There is a mountain that does not appear on any map.
No awakened dared speak of it, not in the capital, not in the clans, not even in the sealed records of the inner sects. It was a mountain that did not exist. And yet… it was there.
Its peak pierced through a sea of ancient mist that never moved, never thinned, never allowed the sky to touch it. The wind did not howl there. Birds did not sing. Monsters did not wander. And the silence itself felt old — older than stone, older than memory.
At its summit stood a temple.
A structure of black wood and stillness, swallowed by fog and time. It bore no name. No banner. No shrine. No gate. The world had long since stopped asking what was inside.
The only way to reach it was through an ascent.
Five hundred stone steps, pale as bone, carved into the slope in a perfect, unbroken line. Clean. Smooth. Ageless. Neither moss nor dust clung to them. No footprints ever remained.
Until tonight.
A boy was climbing.
Bloodied. Breathless. Barefoot. He moved like a shadow torn from its body, staggering under the weight of something he could not put down.
His kimono clung to him, soaked through with blood. The cloth had turned dark, heavy, ruined. His limbs were cut open in places — deep, unclean wounds, as if something monstrous had dragged claws across his flesh.
And still he climbed.
In his arms, he carried a child.
A boy. Smaller. Lighter. Pale. The same black hair. The same face. But his chest had been torn open, hollowed by something clean and inhuman.
The blood no longer pulsed. It dripped.
Slow. Final. Thick.
It left dark stains on the sacred stone.
Ploc.
Ploc.
Ploc.
The sound echoed in the silence. The mist didn't stir.
He kept going.
Thirty steps. Forty. Fifty. He no longer counted. His body was beyond exhaustion. His right arm trembled violently. His legs were lead. His mouth had gone dry. But his eyes remained locked on the boy's face.
You're still warm. You're still here. I know it.
But he knew. Somewhere deep, beyond what he allowed himself to accept, he knew.
It was already too late.
A step. Another.
The air thickened. The fog clung to his throat. The mountain pressed against his bones like a sleeping thing dreaming beneath his feet. He could feel it — a presence vast, voiceless, coiled in silence above.
Something was watching.
He reached the eighty-second step before collapsing onto one knee.
Pain shot through his side. His wounded leg refused to move. The body in his arms sagged, threatening to fall.
"No."
His voice was hoarse. Raw. It disappeared instantly into the mist, like it had never existed.
He forced himself up. Slowly. Shaking.
"Not here. Not yet."
The silence answered with more silence.
His breath came in short gasps. His ribs ached. The cold sank deeper.
Still, he climbed.
One step. Another. Then another.
You told me stories, he thought, when the wind screamed against the walls. About the mountain where the kami lived. The god that watched but never judged. That listened… but never spoke.
His mother's voice returned in pieces, distant and soft, like a lullaby he didn't deserve to remember.
He had never believed her. Not really.
But now, there was nothing else.
Just this.
This mountain.
This corpse in his arms.
And the hope that something—anything—waited above.
At the one-hundredth step, he fell again. This time, he didn't rise immediately.
He sat there, hunched over the boy, chest heaving. Blood dripped from his fingers, down his arms, from his jaw, onto the stone.
He looked down at the child's face.
So still.
So quiet.
The mouth slightly parted. The eyelids barely open.
The kind of silence that should have been filled with breathing. But wasn't.
"Why…"
The word slipped out.
"Why him?"
There was no answer.
His breath caught. His throat tightened.
"Why not me?"
And then he screamed.
It wasn't a question anymore.
It was a sound full of something deeper than grief.
A wound inside the soul.
He screamed until his voice broke. Until his lungs begged for air. Until his body collapsed fully onto the steps, and he clung to the corpse as though it would vanish if he let go.
The mist didn't move.
The mountain said nothing.
But something changed.
A subtle shift in pressure.
A moment of stillness sharper than silence.
And then… the past began to stir.
***
He woke up before the sun, just like every morning.
The house was quiet, lit only by the orange glow of the stove in the center of the room. Its faint crackling filled the silence with a low, familiar rhythm. The floor was still warm beneath the woven mat. The blankets beside him were already empty.
Kazumi opened his eyes, and before his thoughts could form, a shape flew at him.
"Kazu! Wake up! It's time for battle!"
Kazuma's voice hit first, followed by his entire body.
Kazumi grunted, rolled over, and caught the smaller boy mid-flight as they tumbled across the bedding. Laughter exploded between them, tangled limbs and half-hearted protests.
"You'll break my ribs one day," Kazumi muttered, breathless.
