The rain had thickened the world’s sounds.
The weight of the droplets pelting his straw hat shifted, and the mud grew deeper with every step. Icy water seeped into his waraji sandals, slicking between his toes. Chilled to the core with every breath, Koyoi winced as his wet sleeves clung to his arms, but he kept his eyes locked on Asahi’s back, determined not to lose sight of him.
The air was heavy and damp, leaving a metallic taste like rusted iron in his throat. Nearby, the roar of a mountain stream surged. A flash of lightning turned the tree trunks stark white; in that fleeting second, the path ahead was gone, dissolved into the mire. His feet sank deep; every time he pulled them free, the ground gave a wet, sucking sound that dragged at his momentum.
“Run! If you stop, it’ll swallow you whole!”
Asahi’s voice was raw, like sandpaper. Koyoi didn’t answer; he just bit back a gasp and kicked through the mud. His soles slipped, sending his stumbling, and a sharp stone bit into his foot—a sting that soon turned into a dull heat.
Behind them, the earth groaned.
With every heavy footfall of the thing pursuing them, his stomach lurched. Cold spray lashed the nape of his neck. He didn't need to look back to know.
That eye was watching them from beyond the rain.
“In here! The crevice!”
Kuon pointed toward a rock face—a narrow split barely wide enough for one person, exhaling a stagnant cold. They hunched their shoulders and slid inside, their wet clothes scraping against the dark. The rough stone grazed their skin, leaving a cold, gritty trail.
Koyoi clutched his drawstring pouch to his chest. The hard knot pressed into his ribs—a sharp pain that reminded him he hadn’t fallen apart yet.
A moment later, the entrance was washed over by a wall of water. The torrent lashing the stone swelled inside the cave, and a white mist began to lick at their feet. It tasted of earth as it touched his lips.
The scent of soil and stone settled in his throat, the moisture clinging to his lungs. Outside, the rain raged, yet the dripping within was strangely rhythmic. Every time a drop struck the ground with a soft tap, it felt like time itself was being measured out. Every drop on his neck made his muscles twitch. Despite the dark, his ears worked on their own, separating the distant roar from the nearby plink of the cave.
“...Are you alive?” Asahi asked quietly.
Koyoi tried to nod, but a shudder took hold of him. His kimono was a sodden weight, the fabric chafing against him. The cold was sharpest at his waist, aching as if it touched the bone.
He clamped his jaw shut and wrung out his sleeve. Cold water trickled through his fingers. As his grip tightened, the feeling in his fingertips began to drift. Without a word, Kuon draped a cloth over his shoulders. It wasn't entirely dry, but its weight anchored him, and the trembling eased.
Koyoi took a long breath, searching for a spark of warmth. Asahi loosened his sash and, sword still drawn, wiped the hilt and blade. The scent of wet metal spread—the same iron-like stench as the storm outside.
Kuon checked his compass-board. Its gold needle was restless, vibrating in a frantic, minute tremor. Even sheltered by stone, the turbulence of the storm seeped in. The realization sent a fresh shiver down his spine.
Deep in the cave stood a small, noseless stone statue. It bore no name, but traces of soot remained—signs that someone had once tended a fire here. Koyoi picked up a white pebble, felt its cold hardness, and placed it before the image.
When he pressed his hands together, the mud on his fingers felt gritty. That grit told him he was still on the side he could still return from.
“Did we lose it? ...Is it quiet?” Asahi stole a glance at the light.
Outside was a formless wall of white. In the distance, a hollow roar echoed. A thin stream across the floor rose and fell with the rain, chilling Koyoi’s ankles.
“Only for a moment,” Kuon said, folding his board. His breath didn't turn white; the damp cave swallowed the heat of his lungs instantly.
“The Principle of this mountain belongs to that thing now. The rain is its eyes. If a single drop touches us, it will know exactly where we are.”
Asahi cursed and slammed his fist against the rock. His hand slid on the wet stone, fueling his frustration.
“Even if I cut it, it just reforms. It’s like slashing water. How the hell are we supposed to fight that?”
Koyoi adjusted his grip on the pouch, feeling the hard knot. The image of the black stake he’d seen in the shadow's chest flickered in his mind. It was pinning the thing there.
“...Kuon. Is that really the God of Rain?”
Kuon was silent, measuring something hidden in the sound of the storm. His glassy eyes blinked, refocusing on the world beyond.
“That is the name in the records. But what it is now... it is nothing but rage, pinned down by that stake. Its other voices have been crushed. It is fixed in place.”
“Nothing but rage...”
“If you pin down a single point, that point festers and swells. And as it grows, everything else dies. It has become a vessel of wrath.”
Koyoi felt a surge of heat in his chest. The cold quickly overwhelmed it, but it remained. He couldn't abandon the thing he’d heard weeping.
At the bottom of his pouch, the Moon God trembled. A glassy chill seeped through the fabric, and Koyoi’s fingertips steadied. It wasn't an unpleasant cold, but a clear, lucid chill.
...It is not dead yet. Beneath the anger... a true heart... is crying.
The voice was tiny, yet more certain than the dripping cave. Koyoi inhaled. His breath dampened his lips, cooling as it returned.
“I will find that voice,” he said.
Asahi let out a short, bitter laugh. “I figured you’d say that. Well... I guess we’ve got no choice.”
Kuon pulled out a piece of chalk and drew a line in the damp earth. The white powder blurred, fading almost immediately. He knit his brows and drew it again and again, unbothered by the mud on his fingers. Every time he drew a line, Koyoi felt the rain recede. It frightened him; the silence felt like the moment before someone holds their breath.
“The stake should be at the center of its chest. If we sever it, the binding will loosen. If the Principle returns to normal, the rain will follow.”
“We can’t get close.”
“That’s why we work together.”
Kuon looked at the pouch. Koyoi looked back, fingers pressing the knot. The wind brushed his back. The Glass grew cold. A pulse of water hummed in his throat.
“I will use the Wind to create a path of calm. We will reflect it with the Glass. Then, use the Moon to pull it back into a moment of silence. In that opening, Asahi will cut the stake.”
Asahi nodded, his wet hair plastered against his forehead. Seeing him, Koyoi felt strangely composed. He could move. There was still a way forward.
“We rest here until dawn. Keep the fire alive. If we get too cold, our fingers won't move.”
Asahi kept a small flame going with withered branches. The fire painted the walls red, casting shifting shadows. Steam rose from the dripping water like white breath. Koyoi held out his palms, enduring the stinging heat as feeling returned to his numb fingers.
With the warmth came the wounds. The skin on his palm was peeled; red lines from the rough stone stung. Outside, the rain never stopped. But inside, the crackle of wood and the rhythm of water filled the gaps between his breaths.
Koyoi pulled the pouch close, holding both the cold and the warmth in the same place. He closed his eyes. The distant roar still lingered, but he began to count.
The drips. His breath. The fire.
He gathered these small sounds in his palms, refusing to let his heart scatter. His sleep was shallow, but he would save every breath he could. To keep the light in his chest from flickering, he swallowed the taste of iron and took one more deep, steady breath.