Chapter Text
The sun wasn’t where she was used to. It hit her eyes at an odd angle, and it felt a little cooler. It was a smidge off – a gut feeling. She had no way of proving it, but it was the only thing she could see, so what else was she supposed to think about? Only one of her eyes was exposed; the other was still covered in the same material as the rest of her body. She could only see the sky.
It had been a very, very long time. She knew that much. Yet she wasn’t crazy. Maybe she was always crazy, and this was nothing new. She still couldn’t move her body. Maybe she would die here, of starvation, or of a predator finding her immobile self and helping themselves. Maybe a bug would crawl onto her eyelid and sting her to death.
‘If only life were that fortunate…’
~~~
It was a few days since she first opened her eye when she heard something nearby. It was the footsteps of a biped. Heavy, strong. Certainly not the way she wanted to go. Although, she was close to starving, so maybe the creature would provide a swift death as an alternative.
The sun was right above her, the only thing she could see. The beast wandered nearer, and blocked her view.
‘Oh. It’s a human.’
A very large human, with lines on his face and a mane of brown hair hanging off his head. He was very tall, and certainly did not have a common man’s physique. He was looking down at her, seemingly puzzled. And he spoke.
She did not know what he said. Not because she didn’t hear him, but because he spoke a foreign language. As she didn’t know what he said, she didn’t bother responding, except for a muffled “huh?”
He looked away, then back. He held up a finger, which seemed to be a universal sign for “give me a moment.”
A few moments later, which in reality was around a few hours, he returned with some sort of clothing, and a handheld pot. The clothing was nothing special, nothing like she was used to, but she supposed she couldn’t protest, what with her mouth not working. Let alone she didn’t know the language the man spoke.
The pot proved to be more interesting. After the man carefully dug her out of the ground (which explained her immobility) and dressed her in the clothes, he poured the contents of the pot onto her person.
The stone broke around her, not with a sudden crack, but a series of rapid, successive chemical reactions.
The liquid poured onto her was cold, a startling shock against her petrified skin, followed instantly by a powerful, acrid stink—like vinegar mixed with sulfur and the metallic bite of something corrosive. The stone, which had been her whole world for centuries, began to hiss and bubble.
It was not a painful feeling, at first. It was a release. The surface of the calcified shell grew rough, like grit paper, and she could feel the texture of the fluid eating into the smooth, hard prison.
Then the deeper sensation began. It felt like a thousand tiny strings were being pulled tight beneath the stone, stretching her skin and muscles after their long, mineral sleep. Her body, once utterly null, began to register pressure and heat. There was a dull, building ache in her shoulder, and the first, terrifying surge of blood rushing back into a limb that had been purely stone.
As the stone split over her face, she registered a sudden, intense glare from the sky, but more importantly, a rush of air—air that was suddenly cold, fresh, and overwhelming with the scent of pine and dirt.
Finally, the remnants of the stone sloughed off, falling away like wet sand from a statue. The feeling was a strange mixture of relief and nausea. Her skin was raw, tender, and tingling with a thousand pins and needles from the sudden return to life. She could move her fingers, twitch her toes, and draw a full, gasping, agonising breath into her newly liberated lungs.
She was no longer a slab of inert material. She was meat, bone, and blood, horribly alive, dizzy, and keenly aware of the rough earth beneath her and the imposing shadow of the man above her.
She tried to speak, but the words were thick, dry, and alien even to her own ears. Her throat felt like paper.
"Water," she finally managed, the sound of a croaking rasp.
The man, understanding the universal request of the newly revived, simply nodded and pointed off into the trees.
~~~
They tried communicating further, but it proved futile. Some words sounded similar but ultimately meant different things, found based entirely on context.
As she was stuffing her body with as much water as it could handle, the man tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned around, and he pointed at himself.
From what she could tell, the man said, “Tsu–ka–sa,” as he pointed.
“Tsu–ka–sa.” She pointed at him.
He nodded.
“Tsukasa?” She pointed at herself.
He shook his head.
‘So this tsukasa thing either means “man”, or it’s describing him in some way. Likely his name, but it could be something like where he’s from.’
In response, she pointed at herself.
“Mao–mao.”
