The village came alive long before dawn.
By the time the sun crested the horizon, every pathway was draped in banners woven from dyed fabrics, their colors fluttering in the morning breeze—reds and golds for prosperity, blues for wisdom, greens for growth. Children raced between stalls as adults carried crates of food, barrels of drink, and baskets of firewood for the night's bonfire.
It was the Festival of Years, a tradition older than any living soul could remember. Some whispered that it began as a prayer to the island itself; others said it was merely an excuse for respite after the long harvest. Whatever its origins, it was the one day each year when work was set aside, and laughter outweighed duty.
Yuzuriha Mori adjusted her sash as she stood in the square, her notebook tucked carefully into her sleeve even now. She wasn't here only for celebration—she wanted to observe, to document, to find patterns in the chaos of tradition. The way certain dances mirrored constellations, the way offerings were always placed facing north, the way fire crackled differently when fed with cedar branches. Everything felt like a code waiting to be deciphered.
"Are you even capable of relaxing?"
She turned to see Hikaru Hayashi weaving through the crowd, his hair hastily tied back, a skewer of grilled meat already half-eaten in his hand.
"I am relaxed," Yuzuriha replied evenly.
"You're clutching that notebook like it's a sword," Hikaru said around a mouthful. "Normal people enjoy festivals with their mouths, not their pens."
Before she could retort, Yoshiki Takahiro approached, carrying three cups of warm honeyfruit tea. His expression was calm, but his eyes scanned the festival with the same watchfulness he always carried.
"Here," he said, offering the cups.
Yuzuriha accepted hers politely, Hikaru took his with a grin, and the three stood together at the edge of the square as music began to play. Drums thudded, flutes trilled, and dancers in brightly patterned robes filled the open space, moving in circles that spiraled inward like waves collapsing toward a center.
"Every year it feels the same," Hikaru said, sipping. "Like time's just looping."
"That's the point," Yuzuriha said softly, jotting notes even as she watched. "A cycle. Renewal. A promise that life here will continue."
Yoshiki's jaw tightened. "But promises can break."
Yuzuriha glanced at him, about to speak—but the ground answered first.
A deep rumble vibrated beneath their feet.
At first, many mistook it for the drums, laughing as the dancers stumbled slightly. But then the rumble grew into a shudder, strong enough to rattle lanterns and send cups toppling from tables. Screams erupted as children clung to their parents, and elders pressed their palms to the earth, muttering prayers.
The ground split near the edge of the square—not wide, but enough to spill soil and dust into the air. From within the crack, a faint glow pulsed—familiar, too familiar to Yoshiki and Yuzuriha.
The same glow as the vines.
The same rhythm as the forest's breath.
Yuzuriha's heart pounded. Her notebook slipped from her grasp, forgotten.
The tremor lasted only seconds, but in that brief time, the joyous music died, replaced by cries of fear and confusion. When the earth stilled, silence hung heavy, broken only by the crackle of fallen lanterns smoldering in the dirt.
An elder stumbled forward, lifting his hands to calm the crowd. His voice trembled but carried authority born of age.
"Do not fear! The island shakes, yes, but it is not anger—it is reminder. Reminder that we live because it allows us. That we eat because it gives. Honor it, and it will not forsake us."
Murmurs rippled through the villagers, some comforted, others unconvinced. The festival resumed in fragments—dancers hesitant, musicians faltering, laughter thinner than before.
But Yoshiki, Hikaru, and Yuzuriha didn't move.
The three stood at the edge of the crack, staring into the faint glow that still lingered within.
"It's the same," Yuzuriha whispered.
Yoshiki nodded grimly. "The island's heartbeat."
Hikaru forced a laugh, though his voice shook. "Or maybe it's just… gas. Rocks shifting. You know, normal boring stuff."
Neither Yoshiki nor Yuzuriha answered.
Because deep down, all three of them knew the truth.
The island wasn't just land. It was something else. Something alive. And it had just chosen to remind them that their lives were not entirely their own.