HP: Spirit Talker

Then they started telling each other how it happened. In short, a child was playing in some hall, the child was not yet three years old, and then this Jiro-sama, one of the elders of the clan, came in, and out of nowhere he hit the child with a backhand.

The little body was blown into the flimsy wall, and the bastard went about his business with a calm gait. Next came the treatment phase, but as it turned out, the head of the clan spoke in the spirit that if he didn't die, he would be a worthy warrior of the clan, like a test of the Kami — the local gods — who carried out their will with the old asshole's hand.

I even remembered modern churchmen, accustomed to talking utter nonsense, saying that if you are hit by a car, you should rejoice at the test of higher powers, and it is in your own interest to forgive the drunken major so as not to take a sin on your soul. My friends and I once beat up a drunken priest and burned his Lexus, oh, how the prostitutes he drove with screamed...

In short, I've been digesting what I've heard for a long time, trying to understand it all and build my own line of behavior, because you can't really fight in a three-year-old body. Meanwhile, my daily routine has changed. I had my first lessons with old men who always behaved as if each of them was no worse than Aristotle and Lao Tzu put together.

Very unpleasant people. But they did teach interesting things. It started with drawing: a dry, arrogant grandfather taught me to paint with different brushes in the national Japanese style. It was difficult, my hands did not obey and hurt terribly, for many months I heard only reproaches and humiliations addressed to me (they are cool at raising children, right?).

I didn't even notice how things began to work for me, only the women's conversations I overheard (this became one of my favorite activities, because they didn't take me with other children, and no one talked to me just for fun — only about business).

They said that my latest drawings were no worse than those on the interior panels, and that the fame of a traditional artist would most likely await me. So I decided to look at my scribbles and compare them with the old ones. I was amazed again — I really couldn't believe I was drawing it myself.

I also noticed that my arms no longer hurt, and my hands and fingers flexed as if there were no bones in them — just soft cartilage. It was wonderful.

The master, seeing my reaction, smiled for the first time and said that this was exactly what he had been waiting for — my awareness, and now we would move to a new level of complexity and begin to teach calligraphy. This is at six years old. It is worth adding that along the way I had classes in gymnastics, the basics of etiquette (the simplest, most inconspicuous), I was taught to read and write.

Again, I seemed to see a lot of people around me, but there was no one from the family — only maids and teachers. No children. In the mansion I was kept in several rooms, and even on the street I was only allowed into a small courtyard, although there is a big garden here somewhere, but I did not see it.

The training went on constantly, I even had to sleep as usual, and not on my stomach as I was used to. But it's worth mentioning that it was damn interesting. From one lesson to another, something changed, gradually, imperceptibly, but the effect was noticeable. I learned hieroglyphics, developed my body, learned to sit on my feet, chew and speak properly at the table.

My paintings came out in such a way that even the master frowned and said (he was the only one who said this and showed rude concern) that I could ALREADY make money with them.

He predicted that if I was not lazy, I could become a master of calligraphy in ten years. It was flattering, I was proud of myself, it warmed my soul, because everyone around me behaved like a kind of robot — they played a role, a program, and only away from me did they come to life again to some extent. I had to behave accordingly, because it's not good, it's stupidly embarrassing to respond with a good attitude to those who don't care about the child — they only need to make money.

I was also proud of my newfound beauty. I was learning. I learned to turn anger and resentment toward insensitive people into my own pride, pride in my successes in the classroom. Even the lessons of local magic did not excite me; I saw them as another path to success and pride in myself.

I looked at the servants, at their figures and faces, compared them to myself (why separate my "I" from my new body?), and I had another reason to be proud of myself and to thank the chance that brought my soul here. First of all, everyone here has Japanese eyes, i.e. narrow, and many of them look puffy and swollen.

Nature rewarded me with wide-open, lilac-colored, almond-shaped eyes. The features are thin, but not feminine — it was immediately clear that I was not a girl, although children of this age are sometimes confused. It's too early to judge the rest.

But I have hope because I am actively involved in gymnastics. I tried to control my behavior and reactions so as not to burn myself out, but the child's body did everything for me, and I behaved according to my age, adjusted to harsh upbringing and traditionalism.

At the age of six, as soon as I received praise from the master, I was called to the head of the Miyazaki clan for the first time. This can be called an EVENT, because I have not seen any of my relatives for more than three years.

I don't even know the names of the parents of this incarnation (I decided to call myself that, otherwise the corpse is kind of insulting), not to mention the rest. In short, the maids showed up, dressed me in a bunch of "robes," and took me somewhere outside the territory where they kept me.

Another fact: During my whole stay here I was hardly touched, only when they helped me in the bath. But I read in this life that a child needs hugs, touches, etc., so that there are no various phobias, complexes and mental disorders in the future.

In general, I walk behind the maid, another one follows me, a convoy. In short, I walk along the wooden veranda-passage that surrounds all the buildings, thinking about great things, and nothing else: how to get real sweets, and not what you get here, because since childhood, that childhood, I adore halva with cold milk, and I've really managed to miss this dish.

So, thinking about lofty topics, I turn the corner of a large building and see the Great Garden. It could not be anything else. I stared at it and slowed down noticeably. Let's start with the fact that the opposite side of the garden is about a hundred and fifty meters away, no less.

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