Only the wind moved now among the ruins of the village, whistling through the cracks in shattered walls. Haruki and Daiki stood at the edge of the central square when they saw them—two men, once warriors. Now they were just trembling bodies beneath blood-soaked bandages. The younger man's arm was gone at the elbow, while the other's face was clawed beyond recognition, one eye blinded. They sat slumped on the ground, leaning against each other, as if clinging to the last breath they shared.
Daiki was the first to kneel.
"My name is Daiki. We came from the neighboring village to help. Do you know what happened here?"
The younger warrior lifted his gaze. His eyes were glazed.
"Last night… it was like the gates of the underworld opened. They weren't people. They weren't…"
Haruki stepped closer.
"Who attacked you? Someone said… demons. But that's impossible, isn't it?"
The older warrior, who had remained silent until now, spoke. His voice was hoarse, but every word hit like frost.
"A dark mist came from the forest. And within it… something moved. Tall. Too tall. And their faces… it was like they didn't have any. A mask? Maybe. Or their skin had become like that. Bone-white. Elongated. It looked like they were screaming, but no sound came out."
Daiki flinched.
"Maybe it was a tribe… deformed people. Savages in terrifying costumes."
The younger man shook his head.
"They weren't human. Our blades cut through them—we thought they were dead. But moments later… they moved again. One of my comrades—his arm was pulled into nothingness by a black shadow. It just… vanished. No blood. No scream. Just… gone."
Haruki whispered, "Made of shadow?"
"No. More than that," the man continued. "When we fell back to the square, the temple bell rang… on its own. And they hesitated. It was like… they feared it."
Daiki lowered his head.
"This can't be. These things only exist in stories. In legends and children's tales."
"Blood doesn't lie," the man snapped. "My friends' bodies are under the rubble. And yet… I don't know how many actually died. Some… left nothing behind. As if they were swallowed by another world."
Haruki moved closer.
"The temple… did it survive?"
The two warriors exchanged a look.
"Yes," said the injured one, voice faint. "They didn't go inside. Something held them back. Maybe the gods… or something else."
Daiki watched them in silence before murmuring, "This might be more than just an attack. Maybe the legend… is coming back."
The wind rose again. Fear lingered in the eyes of the survivors, and the weight of their words settled on Haruki's shoulders—there was no protection left against what lay ahead.
In the temple courtyard, smoke still drifted from charred beams, but the bell hung untouched in its place. Haruki and Daiki approached slowly, drawn to the faint echo of its chime. At the center of the square stood a frail, stooped old man, his eyes fixed on the ground. His clothes were scorched, his gaze hollow.
Haruki ran to him.
"Sir, are you all right? Are you hurt?" she asked, kneeling before him.
The old man looked up, a faint smile breaking across his wrinkled face.
"No… not my body, child. My heart. I spent my whole life in this village. I knew they'd come back… and I still couldn't stop it."
"Who?" Daiki asked as he stepped closer. "The demons? You saw them too?"
The old man nodded.
"This isn't the first time they've walked this land," he muttered. "I was a boy when my grandfather told me of them. And he heard it from his grandfather. The legend… always just a tale to the young. But I remembered. Every year I cleaned the bell. Every new moon I lit a candle on the temple steps… But no one believed anymore."
"You rang the bell, didn't you?" Haruki asked softly.
The old man nodded again.
"Yes. When I saw them in the square, I knew we had no other chance. I didn't know if it would work… but they stopped. Like they were afraid."
"Can we see the temple?" Daiki asked. "We'd like to know what remains."
The old man nodded gently.
"Go on. The bell… it's not just metal and wood. It holds our past. And maybe now, our future."
Haruki and Daiki stepped into the temple, its walls still standing strong, as if untouched by time and destruction. The old man had tended it with care, and it showed—the floor was clean, light shimmered faintly on ancient frescoes.
