The night before they left, the rain came sideways — a heavy slant that felt like the world was trying to peel away what little humanity clung to the camp. The zealots called it cleansing. Juro called it proof the gods had gone deaf.
Shitsubo called it noise.
By dawn, the fires were wet bones. The sky looked like an old bruise, swollen and purple, as the camp rose in staggered clusters. Maru barked orders, his voice half-prayer, half-commander. The zealots obeyed with a rhythm that bordered on reverence. Even the survivors who weren't of the doctrine had begun to move in time with them — not out of faith, but because faith was now the only structure left that didn't collapse under its own hunger.
The path north was treacherous — not because of the land, but because of the silence. After weeks of rot, ruin, and war, silence was more terrifying than the screams had ever been. It left too much room for thought.
---
They marched through the broken underbelly of the city, where the steel towers bent like tired men. The ruins whispered in the wind, carrying echoes of sirens long gone. Every step seemed to fall into the memory of another — the last sound of the living replaying endlessly.
Daigo led the front, a heavy pipe strapped to his back and his jaw tight. Behind him, Maru walked like a priest with a purpose, eyes distant, lips murmuring the tenets of their growing faith.
Shitsubo followed at the center, silent, calm, expression unreadable. The zealots called that stillness divinity; Juro saw it for what it was — suppression.
Juro walked beside him, though it was no act of camaraderie. His ledger was strapped to his chest now, bound with leather, as if expecting to record death at any step. He'd stopped hiding his defiance. Instead, he wore it like armor — a constant reminder that he was no follower, no worshiper.
"You should burn that book," Shitsubo said quietly as they passed a crumbled archway.
Juro snorted. "And erase the only honest record left in this godforsaken world?"
"The world doesn't need honesty," Shitsubo replied. "It needs order."
"That's what tyrants say before the fire comes," Juro muttered.
Shitsubo glanced at him — not with anger, but curiosity. "You think fire burns truth?"
"I think it purifies it."
A moment passed — a brief, delicate silence between two men standing on opposite ends of the same morality.
Then Shitsubo said, softly, "Fire doesn't purify. It consumes. It makes room for more of itself. And I…" — he looked ahead at the zealots — "I just learned to burn slower than most."
Juro looked away, jaw tightening.
---
By midmorning, they reached the highway. Or what was left of it.
The overpass had collapsed in sections, like a ribcage punched inward by something massive. Rust and rebar jutted into the air, covered in moss and the dried residue of long-dead creatures. Below, the river writhed — a black coil that reflected no light, its surface crawling with shapes that didn't belong to water.
Maru halted and turned to the group.
"Beyond this crossing lies the old canal district," he said. "They say a message was left there — something about a sanctuary."
Juro rolled his eyes. "Rumors again. This one's from whose lips, exactly?"
"A dying merchant, three days ago," Maru replied. "He said the 'North Wind' spoke of a city where Dagon's reach faltered — where the curse breaks."
"Then he died," Juro said flatly.
"Yes."
Juro exhaled sharply. "Convenient."
The zealots bristled, but Shitsubo raised a hand. "Let him speak," he said.
Juro turned to face the group — his voice calm, but heavy with conviction. "We've followed whispers before. Each one leads to rot and corpses. There's no sanctuary, there's no promised city. Only more ruins dressed in different shapes. You call it faith — I call it gambling with corpses as your chips."
The zealots murmured — some in anger, others in doubt.
Shitsubo studied Juro with something between admiration and contempt. "And yet, you still walk with us."
"Because," Juro said, stepping closer, "as much as I hate what you are — the moment I leave, I become worse. Alone, I become prey. With you, I at least get to witness what kind of god a cursed man becomes."
It was honest. Brutal. And it silenced everyone.
Shitsubo's eyes softened just slightly. "Then keep watching," he said. "You'll learn that gods bleed too."
---
They crossed the highway in tense silence. Every step creaked on metal bones. Every shadow looked like it was breathing.
Halfway across, Daigo froze. "Something's watching," he muttered.
Before anyone could ask, the air shifted — a low, guttural hum rolled across the bridge. From beneath the fractured concrete, black water surged upward, forming into pale, elongated shapes — Dagon's minions.
They were worse now. Changed. Their limbs were too long, their faces stretched into smooth plates of cartilage. Their skin shimmered like oil in candlelight, and veins pulsed visibly beneath. Their mouths split horizontally across their chests, revealing teeth that curved inward, as if designed to pull prey inward instead of bite outward.
"Form up!" Maru shouted. The zealots locked shields and improvised spears.
The creatures hissed — a wet, gurgling sound that made the air taste like iron. Then they struck.
---
Shitsubo moved first.
The rune under his skin flared — not in glory, but in raw defiance. His veins lit red, eyes burning like molten glass. He slammed his palm into the bridge, and the curse exploded outward.
Reality cracked. The metal bent. Shadows screamed.
A wave of red energy tore through the minions, shredding them into ribbons of viscous ash. But the curse took payment — it always did. Shitsubo staggered, coughing black blood, his fingers shaking as if something beneath his flesh was gnawing to get out.
"Hold the line!" Daigo roared, swinging his pipe into another creature's neck. The zealots followed, chanting their doctrine — "From flame, order! From pain, peace!"
The bridge became a slaughterhouse of belief.
Juro fought too — but not with faith. He fought with fury. Each strike of his blade was calculated, efficient. He wasn't a soldier; he was an executioner who hated the necessity of the act.
By the time the last creature fell, the river was red with something thicker than blood.
---
They stood among the remains, panting.
Shitsubo wiped his hand across his mouth. His skin had begun to tear along the edges of the runes. The curse had grown hungrier.
Maru approached, bowing his head. "The vessel's wrath has spared us."
"Don't," Shitsubo said, voice low and hoarse. "Don't call it wrath. Wrath implies choice."
Juro stepped forward, blood still dripping from his sleeve. "And what would you call it?"
Shitsubo looked down at his trembling hands. "A reflex."
"Then maybe stop reflexively killing everything that breathes," Juro snapped.
The zealots turned sharply toward him, but Shitsubo waved them down. "No. He's right to speak."
He looked at Juro, eyes hollow but clear. "You think this curse is power. It's not. It's hunger. It eats my control, my humanity, and every time I use it, it takes something I don't get back."
Juro's voice softened, but his words stayed sharp. "Then stop using it."
Shitsubo smiled — tired, almost kind. "Then stop needing me."
The silence that followed was heavier than any corpse on that bridge.
---
As they reached the other side, Maru pointed toward the north — to where the clouds broke and a faint shimmer of light rested against the horizon.
"There," he whispered. "The northern wind. The sanctuary."
Juro laughed bitterly. "Or another graveyard painted gold."
Shitsubo said nothing. He only looked at that distant glow — a mirage, maybe, or a promise — and thought of how all salvation starts as rumor, and ends as proof of desperation.
For now, he let them hope.
Because hope was easier to control than truth.