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ArabicHonkai Star Rail: My Death Feeds Their Madness — Chapter 18
Chapter 18: A Silent Farewell
“So there are so many details to consider with plum blossoms…” Clarice said, a look of genuine surprise coloring her delicate features as she gazed out across the vibrant grove.
“It is likely because there are no plum blossoms in your hometown.”
“That’s true. Not only are there none, but most of the flora planted in the palace is strictly for ornamental use, and the varieties in the outskirts of the Imperial City are quite limited.” Clarice shook her head gently, a fleeting shadow passing over her eyes at the mention of her home.
“The materials women use for making sachets can only be chosen from those few types of flowers with the strongest fragrance.”
“Even so, they are far inferior compared to the scent of plum blossoms.”
Kagashi used a slender bamboo knife to gently support a fragile branch. With a slight, practiced flick of his wrist, he deftly plucked a perfect blossom, letting it fall softly into his palm.
“If you like them, you can take some plum saplings from here back to your hometown to plant.”
“Well, it’s still too early for that!” Clarice’s cheeks flushed a sudden, brilliant pink. “Since my student registration was transferred here, I don’t plan on returning home for the time being.”
“No rush.” Kagashi’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, his expression unreadable. “While I am away on business… if you graduate and I haven’t returned, feel free to head up the mountain and take some saplings.”
“We’ll see when the time comes. I’ll go pick some plum blossoms as Mr. Kagashi suggested first.”
“Here, the tools.” Kagashi handed over the bamboo knife and a slightly smaller woven basket.
“No need, I brought scissors.” Clarice brandished a pair of small, gleaming shears from her pocket.
“It is best not to use metal tools. Contact with them will more or less affect the purity and quality of the petals.”
“Eh? Is that so…” She blinked, quickly pocketing the shears. “Thank you for the reminder, Mr. Kagashi!”
“It is a small matter.”
Clarice took the bamboo knife. Seeing her lithe figure moving skillfully among the twisting branches, a faint, quiet smile appeared in Kagashi’s eyes. He looked down at his own bamboo basket, which was already brimming with crimson petals. With a subtle wave of his hand, he stored it within his folding space and retrieved a new, empty one.
This year, the volume of plum blossoms he planned to harvest was significantly higher than in previous seasons.
After all, he was about to die.
Of the Plum Blossom Wine he intended to send to his teacher in the future, only this year’s batch could be crafted by his own hands. As long as the raw materials did not compromise the flavor, he would do his utmost to gather as much as the grove could provide.
Near noon, the winter sun hung high but offered little warmth. The two returned to the Bamboo House, their baskets heavy with the morning’s harvest.
Kagashi poured the delicate blossoms into a wide wooden basin. He patiently rinsed them in cold spring water, his long fingers filtering out stray leaves and impurities. He then used a soft, absorbent cloth to carefully drain the moisture before distributing the pristine petals into a row of waiting earthen wine jars.
Next, he measured out fine sugar, layering it into the jars for candying. The process would take exactly forty-eight hours, effectively drawing out any lingering bitterness from the petals.
“Mr. Kagashi, the washing and draining could probably be done with that magical appliance in your house, right?” Clarice stood by the counter, somewhat puzzled as she watched his seamless, unhurried movements. “Could it be that automatic machines would damage the quality of the plum blossoms?”
“Not really.” Kagashi chuckled, a low, soft sound.
“Doing it by hand is simply more meaningful. It holds more heart. It is also part of the joy of life.” He wiped his hands on a clean towel. “In ancient times, before human civilization advanced to this point, many people would tend to a garden or a plot of land in their old age, tinkering with the things they loved by hand.”
“How old are you even, Mr. Kagashi? You look like a twenty-year-old; you’re not old at all!”
The young girl spoke thoughtlessly, her voice bright and full of life. Kagashi only smiled, offering no response.
In reality, he was very, very old.
So old that in a mere matter of days, he would return to the dust.
Most of the arrangements that needed to be settled before his death were already finished. Thinking carefully as he wiped down the wooden counter, there didn’t seem to be many regrets left tethering him to this world.
If he had to name one, it was his failure to dissuade his teacher from her obsession with resurrecting her loved ones.
Besides, that couldn’t even be considered a true resurrection.
Kagashi sealed the final wine jar, pressing the lid down firmly, and moved them one by one to a cool, dark corner to sit.
“Stay for lunch before you go, girl.”
“Mhm~ I’ll help out as your assistant.”
Clarice didn’t dwell on the matter of age; she didn’t care anyway. Entering the warm kitchen, the two prepared the main course in comfortable harmony. Once the savory dishes were simmering, Kagashi began preparing the ingredients for the pastries.
