Death has a strange sense of humor. I had failed in protecting my teammates, and as punishment, I am thrown back in time and into the body of my killer no less. Growing up in a family of assassins who cared more about money than kin wasn't easy, but...
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TRAINING WITH A BROKEN WRIST PROVED TO BE EVERY BIT THE SET back as it sound when the nurses first told Tsukasa that she was not to train on a broken bone. They continuously assured her that it would take no more than two weeks to mend so long as she went back for frequent check ups that would aid her bones with the natural process.
If she could only properly control her Chakra, she could have the bone healed in two days, three at most since the body she inhabited was young. When she had been Misaki, she had worked on case studies and lab work on the field to develop ways to utilize yang release in order to further along the healing process by forcing the cells to strengthen in vitality. Misaki had perfected the technique towards the last couple months of her life, allowing her to perform in the field miracles that included something as complicated as regrowing bones and skin.
If Tsukasa could properly control her Chakra, she could fix such an easy wound. Her memories as Misaki might have been fading, but the years studying and practicing the medical craft was embedded in her skull. Yet despite all this, she couldn't use any of it. What was worse was the theory in the medical journels Misaki once had were still largely unexplored, and without the ability to show the methods by demonstration, Tsukasa couldn't even teach anybody else her techniques.
The long hours of meditation was the only thing reining in Tsukasa's annoyance. The wind blowing against her cheeks was a nice reprieve from it all. She realized, with cold indifference, that she was stressed. More than that, she was exhausted. She couldn't breathe and the throbbing in her body was pushing her to sleep.
The time in between the current warm afternoon and the last time she got a good night's sleep was vast. Too vast. It was never enough and it was like she was always tired. Whenever she closed her eyes, she remembered the feeling of her tongue being torn from her fragile throat and whenever she looked at her reflection, she remembered the way Shion had attempted to crawl away from Tsukasa's blood covered body. She could remember it too clearly, even though the face of Misaki's actual mother was fuzzy.
She knew that it wasn't real, but her own reflection was harrowing and a reminder to the worst day of a life that wasn't her own anymore. So no. She couldn't seem to sleep. She could barely force food down her throat or stare too long at her own hands because they were not her own hands. This life, despite how often she tried to convince herself otherwise, was not hers.
She knew that when the dreams—the nightmares—began. The urge to carry out the feeling of blood gushing from stabbed chests and gutted men was intoxicating. She dreamed of that heavenly murder. She could taste the blood on her lips when she awoke and she began to wonder if this was how the real Tsukasa had began her decent into madness.