As they neared the bell, Haruki noticed strange inscriptions carved into its surface, along with four stylized dragons. They were awed by the craftsmanship, the delicate detail, the mysterious symbols—yet neither of them could understand the script.
They exchanged a glance and returned to the old man.
"What are these markings?" Daiki asked, pointing to the bell.
The old man pressed his lips together, then sighed.
"I can't read them either. This language has long been forgotten. No one has used it in centuries. No one remains who can unlock its secrets."
Curiosity and a flicker of unease danced in Haruki's eyes.
"Then what do they mean? Or why are they here at all?"
The old man's gaze drifted far away.
"Only time can tell. But as long as the bell stands, it keeps our past. And perhaps… our future."
Haruki took a deep breath and ran her fingers along the bell's cold, metallic surface. The dragon figures seemed to stir in the moonlight filtering through the windows. The strange characters encircled them, like the script of some ancient spell.
Daiki turned from the old man and looked toward the wall, where faded outlines of frescoes emerged from shadow.
"Maybe these markings… are part of some magic. Some kind of protection," he murmured.
The old man nodded.
"They say the bell was forged in honor of the four great dragon spirits. Long ago, they defended this land from darkness. But the words have been lost. Only the shapes remain."
Haruki's eyes lit up.
"Then maybe… if we could understand what this bell says, maybe we could find out what's happening now—and how to stop it."
Daiki's face darkened.
"But no one can read this language. And we don't have much time."
The old man sighed deeply.
"Then you must go. Find someone who knows this language… or someone who can decipher it."
Leaving the cool shadows of the temple, Haruki, Daiki, and the old man made their way toward the square. The air still felt heavy, as if the mist was lying in wait just beyond the street corner. The sky had faded to gray, as though even the sun feared what it might see.
The old man's eyes roamed the stones, the cracks in the walls, the symbols on the bell. Haruki walked beside him, watching his every move.
"The demons are afraid of something," the old man murmured, almost to himself. "But I don't know what. These signs… I can only guess."
"They never taught you what they mean?" Daiki asked.
The old man shook his head.
"No. I only knew how to ring the bell. My grandfather whispered it to me… as I now whisper it to you. But the meaning… it was lost."
Haruki bent down to examine a row of symbols carved into a stone.
"Maybe that's exactly why the demons fear it. Because they still remember what it means."
"Maybe," the old man said grimly. "Or maybe they just fear the sound. As if it stirs some ancient command within them."
Daiki let out a breath.
"Then why didn't they teach everyone how to use it?"
"Because in the wrong hands…" The old man didn't finish. "Knowledge can be more dangerous than any blade."
Haruki looked up at the sky.
"It feels like… something is coming."
And then it came.
The mist poured into the square like a wave of gray-black smoke, unhindered by wind or light. The old man froze, eyes wide.
"Run…" he whispered.
His voice was cut short. A black, spear-like weapon shot from the fog, piercing his chest like paper. He collapsed without a sound, his lifeless body sprawled across the stones.
"NO!!" Haruki cried out, already grabbing Daiki's arm. "We have to go!"
Daiki stumbled as they fled. Shadows moved at the far end of the square. The two warriors left to guard the village didn't survive a single minute. The demons—twisted, writhing things of black smoke—smashed through the temple wall. The bell didn't even stir.
"No one's there," Daiki whispered. "Only the three of us knew how to ring it…"
"And none of us is at the bell," Haruki's voice trembled.
The village was consumed by fire. Rooftops blazed, the people's screams faded into silence, and only the mist remained—mist and death. The temple collapsed. The bell fell from the tower, shattered like a discarded toy.
They ran until they reached the forest's edge, gasping, trailed by the stench of blood and smoke. There they stopped and watched everything vanish.
"Haruki…" Daiki began, but then a black arrow whistled out of the trees, piercing his leg.
"Aaagh!"
Haruki dropped beside him, but before she could inspect the wound, the arrow simply vanished—dissolved into thin air. Only the blood and injury remained.
