The tide receded.
In itself, that was nothing unusual. Twice a day at Yoinami Beach, the sea retreats. But this time, the water did not return.
The receding surface continued to pull away, leaving the sandy floor exposed—past the tidal flats, and further still. The water’s edge retreated before their very eyes.
“...It’s so far out.”
Koyoi stood up.
A landscape that shouldn't exist stretched out before the horizon. Amidst the grey sand, countless jagged stones had begun to surface.
“Look—those are buildings.”
Asahi narrowed his eyes.
Where the tide had pulled back from the seabed, a series of collapsed walls lay in rows. The stone walls were only knee-high. Their regular alignment suggested the remnants of streets. The width of the paths was uniform, and they intersected at precise angles.
The ruins of a planned city. Something that had remained silent beneath the waves for hundreds of years.
“Let’s go down.”
Koyoi slid down the sandy slope, descending onto the exposed seabed. The sand beneath his feet was firm, glistening grey with trapped moisture.
As he approached the stone walls, he noticed markings etched into the surface. Characters. But they weren't the letters Koyoi knew.
Kuon’s prosthetic eye flickered to life. A blue light swept across the surface of the stone. The depth of the carvings, the number of strokes, the spacing—it was all different from the recording systems used today.
“These are names.”
Kuon’s voice grew low.
“The method of recording names is different from ours. In our current system, we record one name for each soul, written in ink upon a manuscript. But this stone slab is different. For a single name, there are three layers of engraving.”
Koyoi knelt and traced the grooves of the stone with his finger. Lines of three different depths repeatedly carved the same name. The deepest lines reached far into the stone, while the shallowest stopped near the surface.
“Why carve the same name three times?”
“Redundancy.”
Kuon ran his hand over the slab.
“If one layer fades, two remain. If two fade, one remains. It is a system designed to ensure a name is never lost. Our current manuscripts have nothing like it.”
Asahi stood before a different wall. Characters were carved there as well, but erosion had rendered much of it illegible. Even so, the deepest grooves remained.
“Of the three layers, only the deepest lines have survived.”
“Names from over a thousand years ago are still here.”
Kuon’s prosthetic eye wavered, its blue light flickering unsteadily.
Koyoi stood and looked out across the exposed seabed. The collapsed stone walls stretched for hundreds of meters. Remnants of streets, plazas, and wells—an entire town had been swallowed by the sea.
“There were people protecting names... long before the Observers ever existed.”
Koyoi’s voice trembled.
Inside his pouch, the Drop began to pulse. A warmth spread through the fabric and into his palm.
“Before the Observers came, the names were already here. There were people who carved them. They etched them three times into stone, just to make sure they would never disappear.”
Kuon nodded silently. Keeping the light of his eye fixed on the slab, he measured the depth of the grooves with his fingertips.
Asahi let his hand fall away from the hilt of his sword. There were no enemies here. There were only the traces of people from the distant past who had tried to protect names.
“I guess they were the ones who were truly serious about this,” Asahi muttered.
To carve into stone. To carve three times. Deep enough to be read even after sinking into the ocean. It was a strength that paper manuscripts could never hope to mimic.
The sound of waves echoed from the distance. The tide was starting to return. Slowly, but with certainty. The water’s edge licked at the sand, reaching for the base of the stone walls.
“We’re out of time.”
Koyoi pulled out his manuscript. From the names left on the slab, he chose just one. He transcribed the characters from the deepest groove onto the paper. He didn't convert them into the modern script; he copied them in their original form.
The moment the ink settled into the paper, his pouch grew hot. The Drop was reacting to the ancient name.
“You know this name, don't you?”
Koyoi gripped the pouch.
The Drop did not answer. Only its pulse quickened.
The tide touched his ankles. Cold water spread across the sand. The stone walls began to submerge once more.
The three of them scrambled up the slope.
Looking back, half of the stone streets were already beneath the water. Only the tips of the tallest walls poked through the surface.
Soon, they too sank. The waves closed over them as if nothing had happened.
The tide that had refused to return showed its floor just once, then sealed it away again.
Koyoi pressed the manuscript to his chest. Upon the paper sat a single ancient name. A name that had emerged into the world of the living once more, after a thousand years of silence.