Three days on the road, and the world had changed. The lush forests had vanished, replaced by a harsh, arid wasteland. Jagged rock faces jutted from the earth, punctuated only by sparse, low-lying shrubs. The ground beneath was a mosaic of cracks, kicking up fine dust with every step.
The wind was relentless.
It howled steadily from the west, a fierce gale that scoured the landscape. Sand and dust swirled in the air, making it a struggle just to keep one’s eyes open. Everything tasted of grit. Dust clung to his tongue, and though Koyoi drank frequently, his throat felt parched again moments later.
Koyoi bound a cloth over his mouth. Dust collected in the folds of the fabric, and his own breath felt hot and stifling against his face. Still, without the cloth, he wouldn't be able to breathe at all. Small nicks had multiplied across his fingertips, and his nails were stained black with ingrained dirt. His lips were cracked, and he could taste the faint, metallic tang of blood on the tip of his tongue.
"...Such a powerful wind."
Koyoi shielded his face with a sleeve. It was a headwind—a physical force that seemed to refuse his passage, pushing him back with every step. His stride shortened; his breathing grew shallow.
“...Go back.”
He thought he heard a voice in the wind. It wasn't human. It was the sound of the gale itself—a low, rhythmic hyoooo that resonated like spoken words. A voice of rejection.
"...I’m not going back."
Koyoi spoke aloud against the wind. He had to move forward. If he turned back now, nothing would ever begin. Asahi would laugh at him. More importantly, it would be a betrayal of Shiori’s wish.
The wind offered no reply, only buffeting him harder, as if trying to tear his hair out by the roots. Koyoi leaned into the gale, lowering his center of gravity. The very soil he stepped on seemed to be carved away by the wind, giving him the unsettling sensation that the ground was being stolen from beneath his feet.
With every struggle against the gusts, his pack's straps dug deeper into his shoulders, the load shifting constantly. He adjusted the weight again and again. His map was damp with sweat, the edges beginning to curl. When he pressed his fingers to steady the map, the wind tore at it as if in a fit of rage.
"...Calm down."
He whispered the command to himself. He couldn't win a fight against the wind. He had to time his movements, reading the wind’s rhythm—the surges and the lulls. He slipped a step forward in the brief moments of hesitation.
Amidst the wasteland, a broken signpost lay toppled in the dirt. Its pillar was half-buried in sand, the characters weathered into illegibility. Koyoi traced the grooves with his finger, managing to identify only a single kanji: West. Even such a small sign gave him the certainty he needed to keep going.
In the distance, the sky flashed a brilliant white—the herald of a coming storm. Every time the wind surged, the pouch at his waist gave a small, sharp tremor. It was an odd sensation, as if the empty bag were being pulled by an invisible thread. Koyoi gripped the vibrating fabric and refused to slow his pace.
He huddled in the lee of a large rock to catch his breath. When he pulled off his straw sandals, raw red blisters stood out on the soles of his feet. He took a pinch of the medicinal herbs the Elder had given him and pressed them into the sores. He winced at the stinging heat, but the pain was a reminder that he was still alive.
Koyoi tore a strip of cloth and wrapped it tightly around his foot. The coarse texture against his skin brought a small measure of comfort. The wind never ceased. Even in the shadow of the rock, fine sand drifted in, settling in his hair and eyebrows. When he brushed it away, his fingertips came away coated in grit.
A small dust devil spun up nearby, a slender pillar dancing across the wasteland before dissolving. It was a sign that the wind reigned supreme here. Deep in his chest, Koyoi whispered a silent defiance to the gale: I won’t lose.
Checking the angle of the sun, he recalibrated his heading. West. The sun was behind him to the left. He was on the right path. To move forward by his own will—that alone was enough to steady his heart.
By the side of the road stood a pile of stones. It was a crumbling, ancient dosojin—a roadside deity. Weathered by time, its features had long since vanished, leaving it looking like little more than a jagged cairn. Once, it must have watched over the safety of travelers. Now, it stood ignored by all, slowly being eaten away by the wind.
Koyoi stopped.
