The mountain slept behind them, its breath a faint mist rising through the trees.
Ren and the Maiden moved through the valley in silence. The air was thick with rain that never fell — mist so dense it glittered faintly in the twilight, like dust caught between worlds.
The forest had changed. Every root and leaf seemed to hum faintly beneath their feet, and the faint smell of incense lingered though there were no shrines nearby.
Ren knew this was not nature's doing. Yomi's breath had reached even here.
The Maiden's lantern glowed pale and tired, its flame bending against unseen wind. She hadn't spoken since the collapse of the Shrine. Her robes were torn, streaked with soot, and the crimson thread of her shimenawa belt had begun to fray. Yet her steps were steady, her face calm.
"Are you still hearing them?" she asked softly, without turning.
Ren hesitated. "Only in the silence."
The path sloped downward toward a stretch of open land. In the distance, the faint shape of a bridge appeared through the fog — narrow, wooden, and old enough that its ropes sagged like veins. Beneath it ran a black river, its surface strangely luminous, carrying faint blue reflections like wandering fireflies.
The Maiden stopped at the bridge's edge. "The River Namiyo," she murmured. "The ferrymen used to say this is where prayers went to drown."
Ren leaned over the railing. The water was still but alive, rippling in soft pulses that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. Beneath the surface, faint figures seemed to drift — too pale to be fish, too human to be stones.
"Why does it move like that?" he asked.
"Because it remembers," she said. "Every vow broken near its banks leaves an echo. Every soul that dies unburied passes beneath it. The bridge weeps for them."
He frowned. "A river that cries for the dead."
"A river that refuses to forget," she corrected quietly.
Ren watched his reflection in the dark current. His face was the same, yet behind it shimmered another — faint, gold-rimmed eyes staring back at him. He blinked, and the reflection rippled, showing briefly the outline of horns, the curve of a woman's smile, the soft echo of laughter he knew from dreams he never lived.
The Maiden caught his wrist. "Don't look too long."
Her touch was warm. "Why?"
"Because rivers like this don't just remember. They answer."
As if in reply, the water stirred. The faint blue glow spread outward in circles, and from the center of the current came a voice — soft, lilting, terribly familiar.
"Ren Kagemura."
His breath caught.
The Maiden's lantern flickered violently. "It knows your name."
The mist thickened, shaping itself into a woman's silhouette rising from the river. Her hair streamed down like liquid ink, and her eyes shone two colors — one gold, one green, shifting with each heartbeat. The faint scent of plum blossoms followed her even through the cold air.
"Do you remember me now?" she asked.
Ren's pulse quickened. "You again."
The Maiden drew an ofuda, her voice sharp. "Step away, spirit!"
The woman smiled faintly. "Still calling me spirit? How small your world must be."
"Who are you?" Ren demanded.
She tilted her head. "The part of you that never died."
Lightning flashed across the clouds, but there was no thunder. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
The Maiden stepped forward, chanting under her breath. Her voice trembled. "Yokai, return to the void you came from."
The woman's smile only deepened. "You don't understand what he carries, little shrine-keeper. Yomi marked him long before your prayers touched him."
Ren's hand went to the bow at his back. Hoshikage throbbed beneath his grip, faint veins of light creeping along its spine. The water beneath the yokai shimmered in response.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"To remind you what you promised me."
Ren froze. "I made no promise."
Her eyes softened. "You did. You just don't remember the name you spoke when you did."
The Maiden moved between them, her body a trembling barrier. "He owes nothing to your kind."
The yokai's gaze turned toward her, calm and pitying. "You think love belongs to the living?"
The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of weeping — not from the woman, not from the Maiden, but from the bridge itself. The wood beneath their feet creaked, releasing drops of water that looked almost like tears.
Ren felt the mark beneath his collarbone pulse again, faint gold light threading under his skin. The river reflected it perfectly, its glow echoing through the current like the spreading of infection.
The yokai extended her hand. "Come closer, Ren. You can't carry Yomi's breath alone."
The Maiden's voice cracked. "If you take her hand, you'll never return."
The woman's smile was sad, not cruel. "Perhaps he never left."
Ren's fingers twitched toward her before he caught himself. "If I know you, tell me your name."
The river hushed. The fog leaned inward, as if waiting.
The yokai's lips parted. "You already know it," she whispered.
The wind exhaled through the trees, scattering ash and petals that should not have existed. Ren's knees weakened under the sudden weight of something ancient pressing down on the world.
Her voice came again — softer now, like a prayer recited only for him.
"Tamashizuna."
The name struck like a blade through the dark.
Ren gasped as pain bloomed in his chest — not physical, but memory made flesh. He saw flashes: moonlight on red water, a hand reaching for his, a kiss beneath burning sakura. Her face, the same yet not. And his own voice, younger, whispering the same name back to her.
Then it was gone.
The Maiden caught him before he fell. "Ren! What did she say?"
He opened his mouth, but only one word came out. "Her name."
The Maiden went white. "Then it's too late."
Ren's voice still hung in the air long after the sound of it had vanished.
