As they left the pond, the sound of the rain shifted.
It was no longer a piercing sting, but a steady, rhythmic drumming—falling, flowing, and receding. The ground was still a churn of mud, yet it felt different than before. Their feet sank with every step, but they no longer stayed stuck; each step came free.
“...I can walk.”
At Koyoi’s murmur, Asahi gave a short, dry laugh.
“Having feet left to stand on is a victory today.”
Kuon did not smile. He tilted his head toward the veil of rain, his breathing shallow and controlled.
“Don’t get careless. They’re still close.”
Koyoi pressed her fingers against her drawstring pouch. Deep inside, the Shizuku pulsed with a faint, steady light. That warmth alone steadied her. Asahi’s eyes fell on Koyoi’s hand.
“The bleeding hasn’t stopped.”
“It’s alright. I can still feel the pain.”
Feeling the pain was proof that she hadn't gone numb—proof she was still alive.
Kuon pointed ahead. “The path is changing. I hear a stream.”
They emerged at a small mountain brook. Swollen by the rain, the water crashed against the rocks in white bursts. The sound came through clearly—a simple, natural thing that finally allowed Koyoi to draw a deep, grounding breath.
Asahi crossed first and reached back a hand. “Come on. It’s slippery.”
Koyoi nodded, picking her way across the tops of the stones. The icy water lapped at the edges of her straw sandals, but it didn't try to pull her under. On the other side, a wooden signpost lay half-buried in the mud. The characters had faded, but a single arrow remained visible.
Kuon wiped away the grime and squinted. “...Kamiatsume. This way.”
Koyoi placed her fingertips on the wood. It was cold—a sharp, vital cold.
“Thank you.”
She didn't know who she was thanking—the forest, the rain, or the person who had placed the sign. She only knew that moving forward without saying it felt more frightening than the silence. After a short walk, the scents began to shift.
Beyond the smell of damp wood came the scent of smoke. Fire.
“...Smells like people,” Asahi said.
Kuon nodded. “Close. Uncomfortably close.”
Koyoi tightened her grip on her pouch.
Listen to the sound. The rain hates lies.
Deep within the pouch, the Rain God stirred, wordless but clear: This way.
Asahi pulled a rice ball from his vest and broke it in two. “Eat. Before your hands start shaking.”
Koyoi took it and bit down. The rice was soft, bloated with moisture, but the sharp tang of salt snapped her senses back into focus, grounding her. Kuon took a single bite before turning his gaze back to the path.
“Keep moving. We break through while the rain is still falling.”
The rain would hide them from sight, but once it stopped, they would be exposed. Koyoi nodded and matched her pace to theirs. Deep in the woods, a single bird cried out. It was distant, but its voice was clear and true.
“...There’s a next time,” Koyoi said.
Without looking back, Asahi replied, “There is. I don't plan on letting it end here.”
Kuon let out a soft breath, staring into the gray curtain of rain. “The next one will be worse.”
Koyoi felt the warmth of the pouch and nodded. The rhythm of the rain was steady, which meant she would know the moment something broke that harmony.
Toward Kamiatsume.
Toward the direction of the arrow.
The three of them pressed on through the rain in silence.