Ding. Ding. Ding.
The bells hit with a heavy, mechanical rhythm that vibrated through the air. Outside the window, the streets were already hemorrhaging people. They flowed in a single direction, a river of ants instinctively marching toward a fire they were told was holy.
Farther out, the sky was a chaotic mess of timber and canvas. Boats—ranging from small skiffs like Kazuya's to massive, multi-decked galleons—hovered toward the main island. It was a grand display of engineering. If you ignored the fact that it was all for a glorified slaughter, it was almost beautiful.
Among the crowd, the "honored" ones were easy to spot. They were draped in high-collared black clothing stitched with intricate gold lines. Every person in black and gold was between the ages of eight and eighteen. Apparently, the Twelve Gods were quite picky about the vintage of their harvest.
Kazuya, a member of that preferred vintage, didn't rush. He moved with the practiced lethargy of a man walking toward a chore he'd already performed multiple times before. He looked at the swarming masses and didn't sigh—that would be a waste of breath—but his spirit gave a weary, internal heave.
How many times does this make? he wondered. If I don't get chosen today, there's always next year. The gods are nothing if not patient.
The thought made him click his tongue in irritation. He opened a wooden drawer and pulled out the uniform. He held the fabric up, a flash of genuine disdain crossing his face. It was stiff, pretentious, and symbolized a sanctity he wanted absolutely nothing to do with.
He changed quickly. His reflection in the tall mirror revealed a body that was... aggressively average. No hero's physique, just a young man who had some muscle definition but clearly lacked the look of someone destined for the heavens. As he buttoned the collar, the tailors' claim that the gold gave him a "distinctive air" felt like a lie. To Kazuya, he just looked like an expensive piece of charcoal.
He tied his hair back and turned to leave, then stopped.
His desk was a disaster. Books stacked haphazardly, papers scattered like fallen leaves. He couldn't leave it like this. He moved back to organize the mess, placing the books in stacks and squaring the edges of the papers.
Tss.
A sharp, stinging sensation.
Kazuya's eye didn't even twitch. He looked down at his index finger. A paper cut. A tiny red line was weeping a single bead of blood. He stared at it silently.
Three seconds. That's all it took.
The skin knit itself back together with a soft, wet sound. The blood didn't even have time to dry before it was absorbed into the closing seam. The pain evaporated. Moments later, his hand was as smooth as if the injury had been a hallucination.
Kazuya stared at the empty space where the wound had been. He didn't look amazed. He just lowered his hand and walked out the door.
Downstairs, his family was waiting.
They were dressed for the occasion, which meant they looked like they were attending a coronation and a funeral at the same time.
"You look good, Kazuya," his mother said. Her smile was too bright, a brittle mask held up by sheer willpower.
Kazuya gave a non-committal nod and a sound that wasn't quite a word. He shifted his gaze to his father. The man was a stone wall, sturdy and unmoving, but the cracks were there if you looked close enough.
Then there was Itsumi. His older sister, usually a fountain of sharp-tongued banter, was broken. She couldn't even meet his eyes. Her silence was a heavy, suffocating thing that filled the room.
Kazuya looked at them. He saw the fake smile, the clenched jaw, the darting eyes. He understood their fear. He understood their worry.
But for some reason, he couldn't feel it himself.
Maybe he was born broken. Maybe he was just tired. Whatever the reason, the terror that should have been clawing at his chest was nowhere to be found.
"Don't worry," Kazuya said, forcing his lips into a rare, upward curve. "The ritual is the same as always. The chance of me being chosen is low."
The smile caught them off guard. It was such an uncommon sight that his father's eyes widened slightly.
"Let's go," Kazuya added, not waiting for a response. He stepped out the door, and the smile vanished instantly. It had served its purpose as a temporary bandage. Whether it was a real gesture or just a well-timed mask, even he wasn't sure.
The trek to the mountain took half an hour. The silence between them was thick, mirrored by the atmosphere of the island itself. All around them, teenagers in black and gold moved like ghosts. The first-timers were visibly trembling, their fear a palpable scent in the air. Those who had been here before, like Kazuya, were less animated, but the dread was still there, buried just beneath the skin.
Kazuya watched them, his face as unreadable as a calm sea.
Look at them, he thought. They hate this. They loathe the ritual. Yet they all march in line because they're terrified of the alternative. They're all waiting for a vanguard, someone to take the hit first so they can follow... Cowards.
Inwardly, a sense of cold frustration flared. They were all depending on someone else to save them, not realizing that was exactly why they would never be free.
