Three days of walking the highway, and the landscape shifted. The lush forests vanished, replaced by a parched, barren expanse. Jagged rock faces lay exposed, dotted only by low, lonely shrubs. The earth beneath his feet was cracked; with every step, a fine powder billowed into the air.
The wind was relentless. It blew constantly from the west, a powerful gale that whipped up clouds of grit until he could barely keep his eyes open. His mouth felt like it was full of gravel. Dirt clung to his tongue, and no matter how much water he drank, the dryness returned instantly.
Koyoi pulled a cloth over his face. Sand collected against the fabric, trapping his hot, heavy breaths inside. Yet, without the mask, he couldn’t breathe at all. Tiny cuts multiplied on his fingertips, and soil caked beneath his fingernails until they were black. His lips cracked, and he tasted the faint, metallic tang of blood on the tip of his tongue.
"...This wind is brutal."
Koyoi shielded his face with his sleeve. A headwind. A force that seemed to refuse him, pushing back as if to deny his passage. His stride shortened, and his breath grew shallow.
"...Go back."
He thought he heard a voice mixed into the gale. It wasn't human. It was the sound of the wind itself—a low, howling hyooo that formed into words. A voice that seemed to push him away.
"...I'm not going back," Koyoi told the wind.
He pressed on. If he turned back now, nothing would ever begin. Asahi would laugh at him. More than that, he would be betraying Shiori’s wish.
The wind didn't answer. It simply battered him, as if trying to tear the hair from his scalp. Koyoi leaned forward, keeping his center of gravity low. The soil he stepped on was being scoured away by the gusts. It felt as though the very ground beneath him was being stolen.
With every movement against the gale, his shoulder straps dug in, and the pack on his back shifted. Koyoi adjusted his load again and again. His map was damp with sweat, the edges of the paper curling into waves. When he pressed his finger down to hold it, the wind tried to rip it away with an angry jerk.
"...Steady now."
He spoke to himself. He couldn't win a fight with the wind. He had to match its rhythm, to read its habits—the moments it surged, the moments it ebbed. In those brief gaps, he slipped a step forward.
A broken signpost lay toppled in the wasteland, half-buried in the sand. The pillar was weathered, the characters nearly illegible. Koyoi traced them with a finger, confirming the single word: "West." Just having a landmark made the direction feel certain.
In the distance, the sky flashed white—a precursor to thunder. With every gust, the pouch at his waist gave a small tremor. Though it was supposed to be empty, it felt as if it were being pulled by something. Koyoi gripped the vibrating fabric and didn't stop.
He huddled in the shadow of a rock to catch his breath. When he pulled off his straw sandals, red abrasions stood out on the soles of his feet. He took some medicinal herbs given to him by the Elder and pressed them against the sores. He winced at the sharp, stinging throb, but the pain was proof that he was alive.
Koyoi tore a strip of cloth and wrapped it around his foot. The coarse fabric against his skin offered a small sense of security. The wind blew without rest. Even in the shelter of the rock, fine sand drifted in, settling in his hair and eyebrows. When he brushed it away, it left a gritty residue on his fingertips.
A small dust devil rose a short distance away. The slender pillar danced and swirled before eventually dissolving back into the air. It was proof that the wind was master here. Deep in his chest, Koyoi whispered a single defiance to the gale: I won't lose.
He checked the angle of the sun and reaffirmed his direction. West. The sun was behind his left shoulder. He was on the right path. Moving forward by his own choice—that alone was enough to steady his heart.
Beside the road sat a pile of stones. An old, crumbling Dosojin—a roadside deity. Weathered by the elements, its face was gone, leaving only a featureless lump of rock. Once, it must have watched over the safety of travelers. Now, ignored by all, it was being slowly whittled away by the elements.
Koyoi stopped. He stood before the stones. Strangely, the wind seemed to avoid this one spot. The noise faded into a thin hum, creating a pocket of silence.
"...Who are you?"
He asked the question. There was no answer. But there was a presence. A faint, sleeping air. It wasn't dead, but it wasn't quite alive.
His pouch began to vibrate, resonating. The empty pouch was trying to drink in the memories of the stone.
"...A god?"
No. This wasn't a god. It was a "trace" left behind by one. A lingering scent of a deity who was once here. A husk.
Koyoi reached out and touched the stone. It was cold and rough. But deep inside, there was a faint heat. The heat of prayer. Evidence that many hands had touched this place over a long, long time.
For a moment, Koyoi closed his eyes. The voice of the Elder, telling old stories, came back to him: "The God of Wind was the guardian of those who traveled the skies. When angry, he becomes the storm; when weeping, he becomes the rain." He felt he understood those words a little better now.
"...It's lonely, isn't it?"
Forgotten, formless, yet it continued to stand here. Waiting. Waiting for someone to notice. But perhaps it was already too late.
"...I have to go."
Koyoi let go. He couldn't take it with him. This was something that belonged here. His pouch needed to stay empty for now—to be ready to fully accept the next god.
"...But I won't forget you."
The wind whistled through the gaps in the stones, sounding like a short flute. Koyoi listened to the note. He couldn't tell if it was angry or crying yet. But he was certain that something was there, inside that sound.
He bowed and began to walk. The wind blew hard again. This time, it felt like it was pushing him from behind.
"...Go."
He felt as if he'd been told. Perhaps the deity had used the last of its strength to give him a nudge.
West. Further west. To the place where the God of Wind resided.
The charred pillars of a burnt-out house lay fallen in the wasteland. Blackened wood jutted from the sand, and only the frame of a well remained. People must have lived here once. Now, the wind held absolute dominion.
Near the base of a pillar, he found a cracked wind chime. A faint metallic clink sounded between the gusts. Koyoi picked it up and gently set it back in its place. The sound of the wind remained, but the air felt a fraction clearer.
Looking up, a sliver of blue peeked through a rift in the clouds. It was quickly swallowed by the sand-colored sky, but that brief flash of blue lingered in his mind. Even beyond the wind, the sky was still clear.
Koyoi tucked that image of blue into his heart and kept walking. The reason to move forward was stronger than the pain in his feet. The sweat on his back turned cold, sending a shiver through him. He hunched his shoulders and regulated his breathing. The cold wind bit at his cheeks, and the corners of his eyes stung. He wiped them with the back of his hand and returned to his steady stride.
Koyoi gnawed on a piece of dried rice cake. The crumbs flew in his mouth, sticking to his throat. He washed it down with a gulp of water and finally managed to swallow. Eating is living—he thought of how Asahi would say something like that. Grit crunched between his teeth, and he winced. But he kept chewing.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. A low, earth-shaking sound. The sky grew dark. Black clouds were beginning to smother the mountain range. A storm was coming.
The smell of sweet ozone filled the air. The tips of his hair stood on end, and the fine hairs on his arms rose. The lightning was getting closer. Koyoi hunched his shoulders and moved as if surrendering his body to the wind.
At the very bottom of the distant sky, he saw the clouds begin to swirl. He felt as though someone's sobbing was sinking into the center of that vortex. Koyoi bit his lip and didn't stop.
"...Come."
A voice reached him. It arrived from far away, carried on the gale. A strong, fierce voice. But one that seemed to be crying.
Koyoi looked up. The black clouds were spiraling. He's in there. The next god was waiting.
The wind sounded like a scream now. Rage and weeping bled together, falling from the distant heavens. A faint needle of fear pricked at Koyoi’s chest. Still, his feet did not stop.
"...I'm coming."
Koyoi broke into a run. Into the storm. Into a new story.
The journey had only just begun. The wind pushed at his back, and the sand crunched beneath his soles. Thunder rolled again in the distance.