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ArabicHonkai Star Rail: My Death Feeds Their Madness — Chapter 17
Chapter 17: Gathering Plum Blossoms
[Remaining Lifespan: 7 Days, 1 Hour, 23 Minutes, 7 Seconds]
Kagashi glanced at the translucent blue panel hovering in his peripheral vision. His expression remained entirely placid. He dismissed the interface with a mere thought, his gaze softening as he offered a gentle smile to the young girl hurrying toward him through the morning frost.
Clarice had always favored the color purple.
Today, she wore a slim-cut wool coat left casually unbuttoned, revealing a thick beige turtleneck sweater that hugged her figure. Beneath the hem of her skirt, matte black stockings caught the faint, hazy light of the winter dawn. The shafts of her fleece-lined boots wrapped snugly around her calves, accentuating their smooth, slender lines. A thick scarf was looped twice around her neck, its tasseled ends draped over her shoulders and trailing down past her waist. Even through the heavy layers of winter clothing, her waist appeared impossibly delicate, a fragile curve that looked as though it could be encircled by a single hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Kagashi~~” she called out, her breath pluming into white clouds.
“Morning,” he replied, his voice a quiet, steady anchor in the cold air. “Today’s outfit suits you well.”
“Really?” Clarice’s eyes sparkled with immediate delight. She did a small twirl, the ends of her scarf fluttering. “Is there anything else you think I could improve, Mr. Kagashi?”
“I don’t know much about fashion,” he admitted, a faint, self-deprecating curve touching his lips. “You look beautiful exactly as you are. It perfectly complements your temperament.”
At his quiet praise, the girl’s eyes crinkled into happy crescents, a sweet, radiant smile blooming across her face.
Then, her gaze swept over his attire, and her smile faltered into a slight frown. “…Mr. Kagashi, you’re wearing so little. Aren’t you freezing?”
He wore only a simple layer of thermal underwear beneath a standard, short trench coat. His clothing was as ordinary as could possibly be—the kind of unremarkable attire that would render a person entirely invisible in a bustling city crowd. Yet, his exceptionally handsome features completely shattered that illusion of mediocrity. They say clothes make the man, but Clarice firmly believed that in Kagashi’s case, the man made the clothes. Even the most drab, threadbare garments looked striking when draped over his frame.
“I’m not cold. I am used to it,” Kagashi said, his tone mild and unbothered. He turned his gaze toward the distant, snow-capped peaks. “Let’s go.”
The plum blossoms on the back mountain had recently begun to bloom. After observing the subtle shifts in the frost over the past few days, he had concluded that this exact window of time was the absolute best moment to harvest them.
Upon arriving at the foot of the mountain, they found the winding stone steps buried beneath a thick layer of fresh, untouched snow.
“It snowed heavily last night, so I expected it to look like this,” Kagashi murmured. He reached into the void, retrieving a long-handled snow broom from his portable Folding Space.
Before he could take a step, Clarice stepped forward and firmly took the broom from his grasp. “Leave the heavy physical labor to me. You just focus on picking the plum blossoms, Mr. Kagashi.”
He looked at her determined expression, then slowly released the handle. “…Alright.”
The snow accumulation on the stone steps was not terribly deep, so he saw no reason to reject the girl’s earnest kindness.
The snow-draped stone steps wound steeply upward, flanked on both sides by a riot of red and white plum blossoms in full, glorious bloom. The visual contrast was stunning. Delicate ice crystals clung stubbornly to the slender branches of the white plums, while the red blossoms pierced through the gaps in the snow like drops of dark, vibrant crimson.
Whenever the freezing wind swept down from the summit, fine snow drifted through the air with a soft, rustling whisper. A few stray petals danced on the currents, one lightly brushing against Clarice’s chilled cheek. It left behind a lingering trace of a crisp, cold fragrance.
She paused, looking up toward the peak. The mountain ridge rose and fell in gentle, undulating lines beneath the snow, looking exactly like a masterful ink-wash painting. A thin, glittering frost coated everything in the wild. The silence was so absolute that the only sound was the rhythmic, precise snip of Kagashi using a bamboo knife to harvest the blossoms behind her.
Clarice’s snow-clearing efforts proved far more efficient than she had anticipated. After pulling about twenty steps ahead, her body grew flushed and warm from the exertion. She let out a soft, misty sigh of relief and leaned against the broom handle.
Glancing back down the path, she watched Kagashi. He was entirely absorbed in his task, carefully selecting only the ten most tender, perfect blossoms from each ancient tree. His movements were fluid, practiced, and deeply reverent.
When a person is truly focused, they rarely notice the quiet slipping of time.
Before she fully realized it, Clarice had reached the summit. She shook the dusting of snow from her shoulders and stepped onto the plateau. Her vision suddenly expanded, taking in the vast, unbroken expanse of the grove, and her breath caught in her throat.
