The road leading west was an endless wasteland.
What once were forests had been scorched bare by some unseen force, leaving the reddish-brown rock exposed like the protruding ribs of a skeleton. The wind was relentless, a roaring gale from the west that whipped grit against Koyoi's skin and made it almost impossible to keep his eyes open.
“...Nngh.”
Koyoi pulled his straw hat low, hunching his shoulders against the blast. His sandals were already half-shredded, and every sharp pebble bit into his soles. The pain was a heavy, miserable weight, but he couldn't afford to stop.
Though Asahi was far ahead, Koyoi felt utterly alone. He moved with his back straight, seemingly indifferent to the gale, his silhouette a blurred and distant mirage through the swirling dust. Every time he tried to close the gap, the wind pushed him back like a physical wall, making his figure shimmer and bleed into the haze.
“...Wait!”
His voice was instantly swallowed. It didn't reach him. An overwhelming sense of isolation gnawed at him; his drawstring pouch was empty, and there was no warmth to be found—only the frantic thudding of his own heart in his ears.
As the sun dipped and the sky turned a bruised purple, a cluster of houses appeared, clinging to the mountain slope like barnacles.
“...Maybe I can rest there.”
Koyoi quickened his pace, desperate for a roof and an end to the wind’s relentless howling. But as he drew closer, hope curdled into a cold, sinking dread. The houses were ruins—roofs caved in, walls riddled with holes, and yards choked by weeds. No smoke rose from the chimneys. It was a ghost village.
Near a gate, a small wooden toy lay forgotten, rolled over and over by the wind. Withered vines tangled around it, a silent testament to the years of abandonment. The rim of the well was chipped, its rope snapped mid-length. The air held a frantic, lingering chill, as if the inhabitants had fled in a panic. A scrap of dried laundry flapped rhythmically against a wall with a dry, hollow beat.
“...Is there no one here?”
At the village entrance, the wind changed. A low, haunting moan vibrated through the gaps between the houses, as if the entire village had been transformed into a giant, hollow flute. Asahi was nowhere to be seen. Had he entered the village ahead of him, or simply passed it by?
“Asahi!”
Koyoi cried out his name, but the only answer was the rhythmic banging of a loose shutter.
In the center of the village, a small shrine lay toppled. Koyoi offered a brief, instinctive prayer and noticed faint, slender footprints in the sand. Asahi’s? Before he could be sure, a gust swept past and the tracks crumbled away. For now, he needed shelter. He chose a relatively large house at the very back of the village; its gate had fallen, but the main building was still structurally sound.
“Excuse me... is anyone home?”
He stepped inside tentatively. The dirt floor was buried under a layer of dust so thick he hesitated to leave footprints. The hearth was cold, the ashes packed hard by years of neglect. A cracked bowl and a wooden spoon sat near a rotting shelf, and when he brushed against a tattered sleeve, the fabric dissolved into powder. Time felt frozen here, and Koyoi caught his breath.
Peeling tatami mats revealed the floorboards beneath. In a corner, he found a faded amulet that carried the scent of dust and wind. Had the people who lived here feared this same gale?
The sliding door to the next room was ajar. Inside, a toppled chest and scraps of cloth littered the floor. When Koyoi stepped inside, the floorboard gave a loud, deafening creak. In the oppressive silence, the sound was jarring.
He set down his pack, and a wave of exhaustion finally crashed over him. He sank onto the freezing boards, feeling the chill crawl up his limbs. A sliver of the red setting sun pierced a crack in the wall, illuminating dancing dust motes in the air that smelled of old paper. Koyoi pulled a jacket from his bag and draped it over his shoulders, seeking whatever small comfort the fabric could provide.
He wedged a piece of wood against the sliding door—a meager defense, but better than nothing. With every howl of the wind, the wood trembled. Peering through a gap in the window, he saw the village path sinking into darkness. There were no lights. Only the wind flattening the weeds and letting them rise again, a movement that looked disturbingly like the steady breathing of some massive beast.
“...It’s so cold.”
Koyoi rubbed his numb fingers. He clutched his pouch to his chest, and a tiny, lingering warmth seemed to return from the empty cloth.
As he strained his ears, a metallic scraping mixed with the wind. Was someone walking in the distance, or was the wind just rattling a door? Anxiety swelled in his chest. Fearing that any movement would give him away, he held his breath and pulled his knees to his chest.
I don’t want to be alone. Asahi, where did you go? Gods, where are you?
The smell of dust parched his throat, but he was too afraid of the noise to open his water flask. Even his own heartbeat seemed to vibrate through the wind. He bit his lip and waited, his fingertips shaking.
It was too quiet. The wind whistled through the gaps in the roof like a high-pitched flute. Then, from the darkness at the back of the house, came a heavy, wet sound—slither-thud.
“...Who’s there?”
Koyoi gasped. It wasn't the wind or a rattling door. It was the presence of something alive.
Slither-thud. Slither-thud.
Slowly, inevitably, it drew closer. Something was watching him from the shadows. It wasn't the creak of wood or the rustle of fabric, but the sound of wet earth being dragged across the floor. The air turned icy, and a thin draft crawled over his skin. Koyoi gripped the dagger the Village Head had given him, but his hands shook so violently he couldn't pull it from its sheath.
“...Stay back.”
His voice trembled. A shadow emerged from the darkness—neither human nor beast, but an amorphous mass of black haze. It was a formless thing, as if the wind had coalesced dust and debris into a monster.
“...What is that?”
The shadow had no eyes, yet its gaze felt like a cold, dry tongue licking his skin. This wasn't the hunger of a predator; it was a hollow malice that sought only to erase what shouldn't be there.
『...Begone...』
The voice vibrated in his skull rather than his ears, an unpleasant, grating noise.
『...This... is... the... wind... Intruders... will... be... purged...』
A wind god? No—this was what remained of a god gone mad, a shattered divinity that had devolved into nothing more than a violent, unthinking storm.
“...No!”
Koyoi backed away, his shoulders hitting the wall. There was nowhere to run. The shadow raised a scythe-like blade of wind.
“...Help me!”
The moment he screamed, the sliding door shattered. A sudden gale roared into the room—not the dark breath of the shadow, but a silver wind surging in from the night.