The Pale Shadows
The machiya rows of Kyoto hummed with the low, grinding friction of commerce, a city of narrow alleys where the scent of damp wood and roasting tea beans hung heavy in the air, and within this labyrinth, Sota Kimura moved through the dust of his workshop like a man walking on water. He was thirty-two, an apothecary whose hands were perpetually stained with the grey residue of mercury, and he...
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