"Then I'll forge you new ones!" Kazuma declared proudly, clinging to him like a victorious beast.
They wrestled for a while, laughing, not really trying to win. The warmth of the stove wrapped around them. The air smelled of dry wood, ash, and the faint salt of their sweat.
Eventually, the storm passed.
They lay side by side, breathing heavily, eyes on the dim ceiling.
"The stove's judging us," Kazuma whispered.
Kazumi chuckled and closed his eyes for a moment.
Let this morning last a little longer.
Soon they were up, dressed, and stepping out into the crisp dawn.
Behind their small home, a narrow trail led to a spring-fed lake. A thin waterfall dropped into it from the rocks above, the water as clear and cold as ever. Mist hovered above the surface like a second sky.
They stepped in without hesitation.
Kazuma shouted as the cold bit into his legs, then dove in fully, resurfacing with a dramatic gasp.
"I am the spirit of the lake!"
Kazumi splashed him without hesitation.
"Then vanish, spirit. You're too loud."
"I'm immortal!"
"You'll be ice in a minute."
Laughter echoed against the stones.
From the lake's edge, Kazumi looked down the mountainside.
The village below was already stirring. Lanterns dimmed as the sun rose. Children chased each other past sleepy storefronts. Fishermen hauled baskets down from the river. Life moved.
He exhaled.
Just another day.
They returned home. Kazumi lit the stove again while Kazuma swept the floor and folded the sleeping mats. Their home was small, but it was theirs. No parents. No guardians. Just the two of them.
But they survived.
Better than some.
Kazumi cooked a simple meal. Rice. A bit of fish. Soup, lightly seasoned.
They ate quietly. He watched Kazuma more than he ate. The boy's appetite was healthy. His eyes were bright.
Afterward, they packed their things and walked down into the village.
Kazumi held his brother's hand until Kazuma spotted his friends waiting near the academy gates. He let go with a quick wave and dashed forward, only to rush back and throw himself into Kazumi's arms.
"See you later!"
"Listen to your teachers."
"I will!"
Then he was gone, swept up by laughter and games.
Kazumi stood there for a moment, watching. A teacher passed and nodded to him.
"He's growing well."
Kazumi bowed slightly.
"Only because he has good examples."
The teacher smiled, and they exchanged a few polite words before Kazumi took his leave.
His path led him to the forge.
The heat was already building when he entered. Embers glowed in the pit. Iron hissed in the flames. The forge master stood beside the anvil, smoking.
"You're late."
Kazumi didn't hesitate as he took the apron from the wall.
"Not late enough to miss the steel."
"You better hit straighter than yesterday."
"I will."
They worked without more words.
Kazumi's hands moved with practiced rhythm. He heated, struck, quenched, and shaped. The work was hard, but it was familiar. It had weight. Structure. A blade would form where there had been nothing.
That, at least, made sense.
"Keep your elbows in."
"I am."
"Then lower your shoulder."
"I will."
The forge master grunted, neither approving nor scolding.
Hours passed.
When the sun climbed overhead, Kazumi wiped his face and stepped out.
He crossed the market, bought two bentos — still hot — and walked back up toward the school.
Kazuma sat under a tree near the far wall, legs swinging, face to the sky.
Kazumi handed him the food.
"Eat. Don't talk yet."
"But I have so much to say."
"You'll explode if you eat and talk."
"I'll risk it."
They ate together, quiet for a while.
Then Kazuma began to speak.
About class. About games. About the boy who tripped into a bucket. About the teacher who sneezed mid-sentence. The words poured out of him like water over stone.
Kazumi listened.
He didn't interrupt.
His brother's voice was enough.
For a moment, nothing else mattered.
The bell rang in the distance.
Kazuma jumped to his feet, wiping rice from his face.
"I'll tell you the rest later!"
"I'll be here."
The boy ran back toward the courtyard, waving once before disappearing into the sunlit crowd.
Kazumi remained a moment longer.
He looked up.
The sky was clear.
No shadows.
No signs.
And still… something quiet stirred behind his ribs.
He didn't know it yet.
But the fall had already begun.
***
The rest of the day passed in silence.
Kazumi finished his shift at the forge with numb hands and tired arms. The heat clung to his skin like a second layer, and every strike of the hammer echoed in his bones. There was a comfort in it — a rhythm that didn't ask questions, that didn't lie.
He left as the light began to fade, the village behind him melting into gold.
When he reached the academy gates, Kazuma was already waiting.
He didn't run this time.
