Episode 211: Twilight of the Gods
The light within the pouch was dying. Koyoi looked down at the pouch resting on his lap. The silver light that had once spilled through the gaps in the drawstring was now almost invisible. When he touched it with his fingertips, he felt only a faint, lingering warmth.
The Moon God’s silver glow was not even a tenth of what it had been when it illuminated the ice of Shimozato. The Wind God was motionless. The air inside the carriage was deathly still, making the gales that had blown through Hoshifuri-machi feel like a lie.
The Glass God was cold. Not its usual chill—it was beyond sensation. It was so cold that Koyoi could no longer feel the coldness itself. That was what frightened him.
Koyoi pressed the pouch against his chest. He cradled it with both hands, trying to share his own body heat.
“…So cold…”
The voice was trembling. It was a frail sound, like the friction of a shallow breath. He thought it was the Rain God’s voice, but he couldn't be sure. The presences of the four deities had grown so thin that they were indistinguishable from one another.
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
There was no answer. The pulse of the pouch gave one solitary thrum, then stopped. Seconds later, it beat again. The intervals were growing longer.
The gods had spent too much of their power at the Three Wells. They had resonated with the ice of Shimozato, answered the waters of Hoshifuri-machi, and sunk into the mire of Kaizu-no-machi. Each time, they had cast their light, illuminated the Catalog, and shown the way.
And this was the price.
Kuon sat in the opposite seat, the Catalog spread open before him.
Most of the pages were white. It wasn’t that the text had vanished; the paper remained as if it had been blank from the very beginning. Kuon slowly turned the few remaining pages, one by one.
His movements were delicate, as if he were handling dried leaves.
The light from his pale blue prosthetic eye was also fading. Previously, the text would surface just by the eye casting its light upon the page, but now he had to strain his vision to read. Kuon didn't mention it. He simply turned the pages in silence, fixing the remaining words in his mind.
“How many pages are left?”
It was Asahi’s voice.
“Four. Only three are legible.”
“Will that be enough?”
“As long as they last until we reach Churyo.”
The words were brief. But Koyoi heard what lay beneath them. “As long as they last” meant that if they didn't, it was over.
Kuon closed the Catalog and traced the cover with his fingertips.
The leather binding felt thinner than when they had started. It wasn't just that the contents were dwindling; the Catalog itself felt more insubstantial. Each time a name fell away, the book itself began to fade.
Kuon’s hand trembled for a fleeting second. He immediately balled it into a fist to stop it, but Koyoi saw.
Koyoi looked out the window.
The world had no color. It wasn't fog, and it wasn't gray. It was as if the very concept of color had been stripped away from the passing landscape. There should have been trees, grass, and sky, but they were all submerged in the same flat brightness. Only their outlines remained like a line drawing, with nothing inside.
Only the sound of wheels striking the rails echoed at regular intervals. Clack-clack. Clack-clack. There was no other sound.
Asahi had his eyes closed.
His sword lay across his knees, both hands resting on the hilt. He wasn't sleeping. His breathing was shallow and rapid—the breath of someone bracing for something. His eyes remained closed, as if he simply had no reason to open them.
Asahi’s fingers occasionally adjusted their grip on the sword’s hilt. It was likely unconscious. Dried mud clung to the crossguard. The mud of Kaizu-no-machi. Asahi, too, bore the scars of the Three Wells.
Silence filled the carriage.
Three people, four weakened gods, a whitening Catalog, and a colorless world outside the window. Only the train moved. Clack-clack. Clack-clack.
Koyoi closed his eyes, still clutching the pouch.
Beneath the cloth pressed to his chest, a faint pulse continued. At long intervals—thrum, thrum. Flickering, but not yet extinguished.
He synchronized his own breathing to that pulse. Inhale, wait... exhale, wait. Matching himself to the gods’ heartbeat.
The gray outside the window grew slightly darker. Whether the train had entered the night, or whether the colors of the world had simply faded further—it amounted to the same thing.
Something moved faintly inside the pouch. It wasn't a light. It was something smaller, like a shiver. Like a fingertip enduring the cold, exerting the tiniest bit of strength.
Koyoi tightened his embrace. If my warmth isn't enough, I’ll give you all of it, he thought.
Only the sound of the wheels continued to mark the time.