The boat brushed against soft soil, its wooden frame humming as if recognizing sacred ground. Above, the fog thinned into a dome of light, revealing the Eternal Bonsai—an ancient, spiraling tree that reached not for the sky but folded in on itself endlessly, its branches curling like dragon horns, leaves glowing with quiet jade fire.
Ereshan, Hajime, and Mizuchi stepped out of the boat in silence, their breath misting in reverence. The air here was not air at all, but memory—echoes of prayers, ancient songs, and the weight of every soul that had ever reached this realm. And before the Bonsai, they gathered.
Hoshigami, the Starry One, was the first to descend. She did not walk but floated, trailing a robe stitched with moving constellations. Galaxies blinked and pulsed across her form, and when her hair shifted, it revealed stars being born and dying in soft flashes. Her voice, when she spoke, was a whisper of parchment and prophecy. "Fates knot and pull. The stone wakes. Threads twist." She did not smile, nor frown. Her expression simply existed—like the moon watching tides.
Kawa-no-Oji, the River Prince, emerged from a rising pool of silver water that hadn't been there moments before. His form danced with fluidity; first a child, then a man, then a flickering wave that rolled itself back into flesh. The only constant was his serenity, his sea-glass eyes brimming with amusement. "Ah, visitors. Rare. Like salmon who leap too high, and land on clouds." He settled beside a river rock, the mist caressing his skin like an old lover.
Tsuchigami, the Stone Mother, came last, though her presence was felt long before she appeared. The ground trembled under her step. She rose from the ground itself, towering and still, her face craggy with the patience of ages. Moss crowned her scalp, and tiny mushrooms blinked open on her arms. "So young," she rumbled. "So loud. But roots listen better than leaves."
Kazenokami, the Wind Lord, appeared with a gust that scattered petals and hair. His body never truly stopped moving. One moment beside them, the next behind. His scarves danced as if possessed, his laugh like thunder trapped in a jar. "Something stirs, and I felt its breath three mornings ago. Welcome, drifting ones."
Yamigami, the Shadowed One, simply was. No one saw him arrive. One blink—he was not there. The next—he stood beside the tree, indistinct and half-forgotten even as one looked directly at him. Where he stood, the grass blackened, and silence grew thick.
Hinokami, the Flame Keeper, stood like a statue carved from a volcano. Fire crackled in his gaze, and heat coiled from his armor, yet none dared look away. The fire did not destroy here—it tested. "You come seeking truth," he said, voice a forge's roar. "But truth burns."
The Kami did not argue, nor speak over one another. They simply... existed, and Ereshan felt as though his skin was too thin to contain the awe. Beside him, Mizuchi stepped forward and bowed low. "Elders. I have come."
"Good," said Tsuchigami.
"About time," chuckled Kawa-no-Oji.
Ereshan hesitated, then pulled the stone from his pocket. It pulsed faintly now, a heartbeat that wasn't his. He felt exposed holding it.
Hoshigami's eyes turned fully upon him, and the world shrank to that gaze. "You carry it," she said softly. "The Waking Heart."
Hajime whistled under his breath. Ereshan swallowed. "What... is it?"
They did not answer at once. Instead, Yamigami stepped closer, and the very light seemed to shy away. The silence following Yamigami's words stretched long and deep, like a chasm.
Ereshan blinked, his voice caught in the storm of his chest. The stone—a broken part of a celestial gate? That gentle, warm stone he'd held in his palm was a key to something divine?
Yamigami's form flickered—his shadow melting and reforming like ink in water. "The stone you carry is not merely relic… it is a shard of the Takamagahara Gate, the threshold between this world and the Heavens."
He stepped closer, his presence like a cold whisper against the soul. "Long ago, before memory lived in words, there stood a gate forged by the gods themselves. It connected the mortal realm to Amaterasu's Palace, the heart of light, the throne of balance. But the gate was shattered. It chose you, boy, because it remembers something within you. A thread long buried, older than this life. The Waking Heart calls only to those bound to the story that broke it."
Ereshan's mouth was dry. "I—I don't understand. Why me?"
Kazenokami spun lazily nearby, wind catching his fraying banners. "That's the funny part, isn't it?" he chimed. "You probably died once… or many times. But some part of your spirit still glows like a lantern in the dark. The gate sees it."
Kawa-no-Oji nodded, the water of his form rippling. "The other fragments were scattered. Lost to forests, oceans, buried beneath ash or sealed in forgotten shrines. If you reunite them… the gate may open once more."
"To Amaterasu's Palace?" Ereshan asked.
Hoshigami lowered her hand from the stars. "Yes. And there, your truth will be revealed."
Hajime looked between them, arms crossed, lips twisted in a half-smile. "So let me get this straight—we're collecting god-keys from mythic places, to open a gate no one's seen in... forever?"
Yamigami tilted his head. "To survive, child of rust and sorrow. You must."
Ereshan lowered his gaze, the weight of destiny pressing down. But then, as if the stone pulsed to answer his fear, a strange calm washed over him. "I'll do it," he whispered. "If that's where the truth lies… then I'll find the other pieces."
Yamigami's voice, softer now, echoed like falling snow. "Then beware the Others. For not only light seeks the gate. Shadows remember too… and they hunger."
Mizuchi stood quiet as the ancient presences turned toward him, their gazes vast as seasons. The boy straightened, his youthful face pale beneath his messy raven-black hair, unsure whether to bow again or run.
Hoshigami's voice came first, like stars brushing silk. "Now, child of the still waters… now you understand why we called you here."
Mizuchi's hands curled tight at his sides. "Because of Ereshan?"
Kawa-no-Oji's form flowed closer, his outline undulating like a river during monsoon. "Because of the gate. Because of the cycle. You are the tether, Mizuchi—the guide to the one who walks the waking dream."
Ereshan furrowed his brow. "What cycle?"
It was Tsuchigami who spoke next, her voice a deep quake that settled in the bones. "Every time a shard of the Takamagahara Gate surfaces in the world of mortals… the pattern begins anew."
"Pattern?" Ereshan asked, now more alert, more afraid.
Yamigami's shadow leaned forward, stretching across the moss-laden bonsai roots. "It begins with a child. Always a child. One who is not Kami, not yokai, not quite mortal. One whose soul hums like broken starlight. The gate calls, the shard appears, and fate begins her weaving."
Kazenokami swirled around them like a breeze. "Sometimes, that child restores balance—mending the bridge between gods, spirits, and mankind."
Hinokami stepped forward, his ember voice crackling. "Other times, they burn everything down."
Ereshan's heart thundered. "So this… prophecy," he said. "You're saying it's a test?"
"No," whispered Hoshigami. "It is a chance. The last chance, perhaps."
She turned to Mizuchi, her star-stitched sleeves trailing light. "Your path is not to fight, nor to lead. Yours is to guide—to be his reflection when he doubts, his shadow when darkness surrounds."
Mizuchi swallowed hard, then nodded once. Ereshan looked at him, truly looked—into those determined yet haunted eyes, and somehow, he believed the boy had seen things far beyond his age. Still, the thought burned in his chest. "But… what if I fail?"
The wind stilled. Yamigami's answer was soft. "Then the gate will open… for another."
Hajime put a hand on Ereshan's shoulder. "Hey. If it's a cycle, maybe it's time for someone to broke it."
Mizuchi's voice came, low but certain. "We won't let it repeat. We'll find the other fragments. We'll restore what was lost."
The elder Kami said nothing more, only watched as the first threads of destiny tightened around the three travelers. The bonsai leaves above them rustled, even though there was no wind.