A hand clamps over my mouth.
"—MMPH!"
I barely have time to flinch before I'm yanked sideways, dragged into a narrow alley that reeks of rust, wet cardboard, and ramen that should've been thrown out a week ago. My shoulder scrapes against a brick wall.
Great. I always wondered what kidnapping smelled like.
There are three of them.
Hoods. Masks. That smell.
Grave dirt.
Yeah. I know that smell.
"Gotcha," one of them says, voice calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that makes your stomach feel like it's auditioning for a gymnastics routine.
"I told you I saw him last night," another says. "Kid was watching."
"Watching?" the third repeats. He grabs my collar and lifts me slightly, like I'm a plush toy he's deciding whether to buy. "You like to watch, huh? Creeping around graveyards, peepin' on corpses?"
I try to say something clever, but all I manage is, "W-wait!" which, in hindsight, is not clever.
The first guy tilts his head, mock curious. "What'd you see, kid?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "I—I didn't see anything. I'm practically blind. Legally, even. Don't check that, though."
They don't laugh.
I'm slammed against the wall again.
The second guy chuckles. "Boss won't like this, Ren. We can't just let him walk."
Ren.
That's a name I wasn't supposed to hear, judging by the way the first guy freezes.
"You talk too much," Ren mutters.
That's when it happens.
Someone appears.
Not like they "ran into the alley" appears. No.
They drop in.
Like gravity and common sense don't apply to them.
A blur of black and white, and suddenly the guy holding me is on the ground, clutching his side and groaning.
The newcomer is… hard to miss.
Orange hair tied back. A white robe draped over his shoulders like a priest's coat. A paper lantern swaying from his hand. A staff tipped with prayer beads. His Noh mask's eyeholes glow red.
He cuts through the space around him just by existing.
"Seimei Arata," Ren hisses.
The masked man doesn't even look at him. His voice is low, casual—almost lazy, like this whole situation is a mild inconvenience.
"You're loud," he says. "Makes my job easier."
Before I can respond, he grabs me by the wrist. His grip is firm but not rough.
"Run," he says.
"What?"
"Run. Cemetery."
"Why the cemetery?! That's, uh, not a safe-sounding place!"
"You'll be safer there," he says, calm and absolute. "Now move."
I don't question him again. I run.
Breath ragged, pulse screaming in my ears. Behind me, I hear shouting and the clang of steel. I don't know if they're chasing me or if Arata's holding them off, but either way, I'm sprinting like my GPA depends on it.
The cemetery looms ahead, its black gates yawning like a hungry mouth.
I duck between rows of graves, shoes crunching gravel.
And, because the universe hates me—
I trip.
My knee hits gravel, my hand slashes open against a jagged headstone. Blood streaks across a name I don't recognize.
And everything changes.
The air ripples, heavy and cold. My vision flickers like a dying lightbulb.
Something whispers.
Not words. Not a voice. Just… intent.
I scramble back, clutching my bleeding hand. The headstone glows faintly. Alive. Aware. Like it knows me.
The whispering grows louder, coiling around me like smoke. The cemetery feels different now—like I've stepped into another world entirely.
A shadow flickers between graves. One of the raiders lunges at me.
The whispering becomes a roar.
And from the headstone, a skeletal hand bursts out, massive and pale, swatting him aside like he's a ragdoll. He hits a tree with a crack and crumples, unmoving.
I freeze.
My blood is still dripping onto the stone, the glow pulsing with every drop, like it's drinking.
"...What the hell," I whisper.
And for once, I'm not exaggerating.