Arata clapped his hands like he was closing a book, "Open the door that was never closed." The world folded. Folded, collapsed, bent, peeled. The room didn't fade so much as it gave up.
And then we were elsewhere.
"We call this place Benikaen or Garden of the Crimson Maple."
The air wasn't just clean—it was too clean. Clean to the point of suspicion. Breathing it in felt like washing my lungs with something I didn't deserve. In front of me stretched a cemetery. A cemetery, but not a cemetery. A graveyard, but not a graveyard. It was a kingdom.
Stone lanterns lined the path like soldiers. The graves were not graves; they were monuments, every one carved like the sculptor was trying to impress God. At the center, a colossal maple stood, leaves falling too slowly, like time itself was dilated.
"This place…" I whispered. "…is beautiful."
"Beautiful?" Arata stretched like he'd just woken from a nap. "That's one word. 'hefty' is another. Depends on if you're in the mood to admire or suffocate."
He didn't wait for me to reply. He walked. Hands in his pockets, coat swaying, steps loud enough to sound like they belonged.
"That tree," he gestured lazily. "Roots crawl under the whole cemetery. You could call it the heart. But calling it a heart makes it sound romantic, doesn't it? Trust me—it doesn't pump love. Just blood."
Blood. He said it like a joke, but I didn't laugh.
We passed some people in traditional robes. Some bowed. Some whispered his name. Arata didn't bow back. He just grinned.
"You're famous," I muttered.
"I'm adorable," he corrected without hesitation.
I rolled my eyes because someone had to.
I looked to the side at the stone statues.
"Who are these?"
"Famous Onmyōji clan members. One of a kind."
---
We reached a hall that seemed to have infinite doors. Wide, wooden, talismans nailed into its bones like veins. Arata went to a door and opened it. The door slid open without a sound.
Inside sat a man. Kneeling, silent, unmoving. But his presence pressed against my chest. He wasn't loud. He didn't need to be. Mountains don't shout. They crush.
"Head of the Onmyōji," Arata said with his usual smirk. "This is Itsuki Ririku. Kid's got potential."
The man opened his eyes. Not cruel. Not kind. Sharp.
"Welcome," he said. His voice was calm but final. Like a gavel. "You've stepped onto sacred ground, boy. Do you know why you are here?"
"To… not die?" I croaked.
A faint smile flickered. "Half-right."
He rose. Slow. Deliberate. Graceful. "This is the heart of the clan. We guard the balance between living and dead. Our duty is to protect spirits, not chain them."
I glanced at Arata. "He's glaring at you."
"Yeah," Arata said cheerfully. "Everyone does."
The Head ignored him. "You bound yourself to a grave. Whether by chance or fate, you stepped into a contract older than your family line. Gravebinding is not a tool. It is a dialogue."
"Dialogue?" I muttered. "Feels more like a parasite."
"That, too." The Head didn't even blink. "A contract is a burden before it is a gift. A gravebinder carries two lives: one of flesh, one of soul."
"So I'm stronger now?"
"Strength is a side effect. Not the purpose."
"Translation," Arata cut in, "you're still a scrub."
---
The door slid open.
"Seimei-san!"
A girl appeared. She walked in with a bright smile, black hair let down with a red ribbon on one of her strands, glasses glinting like they were hiding something. Her presence was soft—too soft for this place.
"This is one of the onmyōji trainees I look after, Miu Mizuna," Arata said, waving lazily. "She talks funny."
"I don't talk funny," Miu corrected, tugging at her ribbon. "I'm serious when I'm joking, and I'm joking when I'm serious."
I blinked. "…That's the same thing."
She tilted her head, smiling wider. "Then you get it."
Arata snorted. "Don't try to get it. You'll just give yourself a headache."
---
Two more entered.
A boy with a katana, blue fluffy hair, sharp-eyed, sharp-boned, his stance sharper still.
"Genkei Hinano, " Arata said. "Gravebinder. Swordsman. He's somewhat of a prodigy."
"Yo," Genkei said with a nod.
And a girl with short, blonde spiky hair and a grin sharp enough to cut. Jacket patched with talismans, confidence worn heavier than armor.
"Saiko Kanna," Arata continued. "Gravebinder. Likes explosives more than friends. Don't ask."
"Sup, newbie," she winked. Then looked away then looked back. "Woah you have pink eyes?"
"You people are… cheerful," I muttered.
"Gotta balance the vibes," Kanna grinned.
---
Yui crouched in front of me, glasses catching the lantern-light. "You look tired."
"I always look tired."
She shook her head. "No. You look heavy."
"Hey i'm not overweight, I weigh 121."
"That's not what I meant," she said, pushing her glasses up with one finger. "I know what I know."
Something in my chest tightened. I hated how she said that.
---
Arata clapped, "Alright, therapy hour's over. Training time."
The Head inclined his head. "Normally we'd test your aptitude but since Seimei Arata himself brought you in there's no issue. Let us see if your soul is steady enough to bear the weight of the dead."
The words sank into me like lead. I swallowed.
But I followed anyway.