Dialogue with the Spirits of the Skin
A Mystical Beauty Saga

Season 1 – When the Moon Descends: The Tale of the Loquat Spirit

Episode 4: Revelation at the Ancient Temple

In the mountains of Kyoto, beneath a cloudy sky before the rains of summer,
Kodama Takano walked quietly along a narrow bamboo path.
He was heading toward an ancient temple nestled at the mountain’s base.
Now forgotten, it was once a place where renowned Kewaishi stopped before their journeys,
to calm both heart and skin.

Takano sought to untangle the feelings that had lingered within him.

The whispers he had heard in that treatment room.
The small lives dwelling on the skin.
The microbiota, acting as translators.
Not simply to refine the skin, but to respond.

What had he truly known?
What had he left unknown, while still “refining”?
Before setting out for Okinawa, he needed to confirm it.

And another thing—a word he could not shake:

(…the Golden Kettle.)

It lingered at the bottom of memory.
He recalled visiting this temple with his grandmother, Yūnagi,
catching sight of something that had left its mark.

Takano climbed mossy stone steps, passed through the temple grounds,
and made his way to the “Archive Hall” deep within.

Inside, the Archive Hall was sunken in chill and shadow.

From a high window, a narrow beam of light cast bars of iron shadow.
Dust drifted slowly,
as though the air itself had sunk to the bottom of time.

Shelves held old stitched books and scrolls, some draped in white cloth.

Takano reached for one volume.
Here, he had once seen that handwriting—
the source of words that had guided him.
He wished to confirm it again.

Opening the book carefully,
a waka poem brushed upon handmade washi appeared.

Ishibashiru Tarumi no mizu no hashikiyashi Kimi ni koifuraku waga kokoro kara


A poem from the Manyō age.
And yet—this hand, this presence—
it had to be from the same being who had always guided him.

No name, no form,
but a voice that had always dwelled within him—
a presence he could only call “Master.”
Not words, but teachings descending as a quiet aura.

Takano sank to his knees.

It was as though the poem itself spoke to him.

A roaring waterfall, crashing on stone.
And within that torrent,
a fleeting instant of stillness.

Not mere quiet—
but the ardent stillness of a heart in longing,
a passion uncontainable, answering.

The essence of “Shisui” was here.

Not the performance of silence,
but a drop from the depth of life’s yearning,
stilling the flow of time for just a breath.
In that moment, both skin and heart reached their deepest harmony.

The torrents of days, the flood of time, the noise of society.
Amid them all—
there is a pause, a hidden stillness, untouched.

That is the soul of Shisui.

Takano closed the book softly.

He stepped into the adjoining “Tool Room.”

Here, the implements of past Kewaishi rested quietly.
Wrapped in white cloth, never displayed, never spoken of.

Opening box after box, he found it.

A small kettle, gleaming gold.

It fit within his palm,
yet its weight was strangely heavy.

(…This is it.)

Memory surged into clarity.

This kettle was said to seal heat, fragrance, and essence.
It calmed the skin, steadied the breath, guided the flow.
Not only a vessel of sealing,
but one to measure the balance of senses and life.

Upon the faded ink were written words:
“Guidance of Steam,” “Circle of Calm,” “Seal of Vapor.”

This was something he knew he would encounter again on his journey.
The certainty lit quietly in his chest.

When he stood on the veranda of the Archive Hall,
the sky had turned to crimson dusk.

In the corner of the garden, bamboo leaves swayed in the wind, whispering softly.

Takano placed a hand upon his chest.
The vial of Shisui swayed quietly beneath his robe.

Shisui—
it was not technique.
It was a way of life—
to find a moment of stillness,
and answer the presence that sought harmony.

Not stopping the flow,
but standing within it,
as a single veil of light.

Skin is not a mere organ.
It is a membrane reflecting the heart’s radiance,
transmitting the rhythm of life.

When that membrane is in harmony, one becomes beautiful.

The beauty of one in love—
it shines because the heart itself glows,
visible through the delicate veil of skin.

Takano drew a deep breath.

The journey ahead would not be only to seek materials for skin.
It would be a search for the single drop that restores harmony
to heart and life alike.

In Okinawa, he would meet the loquat fruit.
And beyond that, a path yet further.

All connected—
through the quiet breath of Shisui.

Bamboo leaves rustled once more,
and the wind crossed the treetops.

Takano took his step forward.

The Shisui at his chest breathed with him.