The name — Tamashizuna — carried a resonance that bent the space around them. Even the river seemed to pause, its flow reversing for a heartbeat, the light beneath its surface pulsing like veins of molten gold.
The Maiden's grip on him tightened. "Ren," she whispered, "do you know what you've done?"
He stared into the current, where the yokai woman's reflection lingered. Her body shimmered faintly with each ripple, but her eyes — one green, one gold — were unwavering.
"What have I done?" he asked.
"You've remembered her," the Maiden said. "And memory is the first step toward summoning."
Tamashizuna smiled faintly, her voice soft as rainfall. "No need to summon what never left, priestess."
The Maiden raised an ofuda, her tone sharp. "If you cross this boundary again, I'll bind you in the name of Amaterasu herself."
The yokai woman tilted her head, amused. "And what will you do if he asks me to stay?"
Ren turned to the Maiden, seeing the strain behind her calm expression — the exhaustion, the fear. She stood like a wall between him and the river, trembling, yet unyielding.
"Enough," he said. "Both of you."
Tamashizuna's smile deepened. "He commands the living and the dead now. See what Yomi makes of men?"
The Maiden ignored her. "Ren, listen to me. Her name is cursed. Names like hers are threads — once spoken, they tie themselves to you."
"Then I'll untie it," he said.
"You can't."
The wind howled through the valley, shaking the bridge. The ropes groaned like voices trapped beneath wood. The river swelled, its black surface rising until it touched the first plank.
Tamashizuna stepped closer, though her feet never touched the boards. Water curled beneath her like living silk. "You speak of curses, priestess," she said softly, "but what of blessings that cost more than curses ever could?"
Ren felt her words like warmth against his skin, seeping through the mark on his chest. His pulse quickened.
She looked at him then — truly looked, as if trying to find something buried beneath flesh and memory.
"I was there, when you drew your last breath," she whispered. "You swore you'd come back to finish what we began."
"What did we begin?" he asked, his voice rough, almost desperate.
Her eyes softened. "A promise the gods themselves broke."
The Maiden stepped between them again, eyes blazing. "Enough lies! You twist his memories to feed your hunger."
Tamashizuna's laughter was low, almost kind. "If you knew what hunger meant, you wouldn't speak of it so lightly."
The rain began then — soft, soundless, as if the sky bled light instead of water. It fell in shimmering threads, weaving between them. Each drop that struck the river sent ripples upward, glowing faintly before fading.
Ren's hand trembled on the railing. The bridge beneath them groaned louder, the wood darkening, soaked not with water but with something thicker — sorrow itself, drawn from the past.
"Ren," the Maiden said, her voice small now. "If you go to her, you won't come back."
He turned toward her. For the first time, he saw fear not for herself, but for him. "You think I want to?"
The confession hung between them. The river pulsed again, and Tamashizuna's form solidified — not a ghost now, but something dangerously real.
She extended her hand once more. "You were never meant to walk between worlds, Ren. You belong where you first fell."
The words wrapped around his heart like a chain.
He remembered the sound of the Gate collapsing, the Maiden's scream, the endless dark. And through it all — a hand reaching for his. Hers.
The same hand now waited before him.
He took a step forward.
The Maiden's cry broke the spell. "Ren!"
She threw her final ofuda across the bridge. It burst into white fire, slicing the air between them. Tamashizuna recoiled as the flame spread, dividing the bridge in two. The ropes snapped, the boards cracked, and with a sound like thunder breaking underwater, the bridge began to fall.
Ren lunged forward, catching the Maiden as the planks gave way. They crashed onto the muddy bank as the entire span collapsed into the river below.
The water swallowed it whole.
Ren coughed, the mud streaked across his armor, his bow clutched tightly in his hand. The Maiden lay beside him, breathless but alive, the glow from her charm fading.
Across the river, Tamashizuna stood untouched, framed by mist and moonlight. Her expression was unreadable — sorrow and longing twined together.
"Every seal burns," she said softly, her voice barely carrying through the rain. "And every time you break one, you draw closer to me. Remember that, Ren."
Then she was gone.
The river stilled. The mist returned to its quiet vigil.
Ren sat there, his heartbeat echoing the slow rhythm of the current. The Maiden pressed a hand to her side, wincing.
"She's not just a yokai," she said weakly. "She's something older. Something bound to your soul."
Ren looked toward the water. His reflection showed not one face, but three — his, the Maiden's, and Tamashizuna's, each overlapping like shadows on the same wall.
"Then maybe she's the part of me that never left Yomi," he said quietly.
The Maiden didn't answer. She only looked at him — and in her eyes, he saw something he hadn't before. Not pity. Not judgment. But grief.
Rain fell harder, washing the blood and soot from his armor. The sound of it filled the valley until all that remained was the murmur of the river — steady, ancient, endless.
And beneath it, faint but certain, came the echo of her voice once more:
"Every vow finds its way home."
Ren closed his eyes.
The rain whispered like memory. The bridge was gone.
But the connection — the invisible thread between the living, the dead, and the damned — still held.