—Dusk. As the wind stroked the archipelago from south to north, two shadows met halfway up a mountain.
One was a woman with long purple hair pressed by the wind, brushing grit from the rock with black gauntlets—Shibukanu.
The other wore a black-and-silver ponytail; cold light sat behind her glasses—Ikue.
An old signal post on the ridge. Rusted steel framed the sunset; human presence was far away.
Shibukanu didn't waste words. From her back she set down a bundle wrapped tight in black cloth. She undid a single fold—revealing a slim, chill-clear blade; at the base of the guard, a geometric crest of Oni. Not gold, not silver: a limpid metal that raised the faintest metallic whisper in the air.
Ikue's focus shifted the moment she stepped closer. She adjusted her gloves and read the cadence of the hamon.
"—Confirmed. One of the yō-blades. Oni Blade. A sealing-type key. It chooses its bearer."
Shibukanu neither nodded nor denied. That silence was the answer.
"...A signal," she said. "Someone's knocking on a door."
Ikue immediately brought up her communicator. "Aki, Yukika, respond. Sharing position—"
Static. High-frequency grit scraped the bones of the ear. Characters stuck and bled on the send screen.
Another channel: "Sek—" The same. On the far side, someone bent the flow.
Before Ikue could frown, Shibukanu had already decided. She slung the blade back and cinched it under the gauntlet straps.
"—We head for Hyakki Yakō. Now."
"Alone?"
"We'll try to link up en route. If we're late to the rite, the terms will set in their favor."
The wind changed. It looked as if an extra shadow had joined them. The sun touched the mountain's shoulder; the world flipped to a night map.
Their feet were already pointed toward the place of ritual.
◇
Meanwhile—
A street opened at the bottom of night. Its name: Hyakki Yakō—the Hundred-Demon Parade. Someone had reworked the vestige of ancient yōkai processions into a deliberate ceremonial space.
Lanterns floated; the road wavered; drums struck without sound, directly on the chest.
Banners snapped; crests rippled; six great clans—and sundry gatherings besides—filled the corridor of dark.
The Yūrei clan, who rule death—the hems of white robes never touched ground; bells fell upward.
The Tsukumo clan, who lodge souls in vessels—old implements wrapped in new sashes, blades and drums that had found eyes.
The Yasha bloodline, divine might borne in blood—black stars over their brows, wind coiled at their backs.
The sea's children, the Umibito—wet scales and shell armor carrying the sound of surf.
The Jorō clan of lies and thread—smiles beneath thin-silk masks that were not smiles at all.
And the Kibu—but beneath that flag stood only a boy.
Sekou Kagetsu.
Silk still tacky on his cheeks, red thread-marks running his arms. Yet his eyes were smiling.
(Alone, huh. ...I'm used to starting alone.)
Above him, on a railing-like dais, a tall figure stood.
The shadow built a silhouette out of its own voice. "Welcome, all."
A low tone damp with the moistness of a snake's smile. Ritual dress. A laughing mask. Hands that stroked the air and made the lanterns drop a level.
"I am Jahil—keeper of the 'bridge' among the clans, executor of this rite."
The name slid down the passage and settled like a thin film over each camp.
"The surface is noisy. Boundaries thin. Doors creak. Hell wets its lips. —Thus, we open an opportunity here: to return the ancient blades to those with the strength to hold them."
Lantern flames narrowed. Breaths halted. Only hearts beat.
"Whoever takes a blade takes the Key—authority to handle seals. And further—the right to free comrades bound in Hell."
The murmur turned to cheers. Yūrei whispered; Tsukumo beat; Umibito shivered their fins; Jorō narrowed their eyes; Yasha thumped a fist once against the chest.
Sekou rolled his shoulders and swallowed a whistle. (Blades... that smell. Makes me think of Grandma's 'key.' —Everyone's lit up.)
Jahil's smile didn't break.
"But order is needed. Blades are few. Wanting voices are many. So—we'll have a prelude."
"A prelude?" someone muttered.
"Call it qualifiers if you like. A sieve. Skill, mind, luck, the worth of your companions—we'll measure them first, all alike, by the count of bells."
"Bells?"
Jahil's fingertips traced a floating circle.
At that instant, the floor opened.
From beneath Sekou's ankles, a gate rimmed in light spread like rings on water.
No time to dodge. The whole line tilted—corridor and all.
The sky jumped far away; ground was nowhere at all; and the ear, first of everything, caught the voice of old iron.
—karan. karan.
At the end of the fall, a gray-white expanse—and a tower.
Too tall to take in; halfway up it dissolved into the sky.
Its walls were set with bells of every size—thousands, tens of thousands. From temple gongs like you'd find nowhere else, to shapes belonging to no place at all. They swayed faintly with no wind.
As the shadows floated down to the tower's base, Jahil's voice arrived "late" from afar.
"—This tower is the Ground of a Thousand Bells. There is a correct way to ring them. Not just one. Obey your own side. Begin."
Ground that was like earth but not sent a cold pulse through the soles.
Sekou snorted and opened his palm. If he called, the staff would come—and it came.
The golden trident seemed matched to the weight of this place and glued itself to his hand.
Around him, camps formed up; whispers ran; gazes crossed.
The Jorō read the wind in the tower's shadow; the Umibito sought the "water" in the leylines; the Tsukumo judged the make and voice of the old bells; the Yūrei stepped without touching shadows; the Yasha clenched fists and started counting the ground's frequency.
Under the Kibu standard—only a boy.
(Not ideal. Not the worst either. ... Being late to the line doesn't suit me.)
Sekou slung the haft across his shoulder and smiled with just his mouth. To the emcee on the high stand, he cursed in his head.
(All right, snake voice. Watch me.)
One bell on the tower swayed—without wind.
karan.
That single note was the starter's gun.
All the camps broke into a run at once.
Sekou, too, stepped forward—
—and the night of Hyakki Yakō turned, clearly, into a night of trials.
—-