Honkai Star Rail: My Death Feeds Their Madness — Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Save Some of the Tenderness You Show the World for YourselfYou're reading this on the wrong site. This chapter was translated by Elysian Reads and posted for free at elysianreads.com — if you're seeing it anywhere else, it was copied without permission. Read it at the source so the people who actually did the work get the credit.

The Back Mountain.

A wide, winding path carved into the earth led straight toward the summit, flanked on both sides by rows of dormant plum trees. Flat, weathered stones were embedded deep into the soil, forming irregular but sturdy steps for a steady ascent.

Kagashi tended to the grove with slow, deliberate movements. He used no modern technological tools. Fertilizing, pruning, pest control—he managed every task with his own two hands. Winter would soon bury these peaks in heavy snow, and most of the local wildlife had long since migrated south, leaving the mountain to a deep, undisturbed solitude. Only the soft snap of shears and the rustle of dry branches offered any sign of life.

Time slipped by unnoticed. Just as Kagashi neared the summit, the atmosphere shifted.

The warm, late autumn sun vanished, swallowed whole by rolling banks of thick gray clouds. Muffled thunder rumbled across the horizon. Thunderstorms were a rarity in this habitually dry season. Kagashi paused, glancing up at the darkened sky, but his hands never stopped working.

Soon, a misty drizzle descended.

The sheer curtain of moisture settled over the dry air, rapidly thickening into a steady, pattering rain that began to soak through his thin clothes. Droplets shattered against the stone steps, tapping out a rhythmic, ticking cadence. The autumn wind carried the rain through the plum branches, knocking withered leaves to the muddy earth below, silently gathering strength for the new life that would follow the bitter cold.

“Mr. Kagashi—”

A young girl’s voice pierced the quiet, calling out from further down the slope.

Kagashi turned. Clarice was hurrying up the mountain path, clutching a traditional oil-paper umbrella. The wind urged the rain into a sharp slant, rendering the single canopy nearly useless against the downpour. Completely ignoring the mud splashing against her skirt, the girl dashed straight to Kagashi’s side, throwing her arm high to stretch the umbrella over his head.

“Why did you run out without a coat?” Kagashi asked.

“Huff… You’ll—you’ll get soaked,” Clarice panted, her small face flushed red from the exertion, her breathing ragged.

A quiet warmth bloomed in Kagashi’s chest. He offered a helpless, gentle smile. “Silly girl. Curing a cold is much harder than drying wet clothes. You don’t need to hold the umbrella for me. Go back inside.”

Clarice shook her head, her expression entirely stubborn. She had finally found something—anything—within her power to do for him.

“You only ever know how to care for others, Mr. Kagashi. Even a doctor needs to look after themselves. At least…” She caught her breath, looking up at him. “Save some of the tenderness you show the world for yourself.”

Kagashi froze. The shears in his hand stilled. Slowly, his eyes crinkled into a soft, affectionate curve, and he gave a slight nod.

“Then I’ll trouble you, little Clarice.”

“I’m already eighteen,” she muttered, puffing her cheeks. “I’m not little anymore.”

Whether on her home world or this one, eighteen was an age where one could legally marry.

“Hehe…” Kagashi couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh at her weak protest.

It really was good to be young.

He thought back to his own eighteenth year. ‘Hmm?’ His memory suddenly caught, stuttering like a broken gear. He couldn’t recall a single good thing worth remembering from that time.

Perhaps there were none.

Or perhaps, after more than a hundred years of wandering, he was simply too old and his mind too worn to hold onto them.

The two figures walked shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the painted canopy, passing row after row of plum trees, weaving their way through the grove at the summit. The rain fell in dense sheets now, washing the world in a hazy, watery gray. Clarice quietly angled the umbrella toward Kagashi, entirely ignoring the icy dampness seeping into her left shoulder.

“Wait a moment. The branches on this one need pruning.” Kagashi stopped abruptly. He reached up, deftly snipping away the deadwood.

Clarice hurriedly stretched onto her tiptoes, lifting the umbrella higher to cover him. As he moved, his damp sleeve brushed against her bangs. A faint, clean fragrance washed over her. He smelled of bitter medicinal herbs mixed with something deeper, something unknown and entirely intoxicating.

The girl’s breath hitched. She suddenly wished the walk down the mountain would take an eternity.

