At the very edge of the main island.
Itsumi stood beyond the iron railings. Below her lay the cloud cover—a vast, churning ocean of white vapor that looked solid enough to walk on, yet deep enough to swallow a sun. From the moment she could crawl, the people had whispered the same truth into her ear: The clouds are the shield. The Twelve Gods placed them there to stifle the darkness below, to keep the void from ascending and poisoning our home.
This was the first time she had ever stepped over the railing. She had watched Kazuya do it a hundred times, standing on the edge with a terrifying indifference, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if this vastness could not contain him.
Now, she was trying to see what he saw.
The wind howled up from the depths, whipping her long black hair across her face and stinging her eyes.
Her jaw was set so tight it ached. Only now, with Kazuya gone, did the weight of his resentment finally settle into her own bones. She had spent her life pushing the absurdity of the Ascension Ritual into her subconscious. But standing here, in the silence he left behind, she finally felt a fraction of his bitter clarity.
Her hands curled into fists, her knuckles turning the color of bone. She wanted to scream at the sky, to demand the gods give back what they'd stolen. But after a long silence, she only let out a ragged sigh, her shoulders slumping.
"Itsumi!"
She didn't startle. She just turned slowly to find a girl with long, brown hair standing behind the safety of the iron bars. It was Shiroyama Saki.
"Saki," Itsumi said, her voice sounding hollow even to herself. "What are you doing here?"
Saki didn't answer. She took a trembling step toward the railing, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She didn't dare jump over. She just gripped the iron until her fingers turned white.
"I-I heard," Saki whispered, her voice fracturing like thin ice. "That Kazuya... w-was chosen..."
She couldn't finish. The words were too heavy. A fresh wave of tears tracked down her cheeks, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to muffle a sob that sounded like it was being torn out of her chest.
Looking at Saki was like looking into a mirror of her own grief. Itsumi felt a sharp, stabbing ache in her heart, the kind of pain that made it hard to draw a full breath.
"Yes," Itsumi said, staring back at the clouds. "He's gone."
Saki let out a muffled wail. She had gone to Kazuya's house this morning, hoping to find him sitting at his desk, looking annoyed that she was bothering him again. Instead, his father had opened the door with the face of a man who had already been buried.
Saki had been the closest thing Kazuya had to a friend; she was the only one stubborn enough to drag him out of his shell, the only one who could look at his "aggressively average" face and see something worth chasing.
Itsumi forced her lips into a ghost of a smile. She hopped back over the railing, landing softly on the safe side. She patted Saki's shoulder, her touch light.
"Let's go," Itsumi said.
The two girls walked away, leaving the edge behind.
While they mourned, the Sun Cleric was solemn in a different place.
He stood in a room high within the Great Sentinel, a stone tower that watched over the island like an unblinking eye. Sunlight flooded through the massive window, illuminating a room filled with the trappings of a scholar: overflowing bookshelves and a singular, looming painting of a sun surrounded by eleven sigils.
The Cleric was no longer draped in holy finery. He wore simple black pants and a white shirt, the collar unbuttoned to reveal a throat as long and elegant as marble. Without the mask and the pointed hat, his face was revealed—strikingly handsome, with a delicate, almost ethereal beauty.
He stood by the window, staring down at the tiny, ant-like people below. He pulled the silver ring from his pocket. The jewel was still pulsing—a dark, turgid red that felt like a heartbeat.
"I thought it was finished," he mumbled. "The sacrifice was accepted. The ritual was perfect. So why...?"
His eyes were beautiful, yet they held a cold, pragmatic look. He set the ring on the table; it looked like a drop of poison resting on the wood.
"It seems I have only one path remaining."
He turned to his bookshelf and pulled out a volume that looked older than the tower itself, its brown leather cover frayed and scarred by time. He sat at his desk, the sunlight hitting his face, and began to read.
...
Below the clouds, the world was a riot of green.
