The boundary did not appear as a line. Yet, the soles of his feet knew the moment they crossed it.
The black cobblestones shifted abruptly to gray at a certain point. The gray leaned toward silver; the silver toward white. Though the transition of color was gradual, the physical sensation changed in a heartbeat.
His breath changed.
The weight of the shadows changed.
Even the echoes of the air belonged to another place entirely.
Kuon kept his pace steady, counting under his breath.
"...Two hundred and seventy."
Koyoi felt his spine straighten at the number, though he couldn't say why.
"Is there something here?"
"There is. A 'threshold' is a word the Laws are fond of... This is the turning point within the turning point. The place where the thickness of the boundary is at its most fragile."
Asahi came to a halt and struck the ground with the scabbard of his greatsword.
A dry, hollow sound rang out.
"If it’s thin, does that mean it can be cut?"
"It can be cut. And it can cut back."
Kuon’s voice was cold.
Koyoi clutched his drawstring pouch closer, listening to the warmth of Shizuku within. Shizuku was pulsing more slowly than usual. It wasn’t out of fear.
It was out of caution.
Standing atop the boundary, the sky seemed a fraction closer. Close, yet untouchable. And yet, it felt as though it were reaching out to touch them.
"...This isn't a boundary you're meant to return from, is it?"
When Koyoi spoke, Asahi let out a short, sharp laugh.
"It’s not a line for returning. It’s a line for crossing."
Without opening his Register, Kuon traced a finger over his chest.
"We cross the line. We retrieve the Name on the other side. That is all."
Koyoi nodded.
The boundary was invisible. Because of that, only the fact of having crossed it would remain.
The three of them took the next step in unison.
The sensation beneath their feet changed.
The cobblestones vanished. It wasn't earth, either. A soft, damp layer of mulch swallowed their boots, sinking as they stepped.
The trees were multiplying.
The trunks, which had been a silvery gray, were covered here in dark green moss. There were leaves on the branches—living leaves, the likes of which they hadn't seen once in the south. Their translucent veins shimmered faintly, catching the light of Names.
"...A forest."
Koyoi caught his breath.
To eyes that knew only the silver-gray wastes, this alone felt like a different world. Darkness pooled between the trees; the deeper they went, the thicker the trunks became, their roots twisting together in a complex tangle.
Kuon opened the Register.
He flipped a page. Then another. And another.
His hand stopped.
"...It’s blank."
The page he had opened was empty. The golden veins were still pulsing; the page was alive. But there were no words. No record.
Kuon pressed his palm against the paper.
"It’s warm."
He narrowed his artificial eye.
"This isn't a dead page. It’s a page yet to be written. From this point forward, the world remains unrecorded."
Asahi rested a hand on the hilt of his greatsword. Not to draw it.
The blade was shivering.
Faintly, but unmistakably, the vibration traveling through the hilt into his palm matched the frequency of the ground beneath his feet.
"This thing... it's talking to the earth," Asahi muttered lowly.
Koyoi pressed the pouch against his chest.
Shizuku was pulsing. But it wasn't the usual, pleading throb.
It was deeper. Slower.
It was matching something.
From deep beneath the earth, something was beating. A rhythmic thrum like a pulse—distant and deep, but certain. The Shizuku inside his pouch was synchronizing with that rhythm.
"...A heart," Koyoi whispered.
"There is a heart beating beneath this forest."
Kuon did not close the blank page. Asahi did not let go of his sword.
The three of them began to walk deeper into the ancient woods. Toward the realm of a god without a name.