BY YUCHENG TAO

Copyright is held by the author.

I
The night hung low, not a single birdcall.
The moon was dim, and the scent of blood was thick.
In the courtyard, corpses piled like mountains.
When she returned from outside, it was already too late. Her father, Hiraoka, had
already gone far away. There was no poetry there, only the cruel candlelight casting
shadows on the darkened corpses. The only thing red was a servant’s teeth, stained by
the residue of candied fruits made from grapes and cherry tomatoes.
Her father lay beside them, clutching tightly to an unknown object before his death.
She stepped forward to check it, her body trembling uncontrollably from grief.
At that moment, snow began to fall. For such an ancient city, snow usually brought a
sense of calm, but now it only felt cold and desolate, contrasting with the heavy
weight inside her heart. The snow fell lightly and gently, slowly covering the charred
bodies that still held some warmth.
She pried open her father’s curled hand and saw the object that shocked her — a
crystal-clear jade bead. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Holding back the rising waves
of emotion, she secretly took it, already making plans in her heart.
The snow fell harder, dampening her youthful face bit by bit.
She took out the short knife her father had given her and sliced her palm in an instant,
leaving a bloodstain. She gave herself a new name. She told herself that when the
time came, she would remember what that name was.

II
The next night, facing the golden temple not far away, the city was called the Golden City. 
A hundred years ago, the ruler had ordered all temples in the city to be painted gold to celebrate the unification of the country and the dawn of a new era, proclaiming: “The universe celebrates from all directions.”
At two in the morning, her husband, having ruthlessly wiped out his political enemies, now carried a long sword covered in gold leaf. With his loyal guards, he rode proudly through the city.
Behind his sword stood a sea of blades pointing skyward.
Before his sword rose countless passionate songs, accompanied by the continuing snow.
For the first time, he showed a smile. He was once called the one who neither cried nor laughed. No one could measure how many rooms his heart contained or how many dark-objects it held. He and her family were old friends, but since he came of age, whenever he faced her father, he was always expressionless and distant.
Strangely, a few months ago, when he learned that her father’s faction was gaining more influence in the cabinet, he smiled more often and frequently discussed state affairs with his father-in-law.
All this seemed ordinary to her, for only unity could bring prosperity to the country.
But after that night, his wife began to carry out the plan in her heart.

III
Signs of the dark could change from green to red, just like the bead in her father’s hand, originally green, but now turned red in her hateful eyes. Even her name changed, tied to red and revenge.
She had been preparing a dance — the dance of death, revolving around a vow that could never be fulfilled. She remembered some of her past with her husband. Was it all false?
She discovered a secret: the bead carried a secret. Her husband Ishihara, these days high in favor with the ruler, was granted the rare honor of holding the “Long Sword Night” and patrolling the entire city.
But he did not know that after the peak of joy, the abyss of darkness might follow. And as the maker of the abyss, his wife might also be its victim. Isn’t this how the wheel of fate turned?
The bead was the missing part of her husband’s equipment.
After her husband’s rise in the cabinet, the ruler’s policies drifted far from her father’s tradition of governance, moving toward extreme expansionism.
Her husband’s favourite figures were Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi — one arrogant and cunning, the other patient and decisive.
Their war stories were often retold by her husband after drinking.
Tomorrow was their wedding anniversary. Besides sake, there would be dance — and after the dance, the final killing.

IV
Her name was Yuki. Her waist-length hair fell to the ground like a crescent moon. In her hand, a short blade glimmered: Snow Flower. It bloomed like drifting snow beneath the twilight glow. But that night, it carried another name: Red Snow. Also it was her new name.
Snow usually meant purity — like the carefree childhood days she remembered walking through fresh snow. Back then, her husband’s family and hers were longtime friends; the two families often shared tea. At that time, her father was not yet the respected high-ranking officer he would become. Everything was peaceful.
But she knew peace was impossible then — or perhaps that was the calm before the storm. Why choose that day? Because every year on that day, their wedding anniversary, her husband drank heavily, his intoxication rising gently. That night, her heart trembled nervously, fluttering like flower branches in the wind.
She sought revenge.
By daylight, she was quiet, unmoving, like fresh snow resting in the courtyard. But at night, a fire stirred beneath her ribs, smoldering in silence.
She stared at the calluses covering her palms, waiting for that person to come. Waiting for death to turn its head — which would also be her final farewell to this world.
Four years ago, her family home in Kyoto had been reduced to ashes overnight by mysterious hands. Her loved ones turned to dust. The once-grand courtyards were now filled with withered petals and charred lantern stands — a hidden history buried beneath the debris. The death gods did not weep. What spilled from them was blood — the blood of her family, split by blades, staining that winter day forever in her mind.
It was deep winter. She remembered.
She put on a kimono embroidered with pure white flowers, cradled her pet squirrel, and released it into the fading sunset.
She gazed at the horizon. Soon, she would ride death’s chariot to reunite with her family in the underworld. For a moment, she relaxed. In early spring, death felt almost beautiful to her. Living only meant carrying endless hatred. The deeper the memories sank into that swamp, the deeper one drowned.

