The gunfire had faded behind them. Just echoes now – stuttering through the hills like dying fireworks.

Max kept climbing.

Each step up the mountain came harder than it should. Not from exhaustion, but guilt. Somewhere behind them, the JSDF line was collapsing – soldiers screaming into radios, bullets snapping through air that already reeked of blood and ozone. And yokai. Too many to count.

He clenched his fists. He'd tried to warn them. Ferron too.

"There's no holding the line. They don't stop. They don't break. They don't bleed."

He'd told them that before they left. Before the shrine swallowed them whole.

"Do you think they listened?" Max asked, voice low.

Ferron answered without turning. "Some did. The smart ones. They'll pull back to Osaka."

"And the rest?"

"Dead," Ferron said, too flat.

Max exhaled through his nose. I should've stayed. Should've—

Ying cut him off before the spiral caught. "You saved them," she said sharply. "You left. That's what saved them."

Max glanced over. Her tone was harsher than usual – not angry, exactly. Just tired of his doubt.

"They were after us," she added. "They would've overrun the camp just to get to you. They probably still will."

He opened his mouth, then stopped. She wasn't wrong.

But the strange thing was... the yokai hadn't followed.

He could feel it. The weight behind his ribs. The way Hellfire used to flare when danger was close. Now it just... smouldered. Like something was holding its breath.

Ferron noticed it too. "They're not chasing us."

Ying scanned the forest. "No. It's too quiet."

Max swallowed hard. "So what, we're being spared?"

"No," Ferron murmured. "We're being led."

That landed like a stone in Max's stomach.

They climbed in silence after that.

The torii loomed like bones.

Max took the first step, boots scraping against stone slick with moss. The shrine gates stretched ahead, too many to count – a procession of red arches rising into the mountain like ribs of something long dead and still growing. Except these weren't red anymore. Not truly. The paint had faded to a bruised rust, flaking in long strips. Some had warped – tilted or stretched unnaturally, as if they'd been melted and reshaped by unseen hands.

Ying paused behind him, one foot resting lightly on the next step. Her eyes scanned the forest, shoulders sharp with tension. Ferron stood last, hand resting on the hilt of his kusarigama, knuckles pale.

None of them spoke.

The air was wrong. Not just the silence – though that was bad enough – but something deeper. The wind didn't move. No birds. No insects. Even the shrine bells, hanging from twisted ropes above some of the gates, stayed perfectly still.

Max exhaled slowly, heat coiling behind his teeth. His Hellfire hadn't stirred yet. But it was waiting. It always was now.

Ferron broke the silence. "They're watching."

Max turned. "Yokai?"

Ferron gave a single, grim nod. "Not close. But not far, either. Feels like they've been here a while. Waiting."

"Why not attack?"

"Maybe they're curious."

That didn't make Max feel better.

He looked up again. The torii had narrowed. Where once they were broad and welcoming, now they squeezed the path like a throat. One bore a strange stain – a handprint, low to the ground, the size of a child's. But the fingers were too long. The nails had scored deep into the wood.

Ying moved past them both. Her movement barely made a sound. She crouched near the edge of the path, touching the ground.

Then she froze.

Max stepped closer. "What is it?"

Her voice came low and flat. "Laughter."

He frowned. "I didn't hear anything."

"You weren't supposed to."

She stood again, eyes narrowed at the treeline. Whatever she'd heard, it had unsettled her. That alone was cause for concern – Ying didn't rattle.

Ferron glanced back down the mountain. "We should keep moving."

Max nodded. "No point turning back. Not now."

He didn't say what he was thinking. That this path had changed. That this shrine – sacred, once – felt like something's mouth now. That every step forward felt less like progress, and more like submission.

They climbed higher, the thousand gates swallowing them one by one.

Behind them, far below, something laughed again – soft, childlike, and close enough to touch.

…………………

The path narrowed as they climbed, choking between crooked trees and warped stone. Moss coated everything – not green, but grey, like mould on rotting bread. Roots spilled across the trail in spirals, some pulsing faintly, as if something beneath the soil was breathing.

Max stepped over one that looked too much like a spinal column and stopped short.

"Shit."

A JSDF helmet jutted out of a nearby tree. Half-embedded, like it had been swallowed. Veins of bark ran through the metal, pulsing gently beneath the surface. Dried blood had hardened around the rim, black and crusted. But worse were the streaks leading upward – handprints, maybe – and a trail of blood that vanished into the canopy.

