Chương 70: Chapter XIX — A Fox’s Prayer

Galan shifted back into a formal kneeling position. Okay, first, the purification. Everything has to be perfect. He moved with a fluid, practiced precision that seemed at odds with his earlier disrespect. He folded the silk purification cloth with crisp, geometric motions. Zensuke watched, his eyes narrow. His hands know the steps, but there is no soul in them, he thought. It is the movement of a disciple, not a master. Galan cleaned the tea canister and scoop, then poured hot water into the first bowl.

He inspected the bamboo whisk, then dipped it, warming the bowl and softening the tines with three slow, deliberate lifts. His form is... technically perfect, Yuzuki thought, her awe growing. He discarded the water, wiped the bowl dry, and repeated the process for the other two. He then scooped two precise measures of vibrant green matcha powder into each bowl, the air filling with the scent of sweet, freshly cut grass. He poured the steaming water, the sound akin to a miniature waterfall.

He glanced at Zensuke's stern, expectant face. So the puffball wants an artistic touch? Galan smirked. Alright. His wrist became a blur. He whisked the tea with a speed and violence that made Yuzuki gasp. In seconds, a thick, creamy, jade-green foam coalesced on the surface, perfect and without a single large bubble. Now, to choose the face of the bowl, he thought. He cupped the first one, analyzing the crackle pattern.

He found the perfect spot—a tiny, star-like cluster from which the finest cracks radiated like a spiderweb of frozen lightning. Okay, this one's for the puffball. He turned the bowl so its best side faced Zensuke. Then, channeling his inner bartender, he slid it across the polished table. It glided with a smooth rumble, coming to a gentle stop directly before the fox. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Zensuke stared.

He served it with the grace of a master and the precision of an assassin... unbelievable. He gave a slight, formal bow of acknowledgment. Galan repeated the process for Yuzuki, choosing a side for her that resembled a blooming lotus. She stared at the perfect bowl, her heart fluttering, for the stories she had read so many times had finally come to life. She bowed deeply.

"I humbly receive your tea." Finally, Galan prepared his own bowl. He selected the side with a single, straight, dark blue crack running down its length—a simple line that complemented his own unwavering, if chaotic, nature. He placed it before him with the same quiet precision. He bowed his head, his gaze falling upon the intricate patterns of the porcelain. And as he did, the memory of his shifu surfaced, as clear and sharp as the mountain air of their monastery.

He was a boy again, sitting on a weathered bench near the ridge, watching the sun rise over a sea of clouds. His master sat beside him, a still, silent presence.

"You have to remember, An Chuan," the old man had said, his voice a low rumble. He had gestured to the simple, chipped tea bowl in his own hands.

"Every object, from a sword that has tasted a hundred battles to a simple tea bowl that has warmed a thousand hands, has a story. It carries the memory of its maker, of those who have held it. To use it without a moment of acknowledgment is to be blind to the world you live in." Ugh, so annoying, Galan thought, a grimace flickering across his face in the present. But I guess it's not the worst pull of the past so far.

He raised his head, the memory fading but the lesson lingering, and drank the entire contents in one long, smooth gulp. He paused. Wait, I forgot something. He brought the empty bowl back to his lips and made a loud, appreciative slurping sound. A single, proud exhale escaped Zensuke's snout while the maids smiled. The ceremony was, against all odds, complete. My husband sees a flawed performance, Yuzuki giggled to herself, but I see a god trying his very best to be a human.

It's the most endearing thing I've ever seen.

"So," Zensuke asked in Japanese.

"What do you think of the matcha?" Galan shrugged, looking to the side.

"Eh, it's alright." He looked back at Zensuke.

"Could use a couple of sugar cubes, though." Zensuke froze. The proud expression on his face shattered, replaced by a look of pure, soul-crushing horror. Across the table, Yuzuki let out a sudden, sharp SNORT of laughter, immediately hiding her face behind all three of her tails, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as the maids stared in shared, unspoken terror.