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Beneath a sky where the full moon glowed with an ethereal brightness, young Gintoki and his two equally headstrong friends were engaged in a heated quarrel, shattering the peace of their quiet countryside school, the Shoka Sonjuku. Their teacher, the long-suffering Shoyo-sensei, teetering on the edge of a very well-deserved early retirement, decided to intervene with the ultimate weapon: a good story. He told them an enchanting tale about a pauper prince and his beautiful lady, who possessed the quiet grace of silver light filtering through autumn leaves, and her smile capable of calming even the fiercest storm. As the story unfolded, the boys’ faces lit up like they’d just unlocked a secret Final Fantasy cutscene, completely captivated by the princess’s gentle grace and quiet strength.
Sensing their dreamy daze, Shoyo leaned in, a knowing smile on his face, and said, “When you grow up, each of you will meet a real lady, someone just as captivating, someone who will make your heart race like the wind through the cherry blossoms. You’ll fall deeply in love, and that love will teach you honour, patience, and courage.” The boys blinked, intrigued. “When that happens,” he continued, “don’t be fools. No showing off like you're the main character in some samurai anime. This isn’t about toppling a shogun’s throne in an epic five-episode arc. And don’t get caught in a boring filler episode of awkward moments either. Just be decent and honourable. And if she is fond of you as well, speak your heart to her, even if it’s with the same shaky determination as a junior high school student holding out a love letter while dodging flying dodgeballs in the gym.”
Zura, the fool that he is, took this piece of advice to the extreme and became a repressed freak. Bakasugi immediately penned a lame poem blatantly plagiarising Shoyo’s words.
Gintoki alone had learned the indisputable fact that demons and ladies were like strawberry milk and sushi; no matter how tempting, they were never meant to be paired. He wasn’t speaking metaphorically either. He knew because he’d tried it. One bite, one sip...and five minutes later, he was curled up on the floor, rethinking all his life choices!
Now, years later, Gintoki was lazily strolling down the street when he caught a glimpse of Ketsuno Ana, beaming from a row of TV screens in a shop display.
Surely, she was the one Shoyo-sensei had foretold; the calm, radiant goddess who’d one day lift him out of a life of mediocrity and endless tamagogohan. Just watching her smile on TV made his day turn from ‘meh’ to ‘wow’ in an instant. So calm. So graceful. Nothing like the violent women he knew. A true lady of the disgustingly rich Ketsuno clan!
Gintoki always kept their marriage papers folded neatly in his pocket, ready to go. All that was left was Ketsuno Ana’s signature... and, well, getting her to see him as more than just the helpful fan who occasionally crossed her path.
Just then, he caught sight of Tsukuyo out of the corner of his eye, on the surface, for once. A dangerous thought crept in. No. Absolutely not. That drunk terminator couldn’t possibly compare to the refined elegance of women like Ketsuno Ana.
“Definitely not my type,” he muttered, watching her stroll by with all the subtlety of Yoshiwara. “Just look at her clothes. Too bold. Too revealing. Too... fishnet.”
His gaze lingered a little too long on the leg slipping through the slit of her kimono, gliding out like a slow tease, hell-bent on driving him mad.
And then a bit longer on the bodice. Tight enough to challenge the very concept of modesty! The kind of thing that could give a lesser man a nosebleed and launch a three-hour lecture on decency, followed by a much quieter one on temptation.
“She smokes like a chimney,” he said, though the words came out hoarse. His eyes were already fixed on the kiseru balanced between her lips.
His traitorous imagination stepped in, inventing indecent uses for that mouth, each one more sinful than the last. God help him—that mouth had already starred in a dozen fantasies he wasn’t proud of and definitely wasn’t brave enough to admit. Not one of those dreams ever quieted the hunger inside him. All left him in a mess, aching for mor—
“Dammit, focus!” He yanked his thoughts back like they were on fire, desperate not to come undone right in the middle of the street!
Her manners, yes—far from ladylike. The way she looked a man dead in the eye, no fluttering lashes, no practiced smiles... as if she could see straight through him and judge what she found without flinching. It was infuriating. No room for charm, no chance to hide the mess beneath his skin. Like she could strip him down to his very soul, laying bare every crack, scar, and bruise.
But no matter how hard he tried to shove it aside, an unwelcome vision pushed through anyway. A lone guardian, brave to a fault, staking her entire existence on the far-fetched promises of a reckless samurai.
“She’s too violent!” He proclaimed obstinately, scrambling for his wits. After all, his head has been pierced by way too many kunais. Some days he truly wondered if she thought of him as her personal training dummy. And her drunken misadventures, he shuddered, they lingered in his memory like half-faded war memories.
Still... he sighed, defeated by his own honesty. There was a kind of grace to her…rough around the edges, sure, but unmistakable. Dignified. Kind. Even he couldn’t blame the hopeless fools who stared after her like she’d descended from the moon itself.
He had to admit, she carried herself with the grace of a court princess: forged in iron though, not delicate silk, and willing to storm her own castle just to honor an old granny’s unfinished promises.
Then, Tsukuyo’s sharp amethyst eyes pierced his—cool, unreadable, and just dangerous enough to short-circuit his brain and scatter his survival instincts—all thoughts of Ketsuno Ana evaporated.
Honestly, what was he thinking? What use does a boor like Gintoki have with refined ladies anyway. He, who once accidentally left his fly open and revealed his joystick to the public on national television!
Gintoki hurried after her, tossing out a few teasing remarks which promptly earned him a kunai to the forehead. He was not surprised.
“Demons and ladies never mix well after all” he thought, yanking out the kunai with practiced ease as he caught up to her.
Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, vague memories stirred—stories of hapless samurai and their oddly virtuous courtesans who saw the chaos beneath the calm and chose to stay anyway.
Not quite a princess, not quite a storm…perhaps this was exactly what Shoyo-sensei meant. A lady who scares the hell out of you… and somehow makes you want to follow her anyway