Even after the presence of the black beast had dissolved into the fog, the forest only feigned mercy, steadily eroding the ground’s logic beneath his feet. Rain stitched through his vision, and each time a droplet struck his cheek from the branches above, a trickle of cold slid down his neck. Asahi produced a length of rope and looped it around Koyoi’s waist. The rain-soaked hemp was heavy, its knot forming a cold ring against his skin.
“Stay close.”
“I will... I’ll follow the knot by feel.”
Kuon spoke without turning his head. “Don’t trust your eyes. The ground will turn against you. Watch the tension in the rope. Listen to the sound.”
Koyoi nodded, resting his fingers against the knot. It was coarse. It was painful. But as long as he felt that pain, he knew he could still find his way back.
Asahi began to mark the pace. “One... two... three...”
As his voice thinned, worn away by the rain, the white of the fog began to seep into his chest. The numbers felt as if they were unraveling. Koyoi repeated the same count under his breath. He matched his breathing to theirs, searching for nothing but the solid resistance of the earth beneath his soles.
Kuon pressed the tip of his knife into a massive tree, carving a short notch. As the blade bit into the damp bark, it gave a soft squeak, releasing the sweet scent of sap.
“...When we return, we follow these.”
“Return?”
Kuon did not answer Koyoi’s question. Silence was his answer. In places, the water pooled up to their ankles. The cords of his straw sandals tightened with the cold, and the warmth drained from his body unnervingly fast.
“Don’t stop.”
Asahi tugged the rope. Koyoi picked out the path of stones by the faint moonlight, lifting his feet carefully to avoid the suction of the clinging mud. He only lost his footing once. The moment his body tilted, the rope dug into his waist, and Asahi hauled him back with brute force.
Kuon’s hand met his back, and a breath he hadn't realized he was holding caught in his throat.
“Are you alright?”
“...Yes. I can still walk.”
At the bottom of his drawstring pouch, the Waterway God trembled ever so slightly.
‘...This way. Here, it is still flowing.’
It was less a voice and more a signal—as if a cold fingertip had gently brushed against the light inside his chest. Koyoi paused just once, breathing in the scent of rain and moss before letting it out. The warmth of his breath was instantly snatched away by the mist. They should have been moving forward, yet a branch at the exact same angle brushed his cheek once more.
A root of the exact same shape crossed his path.
“...We’re crossing the same ground.”
Asahi’s count faltered for a single beat, and Kuon’s back grew rigid. Koyoi strained to hear beneath the sound of the rain. In one direction, the rain sounded thinner. Even when he stepped lightly, the echo was slow to return.
Kuon pressed the edge of his glass eye and pointed. “...It’s down there.”
The depths of the pouch felt strangely warm. Warm, yet the light in his chest flickered with a small tremor.
‘...It’s still. The water has stopped above.’
The voice of the Waterway God. Still water. The "Stagnant Lake" of the rumors.
Koyoi pressed his hand over the pouch. “God of Rain... are you there?”
There was no reply, but he could smell the scent of water that did not flow. A scent where, despite the falling rain, there was no sound of the surface answering back. Asahi gave the rope a sharp tug.
“Stay in line. ...Do not let your mind wander.”
Kuon spoke curtly. “If you're going to decide, do it now.”
Koyoi nodded, trimming his breaths into even measures. The scent of the still water was drawing closer, step by step.