Her name was Yuki. Her waist-length hair fell to the ground like a crescent moon. In her hand, a short blade glimmered: Snow Flower. It bloomed like drifting snow beneath the twilight glow. But tonight, it carried another name: Red Snow.

Snow usually meant purity — like the carefree childhood days she remembered walking through fresh snow. Back then, her husband’s family and hers were longtime friends; the two families often shared tea. At that time, her father was not yet the respected high-ranking officer he would become. Everything was peaceful.

But she knew peace was impossible now — or perhaps this was the calm before the storm. Why choose today? Because every year on this day, their wedding anniversary, her husband drank heavily, his intoxication rising gently. Tonight, her heart trembled nervously, fluttering like flower branches in the wind.

She sought revenge.

By daylight, she was quiet, unmoving, like fresh snow resting in the courtyard. But at night, a fire stirred beneath her ribs, smoldering in silence.

She stared at the calluses covering her palms, waiting for that person to come. Waiting for death to turn its head — which would also be her final farewell to this world.

Four years ago, her family home in Kyoto had been reduced to ashes overnight by mysterious hands. Her loved ones turned to dust. The once-grand courtyards were now filled with withered petals and charred lantern stands — a hidden history buried beneath the debris. The death gods did not weep. What spilled from them was blood — the blood of her family, split by blades, staining that winter day forever in her mind.

It was deep winter. She remembered.

She put on a kimono embroidered with pure white flowers, cradled her pet squirrel, and released it into the fading sunset.

She gazed at the horizon. Soon, she would ride death’s chariot to reunite with her family in the underworld. For a moment, she relaxed. In early spring, death felt almost beautiful to her. Living only meant carrying endless hatred. The deeper the memories sank into this swamp, the deeper one drowned.

Tonight, she was to perform for her husband.

“You’re back,” she whispered softly to him and went to prepare his favorite sake.

After his bath, with sake between them, he requested the dance she had prepared — a fan dance. In the bright room, she moved gracefully. Her long hair brushed the floor, spinning like a butterfly flitting through the air. There was no snow that night, but her elegance reminded one of the snow country’s delicate fragrance.

She recalled their carefree strolls through Hokkaido, though their smiles had always felt strained. When she turned her face away then, her heart was filled with bloody visions. Suddenly, she collapsed to her knees, lowering her head.

“Yuki,” her husband exclaimed, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

Without warning, tears streamed down her face.

“I’m… just so happy,” she said softly.

“Because you’re with me?” he asked.

“It’s not because of your height or your handsome face,” she replied. “It’s because that night, I returned to my true home, dressed for the occasion.”

As the final word left her lips, a short blade flashed from her sleeve — sharp and sudden as the first sunlight of February.

A shallow line appeared along his neck, thin as a thread of crimson silk. This was the Kiss of Death, the blade laced with quiet venom.

“You’re as good as dead,” Yuki said coldly.

“Why?” he gasped.

“Because you were the one who slaughtered my family four years ago,” she hissed. “I married you for revenge. You adored the snow, so you called me Yuki, but do you remember? The snow in my courtyard that night was stained crimson with blood. My father was your political rival, yet you destroyed our entire house.”

Her husband’s slight intoxication, his swaying body, combined with Yuki’s secretly practiced deadly skill — everything happened as swiftly as lightning.

He tried to explain, but his eyes widened in terror as he realized the deadly skill behind Yuki’s calm smile. In a swift, practiced motion, she used a reverse strike — turning his resistance into nothingness before it could even begin. His struggle was crushed in its cradle, leaving him powerless against her.

When his body finally lost all warmth, Yuki felt utterly hollow. She walked into the courtyard and let out a desolate, long laugh.

The death god would arrive, as promised. Her blood kissed the first breath of spring.

The courtyard was quiet. The first breath of spring coiled in the air like a ghost. She closed her eyes.

And in the darkness behind her eyelids, the snow was still falling — crimson, and endless.

– Yucheng Tao