V
In the quiet moments before dawn,
Yuki stood by the window, the weight of her choices pressing heavily on her chest.
She didn’t believe everything was true; on one side, memories of sweet times with her husband flashed through her mind, on the other, the tender care of her father when she was young. But she had to make a decision.
Outside, the cold still lingered; inside, a raging flame grew fiercely, burning away all the chill. Revenge was necessary.
Clutching the jade bead tightly, she practiced again and again in the courtyard the hidden technique she had learned as a child: the reverse-hand strike.

 It was a fighting skill even her husband didn’t know. It was her father’s secret, the ultimate trump card for emergencies.
This move could turn the tide when the situation was unfavorable.
She practiced tirelessly, moving with the swiftness of an eagle, her limbs weaving and spinning like a spider.
She knew this time had to be perfect. There was a local saying: failure was simply not an option. Assassination was an extremely difficult task. Historically, most attempts failed. But once the goal was set, there was no turning back.
The next step was an abyss — a leap into the unknown darkness, or aimless flight across the sky. How to choose?
She had already made her final decision. 

The dance of death, accompanied by the cold gleam of the blade, was both slaughter and poetic demise. For her, this death seemed fatefully tragic, though she resisted the idea.

VI
That night, she was to perform for her husband.
“You’re back,” she whispered softly to him and went to prepare his favorite sake.
After his bath, with sake between them, he requested the dance she had prepared — a fan dance. In the bright room, she moved gracefully. Her long hair brushed the floor, spinning like a butterfly flitting through the air. There was no snow that night, but her elegance reminded one of the snow country’s delicate fragrance.
She recalled their carefree strolls through Hokkaido, though their smiles had always felt strained. When she turned her face away then, her heart was filled with bloody visions. Suddenly, she collapsed to her knees, lowering her head.
“Yuki,” her husband exclaimed, surprised. “What’s wrong?”
Without warning, tears streamed down her face.
“I’m… just so happy,” she said softly.
“Because you’re with me?” he asked.
“It’s not because of your height or your handsome face,” she replied. “It’s because that night, I returned to my true home, dressed for the occasion.”
As the final word left her lips, a short blade flashed from her sleeve — sharp and sudden as the first sunlight of February.
Her husband’s eyes narrowed in confusion, but before the expression could form into words, the steel had already brushed his skin. A shallow line appeared along his neck, thin as a thread of crimson silk, and warm blood welled up like a forbidden blossom. This was the Kiss of Death, the blade laced with quiet venom.
His hand shot up to his throat. “Yuki—!” His voice cracked, both in shock and disbelief. “What… are you doing?”
She leaned in close, her breath a cold whisper in his ear. “You’re as good as dead.”
“Why?” he gasped, trying to push her away, his fingers trembling against her wrist. The sake cup tipped over between them, spilling clear liquid across the tatami. The smell of alcohol mingled with the metallic tang of blood.
“Because you were the one who slaughtered my family four years ago,” she hissed, pressing the blade harder until another bead of blood slid down. Her grip on his sleeve tightened, twisting the fabric so he could not move his arm. “I married you for revenge. You adored the snow, so you called me Yuki, but do you remember? The snow in my courtyard that night was stained crimson with blood. My father was your political rival, yet you destroyed our entire house.”
He tried to twist away, knocking over the sake bottle. The sound rang sharp in the tense air. “Lies!” he choked out, but his voice lacked conviction. His pupils darted, searching for escape.
Her blade flashed again — this time a feint to draw his guard — and when his arm rose instinctively, she slid low, cutting across the tendons of his other wrist. The cup he still clutched fell from his weakening fingers, shattering on the floor.
His slight intoxication, his swaying body, combined with Yuki’s secretly practiced deadly skill — everything happened as swiftly as lightning. He lunged at her with a desperate shove, but she pivoted, letting his weight pull him off balance. In the same motion, she stepped inside his reach and drove the blade upward under his ribcage, the motion precise, controlled, intimate.
He froze, eyes wide, his mouth opening but finding no air. The warmth of his blood spread across her sleeve, soaking the delicate embroidery.
“You’ll meet them soon,” she murmured — and with a final reverse strike, she cut the last thread of resistance from his body. His knees buckled, and he collapsed into her arms, already a hollow shell.
When his body finally lost all warmth, Yuki felt utterly hollow. She let him slide from her embrace, his head striking the floor with a muted thud. The room was still except for the faint hiss of the sake soaking into the tatami.
She walked into the courtyard and let out a desolate, long laugh. The death god would arrive, as promised. Her blood kissed the first breath of spring.
The courtyard was quiet. The first breath of spring coiled in the air like a ghost. She closed her eyes.
And in the darkness behind her eyelids, the snow was still falling — crimson, and endless.

***

Yucheng Tao is a Chinese poet based in Los Angeles. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly, White Wall Review (Canada), Wild Court (King’s College London), Strange Horizons, The Lake (UK), NonBinary Review, O:JA&L, Poésie Première, Recours au Poème, and Arpa Poésie (2026). His debut chapbook is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.