He stood before the stones. Curiously, the wind seemed to veer around this spot. The roar faded into a dull hum, creating a pocket of sudden, heavy silence.
"...Who are you?"
He asked the question, but there was no answer. Yet, there was a presence. A faint, slumbering aura. It wasn't dead, but it wasn't quite alive either.
The pouch at his side shivered in resonance. The empty bag seemed to be trying to drink in the memories held within the stone.
"...Are you a god?"
No.
This wasn't a god. It was a trace—a vestige of a deity who had once resided here. A husk.
Koyoi reached out and touched the stone. It was cold and rough, but deep inside, he felt a faint, residual warmth. The heat of prayer. Evidence that many hands had touched this stone over a vast stretch of time.
Koyoi closed his eyes for a moment. He remembered the Elder’s voice, telling old tales. “The God of Wind was the protector of those who traveled the roads. When he was angry, he became the storm; when he wept, he became the rain.” For the first time, he felt he understood the weight of those words.
"...You must be lonely."
Forgotten, formless, yet still standing here. Waiting for someone to notice. But perhaps it was already too late.
"...I have to go."
Koyoi pulled his hand away. He couldn't take this with him. This was something that belonged to this place. His pouch needed to remain empty for now, so that it could properly receive the next god.
"...But I won’t forget you."
The wind whistled through the gaps in the stones, sounding like a short, sharp flute. Koyoi listened to the note. He couldn't tell if it was a sound of anger or a sob. He only knew for certain that there was something waiting beyond the wind.
He bowed once and began to walk. The wind surged again, but this time, it felt like a hand pressing against his back.
“...Go.”
He thought he heard it. Perhaps the deity had used the last of its strength to give him a push.
West. Further west. Toward the place where the Wind God dwelt.
The wasteland was littered with the charred remains of house pillars. Blackened wood jutted from the sand like jagged teeth, and the stone rim of a dry well was all that remained of a settlement. People had lived here once. Now, only the wind ruled.
In the shadow of a pillar, he found a cracked wind chime lying in the dirt. A faint clink of metal against metal rang out in the lulls of the gale. Koyoi picked it up and carefully set it back in its original place. The sound of the wind remained, but the air felt a fraction clearer.
Looking up, he caught a glimpse of brilliant blue through a rift in the clouds. It was snatched away almost immediately by the sand-colored overcast, but that fleeting moment of blue stayed with him. Beyond the wind, there was still a clear sky.
Koyoi tucked that image of blue into his heart and kept walking. The reason to move forward was stronger than the pain in his feet. The sweat on his back turned cold, sending a shiver through him. He hunched his shoulders and regulated his breath. The biting wind nipped at his cheeks, and the corners of his eyes stung. He wiped them with the back of his hand and found his stride again.
Koyoi chewed on a piece of dried rice cake. It turned to powder in his mouth, sticking to his throat. He forced it down with a swig of water. To eat is to live—the kind of thing Asahi would say. He winced as his teeth ground against a stowaway grain of sand, but he kept chewing.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. A low, earth-shaking growl. The sky grew dark as black clouds swallowed the mountain range ahead. The storm was coming.
The air took on a sweet, metallic scent. The hair on his arms began to stand on end—the sign that lightning was drawing near. Koyoi pulled his shoulders in, leaning into the wind as if surrendering to it.
At the base of the distant horizon, he could see the clouds beginning to swirl. He felt as though someone’s sobbing voice was buried at the center of that vortex. He bit his lip and did not stop.
“...Come here.”
A voice reached him. It drifted from afar, carried on the gale. A voice that was powerful and violent, yet sounded as though it were weeping.
Koyoi looked up. The black clouds were spiraling. They are in there. The next god was waiting.
The wind sounded like a scream now—a chaotic blend of rage and sorrow falling from the heavens. A flicker of fear pierced Koyoi's chest. Even so, his feet did not falter.
"...I'm coming."
Koyoi broke into a run. Into the storm. Into a new story.
The journey had only just begun. The wind pushed at his back, and the sand crunched beneath his sandals. Thunder rolled again in the distance.
The wind did not stop.