Reiko fell.
Deeper.
Farther.
No end, only spiraling blackness stitched with the screams of children.
And then — silence.
Her body landed softly, not on ground, but on something breathing. A pulse beneath her cheek. Warm, slick.
She sat up, gasping — and found herself in a different place.
Not a shrine.
Not the forest.
It was a room.
A tiny, dim-lit room with sliding paper doors and a tatami mat soaked in dried blood. Moonlight slipped in through broken slats in the ceiling. Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
Reiko's breath fogged in the stillness. She stood shakily.
There was a single doll resting on the floor.
Its porcelain face cracked in half, eyes staring blankly, mouth split in a crooked smile.
As she took a step forward — the world shattered.
Like glass.
The room exploded into fragments, reforming into memory.
A dirt path.
A pale woman in rags.
Holding a child by the hand — Okiku.
They were running.
The child was sobbing.
The mother's eyes were frantic. She kept glancing back.
Behind them: men.
Men in black-and-gold armor. Royal crest. Spears. Swords.
A voice boomed:
"The child is a curse-bearer. The blood must be erased."
"No! Please!" the woman cried. "She's just a child!"
They didn't listen.
The mother screamed as one of the men thrust a spear through her chest.
Okiku screamed louder — not in terror, but in something worse.
A curse was born in that scream.
A black ripple blasted outward. Trees withered. Crows fell from the sky. One of the soldiers clutched his face and melted where he stood.
But it wasn't enough.
They grabbed the child by her hair and dragged her away, laughing.
"She won't live long. Tie her up. Leave her where no one will hear."
Reiko couldn't look away.
She saw Okiku chained to a cold well deep in the forest.
Days passed.
No food. No light. Only whispers.
Until the child stopped crying.
Her last breath was a curse — spoken between cracked lips:
"Count with me, Mama. One… two… three…"
She never reached ten.
The vision dissolved like smoke.
And Reiko was back in the cavern.
But she wasn't alone.
Okiku stood before her — no longer a broken, ghostly child.
She had grown — but only in suffering.
Her hair hung like a veil of shadows. Her face was covered in a splintered mask of porcelain and blood. Her kimono was soaked in black water, dragging behind her like a funeral shroud.
And in her hand — a thread of hair.
Reiko's hair.
"You saw it," Okiku said, voice like nails scraping stone. "Now you understand."
Tears welled in Reiko's eyes.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, Okiku…"
Okiku's head tilted.
"No. You're alive," she whispered. "You still have what I lost."
Her mouth stretched wider than any child's should.
"You don't deserve it."
Then she lunged.
Reiko screamed as her body was slammed into the altar. Okiku's hand gripped her throat, ice and shadow pressing in.
"I'll take your breath… your warmth… your name…"
Reiko struggled, tears falling freely.
"I'm not your enemy—!"
But the darkness surged. Her vision blurred. Bones cracked under the weight of fury.
And then — a burst of silver.
CLANG!
A blade struck between them, forcing Okiku back.
Shin stood there.
Breathing hard.
His school uniform tattered, blood dripping from his lip.
"You're not touching her," he growled.
Okiku hissed, retreating into the shadows.
But the temperature dropped.
The shrine began to shake.
The counting began again — hundreds of voices, echoing from every wall.
"One… two… three…"
Shin grabbed Reiko, shielding her with his body.
From the shadows, Okiku's voice whispered like a lullaby:
"You will all count. Until the world forgets you."
Then she vanished.
The shrine walls cracked. The altar collapsed.
Reiko clutched Shin.
"Shin — how did you—?"
He looked at her, eyes filled with something she'd never seen before.
Not just worry.
Fear.
"There's more than just ghosts here," he said.
"They were sealing something. And we're waking it up."
To be continued