Hayato's breath came in slow, steady draws as he pushed deeper into the forest's heart. The trees grew denser, twisted and ancient, as if they had stood since the world first learned to whisper. An unspoken pull guided him—something beneath his skin, something ancient that had begun to stir ever since the dreams turned into waking horrors. Each step crunched the brittle underbrush, echoing like the ticking of a clock counting down toward a revelation he hadn't yet earned.
The sunlight had long vanished behind the thick canopy, and what little light filtered through was silver and ghostlike, painting the world in haunting tones. It was then, through the fog that clung like cobwebs to the trunks, that he saw it—an outline barely distinguishable from the wilderness.
An ancient shrine, buried beneath vines and centuries of decay.
The structure was small but powerful in presence. Moss grew thick on its worn stone, and weathered statues lined its crumbling steps—guardians whose faces had long eroded, watching him with eyeless silence. Hayato stood still at the edge, heart thudding like a war drum. His dreams had always led him to a door. He never knew where it was, but now, unmistakably, he had found it.
His foot met the first step, and everything changed.
The wind died instantly. The forest behind him stilled, and even the sounds of birds and insects faded, swallowed by a reverent silence. The air shifted—heavier, colder, laced with a pressure that curled against his skin like a serpent. Hayato's breath caught. He could feel it. Something old. Something watching.
He stepped inside.
The shrine's interior was dim, lit only by a strange glow that seemed to bleed from the stone itself. Strange glyphs lined the walls—sharp, flowing symbols that pulsed faintly with life. The air here wasn't just heavy; it was alive. Thick with energy, with memory. A smell of earth, ash, and incense lingered like the remnants of a ritual long abandoned.
And then he heard it.
A whisper.
No... not a whisper. A chorus. A thousand voices woven into one, layered and cryptic, vibrating through the walls and into his bones. He staggered back but didn't flee. The whisper called him forward. It wasn't malevolent—it was mournful.
Hayato's gaze fell upon the central altar—a slab of obsidian slick with dew, its surface marked with deep grooves like claw marks or ancient script. Atop it rested a scroll, sealed in red wax that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. He reached out—hesitating—and touched the edge.
The shrine exploded in light.
Visions erupted in his mind. Battles under blood-red skies. Men and women wielding monstrous powers, falling one by one to an unseen force. A serpentine shadow devouring flame. The cries of a child echoed in his ears, torn from the arms of a dying mother. And behind it all—a masked figure cloaked in flame and sorrow, holding the same scroll.
Hayato screamed.
His body convulsed, hands gripping the altar for balance. The voices returned, louder now, pressing against his skull like they sought to crawl inside. Words—some ancient, some familiar—pounded through his thoughts.
"Bound in blood… forged in vengeance… the cycle continues."
"He bears the mark. The cursed heir."
"The curse was never meant to kill. It was meant to remember."
As quickly as it began, the light vanished. Hayato collapsed to the ground, drenched in sweat. His chest heaved. The shrine was silent again, but the air hummed with aftermath.
He looked down at his arm and gasped. The skin along his forearm glowed faintly, a sigil etched in light now pulsing just beneath the surface. It hadn't been there before. A crest—circle within flame, serpent encircling both.
The mark of the curse.
His curse.
He reeled backward, eyes wide in horror. All this time, he'd thought the dreams were warnings—omens of something foreign. But they weren't. They were memories. Echoes of a past not his, but intertwined with his blood. The curse wasn't chasing him.
It belonged to him.
The shrine responded to his awakening. The glyphs on the walls lit up, one by one, and an ancient mechanism ground into motion. The floor before him split open slowly, revealing a descent into darkness. Steps, carved of the same black stone as the altar, led deep below the earth.
Hayato swallowed the rising fear.
He could turn back. Return to the forest, to the pain he knew. But what would that gain him? The curse would remain. The visions would return. The darkness within him would only grow.
No.
He had come this far.
He descended.
Each step was colder than the last, and the further he walked, the more distorted the air became—as if he moved through memory, not space. The whispers returned, quieter now, like lullabies sung to ghosts.
At the bottom, he found a chamber.
Circular. Empty. Except for one thing.
A mirror.
It stood in the center of the room, tall and silver-framed, untouched by dust or time. It was out of place—clean, perfect, glowing with a pale blue light. Hayato approached slowly, breath trembling. He expected to see his reflection.
But he didn't.
The figure in the glass looked like him—but older, colder. His eyes burned red, and black lines traced down his face like veins of ink. The mirror-Hayato grinned.
"You found it," the reflection said. Its voice wasn't his. It was deeper, warped by centuries of pain. "Now you know what you carry."
Hayato clenched his fists. "What are you?"
The reflection tilted its head. "What you will become. Unless you break the chain."
"Chain?" he asked.
"The curse," it said. "Born from betrayal. Fed by revenge. Passed from father to son, mother to child. You wear it now. You dream it. You breathe it. You fight to resist it. But the question is…" The reflection stepped forward. "Will you be strong enough to change it?"
Before Hayato could answer, the mirror shattered. Not outward, but inward—imploding like a dying star. The shards vanished, and the chamber faded.
When he awoke, he was back at the altar.
The scroll was gone. So was the sigil on his arm. But the truth remained, carved into his memory like a scar.
He rose slowly, unsteady but resolute.
The shrine had shown him what he needed: the curse's origin, and his place within it. He had inherited more than just power—he had inherited a legacy of pain. But perhaps, within that legacy, there was room for change. Redemption. A way to sever the chain once and for all.
As he stepped outside, dawn broke.
The light cut through the trees, scattering the shadows like a blessing. For the first time in days, Hayato felt clarity. Not peace—but purpose.
He would not run from the curse.
He would unveil it completely—and destroy it, even if it meant unraveling everything he believed in.
Because the whispers were wrong about one thing.
He was not the cursed heir.
He was the last.