There was no body. Just the slow, nauseating realisation that maybe there didn't need to be one.

"God," Max muttered.

Ferron didn't speak. He moved to the base of the tree, crouched low, and traced a finger along the bark. His jaw clenched.

"The forest took him," Ferron said quietly. "But not cleanly. Not like death. Like… offering."

Ying turned, staring at the tree with flat eyes. "It's merging," she said. "Architecture. Flesh. Ritual."

That word – ritual – made Max's shoulders tense. A memory surfaced. One he'd buried under too many others.

He spoke, low. "Chengdu."

Ferron's hand froze.

Ying didn't look away. "Yeah," she said. "General Wang. The Circles of Verrine."

Max nodded. "The sanctuary domes. Prayer wheels made of teeth. Kids kneeling on altars made from their own bones. She called it salvation."

Ferron stood slowly. "Verrine rewrote faith. Bent reality through belief. False hope twisted into structure. But…"

He turned, looking at the warped torii above them – kanji bleeding into unreadable glyphs, wood stretched like tendon.

"…this isn't the same."

Max frowned. "How's it different?"

Ferron's eyes narrowed. "Verrine corrupted the world. But this?" He shook his head. "This feels like it's being overwritten."

"Not desecration," Ying added, her voice flat. "Replacement."

A beat of silence followed. Heavy. Uneasy.

"She wanted people to believe," Max murmured. "Whatever this is… it doesn't care if anyone's left alive."

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The torii gateposts they passed had changed. Some jutted like bones from the trunks of trees. The inscriptions shimmered if stared at too long, whispering shapes in the edge of vision. Nothing human.

Ferron halted. "We're not just being watched," he said. "We're trespassing."

He knelt, pulled salt from a pouch on his belt, and began a purification rite. Max watched as he lit a candle in the centre and bowed his head, whispering in ancient Japanese.

At first, nothing happened.

Then the flame turned blue.

Then it screamed.

The sound was shrill and wet – like a child crying through a torn throat. The salt hissed and ignited in a ring of cold fire. Cracks spiderwebbed across the path beneath them. Roots burst from the earth like spears, writhing toward Ferron.

Ying moved first. A flicker of black geometry, and her blade carved the air. The roots shrieked as she severed them. One reared back, bleeding ink instead of sap – thick and oily, spilling across Ferron's warding circle.

The blue flame guttered out. Silence slammed back down.

Ferron stumbled to his feet, breathing hard, clutching his wrist – where one of the roots had wrapped too tight. A long welt, already bruising, marked his skin.

Max stepped closer, hand glowing faintly with Soulfire. "You good?"

Ferron nodded, but didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the ground.

Max followed his gaze.

The cracks in the stone hadn't closed. Something beneath still pulsed. Faint. Rhythmic. Like a second heartbeat under the mountain.

Ferron finally spoke. Voice low. Tight. "This isn't just corruption."

Ying flicked the ink from her blade, watching it steam where it hit the ground.

"It's deliberate," Ferron finished.

Max didn't respond. He couldn't. Because part of him agreed. No— knew.

This wasn't random. It wasn't wild. It wasn't chaos.

It was curated. Shaped. Chosen. A sickness with taste.

And they were climbing straight into its mouth.

…………………

They reached a clearing where the trees drew back, though the sky remained hidden. A mist hung low over the ground, thick enough to muffle footsteps. In the centre stood a stone waymarker, cracked straight through the middle. Moss had grown into the break like scar tissue. Insects buzzed around its edges, but none landed.

Ferron approached first. His eyes caught on the carvings – faint, half-swallowed by time, but still there.

He knelt, brushing dirt from the surface with the back of his sleeve. "These markings… they're ours," he murmured. "Old design. From when our clan still guarded the mountain routes."

Max stepped closer. The sigils looked like nothing to him – just looping runes and jagged lines. But Ferron's voice had shifted. There was weight behind it.

"These stones were meant to repel spirits," Ferron said. "Carved with iron chisels, buried under moonless skies. Every one anchored with a blood offering."

He tapped a symbol near the base – half-faded, like something had tried to scrape it off.

"Now they draw them," he said quietly. "The wards are inverted. Someone turned our guardians into beacons."

Ying stood at the tree line, watching the forest. Her blade wasn't drawn, but her stance was stiff – ready. She glanced back at Ferron, then looked away again.

Too much silence. Too much grief in the air.

Ferron stayed kneeling. His hand lingered on the stone longer than it needed to.

