From the brochure:
HISTORY:
RYUUDOUJI, founded in 1325, still proudly displays its main buildings, which are the finest example of wooden architecture in the world. In December of 1993, Ryuudo was considered the first monument in Japan to be registered as part of World Cultural Heritage. These facts seem to indicate that the spirit of the harmony, advocated by its illustrious founder, can be comprehended by the conscience of the world people. In other words, the soul of the revered monk is still alive in every bit of the temple’s grounds…
The Ryuudouji temple, like the family that bore its name, had seen better days. It’d been spared the conflagration of the Fourth Heaven’s Feel- Only to meet the same devastation in the Fifth.
Fate, it seems, had a sense of irony.
Chipped stone steps, worn smooth with time, lead up to a great wooden gateway, the sweeping arcs of the roof caked with snow; Broad-shouldered, it hunched beneath its burden, framed by support pillars as thick as tree trunks- Marred only by the deep, vertical cracks gouged into the very hardwood, too sharp and angular to be anything other than-
-Blades-
I paused, before the portico, a superstitious shudder creeping up my spine. To me, this was holy ground- But not for the same reasons. Here, a crimson swordsman had defied the madness of a king in gold.
Here, the right man- In the right place, at the right time- had saved the world.
From the stories, I’d expected to still hear the distant rumble of war- a ringing of steel that’d gone on and on without pause, until one soon triumphant- but there was only the patter of snow and leaves on the high roof panes; Wisps of white cloud drifting in the air, like incense- But never quite hiding the faint, bitter reek of ash, of char…Of burning.
It’d burned, like London had burned- And it’d never recovered.
The great wooden gates were conspicuously open- The sandalwood charm I’d been given, looped at my belt like a talisman, chiming softly on its chain as I approached the shrine. Though the characters on the sign had been blurred to indecipherability, a heavy brass bell still remained in place, linked to the red-and-white rope that hung from the ceiling before the altar.
The bell tolled, as I gave the rope a tug; a coin clattering into the offerings box. I clapped my hands, twice- bowing my head, for a heartbeat, in an attitude of prayer- then backed away, exhaling slowly as the echoes died.
Once, for fortune. Twice, for-
Footsteps, scuffing against the snow. My eyes cracked open.
-It seemed the temple wasn’t quite deserted, after all…