The sound of Kazasato reached them first.
Before the settlement even came into view, the very nature of the wind shifted. The desert gale, which until then had blown in a single, relentless direction, splintered into a dozen intersecting threads. Koyoi’s hair whipped to the right, only to be pulled left an instant later. It wasn’t a vortex; it was a crossroads where winds from every direction met.
"Do you hear it?" Asahi asked, coming to a halt.
Koyoi strained his ears. Amidst the howling, there was something else—fragments like human voices, yet not quite forming words. Broken syllables brushed against his cheek, carried on the breeze.
"...Prayers," Koyoi whispered. "Someone’s prayers are lingering in the wind."
Kuon opened the Registry. The pages flipped violently, possessed by a will of their own. The azure light of his mystic eye flickered erratically.
"The coordinates are drifting," Kuon’s voice grew sharp. "The Registry’s values haven't stabilized since we arrived. The orientation shifts with every step we take."
The village of Kazasato was nestled in a ravine. It was a long, narrow valley flanked by low sandstone cliffs, the terrain naturally carved to funnel the winds. The rock faces were pockmarked with holes that served as dwellings, arranged like a honeycomb. Thin cloths hung over the entrances, and every time the wind caught them, a dry, rattling sound spilled out.
There was no sign of people. Instead, the wind carried their voices in their stead.
"This wind... it’s no natural phenomenon," Asahi remarked, looking up at the cliff walls. Countless thin grooves were etched into the sandstone—deliberate, artificial carvings. These channels caught the gale, splitting it and redirecting it at precise angles.
"A wind organ," Kuon noted, his mystic eye deciphering the layout of the grooves. "The entire cliffside is a massive instrument. It’s a device designed to separate the wind into specific frequencies and circulate them through the settlement."
"To what end?"
"To carry names," Kuon explained, holding down the pages of the Registry as he fought against the wind. "In the south, the sands swallow all records. So, the inhabitants of Kazasato cast their names upon the wind. They don't write in the sand; they let their names drift in the air. As long as the wind never stops, the names will never fade."
Koyoi stood in the center of the valley and closed his eyes.
Gusts buffeted him from all sides. He tried to catch the sonic fragments one by one. They weren't words, but the emotions came through—the memory of someone calling a name, the final note of a prayer, a voice swallowed at the moment of parting.
His drawstring pouch pulsed.
The names within were reacting to the voices in the wind. The pulse of the Twenty-Two Souls quickened, and the fabric of the pouch swelled as if being pushed from the inside.
"There are names in the wind," Koyoi said, opening his eyes. "So many. More than I can count."
Kuon increased the output of his eye. The azure light illuminated the air currents, revealing golden micro-particles. Not sand—fragments of names. They circulated through the valley on the wind, singing every time they passed through the grooves in the walls.
"So this is how Kazasato preserves its history," Kuon murmured, a rare hint of admiration in his voice. "Using the wind itself as a recording medium. It's the exact opposite of carving into stone. By keeping the names in constant flux, they stay out of the reach of the Bleaching."
Asahi pointed toward the back of the valley. "The shadows look wrong."
Koyoi and Kuon turned. Three shadows were cast against the wall, stretched long by the slanting afternoon sun.
But there were four shadows.
Beside their own stood another. It was roughly Kuon’s height, but the shape was off—its silhouette was blurred, flickering with every gust of wind.
"Whose is that?" Asahi gripped the hilt of his greatsword.
Kuon swept his mystic eye over the wall, the blue light scanning the rock surface.
"It’s not a shadow. It’s a coordinate afterimage," Kuon said, his voice dropping. "The coordinates of someone who once stood here are still burned into this place. The grooves in the cliff have 'saved' their position."
The shadow moved.
Though the three of them remained still, the fourth shadow began to glide slowly toward the depths of the valley.
"Don't follow it," Kuon warned. "If you get too close to an afterimage, your own coordinates will be dragged along with it. The Registry is already fluctuating. If you touch that shadow, you'll lose track of where you are."
Koyoi looked down at his feet, making sure his shadow was still tethered to him. The shape of his toes, the angle of his knees—it was definitely his.
"What does it mean for coordinates to drift?"
"It means that while you're standing here, the Registry thinks you're somewhere else. Someone—an Observer—is rewriting the coordinates. They're trying to erase this place from the map."
The fourth shadow stopped at the end of the valley and vanished into the wall as if being absorbed.
At that moment, Koyoi felt as if another voice had joined the wind. It wasn't a new fragment, but a voice that had been there all along, unheard until now. In the spot where the shadow had disappeared, a new groove had been etched into the cliff.
Kuon closed the Registry and exhaled. "Kazasato’s coordinates are unstable. If we stay too long, our own positions will be rewritten."
"But the names here..." Koyoi clutched his pouch. The golden fragments of names continued to glow as they circulated.
"We can't take them," Kuon said, shaking his head. "A name on the wind cannot be retrieved unless you stop the wind. But if the wind stops, the names vanish. The names of Kazasato live only as long as they stay here. They cannot be carried away."
Asahi looked up at the cliff tops. The sky was narrow, a mere ribbon of blue visible through the crack in the ravine. "Then we'll record what we can and move on. Before we gain a fifth shadow."
Kuon reopened the Registry and began logging the arrangement of the grooves. His mystic eye translated every channel and depth into numerical data, transcribing the very method of Kazasato’s preservation into the book.
Koyoi lingered in the center of the valley, listening to the voice of the wind one last time.
Fragments of prayer. Echoes of names. The scent of a farewell. The voices dissolved into the gale, circling the cliffs in wordless song. The names in his pouch pulsed softly toward them.
We are here. We hear you.
Koyoi pressed the pouch to his chest and bowed to the wind of Kazasato. He didn't know if the gesture reached anyone, but for a heartbeat, the breeze felt soft against his cheek, like a gentle touch.
The three of them left the valley.
Behind them, the wind howled, and the song of the grooves grew louder. The wind organ of Kazasato played on, a chorus of parting. Koyoi did not look back. If he did, he feared he might see that fourth shadow again.
He looked ahead, searching for the next waypoint. Only three sets of footprints remained on the sand. They pressed on, trying to stay ahead of the wind.