The rain had stopped, but the mist remained.
A pale fog wove through the forest like a living veil, masking the old world in mystery. The only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath Hizusuki's sandals and the rhythmic drip of water from the high branches. Even the birds held their breath.
He had followed no map to get here—only dreams.
Beside him, the girl in red, silent and curious, followed his every step. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but wonder, as if something ancient called to her too.
Before them stood a crumbling staircase carved into the mountain itself. At its peak, half-swallowed by vines and mist, loomed a forgotten shrine gate—the torii, faded but still proud, like a sentinel clinging to duty.
"We're close," Hizusuki murmured.
"How do you know?" the girl asked.
He looked down at her, hesitating. Then he said, "Because this is where my father once stood. Before everything changed."
The steps felt heavy underfoot, as if each one pressed the weight of memory into his bones. The further he climbed, the more the world behind him seemed to fade. The wind shifted. He could feel it: something sacred, something long dormant, was awakening.
At the top, the shrine revealed itself—a modest wooden structure surrounded by moss-covered stones and paper lanterns that still swayed despite no breeze. A single bell hung at the entrance, its rope frayed with time.
But someone was already there.
A woman in white robes stood motionless in front of the bell. Her face was veiled, her hands clasped. She was not human—Hizusuki could feel it in the way the air tightened around her. She was spirit. Guardian. Perhaps more.
"Child of the Hizusuki line," she said, without turning. "Why have you come to disturb the silence?"
Hizusuki stepped forward, bowing his head slightly. "To remember what was taken from me. To reclaim what remains."
There was a pause, and then the bell rang—though no one had touched it. A low, reverberating chime that echoed through the mist, down the mountain, into the marrow of his soul.
"You seek the Legacy Fragment," the spirit said.
He nodded. "One of many."
"Then you must give something in return."
"I have nothing left."
"Then offer your truth."
Hizusuki hesitated. Then, slowly, he knelt.
"I was eight when I saw my parents die. My father, the Blade of Kisenkyo, betrayed by his own sworn brother. My mother's scream was the last thing I heard before the blade fell. I survived. Not because I was brave—but because I was a coward."
The girl looked at him, stunned. It was the first time he had said those words aloud.
The spirit finally turned. Her face was kind. Weathered by eternity, but kind.
"You were not a coward, Hizusuki," she said. "You were a seed. And now, you grow into a blade."
The shrine doors creaked open.
Inside, on a stone pedestal, floated a single crimson shard of metal—no larger than a coin, but glowing with an inner fire. It pulsed with power. With memory.
Hizusuki stepped inside and reached for it.
As his fingers brushed the fragment, visions surged into him—his father's laughter, the weight of the family blade, a name spoken in reverence: Roy Simo.
His hands trembled. His path was clear.
He turned to the girl. "Come. We move before night swallows the trail."
But even as they left, the fog behind them thickened. Watching. Waiting.
And the spirit of the shrine, alone once more, whispered into the silence:
> "One fragment found. Five remain."