He smiled, tired but bright.
"You're not that late today."
"I came early," Kazumi replied, brushing ash from his sleeve.
"That's almost a miracle."
They began the slow climb toward the edge of the village. The mountain path greeted them with falling shadows and cool wind. The bustle of the streets grew quieter behind them. Crickets had begun to sing.
Kazuma stopped abruptly.
"Dango."
Kazumi followed his gaze. A small stall still open. Three skewers left, steam curling upward in the twilight.
"Don't even think about it."
"I'm not thinking. I'm suffering."
He gave him the look — wide eyes, dramatic sadness, slightly exaggerated tremble.
Kazumi sighed.
"Fine. One each."
"Two."
"...Fine. Two."
They sat on a low stone wall, eating slowly as the orange light bled into violet. The dango were sweet and warm. The silence between them was soft. No words needed.
Then they climbed higher, toward their home near the ridge.
At the top, the trees thinned. The view stretched far.
They lived on the mountain's shoulder, where the clouds sometimes came to rest.
At home, they worked through the usual motions. Shoes off, sleeves rolled, rice stirred, broth warmed. The stove crackled gently. The night crept in without a sound.
They ate together, sitting close.
Afterward, they played a little, made up stories with paper figures, argued about which warrior would win in a duel of farts.
Then they lay down. The fire flickered low.
In the dark, Kazuma's voice came softly.
"You'll always stay with me, right?"
Kazumi stared at the ceiling.
There were no stars tonight.
"Yeah."
"I'm glad."
"Sleep."
They didn't know it was their last night.
Something broke the silence.
Kazumi didn't open his eyes at first.
He felt it before he knew.
A weight in the air.
Then the smell.
Not smoke from the stove.
Something else.
He sat up.
The air was heavy. Too still. Too sharp.
"Kazuma. Wake up."
The boy stirred slowly.
"Huh… what—"
Kazumi was already pulling on his coat.
"Come on."
Outside, the cold was sudden, almost biting.
But the cold wasn't what made his skin tighten.
Far below, in the valley where the village lay, the world glowed red.
Not lantern red.
Not sunrise red.
This was the color of flame. Of blood. Of war.
A slow, wide bloom of fire rose from the heart of the village.
Thick smoke curled upward, black as ink, swallowing the stars.
Kazuma stepped closer to the edge, blinking at the glow.
"Is that… a fire?"
Kazumi didn't speak.
He watched.
Waited.
Then he saw the shadows move.
Small at first.
Shapes slithering through the streets, stretching long and wrong as they passed between the burning rooftops.
Not people.
Not soldiers.
They glided.
And wherever they passed, things stopped moving.
Kazuma's voice was a whisper.
"Where is everyone…?"
Kazumi reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"We're staying here."
"But the village—"
"Here."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't explain.
Just watched.
They sat in the grass, hidden behind low trees, high above the fire.
From this distance, no screams reached them.
Only the deep, distant hum of destruction.
Time passed.
Kazuma stopped asking questions.
Kazumi could feel him trembling.
The sky pulsed red. The world below was dying.
Then something shifted.
Not in the village.
Behind them.
Kazumi's breath caught.
We're not alone.
He turned, slowly.
The forest behind them was too dark.
Too still.
No birds. No crickets. No wind.
Only silence.
"Get up."
Kazuma looked at him.
"Now."
They moved.
Not running yet.
Just moving.
Down a different path, away from the fire. Away from the scent of blood.
The mountain trail was narrow, half-lit, overgrown. Twigs snapped underfoot. The forest opened and closed around them like a slow breath.
Kazumi kept Kazuma close. One hand always reaching back.
Then it came.
That feeling.
Sharp. Sudden. Pure.
Death.
Kazumi didn't think.
He grabbed Kazuma and dove to the side, rolling down a slope, into the dirt and brush.
A blade sliced through the air where he had been standing.
No sound.
No warning.
They hit the ground hard. Kazumi twisted, shielding his brother.
He pushed himself up fast, scanning the trees.
And then he saw it.
A figure.
Standing still, just beyond the edge of the path.
Dressed in black.
Motionless.
And a mask.
Red. Horned. Carved like an oni.
Eyes hollow.
No voice came.
But the pressure in the air grew heavier.
As if the world had been waiting for this moment to begin.
Kazumi stood in front of Kazuma.
Every muscle locked.
Every breath drawn thin.
This thing isn't human.
He didn't know if he could run.
He didn't know if they would survive.
But he knew one thing.
He had to try.