After the bloody defeat at the summit, the three of them returned to the inn, taking shelter in Kuon’s room.
Their kimonos, sodden with mud and night dew, hung heavy as lead. Sinking onto the tatami mats sent the accumulated exhaustion settling behind their knees like a dull ache. In the corner, beside a steaming washbasin, Asahi worked in silence, rinsing dried blood from his fingertips. The rhythmic splashing was the only sound marking time in the unnatural stillness of the night.
Kuon wrung out his heavy sleeves and tied back his hair with cold precision before sitting across the table. Winter-heavy gloom hung in the room. Koyoi sat motionless, clutching the drawstring pouch to his chest as if it were life itself. The Moon God’s agonizing scream still echoed in the recesses of his mind.
With every breath, the resonance of that voice scraped against his ribs like shards of glass. The pouch felt heavier than usual on his lap; within it, the pulses of the three gods resonated in a discordant rhythm of anxiety.
“The barrier they’ve woven is no mere wall,” Kuon began, his brush moving across tattered paper with unwavering strokes. “It warps light to seal everything inside. It behaves like a predator.”
He drew a series of overlapping circles, placing a small dot in the center like a sacrificial victim.
“It rejects all physical and spiritual interference while wringing the divine energy from the god trapped within, drop by drop. Simple swordplay or violent magic would be absorbed by the density of its layers.”
Kuon drew a sharp line toward the center and wrote the word Wedge.
“The barrier is a multi-layered structure of overlapping phases. There is a singularity where the ‘Wedge’ is driven in—that is where the siphoned energy swirls. Unless we sever that core, any rift we tear will trigger instantaneous repair. The wound will simply sew itself shut.”
“So even if I slash with everything I’ve got, it’s like punching a curtain,” Asahi grunted, crossing his thick arms. Scratches ran across his hand, and drying blood clung to his skin in dark streaks. Despite this, his hawk-like gaze remained sharp, reflecting the flickering lantern light.
“Precisely. The barrier converts strikes into fuel for its own restoration. We need a ‘different power’ that turns the laws of this world against themselves.”
“And we have no time,” Kuon added, his fingers tracing the circles with loathing. “The longer we wait, the more our chances vanish like thin ice. The barrier repurposes the stolen energy to reinforce its own defenses, growing more insurmountable every second.”
“A different power... outside of logic,” Koyoi murmured, looking at the pouch pulsing on his lap. “Vidro... maybe Vidro can do something?”
Koyoi squeezed the words out through a trembling voice. “Kuon, you said Vidro’s power is to reflect things. If he uses the Glass Eye, maybe he can bounce that light back.”
“Reflection. Fighting light with light,” Kuon mused, narrowing his blue prosthetic eye. “The barrier’s smallest units are particles of compressed light. If we use the Glass Eye to reverse that flow and crash it back into the ritual...”
Kuon pointed at the pouch with a demanding gaze. “Bring him out. We need to confirm his will for ourselves.”
Koyoi’s fingertips froze. The God of Glass was beautiful but incredibly fragile. If the Glass Eye shattered... The fear made him hesitate at the strings of the pouch. Yet, only that blue light could pierce this despair. Steeling himself, Koyoi removed Vidro from the pouch.
The sphere drank in the meager light, harboring a deep, abyssal blue glow.
“Vidro, can you hear me?” Koyoi whispered. “That red light on the summit... can you throw it back?”
“I can. I see the seams in the light.”
Vidro’s response echoed with firm resolve, a far cry from the frailty he had shown before.
“I wasn’t just a prisoner in that cage. I have etched the distortions of the world and the lies of the Observers into this eye. To capture and to return—that is the only reason I exist. It is the brilliance of my life.”
The Glass Eye erupted with intense light, making the air vibrate. It focused the lantern flame and projected a beam as sharp as a razor toward the ceiling. It wasn't a passive reflection; the beam brought the microscopic wood grain into sharp relief and turned the dust motes into silver snow.
Koyoi squinted. The sensation of the light “returning” wasn't a physical phenomenon; it was a manifestation of divine pride.
“Incredible. That’s no ordinary reflection,” Asahi breathed. “He’s drinking in the light and firing it back, amplified by his own energy. This might actually punch a hole through that wall.”
“Yes. This ‘Amplified Reflection’ is our key,” Kuon said, a cold light of triumph in his eye. “We will concentrate the energy onto the barrier's zenith—the focal point where the hex-light is densest. The barrier will burn itself away with its own radiance.”
Kuon’s voice suddenly dropped. “But the burden on Vidro will be immeasurable. At worst, the Glass Eye could crumble to dust. Even so, this is the only hand we have to play.”
The plan was set with cruel clarity. Asahi would act as a decoy to draw their attention. The moment a path opened, Koyoi and Kuon would close in and unleash Vidro’s full output.
“Don’t call it a decoy,” Asahi joked, shrugging with a grin. “I’ll slice through their gaze and carve a path for you. For a warrior, that’s a role worth playing.”
Though his tone was light, his eyes burned with resolve. Kuon nodded and began checking the gears of the Star-reading Disc by touch alone.
“The operation begins tomorrow night, when the celestial alignment maximizes the flow of divine energy,” Kuon announced. “When the full moon is at its zenith—that is our last chance.”
Koyoi noticed Kuon’s white-knuckled grip on the table. Kuon quickly looked away, hiding his vulnerability. He was being consumed by the twin fires of revenge and the terror of failure. Asahi said no more, checking the hilt of his sword with meticulous care.
Koyoi squeezed the Glass Eye—not to break it, but with firm strength. Despite its freezing temperature, it felt like it held the warmth of a comrade.
“Please, Vidro. Lend me your strength. Let’s save the Moon God together.”
“Yes. It’s a promise. If you wish it, I do not mind if this body shatters.”
The fact that this ancient god was willing to bet his life for him filled Koyoi with a bittersweet joy. He pressed the Glass Eye to his cheek, etching its cold into his skin.
“I’m sorry for asking this... but I won’t ever leave you alone.”
As the night deepened, the room filled with the rasp of steel against whetstone and the faint click of gears. Outside, the malignant red moon crawled through the clouds, stretching sharp shadows across the town.
“Go to sleep now,” Asahi said warmly.
Kuon extinguished the lantern, staring at the moon through the shoji screen. Koyoi closed his eyes, tending the small flame of resolve in his heart. In the darkness, the scent of oil and shaved wood made the room feel narrow and lonely. As he drifted, he heard the Moon God’s voice, fragile as winter grass.
“I am waiting, Koyoi. Always waiting.”
“I cannot fail,” Koyoi whispered into the silence.
Through the wall, he sensed Kuon was still awake. The restless moonlight and the faint metallic groans of the Star-reading Disc told him he wasn't alone in his dread. They were comrades sharing the same despair, and that fact supported him.
The cold seeped through the shoji, but Koyoi accepted it as proof he was alive. With every breath, his inner light settled into a quiet fire. Beneath the covers, he gave a firm nod and finally sank into sleep.
Outside, the shadow of the red moon crawled across the floor like a curse. But beyond that shadow, Koyoi dreamed of the light of tomorrow. The three overlapping sounds of breathing swayed like a small boat on a harsh sea.
The night was deep and endless. In the darkness, Kuon’s blue eye flashed once—a silent signal for the battle to come.