26-04-2026, 06:45 PM
Nukte, Bianjie
October 14, 5721
The carpet beneath my feet is too soft. It feels unstable, like walking on a marsh, and for a second, I’m terrified I’ll simply sink through the floor and disappear before I ever reach the stage. My palms are slick, and I keep wiping them against the fabric of my trousers, but the dampness returns instantly.
Every time I breathe, the air feels like it’s catching on something sharp in my throat. I can hear the muffled roar of the crowd through the heavy doors, and my heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure people can see my jacket jumping. I am twenty-eight years old, a Member of the Khanate Yuan, and yet, in this hallway, I feel like I’m seven again, hiding in the gap between the wardrobe and the wall.
“Sorahiko!”
The name is a ghost that won’t stay buried. In my mind, it carries the scent of stale tobacco and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. It was the name my father used to pin me to the floor, a heavy, jagged word he threw like a stone whenever his own life felt too small. Sorahiko, get over here. Sorahiko, why are you so useless? When he spoke it, I wasn't a person; I was just a target for his frustration, a punching bag for a man who couldn't handle the silence of our house. I remember the weight of his hand, the hot blur of a shouted insult, and the way I would pray to be invisible—to be anything other than the boy he thought he was raising.
I reach the heavy doors of the hall and pause, my hand trembling so violently I have to pull it back. I close my eyes and try to think of the smell of wet plaster and PVC cement.
I remember the first day at the Muren-no-sato Technical School. I was nineteen, and I had spent the morning terrified that I’d be found out. I stood in that narrow registrar’s office, the air smelling of industrial floor cleaner, my heart in my mouth.
“Name?” the clerk asked, not looking up.
I swallowed hard. My voice felt like it was stuck in the back of my throat, buried under a decade of silence. I thought of the plumbing kits I’d been practising with—the way you could take a system that was leaking, failing, and broken, and rebuild it until the water ran clear. I thought of the plastering workshops, the meditative rhythm of smoothing over the cracks in a wall until the surface was flawless and new. I wanted that for myself. I wanted to plaster over the Sorahiko they had tried to make me.
“Sora,” I whispered. Then, louder: “Sora Irifune.”
Writing it down felt like an act of war. For the first few months, I was a nervous wreck, convinced that the plumbing instructors would see right through me, that the other students would hear the old name echoing behind my chosen one. But as I learned to solder joints and level walls, the anxiety began to change. It became a tool. My hands were still shaking back then, but they were shaking while they were building.
The doors swing open, and the sound of my name—my real name—washes over me like a tidal wave.
“Sora! Sora! Sora!”
It’s not a weapon. It’s a chant. It’s a hundred thousand voices rising in a rhythmic pulse that makes the very air vibrate. I start to walk, and my legs feel like lead. Every step is a fight against the urge to turn and run. I can feel the sweat prickling at my hairline. I look up, and the lights are blinding, blurring the faces of the delegates into a sea of green and teal.
I reach the stage. Eldembu Gūwalgiya is there, waiting. He sees my hands trembling as I reach for the lectern, and he steps closer—not to take over, but to let me lean, just a little, on his presence. Behind him, Heshen Aisin Gioro gives me a look that is terrifyingly steady, a silent command to stand my ground.
I look out at the crowd. I see the labourers from the south, the Bianjie farmers from the north, and the students who look exactly as terrified and hopeful as I felt ten years ago. Their eyes are on me, but they aren't waiting for a saviour; they’re waiting for one of their own to speak. The fear is still there—it’s a cold knot in my stomach—but the warmth of their voices is starting to melt it.
I grip the edges of the podium so hard my knuckles turn white. I wait until the chanting fades into a heavy, expectant silence. I take one last, shaky breath, and I let the ghost of the child in the corner finally rest.
“I am Sora Irifune,” I say, and for the first time today, my voice sounds like it belongs to me. “A proud daughter of Bianjie.”
I can feel the electricity in the room, the collective breath of thousands of members. I tense my arm, feeling the strength of a plumber who knows how to hold a line, and I raise my closed fist into the light.
“The Green Alliance is ready to bring a new vision to Bianjie!” I shout, the words tearing through the last of my doubt. “Let’s bring ordinary people back into the people’s Yuan!”