~~~
The landscape was nothing like what she was used to. Sure, it might have been Springtime where she ended up, but this was nothing like home. There were beautiful valleys, rivers, and mountains that were very different from Li. What’s more, there seemed to be no evidence of humanity touching this world. There was no civilisation, no lights, no roads, nothing. The only evidence that she wasn’t the only human around was the Tsukasa in front of her, and the litany of human-like statues that they found everywhere they went.
‘So that’s what I looked like for who knows how long…’
By dusk, the man had led her to a flat mountaintop, with an impossibly large stone structure on top of it. It was a pyramid-shape, with countless openings in a grid-like fashion. The man gestured to the place in its entirety, then back to himself. It was obvious to Maomao that the man considered himself the owner of the large natural wonder. She didn’t think it would be much of a stretch, as the man was far larger than her, and far taller than anyone she knew, even that certain Eunuch she once knew. The man was intensely dangerous.
Inside the pyramidal structure, the air was cool and smelled of earth and a peculiar, metallic dampness. The grid-like openings allowed shafts of evening sunlight to cut through the dust, illuminating a vast cavern. The scale was overwhelming. It was not a palace, nor a common dwelling, but a workshop for war. A barracks, a fortress, an armoury.
She saw no soft bedding or cooking fires. Instead, there were large, shallow pools carved into the stone floor, their basins crusted with white and yellow residue. The air near them carried the faint, acrid scent of the liquid that had freed her—a chemical smell she categorised instantly as corrosive and highly reactive. This was where the man, Tsukasa, made his weapons.
Her gaze swept over the other inhabitants of the cave, instantly performing a threat assessment. They were all young, vigorous, and unnervingly devoted to Tsukasa. None looked soft or sickly. She saw an archer with a hawk-like intensity, a fighter built like a brick wall, and a few younger figures who moved with the quiet efficiency of trained subordinates. She also spotted the large, pale, smooth-skinned man who had assisted Tsukasa earlier—another revived soul, clearly subordinate. They didn't look like commoners; they looked like a chosen army.
She pointed at a nearby man. “Tsukasa?”
Tsukasa shook his head and placed a hand gently on her shoulder, guiding her toward a smaller, sheltered alcove. The gesture was possessive, only attempting to be comforting. He made a complex, sweeping motion with his hand, pointed to her, then made the motion again, pointing to the mouth of the cave, then back to himself, finishing with a stern expression.
Maomao understood. Stay here. Do not leave our sight.
She settled onto the rough stone floor, folding her legs neatly. Her mind was already racing, cataloging every single item she could see.
Priority 1: Survival. She was dependent on her jailer for food and water. She would obey all simple commands. Simple commands were all they could give her after all.
Priority 2: Information. Why was this man reviving people? Why only this specific group? And what, exactly, was he doing with the un-revived statues that littered the world?
Priority 3: Escape. She needed a plan and a working knowledge of the surrounding terrain, and she didn't have either yet.
Her greatest asset was her unassuming appearance and her unintelligible language. They could dismiss her as a confused, archaic woman. They didn't know she was an apothecary who could somewhat understand their chemicals, and a mind that was already breaking down the entire situation, one observation at a time.
She looked at Tsukasa as he left to give orders, his magnificent, terrifying frame disappearing into the cavern’s gloom.
‘A king without a kingdom,’ she mused, adjusting her plain new clothes. ‘And I am his newest, most vulnerable captive.’
~~~
The next day, a few of the kingdom’s girls came to get her. Of course, it was not a social outing, but more menial labour, like back at the Inner Palace. She didn’t mind. She was going to blend in just as she had all that time ago.
One particularly kind-looking girl, who looked to be around the same age as Maomao, took her to where they apparently made her clothes.
The girl introduced herself with the gesture Tsukasa had taught them—pointing to herself and clearly articulating: “Yu-zu-ri-ha.” Maomao responded with “Ma-o-ma-o,” acknowledging the name exchange without comprehension of the meaning.
Yuzuriha led her out of the main cavern into a bright, airy shelter crafted from woven reeds and stretched hides—a temporary workshop smelling faintly of smoke and natural fibers. Lying on a wide, flat slab of stone were bolts of rough, homespun cloth and bundles of animal skins.
