On the second afternoon, exhausted from their journey, they rested in a hidden clearing. They dared not spend the night in the open, so they sheltered behind a thick row of bushes. The smoke lingered, but they tried to breathe deeply to avoid the stinging, burning sensation in their throats.
Haruki lay awake beneath the trees, listening to Daiki's deep, steady breathing. But the forest's noises kept her from sleeping. Something was wrong, she could feel it. The mysterious voice that had haunted her all night returned in her thoughts.
"Why is this voice calling me? What does it want from me? Do I need to awaken? Or must something else happen?"
Amid these questions, she felt a growing power stirring within her—ancient and old—perhaps the destiny she must accept.
Daiki spoke softly:
"Haruki, are you alright? You should try to sleep."
"I can't," she whispered. "This voice... it won't let me rest. It's not just the smoke making me uneasy. There's something else... something deeper weighing on me."
Daiki gently placed his hand on her shoulder.
"You're not alone. I'm with you, whatever happens."
As twilight approached, they moved on, the thick veil of smoke woven between the forest branches. Haruki sensed the wounded face of nature. Tree bark glowed with ashy yellows and faded browns, as if dark night smoke and ash had drained the forest's vibrant colors. The air felt dry and dusty, mosses beneath the leaves no longer bright green but dull brown patches. Beneath their feet, the cold, soft forest floor crackled with fallen leaves covered by a thick layer of ash, almost chalky and fragile.
Heading toward the village where the flames raged, images of destruction came alive, heart-wrenching in their vividness. A woman lay in the grass, her face shadowed with the last fight for peace. Nearby, a small, burnt toy—a wooden rabbit missing an ear, its body charred black—rested silently. The child's laughter had faded beneath the shadow of death. The toy held a piece of the lost childhood taken by fire and ruin.
Faces of people rushing around the fire showed fear and despair. Haruki quickly approached an elderly woman, tears streaming down her cheeks, who looked at her pleadingly.
"What happened? Who did this?"
The woman trembled as she replied:
"Demons came at night. They left nothing but ash and death."
Tears welled in Haruki's eyes. The village, now reduced to ashes, had been home to generations. Memories, people—all wiped away in one night.
Daiki shook his head.
"We can't let this stand," Haruki said softly, her voice trembling. "We have to do something… I just don't know what yet."
Daiki nodded, his face clouded with uncertainty.
Then the voice spoke again inside Haruki—clearer than ever before. It did not ask questions. It simply was, leaving a heavy, burning sensation in its wake. It was as if something forced her: it was time to awaken. But what that meant exactly, she did not yet know. Only that the answer—and the danger—were drawing closer.
The sanctuary walls, once the protective sanctuary of the community, now lay completely destroyed. The stone-carved statues crumbled, their faces unrecognizable, as if time and fire had written them a farewell letter together. The altar was reduced to ashes; the sacred paintings once remembered now only dark, blackened stains evoking the past.
The weight of destruction pressed down on her shoulders. Protecting the villages, the safety of the people—this was no longer a distant threat. It was reality.