October 14, 5721
The carpet beneath my feet is too soft. It feels unstable, like walking on a marsh, and for a second, I’m terrified I’ll simply sink through the floor and disappear before I ever reach the stage. My palms are slick, and I keep wiping them against the fabric of my trousers, but the dampness returns instantly.
Every time I breathe, the air feels like it’s catching on something sharp in my throat. I can hear the muffled roar of the crowd through the heavy doors, and my heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure people can see my jacket jumping. I am twenty-eight years old, a Member of the Khanate Yuan, and yet, in this hallway, I feel like I’m seven again, hiding in the gap between the wardrobe and the wall.
“Sorahiko!”
The name is a ghost that won’t stay buried. In my mind, it carries the scent of stale tobacco and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. It was the name my father used to pin me to the floor, a heavy, jagged word he threw like a stone whenever his own life felt too small. Sorahiko, get over here. Sorahiko, why are you so useless? When he spoke it, I wasn't a person; I was just a target for his frustration, a punching bag for a man who couldn't handle the silence of our house. I remember the weight of his hand, the hot blur of a shouted insult, and the way I would pray to be invisible—to be anything other than the boy he thought he was raising.
I reach the heavy doors of the hall and pause, my hand trembling so violently I have to pull it back. I close my eyes and try to think of the smell of wet plaster and PVC cement.
I remember the first day at the Muren-no-sato Technical School. I was nineteen, and I had spent the morning terrified that I’d be found out. I stood in that narrow registrar’s office, the air smelling of industrial floor cleaner, my heart in my mouth.
“Name?” the clerk asked, not looking up.
I swallowed hard. My voice felt like it was stuck in the back of my throat, buried under a decade of silence. I thought of the plumbing kits I’d been practising with—the way you could take a system that was leaking, failing, and broken, and rebuild it until the water ran clear. I thought of the plastering workshops, the meditative rhythm of smoothing over the cracks in a wall until the surface was flawless and new. I wanted that for myself. I wanted to plaster over the Sorahiko they had tried to make me.
“Sora,” I whispered. Then, louder: “Sora Irifune.”
Writing it down felt like an act of war. For the first few months, I was a nervous wreck, convinced that the plumbing instructors would see right through me, that the other students would hear the old name echoing behind my chosen one. But as I learned to solder joints and level walls, the anxiety began to change. It became a tool. My hands were still shaking back then, but they were shaking while they were building.
The doors swing open, and the sound of my name—my real name—washes over me like a tidal wave.
“Sora! Sora! Sora!”
It’s not a weapon. It’s a chant. It’s a hundred thousand voices rising in a rhythmic pulse that makes the very air vibrate. I start to walk, and my legs feel like lead. Every step is a fight against the urge to turn and run. I can feel the sweat prickling at my hairline. I look up, and the lights are blinding, blurring the faces of the delegates into a sea of green and teal.
I reach the stage. Eldembu Gūwalgiya is there, waiting. He sees my hands trembling as I reach for the lectern, and he steps closer—not to take over, but to let me lean, just a little, on his presence. Behind him, Heshen Aisin Gioro gives me a look that is terrifyingly steady, a silent command to stand my ground.
I look out at the crowd. I see the labourers from the south, the Bianjie farmers from the north, and the students who look exactly as terrified and hopeful as I felt ten years ago. Their eyes are on me, but they aren't waiting for a saviour; they’re waiting for one of their own to speak. The fear is still there—it’s a cold knot in my stomach—but the warmth of their voices is starting to melt it.
I grip the edges of the podium so hard my knuckles turn white. I wait until the chanting fades into a heavy, expectant silence. I take one last, shaky breath, and I let the ghost of the child in the corner finally rest.
“I am Sora Irifune,” I say, and for the first time today, my voice sounds like it belongs to me. “A proud daughter of Bianjie.”
I can feel the electricity in the room, the collective breath of thousands of members. I tense my arm, feeling the strength of a plumber who knows how to hold a line, and I raise my closed fist into the light.
“The Green Alliance is ready to bring a new vision to Bianjie!” I shout, the words tearing through the last of my doubt. “Let’s bring ordinary people back into the people’s Yuan!”