rain / Heaven
Miya: Palace / Shrine Depending on the context, Amamiya can carry layered definitions, such as "Heavenly Palace" or even "Sweet Palace" (deriving Ama from amai, meaning sweet).
2. "Kanashi" An archaic adjective possessing two profoundly intertwined core meanings:
- A state of being deeply moved, sensing sorrow down to the very core of one's being, mournful.
- An expression of deep affection, tenderness, and profound love.
In modern Japanese, it has evolved strictly into meaning "sad" or "grief-stricken." However, in classical poetry, its emotional spectrum was far vaster. For instance, in the works of the great poet Kakinomoto no Hitomaro, when gazing upon a ruined former capital, Kanashi was used not to mourn a human death, but to express the profound yearning and grief over the absence of something beautiful that should still exist.
In ancient times, it frequently expressed intense devotion toward a lover or spouse, widely seen in Azuma-uta (Eastern folk songs) and Sakimori-uta (poems by frontier garrison soldiers). Etymologically, Kanashi is believed to be the adjectival form of the verb Kanu (meaning: unable to do, cannot bear/endure). Thus, it represents "an overwhelming surge of emotion within the heart that one simply cannot contain or control."
To the Japanese soul, the common thread between "grief" and "profound love" is the exact same thing: a violent, un-suppressible vibration of the heart.
3. Wasuregusa (or Wasure-gusa) A perennial herbaceous plant that thrives in sunny, moist plains or hillsides, bearing vibrant orange blossoms in the summer.
In the Man'yōshū, this plant is referenced five times. Culturally, it was believed to possess the mystical property of allowing humans to purge their overwhelming homesickness or forget the agonizing yearning for a distant lover.