One could argue Kazuya should take that first step, but he found no meaning in it. He'd rather die in the ritual than of old age in this cage. For him, the ritual had more pros than cons.
He glanced at his mother. He wanted to say something soft—something that sounded like "I love you"—but the words felt like jagged stones in his throat. They wouldn't come out. They never did.
The crowd reached the foothill. A staircase of polished stone rose before them, a long, white tongue licking the side of the mountain. At the bottom, the families stopped. This was the line. Only the offerings were allowed to climb.
Kazuya turned to his family and offered one last reassuring look.
"Just like always," he said, his voice coming out duller than he intended. "Once it's done, I'll be back down these stairs."
"Good luck!" His mother surged forward, her hug desperate and trembling. He could feel her heart hammering against his ribs.
"Good luck up there, son." His father's hand landed on his shoulder. Heavy, warm, and pulsing with a fear the man was too proud to show.
"Best of luck," Itsumi mumbled. She forced herself to look at him, her eyes pleading for him to say something real. Kazuya stared back, his mind offering a dozen comforts, but his face only providing a stiff, awkward nod.
He turned and began the ascent.
At the top, the world opened into a massive circular plaza of polished stone. In the center sat a jade-green disk engraved with twelve symbols. It was a shimmering plate of metal that felt less like a religious icon and more like a butcher's block. The teenagers huddled at the edges, leaving a wide, fearful void around the center.
Kazuya drifted closer to the disk than anyone else. He wasn't being brave; he just found the heavy, stagnant air at the back suffocating. If he was going to be part of this theater, he wanted a front-row seat to the absurdity.
Then, the murmurs began.
Twelve figures emerged, draped in long robes and topped with tall, pointed hats.
"The Enlightened Clerics," Kazuya whispered.
Leading them was the Sun Cleric. He was the only one whose face was half-hidden, a white cloth masking everything below his eyes. His golden hair caught the light, and his green eyes were bright, so bright they felt like they were trying to warm Kazuya's soul by force.
The crowd parted like water. As they passed, the Sun Cleric's gaze met Kazuya's.
Time seemed to slow. The Cleric radiated a sense of divine, friendly warmth. Kazuya looked up, his face a mask of indifference. He wanted to scoff, to ask why the gods needed children when they had these "Enlightened" men to feast upon, but he remained a silent statue. Neither could read the other.
The Cleric stepped to the center.
"O blessed children," he began, his voice blooming across the plaza. "You have been bestowed a great honor... to give your heart, soul, and ambitions for the greater good."
Kazuya found the warmth nauseating.
"If I had the chance, I would participate in the Ascension ritual over and over again," the Cleric said, his eyes shining with a frighteningly pure sincerity. "It is truly a shame that I cannot join you."
Tsk. Kazuya clicked his tongue. Then go die for your gods, no one is stopping you.
"Hear me, divine gods above!" the Sun Cleric cried, pressing his palms together.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Beneath their feet, a golden light ignited. The patches of radiance beneath each Cleric began to expand like fluid, meeting and merging until the entire plaza was a sea of gold.
The Sun Cleric closed his eyes and began to chant, his voice rising in a melodic drone:
"We who are mortal are but a bridge,
We who revere you, worship your name,
Specks of dust beneath your gaze.
Today, the sleeping land awakens.
Our bodies, fragile as a bird's wing,
Will let 'them' taste the love you give.
The chosen one shall walk through fire.
The throat of the divine is narrow.
O great gods above who never tire, show me the way.
Choose the worthy, and let the land serve you."
The sky above dimmed until it looked like midnight, and the air grew heavy. Kazuya tried to lift a foot, but his lower body was motionless. It felt as though his boots had been cast in lead and fused to the stone.
Slowly, white strings of light rose from the ground. They began to wrap around a boy of nine or ten. The boy's face didn't twist in fear, instead it lit up with a terrifying, ecstatic joy. As the strings coiled around him, they pulled him down, through the solid gold floor. He vanished completely.
Then a girl. Then another.
Each person claimed by the strings showed intense relief. Being rejected by the gods made them forget their reverence; they were simply happy to be alive. The numbers dwindled. A boy to Kazuya's left was taken. A girl behind him.
Until Kazuya was standing alone.
The only person left on the vast expanse of golden light.
Huh?
He scanned the plaza. Surely there was someone else. Surely the Twelve Gods weren't this picky.
My luck is actually this bad? he thought, his heart beginning to thud against his ribs. I've been passed over for several years, and today the universe decides to notice me?
The Sun Cleric began to clap. A slow, reverent sound.
"Magnificent!" the Cleric beamed, walking toward him. "You have been deemed worthy! Rejoice!"
