The Daily Life of the Three Mothers and Daughters

While Jinwoo bestowed a name upon his first familiar and Sea's hell deepened further, the Japanese archipelago was swept up in a massive vortex of desire entirely different from Korea's.

The incident began on a late-night satellite news channel.

This news was like a spark tossed onto a pile of dry tinder. And the flames ignited first—and most fiercely—in Japan's largest anonymous community, 6ch.

A thread on the occult board exploded with server-crashing momentum in just hours.

The internet frenzy didn't stop there. Starting with one fanart in the thread, illustrators' holy land Pixiv and Twitter overflowed with fanarts tagged '#FoxMask' or '#KitsuneHuntress' like a waterfall.

From noble poses drawing her bow, to shyly at her master's side, and even... lewd ones where the latex suit tore to reveal her flesh. Overnight, she ascended as the hottest sex symbol in Japan's subculture scene.

The crow mage was no longer an object of worship. He had become the 'ultimate winner' embodying the envy and admiration of every Japanese man.

This online heat soon spread to mainstream media. Morning wide shows ran specials on 'The Mystery Beauty in the Fox Mask: Who Is She?'

One journalist panelist, unable to hide his excitement, declared:

His analysis set ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Japanese public sentiment ablaze. The 'fox mask' was their proud goddess—and the ultimate treasure stolen by someone else.

The horrific Korean incident was irrelevant. All that mattered was that amid that hellish stage, the shining star was a 'Japanese woman,' monopolized by one man.

Thus, entirely against Jinwoo's intentions, he became imprinted in Japan as the object of burning jealousy from all Japanese men—a figure commanding a 'fox shrine maiden' as his will's representative.

The YamaShita Temple, bereft of its master, was a serene, orderly little kingdom belonging solely to them. The three priestesses had shed their former family shells completely, devoting themselves faithfully to their new roles.

Their days were now filled only with worship of the absent master and endless rituals preparing for his return.

Mornings began with purification rites. At dawn, they no longer prepared meals for husband or father. Instead, clad only in thin silk garments that revealed every curve, they started the day cleansing the altar in the living room center—where the master's empty throne now sat.

Akey, the harem's matriarch and eldest sister, led the rite. She dampened her long black hair in cold water, reverently wiping the throne's armrests and back. Where her hair trailed, a faint sheen of moisture mingled with her seductive fragrance, sparkling like territorial marking—proof that everything in this shrine was under her dominion. It was cleaning, but also assertion.

Chiharu, the master's fang, used her trained body to polish the marble floor around the altar. No rag for her. She prostrated herself, pressing her ample breasts and hips flush to the stone, scrubbing with her entire form. Each contact of cold marble against hot skin brought not humiliation, but profane ecstasy from imprinting her trace on this sacred space. Her sweat-glistened back gleamed holy, like a sacrificial beast.

Koharu, the master's shrine maiden, gathered the freshest dew-kissed flowers from the garden each morning. She artfully arranged them around the throne, then prostrated before the altar, offering prayers of praise.

By day, they honed and groomed themselves solely for the master's return. Akey crafted the world's delicacies in the kitchen. Her former husband's earnings stocked the fridge, and the master's card summoned premium ingredients—transformed by her hands into art. But she tasted none. She offered perfectly plated dishes to the altar, discarding them coldly once they cooled. To her, cooking was no longer familial; it was cold, hollow proof of her femininity and service.

Chiharu trained relentlessly in the garden with her newly bestowed magic bow. No targets. She focused solely on syncing body and weapon to pierce enemies' hearts on command. Each twang of the string unleashed a suppressed yokai wail, slicing the garden's silence. Her eyes burned not with archery club honor, but a hunting dog's starvation for slaughter in the master's name.

Koharu secluded in her room, drawing the master's image or penning laudatory poems. Her space had become a fanatic chapel of art. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Walls bore portraits of him in plague doctor mask; his desk held sculpted miniatures. Every creation was prayer exalting his greatness and offering her pure heart.

Evenings, after prim baths, the three knelt neatly before the altar—throne in clear view—watching TV, their sole worldly window and entertainment.

That night, lost in a mundane drama, each pondered privately. Akey eyed the heroine's dress, wondering if the master would delight in her serving thus attired. Chiharu compared her moves to the male lead's action scenes. Koharu recast every love song as odes to the master.

Suddenly, the drama cut to a blaring emergency signal.

"Ah..."

Chiharu reacted first. Seeing herself onscreen, her face flushed crimson near to bursting.

'That's... me...?'

The TV version was no mere Yamashita Chiharu. She was an object of terror and awe—a living myth obsessed over and dissected by masses.

Head bowed in hot shame, yet deep in her heart surged irrepressible pride and thrill. The lewd mark on her lower abdomen burned pleasurably, spreading electric ecstasy through her body.

She glanced sideways at her mother and sister. Their faces were frozen ice-cold.

Akey's smile had vanished. She stared at her daughter hailed as 'goddess' with perfect blankness. But her pale hands clenched the silk on her knees bloodlessly tight.

'Goddess...? That girl? The crow mage's partner...? Ridiculous!'

Her mind blazed with jealous flames.

'She's just a hunting dog with some strength. The true partner—the one dominating his nights, receiving his deepest desires, managing this shrine—is me. How dare... my own daughter...!'

Her lewd mark flared hot in jealous fire, agonizingly. But the pain twisted into combative fury.

'Fine, flaunt it. No matter how much goddess praise you get outside, in this shrine—in Master's bedroom—the last laugh will be mine.'

Koharu's reaction was more wretched. Her face drained white, fat tears plopping from wide eyes.

To her, her sister's feats weren't prideful. It was divine rejection negating her faith.

'Why... why her, big sis...? I think only of you every day, pray only for you, offer everything only for you... Why give the glory of standing and fighting at your side... to her...?'

Her small chest tore with jealousy and despair.

'Was my faith... my purity... insufficient? Or... like sis... did those big, full breasts... win your heart...?'

She gazed at her modest chest, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠trembling in sorrow. For the first time, pure worship intruded with the filthy yardstick of 'flesh.'

The anchor's excited voice echoed over their hellish silence.

Unable to bear the embarrassment yet unable to hide her swelling superiority, Chiharu muttered:

"...My god... I looked... like that..."

That single word snapped the last thread of Akey and Koharu's reason.

On the TV they watched together, one had become the world's hero—while the other two were mere sidekicks, forgotten bitches.