Yuzuriha held up the tunic Maomao was currently wearing—the unremarkable garment Tsukasa had dressed her in after the revival. She then held up a roll of soft, light-coloured hide and a thin, carved bone needle, making a simple sewing motion. The message was clear: We need more clothes, and you will help.
Maomao immediately noted the quality of the thread. It wasn’t silk, nor rough hemp, but a surprisingly smooth, durable fiber—perhaps cotton, expertly spun. The stitching on the sample garment was regular and strong, a testament to Yuzuriha's skill. This was a detail: while this 'kingdom' was primitive, they had access to skilled labor and good material resources.
Yuzuriha placed a piece of cloth in front of Maomao and offered her a needle, watching expectantly.
Maomao took the bone tool. She had never been a master tailor, but after years in the Outer and Inner Palaces, she knew how to mend a hem, turn a sleeve, and, crucially, she had a knack for detail and measurement. Her hands, now fully revived, worked with a dexterity that belied her recent petrification.
She watched Yuzuriha work. The girl’s focus was gentle but intense, her brow furrowed slightly as she measured the cloth. Maomao observed Yuzuriha’s methods, mentally translating them into her own era's techniques: Too much friction, the thread will fray. The tension is too low; the seam will stretch.
Maomao picked up a piece of discarded cloth and began to trim a frayed edge with a sharp shard of obsidian, making a simple, clean cut. She then used the needle to show Yuzuriha a technique for reinforcing a corner seam to prevent tearing.
Yuzuriha’s eyes widened slightly. She pointed to Maomao’s seam, then pointed to herself, and gave a questioning look. You know how to do this?
Maomao simply nodded and continued to work, her face expressionless. She was giving Yuzuriha a minor, practical piece of information—a small, non-threatening contribution that solidified her utility.
‘Make yourself useful. Who knows what they do to dead weight around here.’
Suddenly, a loud– scratch that, very loud voice boomed from the entrance of the cave. Maomao could recognise that the masculine voice was calling her stitching buddy’s name, and judging by Yuzuriha’s reaction, she didn’t see this interruption as detrimental.
Maomao watched as Yuzuriha lit up when the boy (yes, a boy, not a full-grown man like she had assumed) came over to talk to her. Maomao was on edge for a minute when the boy gave her a questioning glance, but she assumed Yuzuriha told the new entrant that she couldn’t understand them, because they went back to talking without a care in the world.
She watched them from the corner of her eye. They were definitely close, and depending how you looked at it, perhaps even more than close, though they never made any public showings of it.
‘Something to keep in mind.’
~~~
The next few days went about the same. She hadn’t seen Tsukasa or that pale skinned man around recently, so she found herself integrating further with the foreign people of this land.
The language was still a meaningless jumble, a collection of tonal shapes, but the simple, repeated commands were beginning to form the boundaries of her new, cramped world. She had learned that the man Yuzuriha was talking to was named “Tai-Joo” or something along those lines. A few words were beginning to stick, too, like “Arigato” (thank you) and “Onegai” (please), which she pieced together as pleasantries—words for making her less of a burden.
She watched whenever someone was talking about “Mizu” or “Meshi,” the necessary words for survival. The loud, boisterous Taiju, with his simple, earnest devotion to Yuzuriha and his overwhelming energy, was an anomaly in the guarded, militaristic atmosphere of the cave. He was a resource of goodwill, a distraction, and perhaps a potential weak point for the kingdom’s security. Maomao filed him away as 'High Utility, Low Threat.'
Her mind, however, kept circling back to the chemicals.
She excused herself from the sewing area with a simple, deliberate gesture—pointing to the cave entrance and then to her feet—a request to walk. Yuzuriha, focused on her stitching, nodded benignly.
Maomao moved with the quiet, observant pace of a cat, her eyes constantly scanning. The main cavern floor was slick in spots with residual material from the revival process. She knelt briefly near one of the shallow carving pools, pretending to inspect a loose shard of stone.
The residue had the distinct, metallic tang of nitric acid, yet it wasn't pure. She could smell the organic components mixed in—the residue of bird droppings or guano, the raw material for the saltpeter. The combination was crude but potent, a terrifyingly effective corrosive.
‘A solution of nitre and alcohol, perhaps,’ she hypothesised. ‘Highly unstable, easily made volatile, and incredibly potent. A poison master’s dream, and a pharmacist’s nightmare.’