Kazuya's mind was a storm, but his face remained a blank wall.
Dammit! My reassurance to my family was for nothing.
He let out a long sigh. He didn't want to be an "honorable" sacrifice. Looking at the Cleric's radiant face, he felt that familiar, sharp irritation.
"Blessed child," the Sun Cleric said, stopping three meters away. "Tell me. What is your name?"
Kazuya swallowed hard. "Oouchi Kazuya."
"Oouchi Kazuya," the Cleric repeated, as if it were a sacred chant. "Be honored. I will personally ensure your family is handsomely compensated. Now... Please." He gestured toward the jade disk.
The golden light didn't cover the jade green disk. It seeped into it instead, lighting up only the twelve symbols on its surface.
Kazuya moved. He thought about turning and walking away, but his limbs wouldn't allow it. The golden light was a command his body couldn't ignore. He stepped onto the disk. The golden symbols flared, and the light converged into a single object: a glass dagger.
Kazuya gripped the hilt. The glass was biting cold.
"The gods require your essence," the Sun Cleric whispered. "Draw blood and pour it upon the disk. Only a small amount is needed."
Freely, Kazuya thought. Everything about this is forced, but they want me to pretend I'm choosing it. Fine. Let's get this over with.
He knelt and drew the blade across his palm. He pressed the red smear against the jade.
Boom!
A pillar of light erupted, blinding him. The world dissolved into white noise.
When Kazuya opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was the wind—violent and screaming past his ears. He gasped, his lungs struggling to catch the air.
He was falling.
He looked up and saw only an unending blue sky. No islands. No mountains. Just a void of azure. Below him, the vast cloud cover rushed up at a terrifying speed.
The blood on his palm began to fly upward, but the wound was already stitching itself back together, the skin pulling tight over the raw meat. Kazuya didn't care. His hair whipped around his face, his black-and-gold shroud snapping like a flag in a hurricane.
Ascension Ritual, he thought, his eyes narrowing against the gale. How ironic.
He fell for what felt like forever. When he finally plunged into the clouds, his vision went white. He kept waiting for that endless darkness they'd been telling him about since he was young.
...
Back on the island, the golden ground began to spit the children back out, like a tide receding. They rose from the stone, shaky and pale. The golden light dimmed and died.
The families at the bottom of the stairs saw the first figure appear. Then another.
A wave of motion swept the crowd. Frantic reunions, sobbing joy, parents clutching children as if they had been resurrected.
Itsumi and her parents stood apart. One by one, the children passed. None of them had Kazuya's gait. None had his frustratingly calm face.
The trickle slowed. Then it stopped.
Finally, the Clerics began their descent. Their presence was a death knell. Seeing them meant there was no one left to follow.
The Sun Cleric approached the Oouchi family with somber grace. Kazuya's mother was already trembling, her hands fluttering at her chest like wounded birds.
"Great Sun Cleric... please. Have you seen my child? Kazuya... he went up... he was just there..."
The Cleric waited. He let the silence stretch just long enough to feel heavy. Then, he offered a smile that reached his eyes.
"Rejoice. Your child has been deemed worthy. He was chosen by the Twelve Gods."
Thud.
Kazuya's mother collapsed. She didn't cry at first. She just stared at the Cleric with wide, hollow eyes. Then, the first sob broke out of her—a raw sound that tore through the silence.
Kazuya's father closed his eyes, his jaw set so tight his teeth threatened to shatter. A single tear escaped, but he wiped it away instantly, kneeling to wrap a steadying arm around his wife.
Itsumi didn't move. She stood with her head bowed. She looked up at the Sun Cleric, and for the first time, the "divinity" of the man felt revolting. She remembered Kazuya's scoffs and irritation.
"This is absurd," she whispered.
She turned and walked away, her footsteps heavy. Once she was out of sight, she fell to her knees against a stone wall and let the sorrow out in jagged, pitiful cries.
The Sun Cleric watched Kazuya's parents carefully. His eyes were like green glass, beautiful, but reflecting nothing. He had performed this play a thousand times. After the couple was promised compensation, gold and titles to replace a son, they moved away like ghosts.
The Cleric stood alone, staring at the sky. The divine warmth flickered and died, replaced by a cold, pragmatic dread.
He reached into his robes and pulled out a silver ring set with a clear jewel. He slipped it onto his left ring finger and chanted a low command.
The jewel turned a violent, turgid blood-red. A dark glow pulsed from the stone, casting an ominous shadow over his hand.
"This...!" he gasped, cold sweat breaking across his brow.