The mist was thinning.
Koyoi came to a halt. It felt as if a white veil, which had muffled the world before his eyes for so long, had suddenly been peeled back by a single layer. Inside his pouch, the Droplet gave a faint, rhythmic pulse.
“...You can’t see it?”
Kuon stopped as well. The blue light of his prosthetic eye was narrowed to a sharp point, focused on something in the distance.
“See what?”
“A line. It’s not quite a horizon—neither of the sea nor the land. But something is running horizontally in that direction.”
Koyoi strained his eyes.
The fog of the Sea of Forgetfulness was never supposed to allow a view of the distance. The sand beneath their feet, the shoreline a few paces ahead, and the white sky overhead—that was supposed to be the entirety of their world.
But now, deep within the mist, a silhouette was undeniably forming.
A single line stretched horizontally. Its color was indistinct—a blurred band of neither gray nor indigo, lying heavy on the boundary between sky and earth.
“It’s a horizon,” Koyoi whispered.
The moment he spoke the words, something stirred in his chest. Since this journey began, he hadn't looked at anything far away. He had walked with his eyes fixed on the ground, checking if the next step was safe, monitoring the temperature of the pouch, and listening for the footsteps of his companions. He had survived by relying only on what was close at hand.
To be able to see the distance meant that there was now a direction.
“What is that?”
Asahi kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, gesturing toward the horizon with his chin.
Something was jutting out above the line. They looked like towers, or perhaps pillars. There wasn't just one; three or four of them peeked over the horizon at regular intervals.
Kuon adjusted his prosthetic eye to its maximum focus. The blue light intensified into a single point, and minute strings of characters flickered within his pupil.
“I can’t gauge the distance. The mist is refracting the light. But judging by the geometry of the structures...” Kuon opened his Catalog, his fingers pressing firmly against the pages as he turned them. “It’s the Scripture House. The place where all records of the World’s Principles are kept. It is reasonable to assume those towers are the archival spires standing along its outer wall.”
A breeze blew past.
It wasn't a wind from the Sea of Forgetfulness. It didn't smell of salt or the tide. Instead, it carried the scent of dry paper and old ink. It was a wind blowing from the direction of the Scripture House.
The Droplet in the pouch pulsed violently—not upward or downward, but toward the horizon.
“The Droplet is being pulled. It seems there’s something it recognizes over there.”
Koyoi cupped the pouch in both hands. The warmth seeping through the fabric was stronger than usual. The pulsation, which had been a mere tremor throughout their journey, now reached his fingertips with startling clarity.
Asahi stomped his foot on the ground. A hollow resonance returned, as if he were striking something empty rather than stone or soil.
“The ground is thin here. There’s a hollow space underneath.”
Kuon knelt and directed the light of his prosthetic eye toward the earth. The blue glow pierced through the soil, projecting the underlying structure.
“It’s a sedimentary layer of information. Culled names, bleached records, erased histories... discarded information has been compressed and piled up here. The entrance to the Scripture House might be right under our feet.”
Koyoi crouched down and pressed his palm to the soil. It wasn't cold. In fact, it was faintly warm. The heat generated by the massive compression of information traveled into his hand.
Within that warmth, there was a sense of direction. It pointed toward the same horizon.
“There are footprints,” Kuon said. He was already transcribing the sub-surface images into his Catalog. “Not on the soil itself, but pressure marks left upon the strata. Someone walked across this—recently.”
“The First God?” Asahi looked down at the ground.
“The residual temperature of the tracks is still high. Only an existence capable of withstanding the weight of those names could walk upon this strata. It would be impossible for a human.”
The footprints headed toward the horizon, but changed direction halfway. Not north, but downward. They pierced through the sedimentary layer, diving into the deeper reaches.
Koyoi stood up and looked at the horizon.
The silhouettes of the towers were slightly sharper than before. Whether the mist was continuing to pull back or they were getting closer, he couldn't tell.
Asahi glanced toward a set of stone steps nearby. Covered in ice, they wound their way down into the darkness.
“Do we go down, or head for the horizon?”
Kuon closed his Catalog, looking back and forth between the line in the distance and the staircase.
“The footprints lead down. But the Droplet is reacting to the horizon. It is possible both paths lead to the same destination.”
Koyoi pressed the pouch to his chest. The pulsing of the Droplet and the warmth of the ground beat in the same tempo.
“Let’s go. Toward the horizon.”
Asahi let out a short breath through his nose. “That’s rare—you deciding the direction.”
“Because... it’s the first time I could see something far away. I’ve been looking at my feet for so long.”
Koyoi’s voice was small, but it didn't tremble.
The three of them began to walk toward the horizon. With every step, the mist grew thinner, and a dry wind blew against their faces. The smell of the tide faded behind them, replaced by the scent of paper and ink.
They were leaving the Sea of Forgetfulness.
When he looked back, the path they had taken was gone. The mist had closed in, sealing the way behind them. Only the front remained open.
There was no turning back.
But for the first time, they could see where they were going. That single fact was enough to make his footsteps light.