WANDERING FLUTE
Chapter One: The Sound That Should Not Exist
The flute was not meant to be heard anymore.
It drifted through the valley at dawn, thin and trembling, like a breath pulled from the past. The sound did not echo—echoes belonged to the living world. This melody did something stranger. It settled, clinging to the air as if the morning itself were listening.
Sheep lifted their heads one by one.
They stood on the frost‑silvered grass, still as statues, eyes wide and dark. Bells tied to their necks stopped ringing. Even the wind hesitated, brushing the hills with care, afraid to disturb the song.
At the center of the valley, a boy walked alone.
His name was Amane Hoshi
He wore a travel-worn cloak, the kind patched more times than it was ever stitched properly. Dust clung to his boots, and his black hair fell loose around his face, stirred gently by the same breeze that carried the music. He did not play the flute.
He never had.
Yet the sound followed him.
Amane Hoshi paused when he realized the sheep were watching him.
"…Not again," he murmured.
The melody faltered, just for a moment—like something reacting to his voice.
High above, beyond the line of clouds, something ancient shifted in its sleep.
A scale the size of a tower caught the light of the rising sun. A massive eye opened, slow and heavy, glowing faintly gold.
The Ancient Dragon had heard the flute.
And it remembered.
Far below, unaware of the gaze upon him, Neko tightened his grip on the satchel at his side. Inside it lay a flute wrapped in faded cloth, carved with symbols no one alive could read anymore.
He had sworn never to play it.
But the world, it seemed, was done waiting.
The song returned—clearer now, stronger—pulling at the valley, the sheep, the sky… and at Amane's heart.
Some stories begin with a choice.
This one began with a sound.
The Sound That Should Not Exist part 1
The flute trembled in Amane's hands, even though he hadn't played a note. The cloth around it was worn and soft, stained with time and memories he could barely recall.
He knelt on the frost-covered grass, tracing the symbols carved into the wood. Each one seemed to hum faintly under his fingers. A shiver ran up his spine. The melody… it was alive. Not just in the air, but inside him.
"…Why now?" he whispered, voice trembling.
The valley answered only with silence.
Then, without warning, the ground beneath him shimmered. The frost and soil blurred as if the world itself was breathing, folding, waiting. Amane stumbled back, clutching the flute. A soft wind swirled around him, carrying fragments of past voices—laughter, whispers, cries. And at the edge of that wind, a presence stirred.
It was not human.
A massive shadow glided across the sky, moving with impossible speed. The Ancient Dragon, its scales glinting gold and sapphire, descended slowly, landing with a thrum that shook the valley. Even the trees, the stones, the very air seemed to bend around it.
Amane froze. Not out of fear, exactly—but because the world had paused for recognition.
"Amane…" The name slipped from his lips without thought. He hadn't heard it in centuries, not since he became something more than mortal. Yet here, in the dawn, it fit. His own name—Amane Hoshi—carried weight he hadn't felt until now.
The Ancient Dragon lowered its massive head, eyes glowing with curiosity and memory.
"You hear it too," it said. The voice was deep, older than mountains, resonating through Neko's chest. Not spoken, not heard, but felt.
"Yes," Amane whispered. "I… I feel it. The song."
The dragon's gaze softened. "Then it begins again."
The world trembled lightly, responding to the bond between them. Behind Amane, the valley shimmered with soft light, floating threads of what looked like memory and magic. And from somewhere deep inside, a soft, gentle tone rose—not from the flute, not from the boy, but from the universe itself.
It was a call to journey, a melody that promised danger, wonder, and the eternal bond of friendship and legacy.
Amane Hoshi tightened his grip on the flute. He didn't know how long he could resist playing, or what the melody might awaken. But he understood this clearly: the Morning Flute—the song of sorrow, hope, and memory—was not done with the world.
And neither was he.
With a deep breath, he looked up at the Ancient Dragon, whose massive wings brushed the sky.
"I don't know what awaits," Amane said, voice steady now, stronger. "But… I'll follow the song."
The dragon lowered its head further, and in a voice that rumbled like a storm softened by sunlight, it replied:
"Then we will go together."
And in that moment, the first true note of the journey sounded—not from a flute, not from a voice, but from the bond that would echo across worlds.