Chapter Text
Prologue: "The Eastern Story"
They say the world is shrinking. That the age of wonder has withered beneath the iron weight of reason. Where once gods danced upon mountaintops and spirits whispered in the hush of twilight, now men walk with their eyes cast downward, blind to the unseen. The great forests have fallen silent, the rivers no longer murmur secrets, and the skies—once boundless and filled with miracles—are empty save for steel wings that drone like locusts.
It was not always so. There was a time when belief shaped reality, when faith alone could stir the mountains, and terror birthed demons from the black soil. In that age, humanity feared, and in their fear, they believed. Yokai walked openly in the night, their laughter sharp and cruel; gods ruled the harvest, the storm, and the still waters. Balance was fragile, but it was real.
Yet men are a stubborn breed. Fear waned, and with it, faith. The world turned to science, and the unseen began to starve. One by one, shrines crumbled, their gods fading into memory. Spirits lingered in the shadow of a dying age, clinging to existence like frost in spring. It seemed inevitable—that the myths would be forgotten, and with them, the truth.
But the truth will not die so easily.
Deep within the mountains of Japan, where the mists coil like ghosts and the cedars stand eternal, a covenant was forged. Even as war waged forth, a group of humans and yokai alike understood: if the world no longer had room for the extraordinary, then they would make a place where it could endure. A sanctuary, cut from the fabric of reality itself. Thus was born Gensokyo—the Land of Illusions.
The creation was no simple act. At its border lay an ancient shrine, humble and weathered, yet older than kings and emperors. There, the Hakurei clan—bloodline of shrine maidens sworn to maintain balance—wove a spell unlike any other. With the aid of a powerful entity that could bend the gaps and limits of the world itself, they stretched an invisible curtain across the land, a veil between worlds, and sealed it with the force of faith itself. This enchantment, this living wall of will and miracle, became known as the Hakurei Barrier. Beyond it, the laws of man could not reach. Here, belief still held power; here, the forgotten myths would breathe again.
And so, as centuries passed and the outside world marched toward modernity, Gensokyo slept in its cradle of mist and mountains. Within its borders, gods and yokai thrive in uneasy harmony, watched over by the shrine that birthed the barrier. To those who dwell there, it is paradise and prison alike—a realm where fantasy lingers, even as the rest of the world drowns in reality.
But barriers, no matter how strong, are not eternal. They weaken. They bend. And sometimes… they break. Even within the place born from the desire of keeping wonders alive... conflict remains as the common denominator between myth and reality. Strange occurrences arising from the mysteries of fantasy itself began to appear within that land, those that would later be known as... “Incidents.”
This is the story of that fragile land and its many untold tales. Of its keepers, its wanderers, its fools and its dreamers. The story of what happens when illusion and reality collide—and whether a world born of faith can survive when faith itself begins to falter at the face of conflict.
Welcome to Gensokyo.
Evening draped itself over Gensokyo like a silk veil, tinting the horizon in hues of crimson and gold. The cicadas’ chorus softened as shadows stretched long across the fields, and lantern lights flickered to life in distant villages. Beyond the mountains, the sky deepened to violet, pierced by the first shy stars of the night. All was calm, a rare serenity that could almost fool one into believing this land had no secrets—no restless myths, no slumbering gods, no lurking yokai.
But at the highest slope of the eastern mountains, where a narrow stone path wound through ancient cedars, stood a shrine. Its scarlet torii framed the last light of day, weathered yet proud. Here, at the border between illusion and reality, the air hummed faintly—an almost inaudible song, the heartbeat of the Hakurei Barrier.
And within the shrine, a child knelt on the wooden floor.
Her legs ached from sitting still for so long, but she dared not move. Her small hands clutched the hem of her faded kimono as she looked up at the woman before her—the one everyone called “Hakurei Miko,” though to her, she was only Mother.
The woman’s hair shimmered like black silk in the dim light, her figure straight and commanding despite the quiet exhaustion in her eyes. Her presence filled the room, and yet… there was gentleness in the curve of her smile, a softness that only her daughter would ever see.
“It’s time,” the woman said, her voice low and certain, like the toll of a distant bell. She reached into the chest at her side and drew out a folded garment of white and crimson. The air seemed to thicken as she held it—a simple shrine maiden’s attire, and yet more than that. A symbol. A burden. A promise.
The little girl swallowed hard. Her voice was small, trembling. “...Do I have to?”
Her mother knelt so their eyes met. For a moment, the stern priestess vanished, leaving only a mother with tired hands and a heart too heavy for words. She brushed a stray lock from the girl’s cheek, her fingers warm against her skin.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Because this world needs you. And because…” A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. “Because you’re my daughter.”
The girl bit her lip, eyes shimmering in the lantern glow. “But… I don’t want you to go.”
The woman’s hand lingered on her cheek, trembling now. For the briefest instant, her composure cracked, and something raw flickered in her eyes—a grief so deep it could drown the sky. She pulled her daughter close, wrapping her in an embrace that smelled of cedar and incense.
“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking like autumn leaves beneath the wind. “I wish I could stay.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the cry of a distant night bird. At last, the woman eased back and pressed the folded clothes into her daughter’s arms.
“Wear this,” she said. “It’s yours now.”
The girl stared at the red-and-white cloth, her small fingers trembling as they brushed the fabric. It felt impossibly heavy. When she looked up again, her mother was smiling through her tears.
And that was the last smile she ever remembered.
I don’t know how much time has passed since that night.
I don’t even remember her face anymore.
That first day… when I put on the red and white for the first time, I thought it was the start of something simple. A duty, a title, nothing more. But the years… they’ve been anything but simple.
I’ve fought gods and demons, chased vampires through scarlet skies, battled with celestial beings, argued with hermits, and even danced among flowers with ghosts. So many faces, so many names. Some became friends… others, rivals. All of them unforgettable.
And yet, in the quiet moments, I still wonder… what would she think of me now?
“Oi, Reimu!”
The sudden voice shattered the thought like glass. I looked up just as a black-and-white streak cut through the sky, broomstick kicking up a swirl of evening air. Marisa Kirisame landed on the shrine’s worn steps with all the grace of a falling log, grinning like the world’s cheekiest cat.
“Man, you’re still lazin’ around? Figures.” She adjusted her hat and hopped off the broom, boots clunking against the old wood. “Guess what? Weird stones are popping up all over Gensokyo. Crazy strong, too. Looks like we got another incident on our hands!”
I let out a long, weary sigh. Of course. Because why wouldn’t there be a new mess to clean up? I dragged myself upright, joints popping like firecrackers, and reached for the gohei leaning against the altar.
“Great,” I muttered. “I was starting to miss working myself to death.”
Marisa chuckled, utterly unfazed. “C’mon, ya love it.”
I didn’t answer—not out loud, anyway. Instead, I tied the familiar ribbon in my hair, straightened my sleeves, and stepped out into the cooling night.
"..."
Because the truth was, despite everything—the fights, the chaos, the constant stream of idiots—I didn’t hate this life. Not at all.
In fact… I almost smiled.
This is my duty. My story. And for better or for worse... it's far from over.
So... why don't we start from the very beginning?
From the day I first answered those prayers.