The downpour grew violent. A single oil-paper umbrella was no match for the storm, forcing them to seek shelter beneath the oldest, largest plum tree in the grove. Unfortunately, its sparse, leafless branches offered little protection. Rainwater slipped through the gaps, striking the umbrella with sharp, blooming splashes.

“Are you cold?” Kagashi asked, taking the heavy umbrella from her grip.and support the real translator.Read at elysianreads.com This is a stolen translation. You're reading this on the wrong site. This chapter was translated by Elysian Reads and posted for free at elysianreads.com — if you're seeing it anywhere else, it was copied without permission. Read it at the source so the people who actually did the work get the credit.

“I’m not cold.”

Despite her words, Clarice subconsciously shuffled closer to his side. The wind curled around them, carrying his scent directly to her. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She nervously twirled a strand of light purple hair around her finger, desperate to hide her burning ears. They had to be bright red by now.

Rainwater pooled in a small depression at their feet, acting as a dark mirror that reflected their side-by-side silhouettes. She secretly slid half a step closer. Her shoulder brushed against his arm.

“Don’t force yourself,” Kagashi murmured.

He stepped behind her, using his taller frame as a physical shield against the biting wind whipping at her back. Heaven only knew how desperately Clarice wanted to fall backward into his embrace right then.

“In two months, when the cold winter you like finally arrives, these trees will bloom,” she said softly. “I’ll come help you pick the blossoms.” She blurted the promise out, then, terrified she sounded too eager, hurriedly added, “And while I’m at it… I’ll pick some for myself. I want to make plum blossom sachets. For you, for my mother, and for me…”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Kagashi accepted her kindness without hesitation.

Clarice recalled an old romantic superstition: ‘If you share an umbrella with your beloved in the rain, the droplets falling from the edge will turn into seeds of Remembrance, blooming and bearing fruit in the years to come.’

But before her wandering thoughts could take root, his voice broke the silence.

“Actually… I don’t like the cold winter.”

Clarice blinked, turning her head slightly. “Eh? Why?”

Kagashi stared out at the gray rain, his voice terrifyingly calm. “In my childhood, the only Remembrance winter ever left me was of famine, war, and rotting corpses. It was nothing but fear, and the endless nightmare of wandering on the absolute edge of death.”

Clarice’s chest tightened. “Then… why do you go to such lengths for these trees, Mr. Kagashi? Is it because you love plum blossoms that much?”

“I’m not sure how much I actually like them,” he admitted softly. “But I remember my teacher loved them. And loved drinking plum blossom wine even more, alongside tasting pastries infused with their fragrance.”

So it was because of that teacher.

The realization sank like a stone in Clarice’s stomach. Her understanding of the sheer, crushing weight this ‘teacher’ held in Kagashi’s heart deepened. A bitter spike of envy pierced her chest, and she let the topic die in her throat.

The atmosphere cooled into silence.

The rain gradually weakened to a drizzle. They stepped out from beneath the old tree and continued through the woods, arriving at the final stretch of the grove. Kagashi reached out, lifting a low-hanging, dripping branch to clear the path for her.

“Watch your step,” he reminded her warmly, completely oblivious to the heavy, lingering gaze the girl had fixed upon him.

Holding the umbrella, lifting the branches, shielding someone from the wind… Kagashi’s movements were flawless. They were so incredibly natural, ingrained into his very bones as if he had repeated them ten thousand times before.

Clarice suddenly wanted to ask: ‘In the past, had anyone ever held an umbrella for him?’

Her throat felt dry. There was no need to ask. The answer was obvious.

Most likely not.

Despite Kagashi’s youthful, unblemished appearance, she remembered the first time she learned of his existence. The records were over twenty years old. He had already settled on this mountain back then. At a highly conservative estimate, he was at least forty years old.

For whom had he held an umbrella for so many decades to develop such practiced, subconscious devotion?

It had to be that mysterious teacher whose name he never spoke aloud.

‘He… no, it had to be a she.’ Just who on earth was this person?

Piecing together the fragmented clues, Clarice was certain of one thing: that teacher was undoubtedly a woman.You're reading this on the wrong site. This chapter was translated by Elysian Reads and posted for free at elysianreads.com — if you're seeing it anywhere else, it was copied without permission. Read it at the source so the people who actually did the work get the credit.