This was not just a weapon to revive people; it was a weapon of mass potential. The sheer ease with which Tsukasa could manufacture this fluid meant his power was not reliant on finding a scarce, single source, but on industrialised chemical warfare. She did not know his motives. She did not know his full arsenal. Perhaps there was a pharmacist among the revived humans, perhaps Tsukasa did not know the properties of the revival fluid.
The picture began to fill in. There were many weapons in the armoury. There was a powerful corrosive being harvested from nature. The majority of the revived people were fit, willing, and able fighters. It all led to one conclusion: the Kingdom of Tsukasa was at war with something.
Just as she was mentally completing her inventory, she caught sight of Hyoga, the pale, smooth-skinned man, exiting a shadowed recess of the cave. He carried a wickedly sharp, long piece of wood, with an obsidian tip. A spear. He caught her gaze, and his expression—which held no anger, no curiosity, only cold neutrality—was more unsettling than Tsukasa's raw power.
He spoke one short, sharp word, pointing toward the sewing shelter.
“Modore.”
Maomao did not understand the word, but the tone was universal: an unquestionable command delivered by a predator. She gave a slight, deferential bow—the humble woman obeying her masters—and walked straight back to Yuzuriha, her heart rate steady, her knowledge now compartmentalised and concealed.
‘Hyoga. Perhaps an executioner. He watches with dead eyes. I must be nothing but a harmless seamstress when he is near.’ She picked up her needle, the soft hide a stark contrast to the chemical violence she knew was brewing yards away.
~~~
Tsukasa did not know what to make of the green-haired foreigner in his Kingdom. He happened to stumble upon her exposed eye while finding more statues, finding her intensely intriguing. He’d immediately recognised her as a variable he could not dismiss, not with the way her lone eye tracked the sun, not with the way she had instantly croaked out for water, and certainly not with the confusing, archaic language she spoke.
He had initially assumed she was simply another young, useful soul from his era, merely speaking an obscure dialect. But her manners—that strange, low, submissive bow to Hyoga—spoke of an almost feudal social order he thought had been long dead. It was fascinating, and that fascination was dangerous in his world of pure pragmatism.
He stood with Hyoga near the cave entrance, watching the small figure return to the sewing post.
“She moves too quietly,” Tsukasa murmured, his gaze distant. “The way she was kneeling by the pits—she wasn't just looking at the stone. She was assessing the residue.”
“She must be a tailor, Tsukasa-sama,” Hyoga replied, his voice devoid of doubt. “She is complying, and she is useful. She is small and harmless. We can’t spare the resources to revive someone who is not strong, only to find they are a waste of time.”
Tsukasa shook his head, a small, subtle motion. “All revived people hold a piece of the old world. Most are useless, but some—like the archer, like that police officer, like you—hold skills. Her hands work too well with that needle, her eyes are too sharp for a simple commoner. Her background, whatever it is, is one of utility.”
He found himself constantly returning to the way she had asked for water upon her revival, though he did not know for sure if that was what she had said. She had looked grateful when he had provided, so he’d assumed he was right. It was the first word she had ever spoken to him, a universal need, but the immediate understanding between them was purely gestural. She was an empty slate he could not yet read.
“I need to find out what she knows,” Tsukasa continued. “If she understands the nature of the revival fluid, she is an asset—or a potential weapon for the enemy we haven't found yet.”
Tsukasa looked toward the forest, toward the place where he knew his true enemy, Senku, was likely building a counter-kingdom of science.
“Keep her close,” Tsukasa commanded, “Keep her thinking she is nothing more than a simple seamstress. Do not give her cause to reveal her true skills. She is a tool, and until I know the purpose of the engraving on that tool, I will treat her as highly fragile, and highly volatile. Let us hope she is not cut from the same cloth as Senku. I’d rather not be forced to kill her.”
He turned and walked deeper into the cave, the weight of his command settling onto Hyoga’s shoulders. The executioner watched Maomao for a moment longer, his neutral expression unchanging. He didn’t question Tsukasa’s instincts; the Strongest Primate rarely made a mistake when assessing a threat. For now, the green-haired foreign woman was a tool to be protected and observed.
‘For now.’