Chapter 8 – The Gates of Shinya
The first thing Moro noticed as the mountain mist parted was the light.
Shinya didn't just reflect sunlight—it seemed to radiate it. The white walls shone like marble touched by fire, each tower gilded at its peak, glowing even though the sun was beginning to set. To the weary eyes of pilgrims climbing the long road, the city seemed divine, suspended between earth and heaven.
Moro squinted against the brilliance. His body still ached from the battle with the Asura twins and the brutal pursuit by the Wolf Hunter, but something about Shinya's aura made his exhaustion heavier. Like he was walking into a dream too perfect to be real.
Beside him, Kaya kept her hood pulled low, her breathing steady but sharp. Her eyes never lingered on the beauty of the gates—they darted from guard to guard, calculating. She had grown up hearing tales of Shinya as a sacred haven, a place where only the purest were allowed to dwell. But her father's lessons, whispered in late-night training sessions, had told another story.
Beware of paradise, Kaya. No cage is stronger than one made of light.
---
The Perfect Mask
The gates opened slowly as priests in silver-stitched robes began chanting. The crowd of pilgrims pressed forward, some on their knees, others with hands raised to the sky. A woman wept uncontrollably, thanking the Saints for letting her finally see the "holy city." A young man kissed the very stones leading to the entrance.
Moro kept his hands at his sides, his jaw clenched. Something was wrong.
The guards—men in gleaming armor engraved with crosses—stood motionless. Their eyes weren't filled with faith. They were cold, empty, trained to scan the crowd like hawks. One raised a hand to halt a man carrying a child.
"Papers," the guard demanded.
The man fumbled nervously, presenting a scroll. His hands shook. The child, too thin to be healthy, clung desperately to his neck.
The guard looked over the paper, expressionless. Then, with a motion too casual, he struck the man across the face with his gauntlet. The pilgrim crumpled, blood trickling from his lips. The child wailed.
"Unfit," the guard said flatly, and shoved them back toward the road.
Not a single pilgrim protested. They lowered their heads, trembling.
Moro's fists clenched. Kaya touched his wrist lightly, her warning clear: Not here. Not yet.
Inside the gates, the city opened like a holy theater. Streets paved with white stone stretched in straight lines, every corner marked with statues of saints. Monks in spotless robes carried incense burners, filling the air with sweetness that barely masked the metallic tang of fear. Hymns echoed from every direction, a chorus so constant it began to feel less like worship and more like indoctrination.
Children recited prayers in unison under the watch of priests. Merchants sold charms blessed by the Council, kneeling whenever a robed official passed. The entire city looked… perfect. Too perfect.
Kaya whispered, "They've turned devotion into chains."
Moro nodded grimly. "A prison painted gold."
---
The Silence Beneath
As they walked deeper, Moro began noticing what wasn't there.
No laughter. No spontaneous conversation. Even when merchants haggled, their voices were subdued, careful, as if afraid of being overheard. The smiles plastered on people's faces twitched when guards passed. The silence between chants was suffocating, heavy enough to make the air thick.
At one corner, Moro stopped. A man was scrubbing the street with his bare hands. His palms were raw, skin peeling, blood smearing the white stones. A priest stood over him, murmuring blessings to passersby as though nothing were wrong.
The man looked up for only a second, eyes hollow, then returned to his work.
Moro's throat tightened. How many years has he been kneeling like that?
Kaya tugged his sleeve. "Don't stare too long. Eyes are everywhere."
---
The Marketplace of Shadows
By dusk, they slipped into a narrow street branching from the plaza. This was different—less polished, darker, with stalls selling worn clothes, stale bread, and stolen relics. Here the faces looked less like saints and more like survivors.
Moro felt a different energy. Here, whispers lived.
It was then he saw him.
A young man leaned against a cracked wall, bow slung across his back. His hair was dark, falling over sharp eyes that carried a fire no priest could extinguish. His clothes were frayed, but he carried himself like someone untouchable.
A slaver dragged a child by the arm, shouting about disobedience. The boy tripped, crying out. The slaver raised a whip—
Snap.
The whip broke clean in half before it even struck. The slaver froze, his mouth opening wordlessly.
Moro blinked, realizing the bow had moved, faster than sight. The stranger hadn't even changed expression.
He lowered the weapon casually, gaze never leaving the slaver, who stumbled backward, pale with fear. Without a word, the man turned and vanished into the market crowd.
Kaya exhaled softly. "That bow… it was glowing."
Moro felt it too—a faint hum that resonated with Matrix inside him.
"That's no ordinary weapon," he muttered.
Kaya's voice dropped. "Herbet. That must be him. The runaway. They say he was once chained in the Sanctuary, and that the bow chose him."
Chosen… Moro's chest tightened. That word felt too close, too heavy.
---
Whispers of Resistance
Later that night, they found an inn near the market, its wooden walls creaking with age. The keeper barely looked at them, muttering prices under his breath. Moro and Kaya took a small room upstairs.
As they sat in silence, Kaya pressed her ear to the floorboards. Voices rose from below:
"…Herbet's gathering men. They say he's preparing."
"…Foolish. The Council sees everything. Anyone who speaks against them vanishes."
"…Still… hope's not dead. Not while he walks free."
Moro sat against the wall, Matrix pulsing faintly inside him. The whispers weren't for him, but he could feel their weight. A hidden war was brewing, and Shinya wasn't as untouchable as it looked.
Kaya looked up. "Herbet's not just a name. He's a spark."
Moro nodded slowly. "And sparks… start fires."
---
The Watcher in the Dark
The night deepened. The streets grew quiet. From their window, Moro saw the towers glowing faintly, as though the city itself were alive, watching.
And indeed—it was.
On a rooftop across the inn, a shadow knelt. Cloaked, faceless, silent. Its eyes glowed faintly, unblinking.
The figure didn't move, didn't breathe loudly enough to be heard. It only watched.
Its gaze was fixed on Moro and Kaya's window, tracking every flicker of movement.
The hunter had marked its prey.
---