"Hana-sama carved one of these," he said. "Back when she was little."

Max didn't speak.

"She was always trying to impress the elders," Ferron continued. "Too much salt, too many prayers. She'd sneak out at night just to place charms around the garden. Said she wanted the spirits to feel 'extra unwelcome.'"

A half-smile touched his mouth. It didn't reach his eyes.

"She was terrified of the dark. Wouldn't admit it, but you could tell. Still went into the forest anyway. Every time."

He paused, then added, quieter: "She never let fear stop her."

The silence stretched. Not awkward. Just... heavy.

Max didn't offer comfort. Didn't say She's strong, or We'll find her. Words felt brittle right now. So, he stood beside Ferron instead, arms folded, letting presence do what language couldn't.

Ying didn't join them. She paced the edge of the clearing, scanning the trees, uncomfortable with the rawness of it – like overhearing something too personal. Still, she didn't interrupt.

Ferron placed his palm flat against the stone, fingers tracing the line of the break. "If she's here," he said, voice steady now, "she's fighting."

A beat.

"That's who she is."

Max felt it hit – not just the words, but the certainty in them. The refusal to believe anything less.

He swallowed.

If Liz was taken again… would I say the same thing?

He pictured her face, curled in sleep inside the pod. All those weeks of silence. Of stillness. Her soul buried and burning.

Would I say she fought? Even to the end?

He wasn't sure if the question scared him more than the answer. Because the truth was—

He didn't want Liz to fight to the end.

He wanted her to win.

…………………

The torii narrowed into a tunnel.

No sky. No wind. Just gate after gate, leaning inward like crooked ribs. Their beams were cracked, warped, and stained – blackened handprints, long claw marks, and in places, teeth embedded in the wood.

The path beneath them shifted. Max felt it – a subtle lurch underfoot, like the mountain had exhaled.

Then the air snapped.

A fox-child dropped from above, limbs too long, mask fused to blistered skin. Its eyes were sealed shut, but it moved like it could see perfectly – leaping straight for Ferron.

Another broke from the left – a crab-limbed monk, torso twisted backward, trailing prayer beads that hissed like snakes.

Max reacted first.

Soulfire roared from his palm, yellow and blinding. It surged outward, flooding the tunnel with bright flame.

But instead of consuming the air, the fire crawled along the stone – slow, hesitant. The torii reacted, their surfaces rippling as if recoiling from the fire. One post trembled, and from its grain emerged whispers – faint voices singing a shrine song, too slow, too wrong.

Max's stomach twisted.

Behind him, Ferron pivoted, the kusarigama in his hands whirling into a killing arc. He slashed the fox-child mid-air, severing three of its writhing tails. It landed, shrieking with delight, not pain – and lashed its remaining limbs at Ferron's legs.

He jumped backward just in time – but a second yokai lunged. A horned woman, mask embedded in her jaw, crawling upside-down like a spider, limbs cracking backwards.

Ferron spun low, chain catching her around the throat. He yanked – her head hit the stone with a sharp crack. The blade followed. Fast. Final.

Ying moved without a word.

A serpent-headed shrine maiden surged at her from the mist, bell in one hand, spine in the other. Ying didn't voidslice – didn't need to. Her blade cut diagonally upward, clean through the yokai's midsection.

She stepped left – another creature leapt. A child-sized body, no head, just a black orb stitched where the neck should be.

Ying skewered it midair, twisted, and yanked the blade free with clinical grace. Black blood sprayed the torii. It sizzled, evaporated.

More yokai came – a crawling priest with a melted face, a twin-headed beast with four legs and no eyes, and from behind, another fox-child, younger, faster, shrieking wordless laughter.

Max turned to intercept.

His second wave of Soulfire blasted through the crawling priest—

But as it reached the next torii, the flame froze. Mid-air. Suspended.

The fire rippled – then collapsed inward, devoured by nothing.

No heat. No smoke. Just erasure.

The shrine post pulsed, wood flexing like muscle. And from deep within the beam, a whisper rose: not a scream, not a voice. Just a wordless shushing sound.

Max's mouth went dry. The shrine wasn't just resisting him.

It was feeding.

The shrine itself doesn't want to burn, he realised. It's protecting the monsters.

Ferron cried out – not from fear, but pain.

One of the mask-children had landed a hit – a tail-thorn raked across his ribs, ripping through his robe and flesh. Blood poured freely. He dropped to one knee.

Ying blinked.

In that instant, the twin-headed beast charging Ferron split apart – clean, silent, surgical. It never touched the ground again.