The wind abruptly shifted direction, sweeping violently across the entire sea of plum trees. The dull, heavy thud of snow clusters tumbling from the branches intertwined with the low, mournful creaking of ancient wood rubbing together. The bitter, icy fragrance of the blossoms, crushed and carried by the gale, mingled with the raw scent of frozen earth and flooded her senses.
Petals fluttered and swirled in a chaotic, beautiful storm. As the slender branches trembled under the wind’s force, the red and white colors bled together into a captivating, rolling wave.
The moment Clarice finally remembered to exhale, the bitter chill faded, replaced by an even richer, sweeter concentration of plum fragrance. An expression of pure intoxication washed over her features.
“Mr. Kagashi, come up quickly! The plum blossoms are absolutely beautiful!”
But the very second the words left her mouth, Clarice’s expression froze.
Not far away stood a massive, gnarled old plum tree. Its thick roots protruded sharply from the snow, gripping the rocky crevices with desperate strength.
And standing directly in front of this ancient tree were two faint, translucent phantoms.
One figure belonged to an intellectual, deeply elegant woman. Even from behind, her graceful posture radiated a quiet, commanding beauty. Beside her stood a young boy, his head not even reaching her shoulder.
The boy’s silhouette was achingly familiar. It was Mr. Kagashi as a child!
If that was true, then the graceful woman beside him could only be his teacher.
Suddenly, more phantoms began to flicker into existence near the surrounding trees. The young Kagashi was shown carrying a woven bamboo basket, dutifully catching the delicate blossoms his teacher snipped from the high branches.
The scene shifted. The boy grew a fraction taller. Now, he held an oiled-paper umbrella over his teacher’s head with his left hand, while his right hand gently lifted a low-hanging plum branch to clear her path.
The phantoms flickered again. The boy was now a young man, standing significantly taller than the woman. But her figure was no longer by his side.
From the lonely, methodical way his phantom bent over the frozen earth, it was painfully obvious what he was doing. He was entirely alone, planting new plum saplings in the snow.
So this vast, beautiful plum grove… originally, it had only consisted of those few ancient trees…
“Clarice? Clarice?”
“…Ah?!”
She violently snapped out of her daze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She turned to find Kagashi already standing quietly by her side.
“Is there something wrong with the plum trees in that direction? Why are you staring so intently?” he asked, his voice a gentle, soothing murmur.
“…The scenery is just too beautiful,” she lied, forcing a nervous laugh. “I accidentally got lost in it…”
She cast a desperate glance back toward the ancient tree. The phantoms had vanished without a trace, as if they had been nothing more than a trick of the winter light.
But she knew, deep in her bones, that it had not been an illusion.
She studied Kagashi’s calm, unbothered profile. He clearly couldn’t see the lingering echoes of his own past. Why was she the only one who could witness these fragments of memory? Clarice couldn’t begin to fathom the reason.
“There’s no need to clear the snow up here,” she said quickly, eager to change the subject. “I’ll help you pick the blossoms. I can collect the parts needed for making sachets while I’m at it.”
If she couldn’t understand the phantoms, she would bury the thought for now. The fragile man standing beside her was far more important.
“If you intend to make sachets, do you know which specific blossoms are best to harvest?” Kagashi asked, tilting his head slightly.
“…Is it similar to fermenting wine? Are there actual differences between the blossoms at various stages of blooming?” Clarice asked, genuinely curious.
“Naturally.”
Hearing her hesitant answer, Kagashi realized the girl hadn’t studied this particular discipline. Or rather, she simply didn’t know the precise, delicate art of crafting floral sachets.
“When preparing sachets, it is always best to select plum blossoms that are just on the verge of blooming. Their fragrance is far richer and will linger for a much longer time,” he explained, his tone taking on the familiar, patient cadence of a teacher.
“Half-opened blossoms are also acceptable, as the aromatic compounds within the petals have only partially been released, leaving the structure relatively intact. Do you know why we specifically chose to come in the early morning?”
“I don’t know,” Clarice admitted, shaking her head honestly.
“Because in the early morning, long before the sun crests the horizon, the ambient humidity is at its peak. The blossoms are saturated with cold moisture, rendering their scent incredibly dense. This preserves both their fragrance and their structural quality to the greatest possible extent.”
Kagashi patiently unraveled the mystery for her, his dark eyes scanning the branches. “One must carefully select intact blossoms, entirely free of pest damage or bruising, to guarantee the purity of the sachet. At the same time, one must avoid harvesting during heavy wind or rain, lest the delicate fragrance be violently dispersed.”
He paused, looking up at the gray, churning sky. “Today’s weather isn’t actually ideal. The wind is a bit too fierce. Unfortunately, there haven’t been any clear, windless mornings lately, so we must settle for the next best option.”
He lowered his gaze, a quiet, unreadable shadow passing over his eyes. “The sky should finally clear up after the Great Cold, but unfortunately…”
‘…I won’t last until that day.’
[Inorin’s Note: “Great Cold” (Dahan) is the final solar term in the traditional Chinese lunisolar calendar, marking the coldest period of the year before the arrival of spring.]