The moment they stepped into the heart of Shimizato, the silence broke.
The stillness that had enveloped them was swallowed by a wordless lament surging from the depths of the street, erupting like a geyser from the cracks in the stones. The very air seemed to be grieving.
Koyoi stopped instinctively, straining his ears. In the distance, hyoshigi—wooden clappers—struck together. The sound held no hint of the mundane; it was the final pulse of something echoing within the icy confines of the Principle.
A massive lantern at the street’s entrance flickered like an exhausted heart. Each time its ghostly light pushed back the darkness, particles of information drifted down like snow, brushing their shoulders only to vanish against the warmth of their bodies. Koyoi tightened his grip on his drawstring pouch and stepped forward.
The lantern only traced the street’s silhouette, leaving the details to dissolve into shadow. Within that glow, information particles rained down, turning into faint wisps of steam the moment they touched warm skin. Along the road stood the skeletal remains of what had once been shops.
Frozen noren curtains swayed from the eaves like fragile glasswork, brittle under the weight of the Principle. Whenever shards of pottery caught the lantern’s flicker, the shadows of those who once walked this path manifested at Koyoi’s feet for an instant. They were the remnants of records—a final scream before being bleached into nothingness.
Koyoi reached out toward a shadow, but before his fingertips could graze it, the figure sank into the cracks in the stone. For a heartbeat, the heat of a fading record burned his finger. He closed his palm to catch the warmth, but it slipped through his fingers like mist.
This street had once been alive. Laughter, footsteps, the scent of daily life—all had been frozen by the Principle, entombed beneath the stones as the sediment of memory.
Koyoi gripped the strings of his pouch, focusing on the warmth within. As if sensing his anxiety, the Shizuku pulsed. He felt instinctively that the lamentations of the gods were stirring the memories of the tiny deities within the vessels. A gentle heat spread from his waist.
In this world of ice, that warmth was his only anchor. The hyoshigi struck again, the vibration causing the particles in the air to tremble. Briefly, they coalesced into human shapes before scattering like snow. The sight tightened Koyoi’s chest, but he refused to stop. If he faltered, he too might become a particle, dissolving into the street's records. That terror pushed him forward.
Kuon kept his prosthetic eye fixed on the pages of his catalog. Asahi rested his hand on his sword, staring toward the far end of the street.
“Don’t call out into that light,” Kuon warned. “The moment you do, your True Name will be stripped away.”
The blue light of his prosthetic eye flashed, causing the ancient script on the page to flare like a beacon. Kuon pushed the dull ache in his eye behind a mask of indifference, reconstructing the fragments of information. A name was the core of existence; to give it voice here was to expose the very blueprint of one's soul. Because he understood this more deeply than anyone, his warning was less advice than a cry from the soul. He steadied his trembling fingers against the catalog. A list of taboos rose into the air as cold phosphorescence before vanishing. The records of those who had spoken their names here were etched clearly in his book.
“I know,” Koyoi answered. “But... I can hear them. Those children are calling so desperately from beneath the ice.”
His voice wavered, but it was no lie. He could hear them crawling up from the layers of records. Inside his pouch, the Shizuku pulsed in response to their kin, warming his side. He fought back tears and bit his lip.
I mustn't call them. And yet, I can hear them.
The contradiction burned in his chest. A single tear fell onto the stone. It shattered into a tiny crystal, scattering sparks of light before vanishing. That flash illuminated a corner of the street, and the frosted characters on the wall blurred, shifting shape. It was as if the records were reacting to the warmth, trying to remember the stories they had forgotten.
Asahi tapped his scabbard, lost in thought.
“We’re going. We’ll take back the Principle’s Answer from beyond those lights.”
He spoke with a grin, and for a moment, the air seemed to soften. His smile held the strength of one who knows fear yet moves forward regardless. He settled his sword and strode toward the end of the street.
There was no hesitation in his gait. Each footstep rang out like a war drum. The air vibrated in response, and the flickering lanterns stabilized. Koyoi stared at his back, feeling a faint light kindle in his eyes.
Kuon closed his catalog and followed, his prosthetic eye pointing the way. No words passed between them, but as their footsteps overlapped, the sound wove a melody through the frigid street. A faint wind blew from the ruins. Was it the lamentation of the gods, or a whisper welcoming them? Koyoi couldn't tell, but he felt the Shizuku in his pouch settle into a steady glow.
As they pushed deeper, the lanterns flickered more rapidly and the rain of particles grew dense. Koyoi whispered a message in his heart: Wait just a little longer. I’m coming for you.
As if in answer, the light in his pouch wavered. The blue glow of the lanterns and the warmth from the pouch met at their feet for an instant. To Koyoi, it felt as though the lamentations etched into the ice had eased, if only by the slightest margin.