Max rushed forward, scooping up Ferron with one arm, Soulfire surrounding them both like a second skin.

Behind them, the final yokai – the spider-woman – dragged herself toward them with broken limbs.

She stared at Max. Her mask had split.

And from her throat, gurgling and thick:

"Mother sees you."

Max burned her down until there was only silence.

The only sound left was Ferron's ragged breathing and the soft hiss of Max's retreating flame.

Ferron pulled free from Max's grip, clutching his side. The wound was deep. Clean. Manageable. But the blood soaked through fast.

"I've had worse," he muttered.

Ying sheathed her sword, flicked ink from her wrist, and scanned the forest with that unreadable expression. Her hair was soaked with sweat. Her breathing never changed.

Max watched her. Watched how precise she was. How calm. How cold.

There was nothing angry in her cuts. No rage. No fear.

Just method.

"Thanks," Ferron said, still catching his breath. "That could've gone worse."

Max nodded. But his eyes lingered on the torii ahead.

The fire had resisted there. And even now, they pulsed faintly – like they were alive, watching.

Not just yokai, Max thought. The shrine is part of it. A skin. A shell.

Whatever waited at the top of this mountain, it wasn't just summoning monsters.

It was building something.

And it knew they were coming.

…………………

The summit revealed itself slowly – as if the mountain didn't want to give it up.

Mist clung to everything, thicker now, pressed tight to the ground like gauze soaked in milk. The trees thinned, but not cleanly. Some had torii beams growing through their trunks. Others had turned pale and brittle, like bones left too long in the sun.

At the centre stood a massive sealed gate, ancient and overgrown. Ropes of vine looped around its frame like veins. Torn paper charms fluttered weakly in the stale air. Most were blackened with age – others scrawled with symbols Max couldn't decipher.

But Ferron could.

He stepped forward slowly, staring at the charms with a blank expression.

"These are my family's wards," he murmured. "But they're… wrong."

He reached up, touching one gently with his fingertips. "Someone twisted them. Bent them back inward. Made them do the opposite."

Max came closer. "Can you undo it?"

Ferron didn't answer immediately. He pulled a single charm from a pouch at his waist – crisp, white, hand-inked with a clean brush. He pressed it to the gate.

It flared – bright, pure – and then died with a soft snap of burning paper.

Just like that.

Max saw it in Ferron's face. Not fear. Something worse.

Loss.

Ferron gritted his teeth, stepped back, and pressed both palms to the gate.

Then he pushed.

The wood groaned. Not like something resisting – like something waking.

The vines recoiled. The charms dissolved. The gate cracked open just a sliver – and immediately, cold wind burst out.

No scent. No heat. No real pressure.

Just absence.

Max took a half-step back. The wind slid through him. Not over skin – but through the soul. His breath caught.

Something passed between them all – a whisper of presence, thin as silk and sharp as bone. It brushed across the back of Max's mind like fingers dipped in memory.

He staggered.

Ferron swayed but didn't fall. His hand gripped the gate tight.

Ying froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

Then, without warning, she drew her blade.

But nothing was there.

Her voice was flat. Final.

"It's gone."

Max turned. "You saw it?"

"No," she said. "That's why it's worse. It didn't hide. It just passed through."

She looked back at the shrine gate, now yawning open.

"It wanted us to know."

Max glanced at her. Ying wasn't just alert – she looked… rattled.

"This reminded you of Chengdu?" he asked.

She didn't answer right away.

"In Chengdu, it touched my thoughts. Slithered through my memories, like it was sorting them."

Her voice dropped.

"But this… whatever it was, it didn't touch. It just took note. Like we weren't a threat. Just—"

She didn't finish.

Ferron's face darkened. Max didn't press.

The mist parted just enough to reveal what lay beyond – a path of shattered tiles leading deeper into the mountain's hollow. Old shrine stones had collapsed, reformed. Everything was warped.

Then it began.

Chanting.

Soft. Off-key. Childlike.

Mother. Mother. Mother.

A pause.

Then, clearer. Zagan. Zagan. Zagan.

The word twisted in the air – not shouted, not sung. Spoken like a prayer forced through smiling mouths.

Max's skin crawled. He stepped forward, fire sparking down his right arm. Soulfire ignited around his fist – not for light. For warning.

He glanced back once, meeting Ferron's eyes. Then Ying's.

Then he stepped through the gate.

His voice was low, steady.

"We're not alone anymore."

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