Sunlight pierced the canopy in jagged, golden arrows, lighting up a forest so vibrant it looked like a painting. Birds with iridescent feathers chirped in the distance. In the center of a shallow, freshly-turned crater, a young man lay face-down in the dirt.
His fingers twitched first. He tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like lead. His legs futilely kicked the soil. After several attempts, he managed to sit up, his muscles screaming with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. His movements were clumsy, like a newborn foal. When his vision finally steadied, his breath hitched.
He was alive.
The young man, Kazuya, looked down at himself. His black-and-gold shroud was gone, replaced by rags that barely qualified as clothing. He was practically naked, his skin smeared with dirt, his hair a shoulder-length mess. He looked like a beggar dragged through a battlefield.
But his skin was smooth. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. Not even a bruise.
"How...?"
He touched his ribs, his face, his throat. The memory of the fall flashed through his mind—the roar of the wind, the moment he broke through the clouds only to see a world of rivers and mountains. He remembered the ground rushing up to meet him. A final and inevitable doom.
I should be a red smear on the grass, he thought, his brow furrowing. Did the ritual preserve me? Or did my body heal the impact while I was unconscious?
He stood up, his feet sinking into the soft earth of the crater. The realization stopped him cold: Beneath the clouds wasn't a void. There was a whole world down here, breathing and blooming, while the people above lived in state-mandated ignorance.
Did the Clerics know? If so, why hide it? He shook his head. Too many unknowns.
A spark of genuine, burning curiosity lit up his eyes.
I'm finally free from that suffocating cage, he thought, an internal smirk tugging at his mind. Let's see what this world has to offer.
He began to walk. Every moment was a discovery—unrecognized birds, strange insects. But the beauty had a cost. He accidentally stepped on a sharp stone, then a jagged branch. His soles began to bleed. Kazuya sat on a fallen tree and pulled his foot over his thigh.
He watched in silence. The blood dripped for a few moments before it slowed. The fluid retracted into the open injuries, the skin pulling together and knitting shut. The wounds vanished as if they had never been there.
Watching the skin knit together, Kazuya's mind drifted back.
His mother was in the kitchen cooking lunch.
"Dear, have you seen my belt? I can't seem to find it," Kazuya's father called out to his wife from the other room.
Kazuya's mother put down her utensils and called back: "Your belt? No, I don't think so." She started wiping her hands on her apron. "Hold on, I'm coming over."
As she left the kitchen, little Kazuya, taking advantage of his small size, managed to slip inside. The heavy, savory smell of cooking food assaulted his nostrils. He looked around and saw the bright, dancing flames beneath the pots.
Losing to his curiosity, he stretched his little finger toward the fire.
Pfft.
"Ahh!" Little Kazuya yelled in pain as he stepped back, retracting his hand quickly.
Hearing her son's cry, his mother ran back into the kitchen. "Kazuya! Are you okay?"
Kazuya held his little finger, which bore a red burn mark. He was surprisingly silent, even as his face twitched with the sting. His mother saw the injury and quickly reached for him. "Wait, I'll wash it for you."
Just as she was about to put his hand under the water, her eyes widened. She froze. The burn mark was healing at a visible rate—the blister receding, the redness fading into smooth, new skin.
Her mouth went wide open. "What...?"
Kazuya shook his head, clearing the memory. He stood up and continued, his eyes darting between unfamiliar flowers. He was observing, but he was also searching. Were there other humans here?
Then, the bushes to his right exploded.
A beast lunged into the clearing. It looked like a hound, but its body was a dense mass of corded muscle reaching Kazuya's waist. A row of jagged bone spikes erupted from its skull and tracked down its spine like a serrated blade.
It growled. Kazuya didn't panic, but his body went into high alert.
"Easy now," he murmured, stepping back.
The beast didn't care. It charged almost instantly.
Kazuya dove to the left, rolling through the dirt as the creature slammed into a tree. Its bone spikes buried themselves into the wood with a sickening thwack. It took only a second for the beast to wrench itself free, its predatory eyes locking back onto him.
