The more Feitao dwelled on it, the more frustrated she grew. After wiping clean, she tied her sash and left the public restroom.
Back on the bench, Feitao curled up. The wood was too hard, so she draped her fluffy tails over herself like a blanket. Just as she drifted toward sleep again, her cute little nose twitched. Her tiny brows furrowed slightly.
Come to think of it…
This outfit was what she’d taken when she ran away thirty years ago. She hadn’t worn it often, but all told—it had been thirty years.
Over decades, both this garment and her identity as a Nine Tailed Fox had faded from memory. Thankfully, the fabric held up remarkably well, still looking pristine after thirty years.
Woven by that old hag using Feitao’s own kitsune blood and the heart-hide of a millennium-old velvet beast, the garment shared a bond with her—summonable at will. It offered mild resistance to magic and mind arts, and adjusted its warmth to the ambient temperature.
Still… wearing the same clothes for decades meant sweat and scent were unavoidable.
Staring at the copper mirror’s reflection—a delicate, dreamlike white-furred fox girl—Feitao’s gaze flickered with a trace of deep loathing.
She had many enemies, few personal ones. Only one person truly stirred her hatred.
Her own biological mother.
She hated her. Feared her. Fear outweighed hatred, twisting into revulsion for everything tied to her—genes, features, all of it.
If not for her obsessive cleanliness demanding clean clothes, she wouldn’t linger a second longer in fox form.
Fully embracing humanity while rejecting her Nine-Tailed Form was Feitao’s shield. She’d selectively buried those memories, refusing to revisit that bone-deep terror.
Time to work.
Her soft fox ears twitched. She sniffed her sleeve, kicked off her geta, then tugged at the top of her white thigh-highs, sliding them down. Moonlight traced her snow-pale skin.
She brought the stockings to her nose. Not foul—faintly floral—but sweat stains lingered. A wash was overdue.
But…
Feitao pouted. Only one outfit. Wash it… and wear what?
It fit, at least. Better than going half-dressed. Her human-form clothes were ill-fitting, and who knew if she’d shift uncontrollably again like tonight?
And… she was so sleepy…
Gritting her teeth, she hopped down, fetched a wooden basin and washboard from the church storeroom, scrubbed them clean, scanned the area—empty—then slowly undressed.
Top. Sash. Thigh-highs. Dudou. That certain triangular cloth.
Her delicate fingers held the warm fabric. She tossed everything into the water. Bare except for geta, moonlight glowed on her fair skin.
She dragged a stool close, sat, and scrubbed through drowsiness. Behind her, her tails instinctively curled to shield her modesty.
"Awo~" After countless yawns, the last garment was clean.
Satisfied enough.
Drying came next. Heat belonged to magic; mind arts were mostly physical. Before, she couldn’t manage it. Now, magic essence brimmed within her. No formal spells? She’d mimic.
She laid the damp clothes on the bench, closed her eyes, focused every thought into her small palms. Magic essence surged from her blood to her hands, radiating heat.
Magic essence and will shared a core principle—channeling power through intent—yet magic essence held far greater potential. Still, both drained energy.
Feitao wearily opened her fox eyes.
"Awo~" Another huge yawn. Staying up this late was wearing her thin.
She hastily pulled on the dried clothes. The kitsune blood in her veins had stilled.
Shifting back to human form, she slipped on the discarded armor and collapsed onto the bench.
Half the night remained. Sleep while she could.
---
Half a month passed. Fate had settled into the church’s daily rhythm.
"Sir Guard, where might the church father be? I wish to confess to him personally."
"The father is out. You may speak with our nun."
"But sir, the nun is busy too. Are there other clergy available?"
"..." Fate said nothing, calmly meeting the man’s gaze. The answer was right there.
"Uh… well…" The man pursed his lips, studying Fate. "I heard the nun say—you were once a knight?"
"Mm."
"Then as a retainer of the Dawnbreak Knight-Captain, you’re clergy too. Might you hear my confession?"
Fate paused.
"Sir, confession eases conscience. But bowing to an unseen deity does less good than taking real, meaningful action."
"Huh? I…"
"Does your repentance end at guilt, never becoming action?" Fate tilted his head. "Then confessing changes nothing. Why bother?"
"..." The man opened his mouth—no words came.
Truths like these stung, yet left no room for argument.
He left. Pilgrims still flowed through the church. Staffing was clearly stretched thin.
"Sir Guard, your words were biased. The Dawnbreak Knight-Captain would gladly hear confessions…"
"You’re absolutely right." Fate didn’t argue.
The middle-aged man bristled. *The Knight-Captain would patiently guide repentant souls. How could a former knight know so little?*
"Sir Guard, your understanding of the Dawnbreak Knight-Captain seems…"
"My apologies, sir. As of one second ago—I’ve clocked out. Return tomorrow." Hearing the bell, Fate packed swiftly, turned, and vanished into the church, leaving the man frozen.
Clock out on time. Never overtime.