"It disappeared…" Daiki gasped.
"Like the spear from the old man's chest…" Haruki's face was pale, her eyes full of tears. "This can't be real."
"But it is," Daiki groaned. "Let's go home… to Tsuyukusa. Maybe… maybe it's still safe there."
"Yes. That's our home," Haruki nodded. "We just… need to get away from here."
They limped along the path toward Tsuyukusa, each step slower than the last. The trees grew denser, and the world fell into silence. At one point, Haruki stopped.
"Wait. We should go this way."
"That's not the usual route," Daiki said, his voice strained with pain.
"I know," Haruki replied. "But… I feel it. Something's calling."
Daiki looked at her, then at the path.
"Maybe it's safer. Let's go."
The secret trail had long been forgotten—ancient trees, tangled roots, a damp, colorless world. They struggled through the underbrush until they reached the ruins of an old shrine. The stones were cracked and overgrown with vines. At its center, under a shaft of dusty light, stood an ornate vase. Untouched.
Haruki shivered.
"This place… it looks like no one's been here in a hundred years."
They sat beside the vase. Haruki tried to tend to Daiki's wound. He was pale, but still holding on. Then Haruki froze.
The voice spoke again—inside her.
"Open it."
It didn't ask. It didn't whisper. It commanded.
Her hand trembled as it reached toward the vase, almost without her knowing.
"Haruki… don't…" Daiki rasped. "Something's… wrong. Don't do it…"
"Open it," the voice repeated, this time aloud.
"NO!" Daiki flung his arm out to stop her, but his injured leg gave way. He fell forward, his hand striking the vase.
It toppled—and shattered.
Dust scattered across the stone floor. And in the center of it all lay a sword—ancient, yet gleaming as if newly forged.
Haruki collapsed, her body crumpling to the ground. Daiki dropped beside her, pale with shock. He didn't understand what was happening. The pain in his leg had changed—something dark and unnatural was spreading inside him. As if the wound wasn't just physical—something foreign was working its way through his blood.
For two days he kept vigil over Haruki, trying every healing brew he knew, but the wounds only deepened, and the dread inside him grew.
Meanwhile, Haruki's consciousness had drifted beyond the realm of the living. She floated in a place without space, without time—a world of burning light and pulsing shadow. Around her, something ancient stirred, hot and suffocating. Then a voice boomed—not in words, but in a rumble that shook the air like a coming storm.
"At last…!" the voice thundered. "All this time… and finally, someone hears us!"
Haruki spun around, terrified—but saw nothing.
"Who are you? Where am I? What happened?" she asked, but the voice cut her off…
"Don't pretend you don't feel it! Your blood called you here. Your legacy." It growled, the air trembling with fury. "You humans… you forgot who protected you. You convinced yourselves that the Four Dragons—the Four Blades—were just stories. And now… we are nothing but pitiful fragments of memory in your hearts!"
Haruki trembled.
"Then… you're the one who spoke to me before? Near the mountain pass? On the road?"
A long, deep breath rumbled around her—like the earth boiling beneath her feet.
"Not I. That was your ancestors' voice, echoing through your soul. The memory of their blood, not yet silenced. But now… now it is me who speaks. The spirit within you. The first to awaken."
Haruki's heart pounded.
"Awaken…? What do you mean? What's happening to me?"
"You are one of the Four. A bloodline of the old provinces. The first to reopen the gate to the ancient power. The swords… they are not mere weapons. Each hilt holds a single scale. And at the end of each blade—our heart's fragment. When we died, our essence was sealed inside the stone, to wait… until the time came when we were needed again."
Haruki whispered the words as if in a trance.
"…And that time is now."
"Yes," the voice echoed. "The demons have returned. And the world is drifting toward fire. The swords must be found. All four. They will not belong to one… but to four. Four heirs. Four souls who must rise. And you, Haruki…"
The voice rumbled low and steady, like thunder waiting to break.
"…from this moment on—you are no longer alone."