I don't know what you are, and I don't want to find out.
He turned and ran. He was fast, but the beast was a blur of muscle and bone. It charged again; Kazuya tried to dodge, but he was a second too late. The bone spikes slashed his left thigh, carving a deep, bloody furrow.
"Ugh—!"
Kazuya hit the dirt, clutching his leg. His body healed fast, but the pain was still agonizingly real. He lay there as blood seeped into the soil, dirtying his hands and rags. The beast turned for another pass. Kazuya realized its pattern: it could only charge in a straight line.
As it rushed him again, he used every ounce of willpower to dive behind a thick trunk.
Bam!
The spikes penetrated the tree, nearly bursting through the other side. While the beast struggled to free itself, Kazuya felt his thigh knit back together. The worse the injury, the longer it took, but it was working.
His thigh healed just as the beast freed its spikes. Kazuya stood and rushed forward, his hand reflexively reaching for the air, ready to summon a blade of wind to sever the creature's head.
"What?"
Nothing happened. He failed to control the air. His eyes widened as a cold sensation washed over him. He reached again, clawing at his internal senses, but his Foci was gone.
The ritual, he realized, his heart sinking. It stripped me. My Foci is gone!
Without his powers, he was just a boy with a fast-healing body. He didn't waste time in a daze; he turned and bolted. He ran in zigzags, trying to stay out of the beast's line of sight. But as he grew tired, the beast seemed to only grow more energetic.
Finally, Kazuya burst through the treeline and found himself at the edge of a cliff. He spun around, his back to the drop. The beast growled, eyes fixed on his throat, and launched itself.
Kazuya waited until the last possible second before throwing himself to the ground. The creature couldn't stop its momentum. It sailed over him and plummeted off the edge.
Kazuya lifted himself up, breathing raggedly. He stared down into the abyss of trees and bushes below. He couldn't tell if it had died, but he didn't care to check. He walked away, his pace heavy with exhaustion.
An hour later, he reached a wide, shimmering river. He collapsed onto the grass, and that's when he saw it: smoke. A grey finger reaching into the sky.
He followed the riverbank, his guard up. He saw silver flashes in the water—strange, darting creatures. He noted their shape in his mind as he approached a cluster of wooden buildings. There was a dock and a rowboat. It reminded him of the skiffs on the islands, though it sat on water rather than air.
A woman carrying a basket of fruit turned the corner. She saw him, and her eyes went wide.
Kazuya was a wreck. He was smeared in filth, drenched in sweat, and his clothes were blackened rags. As he stepped forward, the last remaining scrap of his trousers finally gave way, leaving his sword entirely visible to the woman's sight.
The woman's gaze dropped. Her face turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the fruit in her basket. She let out a sharp gasp, dropped her basket, and bolted toward the village, screaming for help.
"Wait—!" Kazuya started, but she was gone.
Within minutes, the street filled with men. They looked like the people from his home, only tanned and rugged, armed with farm tools.
"Who are you?" the leader demanded. "Why have you come here?"
Kazuya blinked. I can understand them!
He took a breath. He looked at their suspicious faces, then down at his own tattered state.
Suddenly, his face crumpled. His shoulders slumped, and he his hands trembled. His eyes turned wide and glassy, shimmering with a sudden terror.
"I... I don't know," Kazuya stammered, his voice small and breaking. "I woke up in the forest. I was... like this. I can't remember. I can't remember anything but my name."
He looked at the leader with a gaze of pathetic vulnerability.
The men exchanged glances. The tension bled away, replaced by the universal instinct to protect a wounded child.
"Lost your memory, eh?" the leader said, his voice softening. "Well, we aren't so heartless as to abandon a kid. You can stay for a bit while we get you sorted."
Kazuya's eyes brightened, and he gave a deep, shaking bow. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
The man gestured for him to follow. As they turned their backs, the "lost" look vanished from Kazuya's face. His expression went flat, his eyes turning cold and calculating as he surveyed the village.
The performance had been perfect.