Fallen plum blossoms, perilla plum powder, soaked soybeans, and a tightly sealed crystal bottle of clear liquid.
“Mr. Kagashi, what’s in this bottle?”
“Water from melted snow that fell directly on the plum blossoms. I only managed to collect this single bottle last year.”
“…Last year!” Clarice stared at the small vial, stunned. “The ingredients are so troublesome and specific. Is this a newly developed pastry?”
“You could say that.”
Kagashi first washed the soaked soybeans again, then added the precious plum blossom snow water. He mashed them methodically into a fine paste before folding in the sugar and perilla plum powder.
Unconsciously, a low melody slipped from his lips. He began to hum a slow, melancholic tune, occasionally murmuring something in a hushed voice, the syllables blurred and indistinct like a fading memory.
While humming, he stir-fried the mixture dry, the sweet, earthy aroma filling the kitchen. He kneaded it into a smooth ball, pressed it into a wooden mold to cool, and carefully arranged several intact fallen plum blossoms onto the surface. Finally, he wrapped it in oiled paper to set.
The entire process flowed like water over smooth stones. Clarice stood mesmerized by the rhythm of his hands. When she finally snapped out of her daze to check the time, she realized several dozen minutes had slipped away.
“Mr. Kagashi, the song you were just singing sounded a bit sad.”
Kagashi paused, his hands hovering over the counter. “I was singing just now?”
“Not only were you singing, but you also seemed to be reciting poetry. It sounded like a poem, though I couldn’t hear the words clearly.”
“Hmm…?” Kagashi tilted his head, rubbing his chin as he searched his mind. He found nothing but a blank void where the memory of the last few minutes should have been.
Strange.
Was the new medicine losing its efficacy? Was it failing to suppress the advancing symptoms of his Alzheimer’s?
Forget it. It didn’t matter anymore. As long as no catastrophic mistakes occurred in his daily routine, it was fine.
Yu Qingtu wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. In truth, he didn’t even need the medication to survive these final days, but his aging, frail body simply couldn’t accomplish anything without it. To avoid just lying on the couch waiting for his organs to shut down, he still had to consume the bitter pills.
“Let’s eat first. The plum-soaked soybean cake I just made needs to sit for a while to let the flavors settle. It will be perfect as a post-meal dessert.”
This lunch was exceptionally heartwarming for the two of them.
At least, that was how Clarice felt.
Sitting across from him, she thought of a quiet future where she would live in seclusion in this very Bamboo House with Mr. Kagashi, spending the rest of their lives together in peace. She couldn’t even keep the corners of her mouth from turning up as she ate.
This was the future she desperately wanted. Just visualizing it filled her chest with a warm, fluttering happiness. Away from the conflicts of the palace, away from complex political relationships—just staying together peacefully in the quiet mountains.
However, Clarice didn’t know the thoughts drifting through Kagashi’s mind as he quietly ate his meal.
This was likely the last lunch he would ever share with little Clarice.
In this long, exhausting life, aside from the highly respected Yu Qingtu, the only person who could truly be called a friend was probably the young girl sitting across from him.
And that was exactly why Kagashi had asked her to stay.
A silent farewell.
However, Kagashi’s failing memory had caused him to forget one crucial detail. Clarice had previously asked him to be her fitting model for a new garment. Since the afternoon she had taken his measurements, she hadn’t brought it up again. It was no wonder his deteriorating mind had subconsciously discarded the memory, assuming the girl’s request had been nothing more than a passing whim.
“Mr. Kagashi, while you’re away, I’ll help you look after the plum grove.”
“No need.”
“It’s no trouble at all. It won’t take up too much of my time.”
“Really, there is no need.” Kagashi set down his chopsticks. “I have already ordered a… robot from the Interstellar Peace Corporation. It will faithfully carry out its programmed orders, which include tending to the plum grove.”
“…Alright.”
Hearing the name of the Interstellar Peace Corporation, Clarice nodded in understanding. She had read that the Corporation’s footprint spanned the known universe, possessing advanced technology and unimaginable wealth. Not just her home planet, but this world too saw the heavy presence of the IPC’s influence.
“It is about time. Try the taste of the plum-soaked soybean cake.”
Kagashi stood up, retrieving a few pieces of the delicate pastry from the wooden mold and bringing them to the dining table. The faint scent of snow and plum blossoms drifted upward.
“See if they are to your taste. I will take care of the rest.”
He turned his back, returning to the kitchen to rewrap the remaining pastries in oiled paper. He stored them neatly in a special preservation box, ensuring they would keep their flavor.
When he finally returned to the table, he stopped in his tracks.
To his surprise, Clarice was sitting there completely motionless, silent tears sliding down her pale cheeks and dropping onto the table.
“Why are you crying?”